CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THIS BOOK IS ONE OF A COLLECTION MADE BY BENNO LOEWY 1854-1919 AND BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY Cornell University Library DC 733.T36 Students' auartgfji,. 3 1924 028 137 713 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924028137713 THE ^ I TUDENTS' QTJARTEE OR Pi RIS EIYE-AND-THIETT TEARS SINCE. BT THE LATE WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKEEAY. ^ai mdtthb in l^s (Holkdeb WitUmQS. WITH OEIGINAL COLOURED ILLUSTBATIONS. LONDON: JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, PICCADILLY. 3>c 7 33 LOKDOS : PBINTED BT SPOTTISWOOBB AND CO., KBW-STSEET SQTTABB 'AND PABLIAMBMT BTILBBT PKEFACE. The chapters on French Life, Literature, and ,Art, comprised in this volume, were written by the late Mr. Thackekat during his residence in Paris in the years 1839-40. They were originally addressed to a friend, the editor of a foreign journal, in whose publication they first appeared. A small portion was included by the author, in 1 840, in his ' Paris Sketch Book.' The remainder have, it is believed, never appeared in this country in any shape. The whole contents of the volume may, therefore, be assumed to be unknown to English readers. The author's reason for omitting these sketches from the edition of his miscellanies was, probably, the temporary character of some of the subjects iv Preface. discussed. But the sketches abound in indica- tions of that genius which was destined to delight so many thousands of readers : and as the earliest of the literary efforts of their illustrious author, they cannot fail to be welcome to his admirers. The criticisms on the French school of painting will be found peculiarly interesting, containing, as they do, passages imsurpassed for beauty of style by anything in the author's later writings. As the impressions of the young Englishman of the scenes around him in those early days of student life in Paris, which he has so admirably described in one of the letters, they will be read with in- terest, while to those who desire to trace the gradual development of the style of this great English classic, they will form a necessary sup- plement to his collected works. J. G. M. CONTENTS. chapter i. Off to Feancb 17 CHAPTER n. A Week op F^tes 43 CHAPTER in. Peench Fiction . . . ' . . .63 CHAPTER IV. The Stoet of Spieidion .... 85 CHAPTER V. MoEE Aspects of Paeis Life . . . 113 CHAPTER VI. A Feench Jack Sheppaed .... 133 CHAPTER VII. A Ramble in the Pictuee-Galleeies . . 160 CHAPTER VIII. AnOTHEE RAMBIiB IN THE PiCTUEE-GaLLEEIES 183 a THE STUDENTS' QUARTER. CHAPTEE I. OFF TO FKANCE. Steam-packet Experiences — Erenehmen at Sea — Boulogne Hotels — The Mysterious Touter — Life in a French Watering- place — The Journey in the Old Diligence — Inside and Outside Passengers — ^Parallel between the Parliamentary Orator and the French Diligeuce — Paris Streets — The Faubourg St. Denis — The Prison of St. Lazare — The Courtyard of the Parisian Hotel — Concluding Apostrophe to the Editor and Eeaders of the Bungay Beacon. About twelve o'clock, just as tte bell of the packet is tolling a farewell to London Bridge, and warn- ing off the blackguard boys with the newspapers, who have been shoving ' Times,' ' Herald,' ' Penny Paul Pry,' ' Penny Satirist,' ' Flare-up,' and other abominations, into your face — just as the bell has tolled, and the Jews, strangers, people taking leave of their families, and blackguard boys afore- 1 8 The Students' Quarter. said, are making a rush for the narrow plank which conducts from the paddle-box of the ' Eme- rald ' steam-boat unto the quay — ^you perceive staggering down Thames Street those two hack- ney-coaches, for the arrival of which you have been praying, trembling, hoping, despairing, swearing, sw , (I beg your pardon, I believe the word is not used in good society,) — and transpiring, for the last half-hour. Yes, at last the two coaches draw near, and from thence an awful number of trunks, children, carpet-bags, nursery- maids, hat-boxes, band-boxes, bonnet-boxes, desks, cloaks, and an affectionate wife, are dis- charged on the quay. 'Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane,' screams that worthy woman, who has been for a fortnight employed in getting this tremendous body of troops and baggage into marching order. ' Hicks I Hicks ! for heaven's sake mind the babies!' 'George — Edward, sir, if you go near that porter with that trunk, he will tumble down and kill you, you naughty boy ! ' 'My love, do take the cloaks and umbrellas. Steam-packet Experiences. 19 and give a hand to Fanny and Lucy — and I wish you woidd speak to the hackney-coachmen, dear ; they want fifteen shillings, and count the pack- ages, love — twenty-seven packages, and bring little Flo— Where's Httle Flo?— Flo! Flo!'— (Flo comes sneaking in ; she has been speaking a few parting words to a one-eyed terrier, that sneaks off similarly, landward). As when the hawk menaces the hen-roost, in like manner, when such a danger as a voyage menaces a mother, she becomes suddenly endowed with a ferocious presence of mind, and bristling up and screaming in the front of her brood, and in the face of circumstances, succeeds, by her courage, in putting her enemy to flight. You will always, I think, find your wife (if that lady be good for twopence) shrill, eager, and ill- humoured, before and during a great family move of this nature. "Well, the swindling hackney-coachmen are paid, the mother, leading on her regiment of little ones, and supported by her auxiliary nurse-maids, are safe in the cabin; — you have counted twenty-six of the twenty-seven parcels, B2 20 Tlie Students^ Quarter. and have them on board, and the horrid man on the paddle-box, who for twenty minutes past has been roaring out, ' Now, sir ! ' — says, ' now, sir!' no more. I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, being always too busy among the trunks and children, for the first half hour, to mark any of the movements of the vessel. When these private arrangements are made, you find yourself opposite Greenwich, (Farewell, sweet, sweet whitebait !) and quiet begins to enter into your soul. Your wife (I don't speak of Lady Yellowplush, or Mrs. Gahagan, but of wives in general) smiles for the first time these ten days; you pass by plantations of ship-masts, and forests of steam chimneys; the sailors are singing on board the ships, the barges salute you with oaths, grins, and phrases facetious and familiar, the man on the paddle-box roars, ' ease her, stop her,' which mysterious words a shrill voice from below repeats, and pipes out, 'ease her, stop her,' in echo, the deck is crowded with groups of figures, and the sun shines over all. Young Englishmen at Sea. it The sun shines over all, and the stewai'd comes up to say, 'Lunch, ladies and gentlemen! will any lady or gentleman please to take anythink ? ' About a dozen do : boiled beef and pickles, and great red raw Cheshire cheese, tempt the epicure : little dumpy bottles of stout are produced, and fiz and bang about with a spirit one would never have looked for in individuals of their size and stature. The decks have a strange look : the people on them, that is. Wives, elderly stout husbands, nurse-maids, and children predominate of course, in English steam-boats. Such may be considered as the distinctive marks of the English gentleman at three and four and forty : two or three of such groupshave pitched their camps on the deck. Then there are a number of young men, of whom three or four have allowed their moustaches to begin to grow since last Friday : for they are going 'on the Continent,' and they look therefore as if their upper-lips were smeared with snuff. A danseuse from the opera is on her way to Paris. — ^Followed by her honne and her little dog, she paces the deck stepping out in the real dancer 22 The Students' Quarter. fashion, and ogling all aroundl How happy the two young Englishmen are who can speak French and make up to her ! — and how all criticise her points and paces ! Yonder is a group of young ladies who are going to Paris to learn how to be Grovemesses; those two splendidly-dressed ladies are milliners from the Eue Eichelieu, who have just brought over, and disposed of their cargo of Summer fashions. Here sits the Rev. Mr. Snodgrass with his pupils, whom he is conducting to his establishment near Boulogne, where, in addition to a classical and mathematical education (washing included) the young gentlemen have the benefit of leajning French among the French themselves. Accord- ingly, the young gentlemen are locked up in a great ricketty house two miles from Boulogne, and never see a soul except the French usher and the cook. Some few French people are there already preparing to be ill — (I never shall forget the dreadful sight I once had in the little, dark, dirty, six-foot cabin of a Dover steamer. Four gaunt Frenchmen, but for their pantaloons in Frenchmen at Sea. 23 the cogtume of Adam in Paradise, solemnly anointing themselves with some charm against sea-sickness !) — a few Frenchmen are there, but these, for the most part, and with a proper philo- sophy, go to the fore-cabin of the ship, and you see them on the fore-deck (is that the name for that part of the vessel which is in the region of the bowsprit ?) lowering in huge cloaks and caps, snuffy, wretched, pale, and wet, and not jabbering now, as their wont is on shore. — I never could fancy the Mounseers formidable at sea. There are, of course, many Jews on board: who ever travelled by steamboat, cpach, diligence, eilwagen, vetturino, mule-back, or sledge, without meeting some of the wandering race? By the time these remarks have been made the steward is on deck again, and dinner is ready : and about two hours after dinner comes tea,* and then there is brandy and water, which he eagerly presses as a preventive against what may happen ; and about this time you pass the Foreland, the wind blowing pretty fresh; and the groups descending, disappear, and your wife 24 The Students' Quarter. giving you an alarmed look, descends- with her little ones to the lady's cabin, and you see the steward and his boys issuing from their den imder the paddle-box, with each a heap of round tin vases, like those which I believe are styled in America expedoratoons, only these are larger. The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beautiful than ever — ridge by ridge of long white rock passes away. ' That's Eamsgit,' says the man at the helm ; and presently *that there's Deal — it's dreadful fallen off since the war;' and 'that's Dover round that there pint, only you can't see it;' and in the meantime the sun has plumped his hot face into the water, and the moon has shown hers as soon as ever his back is turned, and Mrs. Y. Gr.,* as the wife in general, has brought up her children and self from the horrid cabin, in which she says it is impossible to breathe; and the poor little wretches are, by * Mistress Yellowplush Gahagan. Ladies at Sea. 25 the officious stewardess, and smart steward (ex- pectoratoonifer) accommodated with a heap of blankets, pillows, and mattresses, in the midst of which they crawl, as best they may, and from the heaving heap of which are, during the rest of the voyage, heard occasional faint cries, and sounds of puking woe ! Dear, dear Maria ! Is this the woman who anon braved the jeers and brutal wrath of swindling hackney coachmen; — ^who repelled the insolence of haggling porters with a scorn that brought down their demands at least eighteenpence ? Is this the woman at whose voice servants tremble, at the sound of whose steps the nursery, aye, and mayhap the parlour, is in order? Look at her now, prostrate, prostrate — no strength has she to speak, scarce power to push to her youngest one — her suffering, struggling Eosa — to push to her the-— the instrumentoon ! In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the passengers (who have their own woes), you yourself (for how can you help them, — you are on your back on a bench, and if you move all is up with you ;) are looking a6 The Students' Quarter. on indififerent — one man there is who has been watching you with the utmost care, and be- stowing on your helpless family the tenderness that a father denies them. He is a foreigner, and you have been conversing with him in the course of the morning in French, which he says you speak remarkably well, like a native, in fact, — and then in English (which, after all, you find, is more convenient). What can express your gratitude to this gentleman for all his goodness towards your family and yourself — you talk to him, he has served under the Emperor, and is for all that, sensible, modest, and well-informed. He speaks indeed of his countrymen almost with contempt, and readily admits the superiority of a Briton on the seas and elsewhere. One loves to meet with such genuine liberality in a foreigner, and respects the man who can sacrifice vanity to truth. This distinguished foreigner has travelled much, he asks whither you are going, where you stop ? — if you have a great quantity of luggage on board ? — and laughs when he hears of the twenty- seven packages, and hopes you have some friend at the Custom-hous^ who can spare you the The Mysterious Tauter. '27 monstrous trouble of unpacking that' which has taken you weeks to put up. Nine, ten, eleven, the distinguished foreigner is ever at your side, you find him now, perhaps, (with characteristic ingratitude) something of a bore, but at least he has been most tender to the children, and their mamma. At last a Boulogne light comes in sight (you see it over the bows of the vessel, when having bobbed violently upwards, it sinks swiftly down). Boulogne harbour is in sight, and the foreigner says — The distinguished foreigner says^ — says he — ' Sarej eef you af no 'otel, I sail reccom- mend you, milor, to ze 'Otel Betfort, in ze Quay, sare, close to ze bathing machines and Custom Ha-oose. Goot bets and fine garten, sare, table d'hote, sare, a cinq-heures ; break- fast, — sare, in French or English style, I am the commissionnaire, sare, and vill see to your loggish.' Curse the fellow for an impudent, swindling. a8 The Students' Quarter. sneaking, French humbug ! — Your tone in- stantly changes, and you tell him to go about his business ; but at twelve o'clock at night, when the voyage is over, and the Custom House business done, knowing not whither to go with a wife and fourteen exhausted children, scarce able to stand, and longing for bed, you find yourself, somehow, in the Hotel Bedford, and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to snug beds, while smart waiters produce for your honour a cold fowl, soy, and a salad, and a bottle of Bordeaux and Seltzer water. The morning comes : I don't know a pleasanter feeling than waking- with the sun shining on objects quite new (and although you may have made the voyage a dozen times), quite strange. Mrs. X — — and you occupy a very light bed, which has a tall canopy of red ' percale ;' the windows are smartly draped with cheap gaudy calicoes and muslins; there are little mean strips of carpet about the tiled floor of the room, and yet all seems as gay and as comfortable as may be : the Boulogne Hotels. a.g sun shines brighter than you have seen it for a year ; the sky is a thousand times bluer, and what a cheery clatter of shrill, quick, French voices comes up from the courtyard under the windows ! Bells are jangling; a family, mayhap, is going to Paris, en poste, and wondrous is the jabber of the courier, the postilion, the inn-waiters, and the lookers-on. The landlord calls out for 'Quatre bifteks aux pommes, pour le Trente-trois.' (0, my countrymen, I love your tastes and your ways !) — the chambermaid is laughing, and says, ' finissez done, Monsieur Pierre ! ' (what can they be about!) — a fat Englishman has opened his window violently, and says, 'Dee dong, garsong, vooly voo me donny lo sho, ou vooly voo pah ! ' He has been ringing for half an hour — the last energetic appeal succeeds, and shortly he is enabled to descend to the coffee-; room, where, with three hot rolls, grilled ham, cold fowl, and four boiled eggs, he makes what he calls his first French breakfast. It is a strange, mongrel, merry place, this town of Boulogne ; the little French fishermen's children are beautiful, and the little French ■ 30 Tlie Students' Quarter. soldiers, four feet high, red-breeched, with huge pompons on their caps, and hrown faces, and clear sharp eyes,, look, for all their littleness,, far more military and' more intelligent than the heavy louts one has seen swaggering about the garrison towns in England. Yonder go a crowd of bare-legged fishermen; there is the town idiot, mocking a woman who is screaming ' Fleur du Tage ' at an inn-window to a harp, and there are the little gamins mocking him. Lo! those seven young ladies ■with red hair and green veils, they are from neighbouring Albion, and going to bathe. Here come three Englishmen, habitues evi- dently of the place — dandy specimens of our countrymen : one has got a marine dress, another has a shooting dress, a third has a blouse and a pair of giltless spurs ; all have as much hair on the face as nature or art can supply, and all- wear their hats very much on one side. Believe me, there is on the face of this world no scamp like an English one, no blackguard like one of these-half-gentlemen, so mean, so low, so vulgar. The English at Boulogne. 3 x so ludicrously ignorant and conceited, so despe- rately heartless and depraved. But why, my dear sir, get into a passion? Take things coolly. As the poet has observed, 'Those only is gentlemen who behave as sich.' With such, then, consort, be they cobblers or dukes. ' Don't give me,' cries young Shambles, ' any abuse of my fellow-countrymen, but rather continue in that good-humoured, facetious, de- scriptive style with which your letter has com- menced. Your remark, my good friend, is perfectly just, and does honour to your head and excellent heart. There is little need to give a description of the good town of Boulogne, which, haute and basse, with a new -lighthouse, and the new harbour, and the gas lamps, and the manufac- tories, and the convents, and the number of English and French residents, and the pillar erected in honour of the Grande Armee d' Angle- terre, so called because it didn't go to England, have all been excellently described by the facetious Coghlan, the learned Dr. Millingar, and by innu- merable guide-books besides. 32 The Students' Quarter. A fine thing it is to hear the stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon's time, argue how that audacious Corsican would have marched to Lon- don, after swallowing Nelson and all his gun- boats, but for cette malheureuse guerre d'Es- pagne, and cette glorieuse campagne d'Autriche, which the gold of Pitt caused to be raised up at the Emperor's tail, in order to call him off from the helpless country in his front. Some Frenchmen go farther still, and vow that, in Spain, they were never beaten at all ; indeed, if you read in the ' Biographie des hommes du Jour,' article 'Soult,' you will find that, with the ex- ception of the disaster at Vittoria, the campaigns in Spain and Portugal were a series of triumphs : only, by looking at a map, it is observable that Vimiera is a mortal long way from Toulouse, where, at the end of certain years of victories, we somehow find the honest Marshal. And what then ? He went to Toulouse for the pur- pose of beating the English there, to be sure, A known fact, on which comment would be superfluous. However, we shall never get to Paris at this The Old Diligence. 23 rate ; let us break off farther palaver, and away at once. (During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly requested to pay his bill at the hotel at Boulogne, to mount the diligence of Lafitte, Caillard and Company, and to travel for twlenty- five hours, amidst much jingling of harness-bells and screa,raing of postilions. The French milliner, who occupies one of the corners, begins to remove the little greasy pieces of paper which have enveloped her locks during the journey. She withdraws the 'Madras' of dubious hue which has bound her head for the last five-and-twenty hours, and replaces it by the black velvet bonnet, which, bobbing against your nose, has hung from the diligence roof since your departure from Boulogne. , The old lady in the opposite corner, who has been sucking bonbons, and smells dread- fully of anisette, arranges her little parcels in that immense basket of abominations, which all 34 The Students' Quarter. old women carry in their laps. She rubs her mouth and eyes with her dusty cambric hand- kerchief,, she ties up her nightcap into a little bundle, and replaces it by a more becoming head- piece, covered with withered artificial flowers ^nd crumpled tags of ribbon, she looks wistfully at the company for an instant, and then places her handkerchief before her mouth ; her eyes roll strangely about for an instant, and you hear a faint clattering noise; the old lady has been getting ready her teeth, which had lain in her basket among the bonbons, pins, oranges, po- matum, bits of cake, lozenges, prayer-books, peppermint-water, copper-money, and false hair stowed away there during the voyage. The Jewish gentleman who has been so at' tentive to the milliner during the voyage, and is a traveller and bagman by profession, gathers together his various goods. The sallow-faced English lad who has been drunk ever since we left Boulogne yesterday, and is coming to Paris to pursue the study of medicine, swears that he rejoices to leave the cursed diligence, is sick of the infernal The Journey to Paris. 35 journey, and d d glad that the d~ — d voyage is nearly over. ' Enfin ! ' says your neighbour, yawning, and inserting an elbow in the mouth of his right and left companion, 'Nous voilal' Nous voilI! We are at Paris! this must account for the removal of the milliner's curl papers, and the fixing of the old lady's teeth. Since the last relais, the diligence has been tra- velling with extraordinary speed. The postilion cracks his terrible whip, and screams shrilly. The conductor blows incessantly on his horn; the bells of the harness, the bumping and ringing of the wheels and chains, and the clatter of the great hoofs of the heavy snorting Norman stallions, have wondrously increased within this, the last ten minutes; and the diligence, which has been proceeding hitherto at the rate of a league in an hour, now dashes gallantly forward, as if it traversed at least six miles in the same space of time. Thus it is, when Sir Eobert maketh a speech *c 2 36 The Students' Quarter. at Saint Stephen's, he uses his strength at the beginning only, and the end. He gallopeth at the commencement ; in the middle he lingers ; at the close again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep ; he cracketh the whip of his satire; he shouts the shout of his patriotism; and urging his eloquence to its roughest canter, awakens the sleepers, and inspires the weary, until men say, What a wondrous orator! what a capital coach ! we will ride henceforth in it, and no other ! But behold us at Paris! The diligence has reached a rude-looking gate or grille, flanked by two lodges ; the French kings of old made their entry by this gate ; some of the hottest battles of the late revolution were fought before it. At present, it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of men in green, examining the packages before they enter, probing the straw with long needles. It is the Barri^re of St. Denis, and the green men are the Customs' men of the city of Paris. If you are a countryman, who would in- troduce a cow into the Metropolis, the city Paris Streets. 37 demands twenty-four francs for such a pri- vilege : if you have a hundredweight of tallow candles, you must previously disburse three francs: if a drove of hogs, nine francs per whole hog ; but upon these subjects, Mr. Bulwer, Mrs. TroUope, and other writers, have already enlightened the public. In the present in- stance, after a momentary pause, one of the men in green mounts by the side of the con- ductor, and the ponderous vehicle pursues its journey. The street which we enter, that of the Fau- bourg St. Denis, presents a strange contrast to the dull uniformity of a London street, where everything, in the dingy and smoky atmo- sphere, looks as though it were painted in India-ink — black houses, black passengers, and black sky. Here, on the contrary, is a thousand times more life and colours. Before you, shining in the sun, is a long glistening line of gutter, not a very pleasing object in a city, but in a picture invaluable. On each side are houses of all dimensions and hues ; some, but of one story ; 38 The Students^ Quarter. some, as high as the Tower of Babel. From these the haberdashers (and this is their favourite street) flaunt long strips of gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of rude gaiety to the looks. Milkwomen, with a little crowd of gossips round each, are, at this early hour of morning, selling the chief material of the Parisian cafe-au-lait. Gay wine -shops, painted red, and smartly decorated -with vines and gilded railiags, are filled with workmen taking their morning's draught. That gloomy-looking prison on your right, is a prison for women ; once it was a convent for Lazarists ; a thousand unfortunate individuals of the softer sex now occupy that mansion: they bake, as we find in the guide-books, the bread of all the other prisons ; they mend and wash the shirts and stockings of all the other prisoners ; they make hooks and eyes and phos- phorus boxes, and they attend chapel every Sunday : if occupation can help them, sure they have enough of it. Was it not a great stroke of the Legislature to superintend the morals and linen at once, Court-yard of a Paris Hotel. 29 and thus keep these poor creatures conti- nually mending? But we have passed the prison long ago, and are at the Porte SL Denis itself. There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass ; it commemorates some of the wonder- ful feats of arms of Ludovicus Magnus; and abounds in ponderous allegories, nymphs and river-gods, and pyramids crowned with fleur-de- lis ; Louis passing over the Ehine in triumph, and the Dutch lion giving up the ghost in the year of our Lord 1672. The Dutch lion re- vived, and overcame the man. sometime after- wards ; but of this fact, singularly enough, the inscriptions make no mention. Passing, then, round the gate, and not xmder it (after the general custom, and in respect of triumphal arches), you cross the boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees and sunshine, and gleaming white buildings; then, dashing down the Eue de Bourbon Villeneuve, a dirty street, which seems interminable, and the Eue St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last blast on his horn, and the great vehicle clatters into 40 The Students' Quarter. the coTirtyard, where its journey is destined to conclude. If there was a noise before of screaming pos- tilions and cracked horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which greets us now. We are in a great court, which Hajji Baba would call the Father of Diligences — half a dozen other coaches arrive at the same minute ; no light affairs, like your English vehicles,, but ponderous machines, containing fifteen pas- sengers inside, more in the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the roof — others are load- ing; the yard is filled with passengers coming or departing — -bustling porters, and screaming commissionnaires. These latter seize you as you descend from your place — twenty cards are thrust into your hand, and as many voices, jabbering with inconceivable swiftness, shriek into your ear, 'Dis way, sare; are you for ze Otel of Ehin? Hotel de I'Amiraute ! — Hotel Bristol, sare ! Monsieur, I'Hotel de Lille? Sacr-rrre nom de Dieu, laissez passer ce petit. Monsieur! Ow jnosh loggish ave you, sare ?' Correspondents Abroad. 41 Here, as we are fairly arrived, and the paper is covered to the very last corner, this letter had perhaps better end. There would have been a good opportunity, too, for a little egotistical speech, and an address of thanks and compli- ments on this first occasion before a new audience. But tempting as the occasion is, it had better be passed over, for in sooth, Editor of the Bungay ! I believe that your public is too wise to care much for us poor devils, and our personal vanities and foolishness — only too good is it to receive, with some show of kindness, the works which we from time to time, and urged by the lack of coin and pressure of butchers' bills, are constrained to send abroad. What feelings we may have in finding good friends and listeners among strangers, far, far away — in receiving beyond seas kind crumbs of comfort for our hungry vanities, which at home, God wot, get little of this delightful food — in gaining fresh courage and hope, for pursuing a calling of which the future is dreary, and the present but hard. All these things, Editor! had better be meditated,by the author in private, than, as the fashion is now-a-days, poured over 42 The Students' Quarter. yards of paper, in fluent streams of ink. With •wliich, farewell. I hear the dinner-bell ringing, and lo! white-aproned scullions bear smoking soups across the court. T.T. Hotel Mirapeatt : July 25, 1839. CHAPTER 11. A week: of fetes. Character of tlie French People — A Task for Dickens or Theodore Hook — Abolition of ' la Peine de JiTort ' — Trial of a French Conspirator — Victor Hugo and Louis Philippe — Poetry and Criminal Justice — Frenchmen's Holiday-making — The Go- vernment of July — Jules Janin — Fr^d^ric Soulii — French Literary Men — Amal — BoufS — Madlle. Mars and Eachel — TheEndoftheF^tes. We have arrived here just in time for the fetes of July. You have read, no doubt, of that glo- rious revolution which took place here nine years ago, and which is now commemorated an- nually in a pretty facetious manner, by gun-firing, student processions, pole-climbing for silver spoons, gold watches, and legs of mutton, mo- narchial orations, and what not, and sanctioned, moreover, by the Chamber of Deputies, with a grant of a couple of hundred francs to defray the expenses of all the crackers, gun-firings, and legs 44 Th^ Students' Quarter. of mutton aforesaid. There is a new fountain in the Place Louis Quinze, otherwise called the Place Louis Seize, or else the Place de la Ee- volution, or else the Place de la Concorde, (who can say why?) which I am told is to run bad wine during certain hours to-morrow, and there would have been a review of National Guards and the Line, only since the Fieschi business reviews are no joke, and so this latter part of the festivity has been discontinued. Do you not laugh — oh, intelligent editor that you are — at the continuance of a humbug such as this! — at the humbugging anniversary of a humbug! The King of the Barricades is, next to the Emperor Nicholas, the most absolute sovereign in Europe — ^there is not in the whole of this fair kingdom of France a single man who cares sixpence about him or his dynasty, except, mayhap, a few hangers-on at the Chateau, who eat his dinners, and put their hands in his purse. The feeling of loyalty is as dead as old Charles the Tenth ; the Chambers have been laughed at, the country has been laughed at, all the sue- A Task for Dickens. 45 cessive ministries have been laughed at (and you know who is the wag that has amused himself with them all), and behold, here come three days at the end of July, and cannons think it necessary to fire off, squibs and crackers to blaze and fiz, fountains to run wine, kings to make speeches, and subjects to crawl up greasy m&ls- de-cocagne in token of gratitude, and rejouissance publique. My dear sir, in their aptitude to swallo^^, to utter, to enact humbugs, these French people, from Majesty downwards, beat all the other nations of this earth. In looking at these men, their manners, dresses, opinions, politics, actions, history, it is impossible to preserve a grave countenance — instead of having Carlyle to write a history of the French Eevolution, I often think it should be handed over to Dickens, or Theodore Hook ; and oh, where is the Eabelais to be the faithful historian of the last phase of the Eevolution — the last glorious nine years of which we are now commemorating — the last glorious three days? I had made a vow not to say a syllable on 4-6 The Students' Quarter. the subject, although I have seen with my neighbours all the gingerbread stalls down the Champs-Elysees, and some of the 'catafalques' erected to the memory of the heroes of July, where the students and others not con- nected personally with the victims, and not having in the least profited by their deaths, come and weep- — but the grief shown on the first day is quite as absurd and fictitious as the joy exhibited on the last subject is one which admits of much wholesome reflection, and food for mirth, and besides is so richly treated by the French themselves, that it would be a sin and a shame to pass it over. Allow me to have the honour of translating, for your edifixiation, an account of the first day's proceedings — it is mighty amusing, to my thinking. CELEBEATION OF THE DATS OP JULY. •To-day (Saturday), funeral ceremonies in honour of the victims of July were held in the various edifices consecrated to public worship. These edifices, with the exception of some churches (especially that of the Petits-P^res), The ' Victims of July J 47 were uniformly hung with black on the outside ; the hangings bore only this inscription : 27, 28, 29 July 1830, surrounded by a wreath of oak leaves. In the interior of the Catholic churches, it had only been thought proper to dress little catafalques, as for burials of the third and fourth class. Very few clergy attended ; but a con^ siderable number of the National Guard. The synagogue of the Israelites was entirely hung with black; and a great concourse of people attended. The service was performed with the greatest pomp. In the Protestant temples there was likewise a full attendance ; apologetical discourses on the Eevolution of July were pronounced by the pastors. The absence of M. de Quelen (Archbishop of Paris), and of many members of the superior clergy, was remarked at Notre-Dame. The civil authorities attended service in their several districts. The poles ornamented with tri-coloured ilags, which formerly were placed on Notre-Dame, were, it was remarked, suppressed. 48 The Students' Quarter. The flags on the Pont Neuf were, during the ceremony, only half-mast high, and povered with crape, &c. &c. The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black hangings, and adorned with tri-coloured flags. In front and in the middle was erected an expiatory monument of a pyramidical shape, and surmounted by a funeral vase. These tombs were guarded by the Municipal Guard, the troops of the Line, the Sergents de VUle (town patrol), and a brigade of agents of police in plain clothes, under the orders of peace-officer Vassal. Between 11 and 12 o'clock some young men, to the number of 400 or 500, assembled on the Place de la Bourse, one of them bearing a tri- coloured banner, with an inscription, "To the Manes of July ; " ranging themselves in order, they marched five abreast of the Marche des In- nocens. On their arrival, the Municipal Guards of the Halle-aux-Draps, where the post had been doubled, issued out without arms, and the town sergents placed themselves before the market to prevent the entry of the procession. The young A Task for Dickens. 49 men passed in perfect order and without saying a word, only lifting their hats as they defiled be- forei the tombs. When they arrived at the Louvre, they found the gates shut, and the garden eva- cuated. The troops were under arms, and formed in battalion. 'After the passage of the procession, the garden was again open to the public' And the evening and the morning were the "first day. There is nothing serious in mortality — ^is there from the beginning of this account to the end ■Uiereof, but sheer, open, monstrous, undisguised humbug ? I said before, that you should have a his- tory of these people by Dickens, or Theodore Hook, but there is little need of professed wags — do not the men write their own tale with an admirable Sancho-like gravity and naivete, which one could not desire improved ? How good is that touch of sly indignation about the 'little catafalques ? ' how rich the contrast presented by the splendid dis- regard of expense exhibited by the devout Jews ; and how touching the ' Apologetical Discourses on the Eevolution,' delivered by the Protestant D fo The Students' Quarter. pastors! Fancy the profound affliction of the gardes municipaux, the sergents de ville, the police agents in plain clothes, and the troops with fixed bayonets sobbing round the expiatory monuments of a pyramidical shape, surmounted by funeral vases, and compelled by sad duty to j&re into the public who might wish to indulge in the same woe! Oh, 'Manes of July!' (the phrase is pretty and grammatical), why did you with sharp bullets break those Louvre windows ? Why did you bayonet red-coated Swiss behind that fair white fagade, and braving cannon, musket, sabre, perspective guillotine, burst yonder bronze gates, rush through that peaceful picture-gallery, and hurl royalty, loyalty, and a thousand years of kings, head over heels out of yonder Tuileries windows? It is, you will allow, a little difficult to say ; there is, however, one benefit that the country has gained (as for liberty of press or person, diminished taxation, a juster representation, who ever thinks of them?). One benefit they have gained, or nearly — abolition de la peme de mort, namely, pour delit politique — no more wicked A French Conspirator. 51 guillotining for revolutions. A Frenciiman must Lave his revolution — it is his nature to knock down omnibuses in the street, and across them to fire at troops of the line — it is a sin to balk it — did not the King send off revolutionary Prince Napoleon in a coach and four ? Did not the jury before the face of God and justice proclaim revolutionary Colonel Vaudrey nob guilty ? One may hope soon, that if a man shows decent courage and energy in half-a-dozen emeutes, he will get promotion and a premium. I do not (although perhaps partial to the sub- ject) want to talk more nonsense than the occa- sion warrants and will pray you to cast your eyes ever the following anecdote^ that is now going the round of the papers, and respects the commuta- tion of the punishment of that wretched foolhardy Barbes, who on his trial seemed to invite the penalty which has just been remitted to him. You recollect the braggart's speech : ' When the Indian falls into the power of the enemy, he knows the fate that awaits him, and submits his head to the knife. — I am the Indian 1 ' 'Well ■ ' D 2 52 The Students' Quarter. 'M. Victor Hugo was at the Opera on the night when the sentence of the Court of Peers, condemning BarhSs to death, was published; the great poet composed the following verses : — Par votre ange envoUe ainsi qu'une colombe, Par le royal enfant, doux et frele roseau, Gr4ce encore une fois ! Gr4ce au nom de la tomte, Grica an nom du terceau ! * ' M. Victor Hugo wrote the lines out instantly on a sheet of paper, which he folded, and simply despatched them to the King of the French by the penny post. That truly is a noble voice which can at all hours thus speak to the throne. Poetry in old days was called the language of the gods — it is better named now, it is the language of kings. ' But the clemency of the King had anticipated the letter of the Poet. The pen of His Majesty * Translated for the benefit of country gentlemen: — By your angel flown away just like a dove, By the royal infant, that frail and tender reed, Pardon yet once more ! Pardon in the name of the tomb, Pardon in the name of the cradle! — Note to original. Victor Hugo and Louis Philippe. 53 had signed the commutation of Barh^s, while that of the poet was still writing. Louis Philippe replied to the author of " Euy Bias " most graciously, that he had already subscribed to 'a wish so noble, and that the verses had only confirmed his previous dispositions to mercy.' Now in countries where fools most abound, did one ever read of more monstrous, palpable folly? in your country or mine, would a poet who chose to write four crack-brained verses, comparing an angel to a dove, and a little boy to a reed, and calling upon the chief magis- trate in the name of the angel or dove (the Princess Mary) in her tomb, and the little in- fant in his cradle, to spare a criminal, have received a ' gracious answer ' to his nonsense, would he have ever despatched the nonsense? and would any journalist have been silly enough to talk of ' the noble voice that could thus speak to the throne,' and the noble throne that could return such a noble answer to the noble voice ? You get nothing done here gravely and decently. Tawdry stage tricks are played, and' braggadocio 54 'The Students' Quarter. claptraps uttered, on every occasion, however sacred or solemn, in face of death as by Barb^s with his hideous Indian metaphor, in the teeth of reason as by M, Victor Hugo with his two- penny-post poetrj', and of justice, as by the King's absurd reply to this absurd demand? Suppose the Count of Paris to be twenty times a reed, and the Princess Mary a host of angels, is that any reason why the law should not have its course ? Justice is the God of our lower world, our great omnipresent guardian — as such it moTes, or should move on, majestic, awful, irresistible, having no passions — like a God : but in the very midst of the path across which it is to pass — ^lo ! M. Victor Hugo trips forward smirking, and says : ' Divine Justice, I will trouble you to listen to the following trifling effusion of mine : — Par Totre ange cnyoWe ainsi qu'une, &e. Awful Justice stops, and bowing gravely, listens to M. Hugo's verses, and with true French polite- ness, says : ' Mon cher Monsieur, these verses are charming, ravissans, delicieux, and coming from Poetry and Criminal Justice. 55 such a celebrity litt&raire as yourselfj shall meet with every possible attention ; in fact, had I required anything to confirm my own previous opinions, this charming poem would have done so. Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Hugo ; au revoir;' — and they part, Justice taking off hat and bowing, and the author of 'Euy Bias' quite convinced that he has been treating with him cVegal a igal. I can hardly bring my mind to fancy that anything is serious in France, it seems to be all rant, tinsel, and stage-play. Sham liberty, sham monarchy, sham glory, sham justice ; — ovi diable done la virite est-elle allee se nicker ? The last rocket of the fete of July has just mounted, exploded, made a portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show of blue lights, and then (like many reputations) disappeared totally : the hundredth gun on the Invalids-terrace has uttered its last roar — and a great comfort it is for eyes and ears that the festival is over. We shall be able to go about our every-day business again, 56 The Students' Quarter. and not be hustled by the gendarmes or the crowd. The sight which I have just come away from is as brilliant, happy, and beautiful, as can be conceived; and if you want to see French people to the greatest advantage, you should go to a festival like this, where their manners and innocent gaiety show a very pleasing contrast to the coarse and vulgar hilarity which the same class would exhibit in our own country — at Epsom racecourse, for instance, or Greenwich Fair. The greatest noise I heard was that of a company of jolly villagers from a place in the neighbourhood of Paris, who, as soon as the fireworks were over, formed themselves into a line of three or four abreast, and so marched singing home. As for the fireworks, squibs and crackers are very hard to describe, and very little was to be seen of them; to me, the prettiest sight was the vast, orderly, happy crowd, the number of children, and the extraordinary care and kindness of the parents towards these little creatures. " It does one good to see honest, heavy epiders, fathers of families, playing with them in the Tuileries, or as '""4 ■-•^,!?Jf^' >- -^ '- on the contrary, contented himself with watching the countenances of the robbers, so that he might recognise them on another occasion, and, though an avaricious man, did not feel the slightest anxiety about his money-chest; for the fact is, he had removed the cash and papers the day before. A Marriage Episode. i4<; As soon, however, as they had brokea all the locks, and found the nothing which lay at the bottom of the chest, he shouted with such a loud voice, 'Here, * Thomas ! ' ' John ! ' ' Officer ! ' ' Keep the gate ! ' ' Fire at the rascals ! ' . — That they, in continently taking fright, skipped nimbly out of window, and left the house free. Cartouche, after this, did not care to meet his brother-in-law, but eschewed all such occasions in which the latter was to be present at his father's house. The evening before the marriage ■came, and then his father insisted upon his appearance among the other relatives of the bride's and bridegroom's family, who were all to assemble and make merry. Cartouche was obliged to yield, and brought with him one or two of his companions, who had been, by the way, present in the affair of the empty money-boxes. 146 The Students' Quarter. Cartouche never fancied that there was any danger in meeting his brother-in-law, for he had no idea that he had been seen on the night of the attack, but with a natural modesty which did him really credit, he kept out of the young bride- groom's way as much as he could, and showed no desire to be presented to him. At supper, how- ever, as he was sneaking stealthily down to a side-table, his father shouted after him, 'Ho, Dominique, come hither, and sit opposite your brother-in-law!' which Dominique did, his friends following. The bridegroom pledged him very gracefully in a bumper, and was in the act of making him a pretty speech, on the honour of an alliance with such a family, and on the pleasures of brother-in-lawship in general, when, looking in his face — ye Grods, — he saw the very man who had been filing at his money-chest a few nights ago ! By his side, too, sate a couple more of the gang — ^the poor fellow turned deadly pale and sick, and, setting his glass down, ran out of the room, for he thought he was in company of a whole gang of robbers. And when he got home, he wrote a letter to the elder Cartouche Cartouche and St. Lazare. 147 himself, humbly declining any connection with his family. Cartouche the elder, of course, angrily asked the reason of such an abrupt dissolution of the engagement ; and, much to his horror, he heard of his eldest son's doings. 'You would not have me marry into such a family ? ' said the ex-bridegroom. And old Cartouche, an honest old citizen^ confessed, with a heavy heart, that he - would not. What was he to do with the lad T- — ^he did not like to ask for a lettre-de-cachet, and shut him up in the Bastille — he determined to give him a year's discipline at the Monastery of SU Lazare. ' But how to catch the young gentleman ? Old , Cartouche knew that, were he to tell his son of the scheme, the latter would never obey, and, therefore, he determined to be very cuiming. He told Dominique that he was about to make a heavy bargain with the Fathers, and should require a witness, so they stepped into a carriage together, and drove unsuspectingly to the Eue Saint Denis; E 2 148 The Students' Quarter. but, when they arrived near the convent. Car- touche saw several ominous figures gathering round the coach, and felt that his doom was sealed. However, he acted as if he knew no- thing of the conspiracy, and the carriage drew up and his father descended; and, bidding him ■wait for a minute in the coach, promised to return to him — Cartouche looked out — on the other side of the way half-a-dozen men were posted, evidently with the intention of arresting him. Cartouche now performed a great and celebrated stroke of genius, which if he had not been pro- fessionally employed in the morning, he never £0uld have executed. He had in his pocket a piece of linen, which he had laid hold of at the door of some shop, and from which he quickly tore three suitable strips — one he tied round his head, after the fashion of a nightcap, a second round his waist like an apron, and with the third he covered his hat, a round one, with a large brim. His coat and his periwig he left behind him in the carriage, and when he stepped cut from it (which he did without asking the A Hint not thrown away. 149 coachman to let down the steps), he bore exactly the appeai-ance of a cook's boy carrying a dish^ and with this he passed through the exempts quite unsuspected, and bade adieu to theLazaristS and his honest father, who came out speedily to seek him, and was not a little annoyed to find only his coat and wig. With that coat and wig, Cartouche lefb home^ father, friends, consciencej remorse, society be- hind him. He discovered (like a great number of other philosophers and poets, when they have committed rascally actions) that the world was all going wrong, and he quarrelled with it outright* One of the first stories told of the illustrious Cartouche, when he became professionally and openly a robber, redounds highly to his credit^ and shows that he knew how to take advantage of the occasion, and how much he had improved iu the course of a very few years' experience. His courage and ingenuity were vastly admired by his friends, so much so that one day the captain of the band thought fit to compliment him, and vowed that when he (the captain) died. Cartouche 150 . The Students' Quarter. would infallibly be called to the command-in-^ pHef. This conversation, so flattering to Cartouche, was carried on between the two gentlemen as they were walking, one night, on the quay by the side of the Seine. Cartouche, when the captain made the last remark, blushingly. protested against it, and pleaded his extreme youth as a reason why his comrades could never put entii-e trust in him. . ' Psha, man,' said the captain, ' thy youth is in thy favour ; thou wilt live only the longer to lead thy troops to victory. As for strength, bravery, and cunning, wert thou as old as Methuselah, thou couldst not be better provided than thou art now, at eighteen.' "WTiat was the reply of Mons. Cartouche ? He answered not by words, but by actions. Drawing his knife from his girdle, he instantly dug it into his captain's left side, as near his heart as possible, and then, seizing that im- prudent commander, precipitated him violently ^nto the waters of the Seine, to keep company with gudgeons and river-gods. Cartouche elected Captain. 151 When he returned to the band, and recounted how the captain had basely attempted to assas- sinate him, and how he, on the contrary, had by exertion of superior skill overcome the captain, not one of the society believed a word of his history, but they elected him captain forth- with. I think his Excellency Don Eafael Maroto, the pacificator of Spain, is an amiable cha- racter, for whom history has not been written in vain. Being arrived at this exalted position, there is no end of the feats which Cartouche performed, and his band reached to such a pitch of glory, that if there had been a hundred thousand, in- stead of a hundred of them, who knows but that a new and popular dynasty might next have been founded, and Louis Dominique, Premier Empereur des Franjais, might have performed innumerable glorious actions, and fixed him self in the hearts of his people, just as other monarchs have done, a hundred years after Cartouche's death ? A similar story to the above, and equally moral. 152 The Students' Quarter. is that of Cartouche, who, in company with two other gentlemen, robbed the coche, or packet- boat, from Melun, where they took a great quan- tity of booty, making the passengers lie down on the decks, and rifling them at leisure. ' This money will be but a very little among three,' whispered Cartouche to his neighbour, as the thi-ee conquerors were making merry over their gains. ' If you were but to pull the trigger of your pistol in the neighbotirhood of your comrade's ear, perhaps it might go ofiF, and then there would be but two of us to share.' Strangely enough, as Cartouche said, the pistol did go off, and number three perished, ' Grive him another ball,' said Cartouche, and another was fired into him. But no sooner had Cartouche's comrade dis- charged both his pistols, than Cartouche him- self, seized with a furious indignation, drew his. ' Learn, monster,' cried he, ' not to be so greedy of gold ; and perish, the victim of thy disloyalty and avarice.' So Cartouche slew the second Monsieur de la Eeynk. 153 robber, and there is no man in Europe who can say that the latter did not merit well his punish- ment. I could fiU volumes, and not mere sheets of paper, with the tales of the triumphs of Cartouche and his band; how he robbed the Countess of 0. going to Dijon in her coach, and how th0 Countess fell in love with him, and was faithful to him ever after ; how, when the Lieutenant of Police offered a reward of a hundred pistoles to any man who would bring Cartouche before him, a noble Marquis in a coach and six drove up to the hotel of the police ; and the noble Marquis, desiring to see Monsieur de la Eeynie on matters of the highest moment alone, the latter intro- duced him into his private cabinet: and how, when there, the Marquis drew from his pocket a long, curiously-shaped dagger. 'Look at this. Monsieur de la Eeynie,' said he, ' this dagger is poisoned ! ' • Is it possible ? ' said M. de la Eeynie. * A prick of it would do for any man,' said the Marquis. ' You don t say so,' said 31. de la Eeynie. 154 The Students^ Quarter. •I do, though, and, what is more,' said the Marquis, in a terrible voice, 'if you do not instantly lay yourself flat on the ground, with your face towards it, and your hands crossed over your back, or if you make the slightest noise or cry, I will stick this poisoned dagger between your ribs, as sure as my name is Cartouche ! ! ' At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Eeynie sunk incontinently down on his stomach, and submitted to be carefully gagged and corded ; after which. Monsieur Cartouche laid his hands upon all the money which was left in the Lieutenant's cabinet. Alas and alas! many a stout bailifi', and many an honest fellow of a spy, went for that day without his pay and his victuals ! There is a story that Cartouche once took the diligence to Lille, and found in it a certain Abbe Potter, who was full of indignation against this monster of a Cartouche, and said that when he went back to Paris, which he proposed to do in about a fortnight, he should give the Lieutenant of Police some information which would in- . The AhM Potter. 155 fallibly lead to the scoundrel's capture. But poor Potter was disappointed in his designs, for, hefore he eould fulfil them, he was made the victim of Cartouche's cruelty. A letter came to the Lieutenant of Police, to state that Cartouche had travelled to Lille, in company with the Abbe Potter of that town: that, on the reverend gentleman's return towards Paris, Cartouche had waylaid him, rnurdered him, taken his papers, and would come to Paris him- self bearing the name and clothes of the unfor- tunate Abbe, by the Lille coach, on such a day. The Lille coach arrived, and was surrounded by police agents ; the monster Cartouche was there sure enough in the Abbe's guise. He was seized, bound, flung into prison, brought out to be ex- At amined, and on examination found to be no other than the Abbe de Potter himself! It is pleasant to read thus of the relaxations of great men, and find them condescending to joke like the meanest of us. Another diligence adventure is recounted of this famous Cartouche. It happened that he met in the coach a young and lovely lady. 156 The Students' Quarter. clad in widow's weeds, and bound to Paris, with a couple of servants. The poof thing was the widow of a rich old gentleman of Marseilles, and was going to the capital to arrange with her lawyers, and to settle her husband's will. The Count de Grinche (for so her fellow-pas- senger was called) was quite as candid as the pretty widow had been, and stated that he was a captain in the regiment of Nivemois, that he was going to Paris to buy a colonelcy," which his relatives, the Duke de Bouillon, the Prince de Montmorenci, the Commandeur de la Tre- mouille, with all their interest at Court, could not fail to procure for him. To be short, in the course of a few days' journey, the Count Louis Dominique de Grinche played his cards so well, that the poor little widow half forgot her late husband, and her eyes glistened with tears as the count kissed her hand at parting — at parting, he hoped, only for a few hours. Day and night the insinuating Count followed her; and when, at the end of a fortnight, and in the midst of a tMe-a-titet when they were The lovely Widow. 157 alone, he plumped suddenly on his knees, and said, 'Leonora, do you love me?' the poor thing heaved the gentlest, tenderest, sweetest sigh in the world, and, sinking her blushing iead on his shoulder, whispered, •0 Dominique, je faiTnel Ah,' said she, 'how noble it is of my Dominique to take me with the little I have, and he so rich a nobleman ! ' The fact is, the old Baron's titles and estates had passed away to his nephews; his dowager was only left with 300,000 livres, in rentes sur Vetat — a handsome sum, but nothing to compare to the rent-roll of Count Dominique, Count de la Grrinche, Seigneur de la Haute Pegre, Baron de la Bigorne — ^he had estates and wealth which might authorise him to aspire to the hand of a Duchess at least. The unfortimate widow never for a moment suspected the cruel trick which was about to be played upon her, and, at the request of her aflSanced husband, sold out her money and realised it in gold, to be made over to 158 The Students' Quarter. him on the day when the contract was to be signed. The day arrived, and, according to custom in France, the relatives of both parties at- tended. The widow's relations, though respect- able, were not of the first nobility, being persons chiefly of the finance and the robe : there was the President of the Court of Arras and his lady, a Farmer-General, a Judge of a Comi; of Paris, and other such grave and respectable people. As for Monsieur le Comte de la Grinche, h6 was not bound for names, and, having the whole peerage to choose from, brought a host of Montmorencies, Crequis, De la Tours, and Guises at his back. His homme cPaffaires brought his papers in a sack, and displayed the plans of his estates, and the titles of his glorious ancestry. The widow's lawj'ers had her money in sacks, and between the gold on the one side and the parchments on the other lay the contract which was to make the widow's 300,000 francs the property of the Count de la Grinche. The Wedding interrupted. 159 The Count de la Grinche was just about to sign, when the Marshal de Villars, stepping up to him, said, 'Captain, do you Icnow who the President of the Court of Arras yonder is? — It is old Manasseh, the Jew of Brussels. I pawned a gold watch to him, which I stole from Cadogan, when I was with Malbrook's army in Flanders.' Here the Due de la Eoche Gruyon came forward, very much alarmed. 'Eim me through the body ! ' said his Grace, ' but the Controller- General's lady there is no other than that old hag of a Margoton who keeps the .' Here the Due de la Eoche Guyon's voice fell. Cartouche smiled graciously, and walked up to the table ; he took up one of the widow's fifteen thousand gold pieces — it was as pretty a bit of copper as you could wish to see 'My dear,' said he politely, 'there is some mistake here, and this business had better stop.' ' Count ! ' gasped the poor widow. ' Count be hanged ! ' said he. ' My name is. Caetouche.' CHAPTER VII. A EAMBLE IN THK PICTUEE GALLEKIES. Comparison between French and English Art — ^Art-Student Life in France — Anecdote of an Art-Student in England — Anecdote of Guizot — ^The Paradise of Painters and Penny-a- Liners — M. Gudin — Tom Paine and Tom Macaulay — The Eoyal Academy — Dr. Dionysius Lardner — Lord Byroil's Sen- timentalism — The Classical School of Art — Michael Angelo — The School of Fine Arts — The Pictures at the Luxembourg • — Love of Murder Scenes — Delacroix — Horace Vemet — Delaroche. The three collections of pictures at the Louvre,, the Luxembourg, and the Ecole des Beaux Arts, contain a number of specimens of French Art, since its commencement almost, and give the stranger a pretty fair opportunity to study and appreciate it. The French list of painters contains some very good names, — no very great ones except Poussin (unless the admirers of Claude choose to place him among great painters), and I think the school was never in so flourishing a condition French and English Art. i6i as it is at the present day. They say there are three thousand artists in this town alone, of them a handsome minority paint not merely tolerably, but well, understand their business, draw the figure accurately, sketch with cleverness, and paint portraits, churches, or restaurateurs' shops in a decent manner. To account for a superiority over England, which I think, as regards Art, is incontestable, it must be remembered that the painter's trade in France is a very good one : better appreciated, better understood, and generally far better paid. There are a dozen excellent schools in which a lad may enter here, and, under the eye of a practised master, learn the apprenticeship of his art at an expense of about ten pounds a year. In England there is no school except the Academy, unless the student can afford to pay a very large sum, and place himself under the tuition of some particular artist. Here a young man for his ten pounds has all sorts of necessary instruction, models, &c.; he has further, and for nothing, numberless incitements to study the profession which are not to be found in England — the streets L 1 62 The Students' Quarter. are filled with picture-shops; the people them- selves are pictures, walking about: the churches, theatres, eating-houses, court-rooms are covered with pictures. Nature itself seems inclined more kindly to him, for the sky is a thousand times more bright and beautiful, and the sun shines for the greater part of the year. Add to this, incitements more selfish, but quite as powerful; a French artist is paid very handsomely — for five hundred a year is rich where all are poor — and has a rank in society rather above his merits than below them, being caressed by hosts and hostesses, in places where titles are laughed at, and a baron is thought of no more account than a banker's clerk. The life of the young artist here is the easiest, merriest, dirtiest existing possible. He arrives most likely at sixteen from his province, his parents settle forty pounds a year on him and pay his master ; he establishes himself in the Pays Latin, or in the new Quartier of Notre Dame de Lorette, which is quite peopled with painters ; he arrives at his atelier at a tolerably early hour. Student Costumes. 163 and labours among a score of companions as merry and poor as himself, Each gentleman has his favourite tobacco-pipe, and the pictures are painted in the midst of a dim cloud of smoke, and a din of puns and choice French slang, and a roar of choruses, of which no one can form an idea that has not been present at such an as- sembly. As for their dress, you see among them every variety of coiffure that has ever been known. Some young men of genius have ringlets hanging' over their shoulders — ^you may smell the tobacco with which they are scented across the street — some have straight locks, black, oily, and re- dundant — some have toupies in the famous Louis Philippe fashion — some are cropped close — some have adopted the present mode, which he who. would follow must, in order to do so, part his hair in the middle, grease it with grease, and gum it with gum, and iron it flat down over his ears ; when arrived at the ears, you take the tongs and make a couple of ranges of curls close round the whole head, such curls as you may see under a gilt three-cornered hat, and in Her Britannic l2 164 The Students' Quarter. Majesty's coachman's state wig. This is the last fashion. With respect of beards, there is no end to them ; all my friends the artists have beards who can raise them ; and Nature, though she has rather stinted the bodies and limbs of the French nation, has been very liberal to them of hair. Fancy these heads and beards under all sorts of caps, Chinese mandarin-caps, Greek skull-caps, English jockey-caps, Persian or Kuzzilbash-caps, middle-age caps (such as are called in heraldry * caps of maintenance '), Spanish nets and striped worsted nightcaps. Fancy all the jackets you have ever seen, and you have before you, as well as the pen can describe, the costumes of these indescribable Frenchmen. In this company and costume, the French student of art passes his days and acquires knowledge : how he passes his evenings, in what theatre, at what guin- guettes, in company with what seducing little milliner, there is no need to say : I know one who pawned his coat to go to the Carnival Ball, and walked abroad very cheerfully in his blouse for six weeks, until he could redeem the absent garment. The Art-Student in Paris. 165 These young men (together with the students of sciences) comport themselves towards the sober citizens pretty much as the German bursch to- wards the Philister, or as the military man during the Empire did to the peJcin; from the height of their poverty they look down upon him with the greatest imaginable scorn — a scorn> I think, by which the citizen seems dazzled, for his respect for the Arts is intense. The case is very different in England, where a grocer's daughter would think she made a mesalliance by marrying a painter, and where a literary man (in spite of all we can say against it) ranks below that dubious class of gentry composed of the Apothecary, the At- torney, the Wine-merchant, whose positions, in country towns at least, are so equivocal. As, for instance, my friend the Eeverend James Asterisk, who has an undeniable pedigree, a paternal estate, and a living to boot, once dined in Warwickshire in company with several squires and parsons of that enlightened county. Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily agreeable 1 66 The Students' Quarter. at dinner, and delighted all present with his learning and wit. * Who is that monstrous pleasant fellow ? ' said one of the squires. ' Don't you know ? ' replied another ; ' it's As- terisk, the author of so-and-so, and a famous contributor to such and such a magazine.' ' Good heavens I ' said the squire, quite terri- fied ; ' a literary man ! I thought he had been a gentleman ! ' Another instance. Monsieur Gruizot, when he was a minister here, had the grand hotel of the Ministry, and gave entertainments to all the great de jpar le irnonde, as Brantome says, and enter- tained them in a proper ministerial magnificence. The splendid and beautiful Duchess of Dash was at one of his ministerial parties, and went a fort- night afterwards, as in duty bound, to pay her respects to M. Guizot. But it happened in this fortnight that Monsieur Guizot was minister no longer, but gave up his portfolio and his grand hotel to retire into private life, and to occupy his humble apartments in a house which he possesses, and of which he lets the greater The Paradise of Painters- 167 portion. A friend of mine was present at one of the ex-minister's soirees, when the Duchess of Dash made her appearance. He says the Duchess at her entrance seemed quite astounded, and examined the premises with a most curious wonder. Two or three shabby little rooms, with ordinary furniture, and a minister en re- traite, who Uves by letting lodgings! In our country was ever such a thiag heard of? No, thank Heaven, and a Briton ought to be proud of the difference. But to our muttons. This country is sure the paradise of painters and penny-a-liners, and when one reads of Monsieur Horace Vernet, at Eome, exceeding ambassadors by his magnificence, and leading such a life as Eubens or Titian did of old — when one sees Monsieur Thiers' grand villa in the Eue Saint George (a dozen years ago he -was not even a penny-a-liner, no such luck) — when one contemplates in imagination Monsieur G-udin, the marine painter, too lame to walk through the picture gallery of the Louvre, accommodated therefore with a wheel-chair, privilege of princes only, and accompanied, nay, for what I know. 1 68 The Students' Quarter. trundled down the gallery, by majesty itself, who does not long to make one of the great nation, exchange his native tongue for the melodious jabber of France, or at least adopt it for his native country, like Marshal Saxe, Napoleon, and -Anarcharsis Clootz ? Noble people ! they made Tom Paine a deputy, and as for Tom Macaulay, they would make a dynasty of him. Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so many painters in France — and here at last we are, back to them. At the Ecole Eoyale des Beaux Arts you see two or three hundred speci- mens of their performances — all the prize-men since seventeen hundred and fifty, I think, being bound to leave there their prize sketch or picture. Can anything good come out of the Eoyal Academy? is a question which has been con- siderably mooted in England (in the neighbour- hood of Suffolk Street especially). The hundreds of French samples are, I think, not very satis- factory. The subjects are almost all what are called classical — Orestes pursued by every variety Classical Art 169 of Furies — numbers of little wolf-sucking Eo- muluses — Hectors and Andromaches in a com- plication of parting embraces, and so forth — for it was the absurd maxim of our forefathers, that because one or two giants could reach these lofty supports, the race of pigmies must get upon stilts and jump at them likewise; and on the canvass, and in the theatre, the French frogs (excuse the pleasantry) were in- tructed to swell out and bellow as much as pos- sible like bulls. "What was the consequence ? As the Eeverend Dionysius Lardner says with much propriety — in trying to make themselves into bulls, the frogs make themselves into jackasses — as might be ex- pected. For a hundred and ten years the classical hum- bug oppressed the nations ; and you may see in this gallery of the Beaux Arts seventy years' spe- cimens of the dulness which it engendered. As nature made every man with a nose and eyes of his own — she gave him a character of his own, too ; and we, a foolish race, must try our very best to ape some one or two of our neighbours, whose ideas lyo The Students' Quarter. fit us no more than their breeches ! It is the study of Nature, surely, that profits us, and not of these imitations of her. A man as a man, from a dustman up to jS)schylus, is Grod's work, and good to read, as all works of nature are ; but what a worthless creature it becomes when it tries to fit itself into another shape, wants to deny its own identity, and has not the courage to utter its own thoughts. Because Lord Byron was wicked, and quarrelled with the world, and found himself growing fat and quarrelled with his victuals, and thus natu- rally grew ill-humoured, did not half Europe grow ill-humoured too ? Did not every poet feel his young affections withered, and despair and darkness cast upon his soul because his lordship was afraid of growing two or three stone heavier? Because certain mighty men of old could make heroical statues and plays, must we not be told that there is no other beauty but classical beauty? Must not every little whipster of a French poet chalk you out plays, Henriades, and such like, and vow that here was the real thing, the unde- niable Kalon ? The undeniable fiddlestick! For a hundred Christian Art 171 years, my dear sir, the world was humbugged by the so-called classical art, as it is now by what is called the Christian art (of which, anon) — and it is curious to look at the pictorial traditions as here handed down. The consequence of them is, that not one of the pictures exhibited is worth much more than two-and-sixpence. Borrowed from statuary in the first place, the colour of the paintings seems as much as possible to partici- pate in it— they are mostly of a misty, stony, green, dismal hue, as if they had been painted ia a world where no colour was. In every picture there are, of course, white mantles, white urns, white columns, white statues, those obligSs accom- paniments of the sublime. There are the endless straight noses, long eyes, round chins, short upper- lips, just as they are ruled down for you in the drawing-books, as if the latter were the Eevela- tions of Beauty, issued by Supreme authority, and from which there was no appeal ! Why is the classical reign to endure? Why is yonder simpering Venus of Medicis to be our standard of beauty, or the Greek tragedies to bound our notions of the sublime? There was no reason. lyi The Students' Quarter. why Agamemnon should set the fashions, and remain ava^ avSp&v to eternity, and there is a classical quotation which you may have occa- sionally heard, beginning 'Vivere fortes,' &c., which, as it avers that there were a great numher of stout fellows before Agamemnon, may not unreasonably induce us to conclude that similar heroes were to succeed him. Shakspeare made a better man when his imagination moulded the mighty figure of Macbeth ; and if you will mea- sure Satan by Prometheus, the blind old Puritan's work by that of the fiery Grecian poet, does not Milton's angel surpass ^schylus's — surpass him by ' many a rood ' ? In this same school of the Beaux Arts, where are to be found such a number of pale imitations of the antique. Monsieur Thiers (and he ought to be thanked for it) has caused to be placed a full- sized copy of the 'Last Judgment' of Michael Angelo, and a number of casts from statues by the same splendid hand. There is the sub* lime if you please — a new sublime, an original sublime, quite as sublime as the Greek sublime. See, yonder, in the midsb of His angels, the Michael Angela. 173 Judge of the world descending in glory, and near Him, beautiful and gentle, and yet in- describably august and pure, the Virgin by His side. There is the Moses, the grandest figure that ever was carved in stone. It has about it something frightfully majestip, if one may so speak. In examining this, and the astonish- ing picture of the Judgment, or even a single figure of it, the spectator's sense amounts al- most to pain. I would not like to be left in a room alone mth the Moses. How did the artist live amongst them, and create them? How did he suffer the painful labour of inven- tion? One fancies that he would have been scorched up like Semele, by sights too tremendous for his vision to bear ; one cannot imagine him, with our small physical endowments and weak- nesses, a man like ourselves. As for the Ecole Eoyale des Beaux Arts, then, and all the good its students have done — ^it is stark naught. There is only one picture among the many hundreds that has, to my thinking, much merit (a charming composition of Homer singing, signed Jourdy) — ^and the only good that 174 Tli^ Students' Quarter. the Academy has done by its pupils, was to send them to Eome where they might learn better things. ' At home, where the intolerably stupid classi- calities taught by men, who, belonging to the least erudite country in Europe, were them- selves, from their profession, the least learned among their countrymen, only weighed the pupUs down, and cramped their hands, their eyes, and their imaginations, drove them away from natural beauty — ^which, thank God, is fresh and attain- able by us all, to-day, and yesterday, and to- morrow — and sent them rambling after artificial grace, without the proper means of judging or . attaining it. A word for the building of the Palais des Beaux Arts : it is beautiful, and as well finished and con- venient as beautiful; with its light and elegant fabric, its pretty fountains, its archway of the Eenaissance, and fragments of sculpture, you can hardly see, on a fine day, a place more riant and pleasing. Passing from thence up the picturesque Eue de la Seine, let us walk to the Luxembourg, where The Luxembourg. 175 bonnes, students, grisettes, and old gentlemen with pig-tails, love to wander in the melancholy quaint old gardens, where the peers have a new and comfortable court of justice to judge all the emeutes which are to take place, and where, as everybody knows, is the picture-gallery of modern French artists, whom government thinks worthy of patronage. A very great proportion of these, as we see by the catalogue, are of the students whose works we have just been to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having performed their pilgrimage to Eome, have taken rank among the professors of the art. I dont know a more pleasing exhi- bition, for there are not a dozen really bad pictures in the collection, some very good, and the rest showing great skill and smartness of execution. In the same way, however, that it has been supposed that no man could be a great poet unless he wrote a very big poem, the tradition is kept up among the painters, and we have here a vast number of large canvasses, with figures of the proper heroical length and nakedness. The 176 The Students' Quarter. Anticlassicists did not arise in France until about 1827, and, in consequence, there are at the Luxembourg plenty of specimens of the old classical faith in full vigour. There is Brutus, having chopped his son's head off, with all the agony of a father — and then calling for number two — there is ^neas carry- ing off old Anchises — ^there are Paris and Venus, as naked as two Hottentots, and many more such choice subjects from Lem- priere. But the chief samples of the sublime are in the way of murders, with which the catalogue swarms. Here are a few specimens : — 1. Beaume, Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur. — The Grrand Dauphiness dying. 18. Blondel, Chevalier de la Leg. — Zenobia found dead. 36. Debay, Chevalier. — The Death of Lu- cretia. 38. Dejeune. — The Death of Hector. 34, Court, Chevalier de la L. — The Death of Csssar. 39, 40, 41. Delacroix, Chevalier.— Dante and Taste for Murder Scenes. 177 Virgil in the Infernal Lake. — The Massacre of Scio. — Medea going to Murder her Children. 43, 44. Delaroche, Chevalier. — Joas taken from among the Dead. — The Death of Queen Elizabeth. 45. Edward V. and his Brother (preparing for death). 50, Hecuba going to be sacrificed. — Drolling, Chevalier. 51. Dubois. — Young Clovis found Dead. 56. Henry, Chevalier. — The Massacre of Saint JBartholomew. 75. Gruerin, Chevalier. — Cain after the Death of Abel. 83. Jacquand. — Death of Adelaide de Com- miQge. 88. The Death of Eudamydas. 93. The Death of Hyrnetho. 103. The Death of Philip of Austria. And so on. You see what woful subjects they take, and how profusely they are decorated with knighthood. They are like the Black Bruns- wickers, these painters, and ought to be called Chevaliers de la Mort. I don't know why the merriest people in the world should- please them- lyS The Students' Quarter. selves with such grim representations and varieties of murder, or why muMer itself should be con- sidered so eminently sublime and poetical. It is good at the end of a tragedy, but then it is good because it is the end, and because by the events foregone, the mind is prepared for it ; — but these men will have nothing but fifth acts, and seem to skip as unworthy all the circumstances leading to them. This, however, is part of the scheme, the bloated, unnatural, stilted, spouting, sham sublime that our teachers have believed, and tried to pass off as real, and which your humble servant, and other Anti- humbuggists, should lustily, according to the strength that is in them, endeavour to pull down. What, for instance, could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of Eudamydas? What was Hecuba to the Chevalier Drolling or Chevalier Drolling to Hecuba? I would lay a wager that neither of them ever conjugated Tinna), and that their school-learning carried them not as far as the letter, but only to the game of taw. How were they to be inspired Delacroix and Delaroche. 179 by such subjects? from having seen Talma and Mademoiselle Georges flaunting in sham Greek costumes, and having read up the articles Eudamydas, Hecuba, in the Mythological Dic- tionary. What a classicism inspired by rouge, gas lamps, and a few lines in Lempriere, and copied half from ancient statues, and half from a naked guardsman at one shilling and sixpence the hour ! Delacroix is a man of a very different genius, and his Medea is a genuine creation of a noble fancy— for most of the others, Mrs. Brownrigg and her two female apprentices would have done as well as the desperate Colchian with her tskvo, ^baara. M. Delacroix has produced a great number of rude, barbarous pictures, but there is the stamp of genius on all of them ; the great poetical intention which is worth all your execution. Delaroche is another man of great merit, with not such a great heart, perhaps, as the other, but a fine and careful draughtsman, and an ex- cellent arranger of his subject. The death of w. 2 i8o The Students' Quarter. Elizabeth is a raw young performance seemingly, "not at "least "to my taste : the Enfants d'lSdouard is renowned over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred dififerent ways in print. It is properly pathethic and gloomy, and merits fully its high reputation. This painter rejoices in such sub- jects—in what Lord Portsmouth used to call ' black jobs.' He has killed Charles I., and Lady Jane Grey, and the Duke of Guise, and I don't know whom besides. He is at present occupied with a vast work at the Beaux Arts, where the writer of this had the honour of seeing him — a little keen-looking man, some five feet in height; he wore on this important occasion a bandana round his head, and was in the act of smoking a cigar. Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Dela- roche married, is the king of French battle-painters, an amazingly rapid and dexterous draughtsman, who has Napoleon and all the campaigns by heart, and has painted the grenadier franp ais under all sorts of attitudes. His pictures on such subjects are spirited, natural, and excellent, and he is so ■clever a man that all he does is good to a certain Horace Vernet. ibi degree. His Judith is somewhat violent, perhaps — his Eebecca most pleasing, and not the less so for a little pretty affectation of attitude and needless singularity of costume. Eaphael and Michael Angelo is as clever a picture as can be — clever is just the word ; the groups and drawing excel- lent, the colouring pleasantly bright and gaudy ; and the students study it incessantly ; there's a dozen who copy it for one who copies Delacroix. His little scraps of woodcuts in the newly- published 'Life of Napoleon ' are perfect gems in their way, and the noble price paid for them not a penny more than he merits. The picture by Court, of the Death of Csesar, is remarkable for effect and excellent workman- ship ; and the head of Brutus (who looks like Armand Carrel) is full of energy. There are some beautiful heads of women, and some very good colour in the picture. Jacquand's Death of Adelaide de Comminge is neither more nor less than beautiful. Adelaide had, it appears, a lover, who betook himself to a convent of Trappists; she followed him thither disguised as a man, took the vows, and 1 82 Tlie Students' Quarter. was not discovered by him till on her death- bed. The painter has told this story in a most pleasing and affecting manner; — the picture is full of onction and melancholy grace. The objects, too, are capitally represented, and the tone and colour very good. Decaisne's Guardian Angel is not so good in colour, but is equally beautiful in expres- sion and grace. A little child and a nurse are asleep — an angel watches the infant. You see women look very wistfully at this sweet pic- ture, and what triumph would a painter have more ? What more is to be observed concerning the Luxembourg shall be written in a succeeding letter, when I have a word or two to say about the Louvre. T. T. CHAPTER Vlir. ANOTHER RAMBLE IN THE PICTUEE GALLERIES. The Louvre — The Pictures of M. Ingres— The Chevalier Zieglep — French Sculpture — Touffley and other Sculptors — ^David — Sir Walter Scott and Eomanticism — Gericault's Picture of the Eaft of the Medusa — Girodet's Deluge — ^Poussrn — Carel — Dnjardiu — Watteau — Greuze — Lesueiir's Crucifixion — Conclusion. One must not quit the Luxembourg without noticing the dashing sea-pieces of Gudin, and one or two landscapes of Giroux (the plain of Grasivaudan), and the.' Prometheus' of Aligny. This is an imitation, perhaps ; as is a noble picture of 'Jesus Christ and the Children,' by Flandrin; but the artists are imitating better models, at any rate ; and one begins to perceive that the odious classical dynasty is no more. Poussin's magnificent ' Polyphemus ' (I only know a priit of that marvellous composition) has perhaps suggested the first-named picture; and 1 84 The Students' Quarter. the latter has been inspired by a good enthusiastic study of the Eoman schools. Of this revolution. Monsieur Ingres has been one of the chief instruments. He was, before Horace Vemet, president of the French Academy at Eome, and is famous as a chief of a school. When he broke up his atelier here, to set out for his presidency, many of his pupils attended him piously some wa^ on his journey ; and some, with scarce a penny in their pouches, walked through France, and across the Alps, in a pious pilgrim- age to Eome, being determined not to forsake their old master. Such an action was worthy of them, and of the high rank which their profession holds in France, where the honotirs to be acquired by art are only inferior to those which are gained in war. One reads of such peregrinations in old days, when the scholar of some great Italian painter followed him from Venice to Eome, or from Florence to Ferrara. In regard to Ingres' individual merit as a painter, the writer of this iS not a fair judge, having seen but three paintings Absurdities in Art. 185 — one being a jplafond in the Louvre, which his disciples much admire. Ingres stands between the Imperial Davido- classical school of French art and the namby- pamby mystical German school, which is for carrying us back to Cranach and Durer, and which is making progress here. Everything here finds imitation ; the French have the genius of imitation and caricature. This absurd humbug, called the Christian or Catholic art, is sure to tickle our neighbours, and will be a favourite with them when better known. I do believe this to be a greater humbug than the humbug of David and Grirodet, inasmuch as the latter was founded on nature at least, whereas the fonner is made up of silly affectations and im- provements upon Nature. Here, for instance, is Chevalier Ziegler's picture of * St. Luke painting the Virgin.' St. Luke has a monk's dress on, embroidered, however, smartly round the sleeves. The Virgin sits in an immense yellow-ochre halo, with her son in her arms. She looks preterm naturally solemn, as does St. Luke, who is eyeing 1 86 The Students' Quarter. his paint-brush with an intense ominous mystical look. They call this .Catholic art. There is no- thing, my dear friend, more easy in life. First, take your colours, and rub them down clean, — bright carmine, bright yellow, bright sienna, bright ultramarine, bright green. Make the costumes of your figures as much as possible like the costumes of the early part of the fifteenth century. Paint them in with the above colours ; and if on a gold ground, the more 'Catholic' your art is. , Dress your apostles like priests before the altar ; and remember to have a good commodity of crosiers, censers, and other such gimcracks, as you may see in the Catholic chapel in Sutton Street and elsewhere. Deal in Virgins, and dress them like a burgomaster's wife by Cranach or Van Eyck. Give them all long twisted tails to their gowns, and proper angular draperies. Place all their heads on one side, with their eyes shut, and the proper solemn simper. At the back of the head, draw and gild with gold-leaf a halo, or glory, of the exact shape of a cart-wheel ; and A Charming Sculpture. 187 you have the thing done. It is Catholic- art tout crache, as Louis Philippe says. We have it still in England, handed down to us for four , centuries in the pictures on the cards as the redoubtable king and queen of clubs. Look at them, you will see that the ' costumes and attitudes are precisely similar to those which figure in the catholicities of tl^e school of Overbeck and Cornelius. Before you take your cane at the door, look for one instant at the statue-room. Yonder is ToufSey's 'Jeune fille confiant son premier secret a VSnus.' Charming, charming! It is from the exhibition of this year only, and I think the best sculpture in the gallery — pretty, fanciful, naif — admirable in workmanship and iniitation of nature. I have seldom seen flesh better represented in marble. Examine also Jaley's ' Pudeur,' Jaequot's ' Nymph,' and Eude's ' Boy with the Tortoise.' These are not very exalted subjects, or what are called exalted, and do not go beyond simple, smiling beauty and nature. But what then ? Are we gods, Miltons, Michael Angelos, that can leave earth when we please. The Students' Quarter. and soar away to heights immeasurable ? No ; but the fools of academicians would fain make us so. Are you not, and half the painters in London, panting for an opportunity to show your genius in a great ' historical picture ? ' blind race ! Have you wings ? Not a feather ; and yet you must be ever pufBng, sweating up to the tops of rugged hills; and arrived there, clapping and shaking your ragged elbows, and making as if you would fly ! Come down, sUly Daedalus ; come down to the lowly places in which nature -ordered you to walk. The sweet flowers are springing there; the fat muttons are waiting there; the pleasant sun shines there; be con- tent and humble, and take your share of the good cheer. While we have been indulging in this dis- cussion, the omnibus has gaily conducted us across the water; and 'Za garde qui veille aux bmri^res du Louvre, ne dSfend pas' our entry. What a paradise this gallery is for French students, or foreigners who sojom-n in the capitall The Glories of Student-Life. 189 it is hardly necessary to say that the brethren of the brush are not usually supplied by Fortune with any extraordinary wealth, or means of enjoy- ing the luxuries with which Paris, more than any other city, abounds. But here they have a luxury which surpasses all others, and spend their days in a palace which all the money of all the Eoths- childs could not buy. They sleep, perhaps, in a garret, and dine in a cellar ; but no grandee in Europe has such a drawing-room. Kings' houses have at best but damask hangings, and gilt cornices. What are these to a wall covered with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a hundred yards of Eubens? Artists from England, who have a National Gallery that resembles a moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures except under particular restrictions, and, on rare and particular days, may revel here to their hearts' content. Here is a room half a mile long, with as many windows as Aladdin's palace, open from fiunrise till evening, and free to all manners and all varieties of study: the only puzzle to the student is to select the one he shall begin upon, and keep his eyes away from the rest. 1 90 The Students' Quarter. Fontaine's grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceilings, and shining Doric columns, leads directly to the gallery ; but it is thought too fine for working days, and is only opened for the public entrance on the Sabbath. A 'little back stair (leading from a court in which stand nume- rous bas-reliefs, and a solemn sphinx of polished granite) is the common entry for students and others who during the week enter the gallery. Hither have lately been transported a number of the works of French artists, which formerly covered the walls of the Luxembourg (death only entitles the French painter to a place in the Louvre); and let k\s confine ourselves to the Frenchmen only fo: I have seen, in e the space of this letter. fine private collection at St. Germain, one or t^ o admirable single figures of David, full of life, ruth, and gaiety. The colour is not good, but alMhe rest excellent ; and one of these so much lauded pictures is the portrait of a washerwomari^^EZo! Pius ' at the Louvi-e is as bad in colour,TWr^ remarkable for its vigour and look of life. The man had a genius for paint- ing portraits aip common life, but must attempt David, the. Painter. 191 tbe heroic — failed signally ; and, what is worse, carried a whole nation blundering after him. To have told a Frenchman so twenty years ago, he would have thrown the d&tnenti in your teeth, or at least laughed at you in scornful incredulity. They say of us, that we don't know when we are beaten : they go a step further, and swear their defeats are victories. David was a part of the glory of the Empire, and one might as well have said, then that ' Eomulus ' was a bad picture, as that Toulouse was a lost battle. Old-fashioned people who believe in the Emperor, believe in the Theatre Franpais, and believe that Ducis improved upon Shakspeare, have the above opinion. Still it is curious to remark in this place how art and literature become party matters, and political sects have their favourite painters and authors. Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead. He died about a year after his bodily demise in 1825. The romanticism killed him. Walter Scott, from his castle of Abbotsford, sent out a troop of gallant young Scotch adventurers, merry out- laws, valiant knights, and savage Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen and buff jerkins, fierce 192 The Students' Quarter. two-handed swords, and harness on their back, did challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes and demigods of Greece and Eome. Notre Dame d, la rescousse ! Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy clear out of his saddle. Andromache may weep ; but her spouse is be- yond the reach of physic. See, Eobin Hood twangs his bow, and the heathen gods fly howling. Montjoie Sai/ntDenis ! down goes Ajax under the mace of Dunois; and yonder are Leonidas and Eomulus begging their lives of Eob Eoy Mac- gregor. Classicism is dead. Sir John Froissart has taken Dr. Lempriere by the nose, and reigns sovereign. Of the great pictures of David the defunct, we need not, then, say much. Eomulus is a mighty fine young fellow, no doubt ; and if he has come ^ut to battle stark-naked (except a very handsome helmet), it is because the costume became him, .and shows off his figure to advantage. But was there ever anything so absurd as this passion for the nude, which was followed by all the painters of the Davidian epoch ? And how are we to sup- pose yonder straddle to be the characteristic of Green Pictures. ^93 the heroic and the sublime? Eomulus stretches his legs as far as ever nature will allow ; the Horatii, in receiving their swords, think proper to stretch their legs too, and to thrust forward their arms. Komulus's is the exact action of a telegraph ; and the Horatii are all in the position of the lunge. Is this the sublime ? Mr. Angelo, of Bond Street, might admire the attitude; his namesake, Michael, I 'don't think would. The little picture of ' Paris and Helen,' one of the toaster's earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best; the details are exquisitely painted. Helen looks needlessly sheepish, and Paris has a most odious ogle; but the limbs of the male figure are beautifully designed, and have not the green tone which you see in the latter pictures of the master. What is the meaning of this green ? Was it the fashion or the varnish ? Girodet's pictures are green; Grros's emperors and gre- nadiers have universally the jaundice. Gerard's * Psyche ' has a most decided green sickness ; and I am at a loss, I confess, to account for the 194 The Students^ Quarter. enthusiasm which this performance inspired on its first appearance before the public. In the same room with it is Girodet's ghastly ' Deluge,' and Gericault's dismal 'Medusa.' Geri- cault died, they say, for want of fame. He was a man who possessed a fortune of his own ; but pined because no one in his day would purchase his pic- tures, and so acknowledge his talent. At present, a scrawl from his pencil brings an enormous price. All his works have a grand cachet ; he never did anything mean. When he painted the ' Eaft of the Medusa,' it is said he lived for a long time among the corpses which he painted, and that his studio was a second Morgue. If you have not seen the picture, you are familiar, probably, with Eeynolds' admirable engraving of it. A huge black sea — a raft beating upon it ; a horrid com- pany of men dead, half-dead, writhing and frantic with hideous hunger or hideous hope; and far away, black against a stormy sunset, a sail. The story is powerfully told, and has a legitimate tragic interest, so to speak, — deeper, because more natural, than Girodet's green ' Deluge,' for Girodefs ^ Deluge.' 195 instance, or his livid * Orestes,' or red-hot ' Clytemnestra.' Seen from a distance, the latter's 'Deluge' has ■n certain awe-inspiring air with it. A slimy green man stands on a green rock, and clutches hold of a tree. On the green man's shoulders is his old father, in a green old age; to him hangs his wife with a babe on her breast, and dangling at her hair another child. In the water floats a corpse (a beautiful head); and a green sea and atmosphere envelopes all this dismal group. The old father is represented with a bag of money in his hand ; and the tree which the man catches is cracking, and just on the point of giving way. These two points were con- sidered very fine by the critics ; they are two such ghastly epigrams as continually disfigure French tragedy. For this reason I have never been able to read Eacine with pleasure, — the dialogue is so «rammed with these lugubrious good things — ■ melancholy antitheses, — sparkling undertaker's wit; but this is heresy, and had better be spoken discreetly. The gallery contains a vast ntmiber of Poussin's N 2 196 The Students" Quarter. pictures ; they put me in mind of the colour of objects in dreams, — a strange, hazy, lurid hue. How noble are some of his landscapes ! What a depth of solemn shadow is in yonder wood, near which, by the side of a black water, halts Dio- genes: the air is thunder-laden, and breathes heavily. You hear ominous whispers in the vast forest gloom. Neai" it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe, conceived in quite a different mood, but exquisitely poetical too. A horseman is riding up a hill, and giving money to a blowsy beggar- wench. 'Omatutini rores aurceque salubres!^ in what a wonderful way has the artist managed to create you out of a few bladders of paint and pots of varnish! You can see the matutinal dews twinkling in the grass, and feel the fresh salubrious airs (' the breath of Nature blowing free,' as the Corn-law man sings) blowing free over the heath; silvery vapours are rising up from the blue lowlands. You can tell the hour of the morning, and the time of the year ; you can do anything but describe it in word3. As with regard to the Poussin above men- Watteau and Ms Dandies. 197 tioned, one can never pass it without bearing away a certain pleasing dreamy feeling of awe and musing; the other landscape inspires the spectator infallibly with the most delightful brisk- ness and cheerfulness of spirit. Herein lies the vast privilege of the landscape painter : he does not address you with one fixed particular subject or expression, but with a thousand never con- templated by himself, and which only arise out of occasion. You may always be looking at a natural landscape as at a fine pictorial imitation of one ; it seems eternally producing new thought in your bosom, as it does fresh beauties from its own. I cannot fancy more delightful, cheerful, silent companions for a gentleman than half-a-dozen landscapes hung round his study. Portraits, on the contrary, and large pieces of figures, have a painful, fixed, staring look, which must jar upon the mind in many of its moods. Fancy living in a room with David's sansculotte Leonidas staring perpetually in your face. There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of fantastical brightness and gaiety it is ; what a 198 The Students^ Quarter. delightful affectation about yonder ladies flirting their fans, and trailing about in their long brocades; what splendid dandies are those, ever, smirking, turning out their toes, with broad blue ribands to tie up their crooks and their pigtails, and wonderful gorgeous crimson satin breeches ! Yonder, in the midst of a golden atmosphere, rise a bevy of little round Cupids, bubbling up in clusters as out of a champagne bottle, and melting away in air. There is, to be sure, a hidden analogy between liquors and pictures : the eye is deliciously tickled by these frisky Watteaus, and yields itself up to a light, smiling, gentlemanlike intoxication. Thus we were inclined to pursue further this mighty subject, yonder landscape of Claude, calm, fresh, delicate, yet full of flavour, should be likened to a bottle of Chateau-Margeaux. And what is the Poussin before spoken of but Bomane-Gral^, — heavy, sluggish, — the luscious odour almost sickens you : a sultry sort of drink ; your limbs sink under it, — you feel as if you had, been drinking hot blood. An ordinary man would be whirled away in a fever, or would hobble off this mortal stage in Appreciation of Mediocrity. 199 a premature gout-fit, if he too easily or too often indulged in such tremendous drink. I think in my heart I am fonder of pretty third-rate pictures than of your great thundering first-rates. Confess, how many times you have read Beranger, and how many Milton ? If you go to the Staf and Garter, don't you grow sick of that vast luscious landscape, and long for the sight of a couple of cows, or a donkey, and a few yards of common ? Donkeys, since we have come to this subject — say not so; Eichmond Hill for them* Milton they never grow tired of; and are as familiar with Eaphael, as Bottom with exquisite Titania, Let us thank Heaven, my dear sir, for according to us the power to taste and appreciate the pleasure of mediocrity. I have never heard that we were great geniuses. Earthy are we, and of the earth; glimpses of the sublime are but rare to us ; leave we them to great geniuses, and to the donkeys; and if nothing profits us, aerias tentasse domes along with them; let ua thankfully remain below, being merry and humble. I have now only to mention the charming 200 The Students' Quarter. ' Cruche Cassee ' of Greuze, which all the young ladies delight to copy ; and of which the colour, a thought too blue, perhaps, is marvellously grace- ful and delicate. There are three more pictures by the artist, containing exquisite female heads and colour; but they have charms for French critics, which are difiScult to be discovered by English eyes; and the pictures seem weak to me. A very fine picture by Bon BoUongue, ' Saint Benedict Eesuscitating a Child,' deserves par- ticular attention, and is superb in vigour and richness of colour. You must look, too, at the large, noble, melancholy landscapes of Philippe de Cham- pagne ; and the two magnificent Italian pictures of Leopold Eobert; they are, perhaps, the very finest pictures that the French school has produced — as deep as Poussin, of a better colour, and of a wonderful minuteness and veracity in the representation of objects. Every one of Lesueur's church pictures are worth examining and admiring ; they are full of *imction' and pious mystical grace. 'Saint Conclusion. 201 Scholastica' is divine; and the 'Taking Down from the Cross ' as noble a composition as ever was seen; I care not by whom the other may be. There is more beauty and less affectation about this picture than you will find in the perform- ance of many Italian masters with high-sounding names (out with it, and say Eaphael at once), I hate those simpering Madonnas. I declare that the Jardiniere is a puking, smirking miss, with nothing heavenly about her. I vow that the ' Saint Elizabeth ' is a bad picture, a bad com- position, badly drawn, badly coloured, in a bad imitation of Titian — a piece of vile affectation. I say, that when Eaphael painted this picture, two years before his death, the spirit of painting had gone from out of him ; he was no longer inspired ; it was time that he should die I There, — ^the murder is out ! My paper is filled to the brim, and there is no time to speak of Lesueur's ' Crucifixion,' which is odiously coloured, to be sure; but earnest, tender, simple, holy. But such things are most difficult to translate into words, — one lays down the pen and thinks and thinks. The figures appear, and take their 202 The Students' Quarter. places one by one, ranging themselves according to order, in light or in gloom, the colours are reflected duly in the camera obscura of the brain, and the whole picture lies there complete; but can you describe it ? No, not it' pens were fitch-brushes, and words were bladders of paint, With which, for the present, adieu. ' Yours faithfully, M. A. T.* * The concluding letter of the series is thus signed. The ini- tials stand for ' Michael Angelo Titmarsh,' the author's favourite nom, de plume. THE END. LOSDON : fhinted Br SPOTTIBWOODE AMD CO., KEW-STREKT SQTIAnK A2ID PABL1A3IEKT ETBEEr ^ , J ^'^-' h( ,j'>h■t'>]l^sik■■i^^ib^■ - ^ 1 ifi I^ i