The Paris Sketch Book Caricatures and Lithography in Paris
by William Makepeace Thackeray
Fifty years ago there lived at Munich a poor fellow, by name Aloys
Senefelder, who was in so little repute as an author and artist,
that printers and engravers refused to publish his works at their
own charges, and so set him upon some plan for doing without their
aid. In the first place, Aloys invented a certain kind of ink,
which would resist the action of the acid that is usually employed
by engravers, and with this he made his experiments upon copper-
plates, as long as he could afford to purchase them. He found that
to write upon the plates backwards, after the manner of engravers,
required much skill and many trials; and he thought that, were he
to practise upon any other polished surface--a smooth stone, for
instance, the least costly article imaginable--he might spare the
expense of the copper until he had sufficient skill to use it.
One day, it is said, that Aloys was called upon to write--rather a
humble composition for an author and artist--a washing-bill. He
had no paper at hand, and so he wrote out the bill with some of his
newly-invented ink upon one of his Kelheim stones. Some time
afterwards he thought he would try and take an IMPRESSION of his
washing-bill: he did, and succeeded. Such is the story, which the
reader most likely knows very well; and having alluded to the
origin of the art, we shall not follow the stream through its
windings and enlargement after it issued from the little parent
rock, or fill our pages with the rest of the pedigree. Senefelder
invented Lithography. His invention has not made so much noise and
larum in the world as some others, which have an origin quite as
humble and unromantic; but it is one to which we owe no small
profit, and a great deal of pleasure; and, as such, we are bound to
speak of it with all gratitude and respect. The schoolmaster, who
is now abroad, has taught us, in our youth, how the cultivation of
art "emollit mores nec sinit esse"--(it is needless to finish the
quotation); and Lithography has been, to our thinking, the very
best ally that art ever had; the best friend of the artist,
allowing him to produce rapidly multiplied and authentic copies of
his own works (without trusting to the tedious and expensive
assistance of the engraver); and the best friend to the people
likewise, who have means of purchasing these cheap and beautiful
productions, and thus having their ideas "mollified" and their
manners "feros" no more.
With ourselves, among whom money is plenty, enterprise so great,
and everything matter of commercial speculation, Lithography has
not been so much practised as wood or steel engraving; which, by
the aid of great original capital and spread of sale, are able more
than to compete with the art of drawing on stone. The two former
may be called art done by MACHINERY. We confess to a prejudice in
favor of the honest work of HAND, in matters of art, and prefer the
rough workmanship of the painter to the smooth copies of his
performances which are produced, for the most part, on the wood-
block or the steel-plate.
The theory will possibly be objected to by many of our readers: the
best proof in its favor, we think, is, that the state of art
amongst the people in France and Germany, where publishers are not
so wealthy or enterprising as with us,* and where Lithography is
more practised, is infinitely higher than in England, and the
appreciation more correct. As draughtsmen, the French and German
painters are incomparably superior to our own; and with art, as
with any other commodity, the demand will be found pretty equal to
the supply: with us, the general demand is for neatness, prettiness,
and what is called EFFECT in pictures, and these can be rendered
completely, nay, improved, by the engraver's conventional manner of
copying the artist's performances. But to copy fine expression and
fine drawing, the engraver himself must be a fine artist; and let
anybody examine the host of picture-books which appear every
Christmas, and say whether, for the most part, painters or engravers
possess any artistic merit? We boast, nevertheless, of some of the
best engravers and painters in Europe. Here, again, the supply is
accounted for by the demand; our highest class is richer than any
other aristocracy, quite as well instructed, and can judge and pay
for fine pictures and engravings. But these costly productions are
for the few, and not for the many, who have not yet certainly
arrived at properly appreciating fine art.
* These countries are, to be sure, inundated with the productions
of our market, in the shape of Byron Beauties, reprints from the
"Keepsakes," "Books of Beauty," and such trash; but these are only
of late years, and their original schools of art are still
flourishing.
Take the standard "Album" for instance--that unfortunate collection
of deformed Zuleikas and Medoras (from the "Byron Beauties"), the
Flowers, Gems, Souvenirs, Caskets of Loveliness, Beauty, as they
way be called; glaring caricatures of flowers, singly, in groups,
in flower-pots, or with hideous deformed little Cupids sporting
among them; of what are called "mezzotinto," pencil-drawings,
"poonah-paintings," and what not. "The Album" is to be found
invariably upon the round rosewood brass-inlaid drawing-room table
of the middle classes, and with a couple of "Annuals" besides,
which flank it on the same table, represents the art of the house;
perhaps there is a portrait of the master of the house in the
dining-room, grim-glancing from above the mantel-piece; and of the
mistress over the piano up stairs; add to these some odious
miniatures of the sons and daughters, on each side of the chimney-
glass; and here, commonly (we appeal to the reader if this is an
overcharged picture), the collection ends. The family goes to the
Exhibition once a year, to the National Gallery once in ten years:
to the former place they have an inducement to go; there are their
own portraits, or the portraits of their friends, or the portraits
of public characters; and you will see them infallibly wondering
over No. 2645 in the catalogue, representing "The Portrait of a
Lady," or of the "First Mayor of Little Pedlington since the
passing of the Reform Bill;" or else bustling and squeezing among
the miniatures, where lies the chief attraction of the Gallery.
England has produced, owing to the effects of this class of
admirers of art, two admirable, and five hundred very clever,
portrait painters. How many ARTISTS? Let the reader count upon
his five fingers, and see if, living at the present moment, he can
name one for each.
If, from this examination of our own worthy middle classes, we look
to the same class in France, what a difference do we find! Humble
café's in country towns have their walls covered with pleasing
picture papers, representing "Les Gloires de l'Armée Française,"
the "Seasons," the "Four Quarters of the World," "Cupid and
Psyche," or some other allegory, landscape or history, rudely
painted, as papers for walls usually are; but the figures are all
tolerably well drawn; and the common taste, which has caused a
demand for such things, is undeniable. In Paris, the manner in
which the cafés and houses of the restaurateurs are ornamented, is,
of course, a thousand times richer, and nothing can be more
beautiful, or more exquisitely finished and correct, than the
designs which adorn many of them. We are not prepared to say what
sums were expended upon the painting of "Véry's" or "Véfour's," of
the "Salle Musard," or of numberless other places of public resort
in the capital. There is many a shop-keeper whose sign is a very
tolerable picture; and often have we stopped to admire (the reader
will give us credit for having remained OUTSIDE) the excellent
workmanship of the grapes and vine-leaves over the door of some
very humble, dirty, inodorous shop of a marchand de vin.
These, however, serve only to educate the public taste, and are
ornaments for the most part much too costly for the people. But
the same love of ornament which is shown in their public places of
resort, appears in their houses likewise; and every one of our
readers who has lived in Paris, in any lodging, magnificent or
humble, with any family, however poor, may bear witness how
profusely the walls of his smart salon in the English quarter, or
of his little room au sixième in the Pays Latin, has been decorated
with prints of all kinds. In the first, probably, with bad
engravings on copper from the bad and tawdry pictures of the
artists of the time of the Empire; in the latter, with gay
caricatures of Granville or Monnier: military pieces, such as are
dashed off by Raffet, Charlet, Vernet (one can hardly say which of
the three designers has the greatest merit, or the most vigorous
hand); or clever pictures from the crayon of the Deverias, the
admirable Roqueplan, or Decamp. We have named here, we believe,
the principal lithographic artists in Paris; and those--as
doubtless there are many--of our readers who have looked over
Monsieur Aubert's portfolios, or gazed at that famous caricature-
shop window in the Rue de Coq, or are even acquainted with the
exterior of Monsieur Delaporte's little emporium in the Burlington
Arcade, need not be told how excellent the productions of all these
artists are in their genre. We get in these engravings the loisirs
of men of genius, not the finikin performances of labored mediocrity,
as with us: all these artists are good painters, as well as good
designers; a design from them is worth a whole gross of Books of
Beauty; and if we might raise a humble supplication to the artists
in our own country of similar merit--to such men as Leslie, Maclise,
Herbert, Cattermole, and others--it would be, that they should,
after the example of their French brethren and of the English
landscape painters, take chalk in hand, produce their own copies of
their own sketches, and never more draw a single "Forsaken One,"
"Rejected One," "Dejected One" at the entreaty of any publisher or
for the pages of any Book of Beauty, Royalty, or Loveliness
whatever.
Can there be a more pleasing walk in the whole world than a stroll
through the Gallery of the Louvre on a fête-day; not to look so
much at the pictures as at the lookers-on? Thousands of the poorer
classes are there: mechanics in their Sunday clothes, smiling
grisettes, smart dapper soldiers of the line, with bronzed
wondering faces, marching together in little companies of six or
seven, and stopping every now and then at Napoleon or Leonidas as
they appear in proper vulgar heroics in the pictures of David or
Gros. The taste of these people will hardly be approved by the
connoisseur, but they have A taste for art. Can the same be said
of our lower classes, who, if they are inclined to be sociable and
amused in their holidays, have no place of resort but the tap-room
or tea-garden, and no food for conversation except such as can be
built upon the politics or the police reports of the last Sunday
paper? So much has Church and State puritanism done for us--so
well has it succeeded in materializing and binding down to the
earth the imagination of men, for which God has made another world
(which certain statesmen take but too little into account)--that
fair and beautiful world of heart, in which there CAN be nothing
selfish or sordid, of which Dulness has forgotten the existence,
and which Bigotry has endeavored to shut out from sight--
"On a banni les démons et les fées,
Le raisonner tristement s'accrédite:
On court, helas! après la vérité:
Ah! croyez moi, l'erreur a son mérite!"
We are not putting in a plea here for demons and fairies, as
Voltaire does in the above exquisite lines; nor about to expatiate
on the beauties of error, for it has none; but the clank of steam-
engines, and the shouts of politicians, and the struggle for gain
or bread, and the loud denunciations of stupid bigots, have
wellnigh smothered poor Fancy among us. We boast of our science,
and vaunt our superior morality. Does the latter exist? In spite
of all the forms which our policy has invented to secure it--in
spite of all the preachers, all the meeting-houses, and all the
legislative enactments--if any person will take upon himself the
painful labor of purchasing and perusing some of the cheap
periodical prints which form the people's library of amusement, and
contain what may be presumed to be their standard in matters of
imagination and fancy, he will see how false the claim is that we
bring forward of superior morality. The aristocracy who are so
eager to maintain, were, of course, not the last to feel annoyance
of the legislative restrictions on the Sabbath, and eagerly seized
upon that happy invention for dissipating the gloom and ennui
ordered by Act of Parliament to prevail on that day--the Sunday
paper. It might be read in a club-room, where the poor could not
see how their betters ordained one thing for the vulgar, and
another for themselves; or in an easy-chair, in the study, whither
my lord retires every Sunday for his devotions. It dealt in
private scandal and ribaldry, only the more piquant for its pretty
flimsy veil of double-entendre. It was a fortune to the publisher,
and it became a necessary to the reader, which he could not do
without, any more than without his snuff-box, his opera-box, or his
chasse after coffee. The delightful novelty could not for any time
be kept exclusively for the haut ton; and from my lord it descended
to his valet or tradesmen, and from Grosvenor Square it spread all
the town through; so that now the lower classes have their scandal
and ribaldry organs, as well as their betters (the rogues, they
WILL imitate them!) and as their tastes are somewhat coarser than
my lord's, and their numbers a thousand to one, why of course the
prints have increased, and the profligacy has been diffused in a
ratio exactly proportionable to the demand, until the town is
infested with such a number of monstrous publications of the kind
as would have put Abbé Dubois to the blush, or made Louis XV. cry
shame. Talk of English morality!--the worst licentiousness, in the
worst period of the French monarchy, scarcely equalled the
wickedness of this Sabbath-keeping country of ours.
The reader will be glad, at last, to come to the conclusion that
we would fain draw from all these descriptions--why does this
immorality exist? Because the people MUST be amused, and have not
been taught HOW; because the upper classes, frightened by stupid
cant, or absorbed in material wants, have not as yet learned the
refinement which only the cultivation of art can give; and when
their intellects are uneducated, and their tastes are coarse, the
tastes and amusements of classes still more ignorant must be coarse
and vicious likewise, in an increased proportion.
Such discussions and violent attacks upon high and low, Sabbath
Bills, politicians, and what not, may appear, perhaps, out of place
in a few pages which purport only to give an account of some French
drawings: all we would urge is, that, in France, these prints are
made because they are liked and appreciated; with us they are not
made, because they are not liked and appreciated: and the more is
the pity. Nothing merely intellectual will be popular among us: we
do not love beauty for beauty's sake, as Germans; or wit, for wit's
sake, as the French: for abstract art we have no appreciation. We
admire H. B.'s caricatures, because they are the caricatures of
well-known political characters, not because they are witty; and
Boz, because he writes us good palpable stories (if we may use such
a word to a story); and Madame Vestris, because she has the most
beautifully shaped legs;--the ART of the designer, the writer, the
actress (each admirable in its way,) is a very minor consideration;
each might have ten times the wit, and would be quite unsuccessful
without their substantial points of popularity.
In France such matters are far better managed, and the love of art
is a thousand times more keen; and (from this feeling, surely) how
much superiority is there in French SOCIETY over our own; how much
better is social happiness understood; how much more manly equality
is there between Frenchman and Frenchman, than between rich and
poor in our own country, with all our superior wealth, instruction,
and political freedom! There is, amongst the humblest, a gayety,
cheerfulness, politeness, and sobriety, to which, in England, no
class can show a parallel: and these, be it remembered, are not
only qualities for holidays, but for working-days too, and add to
the enjoyment of human life as much as good clothes, good beef, or
good wages. If, to our freedom, we could but add a little of their
happiness!--it is one, after all, of the cheapest commodities in
the world, and in the power of every man (with means of gaining
decent bread) who has the will or the skill to use it.
We are not going to trace the history of the rise and progress of
art in France; our business, at present, is only to speak of one
branch of art in that country--lithographic designs, and those
chiefly of a humorous character. A history of French caricature
was published in Paris, two or three years back, illustrated by
numerous copies of designs, from the time of Henry III. to our own
day. We can only speak of this work from memory, having been
unable, in London, to procure the sight of a copy; but our
impression, at the time we saw the collection, was as unfavorable
as could possibly be: nothing could be more meagre than the wit, or
poorer than the execution, of the whole set of drawings. Under the
Empire, art, as may be imagined, was at a very low ebb; and, aping
the Government of the day, and catering to the national taste and
vanity, it was a kind of tawdry caricature of the sublime; of which
the pictures of David and Girodet, and almost the entire collection
now at the Luxembourg Palace, will give pretty fair examples.
Swollen, distorted, unnatural, the painting was something like the
politics of those days; with force in it, nevertheless, and
something of grandeur, that will exist in spite of taste, and is
born of energetic will. A man, disposed to write comparisons of
characters, might, for instance, find some striking analogies
between mountebank Murat, with his irresistible bravery and
horsemanship, who was a kind of mixture of Dugueselin and Ducrow,
and Mountebank David, a fierce, powerful painter and genius, whose
idea of beauty and sublimity seemed to have been gained from the
bloody melodramas on the Boulevard. Both, however, were great in
their way, and were worshipped as gods, in those heathen times of
false belief and hero-worship.
As for poor caricature and freedom of the press, they, like the
rightful princess in a fairy tale, with the merry fantastic dwarf,
her attendant, were entirely in the power of the giant who ruled
the land. The Princess Press was so closely watched and guarded
(with some little show, nevertheless, of respect for her rank),
that she dared not utter a word of her own thoughts; and, for poor
Caricature, he was gagged, and put out of the way altogether:
imprisoned as completely as ever Asmodeus was in his phial.
How the Press and her attendant fared in succeeding reigns, is well
known; their condition was little bettered by the downfall of
Napoleon: with the accession of Charles X. they were more oppressed
even than before--more than they could bear; for so hard were they
pressed, that, as one has seen when sailors are working a capstan,
back of a sudden the bars flew, knocking to the earth the men who
were endeavoring to work them. The Revolution came, and up sprung
Caricature in France; all sorts of fierce epigrams were discharged
at the flying monarch, and speedily were prepared, too, for the new
one.
About this time there lived at Paris (if our information be
correct) a certain M. Philipon, an indifferent artist (painting was
his profession), a tolerable designer, and an admirable wit. M.
Philipon designed many caricatures himself, married the sister of
an eminent publisher of prints (M. Aubert), and the two, gathering
about them a body of wits and artists like themselves, set up
journals of their own:--La Caricature, first published once a week;
and the Charivari afterwards, a daily paper, in which a design also
appears daily.
At first the caricatures inserted in the Charivari were chiefly
political; and a most curious contest speedily commenced between
the State and M. Philipon's little army in the Galérie Véro-Dodat.
Half a dozen poor artists on the one side, and his Majesty Louis
Philippe, his august family, and the numberless placemen and
supporters of the monarchy, on the other; it was something like
Thersites girding at Ajax, and piercing through the folds of the
clypei septemplicis with the poisonous shafts of his scorn. Our
French Thersites was not always an honest opponent, it must be
confessed; and many an attack was made upon the gigantic enemy,
which was cowardly, false, and malignant. But to see the monster
writhing under the effects of the arrow--to see his uncouth fury in
return, and the blind blows that he dealt at his diminutive
opponent!--not one of these told in a hundred; when they DID tell,
it may be imagined that they were fierce enough in all conscience,
and served almost to annihilate the adversary.
To speak more plainly, and to drop the metaphor of giant and dwarf,
the King of the French suffered so much, his Ministers were so
mercilessly ridiculed, his family and his own remarkable figure
drawn with such odious and grotesque resemblance, in fanciful
attitudes, circumstances, and disguises, so ludicrously mean, and
often so appropriate, that the King was obliged to descend into the
lists and battle his ridiculous enemy in form. Prosecutions,
seizures, fines, regiments of furious legal officials, were first
brought into play against poor M. Philipon and his little dauntless
troop of malicious artists; some few were bribed out of his ranks;
and if they did not, like Gilray in England, turn their weapons
upon their old friends, at least laid down their arms, and would
fight no more. The bribes, fines, indictments, and loud-tongued
avocats du roi made no impression; Philipon repaired the defeat of
a fine by some fresh and furious attack upon his great enemy; if
his epigrams were more covert, they were no less bitter; if he was
beaten a dozen times before a jury, he had eighty or ninety
victories to show in the same field of battle, and every victory
and every defeat brought him new sympathy. Every one who was at
Paris a few years since must recollect the famous "poire" which was
chalked upon all the walls of the city, and which bore so ludicrous
a resemblance to Louis Philippe. The poire became an object of
prosecution, and M. Philipon appeared before a jury to answer for
the crime of inciting to contempt against the King's person, by
giving such a ludicrous version of his face. Philipon, for
defence, produced a sheet of paper, and drew a poire, a real large
Burgundy pear: in the lower parts round and capacious, narrower
near the stalk, and crowned with two or three careless leaves.
"There was no treason in THAT," he said to the jury; "could any one
object to such a harmless botanical representation?" Then he drew
a second pear, exactly like the former, except that one or two
lines were scrawled in the midst of it, which bore somehow a
ludicrous resemblance to the eyes, nose, and mouth of a celebrated
personage; and, lastly, he drew the exact portrait of Louis
Philippe; the well-known toupet, the ample whiskers and jowl were
there, neither extenuated nor set down in malice. "Can I help it,
gentlemen of the jury, then," said he, "if his Majesty's face is
like a pear? Say yourselves, respectable citizens, is it, or is it
not, like a pear?" Such eloquence could not fail of its effect;
the artist was acquitted, and La poire is immortal.
At last came the famous September laws: the freedom of the Press,
which, from August, 1830, was to be "désormais une vérité," was
calmly strangled by the Monarch who had gained his crown for his
supposed championship of it; by his Ministers, some of whom had
been stout Republicans on paper but a few years before; and by the
Chamber, which, such is the blessed constitution of French
elections, will generally vote, unvote, revote in any way the
Government wishes. With a wondrous union, and happy forgetfulness
of principle, monarch, ministers, and deputies issued the
restriction laws; the Press was sent to prison; as for the poor
dear Caricature, it was fairly murdered. No more political satires
appear now, and "through the eye, correct the heart;" no more
poires ripen on the walls of the metropolis; Philipon's political
occupation is gone.
But there is always food for satire; and the French caricaturists,
being no longer allowed to hold up to ridicule and reprobation the
King and the deputies, have found no lack of subjects for the
pencil in the ridicules and rascalities of common life. We have
said that public decency is greater amongst the French than amongst
us, which, to some of our readers, may appear paradoxical; but we
shall not attempt to argue that, in private roguery, our neighbors
are not our equals. The procès of Gisquet, which has appeared
lately in the papers, shows how deep the demoralization must be,
and how a Government, based itself on dishonesty (a tyranny, that
is, under the title and fiction of a democracy,) must practise and
admit corruption in its own and in its agents' dealings with the
nation. Accordingly, of cheating contracts, of ministers dabbling
with the funds, or extracting underhand profits for the granting of
unjust privileges and monopolies,--of grasping, envious police
restrictions, which destroy the freedom, and, with it, the
integrity of commerce,--those who like to examine such details may
find plenty in French history: the whole French finance system has
been a swindle from the days of Luvois, or Law, down to the present
time. The Government swindles the public, and the small traders
swindle their customers, on the authority and example of the
superior powers. Hence the art of roguery, under such high
patronage, maintains in France a noble front of impudence, and a
fine audacious openness, which it does not wear in our country.
Among the various characters of roguery which the French satirists
have amused themselves by depicting, there is one of which the
GREATNESS (using the word in the sense which Mr. Jonathan Wild gave
to it) so far exceeds that of all others, embracing, as it does,
all in turn, that it has come to be considered the type of roguery
in general; and now, just as all the political squibs were made to
come of old from the lips of Pasquin, all the reflections on the
prevailing cant, knavery, quackery, humbug, are put into the mouth
of Monsieur Robert Macaire.
A play was written, some twenty years since, called the "Auberge
des Adrets," in which the characters of two robbers escaped from
the galleys were introduced--Robert Macaire, the clever rogue above
mentioned, and Bertrand, the stupid rogue, his friend, accomplice,
butt, and scapegoat, on all occasions of danger. It is needless to
describe the play--a witless performance enough, of which the joke
was Macaire's exaggerated style of conversation, a farrago of all
sorts of high-flown sentiments such as the French love to indulge
in--contrasted with his actions, which were philosophically
unscrupulous, and his appearance, which was most picturesquely
sordid. The play had been acted, we believe, and forgotten, when a
very clever actor, M. Frederick Lemaitre, took upon himself the
performance of the character of Robert Macaire, and looked, spoke,
and acted it to such admirable perfection, that the whole town rung
with applauses of the performance, and the caricaturists delighted
to copy his singular figure and costume. M. Robert Macaire appears
in a most picturesque green coat, with a variety of rents and
patches, a pair of crimson pantaloons ornamented in the same way,
enormous whiskers and ringlets, an enormous stock and shirt-frill,
as dirty and ragged as stock and shirt-frill can be, the relic of a
hat very gayly cocked over one eye, and a patch to take away
somewhat from the brightness of the other--these are the principal
pièces of his costume--a snuff-box like a creaking warming-pan, a
handkerchief hanging together by a miracle, and a switch of about
the thickness of a man's thigh, formed the ornaments of this
exquisite personage. He is a compound of Fielding's "Blueskin" and
Goldsmith's "Beau Tibbs." He has the dirt and dandyism of the one,
with the ferocity of the other: sometimes he is made to swindle,
but where he can get a shilling more, M. Macaire will murder
without scruple: he performs one and the other act (or any in the
scale between them) with a similar bland imperturbability, and
accompanies his actions with such philosophical remarks as may be
expected from a person of his talents, his energies, his amiable
life and character.
Bertrand is the simple recipient of Macaire's jokes, and makes
vicarious atonement for his crimes, acting, in fact, the part which
pantaloon performs in the pantomime, who is entirely under the
fatal influence of clown. He is quite as much a rogue as that
gentleman, but he has not his genius and courage. So, in
pantomimes, (it may, doubtless, have been remarked by the reader,)
clown always leaps first, pantaloon following after, more clumsily
and timidly than his bold and accomplished friend and guide.
Whatever blows are destined for clown, fall, by some means of ill-
luck, upon the pate of pantaloon: whenever the clown robs, the
stolen articles are sure to be found in his companion's pocket; and
thus exactly Robert Macaire and his companion Bertrand are made to
go through the world; both swindlers, but the one more accomplished
than the other. Both robbing all the world, and Robert robbing his
friend, and, in the event of danger, leaving him faithfully in the
lurch. There is, in the two characters, some grotesque good for
the spectator--a kind of "Beggars' Opera" moral.
Ever since Robert, with his dandified rags and airs, his cane and
snuff-box, and Bertrand with torn surtout and all-absorbing pocket,
have appeared on the stage, they have been popular with the
Parisians; and with these two types of clever and stupid knavery,
M. Philipon and his companion Daumier have created a world of
pleasant satire upon all the prevailing abuses of the day.
Almost the first figure that these audacious caricaturists dared to
depict was a political one: in Macaire's red breeches and tattered
coat appeared no less a personage than the King himself--the old
Poire--in a country of humbugs and swindlers the facile princeps;
fit to govern, as he is deeper than all the rogues in his
dominions. Bertrand was opposite to him, and having listened with
delight and reverence to some tale of knavery truly royal, was
exclaiming with a look and voice expressive of the most intense
admiration, "AH VIEUX BLAGEUR! va!"--the word blague is
untranslatable--it means FRENCH humbug as distinct from all other;
and only those who know the value of an epigram in France, an
epigram so wonderfully just, a little word so curiously
comprehensive, can fancy the kind of rage and rapture with which it
was received. It was a blow that shook the whole dynasty.
Thersites had there given such a wound to Ajax, as Hector in arms
could scarcely have inflicted: a blow sufficient almost to create
the madness to which the fabulous hero of Homer and Ovid fell a
prey.
Not long, however, was French caricature allowed to attack
personages so illustrious: the September laws came, and henceforth
no more epigrams were launched against politics; but the
caricaturists were compelled to confine their satire to subjects
and characters that had nothing to do with the State. The Duke of
Orleans was no longer to figure in lithography as the fantastic
Prince Rosolin; no longer were multitudes (in chalk) to shelter
under the enormous shadow of M. d'Argout's nose: Marshal Loban's
squirt was hung up in peace, and M. Thiers's pigmy figure and round
spectacled face were no more to appear in print.* Robert Macaire
was driven out of the Chambers and the Palace--his remarks were a
great deal too appropriate and too severe for the ears of the great
men who congregated in those places.
* Almost all the principal public men had been most ludicrously
caricatured in the Charivari: those mentioned above were usually
depicted with the distinctive attributes mentioned by us.
The Chambers and the Palace were shut to him; but the rogue, driven
out of his rogue's paradise, saw "that the world was all before him
where to choose," and found no lack of opportunities for exercising
his wit. There was the Bar, with its roguish practitioners,
rascally attorneys, stupid juries, and forsworn judges; there was
the Bourse, with all its gambling, swindling, and hoaxing, its
cheats and its dupes; the Medical Profession, and the quacks who
ruled it, alternately; the Stage, and the cant that was prevalent
there; the Fashion, and its thousand follies and extravagances.
Robert Macaire had all these to exploiter. Of all the empire,
through all the ranks, professions, the lies, crimes, and
absurdities of men, he may make sport at will; of all except of a
certain class. Like Bluebeard's wife, he may see everything, but
is bidden TO BEWARE OF THE BLUE CHAMBER. Robert is more wise than
Bluebeard's wife, and knows that it would cost him his head to
enter it. Robert, therefore, keeps aloof for the moment. Would
there be any use in his martyrdom? Bluebeard cannot live for ever;
perhaps, even now, those are on their way (one sees a suspicious
cloud of dust or two) that are to destroy him.
In the meantime Robert and his friend have been furnishing the
designs that we have before us, and of which perhaps the reader
will be edified by a brief description. We are not, to be sure, to
judge of the French nation by M. Macaire, any more than we are to
judge of our own national morals in the last century by such a book
as the "Beggars' Opera;" but upon the morals and the national
manners, works of satire afford a world of light that one would in
vain look for in regular books of history. Doctor Smollett would
have blushed to devote any considerable portion of his pages to a
discussion of the acts and character of Mr. Jonathan Wild, such a
figure being hardly admissible among the dignified personages who
usually push all others out from the possession of the historical
page; but a chapter of that gentleman's memoirs, as they are
recorded in that exemplary recueil--the "Newgate Calendar;" nay, a
canto of the great comic epic (involving many fables, and
containing much exaggeration, but still having the seeds of truth)
which the satirical poet of those days wrote in celebration of him--
we mean Fielding's "History of Jonathan Wild the Great"--does seem
to us to give a more curious picture of the manners of those times
than any recognized history of them. At the close of his history
of George II., Smollett condescends to give a short chapter on
Literature and Manners. He speaks of Glover's "Leonidas," Cibber's
"Careless Husband," the poems of Mason, Gray, the two Whiteheads,
"the nervous style, extensive erudition, and superior sense of a
Corke; the delicate taste, the polished muse, and tender feeling of
a Lyttelton." "King," he says, "shone unrivalled in Roman
eloquence, the female sex distinguished themselves by their taste
and ingenuity. Miss Carter rivalled the celebrated Dacier in
learning and critical knowledge; Mrs. Lennox signalized herself by
many successful efforts of genius both in poetry and prose; and
Miss Reid excelled the celebrated Rosalba in portrait-painting,
both in miniature and at large, in oil as well as in crayons. The
genius of Cervantes was transferred into the novels of Fielding,
who painted the characters and ridiculed the follies of life with
equal strength, humor, and propriety. The field of history and
biography was cultivated by many writers of ability, among whom we
distinguish the copious Guthrie, the circumstantial Ralph, the
laborious Carte, the learned and elegant Robertson, and above all,
the ingenious, penetrating, and comprehensive Hume," &c. &c. We
will quote no more of the passage. Could a man in the best humor
sit down to write a graver satire? Who cares for the tender muse
of Lyttelton? Who knows the signal efforts of Mrs. Lennox's
genius? Who has seen the admirable performances, in miniature and
at large, in oil as well as in crayons, of Miss Reid? Laborious
Carte, and circumstantial Ralph, and copious Guthrie, where are
they, their works, and their reputation? Mrs. Lennox's name is
just as clean wiped out of the list of worthies as if she had never
been born; and Miss Reid, though she was once actual flesh and
blood, "rival in miniature and at large" of the celebrated Rosalba,
she is as if she had never been at all; her little farthing
rushlight of a soul and reputation having burnt out, and left
neither wick nor tallow. Death, too, has overtaken copious Guthrie
and circumstantial Ralph. Only a few know whereabouts is the grave
where lies laborious Carte; and yet, O wondrous power of genius!
Fielding's men and women are alive, though History's are not. The
progenitors of circumstantial Ralph sent forth, after much labor
and pains of making, educating, feeding, clothing, a real man
child, a great palpable mass of flesh, bones, and blood (we say
nothing about the spirit), which was to move through the world,
ponderous, writing histories, and to die, having achieved the title
of circumstantial Ralph; and lo! without any of the trouble that
the parents of Ralph had undergone, alone perhaps in a watch or
spunging-house, fuddled most likely, in the blandest, easiest, and
most good-humored way in the world, Henry Fielding makes a number
of men and women on so many sheets of paper, not only more amusing
than Ralph or Miss Reid, but more like flesh and blood, and more
alive now than they. Is not Amelia preparing her husband's little
supper? Is not Miss Snapp chastely preventing the crime of Mr.
Firebrand? Is not Parson Adams in the midst of his family, and Mr.
Wild taking his last bowl of punch with the Newgate Ordinary? Is
not every one of them a real substantial HAVE-been personage now--
more real than Reid or Ralph? For our parts, we will not take upon
ourselves to say that they do not exist somewhere else: that the
actions attributed to them have not really taken place; certain we
are that they are more worthy of credence than Ralph, who may or
may not have been circumstantial; who may or may not even have
existed, a point unworthy of disputation. As for Miss Reid, we
will take an affidavit that neither in miniature nor at large did
she excel the celebrated Rosalba; and with regard to Mrs. Lennox,
we consider her to be a mere figment, like Narcissa, Miss Tabitha
Bramble, or any hero or heroine depicted by the historian of
"Peregrine Pickle."
In like manner, after viewing nearly ninety portraits of Robert
Macaire and his friend Bertrand, all strongly resembling each
other, we are inclined to believe in them as historical personages,
and to canvass gravely the circumstances of their lives. Why
should we not? Have we not their portraits? Are not they
sufficient proofs? If not, we must discredit Napoleon (as
Archbishop Whately teaches), for about his figure and himself we
have no more authentic testimony.
Let the reality of M. Robert Macaire and his friend M. Bertrand be
granted, if but to gratify our own fondness for those exquisite
characters: we find the worthy pair in the French capital, mingling
with all grades of its society, pars magna in the intrigues,
pleasures, perplexities, rogueries, speculations, which are carried
on in Paris, as in our own chief city; for it need not be said that
roguery is of no country nor clime, but finds [Greek text omitted],
is a citizen of all countries where the quarters are good; among
our merry neighbors it finds itself very much at its ease.
Not being endowed, then, with patrimonial wealth, but compelled to
exercise their genius to obtain distinction, or even subsistence,
we see Messrs. Bertrand and Macaire, by turns, adopting all trades
and professions, and exercising each with their own peculiar
ingenuity. As public men, we have spoken already of their
appearance in one or two important characters, and stated that the
Government grew fairly jealous of them, excluding them from office,
as the Whigs did Lord Brougham. As private individuals, they are
made to distinguish themselves as the founders of journals,
sociétés en commandite (companies of which the members are
irresponsible beyond the amount of their shares), and all sorts of
commercial speculations, requiring intelligence and honesty on the
part of the directors, confidence and liberal disbursements from
the shareholders.
These are, among the French, so numerous, and have been of late
years (in the shape of Newspaper Companies, Bitumen Companies,
Galvanized-Iron Companies, Railroad Companies, &c.) pursued with
such a blind FUROR and lust of gain, by that easily excited and
imaginative people, that, as may be imagined, the satirist has
found plenty of occasion for remark, and M. Macaire and his friend
innumerable opportunities for exercising their talents.
We know nothing of M. Emile de Girardin, except that, in a duel, he
shot the best man in France, Armaud Carrel; and in Girardin's favor
it must be said, that he had no other alternative; but was right in
provoking the duel, seeing that the whole Republican party had
vowed his destruction, and that he fought and killed their
champion, as it were. We know nothing of M. Girardin's private
character: but, as far as we can judge from the French public
prints, he seems to be the most speculative of speculators, and, of
course, a fair butt for the malice of the caricaturists. His one
great crime, in the eyes of the French Republicans and Republican
newspaper proprietors, was, that Girardin set up a journal, as he
called it, "franchement monarchique,"--a journal in the pay of the
monarchy, that is,--and a journal that cost only forty francs by
the year. The National costs twice as much; the Charivari itself
costs half as much again; and though all newspapers, of all
parties, concurred in "snubbing" poor M. Girardin and his journal,
the Republican prints, were by far the most bitter against him,
thundering daily accusations and personalities; whether the abuse
was well or ill founded, we know not. Hence arose the duel with
Carrel; after the termination of which, Girardin put by his pistol,
and vowed, very properly, to assist in the shedding of no more
blood. Girardin had been the originator of numerous other
speculations besides the journal: the capital of these, like that
of the journal, was raised by shares, and the shareholders, by some
fatality, have found themselves wofully in the lurch; while
Girardin carries on the war gayly, is, or was, a member of the
Chamber of Deputies, has money, goes to Court, and possesses a
certain kind of reputation. He invented, we believe, the
"Institution Agronome de Coetbo,"* the "Physionotype," the "Journal
des Connoissances Utiles," the "Pantheon Littéraire," and the
system of "Primes"--premiums, that is--to be given, by lottery, to
certain subscribers in these institutions. Could Robert Macaire
see such things going on, and have no hand in them?
* It is not necessary to enter into descriptions of these various
inventions.
Accordingly Messrs. Macaire and Bertrand are made the heroes of
many speculations of the kind. In almost the first print of our
collection, Robert discourses to Bertrand of his projects.
"Bertrand," says the disinterested admirer of talent and
enterprise, "j'adore l'industrie. Si tu veux nous créons une
banque, mais là, une vraie banque: capital cent millions de
millions, cent milliards de milliards d'actions. Nous enfonçons la
banque de France, les banquiers, les banquistes; nous enfonçons
tout le monde." "Oui," says Bertrand, very calm and stupid, "mais
les gendarmes?" "Que tu es bête, Bertrand: est-ce qu'on arrête un
millionaire?" Such is the key to M. Macaire's philosophy; and a
wise creed too, as times go.
Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after; he has not
created a bank, but a journal. He sits in a chair of state, and
discourses to a shareholder. Bertrand, calm and stupid as before,
stands humbly behind. "Sir," says the editor of La Blague, journal
quotidienne, "our profits arise from a new combination. The
journal costs twenty francs; we sell it for twenty-three and a
half. A million subscribers make three millions and a half of
profits; there are my figures; contradict me by figures, or I will
bring an action for libel." The reader may fancy the scene takes
place in England, where many such a swindling prospectus has
obtained credit ere now. At Plate 33, Robert is still a journalist;
he brings to the editor of a paper an article of his composition, a
violent attack on a law. "My dear M. Macaire," says the editor,
"this must be changed; we must PRAISE this law." "Bon, bon!" says
our versatile Macaire. "Je vais retoucher ça, et je vous fais en
faveur de la loi UN ARTICLE MOUSSEUX."
Can such things be? Is it possible that French journalists can so
forget themselves? The rogues! they should come to England and
learn consistency. The honesty of the Press in England is like the
air we breathe, without it we die. No, no! in France, the satire
may do very well; but for England it is too monstrous. Call the
press stupid, call it vulgar, call it violent,--but honest it is.
Who ever heard of a journal changing its politics? O tempora! O
mores! as Robert Macaire says, this would be carrying the joke too
far.
When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaire begins to
distinguish himself on 'Change,* as a creator of companies, a
vender of shares, or a dabbler in foreign stock. "Buy my coal-mine
shares," shouts Robert; "gold mines, silver mines, diamond mines,
'sont de la pot-bouille de la ratatouille en comparaison de ma
houille.'" "Look," says he, on another occasion, to a very timid,
open-countenanced client, "you have a property to sell! I have
found the very man, a rich capitalist, a fellow whose bills are
better than bank-notes." His client sells; the bills are taken in
payment, and signed by that respectable capitalist, Monsieur de
Saint Bertrand. At Plate 81, we find him inditing a circular
letter to all the world, running thus: "Sir,--I regret to say that
your application for shares in the Consolidated European
Incombustible Blacking Association cannot be complied with, as all
the shares of the C. E. I. B. A. were disposed of on the day they
were issued. I have, nevertheless, registered your name, and in
case a second series should be put forth, I shall have the honor of
immediately giving you notice. I am, sir, yours, &c., the
Director, Robert Macaire."--"Print 300,000 of these," he says to
Bertrand, "and poison all France with them." As usual, the stupid
Bertrand remonstrates--"But we have not sold a single share; you
have not a penny in your pocket, and"--"Bertrand, you are an ass;
do as I bid you."
* We have given a description of a genteel Macaire in the account
of M. de Bernard's novels.
Will this satire apply anywhere in England? Have we any
Consolidated European Blacking Associations amongst us? Have we
penniless directors issuing El Dorado prospectuses, and jockeying
their shares through the market? For information on this head, we
must refer the reader to the newspapers; or if he be connected with
the city, and acquainted with commercial men, he will be able to
say whether ALL the persons whose names figure at the head of
announcements of projected companies are as rich as Rothschild, or
quite as honest as heart could desire.
When Macaire has sufficiently exploité the Bourse, whether as a
gambler in the public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives
that it is time to turn to some other profession, and, providing
himself with a black gown, proposes blandly to Bertrand to set up--
a new religion. "Mon ami," says the repentant sinner, "le temps de
la commandite va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS." (O
rare sentence! it should be written in letters of gold!) "OCCUPONS
NOUS DE CE QUI EST ÉTERNEL. Si nous fassions une réligion?" On
which M. Bertrand remarks, "A religion! what the devil--a religion
is not an easy thing to make." But Macaire's receipt is easy.
"Get a gown, take a shop," he says, "borrow some chairs, preach
about Napoleon, or the discovery of America, or Molière--and
there's a religion for you."
We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers with
our own manners, than for its merits. After the noble paragraph,
"Les badauds ne passeront pas. Occupons nous de ce qui est
éternel," one would have expected better satire upon cant than the
words that follow. We are not in a condition to say whether the
subjects chosen are those that had been selected by Père Enfantin,
or Chatel, or Lacordaire; but the words are curious, we think, for
the very reason that the satire is so poor. The fact is, there is
no religion in Paris; even clever M. Philipon, who satirizes
everything, and must know, therefore, some little about the subject
which he ridicules, has nothing to say but, "Preach a sermon, and
that makes a religion; anything will do." If ANYTHING will do, it
is clear that the religious commodity is not in much demand.
Tartuffe had better things to say about hypocrisy in his time; but
then Faith was alive; now, there is no satirizing religious cant in
France, for its contrary, true religion, has disappeared altogether;
and having no substance, can cast no shadow. If a satirist would
lash the religious hypocrites in ENGLAND now--the High Church
hypocrites, the Low Church hypocrites, the promiscuous Dissenting
hypocrites, the No Popery hypocrites--he would have ample subject
enough. In France, the religious hypocrites went out with the
Bourbons. Those who remain pious in that country (or, rather, we
should say, in the capital, for of that we speak,) are unaffectedly
so, for they have no worldly benefit to hope for from their piety;
the great majority have no religion at all, and do not scoff at the
few, for scoffing is the minority's weapon, and is passed always to
the weaker side, whatever that may be. Thus H. B. caricatures the
Ministers: if by any accident that body of men should be dismissed
from their situations, and be succeeded by H. B.'s friends, the
Tories,--what must the poor artist do? He must pine away and die,
if he be not converted; he cannot always be paying compliments; for
caricature has a spice of Goethe's Devil in it, and is "der Geist
der stets verneint," the Spirit that is always denying.
With one or two of the French writers and painters of caricatures,
the King tried the experiment of bribery; which succeeded
occasionally in buying off the enemy, and bringing him from the
republican to the royal camp; but when there, the deserter was
never of any use. Figaro, when so treated, grew fat and
desponding, and lost all his sprightly VERVE; and Nemesis became as
gentle as a Quakeress. But these instances of "ratting" were not
many. Some few poets were bought over; but, among men following
the profession of the press, a change of politics is an
infringement of the point of honor, and a man must FIGHT as well as
apostatize. A very curious table might be made, signalizing the
difference of the moral standard between us and the French. Why is
the grossness and indelicacy, publicly permitted in England,
unknown in France, where private morality is certainly at a lower
ebb? Why is the point of private honor now more rigidly maintained
among the French? Why is it, as it should be, a moral disgrace for
a Frenchman to go into debt, and no disgrace for him to cheat his
customer? Why is there more honesty and less--more propriety and
less?--and how are we to account for the particular vices or
virtues which belong to each nation in its turn?
The above is the Reverend M. Macaire's solitary exploit as a
spiritual swindler: as MAÎTRE Macaire in the courts of law, as
avocat, avoué--in a humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at the
bar, he distinguishes himself greatly, as may be imagined. On one
occasion we find the learned gentleman humanely visiting an
unfortunate détenu--no other person, in fact, than his friend M.
Bertrand, who has fallen into some trouble, and is awaiting the
sentence of the law. He begins--
"Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent écus, je te fais acquitter
d'emblée."
"J'ai pas d'argent."
"Hé bien, donne moi cent francs."
"Pas le sou."
"Tu n'as pas dix francs?"
"Pas un liard."
"Alors donne moi tes bottes, je plaiderai la circonstance
atténuante."
The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the cent écus (a high
point already) to the sublime of the boots, is in the best comic
style. In another instance he pleads before a judge, and,
mistaking his client, pleads for defendant, instead of plaintiff.
"The infamy of the plaintiff's character, my LUDS, renders his
testimony on such a charge as this wholly unavailing." "M.
Macaire, M. Macaire," cries the attorney, in a fright, "you are for
the plaintiff!" "This, my lords, is what the defendant WILL SAY.
This is the line of defence which the opposite party intend to
pursue; as if slanders like these could weigh with an enlightened
jury, or injure the spotless reputation of my client!" In this
story and expedient M. Macaire has been indebted to the English
bar. If there be an occupation for the English satirist in the
exposing of the cant and knavery of the pretenders to religion,
what room is there for him to lash the infamies of the law! On
this point the French are babes in iniquity compared to us--a
counsel prostituting himself for money is a matter with us so
stale, that it is hardly food for satire: which, to be popular,
must find some much more complicated and interesting knavery
whereon to exercise its skill.
M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears once or
twice in a very amiable light while under the influence of the
tender passion. We find him at the head of one of those useful
establishments unknown in our country--a Bureau de Mariage: half a
dozen of such places are daily advertised in the journals: and "une
veuve de trente ans ayant une fortune de deux cent mille francs,"
or "une demoiselle de quinze aus, jolie, d'une famille très
distinguée, qui possède trente mille livres de rentes,"--
continually, in this kind-hearted way, are offering themselves to
the public: sometimes it is a gentleman, with a "physique
agréable,--des talens de société"--and a place under Government,
who makes a sacrifice of himself in a similar manner. In our
little historical gallery we find this philanthropic anti-Malthusian
at the head of an establishment of this kind, introducing a very
meek, simple-looking bachelor to some distinguished ladies of his
connoissance. "Let me present you, sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand"
(it is our old friend), "veuve de la grande armée, et Mdlle Eloa de
Wormspire. Ces dames brûlent de l'envie de faire votre connoissance.
Je les ai invitées à dîner chez vous ce soir: vous nous menerez à
l'opéra, et nous ferons une petite partie d'écarté. Tenez vous bien,
M. Gobard! ces dames ont des projets sur vous!"
Happy Gobard! happy system, which can thus bring the pure and
loving together, and acts as the best ally of Hymen! The
announcement of the rank and titles of Madame de St. Bertrand--
"veuve de la grande armée"--is very happy. "La grande armée" has
been a father to more orphans, and a husband to more widows, than
it ever made. Mistresses of cafés, old governesses, keepers of
boarding-houses, genteel beggars, and ladies of lower rank still,
have this favorite pedigree. They have all had malheurs (what kind
it is needless to particularize), they are all connected with the
grand homme, and their fathers were all colonels. This title
exactly answers to the "clergyman's daughter" in England--as, "A
young lady, the daughter of a clergyman, is desirous to teach," &c.
"A clergyman's widow receives into her house a few select," and so
forth. "Appeal to the benevolent.--By a series of unheard-of
calamities, a young lady, daughter of a clergyman in the west of
England, has been plunged," &c. &c. The difference is curious, as
indicating the standard of respectability.
The male beggar of fashion is not so well known among us as in
Paris, where street-doors are open; six or eight families live in a
house; and the gentleman who earns his livelihood by this
profession can make half a dozen visits without the trouble of
knocking from house to house, and the pain of being observed by the
whole street, while the footman is examining him from the area.
Some few may be seen in England about the inns of court, where the
locality is favorable (where, however, the owners of the chambers
are not proverbially soft of heart, so that the harvest must be
poor); but Paris is full of such adventurers,--fat, smooth-tongued,
and well dressed, with gloves and gilt-headed canes, who would be
insulted almost by the offer of silver, and expect your gold as
their right. Among these, of course, our friend Robert plays his
part; and an excellent engraving represents him, snuff-box in hand,
advancing to an old gentleman, whom, by his poodle, his powdered
head, and his drivelling, stupid look, one knows to be a Carlist of
the old régime. "I beg pardon," says Robert; "is it really
yourself to whom I have the honor of speaking?"--"It is." "Do you
take snuff?"--"I thank you."--"Sir, I have had misfortunes--I want
assistance. I am a Vendéan of illustrious birth. You know the
family of Macairbec--we are of Brest. My grandfather served the
King in his galleys; my father and I belong, also, to the marine.
Unfortunate suits at law have plunged us into difficulties, and I
do not hesitate to ask you for the succor of ten francs."--"Sir, I
never give to those I don't know."--"Right, sir, perfectly right.
Perhaps you will have the kindness to LEND me ten francs?"
The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, because the
different degrees in quackery which are taken by that learned
physician are all well known in England, where we have the
advantage of many higher degrees in the science, which our
neighbors know nothing about. We have not Hahnemann, but we have
his disciples; we have not Broussais, but we have the College of
Health; and surely a dose of Morrison's pills is a sublimer
discovery than a draught of hot water. We had St. John Long, too--
where is his science?--and we are credibly informed that some
important cures have been effected by the inspired dignitaries of
"the church" in Newman Street which, if it continue to practise,
will sadly interfere with the profits of the regular physicians,
and where the miracles of the Abbé of Paris are about to be acted
over again.
In speaking of M. Macaire and his adventures, we have managed so
entirely to convince ourselves of the reality of the personage,
that we have quite forgotten to speak of Messrs. Philipon and
Daumier, who are, the one the inventor, the other the designer, of
the Macaire Picture Gallery. As works of esprit, these drawings
are not more remarkable than they are as works of art, and we never
recollect to have seen a series of sketches possessing more
extraordinary cleverness and variety. The countenance and figure
of Macaire and the dear stupid Bertrand are preserved, of course,
with great fidelity throughout; but the admirable way in which each
fresh character is conceived, the grotesque appropriateness of
Robert's every successive attitude and gesticulation, and the
variety of Bertrand's postures of invariable repose, the exquisite
fitness of all the other characters, who act their little part and
disappear from the scene, cannot be described on paper, or too
highly lauded. The figures are very carelessly drawn; but, if the
reader can understand us, all the attitudes and limbs are perfectly
CONCEIVED, and wonderfully natural and various. After pondering
over these drawings for some hours, as we have been while compiling
this notice of them, we have grown to believe that the personages
are real, and the scenes remain imprinted on the brain as if we had
absolutely been present at their acting. Perhaps the clever way in
which the plates are colored, and the excellent effect which is put
into each, may add to this illusion. Now, in looking, for
instance, at H. B.'s slim vapory figures, they have struck us as
excellent LIKENESSES of men and women, but no more: the bodies want
spirit, action, and individuality. George Cruikshank, as a
humorist, has quite as much genius, but he does not know the art of
"effect" so well as Monsieur Daumier; and, if we might venture to
give a word of advice to another humorous designer, whose works are
extensively circulated--the illustrator of "Pickwick" and "Nicholas
Nickleby,"--it would be to study well these caricatures of Monsieur
Daumier; who, though he executes very carelessly, knows very well
what he would express, indicates perfectly the attitude and
identity of his figure, and is quite aware, beforehand, of the
effect which he intends to produce. The one we should fancy to be
a practised artist, taking his ease; the other, a young one,
somewhat bewildered: a very clever one, however, who, if he would
think more, and exaggerate less, would add not a little to his
reputation.
Having pursued, all through these remarks, the comparison between
English art and French art, English and French humor, manners, and
morals, perhaps we should endeavor, also, to write an analytical
essay on English cant or humbug, as distinguished from French. It
might be shown that the latter was more picturesque and startling,
the former more substantial and positive. It has none of the
poetic flights of the French genius, but advances steadily, and
gains more ground in the end than its sprightlier compeer. But
such a discussion would carry us through the whole range of French
and English history, and the reader has probably read quite enough
of the subject in this and the foregoing pages.
We shall, therefore, say no more of French and English caricatures
generally, or of Mr. Macaire's particular accomplishments and
adventures. They are far better understood by examining the
original pictures, by which Philipon and Daumier have illustrated
them, than by translations first into print and afterwards into
English. They form a very curious and instructive commentary upon
the present state of society in Paris, and a hundred years hence,
when the whole of this struggling, noisy, busy, merry race shall
have exchanged their pleasures or occupations for a quiet coffin
(and a tawdry lying epitaph) at Montmartre, or Père la Chaise; when
the follies here recorded shall have been superseded by new ones,
and the fools now so active shall have given up the inheritance of
the world to their children: the latter will, at least, have the
advantage of knowing, intimately and exactly, the manners of life
and being of their grandsires, and calling up, when they so choose
it, our ghosts from the grave, to live, love, quarrel, swindle,
suffer, and struggle on blindly as of yore. And when the amused
speculator shall have laughed sufficiently at the immensity of our
follies, and the paltriness of our aims, smiled at our exploded
superstitions, wondered how this man should be considered great,
who is now clean forgotten (as copious Guthrie before mentioned);
how this should have been thought a patriot who is but a knave
spouting commonplace; or how that should have been dubbed a
philosopher who is but a dull fool, blinking solemn, and pretending
to see in the dark; when he shall have examined all these at his
leisure, smiling in a pleasant contempt and good-humored
superiority, and thanking heaven for his increased lights, he will
shut the book, and be a fool as his fathers were before him.
It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged Macaire,--"Le
jour va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS."
