Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66, No 409, November 1849

The barber, a man of taste, observed to his guests, that four jugs amongst five persons made an uneven reckoning, which it would need the mathematical powers of Barême duly to adjust. For symmetry's sake, therefore, a fifth jug was brought, out of which the topers drank the health of the king, of their Amphitryon, and of Barême, so appositely quoted. The four seedy gentlemen greatly admired the intrepidity with which the little old man tossed off his bumpers. Their project of making the captain drunk was too transparent to escape any spectator less innocent than the chorister; but in vain did they seek signs of intoxication on the imperturbable countenance of the old Turk. In reply to each toast and protestation of friendship, the captain emptied his glass, and said: —

"Much obliged, gentlemen; mi trop flatté."

No sparkle of the eyes, no movement of the muscles, broke the monotony of his faded visage. His parchment complexion preserved its yellow tint. On the other hand, the cheeks of the four adventurers began to flush purple; they unbuttoned their doublets, and used their hats as fans. The signs of intoxication they watched for in their neighbour were multiplied in their own persons. At last they got quite drunk. He of the four whose head was the coolest proposed a game at cards.

"I plainly see," said the Turk, accepting, "that the Signori n'esser pas joueurs per habitude."

"And how," exclaimed one of the adventurers, "did your excellency infer from our physiognomy that incontestible truth?"

"Perché," replied the Turk, "on my arrival you broke off in the middle of your game. A professed gambler never did such a thing."

They were in ecstasies at the noble foreigner's penetration, and they called for the dice. When the captain drew forth his long purse, stuffed with génovèses,21 the four gentlemen experienced a sudden shock, as if a thunderbolt had passed between them without touching them, and this emotion half sobered them. The Turk placed one of the large gold pieces upon the table, saying he would hold whatever stake his good friends chose to venture. The others said that a génovèse was a large sum, but that nothing in the world should make them flinch from the honour of contending with so courteous an adversary. By uniting their purses, they hoped to be able to hold the whole of his stake. And accordingly, from the depths of their fobs, the gentlemen produced so many six-livre and three-livre pieces, that they succeeded in making up the thirty-two crowns, which were equivalent to the génovèse. They played the sum in a rubber. The Turk won the first game, then the second; and the four adventurers, on beholding him sweep away their pile of coin, were suddenly and completely sobered. The captain willingly agreed to give them their revenge. The difficulty was to find the two-and-thirty crowns. By dint of rummaging their pockets, the gentlemen exhibited four-and-twenty livres: but this was only a quarter of the sum. The oldest of the adventurers then took the buckle from his hat, and threw it on the table, swearing by the soul of his uncle that the trinket was worth two hundred livres, although even the simple chorister discerned the emeralds that adorned it to be but bits of bottle-glass. Like a generous player, the old Turk made no difficulties; he agreed that the buckle should stand for two hundred livres, and it was staked to the extent of twenty-four crowns. This time the dice was so favourable to the captain, that the game was not even disputed. His adversaries were astounded: they twisted their mustaches till they nearly pulled them up by the roots; they rubbed their eyes, and cursed the good wine of Rhone. In the third game, the glass jewel, already pledged for twenty-four crowns, passed entire into the possession of the Turk. Then the excited gamblers threw upon the table their rings, their sword-knots, and the swords themselves, assigning to all these things imaginary value, which the Turk feigned to accept as genuine. Not a single game did they win. The captain took a string, and proceeded to tie together the tinsel and old iron he had won, when he felt a hand insinuate itself into the pocket of his ample hose. He seized this hand, and holding it up in the air —

"Messirs," he said, "vous esser des coquins. Mi saper que vous aver triché."

"Triché!" cried one of the sharpers. "He strips us to the very shirt, and then accuses us of cheating! Morbleu! Such insolence demands punishment."

A volley of abuse and a storm of blows descended simultaneously upon the little old man. The four adventurers, thinking to have an easy bargain of so puny a personage, threw themselves upon him to search his pockets; but in vain did they ransack every fold of his loose garments. The purse of gold génovèses was not to be found; and unfortunately the old Turk, in his struggles, upset the tripod which supported the copper caldron. A flood of hot water boiled about the legs of the thieves, who uttered lamentable cries. But it was far worse when they saw the overturned caldron continue to pour forth its scalding stream as unceasingly as the allegoric urn of Scamander. The four sharpers and the barber, perched upon stools, beheld, with deadly terror, the boiling lake gradually rising around them. Their situation resembled that in which Homer has placed the valiant and light-footed Achilles; but as these rogues had not the intrepid soul of the son of Peleus, they called piteously upon God and all the saints of paradise; mingling, from the force of habit, not a few imprecations with their prayers. The wizened carcase of the old Turk must have been proof against fire and water, for he walked with the streaming flood up to his knees. Lifting the chorister upon his shoulders, he issued, dry-footed, from the barber's shop, like Moses from the bosom of the Red Sea. The river of boiling water waited but his departure to re-enter its bed. This prodigy suddenly took place, without any one being able to tell how. The water subsided, and flowed away rapidly, leaving the various objects in the shop uninjured, with the exception of the legs of the four adventurers, which were somewhat deteriorated. The servant, hurrying back at sound of the scuffle, raised the caldron, and resumed the stirring of her dirty linen, unsuspicious of the sorcery that had just been practised. The barber and the four sharpers took counsel together, and deliberated amongst themselves whether it was proper to denounce the waterproof and incombustible old gentleman to the authorities. The quantity of hot water that had been spilled being out of all proportion with the capacity of the kettle, it seemed a case for hanging or burning alive the author of the infernal jest. The barber, however, assured his customers that learned physicians had recently made many marvellous discoveries, in which the old Turk might possibly be versed. He also deemed it prudent not lightly to put himself in communication with the authorities, lest they should seek to inform themselves as to the manner in which the cards were shuffled in his shop. It was his opinion that the offender should be generously pardoned, unless, indeed, an opportunity occurred of knocking him on the head in some dark corner. This opinion met with general approbation.

Whilst this council of war is held, Jean and the old Turk are in confabulation, and a bargain is at last concluded, by which the commander's soul is redeemed, and Jean is to have five years of earthly prosperity, at the end of which time, if he has failed to find a substitute, his spiritual part becomes the demon's property. Two years later we find Jean upon the road to Montpellier, well mounted and equipped, and his purse well lined. Although but in his eighteenth year, he is already a gay gallant, with some knowledge of the world, and eager for adventures. These he meets with in abundance. A mark, imprinted upon his arm by his attendant demon, causes him to be recognised as the son of the Chevalier de Cerdagne. Thus ennobled, he feels that he may aspire to all things, and soon we find him pushing his fortune in Italy, attached to the person of the French Marshal de Marchin, discovering the Baron d'Isola's conspiracy against the life of Philip V. of Spain, and gaining laurels in the campaigns of the War of Succession. There is much variety and interest in some of his adventures, and the supernatural agency is sufficiently lost sight of not to be wearisome. Time glides away, and the fatal term of five years is within a few days of its completion. But Jean le Trouvé, now le Trouveur, is in no want of substitutes. Two volunteers present themselves; one his supposed sister, Mademoiselle de Cerdagne, whom he has warmly befriended in certain love difficulties; the other a convent gardener, whom he has made his private secretary, and whose name is Giulio Alberoni. The demon, who still affects the form of an old Turkish sailor, receives Alberoni in lieu of Jean, to whom, however, – foreseeing that the young man's good fortune may be the means of bringing him many other victims – he offers a new contract on very advantageous terms. But Jean de Cerdagne, who is now Spanish ambassador at Venice, with the title of prince, and in the enjoyment of immense wealth, refuses the offer, anxious to save his soul. He soon discovers that his good fortune is at an end. The real son of the Chevalier de Cerdagne turns up, Jean is disgraced, stripped of his honours and dignities, and his vast property is confiscated by the Inquisition. The ex-ambassador exchanges for a squalid disguise his rich costume of satin and velvet, and we next find him a member of a secret society in the thieves' quarter of Venice. The worshipful fraternity of Chiodo – so called from their sign of recognition, which is a rusty nail – live by the exercise of various small trades and occupations, which, although not strictly beggary or theft, are but a degree removed from these culpable resources. Jean, whose conscience has become squeamish, will accept none but honest employment. But the malice of the demon pursues him, and he succeeds in nothing. He stations himself at a ferry to catch gondolas with a boat-hook, and bring them gently alongside the quay; he stands at a bridge stairs, to afford support to passengers over the stones, slippery with the slime of the lagoons; he takes post in front of the Doge's palace, with a vessel of fresh water and a well-polished goblet, to supply passers-by. Many accept his stout arm, and drink his cool beverage, but none think of rewarding him. Not all his efforts and attention are sufficient to coax a sou from the pockets of his careless customers. At last, upon the third day, he receives a piece of copper, and trusts that the charm is broken. The coin proves a bad one. His seizure by the authorities, and transportation to Zara, relieve him of care for his subsistence. At last, pushed by misery, and in imminent danger of punishment for having struck a Venetian officer, Jean succumbs to temptation, and renews his infernal compact. A Venetian senator adopts him, and he discovers, but too late, that had he delayed for a few minutes his recourse to diabolical aid, he would have stood in no need of it. He proceeds to Spain, where he has many adventures and quarrels with his former secretary, Alberoni, now a powerful minister. His contract again at an end, he would gladly abstain from renewing it, but is hunted by the Inquisition into the arms of the fiend. After a lapse of years, he is again shown to us in Paris, and, finally, in Brittany, where he meets his death, but, at the eleventh hour, disappoints the expectant demon, (who in a manner outwits himself,) and re-enters the bosom of the church, his bad bargain being taken off his hands by an ambitious village priest. The book, which has an agreeable vivacity, closes with an attempt to explain a portion of its supernatural incidents by a reference to popular tradition and peasant credulity. Near the ramparts of the Breton town of Guérande, an antiquary shows M. de Musset a moss-grown stone, with a Latin epitaph, which antiquary and novelist explain each after his own fashion.

"Let us see if you understand that, M. le Parisien," said the antiquary. "Up to the two last words we shall agree; but what think you of the Ars. Inf.?"

"It appears to me," I replied, "that the popular chronicle perfectly explains the whole epitaph —Ars. Inf. means ars inferna; that is to say, – 'Here reposes Jean Capello, citizen of Venice, whose body was sent to the grave, and his soul to heaven, by infernal artifices.'"

"A translation worthy of a romance writer," said the antiquary. "You believe then in the devil, in compact with evil spirits, in absurd legends invented by ignorance and superstition amidst the evening gossip of our peasants? You believe that, in 1718, a parish priest of Guérande flew away into the air, after having redeemed the soul of this Jean Capello. You are very credulous, M. le Parisien. This Venetian, who came here but to die, was simply poisoned by the priest, who took to flight; the town doctor, having opened the body, found traces of the poison. That is why they engraved upon the tomb these syllables: Ars. Inf., which signify arsenici infusio, an infusion of arsenic. I will offer you another interpretation – Jean Capello was perhaps a salt-maker, killed by some accident in our salt-works, and as in 1718 labourers of that class were very miserable, they engraved upon this stone, to express the humility of his station, Ars. Inf., that is to say, inferior craft."

"Upon my word!" I exclaimed, "that explanation is perfectly absurd. I keep to the popular version: Jean le Trouveur was sent to heaven by the stratagems of the demon himself. Let sceptics laugh at my superstition, I shall not quarrel with them for their incredulity."

We see little else worthy of extract or comment in the mass of books before us. M. Méry, whose extraordinary notions of English men and things we exhibited in a former article, has given forth a rhapsodical history, entitled Le Transporté, beginning with the Infernal Machine, and ending with Surcouf the Pirate, full of conspiracies, dungeons, desperate sea-fights, and tropical scenery, where English line-of-battle ships are braved by French corvettes, and where the transitions are so numerous, and the variety so great, that we may almost say everything is to be found in its pages, except probability. Mr Dumas the younger, who follows at respectful distance in his father's footsteps, and publishes a volume or two per month, has not yet, so far as we have been able to discover, produced anything that attains mediocrity. M. Sue has dished up, since last we have adverted to him, two or three more capital sins, his illustrations of which are chiefly remarkable for an appearance of great effort, suggestive of the pitiable plight of an author who, having pledged himself to public and publishers for the production of a series of novels on given subjects, is compelled to work out his task, however unwilling his mood. This is certainly the most fatal species of book-making – a selling by the cubic foot of a man's soul and imagination. Evil as it is, the system is largely acted upon in France at the present day. Home politics having lost much of the absorbing interest they possessed twelve months ago, the Paris newspapers are resorting to their old stratagems to maintain and increase their circulation. Prominent amongst these is the holding out of great attractions in the way of literary feuilletons. Accordingly, they contract with popular writers for a name and a date, which are forthwith printed in large capitals at the head of their leading columns. Thus, one journal promises its readers six volumes by M. Dumas, to be published in its feuilleton, to commence on a day named, and to be entitled Les Femmes. The odds are heavy, that Alexander himself has not the least idea what the said six volumes are to be about; but he relies on his fertility, and then so vague and comprehensive a title gives large latitude. Moreover, he has time before him, although he has promised in the interval to supply the same newspaper with a single volume, to be called Un Homme Fort, and to conclude the long procession of Fantômes, a thousand and one in number, which now for some time past has been gliding before the astonished eyes of the readers of the Constitutionnel. Other journals follow the same plan with other authors, and in France no writer now thinks of publishing a work of fiction elsewhere than at the foot of a newspaper. To this feuilleton system, pushed to an extreme, and entailing the necessity of introducing into each day's fragment an amount of incident mystery or pungent matter, sufficient to carry the reader over twenty-four hours, and make him anxious for the morrow's return, is chiefly to be attributed the very great change for the worse that of late has been observable in the class of French literature at present under consideration. Its actual condition is certainly anything but vigorous and flourishing, and until a manifest improvement takes place, we are hardly likely again to pass it in review.

Dies Boreales

No. VCHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASSCamp at CladichScene —The Pavilion. Time —After breakfastNorth – Talboys – Seward – Buller

NORTH.

I begin to be doubtful of this day. On your visits to us, Talboys, you have been most unfortunate in weather. This is more like August than June.

TALBOYS.

The very word, my dear sir. It is indeed most august weather.

NORTH.

Five weeks to-day since we pitched our Camp – and we have had the Beautiful of the Year in all its varieties; but the spiteful Season seems to owe you some old grudge, Talboys – and to make it a point still to assail your arrival with "thunder, lightning, and with rain."

TALBOYS.

"I tax not you, ye Elements! with unkindness." I feel assured they mean nothing personal to me – and though this sort of work may not be very favourable to Angling, 'tis quite a day for tidying our Tackle – and making up our Books. But don't you think, sir, that the Tent would look nothing the worse with some artificial light in this obscuration of the natural?

NORTH.

Put on the gas. Pretty invention, the Gutta Percha tube, isn't it? The Electric Telegraph is nothing to it. Tent illuminated in a moment, at a pig's whisper.

TALBOYS.

Were I to wish, sir, for anything to happen now to the weather at all, it would be just ever so little toning down of that one constituent of the orchestral harmony of the Storm which men call – howling. The Thunder is perfect – but that one Wind Instrument is slightly out of tune – he is most anxious to do his best – his motive is unimpeachable; but he has no idea how much more impressive – how much more popular – would be a somewhat subdued style. There again – that's positive discord – does he mean to disconcert the Concert – or does he forget that he is not a Solo?

BULLER.

That must be a deluge of – hail.

TALBOYS.

So much the better. Hitherto we have had but rain. "Mysterious horrors! Hail!"

"'Twas a rough night.My young remembrance cannot parallelA fellow to it."

NORTH.

Suppose we resume yesterday's conversation?

TALBOYS.

By all manner of means. Let's sit close – and speak loud – else all will be dumb show. The whole world's one waterfall.

NORTH.

Take up Knight on Taste. Look at the dog-ear.

TALBOYS.

"The most perfect instance of this kind is the Tragedy of Macbeth, in which the character of an ungrateful traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant, is made in the highest degree interesting by the sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, courage, and tenderness, which continually burst forth in the manly but ineffective struggle of every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn the human mind, first against the allurements of ambition, and afterwards against the pangs of remorse and horrors of despair. Though his wife has been the cause of all his crimes and sufferings, neither the agony of his distress, nor the fury of his rage, ever draw from him an angry word, or upbraiding expression towards her; but even when, at her instigation, he is about to add the murder of his friend and late colleague to that of his sovereign, kinsman, and benefactor, he is chiefly anxious that she should not share the guilt of his blood: – 'Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck! till thou applaud the deed.' How much more real grandeur and exaltation of character is displayed in one such simple expression from the heart, than in all the laboured pomp of rhetorical amplification."

NORTH.

What think you of that, Talboys?

TALBOYS.

Why, like much of the cant of criticism, it sounds at once queer and commonplace. I seem to have heard it before many thousand times, and yet never to have heard it at all till this moment.

NORTH.

Seward?

SEWARD.

Full of audacious assertions, that can be forgiven but in the belief that Payne Knight had never read the tragedy, even with the most ordinary attention.

NORTH.

Buller?

BULLER.

Cursed nonsense. Beg pardon, sir – sink cursed – mere nonsense – out and out nonsense – nonsense by itself nonsense.

NORTH.

How so?

BULLER.

A foolish libel on Shakspeare. Was he the man to make the character of an ungrateful traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant, interesting by sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, courage, and tenderness, and – do I repeat the words correctly? – of every exalted quality that can dignify and adorn the human mind.

NORTH.

Buller – keep up that face – you are positively beautiful —

BULLER.

No quizzing – I am ugly – but I have a good figure – look at that leg, sir!

NORTH.

I prefer the other.

TALBOYS.

There have been Poets among us who fain would – if they could – have so violated nature; but their fabrications have been felt to be falsehoods – and no quackery may resuscitate drowned lies.

NORTH.

Shakspeare nowhere insists on the virtues of Macbeth – he leaves their measure indeterminate. That the villain may have had some good points we are all willing to believe – few people are without them; – nor have I any quarrel with those who believe he had high qualities, and is corrupted by ambition. But what high qualities had he shown before Shakspeare sets him personally before us to judge for ourselves? Valour – courage – intrepidity – call it what you will – Martial Virtue —

"For brave Macbeth, (well he deserves that name,)Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel,Which smoked with bloody executionLike valour's minion,Carved out his passage till he faced the slave;And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,And fixed his head upon our battlements."

The "bleeding Serjeant" pursues his panegyric till he grows faint – and is led off speechless; others take it up – and we are thus – and in other ways – prepared to look on Macbeth as a paragon of bravery, loyalty, and patriotism.

TALBOYS.

So had seemed Cawdor.

NORTH.

Good. Shakspeare sets Macbeth before us under the most imposing circumstances of a warlike age; but of his inner character as yet he has told us nothing – we are to find that out for ourselves during the Drama. If there be sublime flashes of generosity, magnanimity, and every exalted virtue, we have eyes to see, unless indeed blinded by the lightning – and if the sublime flashes be frequent, and the struggle of every exalted quality that can adorn the human mind, though ineffectual, yet strong – why, then, we must not only pity and forgive, but admire and love the "traitor, murderer, usurper, and tyrant," with all the poetical and philosophical fervour of that amiable enthusiast, Mr Payne Knight.

BULLER.

Somehow or other I cannot help having an affection for Macbeth.

NORTH.

You had better leave the Tent, sir.

BULLER.

No. I won't.

NORTH

Give us then, my dear Buller, your Theory of the Thane's character.

BULLER.

"Theory, God bless you, I have none to give, sir." Warlike valour, as you said, is marked first and last – at the opening, and at the end. Surely a good and great quality, at least for poetical purposes. High general reputation won and held. The opinion of the wounded soldier was that of the whole army; and when he himself says, "I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not thrown aside so soon," I accept that he then truly describes his position in men's minds.