1843, suggested to Girardin the publication of a supplement entitled Le Bulletin des Tribunaux, which cost twenty francs additional. This move obtained for the Presse an increase of 6000 subscribers; and it was supposed that at the period of Dujarrier's death the journal was making from 7 to 8000l. a-year, net, of which Dujarrier is reported to have received yearly no less a sum than 50,000 francs, or 2000l. of our money for, be it observed, he possessed eight out of twenty-five shares. This, no doubt, appeared a mine of gold to a man who had not 1200 francs a-year five years previously, but it in no degree justified the lavish expenditure, or the course of life and of play, which the unfortunate man was leading. The indictment, or acte d'accusation, read at the trial, announces the elegant luxury in which he lived, and goes on to state that "if he gained money easily he spent it as quickly, and had a general reputation as a bold and generous player."

But these words "elegant luxury" and "bold and generous player," write down in burning, branding letters the man's condemnation.

"Il faut opter des deux être dupe ou fripon,

Tous ces jeux de hasard n'attirent rien de bon."

There is nothing harder, my dear Oliver, than the heart nothing, in general, viler or more fitful than the temper of a professed gambler. Open out the cards or the dice before a table of gamblers, and the passions of cupidity, envy, avarice, and fury, are brought at once into play. Feel the pulse of the gambler, and you will find it quick, unequal, feverish. His tongue is parched, his lips and cheeks livid; his temper, however originally good, becomes demoniacal; his health, however robust, at length gives way. The smallest trifle irritates and provokes him; words which would pass unheeded by another are seized on by him.

Beauvallon and Dujarrier were both gamblers, and for idle words or still idler gesture, incident to a gambling and vinous orgy, the one lost his life, and the other all of character that remained to him, which, to say the truth, was little enough.

VOL. XXXIII. NO. CXCVIII.

Mercantile avarice and mercantile cupidity were, however, at the bottom of this discreditable quarrel. Dujarrier played pretty much the same part at the Presse that Beauvallon played at the Globe, and the quarrel took its rise (though its proximate cause was a loss at cards) in the most mercenary motives that can sway the mind of man. At the Presse Dujarrier was manager, controller, and caissier. He it was who engaged and paid the Feuilletonists, and arranged who was to write the Roman Feuilleton for weeks and months in succession, and how much the writers were to receive. In this catering for the paper he had his favourites, as such manner of men generally have, and this, of course, led to envy and jealousies; but notwithstanding his vanity, his ignorance, his coarse and over-familiar manners, and deficiency on the score of early education, he probably was in moral character just as respectable as any of the Romance-writers whom he employed, and nearly as well, if not quite as well, educated; for be it known to readers in England that neither education nor acquired knowledge are deemed in any degree requisite to those persons.

At the rival paper, the Globe, Beauvallon played pretty much the same part that Dujarrier played at the Presse. Independently of the old adage that two of a trade can never agree, there were other causes, not merely of disrelish but of loathing. Beauvallon was the brother-inlaw of Granier de Cassagnac, who had originally been the principal coadjutor of Emile de Girardin at the Presse. Cassagnac having quarrelled with his principal, set up for himself a rival paper, the Globe; out of which the Epoque has since risen. In the Globe he had called Girardin by every infamous and every opprobrious name, and proclaimed that all the good articles were the productions of his own pen; in fact, that the astonishing success of the Presse was wholly due to his talent. This was indignantly denied by Girardin, who stated that Cassagnac was an impudent, lying Gascon, who, when editor of the Journal Politique of Toulouse, was flogged in the public street, and obliged to take refuge in the interior of a diligence

66

to save himself from further stripes. "Ah!" says Cassagnac, what of that? You, Emile Girardin, sitting by your pretty wife at the Opera, were flogged before 3000 persons!"

"But that's not so bad as you," says Emile. "Didn't you, by scampish messengers, send round the prospectus of your paper to the subscribers to other journals?-ay, send them round in cart-loads ?"

"Oh, jarnie ne vous y frottez pas!" says Cassagnac. "What a respectable fellow are you, forsooth! to sicken at such trifles,-you, the rejected of the electors of Bourganeuf, whose electors preferred Vidocq, the police spy, as an honester

man!"

"Au moins," rejoins Emile, "I am not capable of ordering gaiters of a particular cut for my newspaper porters by way of an advertisement, and then refusing to pay for them because they are not exactly made to pattern!"

"Quelle mouche vous pique," says Granier. "Gaiters, quotha! Did I ever puff up the shares of a coalmine which never existed, or in which there were no coals, and sell my actions at a premium? Did I ever play the blagueur at St. Berain ?"

"Ventre Saint-Gris!" exclaims Emile. "Here's a pretty fellow to talk of blague, indeed!

A geux who comes into my bed-room on a hot July day, and taking off his shirt, and clothing himself in one of my six best clean chemises, walks away! Gentleman, indeed! C'est un gentilhomme de Beauce, il est au lit quand on refait ses chausses."

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says

Impostor and quack!" Granier. "You proclaim that the success of the Presse is owing to your pen; but all the good articles that ever appeared in it were written by me, or certain persons who shall be nameless."

"Galopin de Gascogne!" says Emile. "How dares the fellow, who ordered a steam printing-press and then refused to pay for it on one pretext or another, presume to call any honest man to account ?"

Such are the fellows-abusing each other, verbatim et literatim, in this fashion of fishfags-who give and have given not merely life and being to the Presse, Globe, and Epoque (the Globe has now merged

in the latter paper), but who guide, govern, and control their every tone and movement. "Tel maître, tel valet." When the directing spirits thus ribaldly demean themselves, what is to be expected from the Feuilletonists, poor-devil authors and French penny-a-liners, under them? A total lack of manners and principle-an entire absence of truth and taste.

To Girardin, Cassagnac, Dujarrier, and Beauvallon, is altogether owing the furtive introduction of the Roman Feuilleton into French literature. This creation-the offspring of the political indifference supervening upon a state of constant change and revolution—has now assumed gigantic proportions, and at the present moment threatens not merely to overshadow political discussion, but to destroy all literature. The newspaper romance, my dear OLIVER, Or Roman Feuilleton, is an unnatural, artificial work, the disgrace of even a low style of literature. It is a novel or tale, written in the most exaggerated fashion, which is published daily in the small volumes of what, ten or twelve years ago, was called the Feuilleton. The ancient Feuilleton, as you well know, was the peculiar boast and pride of the French press. It was unique in journalism. It consisted of the small, short columns, separated from the political articles, debates, and advertisements, and was devoted to pure literature, or literary or theatrical criticism. It was in these feuilletons that again and again appeared articles that will live as long as the most classic productions of the French language,models of clear, correct, candid, and learned criticism. The men who then supplied the Feuilleton with matter, such as Feletz, Dussault, and Hofmann, were exact, and scrupulous, and conscientious, and long meditated on the works which they criticised. And the proprietors reaped the reward of their labours, for the series of articles in the Débats by Hofmann, on mesmerism and somnambulism, on Chateaubriand, De Pradt, Madame de Genlis, and the Jesuits, raised the paper to 18,000 or 20,000 abonnés. But these earlier writers were firstrate scholars-men regularly edu cated in the universities of their country-where they had obtained

distinguished honours and the highest renown. Hence the earlier Feuilleton was distinguished by learning, judgment, and all the higher qualities of mind. It instructed as well as amused; and if it had a fault at all, it was that it was too learned and erudite. But from 1830 to 1835, the old Feuilleton degenerated in the hands of Janin; and from 1836-7 the Roman Feuilleton began to appear. Now the Roman Feuilleton has become un besoin irrésistible, une exigence impérieuse, to use the phrase of its admirers. Thousands, and hundreds of thousands, hang upon the words, "la suite au prochain numéro." Yet, what after all is this Roman Feuilleton? It is an exaggerated novel or tale, written with a view to effect-with a view to the greatest number of readers and advertisements. The Presse was the first to invent this system-this rank food for vulgar appetites; and the greatest producer in the trade is a man of coÎour, Alexandre Dumas Davy, who has recently assumed the title of Marquis de la Pailleterie.

Dumas is said to have fifteen clerks in his manufactory. It is the business of these fifteen men to heap together in the shortest possible space, the greatest number of startling incidents, thrilling emotions, and sudden contrasts. On and on they toil, a solis ortu usque ad occasum, while the happy marquis touches and re-touches, corrects and embellishes, throwing in here and there a little bit more pathos, anon, a little more gloominess, or now and again a deeper die and hue of guilt, for a monstrous and unnatural spice of crime is, above all, necessary. When the whole is corrected and shaped to the most taking pattern, then Alexandre Dumas Davy, Marquis de la Pailleterie, causes one of his two sons, or both, perhaps, to copy the whole out in a fair hand, the parcel is labelled, and ticketed, and transferred to the marquis' commissionaire, to deliver as per order, and who takes it either to the Dujarrier or Beauvallon of the hour, and the next day, at all events within the next week, it is in print. The traders in newspapers are satisfied if these productions procure either readers or advertisements for the paper, and delighted if they procure both, while

the Marquis de la Pailleterie is contented if he receive from his 30,000 to 60,000 francs a-year, as the case may be. This system has been the ruin of journalism and literature. Nothing is demanded but to produce the article quickly to suit the pressing wants of the day. No style is necessary, no consistence or coherency, no study of the human head or human heart. All that is required is melodramatic situation, bustle, incident, &c. There is much noise and no work, which was exactly the effect produced by Addison's Trunkmaker. The pen of the writer is subservient to the greedy spirit of speculation. The tale or the novel is constructed, not after life or nature, but made to sell.

As a consequence the public taste becomes daily more and more vitiated. The relish for the serious, the matured, the natural, is lost. There must be horror heaped on horror; and no novel or tale will now be popular that does not contain a due infusion of adultery, incest, poisoning, or parricide. The Presse, by the. hands of Dujarrier, used to pay, and by the hands of his successor still pays, nearly 300 francs a-day for feuilletons fabricated after this fashion, to Alexandre Dumas Davy, Marquis de la Pailleterie, George Sand, Frederic Soulié, and Honoré Prosper Balzac. Mountains of trash are in consequence produced. To the authors, in so far as money is concerned, it is profitable trash. The men sack bushelsfull of money, but they make a shipwreck of name and fame. A career is given to the wildest and most rambling fancies; and the most exact and idiomatic of languages ceases to be either exact, idiomatic, or grammatical in the hands of these literary tradesmen.

Yet, with all their gains, the newspaper romancers of the Presse and the Epoque are for the most part penniless. Though some of them make their 60,000 francs a-year, yet their expenditure is always nearly double, and often quadruple their income. They live, like the roués of the Regent Orleans, like the Broglies, the Brancas, the Birons, the Canillacs, the Nocés, the Richelieus, the Duclos, &c. Each of them has his Mesdames Parabère, de Phalaris, Emélie de l'Opera, his Lievenne,

or his Lola Montes. To see the horses, and carriages, and livery servants of these men, to enter their houses filled with costly furniture, pictures, &c., one would think they were descended from the Montmorencys and Mortemarts.

Your friend in the last REGINA, however, has done the father of Alexandre Dumas an injustice.

The

father, though a general, was not a mulatto general, but a man of pure French blood, descended of the Davys de la Pailleterie of the Pays de Caux in Normandy. There was no more distinguished officer in the French army. His bravery and gallant bearing were remarkable at St. Bernard, Mont Cenis, Mantua, Neumark, and Brixen. But his son Alexandre is a mulatto, his mother being a native of Guadaloupe (or St. Domingo), and a romancer in more senses than one; for though born on the 24th July, 1802, he solemnly declared before the Cour d'Assizes of Rouen he was only forty-one years of age, though he was at the moment he made the declaration in his forty-fourth year. But MonteCristo Dumas, with all his follies and faults-and their name is Legion, -is a modest and an humble man, though he drives his coach-and-four, compared with Honoré Balzac. This man, who is now in his fortyseventh year, came to Paris six-andtwenty years ago, where he obtained the brevet of a printer. He had not been in business above a year, before he failed in trade. From 1827 to 1829 he produced various anonymous romances, deservedly forgotten. But in 1830 his Flemish finishing was relished by the bourgeoisie, who had triumphed in the three days. Eugénie Grandet le Médecin de Campagne, Les Scènes de la Vie Privée de la Vie Parisienne, and De la Vie de Province, obtained immense success, and procured for the author considerable sums of money. Behold the unknown Tourangeau of 1820, the broken-down printer of the Rue St. André des Arcs in 1831 and 1832 transformed into an élégant, with the airs of a grand seigneur, driving his cabriolet, sporting his cane, worth 2000 francs, nourishing a formidable pair of moustachios, maintaining a tigre, a valet de chambre, and a maître d'hôtel; keeping an English mistress,

and expending at least 100,000 francs, or 4000l. a-year. For ten years Honoré was at every thing in the ring; but at length, having written himself out, he is now entirely supplanted by Sue, and has fled to Italy, overwhelmed with debts and liabilities, the tenth part of which he will never be enabled to pay. But without the Feuilleton of Girardin and Cassagnac, Balzac could never have run this mad and foolish career; without the abuse of the Feuilleton, he never could have indulged the whims and fancies of a diseased and morbid vanity, or lived the life of a prince and a financier. Who have lowered and perverted the Feuilleton? The Presse and the Epoque, Girardin and Cassagnac. Who have contributed to produce the scenes which our common friend in REGINA deplores, and properly castigates? Cassagnac and Girardin. Duels there are always have been-in Paris, and duels there always will be in Paris so long as France is France. But duels à propos de rien; duels, taking their origin in base cupidity or mercantile rivalry, are a creation of the Presse and Epoque, and the Roman Feuilleton.

As to French actresses, my dear OLIVER, there is much to be said in extenuation of their lightness and follies, and I am not the man to break these butterflies on a wheel. In the midst of society, French actresses live like parias. By common consent their profession is depreciated and discredited. When they bear an honest or respected name, they are obliged to change it into val, ville, or saint, not to dishonour or disgrace their families. But who that has ever been behind the scenes of a French provincial theatre, or that in Easter week has seen French provincial actresses come up in dozens from all corners of France to the coffee-house in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec to seek metropolitan engagements, declaiming, singing, dancing, pour se vendre à l'enchère ou au rabais, can wonder at the scene at the Trois Frères? Till the bad eminence, however, of Girardin, Cassagnac, and Co., the press of Paris did not go behind the scenes in search of mistresses; and even during their predominance, it is only the scum and dregs of the press that aspire to the

ancient privileges of the gentilhommes de la chambre de roi.

No, my dear OLIVER, you must not judge of the press or the literature of France by these deplorable examples. The Bertins, the De Sacys, the Chasles, the St. Marc Girardins, the Fleurys, the Fauchers, the Saint Beuves, are men as learned and as respectable as are to be found in any country; and you may rest assured the better portion of the French press, the Débuts, the Constitutionnel, the Siècle, and the Revue des Deux Mondes, &c., are all anxious to rescue themselves from the opprobrium of being considered as persons of the stamp of the Girardins and Cassagnacs, of the Dujarriers and Beauvallons.

Forgive me for trespassing on you at such length, but it is right the case of respectable and learned men should be distinguished, as the lawyers in my day used to say, from the case of the scamps, of the scum of literature and politics. Beware in England of the Roman Feuilleton. If you ever allow romancers, jesters, or novelists to usurp the place held in your Times and Chronicle by scrious and solid political writers, adieu to the respectability-adieu also to the liberty of the English press.

I remain, my dear OLIVER,

Your faithful and sincere friend,
BENJAMIN BLUNT,

Bencherman and Trencherman of the
Inner Temple.

WHEN we separated, my dear Grubley, at the Southampton Pier, you, to study the resources of the Channel Islands, I, for Seville, I was far more satisfied with my choice than I am at present. Unlike most of those whose midnight lamps glimmer with the same perseverance, I must frankly own that my reading has misled me. I forget which romantic bard first inveigled me into the dreamy admiration which I have ever since encouraged towards this land. But whoever it was, he is responsible for the course of reading I thenceforth pursued, and for my present disappointment.

I have accompanied tourist after tourist, poet after poet, through this southern paradise, and never met with the shadow of a disappointment to mar the delights of a residence at Seville as long as I remained at Putney. How different the descriptions in books are from the places they profess to paint, I have now begun to discover. I have here Byron, and one or two others of my deceivers; and am learning to smoke in order to use their leaves in lighting my pipe,

as I think that such atrocious exaggerations should end in smoke.

My first outbreak against the poet I have just named was occasioned by the journey from the coast to this place. I was all eagerness to arrive at the romantic land he talks of, and discovered by the end of the day that he could never have looked forward to any of his readers coming to see it. Why, the Thames between Hammersmith and Battersea is far more romantic than this Guadalquivir, along the whole fifty miles of which there is not sufficient foliage to deck the parterre of an alderman's villa! This disappointment was, however, trifling to that of my whole existence in this so vaunted city, which is as different as can be imagined from what they would make you believe.

Any one coming here after having been told, as I have fifty times, that Seville was a superb city-a city of palaces-would suppose the diligence had set him down at the wrong town. You know, my dear Grubley, that I always say what I mean; well then, I assure you that the narrowest part