much given to cabs and cabmen, tops of omnibuses with driver and guard, urchins in the way of the coming vehicle, hunters going over fences, and women riding in Rotten Row, all of which was background for the Horse. The caricatures and delineations of Gavarni cover a wider range of subjects and were much more numerous. The two were contemporaneous in their popularity, but Gavarni's was much greater than Leech's-each in his respective country, for Gavarni is but little known in England and Leech is scarcely ever heard of in France. That there is much humor in John Leech's faces all Americans and Englishmen concede but the Frenchman fails to see it as we do. Punch does not make him laugh. On the other hand, we think there is a grotesque extravagance in the French caricature which is overdone, and which does not amuse us as it does him. This probably arises from a want of familiarity with French physiognomy and habits, and vice versa. Gavarni was to France, in delineation, what Balzac was in literature. He drew the history of his time with the pencil as the other did with the pen. Many of his drawings offend the eye of the Anglo-Saxon-those relating to scenes in the life of the demi-monde, grisettes, lovers and deceived husbands, but the Gaul avers that he is prudish, squeamish, and more or less hypocritical. It is possible that there is some truth in the Gaul's statement. Masters in art and literature have generally drawn and written boldly and frankly concerning every phase of humanity, -of whom Hogarth and Shakespeare are the most brilliant examples. Gavarni may be regarded as the French Hogarth. In delineation and caricature he has never been equaled in his own country, for the water-colors of Eugène Lami have not the completeness of Gavarni's work in the way of caricature-the burlesque comic vein. One of his reprehensible creations-from an Anglo-Saxon point of view-is Monsieur Coquardeau, who in celebrity comes next to Joseph Prudhomme. Before the time of Gavarni, the elements of character in Coquardeau existed beyond a doubt, but the artist put them together in a body and breathed into it an individuality which was unmistakable-the victim of conjugal infidelity. There are certain signs of such a condition familiar to all Frenchmen. In color, yellow shows it; in form, horns sprouting out of the head, or the semblance thereof. A tall white night-cap, with a trembling tassel crowning the apex, may not indicate what they call a "6 BEHOLD IN ME THE PAPA OF MAM'SELLE JOLIBAIS." stab in the marriage contract, but it reveals a ridiculous spouse. Naturally, Gavarni availed himself freely of these adjuncts in portraying Coquardeau. The French have a reprehensible habit of making light of the misfortune of such a victim-unless he kills some one, when the smile disappears in the tragedy. But when the deceived is weak, and accepts the situation through want of penetration, the world makes sport of him. Poor Coquardeau is of this number. Yet the artist tries, in some sense, to justify Madame Coquardeau, by similar acts of infidelity on the part of her husband. In all this, the skeleton is never fully disclosed, but indicated by delicate touches. Customs, in a great measure, make morals. The penalty of the Lothario who encroaches on the rights of another, in America, is severe. The aggrieved considers himself justified in shooting him down at the first opportunity, and twelve of his peers will generally be found to absolve him. But such vengeance is punished by many years of hard labor, or perhaps by death, in France only recourse then, is the so-called field of honor. If the injured man is an indifferent shot and swordsman, and the offender is skillful, it is not surprising that he does not subject himself to the risk of additional injury by engaging in unequal combat. The It is not likely, however, that Coquardeau WIFE LOQUITUR-"HOW POORLY YOU TELL A FIB, MON CHERI !" reasons in this way, for he is never convinced | of a breach in the marriage contract, although he at times is strongly inclined to suspect it. His doubts and suspicions furnish the material for the artist. There are situations in the existence of this comic Othello, which, although risible, are almost painful to the Anglo-Saxon-but Monsieur Coquardeau must be seen through French spectacles. The heartiness with which poor Coquardeau is laughed at, shows a peculiarity in French character. The Gaul may not covet his neighbor's ox nor his ass, but he often does his wife. Of course all do not do so, but there is a sufficient number to make of it a national trait. The Frenchman may be strict in the performance of every obligation, written and moral; the soul of honor in the affairs great and small of every-day life, and yet deficient in this one respect-according to the opinion of English and Americans. Outside of his legitimate occupation, the American seems to find sufficient outlet in billiards, horses, card-playing, politics, agriculture, Christian and charitable associations. As a rule, the Gaul devotes his leisure time to the gentle sex. The American is a much better husband, but not as good a lover. He would feel himself bored to pass as much of his time in the society of women as the Gaul does. When the American husband does not find happiness with his wife, he does not therefore seek it in the society of some other woman; this is precisely what the Gaul does. When matrimonial bonds are thrown around him, he seems to lose his tender assiduity, and seek other recreation and amusement, and the door is thus thrown open to the Lovelace who is always watching for an opportunity. There is another reason for the more complete harmony in the marriage relation in America; the union is generally founded on mutual affection, whilst in France other considerations prevail in the selection of life-partners. There is often inequality in taste, age and habits. This is the case with the Coquardeaus. Monsieur is middleaged and staid, Madame is young and coquettish. One laughs at the trials of Coquardeau as revealed in the series of drawings, but with the mirth there is latent sympathy. The pathos of expression in the face of this martyr to conjugal infelicity, at times, is really touching. One is persuaded that the artist felt it too, but that his fidelity to nature would not permit him to show it-that any manifestation of a gushing kind would have been incompatible with the character of the impassible, earthly-recording-angel in which he always appeared. Hogarth was a moralist who showed the progress of vice in the seven capital sins to the infamous end. Gavarni never preached, he related without comment; no virtuous indignation-no declamation on the subject of human depravity. Hogarth cut deeper into vice, according to his Saxon nature and greater genius; his mirthfulness is ever garnished with a moral. There was more of the Figaro in Gavarni-light, lithesome, essentially French. He was modern to the bone; there was no Athens, no Rome for him, with Herculean forms and eternal Greek profile. He came at a time when his public, surfeited with unchanging classics, began to ask if there was not also something worthy of portrayal in modern French nature. He kept completely out of the classic field; he understood the situation, and saw that there were many niches which could not be filled by Dying Gladiators and Milo Venuses, and The amount of work which he performed is something extraordinary; the journals, books, illustrated publications and reviews of his day are full of it. One publisher has collected four volumes of his drawings, comprising, Les Lorettes, La Vie de Jeune Homme, Les Etudiants, Le Carnaval, Les Débardeurs, Les Actrices, Les Fourberies des Femmes, Paris le Matin, Paris le Soir, Les Enfants Terribles, and others. Another publisher has collected eight volumes more, and Théophile Gautier (an authority in art) estimates that his work, if put together, would fill thirty volumes. The enfant terrible was of course known before Gavarni took up his pencil to describe him, but the philosopher of the crayon threw a new and stronger light on the imp. Sir Thomas Lawrence and others like him would have us believe that this little piece of pink and white flesh and flaxen curls is an innocent cherub. Gavarni was not caught in such a net. An American statesman once said that children should be put under a barrel until they reach the age of discretion. Gavarni put them under glass, where all the world could see them in their acts of naughtinessunder protest, naturally, of all good and affectionate mothers. An old gentleman (perhaps a rich bachelor uncle) makes a visit to mamma, and the child is present. Chucking the little thing under the chin, he says, "Little Cherub, I have brought you a bonbon; I will give it to you when I go away." "Well, Mosieu, dive it to me now and dô away." The effect on mamma may be imagined. A visitor is with the terrible child, who suddenly asks him: "Who was it set the river on fire, Monsieur ?-because papa says it wasn't you!" A modest-looking little girl is sitting on the sofa with a diffident young gentleman, to whom she observes, "Aunt Amelia says you are good-lookin'and it's a pity you're so stoopid!" A man with a turn-up nose, hat in hand, is standing in the corridor, with an air of offended dignity, while an urchin is bawling through the door, "Mamma, it is Mosieu-you know? the man with that nose." A thin-legged gentleman, whose face wears an astonished expression, has a little girl alongside of him pulling up her stockings, who says, "Mosieu Belassis,, it isn't me that has pipestem legs!" A sentimental young gentleman is sitting alongside of a little girl who is eating nuts which he has given her. She asks, "The rose that you gave sister? Ah, yes, yesthat you almost broke your neck to reach ?" Well, my cousin Anatole tied it to the tail of the ass; sister laughed ever so much! Have you got any more nuts?" There are others on the same subjectsome of a character that do not find favor in the sight of stern moralists like ourselves. Words give but a faint idea of Gavarni's Ter rible Child,--the drawings themselves must be consulted. Gavarni also gives the foibles of the Parents Terribles-those who are always relating the extraordinary acts of their wonderful children to some wearied listener whose efforts to keep from yawning are apparent to any one save the doting mamma and papa; also those who are always destroying the illusions of youth to fit them for usefulness in a practical world. In the Fourberies des Femmes, there is a sketch of a modest, well-dressed young gentleman, in the doorway of a somewhat dilapidated house, who ventures to ask an ignoble-looking concierge, "Madame de Saint Aiglemont, s'il vous plaît ?" "C'est ici, Mosieu," she answers, and then bawls to the upper regions, "Ma'me Chifet! on te demande." Madame Chifet has evidently been to a mask-ball and donned an aristocratic name as a means of conquest; the tutoiement shows the familiar footing of the inmates toward each other. The effect is the most comic of the series. that there are moments in life when the heart experiences a vague need of intimate emotion which the vain pleasures of this world never satisfy ?" Translation: he offers her stock with a fine dividend, cheap-but she would sooner take him. In a word, she prefers a husband as an investment, but the stock-jobber does not appear to share her opinion. Les Invalides de l'Amour is a collection of old bachelors from fifty to seventy years. In these old beaux, retired from service, he shows old age to be full of ingratitude to the celibate. celibate. They are all unhappy, their only pleasant moments being when they live over again the successes of their younger days. Amongst them there is the involuntary bachelor soured by some cruel Anastasie who adhered to the fatal no; the fat man tightly laced, thin straggling hairs drawn carefully over his bald head, elaborately dressed, who still thinks himself capable of disturbing woman's peace of mind; the disappointed, who is just making the discovery that love and teeth are leaving him at the same time; the remains of a handsome man sitting dejectedly in a chair of the Luxembourg who was known in his day of triumph as the "bel Arthur; one who has turned woman-hater, and calls our Joy-and-consolation, serpents; another, unmitigatedly ugly, relating his conquests to hearers who are skeptical, when he adds, "C'est égal, they used to call me the gay de The contemplation of these sketches ought to be an incentive to marriage. If these ancient wall-flowers had to do life over again, they would of course be the center of a family group, loving and loved of each member of it. They thought bachelorhood was jolly when they were young and vigorous, but when old age came creeping on with lumbago, they discovered that they were very much alone, and that the man of family was especially blessed. The square, angular truth cannot be enployed on all occasions in French societynor in any other, and certain phrases are used which mean something else than what they bear on their face. When a man who has known you a few days avers that his greatest happiness would be to render him-ceiver." self useful to you, it is simply his fashion of saying, How do you do? If in a drawing-room a Gaul is asked his opinion of a dull book written by one of his best friends, he answers, "C'est un livre fort bien écrit," and every one understands by this polite response that the work belongs to the yawn-literature. When, in speaking of a young woman, he says, "C'est une jeune fille bien faite," her want of beauty is at once recognized; but when he affirms that she possesses 66 un charmant caractère," it may be taken for granted that she is positively ugly. When, in speaking of a man, he says that he does not possess a mind "très vif," but, in compensation, is "plein de bon sens," this means that he is completely stupid. This gives play and finesse to conversation, and makes things smooth all round. Gavarni left a series of designs on these phrases which do not mean what they say, called Traductions en langue vulgaire. One of these shows a well-to-do middle-aged man, leaning back in his chair at ease, while a young woman says to him, with marked enthusiasm: "Yes, my dear baron, independence is certainly a precious thing! but do you not find Ah, what wonderful reforms they would work, if they had it to do again! This is the daily burden of their speech, which they go on repeating as if its utterance were going to soften the situation. Since the death of Gavarni-hardly a score of years back-Cham endeavors to take his place, but in ability, between him and Gavarni there is the distance which separates Hogarth from Leech. Cham is properly a caricaturist. His work exhibits variety, sprightliness, verve, but is too extravagant. His resources are not equal to the great amount of work which he does, and much of it is weak. Were he to do less, it would doubtless improve him. His designs generally are rough, uncouth productions in comparison with the highly-finished work of Gavarni, and yet there are probably not more lines in one than the other. Cham leads the delineators and caricaturists of France at this time. His superiority over the others is generally conceded; but some, like Gill, Grévin, Stop, are nearly on a level with him. Randon is an artist who devotes himself to military caricatures, of which the execution is ordinary and the idea sometimes good. One of them shows two common soldiers in shirt-sleeves, about lifting a low, burdened hand-cart; the one in the front shafts, with his back to him behind, asks, "Are you ready, mon cher baron ?" "At your service, mon cher vicomte." This elegant speech, in such contrast to their appearance and occupation, produces a fair comic effect. There are many of Grévin's countrymen who place him ahead of Cham in talent. He certainly possesses more grace and refinement, both in handling and choice of subject. But there is a comic vein in Cham which has popularized him more than anything else; as shown, for instance, in his development of the character of Joseph homme. Prud The illustrations of the Vie Parisienne-a weekly publication devoted to fashionable women, gandins, and the upper strata of the demi-mondeare sometimes good, but generally lack strength and boldness, from too much finesse and dandyism; a man cannot help entertaining a contempt for the representative of his as there portrayed, the tiny-booted, gloved à trois boutons, delicate moustached, effeminate creature, lolling. about boudoirs like a lap-dog. After looking at these men without virility, it is a relief for the eye to rest upon a bluff English fox-hunter, or even a stout Auvergnat. The man of the Vie Parisienne is just from the hands of his tailor. Everything he wears. It treats the woman in is in the last vogue. the same way, which is less objectionableits illustrations of her generally serving as fashion-plates. It idealizes, except in representing the Man in Blouse, when it becomes From the to the last degree realistic. heights of its finical dilettanteism it looks down on him, and makes a forbidding por |