The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 388, September 5, 1829
TekstSMALL TALK AND SMALL ACCOMPLISHMENTS, OR HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF AGREEABLE
Conversation, like a shuttlecock, should not be suffered to remain with one person, but ought to pass in turn to all. But as few people think for themselves, so few people talk for themselves, and a colloquial monopoly is as common and as disagreeable as any other. Yet when we observe how much these rattles are caressed, 'tis wonderful there are so few. Talent is by no means indispensable, and is the more valuable in proportion as it is flimsy or superficial. The great art lies in the choice of a subject. Let it be some liaison in the beau monde—the appearance of a new singer or actress—the detail of a recent duel, with particulars and embellishments, and your fortune is made at once. Do not affect any thing like a literary character, for scholars are reckoned bores. The only matters of this sort with which you can safely meddle are the fashionable novels—satirical poems—the magazines, and newspapers (eschewing the political articles as vulgar). It is absolutely necessary to be familiar with the names of all the editors in town, and these can easily be picked up from any of the tatterdemalions who prowl about police offices for the purpose of reporting the trials at a penny per line, which is, in most cases, exactly a penny per line too much. You must drop the complimentary Mr., and say, "A. of the Chronicle and I—the last time I saw B. of the Globe—C. of the Spectator told me t'other day," and so on. Of course it is not of the slightest consequence whether you ever saw one of the parties. You must also affect to be intimate with the theatrical lions, and be aware of the true state of all managerial squabbles for the season. Swear you have dined a dozen times with Sontag. En passant, the idea of a singer's patronizing a nation wholesale, as she has done in the case of the Silesians, is rather too good. Be indignant with Price for forfeiting Ellen Tree three several times in the sum of thirty pounds, and suppress the fact of his having remitted the penalty in the two first instances. Assume a mysterious air of "I could if I would," when Miss Love's elopement is mentioned, and state with heroic confidence that the Vesuvius scene in "Masaniello" at Astley's beat Drury by thirteen bricks and two ounces of Greek fire. You must pretend to know the salaries of all the employés in every establishment, and be able to describe the plot of every new piece the moment it is underlined. You can obtain sufficient information to enable you to pass muster on this subject any evening at the Garrick's Head. It would be of great service if you could contrive to be seen in conversation with a respectable actor now and then. You must have seen every sight and exhibited at every exhibition in town, and be able to discuss their several merits or demerits with a "learned spirit." A knowledge of the principal nobility—by person at least—is a sine qua non, for how else should you be able to recount the names of those you saw in the Park on Sunday last? Keep a list of the ages and portions of as many young ladies as possible, and be cautious how you dispose of your information on this score. These, I think, are the principal topics; and the best advice I can give is, "Never be quiet: speak on ad infinitum."
The man who inwardly digests these rules will be a treasure at any dinner party. The awful silence which prevails on the removal of the tablecloth—and an awful silence it surely is—will be dispelled. No ordinary man thinks of speaking, except in monosyllables, till he gets a little "elevated," and then he speaks nonsense as a matter of course. You must keep sober—for people will occasionally get "mellow," even in good society—and this you will easily manage to do by thinking of the immense superiority you will thus secure on joining the ladies in the drawing-room. You will be able to hand some blushing fair her coffee without pitching cup and contents into her lap, and stoop to pick up her fan or handkerchief without incurring the risk of breaking your nose. Should quadrilles be proposed, you will also be able to avoid those little dos-à-dos accidents which are by no means agreeable, and be qualified to pronounce, with tolerable certainty, which is your own partner.
Sharpe's Magazine.
THE SELECTOR;
AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS
VIDOCQ
Some very pleasant blunderer is said to have declared Moore's Life of Sheridan to be the best piece of Autobiography he had ever read; and with little more propriety can the concluding volume of Vidocq's Memoirs be said to belong to that species of literature styled Autobiography. The early volumes, however, possessed this feature, but the present is little more than a criminal supplement to the Memoirs. Of this defect, the translator seems to be aware; for in his "Sequel," he says, instead of the important disclosures promised by the Police Agent, in vol. ii., "he has given us a nomenclature of the assassins, thieves, and swindlers of France, and no more." He has merely brought down his Memoirs to the year 1816, and eked out his fourth volume with anecdotes and counsels, which have in most cases, more interest than novelty to recommend them. Still they are worth reading, although of a different character to the scenes, or as a wag would say, the "concerted pieces" which we have quoted from the three previous volumes. Our present quotations will not therefore possess the interest of complicated schemes.
At page 34, Vidocq awards to our metropolis, no very desirable distinction—
Town and Country Thieves
"No capital in the world, London excepted, has within it so many thieves as Paris. The pavement of the modern Lutetia is incessantly trodden by rogues. It is not surprising; for the facility of hiding them in the crowd makes all that are badly disposed resort thither, whether French or foreign. The greater number are fixed constantly in this vast city; some only come like birds of passage, at the approach of great occasions, or during the summer season. Besides these exotics, there are indigenous plants, which make a fraction in the population, of which the denominator is tolerably high. I leave to the great calculator, M. Charles Dupin, the task of enumerating them in decimals, and telling us if the sum that it amounts to should not be taken into consideration in the application of the black list."
False Keys
"Cambrioleurs are plunderers of rooms, either by force or with false keys. There are of this class thieves of incredible effrontery; that of one Beaumont almost surpasses belief. Escaped from the Bagne at Rochefort, where he was sentenced to pass twelve years of his life, he came to Paris, and scarcely had he arrived there, where he had already practised, when, by way of getting his hand in, he committed several trifling robberies, and when by these preliminary steps he had proceeded to exploits more worthy of his ancient renown, he conceived the project of stealing a treasure. No one will imagine that this treasure was that of the Bureau Central (Central Office), now the Prefecture of Police! It was already pretty difficult to procure impressions of the keys, but he achieved this first difficulty, and soon had in his possession all the means of effecting an opening; but to open was nothing, it was necessary to open without being perceived, to introduce himself without fear of being disturbed, to work without witnesses, and go out again freely. Beaumont, who had calculated all the difficulties that opposed him, was not dismayed. He had remarked that the private room of the chief officer, M. Henri, was nigh to the spot where he proposed to effect his entrance; he espied the propitious moment, and wished sincerely that some circumstance would call away so dangerous a neighbour for some time, and chance was subservient to his wishes."
"One morning, M. Henri was obliged to go out. Beaumont, sure that he would not return that day, ran to his house, put on a black coat, and in that costume, which, in those days, always announced a magistrate, or public functionary, presents himself at the entrance of the Bureau Central. The officer to whom he addressed himself supposed, of course, that he was at least a commissary. On the invitation of Beaumont, he gave him a soldier, whom he placed as sentinel at the entrance to the narrow passage which leads to the depôt, and commanded not to allow any person to pass. No better expedient could be found for preventing surprise. Thus Beaumont, in the midst of a crowd of valuable objects, could, at his leisure, and in perfect security, choose what best pleased him; watches, jewels, diamonds, precious stones, &c. He chose those which he deemed most valuable, most portable, and as soon as he had made his selection, he dismissed the sentinel, and disappeared."
"This robbery could not be long concealed, and the following day was discovered. Had thunder fallen on the police, they would have been less astonished than at this event. To penetrate to the very sanctuary!—the holy of holies! The fact appeared so very extraordinary, that it was doubted. Yet it was evident that a robbery had taken place, and to whom was it to be attributed? All the suspicions fell on the clerks; sometimes on one, sometimes on another; when Beaumont, betrayed by a friend, was apprehended, and sentenced a second time."
"The robbery he had committed might be estimated at some hundred thousand francs, the greater part of which were found on him."
"'There was wherewithal,' he said, 'to become an honest man; I should have become so; it is so easy when rich! yet how many rich men are only scoundrels!'"
"These words were the only ones he uttered, when he was apprehended. This surprising thief was conducted to Brest; where, after half a dozen escapes, which only served to make his subsequent confinement more rigorous, he died in a frightful state of exhaustion."
"Beaumont enjoyed amongst his confraternity a colossal reputation; and even now, when a rogue boasts of his lofty exploits—'Hold your tongue,' they say, 'you are not worthy to untie the shoe-strings of Beaumont!'"
"In effect, to have robbed the police was the height of address. Is not a robbery of this nature the chef-d'oeuvre of its kind, and can it do otherwise than, make its perpetrator a hero in the eyes of his admirers? Who should dare to compare with him? Beaumont had robbed the police! Hang yourself, brave Crillon! hang yourself, Coignard! hang yourself, Pertruisard! hang yourself, Callet!—to him, you are but of Saint-Jean. What is it to have robbed states of service? To have carried off the treasure of the army of the Rhine? To have carried off the military chest?—Beaumont had robbed the police! Hang yourselves!—or go to England, they will hang you there."
The Misanthropic Swindler
At page 71, Vidocq tells us a strange story of a fellow named Capdeville, who affecting misanthropy and disgust of the world, hired an apartment at a lone house near Paris, and employed his solitude in obtaining false keys of all the other rooms. Not quite settled here, "Capdeville published his intention of going out to discover an hermitage where he could pass his latter days in peace. He inquired of all the country proprietors who had places for sale within a circuit of six leagues, and it was soon known through the country that he was on the look-out for a place of the kind. Every body knew, of course, something that would suit him, but he would have only a patrimonial estate. 'Well, well,' said they, 'since he is so scrupulous, let him look out for himself.' This, in fact, he did."
"Determined to make a tour, to examine what was most likely to suit him, he employed himself ostensibly in preparations for his departure; he was only to be absent three or four days, but before he departed, he was anxious to know if there was no danger in leaving a secretary, in which were ten thousand francs, which he did not wish to take with him. Being assured on this point, and full of security, he did not hesitate to set out on his proposed journey."
"Capdeville did not go to a very great distance. During his sojourn in the house he had just left, he had had time to take impressions of all the keys which were requisite for his entrance into the dwelling of the landlord, who he knew was in the habit of dining in Paris, and did not return very early in the evening. By being there at dusk, Capdeville was certain of having before him all the time necessary for carrying on his operations. The sun had set, and, favoured by the darkness, he passed unperceived through Belleville, and having entered the house by the help of false keys, he entered the abode of the landlord, which he cleared out even to the linen."
"Towards the end of the fifth day they began to be uneasy at the non-appearance of the misanthrope; the next day a suspicion arose. Twenty-four hours later, and there was but one opinion respecting him; he was the thief. After such a trick mistrust all misanthropes. To whom then shall we trust, in whom place confidence? In philanthropists? By no means."
The misanthropy in this case must have been infectious, and the disgust of the lodger transferred to the landlord.
Other novelties oblige us to break off here for the present, so that another spice or two of the frauds of Paris stand over for our next.