The Sun.
London, England, 1848-12-28 00:00:00

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LITERATURE.

PICTURES .li-om t.EVOLU iIO.2VARY

2 Vois. By J. Palgravc Simpson.
Hans Christian Andersen first conceived the notion
of writing a "Picture Book without Pictures."
Those who have once perused the beautiful glimpses
of the moon, scattered in patches ON er the leaves of
that most poetical of all the graceful volumes penned
by the Danish novelist, will remember that there
may, in truth, be some descriptions so vivid in colour-
ing, and so distinct in outline, as to dispense with any
necessity for pictorial illustration. To obtain an
accurate idea of the incidents and characters grouped .
together in the Improvisatore for example—that
exquisite companion of Madame de Steel's Corinne—
the reader requires no embellishments from the needle
of the engraver. Mr. Palgrave Simpson—already
distinguisr ed by his brilliant fictions of " Second
Love" and " Gisella"—has recognised the possibil:ty
of substituting letter-press for painting. That he himself
possesses the capacity for effecting this agreeable substi-
tution is shown in a very striking manner by the two
volumes now submitted to our criticism. They lave
all the gorgeous hues of Laroche, and all the animas
tion of Vernet. Throughout the twenty-two chap-
ters into which the narrative is partitioned passages
may be detected which recal to our remembrance the
delineations given from time to time, according as
events succeeded each other, in the French capital,
and distributed through a number of our most
eminent contemporary periodicals. As " Our own
Correspondent" in the Times, as the " Flaneur" in
Bentley's Miscellany, and as a casual contributor to
Blackwood: Magazine, Mr. Palgrave Simpson had
depicted, in glowing dyes, the tragedies and pomps
of the last revolution. Here, according to the an-
nouncement made in the preliminary " Preface," the
least perishable portions of those descriptions have
been accumulated, in a substantial form, and placed
together with a certain symmetry of sequence. Se-
veral parts are altogether new, others are rewritten,
and the whole presents a result something better than
a mere lukewarm rechanifee of casual scraps and
ephemeral paragraphs. As an example of the pic-
turesque and animated character of the narrative we
will transcribe into our columns the account given by
Mr. Palgrave Simpson of the sublimest act of the
whole revolution. Here is his narrative of
LAMARTINE REPUDIATING THE RED FLAG
" In the midst of that scene of uproar, excitement, and
mistrust, ready to recommence anarchy and destruction,
one deed—a great and good deed—was done, however,
upon which, probably, depended fur the time the destiny
of France, perhaps of the whole world; and it was done
by Lamartine, the man of imagination, and not of action
(except in moments, when he can act a part before the
face of the world)—the poet-statesman,' as he will
henceforward be called by his allies, and glory in the
name—once the ardent legitimist—then the pretender
to power under Louis Philippe—now the republican.
Upon the barricades had been raised aloft the red flag
of revolution; it even then waved over the Hotel de
Ville; but to that blood-red banner popular fancy had
always attached the idea of a republic of violence, war,
and revenge; it was the bloody pirate flag of propagan-
dism by force of arms—the symbol of a rule of terror by
the scaffold. This Lamartine knew: the policy which
he intended to put forward as his own was to be that of
peace, and order, and tolerance; and of that the tricolour
flag was to be the emblem, as it had been the banner of
the reign which took for its motto, Liberty and Public
Order.' He knew too, probably, how easily the French
might be led away by the outward show, and engage
their future sentiments in their outward symbols; and
he felt that in the change of colours on a flag-staff lay
the present fate of Paris, of France, of the rule on which
he had staked his own destinies. IR the face of the
waving crowd of those thousands of stormy men, choking
in manifold group the square, ho stood before the gate-
way of that picturesque historical old building—upon
those steps on which so many scenes of history had
already passed, and none more important in its results
than this—pale, but erect, and seemingly resolute. The
picture was a grand one, and may be often painted in
future days. He presented the tricolour flag in his hand,
tore down the blood red banner. Then, even then, was
he, who again afterwards fell so low in the awards of
history, the man of the moment—the man of courage—
the men of right feeling; that deed was to make him,
for the time, the hero of France, the respected of
Europe. It was done at the hazard of his life; for, at
the sight of this suspicious deed in the face of a mis-
trustful crowd, a single cry, ' He is a traitor! he deceives
us!' might have been the signal for his death; and guns,
swords, pikes, daggers, every instrument of death, were
at that moment presented at his head. Yes, he was the
man of the moment. He made a powerful appeal—one
of those appeals that become words in history. lie
spoke of the triumphant colours that had gone round
the world;' ho declared that none other ought to be
waved aloft in the new republic: he flattered with poetic
and powerful language the instincts of the mob; and he
touched there; he communicated one of those electric
flashes of simultaneous sentiment which sometimes per-
vade crowds, thrilling through all frames alike at once,
as if it were a supernatural influence, but which few
mortal men know how to direct, when, and far less as
they would. The electric shock ran through that armed
infuriated mob; guns, swords, and pikes were lowered;
' Vive Lamarfiner issued from every mouth; the tri-
colour banner was raised, accepted, recognised as the
national standard; the cause of humanity was gained—
for the time at least. When Lamartine, atter a sitting of
sixty hours in the labours of the Provisional Govern-
ment at the Hotel de Ville, returned to his own house, it
was with difficulty that he could escape from the throngs
who received him with acclamation on his passage, or
disemfArrass himself from the embraces of his admirers.
At that time men kissed the skirts of his coat."

Yes ! the picture was a grand one—and already the
vivid pencil of Philippoteaux has embodied the heroic
deed upon canvass. Whatever may be the ingratitude
of the people, or the blindness of the indifferent, or the
calumny of the unscrupulous—Lamartine will reap
the rewards of that sublime act in the panegyric of
the historian, in the homage of posterity, and in the
perpetual admiration which will shine back upon his
memory from the distance of the future. In the
general tone of the work we are altogether opposed
to Mr. Palgrave Simpson, for that tone is a tone of
disparagement to the revolution. Our author looks
upon the whole of the astounding spectacle presented
to him in Paris, between June and February, with
an imagination jaundiced by the reflection of the
atrabilious hue of his ultra-conservative temperament.
Democracy, in its struggles against despotism, finds
no throb of sympathy in his bosom ; he perceives
only a treacherous conspiracy in the thirst of unsatis-
fied patriotism. In
.the downfal of the Orleans
dynasty he can detect only the successful issue of a
dark and bloody plot, concocted and carried out by
that handsomest of demagogues—Lagrange. The
only moments when the beating of his heart resounds
through his delineations, are those when he tells of
the death of Duvivier while waving his plumed hat
at the foot of a barricade, or when he depicts the
awful and touching assassination of Denis Affre, the
Archbishop of Paris. As affording materials to the
future annalist or biographer, the two volumes
written by Mr. Palgrave Simpson in the midst of the
city of revolutions must be regarded as peculiarly
valuable.