miniscence of the
shop, in the course of his three miles in the omnibus, and at six or
seven o'clock you might fancy they were a duke and duchess, sitting in a
gaudily furnished drawing-room, listening to two elegant young ladies
torturing a piano, and another still more elegant young lady severely
flogging a harp. The effect of this, so far as our English Paul de Kocks
are concerned, is, that their linen-drapers, and lacemen, and rich
perfumers, are represented assuming a character that does not belong to
them, and aping people whom they falsely suppose to be their betters;
whereas the genuine Paul paints the Parisian tradesmen without any
affectation at all. Ours are made laughable by the common farcical
attributes of all pretensions, great or small; while real
unsophisticated shopkeeping (French) nature is the staple of Paul's
character-sketches, and they are more valuable, and in the end more
interesting, accordingly. Who cares for the exaggerated efforts of a
Manchester warehouseman to be polished and gentlemanly? It is only
acting after all, and gives us no insight into his real character, or
the character of his class, any more than Mr Coates' anxiety to be Romeo
enlightened us as to his disposition in other respects. The Manchester
warehouseman, though he fails in his attempt at fashionable parts, may
be a very estimable and pains-taking individual, and, with the single
exception of that foible, offers nothing to the most careful observer to
distinguish him from the stupid and respectable in any part of the
world. And in this respect, any one starting as the chronicler of
citizen life among us, would labour under a great disadvantage. Whether
our people are phlegmatic, or stupid, or sensible--all three of which
epithets are generally applicable to the same individual--or that they
have no opportunities of showing their peculiarities from the domestic
habits of the animal--it is certain that, however better they may be
qualified for the business of life than their neighbours, they are far
less fitted for the pages of a book. And the proof of it is this, that
wherever any of our novelists has introduced a tradesman, he has either
been an invention altogether, or a caricature. Even Bailie Nicol Jarvie
never lived in the Saut Market in half such true flesh and blood as he
does in _Rob Roy_. At all events, the inimitable Bailie is known to the
universe at large by the additions made to his real character by the
prodig