permitted in England, unknown in
France, where private morality is certainly at a lower ebb? Why is the
point of private honor now more rigidly maintained among the French?
Why is it, as it should be, a moral disgrace for a Frenchman to go into
debt, and no disgrace for him to cheat his customer? Why is there more
honesty and less--more propriety and less?--and how are we to account
for the particular vices or virtues which belong to each nation in its
turn?

The above is the Reverend M. Macaire's solitary exploit as a spiritual
swindler: as MAITRE Macaire in the courts of law, as avocat, avoue--in
a humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at the bar, he distinguishes
himself greatly, as may be imagined. On one occasion we find the learned
gentleman humanely visiting an unfortunate detenu--no other person, in
fact, than his friend M. Bertrand, who has fallen into some trouble, and
is awaiting the sentence of the law. He begins--

"Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent ecus, je te fais acquitter d'emblee."

"J'ai pas d'argent."

"He bien, donne moi cent francs."

"Pas le sou."

"Tu n'as pas dix francs?"

"Pas un liard."

"Alors donne moi tes bottes, je plaiderai la circonstance attenuante."

The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the cent ecus (a high
point already) to the sublime of the boots, is in the best comic style.
In another instance he pleads before a judge, and, mistaking his
client, pleads for defendant, instead of plaintiff. "The infamy of the
plaintiff's character, my LUDS, renders his testimony on such a
charge as this wholly unavailing." "M. Macaire, M. Macaire," cries the
attorney, in a fright, "you are for the plaintiff!" "This, my lords,
is what the defendant WILL SAY. This is the line of defence which the
opposite party intend to pursue; as if slanders like these could weigh
with an enlightened jury, or injure the spotless reputation of my
client!" In this story and expedient M. Macaire has been indebted to the
English bar. If there be an occupation for the English satirist in the
exposing of the cant and knavery of the pretenders to religion, what
room is there for him to lash the infamies of the law! On this point
the French are babes in iniquity compared to us--a counsel prostituting
himself for money is a matter with us so stale, that it is hardly food
for satire: which, to be popular, must find some much more complicated
and interesting knavery whereon to exercise its skill.

M. Macai