In this age of steam and voyageurs, when every parvenu makes the grand tour, and lawyers’ clerks learn to criticise Athens and the Vatican, the Chevalier d’Industrie is a character of too much importance not to be generally known and feared. The most successful of the order are younger brothers, ex militaires, and impoverished roués ; the requisites for the profession are un air d’assurance, talent de plaire, and a perfect knowledge of the usage du monde. The Chevalier is too refined in his mode of operation for England, and English society too exclusive to afford a favourable field for the exercise of his talent with impunity ; he might for awhile pass unsuspected; the circle would at last, however, narrow round him, and disgrace and detection become inevitable. It is on the continent alone that he is to be met with in his glory; there he alike frequents the salons of the Noblesse, the café, or the restaurateurs, and is as Protean in his person as schemes : in the morning he lounges on the Boulevards en bourgeois, dines at Verey’s en militaire; and in the evening, if rich enough to risk a few pieces, drops in at Frascati’s, as a chevalier de plusieurs ordres, then adjourns to the Francais or the Feydeau, in search of a victim: his success generally depends upon the mode in which he makes his first approach; this of course varies with the age, country, and appearance of the intended prey. If English, and vulgar, the riband at the button-hole, and the careless display of a diamond snuff-box, engenders a wish in the gull to become acquainted with the distinguished foreigner. He ventures a bow, his advances are condescendingly received, conversation ensues, the desired invitation is given, and thus poor John Bull is in a fair way of paying for his ambition in becoming acquainted with a cross aud riband. (Par parenthesis) this passion for foreign titles and orders is not confined to pretenders only; many persons of real fashion and caste are possessed with a mania for Italian Counts and German moustachios; nor is it by any means uncommon in England to meet foreigners in a circle from which natives of more than equal pretensions are excluded. If the Chevalier finds his new acquaintance an admirer of play, he instantly exclaims against it, explains all the various systems of deception (his own excepted) he has ever heard of, hints that in private he sometimes plays for amusement a little harmless écarte; at last is induced to sit down, and rises, of course, a considerable winner. Should the traveller be a collector, the Chevalier is instantly a connoisseur and an enthusiast in the Arts, knows of a perfect gem , a lost Rubens or an undoubted Raphael, concealed from the Allies at the dismantling of the Louvre, would purchase it himself for his gallery at his chateau in the south, but generously resigns the treasure in favour of his friend. If the bait takes, and your English collector on the continent is a most gullable animal, he is introduced, gives a large sum for a wretched copy, and the dealer and his confederate divide the spoil. Sometimes, however, the Chevalier meets with a disappointment and loss. A few years since one of the order was on the watch for a victim in the Great Gallery at Florence, when an Englishman, evidently of fortune from his equipage, entered; conversation ensued, the Chevalier had a friend, a Noble, possessed of a perfect treasure, an undoubted Murillo, which poverty alone tempted him to part with. The Englishman’s eyes sparkled, he wished to see it, and hinted that it was possible he might become a purchaser. The Chevalier, fancying that the bait had taken, promised to be with him at an early hour the following day. Punctual to his appointment, he arrived with an old altarpiece, the ‘Death of H. Bruno,’ which he had purchased, rather extravagantly, of a broker, for the express purpose of gulling the Englishman. It was placed in the best light: the stranger examined it slightly, and then asked its price. Two thousand guineas, was the reply. Instead, however, of an assent, or, at worst, a demand for some little abatement, the Englishman laughed heartily. ‘Two thousand guineas!’ he exclaimed; ‘why, it is dear at two hundred francs: it is a wretched copy of the one in the Louvre.’ , ‘You must be mistaken,’ replied the Chevalier, with all the bronze he was master of; ‘it is the original, I vouch for it.’ , ‘And I vouch,’ said the stranger, ‘that it is a copy. Good morning.’ , ‘But, Sir, do you know who I am?’ iterated the Chevalier.

‘I am the Count de —, one of the best judges in Europe: rely upon my word.’ , ‘And I,’ replied the Englishman, ‘am Sir Thomas Lawrence; perhaps not one of the worst painters in Europe: rely upon my word. Good morning.’ , Ignorant as the Chevalier was the name of the great Artist was known to him, he seized his picture, and, covered with confusion, withdrew.

It frequently occurs that the rich English traveller is ambitious of an introduction to some celebrated toast, whom he knows only by name. Even here his convenient friend fails him not; some dame du comptoir represents her, and the jewels and rich presents of the Englishman are divided between the hackneyed mistress and the friendly Chevalier d’Industrie. J. S.

From: The Court Journal: Gazette of the Fashionable World. February 9, 1833. No. 198, p. 93.