A flourishing and facetious leader, in the thirty-sixth number, placed the circulation at the astonishing figures of 84,715; and particularly advertised that the price, in spite of the unprecedented arrangements that had been perfected for rendering their paper the leading feature of the age, would continue 'only twopence.' A few numbers later it was confessed that the journal would henceforth appear at threepence, as it was found impossible to successfully carry out all their great programme of improvements at a lesser price. Thackeray's contributions after this are either missing, or his spirits were possibly dashed by the pecuniary responsibilities of the undertaking. After a time the 'National Standard' was forced to haul down its colours: it lasted from January 5, 1833, to February 1, 1834, when it not improbably left a neat train of liabilities for at least one of its contributaries to discharge. It is certain that its failure entailed disagreeable consequences.
We all remember that Mr. Adolphus Simcoe's little fortune went down in the 'Lady's Lute,' while its versatile proprietor completed his misery in Her Majesty's Asylum of the Fleet.
Still fresher must it be in the minds of Thackeray's readers, that the narrator of 'Lovel the Widower,' in the character of Mr. Batchelor, relates how, having these same literary aspirations, and a certain command of ready money withal, he too was persuaded that to be part proprietor of a periodical was rather a fine thing. It may not be forgotten that in his first venture, coming to London, blushing with his college experiences, he had emulated the bargain of Moses Primrose, and the memorable gross of spectacles in shagreen cases. A college acquaintance, with a smooth tongue, and sleek, sanctified exterior, and a queer bill-discounter (no one indeed but our old friends, the Rev. C. Honeyman, M.A., and Mr. Sherrick, wine-merchant, &c., to whom we were early introduced in the 'Newcomes'), had somehow got hold of that neat literary paper the 'Museum,' of which eligible property this innocent gentleman became the purchaser.
The failure of the 'National Standard and Literary Representative' seems for a time to have damped Thackeray's enthusiasm so far as fresh adventures on his own account were concerned; but in the March of 1836 his first attempt at independent authorship appeared simultaneously in London and Paris.
'This publication,' it was observed in the 'North British Review,' shortly after the humourist's death, 'at the time when he still hoped to make his bread by art, is, like indeed everything he either said or did, perfectly characteristic;' and it has been so utterly forgotten that we are encouraged to describe the plates seriatim. We may add that it was published in Paris by Ritter and Goupil, and by Mitchell in London; though it is now so scarce that we were unsuccessful in tracing a copy in the Catalogue of the British Museum.
It is a small folio, in a tinted wrapper, and consists of nine subjects in all, which are printed on India paper. Like all Thackeray's satires, his fun is directed to a purpose; and by the very realism of his pencil he successfully turns to ridicule one of his pet aversions—the dancing man, so frequently assailed in his writings.
The series bears the title of 'Flore et Zephyr, Ballet Mythologique, par Théophile Wagstaff,' and is dedicated to Flora, who herself figures in place of her name upon the cover. In a rose-bedizened stage bower, where the foliage is evidently cut out by the stage-carpenter, stands the exquisite première danseuse, looking as ancient, self-satisfied, and repulsive as some of these heroines occasionally appear. She is all alone in the centre of the stage, but the old faded smirk and the eyelids modestly drooped express her consciousness that she is the object of attraction to a full house. Her fascinating smile is tempered with the air of bashful modesty, conveyed by crossing her bony and sinewy arms and large hands upon her lean chest; her throat is particularly camel-like, and the muscles are unmistakably prominent; her nose is long, and has a pendulous droop, which divides, by its shadow, her ample semicircular mouth, and gives an effect of sentimental absurdity; a blonde wreath of ample dimensions and indefinite design surrounds her raven locks; a few straggling hairs are in places plastered on her forehead in unpremeditated love-locks; her dress, of simple uncreased muslin, stands out like a white tulip, and is carelessly girt by a wreath of flowers. Beneath the skirts appear her professional legs, arranged of course in an attitude perfectly at variance with nature or grace, the heels touching, and the long white feet pointing to precisely opposite poles of the compass. In maiden meditation, she is sighing for her Zephyr before some thousand eyes, the focus of all the double-barrelled lorgnettes in the theatre.
In the following plate, La Danse fait ses offrandes sur l'autel de l'Harmonie, the faithful Zephyr has come to rejoin his Flora; and the happy pair trip down the footlights, set smiles on their faces, with gracious gestures of salutation, to propitiate the unseen but perfectly understood 'house.' As to the Altar of Harmony, their backs are turned on the supposed object of their offerings—represented by a pile of musical instruments mounted on a pillar, and topped by a laurel-wreathed fiddle, the expression of which ('the face of a fiddle') wears a dreary resemblance to a dolefully-long human countenance. Zephyr is as remarkable as his fair companion: his face is, if possible, more faded, his smile more set and weary; you feel that his perpetual grin is the grimmest sight in the world, and that no effort of his livid face could express a natural smile. He too sports a huge pair of impossibly arched eyebrows, beneath which the heavy lids droop with a worn-out look which is certainly unaffected. His wig, you recognise, is no part of himself, although much of his expression is conferred by it: it is a tremendous erection, of obviously artificial construction, and sufficiently portentous to make its début alone. This gentleman's nose is large and pear-shaped; his mouth and lips large and coarse; and his Hebrew descent is sufficiently characterised. He is clad in a simple tunic; his naked arms are strongly developed and ugly; his legs are large, and the muscles stand out with the prominence observable in members of his profession: his shoulders, of course, are tipped with gauzy wings.
The third plate, Jeux innocens de Zéphyr et Flore, introduces us to the altar of Cupid—a sweet little deity in plaster, who is drawing his stringless bow, and aiming an imaginary arrow (the shaft is wanting) at the tripping and artless Flora, who, with outstretched hands, is guarding her tender bosom; meanwhile it is only pantomimically she is conscious of Cupid's aims; her eyes are riveted on the audience. Zephyr is ogling up behind the altar, his frightful smile more set than ever, his wig more independent of himself, his graces more fantastic; he is advancing, with one foot pointed about a yard or so in advance of its fellow, anxious to bind the fair sharer in these simple diversions in a wreath of stage-flowers.
In the next plate Flora is deploring the absence of her Zephyr, who has left her an opportunity to execute a pas seul. We are presented with the back of the engaging coryphée: she is balanced on one foot; the left is raised at an angle of considerably over forty-five degrees—a touching and perfectly natural method of expressing her disconsolate situation.