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Nadar 
M. Nadar and his portrait of Abbé Moigno 
1864 
  
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LL/36171 
  
W. Blanchard Jerrold At Home in Paris: and a Trip through the vineyards to Spain (London: Wm. H. Allen & Co., 1864), p.160-162.
 
But, I must turn from ordinary samples of literary vivisection to draw attention to the latest specimen of the art. The knife is held by the famous M. Nadar; and his subject is the well-known Abbé Moigno. I confess that I look at M. Nadar's knife with considerable indifference; and that I do not shudder when the Abbé shrieks. People who know much about the sometime editor of "Cosmos" laugh the loudest.
 
Nadar issued the first number of an illustrated journal, with the title of L'Aeronaute. The feuilleton of No. 1 is devoted to a portrait of the critical Abbé, who has been so long in the wake of Paris inventors. The Abbé has fallen foul of the wrathful Nadar, for reasons which appear to be plain, at any rate to the subject of the reverend gentleman's attack. The Abbé's cloth has long given him an impunity of which he has not been slow to avail himself. But his hour has come at last. M. Nadar announces his portrait, and warns him that his soutane shall no longer protect him. "You took it off to hit me; well, you shall not put it on again till I have had my blow at you." Nadar owns that he is delighted with the opportunity the malevolent Abbé' has given him, of having a warm discussion on "aerial automotion." He promises to worry the reverend critic for some time to come. He will cut him to pieces, carefully. And then, I must confess, Nadar with sharpest satire bites in the portrait of his unhandsome opponent. The Abbé's nose is called "roxalanesque." He is described as negligent in his dress; "although," the dissector adds, "people say he makes plenty of money." M. Nadar looks in vain for the saintly side of the Abbé. His tonsure is hidden under a cocked hat. He is a Lansquenet not a priest. "A rough man, this Captain Moigno! " Other people respect the cloth he will persist in putting over his body; but M. Nadar promises that he will drive his teeth through it and when his teeth meet, he is not easily shaken off. "You shall not see my heels, Abbé!" M. Nadar shouts. The first sitting over the Abbé is is not promising for the future repose of the reverend critic. M. Nadar is only fighting with the common weapon. I know the cafe to which M. Nadar repairs, and what he says there. I have paid to have his private history and personal appearance presented to me. He winced, I doubt not, while he was being cut at; but I have my three francs worth of his flesh. He must submit to the common lot. There is nothing private in Paris. A gentleman who goes to an evening party, turns his friends into "copy." A private performance! Such an idea is monstrous. Everybody must and does hear everything. I could as easily realize to my mind the private performance of a gale of wind, as a private rehearsal within the fortifications of Paris. 
 
 
  
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