Part 18

"This princess," pursues M. Didier, "is daughter of the late Duke of Modena. She speaks French with a mixed accent, half Italian, half German, which reveals her double origin, as German princess born in Italy. She is, I believe, two years older than her husband. She is slim, and rather thin, but of an elegant figure, with beautiful black wavy hair, dark eyes, full of life and spirit. A natural defect slightly impairs the effect of her mouth when she speaks, which is a pity, for, with this exception, she is a very pretty woman. She wore a white evening dress, with naked arms, and a velvet scarf upon her shoulders. Her toilet was, perhaps, too simple--a reproach rarely to be made--that is to say, with too little of personal _coquetterie_ in it: it was easy to see that no Parisian _femme de chambre_ had superintended the arrangement. Hers is evidently a _nature distinguée_. I was told she was of a kindly, easy disposition, and well educated; she was evidently desirous of pleasing. Although a princess of ancient race, she appeared to me to be timid; but her embarrassment was not without its charm of grace. Proud of her alliance with the descendant of Louis XIV., she has the highest opinion of her husband; and her love for him amounts, I was told, to adoration. She thinks him irresistible; and, more impatient than he, but impatient far more for him than for herself, she is firmly convinced that he has but to show himself, in order to subjugate all the world as he has subjugated her. In this lie all her political opinions; that is to say, her politics are those of the heart."

It is to be regretted, perhaps, that we have not space for the anecdotes of the moderation and good sense of the Duke of Bordeaux, which M. Didier records, as collected from the mouths of his adherents, and which must necessarily complete, upon the minds of the great portion of the French nation, the impression made by the rest of the book. But we must now hurry on.

The dinner of the exiled princely family is described by the republican visitor as simple, although served with a certain state. He sits by the side of the Duchess of Angoulême, whose every word is one of "politeness, courtesy, or forbearance." "The Duchess of Bordeaux," he says, "continually fixed her eyes upon me, as with a look of wonder. In truth, the position was a strange one--a French republican sitting at the table of a prescribed French prince, and eating out of plate engraved with the royal arms of France!" The evening passes, in this little court, almost as in a private family in some French chateau. Billiards, tapestry-work, conversation, occupy the various personages. The republican again converses with the prince, who listens to contradiction with the utmost good-humour. When he departs, the whole family express, in their last words, their longing for that country which he is about to revisit so soon, but from which they are exiled.

We have dwelt upon the book of M. Didier at considerable length, not only on account of its historical interest, but on account of the strange circumstances which induced its publication, its startling result, the sensation it has created, and the ultimate effect it may produce in France in paving the way for legitimacy, by attaching interest and admiration to the person of its representative--perhaps, also, because it does honour to the sincerity of the author, and to the more honest republican party to which he belongs. But we have thus excluded ourselves from the possibility of giving more than a brief notice of the other book alluded to above, that of the Vicomte d'Arlincourt, although, in truth, it merits, in all respects, a far more extended observation, as a frank and straightforward expression of the sentiments of the legitimists. We must confine ourselves, then, principally to the circumstances which, independently of its merits, have given the little book so great a notoriety in France, and carried it on to the almost unexampled honours of a forty-eighth edition. They are curious enough in themselves, and bear some analogy to those which have determined the publication and the success of the book of M. Didier, inasmuch as it was the ardency of republicanism which forced upon the public notice a book, likely to forward the cause of legitimacy in France. The little work of M. d'Arlincourt is written, however, avowedly upon legitimist principles, and for the purpose of awakening the attention of the nation to the cause of the man whom the author looks upon as the ultimate saviour of the troubled country. This legitimist book, under the title of "_Dieu le veut_," written after the bloody days of June, might, in spite of the vigour of its language, and the justice and good sense of most of its reasonings and remarks, never have emerged so prominently from the inundation of political pamphlets which floods republican France, had it not pleased the government, pushed on by the clamours of a more violent party, to seize the work, and bring the author to trial. The affair made a considerable sensation in August last; the court of justice was crowded: the interest excited was great. The passages more particularly incriminated were, that which likened the republic to the plague; that which said the sovereignty of the people, when not a bloody truth, was a ridiculous mystification; and that which contained the words, "the Republic will have proved to be the necessary transition from a revolutionary tempest to a social regeneration. In the general movement of men's minds is written the happy advent of the chosen of Providence. He draws nearer! he will come!" After the defence of his own counsel, M. d'Arlincourt himself rose and supported, in a striking speech, the honesty of his intentions and his designs as a _bon citoyen_, without bating one iota of his legitimist principles. The result was a unanimous verdict of "not guilty" from the jury. A burst of applause, which no authority could check, resounded through the court. It was from the common classes, also, that came the approbation: workmen shouted in the court, "_Dieu le veut! Dieu le veut!_" to the rhythm of the famous "_des lampions!_" and, on the morrow, delegates of the _dames de la Halle_, and of the artisans of Paris came, with _bouquets_, to felicitate the author on his acquittal. We will not lay an unnecessary weight upon this movement of a portion of the lower classes, which may arise from the sentiments of a small minority, although perhaps more considerable than seems to be generally supposed. The result, however, of the trial has been to spread the book through the country in its almost interminable editions, and thus to spread more and more abroad those legitimist feelings, which, we confidently assert are daily more and more gaining ground throughout France, and which may one day, in case of another revolution, that may be brought upon the country by the excesses of the ultra party, bear their fruits. At all events the destiny of these two books, in furthering the cause of legitimacy, in the one case contrary to the opinions of the author, in the other by the very means intended to check and even crush it, is singular enough.

Whatever may be written upon the dark pages of a nation's future, it is very evident that "Legitimacy in France" has made considerable ground among the masses. It cannot, certainly, be said to have been from the influence of convictions, or, in the general herd, from any reliance upon theories of legitimacy, properly speaking. It has arisen from disgust and distrust of other governments; from the sad experience of the miseries occasioned to the country by the present revolution; from despair in the stability of a republican rule, with insurrection always growling beneath the surface; from hope in a greater stability and confidence under a legitimate monarchy. Legitimacy, then, can but grow and flourish in France in the chances of revolutions; and if it triumphs, it will be by the excesses of its enemies, and the restless subversive attempts of the ultra-republican party. But again: who can say confidently that it will triumph? Still more: who shall dare, in the present state of France, to say that it _shall not_?

FOOTNOTE:

[23] _Une Visite â Monsieur le Duc de Bordeaux._ Par CHARLES DIDIER. Paris: 1849. _Dieu le Veut._ Par VICOMTE D'ARLINCOURT. Paris: 1848-9.

THE COLLEGE.--A SKETCH IN VERSE.

"Scinditur incertum studia in contraria vulgus."

Oft has some fair inquirer bid me say, What tasks, what sports beguile the gownsman's day; What cares are ours--by what light arts we try To teach our sober-footed hours to fly. List, then, ye belles, who, nursed in golden ease, No arts need study, but the arts to please; Who need no science, while with skill ye know To wield the weapons which your charms bestow-- With grace to thread the dance's mazy throng-- To strike the tuneful chords, and swell the song-- To rouse man's sterner spirit to his toil, And cheer its harshness with a grateful smile. Thus my weak muse a bolder flight shall raise, Lured by the glorious hope of Beauty's praise.

Soon as the clouds divide, and dawning day Tints the quadrangle with its earliest ray, The porter, wearied with his watchings late, Half opes his eyelids and the wicket gate; And many a yawning gyp comes slipshod in, To wake his master ere the bells begin.

Round yon gray walls, enchained by slumber's spell, Each son of learning snores within his cell. For though long vigils the pale student keep, E'en learning's self, we know, must sometimes sleep-- So morn shall see him, with a brightened face, Fresh as a giant, to resume his race. But hark! the chimes of yonder chapel-tower Sound the arrival of the unwelcome hour. Now drowsy Lentulus his head half rears, To mumble curses on the Dean he fears. What though his gyp exhort him, ere too late, To seek the chapel and avert his fate? Who, when secure his downy sheets between, Recks of the threatenings of an angry Dean! Slow rolling round he bids his mentor go And bear his warnings to the shades below. Soon shall he, summoned to the well-known room,[24] Repent his recklessness and learn his doom, Within the walls a dull constraint to know, And many a midnight jollity forego. Far happier he, to whom the harsh-tongued bell Sounds, as it should, his murdered slumber's knell. Cold he contemns, and, shuffling on his clothes, Boldly stalks forth, nor heeds his redd'ning nose. Straight o'er the grass-plot cuts his dewy line In mad defiance of the College fine; Breathless with hurry gains the closing grate, And thanks his stars he was not just too late. His name prick'd off upon the marker's roll, No twinge of conscience racks his easy soul, While tutor's wines and Dean's soft smiles repay His prompt submission to the College sway.

The service o'er, by Cam's dull bank of sedge He strides, while hunger gains a keener edge; (Though fasting walks I cannot loathe too much, Since such my custom, my advice be such.) For him, who straight returns, what horrors wait! How chill and comfortless his chamber's state. The crackling fuel only serves too well To show the cold it vainly strives to quell; While the grim bedmaker provokes the dust, And soot-born atoms, which his tomes encrust: Awhile suspended high in air they soar, Then, sinking, seek the shelves on which they slept before. Down bolt his commons and his scalding tea, Then off to lectures in pedantic glee. He notes each artifice and master-stroke-- Each musty parallel and mustier joke; Snaps up the driblets to his share consigned, And as he cram'd his body crams his mind; Then seeks at home digestion for his lore, And slams in Folly's face the twice-barred door.

This hour, perchance, sees Lentulus descend To seek the chamber of some jovial friend-- Yawn o'er the topics of the passing day, Or damn the losses of his last night's play; While well he augurs from the clattering plates, The glad intelligence that breakfast waits.

From Memory's store the sportive muse may glean The charms that gild awhile the careless scene-- The song, the anecdote, the bet, the joke, The steaming viands, and the circling smoke-- The racy cider-cup, or brisk champagne, Long prompt the merriment and rouse the strain; Till Pleasure, sated of the loaded board, Seeks what amusement fresher scenes afford. Some prove their skill in fence--some love to box-- Some thirst for vengeance on the dastard fox; Each by his fav'rite sport's enchanting power, Cheats of its tediousness the flying hour.

Now the dull court a short siesta takes, For scarce a footstep her still echo wakes, Save where the prowling duns their victim scout, And seize the spendthrift wretch that dares steal out.

Come, let us wander to the river's bank, And learn what charm collects yon breathless rank; The hope or horror pictured in each face Marks the excitement of the coming race. Hark! o'er the waters booms the sound of strife; Now the hush'd voices leap at once to life; Now to their toil the striving oarsmen bend; Now their gay hues the flaunting banners blend; Now leap the wavedrops from the flashing oar; Now the woods echo to the madd'ning roar; Now hot th' enthusiastic crowd pursue, And scream hoarse praises on the unflinching crew; Now in one last wild chance each arm is strained; One panting struggle more--the goal is gained. A scene like this, what stream can boast beside? Scarce rival Isis on her fairer tide.[25] But think not thus could live the rower's power, Save long privation steeled him for the hour. The couch relinquished at the voice of morn, The toilsome exercise, the cup forsworn, The frugal dinner, and scarce-tasted wine-- Are these no sacrifice at glory's shrine? Thus with new trophies shall his walls be graced-- Each limb new strengthened, and each nerve new braced.

Some idlers to the pavements keep their feet, And strut and ogle all the passing street. And if 'tis Sunday's noon, on King's Parade,[26] See the smug tradesman too and leering maid; See the trim shop-boy cast his envious eye On Topling's waistcoat and on Sprightly's tie, Bravely resolved to hoard his labour's fruit, And ape their fancies in his next new suit.

But now the sounding clocks in haste recall Each hungry straggler to his College hall; For Alma Mater well her nursling rears, Nor cheats his gullet, while she fills his ears. Heavens! what a clatter rends the steam-fraught air-- How waiters jostle, and how Freshmen stare! One thought here strikes me--and the thought is sad-- The carving for the most part is but bad. See the torn turkey and the mangled goose! See the hack'd sirloin and the spattered juice! Ah! can the College well her charge fulfil, Who thus neglects the petit-maître's skill? The tutor proves each pupil on the books-- Why not give equal license to the cooks? As the grave lecturer, with scrupulous care, Tries how his class picks up its learned fare-- From Wisdom's banquet makes the dullard fast-- Denied admittance till his trial's past-- So the slow Freshman on a crust should starve, Till practice taught him nobler food to carve: Then Granta's sons a useful fame should know, And shame with skill each dinner-table beau.

High on the daïs, and more richly stored, Well has old custom placed the Fellow's board: Thus shall the student feel his fire increased By brave ambition for the well-graced feast-- Mark the sleek merriment of rev'rend Dons, And learn how science well rewards her sons. But spare, my muse, to pierce the sacred gloom That veils the mysteries of the Fellows' room; Nor hint how Dons, their untasked hours to pass, Like Cato, warm their virtues with the glass.[27]

Once more, at sound of chapel chime, repairs The surpliced scholar to his vesper prayers; For discipline this tribute at his hands, First and last duty of the day, demands. Then each, as diligence or mirth invite, Careful improves or thriftless wastes the night.

Stand in the midst, and with observant eye Each chamber's tenant at his task descry. Here the harsh mandate of the Dean enthrals Some prayerless pris'ner to the College walls, Who in the novel's pages seeks to find A brief oblivion for his angry mind. Haply the smoke-wreathed meerschaum shall supply An evenness of soul which they deny. Charm! that alike can soothing pleasure bring To sage or savage, mendicant or king; Sov'reign to blunt the pangs of torturing pain, Or clear the mazes of the student's brain! Swift at thy word, amidst the soul's misrule, Content resumes her sway, and rage grows cool.

Here pores the student, till his aching sight No more can brook the glimmering taper's light; Then Slumber's links their nerveless captive bind, While Fancy's magic mocks his fevered mind; Then a dim train of years unborn sweeps by In glorious vision on his raptured eye: See Fortune's stateliest sons in homage bow, And fling vain lustre o'er his toilworn brow! Away, ye drivellers! dare ye speak to him Of cheek grown bloodless, or of eye grown dim? Who heeds the sunken cheek, or wasted frame, While Hope shouts "Onward! to undying fame."

Glance further, if thine eye can pierce the mist Raised round the votaries of Loo and Whist; Scarce such kind Venus round her offspring flung To bear him viewless through the Punic throng;[28] Scarce such floats round old Skiddaw's crown of snow, And veils its grimness from the plains below. Here, too, gay Lentulus conspicuous sits, Chief light and oracle of circling wits. Who with such careless grace the trick can take, Or fling with such untrembling hand his stake? But though with well-feigned case his glass he sips, And puffs the balmy cloud from smiling lips, Care broods within--his soul alone regards His ebbing pocket and the varying cards; While one resolve his saddened spirit fills-- The diminution of his next term's bills.

Lamp after lamp expires as night grows late, And feet less frequent rattle at the gate. The wearied student now rakes out his fire-- The host grows dull, and yawning guests retire-- Till, all its labours and its follies o'er, The silent College sinks to sleep once more.

Thus roll the hours, thus roll the weeks away, Till terms expiring bring the long-feared day, When rake and student equal terror know-- That lest he's plucked, this lest he pass too low. Though different epochs mark their wide careers, And serve for reck'ning points through fleeting years-- To this a tripos or a Senate's grace, To that a fox-hunt, ball, or steeple-chase,-- When three short years of toil or sloth are past, This common bugbear scares them all at last.

The doors flung wide, the boards and benches set, The nervous candidates for fame are met. See yon poor wretch, just shivering from his bed, Gnaw at his nails and scratch his empty head; With lengthened visage o'er each question pore, And ransack all his memory for its store. This Euclid argued, or this Newton taught-- Thus Butler reasoned, or thus Paley thought; With many a weapon of the learned strife, Prized for an hour, then flung aside for life. Ah! what avails him now his vaunted art, To stride the steed, or guide the tandem-cart? His loved ecarté, or his gainful whist? What snobs he pommelled, or what maidens kissed? His ball-room elegance, his modish air, And easy impudence, that charmed the fair? Ah! what avails him that to Fashion's fame Admiring boudoirs echoed forth his name? All would he yield, if all could buy one look, Though but a moment's, o'er the once-scorned book. --Enough, enough, once let the scene suffice; Bid me not, Fancy, brave its horrors twice. The wrangler's glory in his well-earned fame, The prizeman's triumph, and the pluck'd man's shame, With all fair Learning's well-bestowed rewards, Are they not fitting themes for nobler bards? Poor Lentulus, twice plucked, some happy day Just shuffles through, and dubs himself B. A.; Thanks heaven, flings by his cap and gown, and shuns A place made odious by remorseless duns. Not so the wrangler,--him the Fellows' room Shall boast its ornament for years to come; Till some snug rectory to his lot may fall, Or e'en (his fondest wish) a prebend's stall: Then burst triumphant on th' admiring town The full-fledged honours of his Doctor's gown.

Yes, Granta, thus thy sacred shades among Join grave and thoughtless in one motley throng. Forgive my muse, if aught her trifling air Seems to throw scorn upon thy kindly care. Long may thy sons, with heaven-directed hand, Spread wide the glories of a grateful land-- Uphold their country's and their sovereign's cause-- Adorn her church, or wield her rev'rend laws; By virtue's might her senate's counsel sway, And scare red Faction powerless from his prey.

And ye, who, thriftless of your life's best days, Have sought but Pleasure in fair Learning's ways, Though nice reformers of the sophists' school Mock the old maxims of Collegiate rule, Deem them not worthless, because oft abused, Nor sneer at blessings, which yourselves refused.--U. T.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] _Videlicet_--the Dean's apartment; a visit to which frequently concludes by the visitor's finding himself "gated," _i. e._, obliged to be within the college walls by 10 o'clock at night; by this he is prevented from partaking in suppers, or other nocturnal festivities, in any other college or in lodgings.

[25] Be not indignant, ye broader waves of Thames and Isis! In the number of contending barks, and the excitement of the spectators of the strife, Cam may, with all due modesty, boast herself unequalled. To the swiftness of her champion galleys ye have yourselves often borne witness.

[26] The most fashionable promenade for the "spectantes" and "spectandi" of Cambridge.

[27]

"Narratur et prisci Catonis Sæpe mero caluisse virtus."--HORACE, _Odes_.

[28] VIRGIL, _Æneid_, i. 415.

JACK MOONLIGHT.