THE YOUNG PRETENDER.
["Immediately after the death of his father, the Duke of Orleans addressed the following telegram to all the Sovereign Princes of Europe:—
'A sa Majesté, &c.—J'ai la douleur de faire part à Votre Majesté de la mort de mon père Philippe, Comte de Paris, pieusement décédé à Stowe House le huit Septembre. Philippe.'
Great significance is attached to the fact that the Duke signs himself with regal simplicity 'Philippe.' His father under similar circumstances, on the occasion of the death of the Comte de Chambord, signed 'Phillipe, Comte de Paris,' thus ignoring his Sovereign rank."—The Daily Graphic.]
Madame la République museth:—
Ah! "Vive la France!" If words were only deeds,
I might perchance secure a new defender.
As Amurath to Amurath succeeds,
E'en so succeeds Pretender to Pretender.
Aye. "plus ça change plus c'est la même chose!" All
Fancy their words "the writing on the wall."
Street-corner scrawls are not the script of fate.
Plon-Plon and le brav' Général, Chambord, Paris,
All chalked my walls; "devotion to the State"
Inspired their schemes predestined to miscarry,
But Bourbon, Bonapartist or what not,
Self ever seemed the centre of the plot.
As "Roi des Français" or as "Monsieur X.,"
Boulanger's backer, or the White Flagwaver,
What has availed their valour save to vex?
Frenchmen and soldiers? Doubtless, Sirs; few braver.
But plots and manifestoes wild and windy
Contribute little to the State—save shindy!
Eh? Right Divine? That old, old weapon still
Pretenders fain would furbish up to fright me.
Would I bear weary strife, or bow my will
To human wrong if "Right Divine" could right me?
No; right divine to rule must prove affinity,
To the divine ere I trust its divinity.
"Philippe!" Ah! boldly written! You admire
Its flowing form, the freedom of its flourish.
And "Vive la France!" To what may you aspire?
What is the scope, Sir, of the hopes you nourish?
Your sire "ignored his Sovereign rank"—in writing,
But Philippe—Roi—de——humph!—that might mean fighting.
Chalk, youngster! Purpose scribbled on the wall,
Not graven in the rock with pen of iron,
Affrights not the Republic. It may fall
Amidst the perils that its path environ,
But scarce to summons of the bravest boys,
Or, like old Jericho, to the power of noise.
Yes; "the Pretender's dead," and who will now
Cry "Long live the—Pretender"? Courtly throngs,
Crafty intriguers, may parade and bow,
But for the People? Will they deem their wrongs
Like to be cured by the old royal line,
Or righted by the rule of Right Divine?
What will you do—save scribble and orate?
Were you indeed—ah, me!—that strong man armed
For whom so long I've waited, and still wait;
Then, then, perchance. I might—who knows?—be charmed
To lily-girt Legitimist ways of yore.
At present 'tis but—one Pretender more!
THE YOUNG PRETENDER.
Madame a République.
"WHAT WILL YOU DO—SAVE SCRIBBLE AND ORATE?
WERE YOU INDEED—AH ME!—THAT STRONG MAN ARMED
FOR WHOM SO LONG I'VE WAITED, AND STILL WAIT;
THEN, THEN PERCHANCE, I MIGHT—WHO KNOWS?—BE CHARMED
TO LILY-GIRT LEGITIMIST WAYS OF YORE.
AT PRESENT 'TIS BUT—ONE PRETENDER MORE!"