whatever his failings, had some rare gifts besides that of eloquence. He
was undoubtedly a man of exquisite taste in all things artistic; he had
an intelligent and liberal knowledge of practical science; he had a
great faculty of organization; he was a keen humorist and wit. He loved
the society of artists, and journalists, and literary men; he associated
with them _en bon camarade_, and he could talk with each upon his own
subject; his _bon mots_ soon began to circulate far and wide. He was a
patron of Revolution. In the innermost privacy of the Palais Royal men
like Mieroslawski, the Polish Red Revolutionist, men like General Tuerr,
unfolded and discussed their plans. Prince Gortschakoff, in his
despatches at the time of the Polish Rebellion, distinctly pointed to
the palace of Prince Napoleon as the headquarters of the insurrection.
The "Red Prince" grew to be one of the mysterious figures in European
policy. Was he in league with his cousin, the Emperor--or was he his
cousin's enemy? Did he hope, on the strength of that Bonaparte face, and
his secret league with Democracy, to mount one day from the steps of the
throne to the throne itself? Between him and the succession to that
throne intervened only the life of one frail boy. Was Prince Napoleon
preparing for the day when he might play the part of a Gloster (without
the smothering), and, pushing the boy aside, succeed to the crown of the
great Emperor whom in face he so strikingly resembled?
At last came the celebrated Ajaccio speech. The Emperor had gone to
visit Algeria; the Prince went to deliver an oration at the inauguration
of a monument to Napoleon I., at Ajaccio. The speech was, in brief, a
powerful, passionate denunciation of Austria, and the principles which
Austria represented before Sadowa taught her a lesson of tardy wisdom.
Viewed as the exposition of a professor of history, one might fairly
acknowledge the Prince's speech to have illustrated eloquently some
solid and stern truths, which Europe would have done well even then to
consider deeply. Subsequent events have justified and illuminated many
of what then seemed the most startling utterances of the orator.
Austria, for example, practically admits, by her present policy, the
justice of much that Prince Napoleon pleaded against her. But as the
speech of the Emperor's cousin; of one who stood in near order of
succession to the throne; of one who had only just been raised to an
office in the State so high that in the absence of the sovereign it made
him seem the sovereign's proper representative, it was undoubtedly a
piece of marvellous indiscretion. Europe stood amazed at its outspoken
audacity. The Emperor could not overlook it; and he publicly repudiated
it. Prince Napoleon resigned his public offices--including that of
President of the Commissioners of the International Exhibition, which
undertaking suffered sadly from lack of his organizing capacity and his
admirable taste and judgment--and the Imperial orator of Democracy
disappeared from the public stage as suddenly, and amid as much tumult,
as he had entered upon it.
Prince Napoleon has, indeed, been taken into favor since by his Imperial
cousin, and has been sent on one or two missions, more or less important
or mysterious; but he has never, from the date of the Ajaccio speech up
to the present moment, played any important part as a public man. He is
not, however, "played out." His energy, his ambition, his ability, will
assuredly bring him prominently before the public again. Let us,
meanwhile, endeavor to set before the readers of THE GALAXY a fair and
true picture of the man, free alike from the exaggerated proportions
which wondering _quid nuncs_ or parasites attribute to him, and from
the distortions of unfriendly painters. Exaggeration of both kinds
apart, Prince Napoleon is really one of the most remarkable figures on
the present stage of French history. He is, at least, a man of great
possibilities. Let us try to ascertain fairly what he is, and what are
his chances for the future.
Born of a hair-brained, eccentric, adventure-seeking, negligent, selfish
father, Prince Napoleon had little of the advantages of a home
education. His boyhood, his youth, were passed in a vagrant kind of way,
ranging from country to country, from court to court. He started in life
with great natural talents, a strong tendency to something not very
unlike rowdyism, an immense ambition, an almost equally vast indolence,
a deep and genuine love of arts, letters, and luxury, an eccentric,
fitful temper, and a predominant pride in that relationship to the great
Emperor which is so plainly stamped upon his face. Without entering into
any questions of current scandal, everybody must know that Napoleon III.
has nothing of the Bonaparte in his face, a fact on which Prince
Napoleon, in his earlier and wilder days, was not always very slow to
comment. Indolence, love of luxury, and a capricious temper have,
perhaps, been the chief enemies which have hitherto prevented the latter
from fulfilling any high ambition. It would be affectation to ignore the
fact that Prince Napoleon flung many years away in mere dissipation.
Stories are told in Paris which would represent him almost as a
Vitellius or an Egalite in profligacy--stories some of which simply
transcend belief by their very monstrosity. Even to this day, to this
hour, it is the firm conviction of the general public that the Emperor's
cousin is steeped to the lips in sensuality. Now, rejecting, of course,
a huge mass of this scandal, it is certain that Prince Napoleon was, for
a long time, a downright _mauvais sujet_; it is by no means certain that
he has, even at his present mature age, discarded all his evil habits.
His temper is much against him. People habitually contrast the unvarying
courtesy and self-control of the Emperor with the occasional
brusqueness, and even rudeness, of the Prince. True that Prince Napoleon
can be frankly and warmly familiar with his intimates, and even that,
like Prince Hal, he sometimes encourages a degree of familiarity which
hardly tends to mutual respect. But the outer world cannot always rely
on him. He can be undiplomatically rough and hot, and he has a gift of
biting jest which is perhaps one of the most dangerous qualities a
statesman can cultivate. Then there is a personal restlessness about him
which even princes cannot afford safely to indulge. He has hardly ever
had any official position assigned to him which he did not sometime or
other scornfully abandon on the spur of some sudden impulse. The Madrid
embassy in former days, the Algerian administration, the Crimean
command--these and other offices he only accepted to resign. He has
wandered more widely over the face of the earth than any other living
prince--probably than any other prince that ever lived. It used to be
humorously said of him that he was qualifying to become a teacher of
geography, in the event of fortune once more driving the race of
Bonaparte into exile and obscurity. What port is there that has not
sheltered his wandering yacht? He has pleasant dwellings enough to
induce a man to stay at home. His Palais Royal is one of the most
elegant and tasteful abodes belonging to a European prince. The stranger
in Paris who is fortunate enough to obtain admission to it--and, indeed,
admission is easy to procure--must be sadly wanting in taste if he does
not admire the treasures of art and _vertu_ which are laid up there, and
the easy, graceful manner of their arrangement. Nothing of the air of
the show-place is breathed there; no rules, no conditions, no watchful,
dogging lacqueys or sentinels make the visitor uncomfortable. Once
admitted, the stranger goes where he will, and admires and examines what
he pleases. He finds there curiosities and relics, medals and statues,
bronzes and stones from every land in which history or romance takes any
interest; he gazes on the latest artistic successes--Dore's magnificent
lights and shadows, Gerome's audacious nudities; he observes autograph
collections of value inestimable; he notices that on the tables, here
and there, lie the newest triumphs or sensations of literature--the poem
that every one is just talking of, the play that fills the theatres,
George Sand's last novel, Renan's new volume, Taine's freshest
criticism: he is impressed everywhere with the conviction that he is in
the house of a man of high culture and active intellect, who keeps up
with the progress of the world in arts, and letters, and politics. Then
there was, until lately, the famous Pompeiian Palace, in one of the
avenues of the Champs Elysees, which ranked among the curiosities of
Paris, but which Prince Napoleon has at last chosen, or been compelled,
to sell. On the Swiss shore of the lake of Geneva, one of the most
remarkable objects that attract the eye of the tourist who steams from
Geneva to Lausanne, is La Bergerie, the palace of Prince Napoleon. But
the owner of these palaces spends little of his time in them. His wife,
the Princess Clotilde, stays at home and delights in her children, and
shows them with pride to her visitors, while her restless husband is
steaming in and out of the ports of the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, or
the Baltic. Prince Napoleon has not found his place yet, say Edmond
About and other admirers--when he does he will settle firmly to it. He
is a restless, unmanageable idler and scamp, say his enemies--unstable
as water, he shall not excel. Meanwhile years go by, and Prince Napoleon
has long left even the latest verge of youth behind him; and he is only
a possibility as yet, and is popular with no political party in France.
Strange that this avowed and ostentatious Democrat, this eloquent,
powerful spokesman of French Radicalism, is not popular even with
Democrats and Red Republicans. They do not trust him. They cannot
understand how he can honestly extend one hand to Democracy, while in
the other he receives the magnificent revenues assigned to him by
Despotism. One might have thought that nothing would be more easy than
for this man, with his daring, his ambition, his brilliant talents, his
commanding eloquence, his democratic principles, and his Napoleon face,
to make himself the idol of French Democracy. Yet he has utterly failed
to do so. As a politician, he has almost invariably upheld the rightful
cause, and accurately foretold the course of events. He believed in the
possibility of Italy's resurrection long before there was any idea of
his becoming son-in-law to a King of Italy; he has been one of the most
earnest friends of the cause of Poland; he saw long ago what every one
sees now, that the fall of the Austrian system was an absolute necessity
to the progress of Europe; he was a steady supporter of the American
Union, and when it was the fashion in France, as in England, to regard
the independence of the Southern Confederacy as all but an accomplished
fact, he remained firm in the conviction that the North was destined to
triumph. With all his characteristic recklessness and impetuosity, he
has many times shown a cool and penetrating judgment, hardly surpassed
by that of any other European statesman. Yet the undeniable fact
remains, that his opinion carries with it comparatively little weight,
and that no party recognizes him as a leader.
Is he insincere? Most people say he is. They say that, with all his
professions of democratic faith, he delights in his princely rank and
his princely revenues; that he is selfish, grasping, luxurious, arrogant
and deceitful. The army despises him; the populace do not trust him.
Now, for myself, I do not accept this view of the character of Prince
Napoleon. I think he is a sincere Democrat, a genuine lover of liberty
and progress. But I think, at the same time, that he is cursed with some
of the vices of Alcibiades, and some of the vices of Mirabeau; that he
has the habitual indolence almost of a Vendome, with Vendome's
occasional outbursts of sudden energy; that a love of luxury, and a
restlessness of character, and fretfulness of temper stand in his way,
and are his enemies. I doubt whether he will ever play a great
historical part, whether he ever will do much more than he has done. His
character wants that backbone of earnest, strong simplicity and faith,
without which even the most brilliant talents can hardly achieve
political greatness. He will probably rank in history among the
Might-Have-Beens. Assuredly, he has in him the capacity to play a great
part. In knowledge and culture, he is far, indeed, superior to his
uncle, Napoleon I.; in justice of political conviction, he is a long way
in advance of his cousin, Napoleon III. Taken for all in all, he is the
most lavishly gifted of the race of the Bonapartes--and what a part in
the cause of civilization and liberty might not be played by a Bonaparte
endowed with genius and culture, and faithful to high and true
convictions! But the time seems going by, if not gone by, when even
admirers could expect to see Prince Napoleon play such a part. Probably
the disturbing, distracting vein of unconquerable levity so conspicuous
in the character of his father, is the marplot of the son's career, too.
After all, Prince Napoleon is perhaps more of an Antony than a
Caesar--was not Antony, too, an orator, a wit, a lover of art and
letters, a lover of luxury and free companionship, and woman? Doubtless
Prince Napoleon will emerge again, some time and somehow, from his
present condition of comparative obscurity. Any day, any crisis, any
sudden impulse may bring him up to the front again. But I doubt whether
the dynasty of the Bonapartes, the cause of democratic freedom, the
destinies of France, will be influenced much for good or evil, by this
man of rare and varied gifts--of almost measureless possibilities--the
restless, reckless, eloquent, brilliant Imperial Democrat of the Palais
Royal, and Red Republican of the Empire--the long misunderstood and yet
scarcely comprehended Prince Napoleon.
THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.
There used to be a story current in London, which I dare say is not
true, to the effect that her gracious Majesty Queen Victoria once
demurred to the Prince and Princess of Wales showing themselves too
freely in society, and asked them angrily whether they meant to make
themselves "as common as the Cambridges."
Certainly the Duke of Cambridge and his sister the Princess Mary, now
Princess of Teck, were for a long time, if not exactly "common," if not
precisely popular, the most social, the most easily approached, and the
most often seen in public pageantry of all members of the royal family.
The Princess Mary might perhaps fairly be called popular. The people
liked her fine, winsome face, her plump and buxom form. If she has not a
kindly, warm, and generous heart, then surely physiognomy is no index of
character. But the Duke of Cambridge, although very commonly seen in
public, and ready to give his presence and his support to almost any
philanthropic meeting and institution which can claim to be fashionable,
never seems to have attained any degree of popularity. Like his father,
who enjoyed the repute of being the worst after-dinner speaker who ever
opened his mouth, the Duke of Cambridge is to be found acting as
chairman of some public banquet once a week on an average during the
London season. He is president or patron of no end of public charities
and other institutions. Yet the people do not seem to care anything
about him, or even to like him. His appearance is not in his favor. He
is handsome in a certain sense, but he is heavy, stolid,
sensual-looking, and even gross in form and face. He has indeed nearly
all the peculiarities of physiognomy which specially belong to the most
typical members of the Guelph family, and there is, moreover, despite
the obesity which usually suggests careless good-humor, something
sinister or secret in his expression not pleasant to look upon. He seems
to be a man of respectable average abilities. He is not a remarkably bad
speaker. I think when he addresses the House of Lords, which he does
rarely, or a public meeting or dinner-party, which he does often, he
acquits himself rather better than the ordinary county member of
Parliament. Judging by his apparent mental capacity and his style as a
speaker, he ought to be rather popular than otherwise in England, for
the English people like respectable mediocrity and not talent in their
princes. "He is so respectable and such an ass," says Thackeray speaking
of somebody, "that I positively wonder he didn't get on in England." The
Duke of Cambridge is so respectable (in intellectual capacity) and so
dull that I positively wonder he has not been popular in England. But
popular he never has been. No such clamorous detestation follows him as
used to pursue the late Duke of Cumberland, subsequently King of
Hanover. No such accusations have been made against him as were
familiarly pressed against the Duke of York. Even against the living
Prince of Wales there are charges made by common scandal more serious
than any that are usually talked of in regard to the Duke of Cambridge.
But the English public likes the Duke as little as it could like any
royal personage. England has lately been growing very jealous of the
manner in which valuable appointments are heaped on members of the
Queen's family. The Duke of Cambridge has long enjoyed some sinecure
places of liberal revenue, and he holds one office of inestimable
influence, for which he has never proved himself qualified, and for
which common report declares him to be utterly disqualified. He is
Commander-in-Chief of the British army; and that I believe to be his
grand offence in the eyes of the British public. Many offences incident
to his position are indeed charged upon him. It is said that he makes an
unfair use, for purposes of favoritism, of the immense patronage which
his office places at his disposal. Some years ago scandal used to charge
him with advancing men out of the same motive which induced the Marquis
of Steyne to obtain an appointment for Colonel Rawdon Crawley. The
private life of the Duke is said to have been immoral, and unluckily for
him it so happened that some of his closest friends and favorites became
now and then involved in scandals of which the law courts had to take
cognizance. But had none of these things been so, or been said, I think
the Duke of Cambridge would have lacked popularity just as much as he
does. The English people are silently angry with him, mainly because he
is an anachronism--a man raised to the most influential public
appointment the sovereign can bestow, for no other reason than because
he is a member of the royal family. The Duke of Cambridge in the office
of Commander-in-Chief is an anachronism at the head of an anomaly. The
system is unfit for the army or the country; the man is incompetent to
manage any military system, good or bad. As the question of army
reorganization, now under debate in England, has a grand political
importance, transcending by far its utmost possible military import, and
as the position of the Duke of Cambridge is one of the peculiar and
typical anomalies about to be abolished, it may surely interest American
readers if I occupy a few pages in describing the man and the system.
Altering slightly the words of Bugeaud to Louis Philippe in 1848, this
reorganization of the army in England is not a reform, but a revolution.
It strikes out the keystone from the arch of the fabric of English
aristocracy.
The Duke of Cambridge is, as everybody knows, the first cousin of the
Queen of England. He is about the same age as the Queen. When both were
young it used to be said that he cherished hopes of becoming her
husband. He is now himself one of the victims of the odious royal
marriage act, which in England acknowledges as valid no marriage with a
subject contracted by a member of the royal family without the consent
of the sovereign. The Duke of Cambridge, it is well known, is privately
married to a lady of respectable position and of character which has
never been reproached, but whom, nevertheless, he cannot present to the
world as his wife because the royal consent has not ratified the
marriage. Many readers of THE GALAXY may perhaps remember that only four
or five years ago there was some little commotion created in England by
the report, never contradicted, that a princess of the royal house had
set her heart upon marrying a young English nobleman who loved her, and
that the Queen utterly refused to give her consent. Much sympathy was
felt for the princess, because, as she was not a daughter of the Queen
and was not young enough to be reasonably expected to acknowledge the
control of any relative, this rigorous exercise of a merely technical
power seemed particularly unjust and odious. It will be seen, therefore,
that the objections raised against the Duke and his position in England
are not founded on the belief that he is himself as an individual
inordinately favored by the sovereign; but on the obvious fact that
place and power are given to him because he is a member of the reigning
family. The Duke of Cambridge has never shown the slightest military
talent, the faintest capacity for the business of war. In his only
campaign he proved worse than useless, and more than once made a
humiliating exhibition, not of cowardice, but of utter incapacity and
flaccid nervelessness. His warmest admirer never ventured to pretend
that the Duke was personally the best man to take the place of
Commander-in-Chief. While he was constantly accused by rumor and
sometimes by public insinuation of blundering, of obstinacy, of
ignorance, of gross favoritism, no defence ever made for him, no eulogy
ever pronounced upon him, went the length of describing him as a
well-qualified head of the military organization. His upholders and
panegyrists were content with pleading virtually that he was by no means
a bad sort of Commander-in-Chief; that he was not fairly responsible for
this or that blunder or malversation; that on the whole there might have
been men worse fitted than he for the place. The social vindication of
the appointment was that which proved very naturally its worst offence
in the eyes of the public--the fact that the sovereign and her family
desired that the place should be given to the Duke of Cambridge, and
that the ministers then in power either had not the courage or did not
think it worth their while to resist the royal inclination.