["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!
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