Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 65, No. 403, May, 1849

"The Duke of Bordeaux is far from entertaining the principles of Charles X., and, to cite one example, the grandson repudiates all those forms – that etiquette, and that extreme respect paid to the royal person – which played so great a part in the House of Bourbon, and on which the grandfather laid so much stress. He disregards all these pompous inanities, and goes so far in this respect that he is determined, should he ever mount upon the throne of France, to have no court." And further, "The Duke of Bordeaux directs his attention to all the questions of the day; he studies them all thoroughly; he is acquainted with all the theories respecting labour. During his stay in England, he carefully visited its chief manufactories." And again – "Two questions principally occupy his mind – the administrative organisation of France, by the commune, and the social problem of the working classes. On this latter point he appeared to be imbued with social errors, and labouring under illusions. He attributes religious sentiments to the working classes of Paris, which they are far from entertaining, at least in the sense he attached to the words, and is not fully aware of the extent of their repugnance for the drapeau blanc." It must not be forgotten, that M. Didier does not take into account the progress of reactionary ideas in the few last months. M. Didier states, that he told the Prince this bitter truth, and was listened to with calmness and placidity. "He would have made, I am convinced," continues the republican visitor, in a sort of resumé, "an excellent constitutional monarch. The very disposition of his mind, with his natural qualities, seem all adapted to such a government; and his education has been directed with such ideas. Party-spirit represents him as an absolutist; and such he appears to the crowd in the distance of his exile. The truth is, that there is not perhaps in Europe a more sincere constitutionalist than he – I should call him also a religious liberal, without his devotion degenerating, as has been said, into bigotry." He then proceeds with a statement of his conviction in the moderate liberal ideas of the young prince, "which his forefathers might have condemned as those of a political heretic." "Many intrigues," continues the honest republican, "have been set on foot in his name, but I would wager boldly that he is mixed up in none, that he is ignorant of all, would disavow all. As much as his mother (the Duchess of Berri) was fond of adventure, is he averse to anything of the kind. He would not have a drop of blood shed for him. I do not blame him, in this appreciation of his character – quite the contrary; I only mean to say that this merit is not great, perhaps, inasmuch as it is in him a matter of temperament." "He possesses," pursues M. Didier, "good sense, candour, an excessive kindliness of heart, and an uncontrollable, I may say, uncontested natural generosity. He is an honest man, in the full force of the expression." What greater eulogium could the republican pass on his political adversary? The only words of blame which he let fall may be comprised in the following remark. "He seems to want a directing spirit; and perhaps wants resolution. His is a cultivated rather than an inventive mind: he probably conceives more than he creates, and receives more than he gives."

In justice to Monsieur Didier, who might appear to arrogate to himself a degree of discernment which went beyond all probable limits, we must not omit to note his own remarks, when, in another passage, he speaks of his own impressions. "It would be a ridiculous presumption, or very idle to imagine, that I could have captivated the confidence of the prince, or penetrated his secret character. I am far from putting forward so ridiculous a pretension. What was I to him? A stranger; at most a curious visitor. He evidently only said to me just what he wished to say, went only as far as he intended to go, and made me speak more than he spoke himself. I should have wished that it had been the contrary; but I was, of course, not the master of the conversation." And again he says, "God alone reads the heart! To him alone belongs the secret of men's consciences. But still I think I can take upon myself to affirm, that all the words of the prince were sincere."

On the person of the young prince M. Didier has the following – and although there may be, in truth, something of the Lord Burleigh shake of the head in the extreme complication of discernment contained in the first phrase, yet the impression evidently made upon the mind of the republican, by the appearance of the exiled heir of the throne of France, bears none the less the stamp of truthfulness: – "His physiognomy reveals an extreme uprightness of heart and mind, and a lively sentiment of duty and justice, united to a love of all that is good. In person he is of middle stature, and inclined to be stout; but he is far from having that obesity with which he is generally supposed, and I myself believed him, to be afflicted. The fall he had from his horse at Kirchberg, some years ago, has left traces of the accident. He walks heavily, and, when once seated, has difficulty in rising; but they say that he looks well on horseback. He has silky fair hair, and although rather full, and marked with the Bourbon type, his face is agreeable, frank, open, sympathetic, with an air of youth and health – the air, in fact, of his 28 years. He wears a collier de barbe and a slight mustache. His eyes are of a limpid blue, lively and soft at the same time; he listens well, and inquires constantly: he looks at you so straight and fixedly in the face, that I should consider it impossible for any one to look him in the face and lie. As to himself, one look suffices to assure you of his veracity."

The following remarks about the habits of the young prince are not without their historical interest, and complete the eulogium forced from the mouth of the republican. "His life is far from being an idle one; before and after breakfast he reads several letters, several newspapers, and reports, often of a very voluminous description, relative to the different questions which are the order of the day in France; then he gives a few hours of the afternoon to exercise. He scrupulously observes his religious duties, attending divine service two or three times a-week in the chapel of the chateau, and every Sunday at the parish church. He writes with considerable grace, and his letters are remarkable for their correctness and elegance."

Perhaps the most striking, and certainly the most touching, part of the book of M. Charles Didier, is that in which he speaks of the Duchess d'Angoulême. It belongs not exactly to the subject of legitimacy or its prospects in France; but the interest attached to it is so full of pathos, and, in an historical point of view, so considerable, that we cannot refrain from quoting a few words of the author's account of his interview with this remarkable princess.

M. Didier seems to have hesitated about being introduced to the aged duchess. He was naturally scrupulous as to the effect which might be produced upon the mind of this victim of revolutions, by the presentation of one of those republicans, to the very name of whom, the disastrous calamities of her early life must have inspired her with an unconquerable horror. But he was led on by the Duc de Levis, "not without a degree of uneasiness," and his reception by the austere princess, in her plain dark attire, and in her severely simple room, was as amiable as could be expected from one naturally stern, reserved, and cold almost to harshness in manner. M. Didier appears to have been inexpressibly touched by her appearance, as well as by her kindly reception of him. It is thus that he speaks of the poor "orpheline du Temple:" – "All party hatred must be extinguished in the presence of the reverses of fortune she has undergone. I had before me the woman who has suffered what woman never suffered here below, can never suffer again. What matter that she be princess? She is no less the daughter and the sister, thrice proscribed! She belongs no less to a human family. This is certainly the most striking historical figure in Europe. She produced the most profound impression upon me, and I could not conceal the emotion that thrilled through me. My heart was divided betwixt respect and pity. I seemed to see before me one of those victims of fatality, immortalised by antique art. Only Christian resignation has impressed upon the daughter of Louis XVI. a more touching stamp, and raised her on this Christian elevation far above the types of antiquity." What a homage is this, complete as it is pathetic, from the mouth of the descendant of the enemies of her race! The duchess seems to have questioned M. Didier much about that country which he would have imagined she must have abhorred, but which, he tells us, she cherishes with love resembling that of a spaniel to the master whose hand has beaten him. He speaks more than once of her extreme devotion, and indeed of that of the whole group of exiles, to their fatherland. Another trait, which calls for respect and admiration in the aged princess, lies in the moderation and tolerance which M. Didier records of her. "She spoke of France with tact and reserve, made inquiries as to the religious sentiments of the people of Paris, and mentioned, with feelings of admiration, the death of the Archbishop of Paris on the barricades of June. His was the only name of which she proffered mention." And when the conversation was made to turn upon the Orleans branch, now exiled in its turn, she was silent about Louis Philippe, but spoke in kind and affectionate terms of his family, and of the Duchess of Orleans; and when M. Didier addressed her with the words, "It is impossible, Madame, but that you must have seen, in the fall of Louis Philippe, the finger of God," she replied in words characteristic of that type of Christian resignation, "It is in all!" "The answer," pursues the narrator, "was given with the utmost simplicity, and without my being able to discover in it the least leaven of bitterness." "It may be boldly asserted that there was no gall in this heart, which has offered, as holocaust to God, all its griefs and all its passions. Religion is now the principal occupation, the only consolation, of a life tried by unparalleled adversity." When still further M. Didier – indiscreetly, it appears to us – pressed the point by saying, "But you must own, Madame, that in spite of your Christian magnanimity, the day you heard the news was not one of the most unhappy of your life." "She held her peace, but with an air which seemed to say, 'You ask too much.'"

After giving his testimony as to the extreme politeness of the Duchess d'Angoulême, and recording instances of her boundless charity, "immense," he says, "for her present revenue," M. Didier has the following touching description of the apartments of the aged princess. "The Duchess of Angoulême, lives in the midst of the souvenirs of her youth – and yet what souvenirs! Far from flying from them, she seems to cherish them; as if she found a strange funereal pleasure in filling each day the cup of bitterness, in order each day to drain it to the dregs. In her bedroom, which is of an austerity almost cloistral, she has around her only objects which must recall to her the tragic scenes of her childhood, – the portraits of her father, her mother, and her mother's friend, the Princess of Lamballe; near her bed, which is without curtains, a prie-dieu filled with relics sacred to her, such as the black waistcoat which her father wore in going to the scaffold, and the lace kerchief which her mother was forced to mend with her own hands before appearing at the Revolutionary Tribunal. She alone has the key of these sad memorials; and once a-year, on the 21st of January, she takes them out from the shrine which encloses them, and lays them before her, as if in order to live more nearly with the beloved dead who wore them. On that day she sheds her tears in the most complete retirement: she sanctifies the bloody anniversary by solitude and prayer."

On this subject there is yet more touching matter, which would lead us, however, too far. For the same reason we cannot follow the details into which M. Didier enters respecting the Duke of Lévis, the young Duke of Blacas, M. de Montbel, and other adherents of the exiled family: they must be passed over, as not of immediate interest. The following words, however, are sufficiently remarkable in the mouth of the republican: – "I found them all not only polite and well-informed, but most reasonable upon political topics. They are no democrats, assuredly, but they are men of sense, who have advanced with the progress of the age, and are fully aware of the new needs and new interests of Europe in general, and of France in particular. They are no conspirators; that I will answer for."

M. Didier is pressed to stop the night; but, hurried in his journey, only remains to dinner; and it is in the drawing-room, before dinner, that he is presented to the young Duchess of Bordeaux. This figure in the group of royal exiles, although of less importance as regards the prosperity of legitimacy in France, and of the attachment which the family may hereafter command, is worth recording also, as an interesting historical portrait.

"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?

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 tryTo 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 knowTo 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 dayTints 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-towerSound 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 goAnd bear his warnings to the shades below.Soon shall he, summoned to the well-known room,24Repent 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 bellSounds, 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 lineIn 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 repayHis prompt submission to the College sway.The service o'er, by Cam's dull bank of sedgeHe 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 wellTo 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 descendTo 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 gleanThe 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 faceMarks 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.25But 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,26See the smug tradesman too and leering maid;See the trim shop-boy cast his envious eyeOn 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 recallEach 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 increasedBy 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 gloomThat veils the mysteries of the Fellows' room;Nor hint how Dons, their untasked hours to pass,Like Cato, warm their virtues with the glass.27Once more, at sound of chapel chime, repairsThe 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 eyeEach chamber's tenant at his task descry.Here the harsh mandate of the Dean enthralsSome prayerless pris'ner to the College walls,Who in the novel's pages seeks to findA brief oblivion for his angry mind.Haply the smoke-wreathed meerschaum shall supplyAn evenness of soul which they deny.Charm! that alike can soothing pleasure bringTo 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 sightNo 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 byIn 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 himOf 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 mistRaised round the votaries of Loo and Whist;Scarce such kind Venus round her offspring flungTo bear him viewless through the Punic throng;28Scarce 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 regardsHis 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 fameAdmiring 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 dayJust shuffles through, and dubs himself B. A.;Thanks heaven, flings by his cap and gown, and shunsA place made odious by remorseless duns.Not so the wrangler, – him the Fellows' roomShall 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 townThe full-fledged honours of his Doctor's gown.Yes, Granta, thus thy sacred shades amongJoin grave and thoughtless in one motley throng.Forgive my muse, if aught her trifling airSeems 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' schoolMock the old maxims of Collegiate rule,Deem them not worthless, because oft abused,Nor sneer at blessings, which yourselves refused. – U. T.