The Press. — London, England, 1857-11-07 00:00:00

THE PRESS, NOVEMBER 7,1857. a second from 1838 to 1840, a third comprising 1840 and 1841, and so on; but, except it be a regard for chronology, there is no reason for making the division. The songs are Napo leonic, philosophic, pastoral, festive, satiric, and bear the most heterogeneous titles—The Plunnix—Napoleon's Mother—St. Helena— The Arab Horse-4 Lesson in History— Money—The Woods—War—Gutenburg — Our World—My Walkingstick—My Shadow, &c. &c. The songs about Napoleon are written in terms of enthusiastic admiration—admiration which Belinger, republican though he pro fessed to be, entertained as much as the meanest trooper who loAght under the yivi nd homme . Here is an extract from a pretty little poem, entitled " 11 (i/ is of course Napoleon) West pas mort." It is one of the hero's sol diers who speaks:— Lui, wort ! oh, non! Quel tremblement de terre, Quelle comete annonca son trepas ? Croyons pluttlt pie la r►che Angleterre Pour le garder a manqué de soldats. Les strangers qu'eponvantait se gloi►e Feignent en vain de deplorer son sort ; En vain leers chants exaltent as tue moire, N'est•ii pas vrai, mon Dieu, qu'il West pas mort ? Je partagea deux fois mon pain do aeigle, Et de sa main it m'attacha la croix ; J'ai toujuurs vu, moi qui portais son aigle, La mort en lui respecter notre choix ! Et les Anglais auraient clime sa biere ! Et de as tombe ils defendraient l'sbord ! Et kous leurs pleas it deviendrait poussiere ! N'est•il pea vrai, mon Dieu, gull nest pas mort ? A piece, or rather a little poem, entitled " Madame Mere—our readers are aware that this was the title given to Napoleon's mother —is very affecting. It is known that this venerable matron viewed with regret &tiler than joy the wonderful elevation of her son, and she is thus made to speak of him:— Dien l'eleva si haut, qu'un noir presage Ssisit mon cceur poor ce fils bien-aime. Dien, disait-on, dana ce hems vrai sage, An view: monde croulant donne un Alessi() arms. /dais, tout le temps de I'incessante lutte Ou son genie etonna l'univers, Tremblante, je viellais, tenant les bras ouverts Pour le recevoir dans sa chute ! How touchingly are maternal presentiment and maternal solicitude here indicated ! Full of charm arc the thoughts expressed in this little piece on the soul, though the lines are somewhat rugged. The title is "La Pri , sonnkTe ": Platon l'a dit : rime est captive Hans ce corps brut, obscur sejour, Prison veritable oh n'srrive Que lentement l'eclat du jour. Cette hme, en qui tout est mystere, Souffrant du fruid, sonffrant du ()nand l'ediiice sort de terre, Sommeille au fond d'un noir cacliot. Tandie languit dans l'ombre, Nature tente un gourd travail, Et fait poindre dans ce lieu sombre Le jour donteux d'un soupirail. A la lueur qui vient d'eelore, SE creant un Taste horizon, La pauvre ame longtemps encore Sa heurte atm mars de ea prison. Male enfin s'ouvre une fenetre : Ella s'y cramponne en riant. Saint, printemps qui viens do naitre! Tout brille sus feta de l'Orient. Ces bole si verts, ces eau% si belles, Ces monte geans, l'bomme en rest roi. Toutes ces fleurs pour moi sont-elles ? Tous ces fruits seront-ils pour moi? De la prison, d'abord si noire, Le faite devient radieux. Lame en fait un observatoire, Et de la plonge dans les Men'. Tent d'astres soulevent les voiles Du Dieu qui leur trace un cheinin ; Je me noie en ces tints d'etoiles : Dieu puissant, tendez•nsoi la main. Male l'automne touche it son terme ; Deja le ciel s'est obscurci. L'observatoire Mors se ferme, Heise ! et sa fenetre aussi. Quelque rayon, qui meurt bien vita, Frappe encor desmure delabres; Yule du cachot, son premier gite, L'arne redescer.d les degree. II en est ainsi pour la foule A Page de caducite. Male enfin la prison s'ecroule ; Lame s'euvole en liherte. De nouveaux fers Dieu la preserve ! Etj'ajoute a mon ontison : Faites, mon Dieu, qu'elle conserve Le souvenir de ea prison. It was greatly to the credit of Lord Kenyon that he went so far in combating the mischievous notions that had been infused into the Royal mind, and if the opinion then expressed had been acted upon at the time of the Irish Union, it would have saved a world of woe to the empire. But in the life of Lord Tenterden we read: — I heard Lord Tenterden, without any diminution of my respect for him, oppose the Catholic Relief Bill,—which, though a necessary, was a perilous measure,—the ominous prophecies about which certainly have received some veriica• bun by subsequent Papal aggression. It is not so clear that the " world of woe would " have been saved"; and events have shown that the doubts of the King had much in stinctive sagacity in them. Of Lord Tenter den's nervousness about allusions to his family origin it is recorded •• • - . He would voluntarily refer to these among very intimate friends, but he became exceedingly uneasy when he spore hended any allusion to them in public. Once, however, he was complimented upon his rise under circumstances so extravagantly ludicrous that he joined in the general shout of laughter which the orator called forth. Sir Peter Laurie, the saddler, when Lord Mayor of London, gave a dinner at the Mansion-house to the judges, and, in proposing their health, observed, in impassioned accents, " What a country is this we live in! In other parts of the world there is no chance, except for men of high birth and aristocratice connections ; but here genius and industry are sure to be rewarded. See before you the examples of niyself, the Chief Magistrate of the Metropolis of this great empire, and the Chief Justice of England sitting at my right hand—both now in the highest offices in the State, and both sprung from the very dregs of the people !" Lord Campbell characteristically writes Sir Peter Laurie, " the saddler." In the current Edinburgh Review the story is told in another way, and Sir Peter Laurie is reported to have alluded to himself "as sprung from parents of the middle class." But the alleged ner vousness of Lord Tenterden about his origin does not tally with the story of him related by Macready, the trag edian. We had marked several passages for com ment, but space fails us, and we shall have to criticise before long the literary pretensions of Lord Campbell. We cannot close this volume without drawing attention to the enormous number of law peerages which have been granted in the last thirty years—to wit, Lynd hurst, Plunket, Tenterden, Wynford, Broug ham, Denman, Abinger, Stratheden, Cotten ham, Langdale, Campbell, Truro, St. Leonards, Cranworth, and Wensleydale. This is going too fast. One of these is extinct already (Langdale), and two (Stratheden and Camp bell) will merge in one person. Three or four of the others are not likely to bo hereditary ; but, even so, too many law titles have been given. Les Dernieres Chansons de Berm:ger. Paris Perrotin. WHEN Wrangel . , some weeks ago, was gathered to the dead, it was announced that he had left a volume of songs in manuscript, and great indeed was the curiosity manifested in Paris to see them, not only by the literary com munity, to whom anything new from the great chansonnier ry as naturally of high interest, but by the political parties who hoped for his lan dation or dreaded his satire, and by the ordi nary public, of whom he was the idol. The volume Iwas published at Paris on Tuesday last, and one of the earliest copies has been transmitted to us. We have gone over it with some haste, but with not less interest than the Parisians themselves will have done, and we think that it will disappoint expectation. The literary fraternity will not find in it the sparkling wit, the fascinating gaiety, or the unflagging verve which distinguished the songster's previous productions ; political par tisans will search through it in vain for those stinging, scoffing, scorching effusions which made his coreligionists exult and his adver saries writhe; and the profane vulgar will not be able to discover in it any of those brilliant or impassioned expositions of their sentiments which made his former songs so popular. " Void lee chansons de ma vieillesse," says he, at the commencement of his preface, and truly the hand of old age is in them. They lack inspiration ; and that labour which even in his best days his songs cost him is constantly and sometimes painfully apparent. The songs which compose the volume have been written at intervals from so far back as 1834 to so recent a date as 1851. They are divided into epochs—one from 1834 to 1838, 1089 The following is one of the lighter pieces of the poet. It is entitled "Le Saint,' and is addressed to a lady. It is as neat as any com pliment ever turned in honour of beauty, and displays, more perhaps than any other song in the volume, the author's sprightly and graceful wit : Chez an saint qu'epouvante be mot d'araour Le diable un jour, Vient en jeune servante. be Saint Ini dit : " Satan, Va-t'en ! Va•t'en, Satan, va•t'en!" 11 revient en grisette Au ton aise, Au teint rose, An menton u tOssette. Le Saint lui dit " Satan, Va-t'en ! Va Ven, Satan, va•t'en !" 11 revient en danseuse Au sein fripon Au court jupon, A la jambe amoureuse. Le Saint lui dit: " Satan, Va•t'en ! Va-t'en, Satan, va•t'cn!" En muse jeune et belle 11 vient encore ; Sa lyre d'or Chante l'amour Le Saint lui dit: " Satan, Va-Cen ! Vat'en, Satan, va-t'en !" Puis i 1 vient en comtesse Aux blanches dents, Aux yeux ardents, Au caur trouble triviesse. be Saint lui dit : " Satan, Va•t'en ! Va•t'en, Satan, va•t'en !" Satan prend d'autres armes. Madame, an soir, Le saint croit voir Apparaitre vos charmes. 11 tie Bit plus : '• Satan, Va-t'en ! Va•t'en, Satan, va•t'en !" Grace, esprit, that It briile, Tout l'enhardit ; Mime it vous dit: " Au fond de ma cellule, Viens me damner, Satan ; Viens-Cen! Viens-ten, Satan, viens•t'en !" The last piece in the volume is the adieu of the poet to France, which, in the language of Napoleon, ho " loved so well." The spirit in which it is written it is impossible not to ad- mire, and the last strophe is really beautiful : France, je meurs, je !nears ; tout me l'annonce. Mere adoree, adieu! Que ton saint nom Soit le dernier que ma bouche prononce. Auctin Francais t'aima-t-il plus?? Oh! non. Je t'ui chaniee avant he eavoir lire ; Et, quand la mort me tient sous son epieu, En te chantant mon dernier souffle expire, A tent d'amour donne une larme. Adieu! Lorsqne dix rois dans :ear triomphe impie, Poussaient leurs chars sur ton corps mutile, De leurs bandeaux j'ai fait de la sharpie Pour ta blessure, ou mon baume a collie. Le ciel reudit ta rume feconde ; 1)e te benir les siecles auront lieu; Car ta pensee ensemence le monde. L'Egalite fern sa gerbe. Adieu! Demi-couche, je me vois dans la tombe. Ah ! viens en aide u tous ceux que j'aniais. Tu le dois, France, a la panvre colombe Qui dans ton champ ne butinajamais. Pour (pia tes fils arrive ma priere, Lorsque dejh j'entends la you de Dien, De moo tombeau soutenu la pierre. Mon bras se lasso; elle retombe. Adieu! Although the volume before us is entitled " The Last Songs of Beranger," we learn that it is generally believed in Paris that a number of others, chiefly of a political character, are in existence. Oliver Cronucelts Letters aml Speeches: with _Elucidations By Thomas Carlyle. In Three Vols. London : Chapman and Hall. (Second Notice.) Bur, admitting the great capacity for affairs which signally marked Cromwell, there is still considerable exaggeration as to the degree of his powers. From the way in which some writers speak about him, one would think that England never before or since pro:luced a great man, and that strength was not a com mon characteristic of famous Englishmen. Is it indeed true that no other private English.