The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1842-05-06 00:00:00

nalism, in a manufacturing town ; had such a man, removed
—removed too from the

from the asperit

le ultra-utilitarians and republicans
of the radical borough of Leeds,) amongst whom, and for
nitted to cultivate his intellect

nlarge his sympathies in a more generous atmosphere,
ssessed that within him which might have raised him
tove the position, in the world of literature, into which

an t-arly doom and narr
As it is we have no

howdy strains

means have cast him

that many, very many, of the

f Robert Nicoll (and it is upon homely house-
s his best poems are written) will be cherished
Dme in the memories of thousands

hold themes tha

nis countrymen. Bitterly as he was, in polite,., cypUSed
e belong, we cannot lay down these,
bis simple legacy to mankind, without a liking for the man,
and almost a respect for the politician. Light be the sod

to the part

:o which,

upon his early grave !

The Englishman's Magazine, a popular periodical for gene-
ral reading. London : James Burns, 17, Portman-street.

We have received the first four numbers for the present
year of this publication, which we can confidently recommend
to our readers as a really useful and valuable work. By the
young especially, of our national religion, who are not the
less fond of a magazine because, amongst the more lively sub-
treats, the inculcation of sound religious

lects upon which

principles is no!

tronised. It is

number, 4d

lost sight of, it ought to be extensively pa-
ery neatly got up ; and the price of each

brings it within every one's reach

Burns's Magazine for the Young.
This is a publication of a similar nature to the English-
man's Magazine, by the same publisher, but it is intended
for a more juvenile class of readers. Each number is em-
bellished with very neat wood-cuts—some of them perfect
—and is published at the very low price of two-pence.

it's Edinburgh Magazine, May, 1842. Edinburgh,
""ait ; London, Simpkin, Marshall and Co.
tit number of Tait is superior to most of the re-
ers which have come before us. " Abednego, the
ider," by Mrs. Gore, is continued, and increases
There is something human, and therefore natu-
t the character of the Jew usurer, whilst Dickins's
Christian prototype, was a fiend without
Irish Treason in Paris," by the

ch commences in the present number,
g contribution, and the story of
11 told, and will be read with

an inter

Dickens')—" Impressions
in admirable hit at men and manners in the
Jonathan ; and some people might fancy that
ical upon the illustrious Boz himself. The
;y Ball" is especially excellent. We have
Buckingham's Tour in the Slave States of
" Tytler's History of Scotland," both of
ssected, and their most interesting features
s. The poetry of the magazine, of which we
,ens. is more to our taste than we usually

Yin

lin Tait. The principal works, noticed in the re-
.e " Miss Strickland's Lives of the
nd " Montgomery's Luther," to the

b works it is creditable to Tail to observe that

trwer, unlike some puseyite critics we could name,
istanding the difference of politics, does full justice.
Way' We may inform the publisher that his last num-
utne cause or other, did not reach us.

eel Newspaper., No. 53. London,'N. Bruce, Peter-
boroogh_court,
Fleet-street.
amber before us contains the first part of the " Can-
fales," by Miss Lee—awork which is entitled to rank
standard novels. One hundred and sixty pages of
rioted matter for one shilling 0) is surely sufficient
lost ardent admirer of cheap amusement. For about
you have an assortment of standard tales suffi-
;!onsitute a decent circulating library I

ity Magazine. May,1842.
Dublin ; W. S. Orr and Co., L.onudrori; jun.,n. the present month is a valuable and'amus
Jack Hinton" progresses to the eighteenth
-
yas ever. We have an excellent review
f a Traveller," in which full justice is
Our Portrait Gallery
life of the Rev. William Archer
A the usual excellence which distin-
Nuts and Nutcrackers, No. 4," is
sode of the French Revolution,

j an er

" The Place des Terraux," will be read
Some beautiful thoughts are contained in

Dreamer's Note Book," by a new con-

n acquisition

-article in this
b je et
withof
amap of h
our
te
seatwith Ao
tff.
wg baa
ed
r
map, is worth double tihiehproriacifaot
ht to be lead by every Eng-s-
-when public interest is so painfully
a that scene of the slaughter of so many of
ymen. To the demand of the writer
scrificed men, upon the head of the
I, above all, upon Lords Palmerston
ith all our hearts—amen !
review of " Maxwell's Life of
o the European campaigns of
d is only less valuable than the work
Gaspar the Pirate" concludes in the
number, a circumstance at which we are not sorry."
" Politics and Parliament" is written in the usual racy style
of the political articles in this magazine.

_ ..e name of " garden. _n the cola.— _
den stood two melancholy-looking cypresses, appearing mon
like ornaments for a cemetery than a place intended for pub-
lic recreation. Up the centre ran a path leading to the ca-
baret, where the busy and obsequious vintner dispensed his
potables and refreshments. On either side of the pathway,
deeply imbedded in the soil, surrounded by forms as firmly
fixed, were rudely-manufactured tables, at which the guests
on sunshiny days seated themselves. Here and there were
to be seen alcoves constructed of lath, and the resort of those
who wished to be private.
Such were the charms of the place known by the name of
the " Burgundy Vineyard."
Here it was that on Sundays and Mondays the blustering
and rude throngs were wont to intoxicate themselves, who
now, like unruly waves, move towards the Barriers, filling
the air with the noise of their quarrels and disturbances.
On other days of the week certain frequenters of the spot
came to enjoy its attractions, and take undisturbed posses-
sion of the barn adjoining the house, where a game of skit-
tles could be played.
The most constant of these habitues was a man of about
sixty years of age. His person was short, thick-set, rather
fair-complexioned, of heavy gait and rough manners ' • but
his eye was bright, piercing, and intelligent ; and although
care had marked with its finger of iron his broad brow and
pale cheek, still around his well-formed mouth a faint smile
occasionally played, in which wit and humour were evident,
showing that o'er the mind happy thoughts and mirthful
associations still flitted, in spite of poverty and wretched-
ness. An old dilapidated coat, an indescribable hat, and a
pair of shoes the very masterpieces of patchwork, completed
his attire.

One bright morning in February, 1810, although the frost
was sharp and the wind bitingly cold, the man just described
came and sat himself down before one of the tables in the
garden, took off his hat, and passed his hands through the
grey hair with which his head was luxuriously provided.
His hands, by a strange contrast with his person and appear-
ance, were white and delicately formed ; the fingers taper
and slender, were terminated by rosy nails a lady might have
envied.
As soon as the old man had seated himself, the owner of
the cabaret ran eagerly towards him, and placed before him
on the table a bottle of wine.
" I want none to-day, good Pierre," said he. " I feel
tired, and require rest only for a minute."
" The best way to rest, good sir, is to drink a glass of old
wine." So saying, he uncorked the bottle with great dexte-
rity, and poured out a portion of the liquid with the air of a
tempter.
The old man gazed at his host with inexpressible emotion ;
he could not restrain the tears which first glistened in his
eyes and then coursed down his cheeks.
" True, Pierre, true," said he ; " misery and shame are
two sisters always attendant upon misfortune. Come, I ac-
cept your wine. You shall treat me, good friend, this time ;
pour out a glass for yourself. Here's a bumper to your
health."
" Good health, sir," said mine host, who showed great de-
ference to his guest ; " but let us in doors, where something
more substantial awaits us."

The old man rose, with an intention of departing. Pierre
—confused and evidently embarrassed, permitted him to take
a few steps, when, taking him by the hand, said, respectfully,
" You have good credit, sir, at the Burgundy Vineyard. If
you have forgotten your purse, you must not depart without
breakfast ; tomorrow—any time ,you please—you can pay
your reckoning."

The old man quietly followed his entertainer, who soon set
out the materials for a substantial meal. As if to excuse
himself for his liberality, and place his friend at his ease, he
said, " When they play one of your pieces you shall give me
a ticket."

The old man was Dorvigne, the dramatist!
" You shall have two this evening. Brunet, lam sure,
will give you the best sittings in the house when he knows
what care you show for a poor old man like me. I will fetch
them and bring them to you to-day."
" Nay, good sir; It is too far for you to go on purpose.
You shall bring me the tickets to-morrow, or any other day
when you come this way."
.. .

" Friend Pierre, you shall have them this day ; to-night
they play one of my pieces—The Simpleton. That will per.
haps amuse you."
" Ha, ha ! that it will ; I shall enjoy it, I know."

" Ah, my friend, the old man to whom you have behaved
with such kindness—who but for you might have died of
hunger—will make many laugh to-night. They who applaud
his wit and humour will not enquire after his fate."

" But your pieces ought surely to bring you money ?"
" Poverty is not a vice, my friend ; but it is—as Voltaire,
whose bust I see yonder on the mantle-shelf, says—much
worse. To live through the last month, I have been obliged
to sell all my resources for this : those resources arise from
the productions of other days : for at present age and misery
have deprived my mind of all its strength and vigour. I sel-
dom now offer any vaudevilles to the managers ; for, although
they receive them and sometimes pay me, they never play
them. I can see that it is merely out of commiseration that
they accept them, and to have an excusable reason for afford-
ing me relief. My good friend, you are the first, and shall
be the last, from whom I will accept succour. The son of
Louis XV. must resign his post of mental merry-andrew ;
but he will never fall to the sad and shameful condition of a
beggar. The canal runs coldly below ; that shall be his
resting place. You look on me with surprise ; you think I
am becoming foolish. It is not so, my friend. I, Louis
Dorvigne, am the son of a king. My mother was a poor or-
phan girl, daughter of the Conte D'Archarobaud. She was
seduced by Louis XV., and died in giving me birth. During
my youth an invisible protector watched constantly over me,
directed my education, and supplied my wants—furnishing
me with money to make an honourable appearance in the
world. All at once the hand that assisted me was withdrawn.
It then became necessary, seriously to consider how I should
gain a living. I have done so till strength, and health, and
talent have failed me. This is my history, my friend. Of
royal origin—attended by success—reputation almost amount-
ing to glory—am I reduced so far as to be compelled to accept
the gift of a breakfast. Well I we must be contented, and
endure with resignation. Good bye, and thank you : you
shall have the tickets without delay.
CHAPTER 11.—AN OLD FRIEND.

The old man departed. As he reached the outer gate of
the garden the appearance of a number of troops, which
marched past the Burgundy Vintage, arrested his steps, and
compeitpd him to wait ”ntil the ,hole mass h.d g'nc by.
Dorvigue stood to observe the regiments as they moved
towards their barracks, in the Fauberg St. Antoine. They
had been reviewed by the Emperor.
First came the drums, next the bands; then the officers,
the soldiers following. In the midst rode a general, mounted
on a magnificent Andalusian charger. He was attired in a
richly embroidered uniform, his breast being covered with de-
corations. His bronzed face, here and there marked by a
scar, was also made remarkable by a pair of fierce red mous-
taches.
He cast his eyes mechanically towards " the Burgundy
Vintage." At the sight of Dorvigne he could not resist an
exclamation of surprise. Without disturbing the march of
the troops, he beckoned two soldiers to follow him.
Throwing himself from his horse, he stood for a moment
opposite to the Dramatist ; when, throwing his arms around
him, he embraced him two or three times, with the most
lively tokens of affection. . .

Do'rvigne received with much surprise the caresses of an
officer of such high rank, whose features he endeavoured in
vain to recognise. Those features were quite unknown to
him.

" What ! you do not remember me ? Have twenty years
of absence so changed me, that my good and excellent mas-
ter does not know his old servant ? one whom he has.treated
times out of number with such indulgence ?"
" Dubois!"

" Yes, I am Jean Dubois—' the Simpleton,' as you used
to call me. It is unkind of you to forget me, because I have
supplied you with a model for the most original and success-
ful of your dramatic creations."
" What, my poor boy—what, sir, I should say—have you
—have you become a general ? "
" Yes, good old friend. In your service I was a sad awk-
ward fellow, and a great breaker of plates. In the service of
the republic and the Emperor, I became a great smasher of
our enemies. That which caused me many a reprimand from
you, was the stepping-stone in the army to my advancement.
But how happy am Ito meet you again ! Two weeks ago I
arrived in Paris : day by day have I sought for your address,
and I was about giving up my search in despair."
" For my address "—said Dorvigne bitterly ; " that was
because I have none, my friend—General, I should say."
" Call me friend.; that shall now be my name. Since you
have no address, you shall take mine, and instal yourself at
home with me."
" General !"
" A general, you know, is accustomed to have his wishes
executed promptly, and punctually, and with precision. You
shall occupy a little room beside mine. It shall be:so."
" But, general l"

"Do you resiii? Then I take you prisoner."

said
" Fetch a cabriolet," Dubois to one of the orderlies
-7-
who attended him, "and you take my horse to the barracks."
In two minutes the cabriolet was ready.
" Come, Monsieur Dorvigne, take your seat."
Dorvigne, half laughing, half resisting, did as requested.
The next moment his old servant was by his side.
"On my way home," said General Dubois " I will in-
form you how I attained my present rank, as it appears to
astonish you so much. You have not perhaps, forgotten the
day on which I was compelled to quit your service, telling
me you were not rich enough to maintain a servant. Iyarted

weepingly from one so full of kindness towards me, and I en-
deavoured to enter into the service of a new master. No one
would have me, because I was so awkward. There was no-

thing left for me but to enter into the service of the state.
I enrolled myself in the army. I soon found my comrades
lost no opportunity to laugh at my bungling, and ridicule the
way I managed my firelock. On one occasion I became an-
gry, the consequence of which was, I challenged my tor-
mentors to fight a duel. All I gained by this was three or
four cuts of a sabre, and a sojourn for a few months in the
hospital.
At length I was cured, and rejoined my regiment. Six
weeks afterwards we found ourselves in front of an enemies'
redoubt, which sustained a murderous fire upon us. Orders
were issued to the grenadiers to take it by assault : we rushed
forward : my comrades fell thickly around me : those who
remained appeared to hesitate, and were on the point of re-
treating. I threw myself by a successful lean into the re-
doubt and shouted, ` Follow me, grenadiers.' The Austrians,
intimidated, paralysed with surprise, believed me followed
by my regiment, and for a moment ceased firing : the gre-
nadiers, encouraged by my example, quickly pushed forward
and supported me. We availed ourselves of the moment,
and were soon in possession of the place. A dozen pieces of
cannon fell into our hands.
"The next day I was appointed sergeant. The jeers and
jests of my comrades then ceased never to be renewed. My
talent for destroying seemed to be put forth in tenfold power.
From that moment a wide and brilliant career was opened to
deeds, me. I gained promotion step by step until I attained my
present rank of general, with no other patronage than my
courage. Each advance in rank has been the reward. of glo-
riousneral. I may not, good friend, always remain a ge-
days seemed like
Doryi '
gne was quickly installed in a charming little apart-
ment,pe, and
firth and "shook
a hand with the fair world again." His
flashes of mirth gilded sunset passing off in quietness,
hearers. The end Mixing once again amongst his equals,
the charm of his conavgeain
poet wit burst from his lips, enchanting his
delighted those around him with
a. Burgooration. Nor was he forgetful of his
of his friend General Liabois
host at the
substantial benefits
pboelneoe
Vineyard." Through the interest
After some time of peaceotiltsr
stowed upon him.
attention to the conquest nfitstuwrneeted be-
stowed
great grief of the dramatist, was General Dubois, to
For the first three weeks of the
ordered thither.
frequent communications to his oldafiTr'''dpaign, the general sent
ceased, and Dorvigne one morning read
in the Moniteur that
Dubois had fallen before Moscow.
It now became necessary to leave the
the general had provided. Poor Dory' Pleasant little nest
'gni once more fell
into misery.
He went to lodge in a small garret behind the
• There having parted with everything h Porte St.
Martin. g e poseess
bent double by age, and afflicted with a troublesome coin_
be applied to the Theatre de Varieties, (the fortur,
plaint, f
which he had been instrumental in establishing,) for a small
pension, and--Was refused.

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Ittrii;o44lo „ nj)44 040 filtlO tlls rojArtilo 00-.04 to

,22,1 bi►u in many an old frequanto4 pia►'a. Tbay raizaad him
at their tables, where his mirthful sallies flashed rind sparkled
like the gaiety of his younger days. His most devoted friend,
Barba, the librarian, becoming uneasy, sought him in vain
throughout Paris. Dorvigne having quitted his apartments
in the Rue de Bondy, none knew where he had taken refuge.
A short time after his disappearance, Rubie, the director
of the Porte St. Martin, was told by one of his chorus
singers that for four days there was lying in a house in the
Rue Grenetal the corpse of an old man, for whom no one
seemed to care or willing to claim.

On the following day Ilubitl mentioned this to Barba,
who, heart-sick and overwhelmed with sad presentiments,
hurried to the garret where the body was said to be lying.
What a sight presented itself to his view. There, in a
lone and cold garret, with hardly any furniture, stretched
upon a poor bed, was all that remained of the once much-
loved poet, barely clad, pale and emaciated. A. prey to dis-
ease and famine, he had laid him down, exhausted and in
pain, upon his mattress to die. Four days his remains had
waited the office of a friend to give them burial.
On the four nights of those days " The Simpleton" was
played at the Varieties to crowded audiences, who laughed
and revelled in the enjoyment of the dramatist's wit and
fancy. _

Thus the son of the peasant, the foot-boy, who seemed
nearly half an idiot, became a general, and died gloriously
upon the field of battle. _ _

The son of a king—the charming! poet—the graceful au-
thor, whose thoughts and creations of mind gave entertain-
ment to thousands—one:who might be said to be like one of

our own bards

" The delight of all circles, and the idol of his own,"
lived through the evening of his days in misery, and died
deeply steeped in poverty!