  A LEGEND OF FRANCE. FranÇois Xavier Auguste was a gay Mousquetaire, The Pride of the Camp, the delight of the Fair: He'd a mien so distinguÉ, and so debonnaire, And shrugg'd with a grace so recherchÉ and rare, And he twirl'd his moustache with so charming an air, —His moustaches I should say, because he'd a pair,— And, in short, shew'd so much of the true sÇavoir faire, All the ladies in Paris were wont to declare, That could any one draw Them from Dian's strict law, Into what Mrs. Ramsbottom calls a "Fox Paw," It would be FranÇois Xavier Auguste de St. Foix. Now, I'm sorry to say, At that time of day, The Court of Versailles was a little too gay; The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play, To Bourdeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St. Peray, Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo FranÇois Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of them, Dress'd, drank, and fought, and chassÉe'd with the best of them; Took his oeil de perdrix Till he scarcely could see, He would then sally out in the streets for a "spree;" His rapier he'd draw, Pink a Bourgeois, (A word which the English translate "Johnny Raw,") For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit he's in, Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen; And, perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes, In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes, Defines "an amalgam of Tigers and Apes," Should be merely considered as "Little Escapes." But I'm sorry to add, Things are almost as bad A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks, Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks. Be this as it will, In the general, still, Though blame him we must, It is really but just To our lively young friend, FranÇois Xavier Auguste, To say, that howe'er Well known his faults were, At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair, And, when gambling his worst, always play'd on the square, So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he Lost large sums at faro (a game like "Blind Hookey"), And continued to lose, And to give I O U's, Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the Jews; And, a parallel if I may venture to draw Between FranÇois Xavier Auguste de St. Foix, And his namesake, a still more distinguished FranÇois, Who wrote to his "soeur" Well—we know in these cases Your "Crabs" and "Deuce Aces" Are wont to promote frequent changes of places; Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare That there's nothing so good as the pure "country air," Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing: A habit, I'm very much grieved at divulging, FranÇois Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in. But what could be done? It's clear as the sun, That, though nothing's more easy than say "Cut and run!" Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of fun— E'en I or you, If we'd nothing to do, Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue. And, since no one denies What's so plain to all eyes, It won't, I am sure, create any surprise That reflections like these half reduced to despair FranÇois Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire. Patience par force! He considered, of course, But in vain—he could hit on no sort of resource— Love?—Liquor?—Law?—Loo? They would each of them do, There's excitement enough in all four, but in none he Could hope to get on sans l'argent—i.e. money. Love?—no;—ladies like little cadeaux from a suitor. Liquor?—no,—that won't do, when reduced to "the Pewter."— Then Law?—'tis the same; It's a very fine game, But the fees and delays of "the Courts" are a shame, As Lord Brougham says himself—who's a very great name, Though the Times made it clear he was perfectly lost in his Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes, And don't know his "particles."—Who wrote the articles, Shewing his Greek up so, is not known very well; Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell,—some Merivale; But it's scarce worth debate, Because from the date Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw, So said, and so done—he arranged his affairs, And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires. Now it happen'd just then That Field-Marshal Turenne Was a good deal in want of "some active young men," To fill up the gaps Which, through sundry mishaps, Had been made in his ranks by a certain "Great CondÉ," A General unrivall'd—at least in his own day— Whose valour was such, That he did not care much If he fought with the French,—or the Spaniards,—or Dutch,— A fact which has stamped him a rather "Cool hand," Being nearly related to Louis le Grand. It had been all the same had that King been his brother; He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another; For war, so exciting, He took such delight in, He did not care whom he fought, so he was fighting. And, as I've just said, had amused himself then By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne; Since which, the Field-Marshal's most pressing concern Was to tickle some other Chiefs tail in his turn. What a fine thing a battle is!—not one of those Which one saw at the late Mr. Andrew Ducrow's, Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows, Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose, Taking great care their blows Did not injure their foes, And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes, Which were varied, to give more effect to "Tableaux," While Stickney the Great Flung the gauntlet to Fate, Yes!—a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting, These same Ups-and-Downs are so very exciting. But a sombre sight is a Battle-field To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye, Where those, who scorn'd to fly or yield, In one promiscuous carnage lie; When the cannon's roar Is heard no more, And the thick dun smoke has roll'd away, And the victor comes for a last survey No triumphs flush that haughty brow,— No proud exulting look is there,— His eagle glance is humbled now, As, earth-ward bent, in anxious care It seeks the form whose stalwart pride But yester-morn was by his side! And there it lies!—on yonder bank Of corses, which themselves had breath But yester-morn—now cold and dank, With other dews than those of death! Powerless as it had ne'er been born The hand that clasp'd his—yester-morn! And there are widows wand'ring there, That roam the blood-besprinkled plain, And listen in their dumb despair For sounds they ne'er may hear again! One word, however faint and low,— Ay, e'en a groan,—were music now! And this is Glory!—Fame!— But, pshaw! Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental; Besides, such things we never saw; In fact, they're merely Continental. And then your Ladyship forgets Some widows came for epaulettes. So go back to your canter; for one, I declare, Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire, A beetle-brow'd hag, With a knife and a bag, And an old tatter'd bonnet which, thrown back, discloses The ginger complexion, and one of those noses Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses, Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their way, shun, Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion. You remember, I trust, FranÇois Xavier Auguste, Had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust. Now there's something—I cannot tell what it may be— About good-looking gentlemen turn'd twenty-three, Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee, Which affects female hearts, in no common degree, With emotions in which many feelings combine, Now don't make a joke of That feeling I spoke of; For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling,—whate'er It may be,—saves the life of the young Mousquetaire!— The knife, that was levell'd erewhile at his throat, Is employ'd now in ripping the lace from his coat, And from what, I suppose, I must call his culotte; And his pockets, no doubt, Being turned inside out, That his mouchoir and gloves may be put "up the spout," (For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do Fails to ferret out even a single Écu;) As a muscular Giant would handle an elf, The virago at last lifts the soldier himself, And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down In a hospital form'd in the neighbouring town! I am not very sure, But I think 'twas Namur; And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure. Canto II. I abominate physic—I care not who knows That there's nothing on earth I detest like "a dose"— That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue I consider extremely unpleasant to view, With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear; ?????? de???????? de??, I mean, A nasty pale green, Though for want of some word that may better avail, I presume, our translators have rendered it "pale;" For consider the cheeks Of those "well-booted Greeks," Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks; Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's; And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in it, "Oh, woman!" Sir Walter observes, "when the brow 's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou!" Thou'rt a "minist'ring Angel" in no less degree, I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee; And medical friction Is, past contradiction, Much better performed by a She than a He. A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge, For I well recollect, when a youngster at College, And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note, Mr. Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs, And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks.— Now, they say, To this day, When sick people can't pay On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses Attend, without any demand on their purses; And these females, some old, others still in their teens, Some call "Sisters of Charity," others "Beguines." They don't take the vows; but, half-Nun and half-Lay, Attend you; and when you've got better, they say, "You're exceedingly welcome! There's nothing to pay. Our task is now done. You are able to run. We never take money; we cure you for fun!" Then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good day, And go off to cure somebody else the same way. —A great many of these, at the date of my tale, In Namur walked the hospitals, workhouse, and jail. Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun. Her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the Sun,— Not carroty—no; though you'd fancy you saw burn Now you'll see, And agree, I am certain, with me, When a young man's laid up with a wound in his knee: And a Lady sits there, On a rush-bottom'd chair, To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare, And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square; Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair, And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire, It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair, And may lead on to mischief before they're aware. I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his "Penchant for liaisons," and graver men "follies," (For my own part, I think planting thorns on their pillows, And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows, Is not to be classed among mere peccadillos,) His "faults," I should say—I don't think FranÇois Xavier Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviour Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he meant While superintending his draughts and his liniment. But, as he grew stout, And was getting about, Thoughts came into his head that had better been out; While Cupid's an urchin. We know deserves birching, He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in. 'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin Was the end of all poor dear TherÈse's shampooing.— 'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on: but such "When Woman," as Goldsmith declares, "stoops to folly, And finds out too late that false man can betray," She is apt to look dismal, and grow "melan-choly," And, in short, to be anything rather than gay. He goes on to remark that "to punish her lover, Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye, There is but one method" which he can discover That's likely to answer—that one is "to die!" He's wrong—the wan and withering cheek; The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart; The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak The misery of the breaking heart; The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone That whispering mocks the pitying ear; Th' imploring glances heaven-ward thrown, As heedless, helpless, hopeless here; These wring the false one's heart enough, If "made of penetrable stuff." And poor TherÈse Thus pines and decays, Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise, With, for "wheelers," two bays, And, for "leaders," two greys, And soon reaches France, by the help of relays, Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim, And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd him. She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner, Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.— One evening—'twas just as the clock struck eleven— They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven,— She breath'd one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven, And all was o'er!— Poor TherÈse was no more— She was gone!—the last breath that she managed to draw Escaped in one half-utter'd word—'twas "St. Foix!" Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares, when you feel 'em, Are not cured by travel—as Horace says, "Coelum Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare!" It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary— Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded, is One thing, above all, most excited remark: In the evening he seldom sat long after dark. Not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for "a lark" With his friends; but when they, After taking cafe, Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a tray, —Which I own I consider a very good way, If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day— No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay; But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head By way of "Good evening!" and walk off to bed. Yet even when there he seem'd no better off, For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem! and he cough; And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes, sobbing outright, While his valet, who often endeavour'd to peep, Declared that "his master was never asleep! But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep; That about ten o'clock His door he would lock, And then never would open it, let who would knock!— He had heard him," he said, "Sometimes jump out of bed, And talk as if speaking to one who was dead! He'd groan and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone, Begging some one or other to let him alone, FranÇois Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before, I believe, was a popular man in his corps, And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun, Now began to consult what was best to be done. Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue Confess'd they did not know at all what to do: But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille Alphonso Stanislaus Emile de Grandville Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel For their friend, so distinguished an officer, 's weal. "The first thing," he said, "was to find out the matter That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter— Mort de ma vie!" —Here he took some rapee— "Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!"— He was right, sure enough—in a couple of days He worms out the whole story of Sister TherÈse, Now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some Dutch PÈre la Chaise. —"But the worst thing of all," FranÇois Xavier declares, "Is, whenever I've taken my candle up-stairs, There's TherÈse sitting there—upon one of those chairs! Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares, That I'm really prevented from saying my pray'rs, While an odour,—the very reverse of perfume,— More like rhubarb or senna,—pervades the whole room! Hector Achille Stanislaus Emile, When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel; Not that he cared for Ghosts—he was far too genteel; Still a queerish sensation came on when he saw Him, whom, for fun, They'd, by way of a pun On his person and principles, nick-named Sans Foi, —A man whom they had, you see, Mark'd as a Sadducee,— In his horns, all at once, so completely to draw, And to talk of a Ghost with such manifest awe!— It excited the Chevalier Grandville's surprise; He shrugg'd up his shoulders, he turn'd up his eyes, And he thought with himself that he could not do less Than lay the whole matter before the whole Mess. Repetition's detestable;— So, as you're best able, Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess-table— How the bold Brigadiers Prick'd up their ears, I need scarcely relate The plans, little and great, Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte's pate To rescue his friend from his terrible foes, Those mischievous Imps, whom the world, I suppose, From extravagant notions respecting their hue Has strangely agreed to denominate "Blue," Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail Than those he had, early in life, found to fail, When he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tail. In vain did he try With strong waters to ply His friend, on the ground that he never could spy Such a thing as a Ghost, with a drop in his eye; St. Foix never would drink now unless he was dry; Besides, what the vulgar call "sucking the monkey" Has much less effect on a man when he's funky. In vain did he strive to detain him at table Till his "dark hour" was over—he never was able, Save once, when at Mess, With that sort of address Which the British call "Humbug," and Frenchmen "_Finesse_," (It's "Blarney" in Irish—I don't know the Scotch,) He fell to admiring his friend's English watch. L'Envoye. A moral more in point I scarce could hope Than this, from Mr. Alexander Pope. If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay, And pious Maid,—as, possibly, it may,— From Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green; O'er some pale marble when they join their heads To kiss the falling tears each other sheds; Oh! may they pause!—and think, in silent awe, He, that he reads the words, "Ci gÎt St. Foix!"— She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys Bears this sad line,—"Hic jacet Soeur TherÈse!"— Then shall they sigh, and weep, and murmuring say, "Oh! may we never play such tricks as they!"— And if at such a time some Bard there be, Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea And sentimental song—like Ingoldsby— If such there be—who sings and sips so well, Let him this sad, this tender story tell! Warn'd by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast, "I've 'scaped the Broken Heart!"—"and I the Ghost!!" FOOTNOTES: Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes. Who viewed men's manners, Londons, Yorks, and Derbys. May good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both.—Macbeth. The next in order of these "lays of many lands" refers to a period far earlier in point of date, and has for its scene the banks of what our Teutonic friends are wont to call their "own imperial River!" The incidents which it records afford sufficient proof (and these are days of demonstration), that a propensity to flirtation is not confined to age or country, and that its consequences were not less disastrous to the mail-clad Ritter of the dark ages than to the silken courtier of the seventeenth century. The whole narrative bears about it the stamp of truth, and from the papers among which it was discovered I am inclined to think it must have been picked up by Sir Peregrine in the course of one of his valetudinary visits to "The German Spa." |
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