Yet what he displayed on this occasion | certainly, an eminent and distinguished was not so much what is commonly called lawyer by a six weeks' tenure of office.' The eloquence, as the perfection of debating series of manoeuvres by which this undeniable power. He never once warmed into declama- job was carried might not have been attempttion; it was hard, cold hitting, or pitiless ed, or might have been met and counteracttearing, throughout. He took up Copley's ed, if Lord Plunket's judicial career had been studied sophistries one after the other, crushed as successful as his forensic and political. The them together, broke them to bits, and then contrary is confessedly the fact. His adflung them aside like rubbish. The powers mirers are compelled to admit that he diswhich he here displayed at the bidding and charged the duties of his high office in a on the behalf of his political leader and hasty and perfunctory manner. 'He would friend, had been called forth once before not stoop to the mechanical drudgery of writwith a similar result in self-defence, when ing out his judgments whenever he could (in 1823) a vote of censure was moved on possibly avoid it; and he was indifferent as him for instituting, as Attorney-General for to their revision and correction; nor, so far Ireland, a prosecution for conspiracy against as appears from his own judgments, did he the rioters in the Bottle Riot, so called be- take much trouble to acquaint himself with cause the main overt act was throwing a the decisions of contemporary judges.' This bottle at the Lord-Lieutenant (Lord Welles- negligence has been injurious to his repuley) in the theatre. As Plunket walked down tation; and little or nothing beyond fragParliament Street, on his way to meet this ments and scattered sayings-disjecta memattack, he said to Mr. Blake: 'I feel like bra-has been preserved of what fell from a man going to execution under an unjust him on the Bench. sentence.' From the grandson's account it would appear that his apprehensions were by no means groundless. The House received him with indifference, almost with coldness; gradually, as he commenced his defence, and his spirit was fired by a sense of this unwonted distrust, he rolled forth mass after mass of unanswerable reasoning. The audience could not deny the justice of the cause; they believed the honesty of the man, and when, at length, he closed with these simple words " My public conduct I consign to the justice of this House, my private character I confide to its' honour," it was felt that he had completely vindicated himself.' On Canning becoming Premier, Plunket On Canning becoming Premier, Plunket was raised to the peerage, and first the Great Seal of Ireland, and then the English Mastership of the Rolls, were intended for him; when he wrote, April 20, 1827, to a friend: Things have taken a turn, to me very distressing the result, in short, is, I am a peer, and for the present without office. The Rolls I declined, not being able to reconcile my self to act against the feeling of a great number of the profession against the appointment of an Irishman, or rather an Irish barrister. Tell my friends not to question me or be surprised.' The double disappointment was somewhat mitigated by the Chief Justiceship of the Common Pleas in Ireland, Lord Norbury having been induced to retire in his favour, and in January, 1830, he at length reached the Irish Woolsack, which he retained till June, 1841, when he was literally jockeyed out of it by the Whigs to make way for Lord Campbell, or (as the late Sir Robert Peel put it) to gratify the vanity of, A ruffian, wrought up to the verge of madness by drink and temper, was brought before the Court of Chancery for insulting and threatening the officers. The Lord Chancellor addressed him in these words: 'You offer, sir, in your own person, an apt illustration of the legal term furiosus, which defines the condition of mind that a man attains by the long and uncontrollable indulgence of a brutal and savage temper, till at length he stands on the narrow isthmus-the thin line of demarcation-which separates the end of ruffianism from the beginning of insanity.' of Time with the hourglass and the scythe, 'If Time destroys the evidence of title, the laws have wisely and humanely made length of possession a substitute for that which has been destroyed. He comes with his scythe in one but, in his other hand, the lawgiver has placed hand to mow down the immunity of our rights; an hour-glass, by which he metes out incessantly those portions of duration, which render needless the evidence he has swept away.' This passage was introduced with striking fitness and effect by Lord Lytton in one of his admirable House of Commons speeches. When Plunket, having become a reformer in 1831, was twitted with having been antireformer at an antecedent period, he replied: 'Circumstances are wholly changed. Formerly Reform came to our door like a felon—a robber to be resisted. He now approaches like a creditor: you admit the justice of his demand, and only dispute the time and instalments by which he shall be paid.' There is no satisfactory definition of wit. We cannot accept Sydney Smith's, which makes it consist in surprise or unexpectedness, and Barrow's description is too full and discursive to be precise. But Plunket had wit in every sense of the term, from the flash which lights up an argument or intensifies a thought, to the fanciful conceit or comic suggestion which plays round the heartstrings-circum præcordia ludit-and aims at nothing higher than to raise a goodhumoured laugh. A very ugly old barrister arguing a point of practice before him, claimed to be received as an authority. I am a pretty old practitioner, my Lord.' 'An old practitioner, Mr. S.' On Lord Essex saying that he had seen a brother of Sir John Leech, whom he almost mistook for Sir John himself,-so much did the manner run in the family,-Plunket remarked: I should have as soon thought of a wooden leg running in the family.' All the great Irish orators of the last generation were devoted to the Greek and Roman classics. Grattan said of Plunket that the fire of his magnificent mind was lighted from I ancient altars.' After his retirement from office he visited Rome. On his return, when a new work of merit was recommended as a companion of his journey from London to Ireland, he said he had promised Horace a place in his carriage. Surely you have had enough of his company at Rome, where he was your constant companion.' 'Oh, no. never am tired of him. But then, if he don't go, I have promised the place to Gil Blas.' Curran read Homer once a year, and has been seen wrapt up in Horace in the cabin of a Holyhead packet with everybody else sick around him. Lockhart records that amongst the things to which Sir Walter Scott reverted with the highest admiration after his visit to Ireland in 1825, were the acute logic and brilliant eloquence of Plunket's conversation. The luminous career of this boast and ornament of his country was destined to close in darkness and gloom. He shared the fate of Marlborough and Swift: his fine intellect became overclouded; and his fame exclusively belonged to history, being, so to speak, a thing of the past, before his death. He died in his ninetieth year, January 5th, 1854. Of the six eminent men who have held the Great Seal of Ireland since Lord Plunket's compelled retirement, four are still living. Mr. O'Flanagan has consequently thought right to conclude his series with Lord Plunket: and nothing remained but to take a pathetic leave of his book, bid it good speed, and commend it to the charitable construction of his readers. This he does much in the manner of Gibbon, who says in his Memoirs that, after writing the last sentence of the Decline and Fall' on his terrace at Lausanne, a sober melancholy spread over my mind by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that, whatever might be the fate of my History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious.' Mr. O'Flanagan's hopes and fears, pleasures and affections, have been similarly bound up in his Lives; which he almost endows with vitality as he parts from them :— 'I cannot part with those who have been my companions for nearly half a life-time, without deep anxiety as to how they shall be received by trust them, happily under the best possible austhe extensive acquaintances to whom I now enpices. . . . These lives have formed my most agreeable occupation, morning and evening, for a great many years, while my days were passed in the monotony of official routine, in nearly the same labours for twenty years, uncheered by the prospect of promotion; or, if a hope doomed to speedy and certain disappointment. still clung to Pandora's box, it was hitherto As my official duties have been to the best of my ability most honestly and punctually discharged, so, I hope, my literary labours partake of the same character; and however modified by the creed I profess, and the love of country which has grown with my life, I trust a favourwhich I have written the "Lives of the Lord able opinion may be entertained of the way in Chancellors of Ireland."" Of the spirit certainly, although doubts may be entertained of the way. Good intentions do not make good writing; and Mr. O'Flanagan is only a fresh instance of the best-natured man with the worst-natured Muse. The Muse of History (her province includes biography) has been decidedly cold to his advances; and, as might have been expected from her sex, she was not to be won *Lord Campbell, Lord St. Leonards, the Right Blackburn, the Right Hon. Abram Brewster, Hon. Mazière Brady, the Right Hon. Francis and Lord O'Hagan. by mere honesty and punctuality; excellent | each their national song; and every one of titles (as we hope they will yet practically these is wedded to music of a grand heartprove) to official promotion; none whatever stirring character, while the words are cer to literary fame. An Irishman and a Roman tainly in most instances (as in our own Catholic, he has been constantly treading on National Anthem) easily convertible to the dangerous ground; yet his candour and im- occasional changes of rulers' names, unless partiality, his sense of justice and soundness indeed (as in the case of Poland) they of principle, are without a flaw; we rise from apostrophise the native country once for all. the book with the most favourable impres- But the nearest approach in France to any sion of the author as an enlightened patriot; ancient song of this kind is the 'Vive Henri and we can cordially congratulate him on Quatre.' The words which we subjoin will having done good service to his beloved also illustrate a peculiarity which we shall country by compelling attention to the best have to notice in several later French songs, specimens of her virtue and genius, her which have obtained in their day a great gallantry, eloquence and wit. political importance. This peculiarity lies in the fact that the words of the song may have no sort of political importance at all; but either a passing reference to an individual, or the supposition that some particular person composed the words or music of the song, or even had some special pleasure in hearing it, has been sufficient to endow it either with a party or patriotic importance. The first stanza of Vive Henri Quatre' is the only one really dating from his time. The second was added at the commencement of the reign of Louis XVI., and the third and fourth were written a little later by Collé, when his play, 'Le Partie de Chasse de Henri IV.,' was performed for the first time in Paris. The song itself became of such royalist importance as to be proscribed during the Revolution and reinstated at the Restoration. The air is that of a dance, of which Henri IV. himself is said to have been especially fond. The first and second stanzas will suffice by way of specimen: ART. VII.-1. Chansons Nationales et Po- Ir is an old saying that 'l'ancien gouvernement de la France était une monarchie absolue tempérée par les chansons;' and a more recent French writer has observed that, 'the French sang while the English were dismembering France, through the civil war of the Armagnacs, during the League, the Fronde, and the Regency; and it was to the sound of songs by Rivarol and Champcenetz that the monarchy fell to pieces at the close of the eighteenth century.' This passage points to a peculiarity which distinguishes French patriotic songs from those of most other nations, namely, that they generally owe their origin to civil dissensions or party conflicts. Hence it has come to pass that the songs which express the patriotism of to-day, often symbolise the treason of to-morrow. They thus become of historical value, and we propose to confine our attention at present to those connected with the history of the revolutionary governments of France from the end of last century, first devoting a few words to one of an earlier date. It would seem natural that the French should possess some poem equivalent to our National Anthem, when most nations, of Europe have some one song, whose words are on every tongue and whose sounds are in every ear, ready to break forth in a hearty chorus whenever an occasion of national interest arises. The Austrians have their 'Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser;' the Prussians, 'Heil dir im Siegerkranz;' the Belgians, their Brabançonne;' Russia and Poland, En paix ses descendants, Another song became a sort of royalist war-cry, from the part it played in exciting, by its remarkable opportuneness, the passions of the King's party at the great banquet given by the Guards in the theatre of Versailles, on the first of October, 1789. This was the famous air from Grétry's opera of Richard Coeur-de-Lion.' The words are by Sedaine : O Richard, O mon roi! Sur la terre il n'est donc que moi The performance of this song, as the King happy with a sufficient portion to allow of her marriage. The words and air she heard many a time afterwards sung and played with a loyal reference to herself, and, unhappily, with all too true an application to her own circumstances. It was different with another air of which the hapless Queen was very fond, and which she frequently used to play upon the harpsichord. This was the famous 'Carillon National,' the air of which was adapted to the celebrated revolutionary song of 'Ca ira,' composed in 1790, when the preparations for the Fête de la Fédération were being made at the Champ de Mars. She was destined to hear her favourite air sung too often as a cry of rage and hatred against herself; it pursued her from Versailles to Paris; pierced its way to her haunted ears through the walls of the Conciergerie; ÇA IRA. Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, Another of the royalist songs, which obtained its vogue from the fact of its being a favourite with Marie Antoinette, owes as little to its words or music as 'Vive Henri Quatre.' This is the song of Pauvre Jacques,' which originated in the following little incident of the Court of Versailles: When the grounds of the Queen's favour-startled her on her way to trial, and probably ite residence-the Petit Trianon-were laid was the last sound she heard as she lay out anew, in the year 1776, according to bound on the fatal guillotine. the so-called English style, then very fashionable, a portion of the centre was planned to represent a Swiss mountain scene. It was called 'la petite Suisse,' and provided not only with a Swiss châlet, a Swiss dairy and Swiss cows, but even with a pretty Swiss dairymaid, 'pour animer le paysage.' The whole arrangement appeared complete to all parties but one, the dairymaid herself, who fell ill almost to death of nostalgia, which in her case was aggravated by her having left her heart in the keeping of a peasant of whom she was always talking, as her pauvre Jacques.' The incident supplied a subject of both verse and melody to a court lady, the Marquise de Travanet, who produced the following song: PAUVRE JACQUES. Pauvre Jacques, quand j'étais près de toi, Mais à présent que tu vis loin de moi, Quand tu venais partager mes travaux, T'en souvient il? tous les jours étaient beaux. Quand le soleil brille sur nos guérets, Pauvre Jacques, quand j'étais près de toi, Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète : Malgré les mutins, tout réussira. Nos ennemis confus en restent là, Et nous allons chanter Alleluia— En chantant une chansonette, Ah! ça ira, ça ira, çà ira. Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète: Malgré les mutins, tout réussira. Quand Boileau, jadis, du clergé parla Du législateur tout s'accomplira; Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète : Malgré les mutins, tout réussira. Le vrai catéchisme nous instruira Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète: Malgré les mutins, tout réussira. Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira; Pierrot et Margot chantent à la guinguette, Réjouissons-nous, le bon temps reviendra. Le peuple français jadis à quia, Le clergé regrette le bien qu'il a, Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, Par les flambeaux de l'auguste assemblée, Le peuple armé toujours se gardera. Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète : Malgré les mutins, tout réussira. Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, 'On Sunday, July 18, 1790,* M. Gourdin, deputy for Bethune, in Artois, heard Deduit sing this song in the Café des Arts, boulevard du Temple. Carried away by his enthusiasm, he sprang into the orchestra and thus addressed the audience: "Brothers in arms and brave citizens, M. Deduit has just been crowned by your applause; I move that he be declared the patriot author and national poet (chansonnier)." The proposal was carried with enthusiasm, and Deduit, amidst thunders of approbation, returned thanks for his appointment.' It was in 1792, when matters had become much worse, that the atrocious Carmagnole threw the Carillon more or less into the shade. It appeared in 1792, when Louis XVI. was consigned to the Temple, one of the stanzas expressly referring to the fact. The air is a very inspiriting one, and became a popular military quick-step. The song was sung, interchangeably, with the Ca Ira and the Marseillaise,' between the acts in Petits comme grands sont soldats dans l'âme. the theatres, and but too often round the Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, etc. Pendant la guerre, aucun ne trahira. La Liberté dit: Vienne qui voudra, Sans craindre ni feu ni flammes, Le Français toujours vaincra! Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète : Malgré les mutins, tout réussira. The poetry of the song is as poor as the tone is triumphant, filled with a certain insolent defiance of all authority and rule, and containing here and there light adaptations of Scripture to political ideas sufficient to shock English ears at least. But at the time it came so much into vogue the phrenzied hatred against royalty had not reached the pitch which it afterwards attained, and high hopes were still centred upon the socalled citizen king.' The facility of the measure and the swing of the, music in the 'Ca ira,' of course rendered it a vehicle for many imitations and parodies-if we can designate as parodies sets of words which, after all, were but variations of the original, adapted to the changes and circumstances to which almost every successive day gave rise in a time so stirring as 1790. There are various versions of it in the little book of the period, whose title stands second on our list, the most notable probably being one by Deduit, the singing of which produced the following scene: guillotine. The name of Carmagnole has LA CARMAGNole. Vive le son! vive le son! Mais il y a manqué, (bis.) (bis.) (bis.) (bis.) (bis.) (bis.) |
