I could write many chapters about our life at Belfield, and perhaps of
all I have to tell nothing would be so well worth telling. Belfield is a
quiet place on the shore of Long Island Sound, placidly sleeping through
the summers and autumns beneath the shadows of its immemorial trees. We
went to school on the hill: below us was our ancient church built in
far-off colonial times, and connected with many a story of Revolutionary
times, to which we used to listen greedily: George Lenox had one of
which we never tired.
"My grandfather," said he, "went to church the Sunday after the
proclamation of the Declaration of Independence, and when the clergyman
read the prayers for the royal family he stood up in his pew and cried
out that no such prayers must be read in Belfield--that George III.'s
name was no longer the name of our friend, but of our worst enemy. The
minister rose and shut up his prayer-book forthwith, raised his hand and
pronounced the benediction, and the church was closed until the end of
the war. We were good Federalists, we were," continued Mr. Lenox, "but
we had one staunch Tory and Churchman in our family. After the church
was closed my grandfather's family used to attend Presbyterian meeting
on the hill, close by where your schoolhouse now stands; but their old
dog, Duke, would never go past the church when he followed his master
out on Sunday mornings: he would not go to Presbyterian meeting--not he:
he stretched himself on the great millstone before the closed
church-door."
When Jack, Harry and I sat together on the high "back seat" at school we
had a good view down the hill at the weather-stained old church, with
its imperishable gilt vane on top of the tall spire. Often enough our
vagrant eyes wandered that way, but not that we cared for green slopes
or colonial church or venerable weathercock. The truth of the matter
was, that we oftentimes saw Georgy Lenox walking along the quiet street
under the elms. To tell of our early life in Belfield, and say nothing
of the influence which was already moulding the lives of at least two of
us, would be to give an incomplete and partial picture. I was an
imaginative boy, and Jack was the reverse, yet we were both desperately
in love with the same girl. As for Harry, nobody ever decided what he
felt toward her. They continually quarrelled when they were together,
and Harry sometimes took pains to abuse her in her absence: he never
read of an unworthy trait in a woman but he at once pointed its meaning
at her. He called us "spoons," etc. for caring about her, yet, all the
same, she must have been invested with an endless store of associations
in his mind, for his portfolio was full of sketches of her; which seemed
to furnish his ideals of feminine beauty. She was not only Rowena, but
Rebecca as well (with only a change of complexion), Helen of Troy and
Joan of Arc, Cleopatra and the Madonna, Marie Stuart and Elizabeth
Tudor. Still, Jack and I each felt that he was not one with us in his
devotion to her, and we made no confidences to him respecting her. For
Jack and I talked about her incessantly when we were together: when we
saw her in the street below us we nudged each other, and together felt
the thrill, the inextinguishable rapture, of beholding the sunny gleam
of her golden hair and her quick, graceful gait.
We were not rivals. I do not know how the thought of her came to Jack in
those early days, but he had a habit of decision, and I dare say had
made up his mind that she was to be his wife. He had plenty of
pocket-money, and could buy her trinkets, ribbons and gloves: I had no
money, and my tribute to her was of flowers and fruits. It was natural
to both of us to offer her all we could; and it was equally natural to
her to receive our largesse with a smile and laughing thanks if it
pleased her, and a cool, indifferent shrug of contempt if it failed to
suit her.
I carried the thought of her into all my occupations. Were I planting my
mother's flower-beds, were I writing my composition, it was all the
same: the question was, "Will it please Georgy?" Not that it mattered;
and I well knew that I was a fool for it all, for she was steadily
indifferent to any matters in which she had no personal concern, and
despised my pains with scant ceremony. I too held in contempt my small
efforts to please her, and fell a-dreaming of the wonderful things I was
sure to do some time. Not that she was slow in telling us what she
wanted, and her demands upon us were not of the sort that appertain to
heroic achievements; yet I felt, all the same, that let me once be a
hero I must win her approbation. I can remember her sitting in our
garden at home under the laburnums, with the greenery making a
background for her fresh girl-face. From her babyhood her beauty had
been remarked, and at ten years old she was as used to compliments as an
old woman of the world. Mrs. Lenox had long since resigned expectation
for herself, but she was not yet too hopeless to indulge in passionate
belief of a brilliant future for her daughter; and when I used to
listen to the gorgeous day-dreams of the two, I felt dejectedly that my
own most radiant visions were by comparison the offspring of a lifeless
and gloomy fancy. There was nothing problematical or idealistic in their
ideas of a happy destiny. What they wanted was, in the first place,
money; in the second place, money; thirdly and finally, money. I doubt
whether Mrs. Lenox ever resigned herself to the sway of fiction or
poetry, but I am sure that had she studied Shakespeare she would have
thought Iago's advice to Roderigo shrewdly comprised the worth of all
aspiration. She and Georgy longed for dress, jewels and laces; great
houses panelled with mirrors and carpeted with velvet; magnificence and
pomp and circumstance about their every-day life; horses, carriages,
invitations, theatres, operas,--all the pleasures which throng toward
people with lined pockets and idle lives. Their wants were innumerable,
their taste and fancy a harp of a thousand strings upon which caprice
and vanity could play an endless variety of tunes. Mrs. Lenox had once
enjoyed the luxuries she still coveted so ardently, yet Georgy, who had
never known wealth, or even the easy-assured comforts of life, had
instinctively the keener perception of the two for the worth of costly
surroundings and possessions. No princess who had breathed perfumes all
her life, trod on velvet and been served on gold and silver, could have
felt a more vital necessity for luxury than Georgy, who had always lived
among shabby things and known few but shabby people. She was born with
the looks, manners and tastes of what we call an aristocrat, and her
mother worshipped these traits in her. When one day she flung away her
dinner because it was not to her liking, and went out of doors and
pulled the peaches ripening against the wall, and ate them instead, Mrs.
Lenox felt that such fastidiousness foreshadowed a destiny more than
common. For her to tear her hats to pieces and cut her dress or apron in
shreds because they did not suit her was a frequent caprice, and one we
had all laughed at again and again--except Jack, who was thrifty by
nature and respected the worth of things like a sensible economist. It
was generally he, however, who replaced the ruined garments, and by the
time he was sixteen he had attained quite a nice taste in millinery from
his frequent purchases for Georgy. Mrs. Lenox always had a fit of
weeping when such presents came and were displayed by Georgy as
trophies, for she was still too proud not to be cut deeply by every
fresh humiliation; but her belief in her daughter's future carried her
through the present, and she pacified her scruples in regard to her
course with Jack or anybody else who made outlay for her daughter by
remembering that all such services would be balanced by and by when the
natural order of things had been restored.
All in Belfield knew both Mrs. Lenox and Georgy so well--their history,
the miserable shortcomings of their home, the girl's scanty education
both of intellect and morals--that we could but attribute their faults
to sheer worldliness combined with the evils of their bitter poverty.
Jack and myself, at least, with the most meagre excuse readily forgave
Georgy everything. She was so beautiful, so radiant in all the phases of
her dingy life, so good-natured even in her contempt of our stupidity
and dulness, so eager to find enjoyment in everything, that we were
willing to accept all her faults with her charms, to love her
idolatrously, and blame ourselves for harshness if we were momentarily
angry with the lovely creature.
We had all, even Georgy, been reasonably happy in Belfield until Mr.
Floyd and Antonio Thorpe came. My guardian's influence I will speak of
later, for it touched only myself perhaps; but Tony's was felt more or
less by us all. He widened our horizons at once, and, as usual, enlarged
our imaginations at the expense of our belief in ourselves. We were not
used exactly to be complimented on our ignorance of the world, but in
Belfield habits of thought tended toward a pleasant conviction of the
uselessness of all knowledge and experience that our best inhabitants
did not happen to possess. Until Tony came we were in the habit of
deploring the fate of people who were not born and brought up in
Belfield. Almost the entire population were descendants of the original
proprietors of the soil, and we had our own ideas about our first
families. Thorpe's views, however, were not flattering: he was, in fact,
one of those elegant young men whose innermost souls are penetrated with
convictions of the inadequacy of intellects in general to appreciate
theirs in particular.
Both Jack and I passed sleepless nights at first, wretched at the
thought of his sleeping beneath the same roof with Georgy Lenox--of his
enjoying that mystical, beautiful experience of coming down every
morning to find her at table with her hair freshly curled, to enjoy the
felicity of passing her eggs and toast, to carve a slice for her from
the joint which the welcome addition of the young man's payment for
board allowed Mrs. Lenox to provide for her dinner. Then, too, we felt
with a pang that he would receive with his unequalled grace all sorts of
little services from the daughter of the house: she would pour his tea
for him, counting the lumps of sugar and dropping cream upon them in the
distracting way we knew; she would amuse him with her sweet-voiced
chatter. He was so old, so handsome with his velvety eyes and his
moustache, she might even fall in love with him. However, Georgy was not
given to sentiment, and Tony, for his part, was utterly indifferent to
her: indeed, the most exclusive circles in Belfield opened to him at
once, for a young man with a moustache was a _rara avis_ there, the
masculine element in the village falling short of social requirements,
as its representatives were generally either in their first or second
childhood. But the only intimacy he cultivated was with me and my
mother: he criticised everybody else, and it was evident that he
considered nothing in Belfield quite good enough for him.
"What a great man my master is!" says the French valet: "nothing suits
him." And it must be confessed that the valet's state of mind
concerning his master much resembled ours regarding Thorpe. At every
woman in the place except my mother he levelled trenchant sarcasms: the
men, he declared, possessed every trait which could shock or weary a man
of the world, and not only displeased his eyes, but were so foreign to
his spheres of thought that he was obliged to ignore them. At the habits
and customs of everybody alike he shrugged his shoulders, and we used to
wonder to each other why so great a man stayed in Belfield at all. But
he did us no harm, and it is not impossible that he did us good. He
laughed freely at our provincialisms, accustomed us to take raillery
good-naturedly, disillusionized us in many ways, and showed us always a
pattern of polished and careful demeanor.
He used to entertain us frequently--if I may use the word "entertain" to
describe his indifferent toleration of us and his acceptance of such
listeners in default of better--by a description of Mr. Raymond's place,
"The Headlands," as it was usually called. He had been in the habit of
spending a few days of his vacations there for years, and was in a
position to enlighten Georgy about her distant cousin and mine, Helen
Floyd, Mr. Raymond's probable heiress. Perhaps he liked to tease Georgy,
yet it is possible that the little daughter of Mr. Floyd, growing up in
the quiet, stately place, really possessed something already to arouse
Tony's admiration for a child ten years old; but he would dwell upon her
beauty, her brilliant prospects in the future and the grandeur of her
present possessions, until Georgy was enraged with him. The train was
perhaps already laid in the mind of the young girl which led up to a
magazine of hatred and anger against more successful mortals, and needed
but a chance spark to light it. She made a rival of little Helen Floyd
at once, and every action of her life became infused with ambitious
desires to surpass her in some way. She besieged me with questions
concerning my guardian, his ideas, views, tastes and habits, and beset
me feverishly to use my influence to get her invited to The Headlands.
Mr. Floyd's visits became more and more frequent as the summer advanced,
and I began with some jealousy to notice a growing change in my mother.
In former times she had shown an exquisite poise of strength and peace
in every phase of her life, but of late she seemed possessed with a sort
of girlish fluttering and disquiet: her eyes were dreamy and her voice
softer and less decided in its inflexions, and her manner to me, instead
of continuing its old noble habits of command, became timid and
caressing, as if she were anxious to propitiate me. In the evenings,
instead of sitting among us boys on the piazza, she would leave us and
walk by herself under the laburnums in the garden; and if I followed her
and put my arm about her, I found, with vague pain and rebellion at my
heart, that although she amply responded to my tenderness, she had sweet
and sacred thoughts that she was smiling over all by herself. It had
been her wont to busy herself with housekeeping cares from morning until
night: our income was small, and she was very busy, for she gave thought
to everything and decided wisely upon the smallest matter. In these
duties she had found pleasant occupation apparently: she had shown no
fatigue, had marred nothing by impatience or over-haste--had judiciously
studied how to manage every detail of our lives. Now all at once there
seemed a little lassitude upon her: she left all questions concerning
the housekeeping for her domestic, Ann, to decide; she would drop her
sewing in her lap and fall into reverie, her cheeks crimsoning, her eyes
growing dark and misty, and emerge into reality presently with a
beautiful trembling smile on her lips. I grudged her those reveries and
those smiles: I quaked at the thought that her heart was turning toward
Mr. Floyd, much as I loved and venerated him. I knew that she had
worshipped my father, and I wanted her to carry that one feeling supreme
to the end of her days. _Cet âge est sans pitié_. I realized nothing of
the preciousness of those impulses which were quickening her again into
happy youth: I realized nothing of her having been lonely--nothing of
the pain and passion of longing which must have tried her through these
eight years of widowhood, without any companionship save mine, with such
cruel silence when she had been used to every tenderness, to constant
loving flatteries, to gentlest ministrations--or I hope I should not so
bitterly have resented this new hope of hers which made her almost
afraid to look me in the face.
When Mr. Floyd did not come he wrote frequently to my mother. I used to
bring his letters to her with a swelling heart and bitter tears in my
eyes; but she knew nothing of those tears, for she never looked up, nor
when she took the letters did she read them before me. He wrote
frequently to me as well as to her, but while her envelopes covered
numerous well-filled pages, his notes to me were adorned with just one
degree more ample verbiage than we use in a telegram.
But nothing was said between us until one night early in September. It
was a rainy evening, but so warm that both doors and windows stood wide
open, and we heard the faint pattering music of the swift succeeding
showers mingled with the monotonous chant of the katydids. My mother sat
at the table with a pretence of work in her hands, but I saw that she
trembled so much that she could not draw the thread. I had brought her
in a letter at seven o'clock directed in Mr. Floyd's fine cramped
handwriting, and I too had a note from him. My mother had taken hers
from me with a devouring blush, and as if to hide it had thrust it
beneath a pile of cambric ruffles on the table.
Her look and manner had made me turn almost sick with pain, for it
seemed to me she no longer loved or trusted me. I had lost everything, I
told myself with profound dreariness. I laid my own letter from Mr.
Floyd open in her lap without a word. It ran thus:
"MY DEAR BOY: I have had a trying week: Helen has been at the point of
death, and that she is now convalescent fills me with gratitude to God
too great for words. I think she would have died if I had not been here.
As soon as she is well I want you to spend a few weeks at The Headlands:
you need the change, and my little girl needs a friend. Love to your
dear mother and for yourself.
"JAMES FLOYD."
But although my mother took up the letter, something seemed to blind
her: she could not read it, and put it by and resumed her work. We spent
an hour in complete silence.
"We are very dull," she said at last, looking over at me with a little
trembling smile. "Have you nothing to tell me, Floyd?"
"Why do you not read your letter, mother?"
"Oh, Floyd!" she cried, "it seems to me you are a little hard and cruel
to me of late."
"Read your letter, mother, and mine too. If it is impossible for you to
open a letter from Cousin James before me, I will leave the room."
She obeyed me, calmly taking her missive out from its hiding-place,
opening it and reading it through: then she handed it to me with her old
habit of command: "I wish you to read it, my boy."
I did so: it was just as I had thought. Mr. Floyd loved her: he had
spoken of his feelings many times, and was waiting for her answer.
"Poor little Helen!" said my mother tenderly. "I am so thankful she is
better! You will like to go to The Headlands, Floyd? 'Tis a beautiful
place: your father and I attended Cousin James's wedding there. I
remember still how superb and stately the place was."
"I do not feel as if I ever wanted to do anything any more, mother."
She gave me a piteous glance, and her hands locked and unlocked as they
lay together in her lap.
"I used to think you loved me, mother," I blurted out.
In another moment she had me in her arms. There was no more doubt
between us: she had given him up, and our old sweet, strong comradeship
returned.
ELLEN W. OLNEY.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE WASHER AT THE WELL: A BRETON LEGEND.
Nigh a league to the castle still:
_Twelve_! booms the bell from the old clock-tower.
Now, brave mare, for the stretch up the hill,
Then just a gallop of half an hour.
Half an hour, and home and rest!
Is she watching for him on the oriel stair,
Or cradling the babe on her silken breast
In the hush of the drowsy chamber there?
Holà! steady, good Bonnibelle!
Scared at the wind, or the owlet's flight?
Ha! what stirs by the Washing Well?
Who goes there at the dead of night?
Over the stream below the slope,
Where the women wash their webs at noon,
A form like a shadow seems to grope,
Doubtful under the doubtful moon.
Good mother, your task is late and lone.
All goes well at the castle? say!--
Not a word speaks the withered crone,
Gray as a ghost in the moonlight gray.
Stone-still over the running stream,
Steadily, swiftly, round and round,
Plying her web through gloom and gleam,
Out and in, with never a sound--
Never a sound save the blasted oak
That shakes in the wind, and the bubbling well:
This is no face of the peasant-folk!--
With the sign of the cross he bars the spell.
Slowly, slowly she turns about:
Oh the creeping horror that chokes his breath
As slowly she draws the linen out,
And fashions its folds in guise of death--
Long and loose like a winding-sheet!
So sharp he pulls at the bridle-rein
The mare stands straight on her trembling feet
Before she cowers to the ground again.
Now he knows, with a shudder of dread,
The Ghost of the Well he has looked upon
Washing the shroud for some one dead--
Some one dear to him, dead and gone!
Well and washer and funeral-pall
Swim under his sight in pale eclipse.
The good God send that the shroud be small!--
He bites the words in his bloodless lips.
Over the lonely moor alone,
Praying a prayer for the dearest life,
Stifling a cry for the dead unknown,
Child or wife: is it child or wife?
Over the threshold and up the stair,
And into the hush of the deathly room,
To a motionless form in the midnight there
Under the tapers' glimmering gloom;
And the babe on her bosom--child and wife!
Child and wife! and his journey done.
Hark! overhead, with a sullen strife,
The bell in the old clock-tower booms--_One!_
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
THE REAL PRISONER OF CHILLON: A GENTLEMAN GROSSLY MISREPRESENTED.
[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.]
"A character more celebrated than known" is Francis Bonivard, prior of
St. Victor and Prisoner of Chillon. It is not by any intentional
imposture on his part that he goes stalking through modern literature
disguised in the character of hero, saint and martyr, and shouting in a
hoarse chest-voice his "appeal from tyranny to God." In fact, if he
could be permitted to revisit his cherished little shelf of books about
which has grown the ample library of the University of Geneva, and view
the various delineations of himself by artist, poet, and even serious
historian, it would be delightful to witness his comical astonishment.
Perhaps it is not to be laid to the fault of Lord Byron, who after
visiting the old castle and its dungeon beguiled the hours of a rainy
day at the inn at Ouchy with writing a poem concerning which he frankly
confesses that he had not the slightest knowledge of its hero. Hobhouse,
his companion, ought to have been better informed, but was not. If
anybody is to blame, it is the recent writers, who do know the facts,
but are unwilling to hurt so fine an heroic figure or to dethrone "one
of the demigods of the liberal mythology." Enough to say that the Muse
of History has been guilty of one of those practical jokes to which she
is too much addicted, in dressing with tragic buskins and muffling in
the cloak of a hero of melodrama, and so palming off for earnest on two
generations of mankind, the drollest wag of the sixteenth century.
A wild young fellow like Bonivard, with a lively appreciation of the
ridiculous, could not fail to see the comic aspect of the fate which
invested him with the spiritual and temporal authority and emoluments
of the priory of St. Victor. This was a rich little Benedictine
monastery just outside the eastern gate of Geneva, on the little knoll
now crowned by the observatory, surrounded with walls and moat of its
own, independent of the bishop of Geneva in spiritual matters, and in
temporal affairs equally independent of the city: in fact, it was a
petty sovereignty by itself, and its dozen of hearty, well-provided
monks, though nominally under the rule of Cluny, were a law to
themselves, and not a very rigid one either. The office of prior, by
virtue of a little arrangement at Rome, descended to Bonivard from his
uncle, immediately upon whose demise the young potentate of twenty-one
took upon him the state and functions of his office in a way to show the
monks of St. Victor that they had no King Log to deal with. The document
is still extant, in the Latin of the period, in which Prior Bonivard
ordains that every new brother at his initiation shall not only stand
treat all round, but shall, at his own cost and charges, furnish every
one of his brethren with a new cap. Another document of equal gravity
makes new ordinances concerning the convent-kitchen, which seems to have
been one of the good prior's most religious cares.[6] Not only his own
subjects, but those of other jurisdictions, were made to feel the
majesty of his sovereign authority. He would let them know that he had
"just as much jurisdiction at St. Victor as the duke of Savoy had at
Chambéry." He heard causes, sentenced to prison, even received
ambassadors from his brother the duke, but not without looking sharply
at their credentials. If these were wanting, the unfortunate wretches
were threatened with the gallows as spies, and when they had been
thoroughly frightened the monarch would indulge himself in the exercise
of the sweetest prerogative of royalty, the pardoning power, and, when
it was considered that the majesty of the state had been sufficiently
asserted, would wind up with asking the whole company to dinner.
[Illustration: FRANÇOIS BONIVARD, "THE PRISONER OF CHILLON."
[From an old print in the Public Library of Geneva, never before
copied.]]
It had been considered a clever stroke of policy, at a time when the
dukes of Savoy and the bishops of Geneva, who agreed in nothing else,
were plotting, together or separately, to capture and extinguish the
immemorial liberties of the brave little free city, to get this
fortified outpost before its very gate officered by a brilliant and
daring young Savoyard gentleman, who would be bound to the duke by his
nativity and to the Church by his office, and to both by his interests.
To the dismay of bishop and duke, it appeared that the young prior, who
had led a gay life of it at the University of Turin, had nevertheless
read his classics to some purpose, and had come back with his head full
of Plato and Plutarch and Livy and of theories of republican liberty. So
that by putting him into St. Victor they had turned that little
stronghold from an outpost of attack upon Geneva liberties into the
favorite resort and rendezvous of all the young liberal leaders of that
gay but gallant little republic, who found themselves irresistibly drawn
to young Bonivard, partly as a republican and still more as a jolly good
fellow.
The first manifestation of his sympathies in that direction occurred soon
after his installation as prior. His uncle on his deathbed had confessed
to young Francis the burden on his conscience in that he had taken Church
money and applied it to the making of a battery of culverins wherewith to
levy war against one of his neighbors in the country; and bequeathed to
his nephew the convent and the culverins, with the charge to melt down the
latter into a chime of church-bells which should atone for his evil deeds.
Not long after, Bonivard was telling the story to his friend Berthelier,
the daring and heroic leader of the "Sons of Geneva" in their perilous
struggle against tyranny, when the latter exclaimed, "What! spoil good
cannon to make bells? Never! Give us the guns, and you shall have old
metal to make bells enough to split your ears. But let guns be guns. So
the Church will be doubly served. There will be chimes at St. Victor and
guns in Geneva, which is a Church city." The bargain was struck, as a vote
in the records of the city council shows to this day. But it was the
beginning of a quarrel with the duke of Savoy which was to cost Bonivard
more than he had counted on. There was reckless deviltry enough among all
these young liberals, but some of them--not Bonivard--were capable of
seriously counting the cost of their game. On one occasion--it was at the
christening of Berthelier's child, and Bonivard was godfather--Berthelier
took his friend aside from the guests and said, "It is time we had done
with dancing and junketing and organized for the defence of
liberty."--"All right!" said the prior. "Come on, and may the Lord prosper
our crazy schemes!" Berthelier took his hand, and with a serious look that
sobered the rattle-headed ecclesiastic for a moment, replied, "But let me
warn you that this is going to cost you your living and me my head."--"I
have heard him say this a hundred times," says Bonivard in his
_Chronicles_. The dungeon at Chillon and the mural tablet in the Tour de
l'Isle at Geneva tell how truly the prophecy was fulfilled.
There was so little of the strut of the stage-hero about Bonivard that
he could not be comfortable in doing a chivalrous thing without a joke
to take off the gloss of it. Before the ducal party had quite given up
hopes of him there was a serious affair on their hands--the need of
putting out of the way by such means, treacherous and atrocious, as the
Savoyards of that day loved to use, one of the noblest of the Geneva
magistrates, Aimé Lévrier. An emissary of the duke, of high rank,
kinsman to Bonivard, came to St. Victor and offered the prior
magnificent inducements to aid in the plot. With a gravity that must
have convulsed the spectators if there had been any, Bonivard pointed to
his monastic gown, his prayer-book and his crucifix, and pleaded his
deep sense of the sacredness of his office as a reason for having
nothing to do with the affair. "Then," says his kinsman, rising in
wrath, "I will do the business myself. I'll have Lévrier out of his bed
and over in Savoy this very night."--"Do you really mean it, uncle? Give
me your hand!"--"Then you consent, after all, to help me in the
matter?"--"Oh no, uncle: that isn't it. But I know these Genevese are a
hasty sort of folk, and I am just going to raise thirty florins to be
spent in saying masses to-morrow for the repose of your soul." Before
the evening was over, Bonivard found an opportunity of slipping in
disguise over to the house of Lévrier and giving a hint of what was
intended: the notes of preparation for resistance that Berthelier and
his friends began at once to make wrought upon the excited nerves of the
ambassador and his armed retinue to such a point that they were fain to
escape from the town by a secret gate before daylight.
The affair of his rescue of Pecolat is another illustration of his
character and of the strange, turbulent age in which he lived; and it
went far to embitter the hatred of the duke and the bishop against him.
This poor fellow was the jester, song-singer and epigrammatist of the
madcap patriots who were associated under the title of "Sons of Geneva."
Under a trumped-up charge of plotting the death of the bishop he was
kidnapped and carried away to one of the castles in the neighborhood,
and there tortured until a false confession was wrung from him
implicating Berthelier and others. To secure his condemnation to death
he was brought back into the city and presented before the court; but
the sight of the poor cripple, racked and bruised with recent tortures,
and his steadfastness in recanting his late confession, wrought more
with the judges than the fear of the duke, and he was acquitted. But the
feeble and ferocious bishop, moved partly by malignity and partly, no
doubt, by sincere and cowardly terror, was resolved to kill him; and by
some fiction declaring him to have been in the minor orders, he clapped
him into the bishop's prison, claiming to try him by ecclesiastical law.
The story of renewed tortures inflicted on their helpless comrade, and
their knowledge of the certain death that awaited him, stirred the blood
of the patriots of Geneva. It was just the moment for the prior of St.
Victor to show that the studies at Freiburg and Turin that had made him
_doctor utriusque juris_ had not been in vain. He would fight the bishop
with his own weapon of Church law. He despatched Pecolat's own brother
with letters to the archbishop of Vienne, metropolitan to the bishop of
Geneva, and, using his family influence, which was not small, he secured
a summons to the bishop and chapter of Geneva to appear before the
archiepiscopal court and give account of the affair, and meanwhile to
cease all proceedings against the prisoner.
[Illustration: THE DUNGEON OF BONIVARD.]
It was comparatively easy to procure the summons. The difficulty was to
find some one competent to the functions of episcopal usher and bold
enough to serve it. Bonivard bethought him of a "caitiff wretch"--an
obscure priest--to whom he handed the document with two round dollars
lying on it, and bade him hand the paper to the bishop at mass the next
day in the cathedral. The starving clergyman hesitated long between his
fears and his necessities, but finally promised to do the work on
condition that the prior should stand by him in person and see him
through. The hour approached, and the commissioner's courage was oozing
rapidly away. His knees knocked together, and he slipped back in the
crowd, hoping to escape. The vigilant prior darted after him, seized
him, and laying his hand on the dagger that he wore under his robe
whispered in his ear, "Do it or I'll stab you!" He adds, in his
_Chronicles_, "I should have been as good as my word: I do not say it by
way of boasting. I know I was acting like a fool, but I was quite beside
myself with anxiety for my friend." Happily, there was no need of
extreme measures. He gripped his terrified victim by the thumb, and as
the procession moved toward the church-door he thrust the paper into his
hand, saying, "Now's the time! You've got to do it." And all the time he
held him fast by the thumb. The bishop came near, and Bonivard let go
the wretch's thumb and pushed him to the front, pointing to the prelate
and saying, "Do your work!" The bishop turned pale with terror of
assassination as he heard the words. But the trembling clerk, not less
terrified than the bishop, dropped on his knees and presented the
archiepiscopal mandate, gasping out, "My lord, _inhibitur vobis, prout
in copia_." Bonivard retreated into his inviolable sanctuary of St.
Victor. "I was young enough and crazy enough," he says, "to fear neither
bishop nor duke." He had saved poor Pecolat's life, although the work
was not finished until the publication of an interdict from the
metropolitan silencing every church-bell and extinguishing every
altar-candle in the city had brought the bishop to terms.[7]
It is a hardship to the writer to be compelled to retrench the story of
the early deeds for liberty of Bonivard and his boon companions. There
is a rollicking swagger about them all, which by and by begins to be
sobered when it is seen that on the side of the oppressor there is
_power_. By violence, by fraudulent promises, by foul treachery on the
part of cowardly citizens, the duke of Savoy gains admittance with his
army within the walls of Geneva, and begins his delicious and bloody
revenge for the indignities that have been put upon his pretensions and
usurpations. Berthelier, a very copy from the antique--a hero that might
have stepped forth into the sixteenth century from the page of
Plutarch[8]--remained in the town serenely to await the death which he
foreknew. On the day of the duke's entrance Bonivard, who had no such
relish for martyrdom for its own sake, put himself between two of his
most trusted friends, the lord of Voruz and the abbot of Montheron of
the Pays de Vaud, and galloped away disguised as a monk. "Come first to
my convent," said the abbot, "and thence we will take you to a place of
safety." The convent was reached, and in the morning Bonivard was
greeted by his comrade Voruz, who came into his room, and, laying paper
and pen before him, required him to write a renunciation of his priory
in favor of the abbot of Montheron. Resistance was vain. He was a
prisoner in the hands of traitors. The alternative being "Your priory or
your life!" he frankly owns that he required no time at all to make up
his choice. Voruz took the precious document, with the signature still
wet, and went out, double locking the door behind him. His two friends
turned him over to the custody of the duke, who locked him up for two
years at Grolée, one of his castles down the Rhone, and put the honest
abbot of Montheron in possession of the rich living of St. Victor.
But Bonivard in his prison was less to be pitied than the citizens of
Geneva who remained in their subjugated city. The two despots, the
bishop and the duke, who had seized the unhappy town, combined to crush
the gay and insubordinate spirit out of it. All this time, says
Bonivard, "they imprisoned, they scourged, they tortured, they beheaded,
they hung, so as it is pitiful to tell."
Meanwhile, the influential family friends of Bonivard, some of them high
in court favor, discovering that he was yet alive and in prison,
bestirred themselves to procure his liberation; and not in vain, for the
possession that had made him dangerous, the priory of St. Victor, having
been wrested from him, there was little harm that he could do. His
immediate successor in the priory, good Abbot de Montheron, had not
indeed long enjoyed the benefice. He had gone on business to Rome,
where certain Churchmen who admired his new benefice invited him (so
Bonivard tells the story) to a banquet _more Romano_, and gave him a
dose of the "cardinal powder," which operated so powerfully that it
purged the soul right out of the body. He left a paper behind him in
which, as a sign of remorse for his crime, he resigned all his rights in
the priory back to Bonivard.[9] But the pope, whose natural affection
toward his cousins and nephews overflowed freely in the form of gifts of
what did not belong to him, bestowed the living on a cousin, who
commuted it for an annual revenue of six hundred and forty gold
crowns--a splendid revenue for those days--and poor Bonivard, whose sole
avocation was that of gentleman, found it difficult to carry on that
line of business with neither capital nor income. He came back, some
five years later, into possession of the priory. They were five years of
exciting changes, of fierce terrorism and oppression at Geneva, followed
by a respite, a rallying of the spirit of the people, an actual recovery
of some of the old rights of the city, and, presently, by the beginning
of some signs of religious light coming from the direction of Germany.
And the way in which Bonivard at last got reinstalled into his convent
is curiously illustrative of the strange condition of society in those
times. One May morning in 1527 the little town was all agog with strange
news from Rome. The Eternal City had been taken by storm, sacked,
pillaged, burned! The Roman bishop was prisoner to the Roman emperor, if
indeed he was alive at all. In fact, there was a rumor--dreadful, no
doubt, but attended by vast consolations--that the whole court of Rome
had perished. Immediately there was a rush to the bishop's palace, and a
scramble for the vacant livings in the diocese that had been held by
absentees at Rome. The bishop, delighted at such a windfall of
patronage, dispensed his favors right and left, not forgetting, says
Bonivard, to reserve something comfortable for himself in the shape of
a fat convent that had been held by a cardinal. This was Bonivard's
opportunity, and, times and the bishop having changed, he got back once
more into his cherished quarters as prior of St. Victor. The convent was
there, and the friars, but the estates that had been wont to keep them
all right royally were mostly in the hands of the duke and his minions.
It is in the effort to recover these that Bonivard shines out in his
most magnificent character, that of military hero. The campaign of
Cartigny includes the most memorable of his feats of arms.
Cartigny was an estate about six miles down the left bank of the Rhone
from Geneva, appertaining to St. Victor. "It was a chastel of
pleasaunce, not a forteresse," says our hero, who is the Homer of his
own brave deeds. But the duke kept a garrison there, and to every demand
the prior made for his place he replied that he did not dare give it up
for fear of being excommunicated by the pope. Rent-time came, and the
Savoyard government enjoined the tenants not to pay to the prior.
Whereupon that potentate declared that, being refused civil justice, he
"fell back on the law of nations."
The military resources of his realm were limited. He counted ten
able-bodied subjects, but they were monks and not liable to service. The
culverins of his uncle were gone, but he had six muskets--a loan from
the city--and there were four pounds of powder in the magazine. But this
was not of itself sufficient for a war against the duke of Savoy. He
must subsidize mercenaries.
About this time there chanced to be at Geneva a swashbuckler from Berne,
Bischelbach by name, by trade a butcher, who had found the new régime of
the Reformers at that city too strait-laced for his tastes and habits,
and had come to Geneva, with some vagabonds at his heels, in search of
adventures and a livelihood. Him did the prior of St. Victor, greatly
impressed with his own accounts of his powers, commission as
generalissimo of the forces. Second in command he set a priest, likewise
just thrown out of business by the Reformation in the North; and in a
council of war the plan of campaign was determined. But before the
actual clash of arms began the solemn preliminaries usual between
hostile powers must be scrupulously fulfilled. A herald was commissioned
to make proclamation in the name of the lord of St. Victor, through all
the lands of Cartigny, that no man should venture to execute there any
orders, whether of pope or duke, under penalty of being hung. This
energetic procedure struck due terror, for when Bonivard's captain with
several soldiers appeared before the castle it capitulated without a
blow.
It was a brief though splendid victory. The very first raid in which the
"Knights of the Spoon"--an association of neighboring country
gentlemen--harried that region they found that the captain and entire
garrison of the castle had gone to market (not without imputations of
treason), leaving the post in charge of one woman, who promptly
surrendered.
The sovereign of St. Victor's blood was up. He resolved to draw, if need
were, on the entire resources of his realm. The army was promptly
reinforced to twenty men, and Bonivard took the field in person at the
head of his forces. On what wise this array debouched in two corps
d'armée one Sunday morning from two of the gates of Geneva; how the
junction of the forces was effected; the military history of the march;
how they appeared, at last, before the castle of Cartigny,--are these
not written by the pen of the hero himself in his _Chronicles_ of
Geneva? But Bonivard, though brave, was merciful. Willing to spare the
effusion of blood, he sent the general-in-chief, Bischelbach, with his
servant, Diebolt, as an interpreter, to summon the castle. The answer
was a shot that knocked poor Diebolt over with a mortal wound; whereupon
the attacking army fell back in a masterly manner into the woods and
made good their way into Geneva, bringing one prisoner, whom they had
caught unarmed near the castle, and leaving Diebolt to die at a roadside
inn.
We may not further narrate the deeds of Bonivard as a martial hero,
though they are neither few nor uninteresting.[10] But he is equally
worthy of himself as a religious reformer. It was about this time that
the stirrings of religious reformation at Berne and elsewhere began to
be heard at Geneva, and the thought began to be seriously entertained by
some of the patriotic "Sons of Geneva" that perhaps that liberty for
which they had dared and suffered so much in vain might best come with
that gospel which had wrought such wonders in other communities. There
was one man who could advise them what to do; and they went together
over to the convent and sought audience and ghostly counsel of the
prior. "We are going to have done with all popish ceremonies," said
they, "and drive out the whole rabble-rout of papistry, monks, priests
and all: then we mean to send for gospel ministers to introduce the true
Christian Reformation." It is pleasant to imagine the expression of
Bonivard's countenance as he replied to his ardent friends: "It is a
very praiseworthy idea. There is no doubt that all these ecclesiastics
sadly need reformation. I am one of them myself. But who is to do the
reforming? Whoever it is, they had better begin operations on
themselves. If you are so fond of the gospel, why don't you practise it?
It looks as if you did not so much love the gospel as you hate us. And
what do you hate us for? It is not because we are so different from you,
but because we are so like. You say we are a licentious lot; well, so
are you. We drink hard; so do you. We gamble and we swear; but what do
you do, I should like to know? Why should you be so hard on us? We
don't interfere with your little enjoyments: for pity's sake, don't
meddle with ours. You talk about driving us out and sending for the
Lutheran ministers. Gentlemen, think twice before you do it. They will
not have been here two years before you will wish they were gone. If you
dislike us because we are too much like you, you will detest them
because they are so different from you. My friends, do one thing or the
other. Either let us alone, or, if you must do some reforming, try it on
yourselves."
Thus did this excellent pastor, in the spirit of the gospel injunction
to count the cost, give spiritual counsel to those who sought
reformation of the Church. "I warrant you," he wrote concerning them,
"they went off with their tails between their legs. I am as fond of
reformation as anybody, but I am a little scrupulous as to who shall
take it in hand."[11]
Bonivard's harum-scarum raids into the duke of Savoy's dominions after
rents or reprisals at last became so embarrassing to his Geneva friends
that, much as they enjoyed the fun of them, it became necessary to say
to the good monk that this sort of thing really must stop; and feeling
the force of his argument, that he must have _something_ to live on, the
city council allowed its neighboring potentate a subvention of four
crowns and a half monthly to enable him to keep up a state worthy of the
dignity of a sovereign. He grumbled at the amount, but took it; and
thereafter the peace of Europe was less disturbed on his part.
But bad news came to the gay prior in his impoverished monastery. His
mother was ill at his old home at Seyssel in Savoy, and he must see her
before she died. It was venturing into the tiger's den, as all his
friends told him, and as he did not need to be told. But he thought he
would adventure it if he could get a safe-conduct from the tiger. The
matter was arranged: the duke sent Bonivard his passport, limited to a
single month; and the prior arrived at Seyssel, and nearly frightened
the poor old lady out of her last breath with her sense of the peril to
which he had exposed himself.
Our hero's incomparable genius for getting himself into difficulties
never shone more brightly than at this hour. While here in the country
of his mortal enemy, on the last days of his expiring safe-conduct, he
got news of accusations gravely sustained at Geneva that he had gone
over into Savoy to treat with the enemy. He did not dare to stay: he did
not dare to go back. If he could get his safe-conduct extended for one
month, to the end of May, he would try to make his way through the Pays
de Vaud (then belonging to Savoy) to Fribourg in the Swiss
Confederation. The extension was granted, and with many assurances of
good-will from friends of the duke he pushed on. It was a fine May
morning, the 26th, that he was on his last day's journey to Lausanne,
and passing through a pine wood. Suddenly men sprang from ambush upon
Bonivard, who grasped his sword and spurred, calling to his guide, "Put
spurs!" But instead of so doing the guide turned and whipped out his
knife and cut Bonivard's sword-belt; "Whereupon these worthy gentlemen,"
says Bonivard's _Chronicle_, "jumped on me and took me prisoner in the
name of my lord duke." Safe-conducts were in vain. A bagful of ropes was
produced, and he was carried on a mule, bound hand and foot, in secrecy,
to the duke's castle of Chillon, the captain of which was one of the
ambuscading party. For six years he was hidden from the world, and at
first men knew not whether he was alive or dead. But his sufferings at
the hand of the common foe put to shame the suspicions that had been
engendered at Geneva, and it is recorded, to the honor of the Genevese,
that during all that period, whenever negotiations were opened between
them and the duke of Savoy, the liberation of Bonivard was always
insisted on as one of the conditions.
The story of the imprisonment is soon told; for, strangely enough, this
most garrulously egotistical of writers never alludes to it but twice,
and then briefly. The first two years he was kept in the upper chambers
of the castle and treated kindly, but at the end of this time the castle
received a visit from the duke, and from that time forth the Prisoner of
Chillon was remanded to the awful and sombre crypt. A single sentence in
his handwriting is all that he tells us of this period, of which he
might have told so much, and in this he shows a disposition to look at
the affair rather in its humorous than in its Byronesque aspect. For his
one recorded reminiscence of his four years of dungeon-life is, that "he
had such abundant leisure for promenading that he wore in the rock
pavement a little path as neatly as if it had been done with a
stone-hammer."[12]
One March morning in 1536 the Prisoner of Chillon heard through the
windows of his dungeon the sound of a cannonade by land and lake. It was
the army of Berne, which was finishing its victorious campaign through
the Pays de Vaud by the siege of the duke's last remaining stronghold,
the castle of Chillon. They were joyfully aided by a flotilla fitted out
by Geneva, which had never forgotten its old friend. That night the
dungeon-door was burst open, and Bonivard and three fellow-prisoners
were carried off in triumph to Geneva.
Not Rip Van Winkle when he awoke from his long slumber in the Catskills,
not the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus when they came back from their
sepulchre and found their city Christian, had a better right to be
surprised than the prior of St. Victor when he got back to Geneva. Duke
and bishop and all their functionaries were expelled; priests and
preaching-friars were gone; the mass was abolished; in the cathedral of
St. Peter's and all the lesser churches, which had been cleared of
their images, there were singing of psalms and preaching of fiery
sermons by Reformers from France; and the streets through which he had
sometimes had to move by stealth were filled with joyous crowds to hail
him as a martyr. St. Victor was no more. If he went to look for his old
home, he found a heap of rubbish, for all the suburbs of the city that
might give shelter to an enemy had been torn down by the unsparing
patriots of Geneva, and the trees had been felled. The joyous city had
ceased, and Bonivard's prophecy to his roystering companions was not
long in being fulfilled for himself as well as for them: they soon found
Calvin's little finger to be heavier than the bishop's loins.
And yet the heroic little town showed a noble gratitude toward the old
friend of its liberties. The house which he chose out of all the city
was given him for his own and furnished at the public expense. A pension
of two hundred crowns a year in gold was settled on him, and he was made
a senator of the republic. To all which was added a condition that he
should lead a respectable life--a proviso which is practically explained
in the very next appearance of his name in the records on account of a
misdemeanor for which his accomplice was ordered to quit the town within
three days.
The more generous was the town the more exacting became the Martyr. He
could not get over his free-and-easy way of living in the gay old days
when the tithes of his benefice yielded him nigh a thousand yellow
crowns a year. He could not see why he was not entitled to have his
rents back again; and after a vain effort on the part of the council to
make him see it, he went off to Berne, where he had been admitted a
citizen, to ask it to interfere for him, sending back an impudent letter
renouncing his Geneva citizenship, on the ground that in his reduced
circumstances he could not afford to be a citizen in two places at once.
For a while the patient city lost its patience with its unruly
beneficiary, but the genuine grateful and kindly feeling that every one
felt for the poor fellow, and the general admiration for his learning
and wit, conspired with his growing embarrassments to bring about a
settlement of the affair on the basis of a reduced pension with a round
lump sum to pay his debts.
They sent for him two or three years later to come to Geneva as
historiographer, and he came, bringing with him a wife from Berne, who
died soon after his arrival. For a man of his years, he had a remarkable
alacrity at getting married, and his second venture was an unlucky one.
For from the wedding-day onward, when he was not before the council with
some quarrel or some affair of debt he was apt to come before it to get
them to compel his wife to live with him, or, failing that, to get her
money to live on himself. What time could be saved from these
wranglings, which lasted almost till the poor woman's death, was devoted
ardently to his literary work. The history grew apace, and other books
besides. In the seditions of the Libertine party against the austerities
of the new régime the old man took the side of law and order and good
morals (in his book on _L'ancienne et nouvelle Police de Genève_) with
an ardor that was the more surprising as one remembered his antecedents.
In the midst of his toils he found time to get married to a third wife
and to go to law with his neighbors. He is continually coming to the
council, sometimes for a little loan to help him with his lawsuits,
sometimes for relief in his embarrassments. It is touching to see how
tender they are toward the poor foolish old man. They make him little
grants from time to time, always looking to it that their money shall be
applied to the object designated, and not "on his fantasies." They take
up one of his notes for him, looking to see that it has not been
tampered with, because "he is easily circumvented and not adroit in his
business." He complains of the heat during an illness one summer, and
the seigneurie give him the White Chamber in the town-hall, and when
winter comes on, and he is old and infirm, they assign him the lodging
lately occupied by Mathurin Cordier (famous schoolmaster Corderius,
whose _Dialogues_ were the first book in Latin of our grandfathers),
because it contained a stove--a rare luxury. He thanks them for their
kindness as his fathers, and makes them heirs of his library and
manuscripts.
There was another and more solemn assemblage, his relations with which
were less tender. This was the consistory of the Church, which found it
less easy to allow for the old man's infirmities. His first appearance
before this body was under accusation of playing at dice with Clement
Marot, another famous character and the sweet singer of the French
Reformation. He comes next time of his own accord, asking the venerable
brethren to interfere because his second wife ran away from him on their
wedding-day, she defending herself on the ground of a bad cold. His
domestic troubles bring him thither so often as to put the clergy out of
patience. He is called up for beating his wife, but shows that the
discipline was needed, and she is admonished to be more obedient in
future. Later on he is questioned why he does not come to church. He
can't walk, is the answer. But he is told that if he can get himself
carried to the hôtel de ville to see the new carvings, he could get
carried to church. And why does he neglect the communion? _Answer_: He
has been debarred from it. "Then present your request to be restored."
So the poor old gentleman presents himself six weeks later, asking to be
readmitted to the Church; which is granted, but with the remark, entered
on the record, that he "does not show much contrition in coming with a
bunch of flowers over his ear--a thing very unbecoming in a man of his
years."
The dreadful consistory had a principal concern in the affair that
darkened the declining days of Bonivard with the shadow of a tragedy. An
escaped nun had found refuge in his lodgings after his third wife's
death; and after some love-making--on which side was disputed--there was
a promise of marriage given by him, which, however, he was in no hurry
to fulfil. The consistory deemed it best to interfere, in the interests
of propriety, and insist on the marriage; and the decrepit old invalid
in vain pleaded his age and bodily infirmities. So he was married in
spite of himself to his nun, and showed his disposition to make the best
of it by making her a wedding-present of his new Latin treatise, just
finished, on _The Origin of Evil_, and receiving in tender return a
Greek copy of the _Philippics_ of Demosthenes. Three years later the
wretched woman was accused of adultery, and being put to the torture
confessed her crime and was drowned in a sack, while her paramour was
beheaded. Bonivard, being questioned, declared his belief of her
innocence, and that her worst faults were that she wanted to make him
too pious, and tormented him to begin preaching, and sometimes beat him
when he had a few friends in to drink.[13]
For five years after this catastrophe the old man lingered, tended by
hirelings, but watched with filial gratitude by the little state whose
liberties he had helped to save, and whose heroic history he had
recorded. He had at least the comfort of having finished that great
work; and when he brought the manuscript of it to the council, they
referred it to a committee with Master Calvin at the head; who reported
that it was written in a rude and familiar style, quite beneath the
dignity of history, and that for this and other reasons it had better
not be printed. The precious manuscript was laid on the shelf until in
the lapse of years it was found that the very reasons why those solemn
critics rejected it were the things that gave it supreme value to a
later age. It has been the pride of Geneva scholars to print in elegant
archaic style every page written by the Prisoner of Chillon in prose or
verse, on history, polity, philology and theology.
Somewhere about September, 1570, Francis Bonivard died, aged
seventy-seven, lonely and childless, leaving the city his heir. The
cherished collection of books that was the comfort of his harassed life
has grown into the library of a university, and the little walled town
for whose ancient liberties he ventured such perils and suffered such
imprisonment is, and for the three hundred years since has been, one of
the chief radiant centres of light and liberty for all the world.
LEONARD WOOLSEY BACON.
NOTE.--Like every subject relating to the history of Geneva,
the life of Bonivard has been thoroughly studied by local
antiquarians and historians. The most important work on the
subject is that of Dr. Chaponnière, before cited: this is
reprinted (but without the documents attached) as a preface
to the new edition of the _Chronicles_. M. Edmond Chevrier,
in a slight pamphlet (Macon, 1868), gives a critical account
both of the man and of his writings. Besides these may be
named Vulliemin: _Chillon, Étude historique_, Lausanne,
1851; J. Gaberel: _Le Château de Chillon et Bonivard_,
Geneva. Marc Monnier, _Genève et ses Poëtes_ (Geneva, 1847),
gives an excellent criticism on Bonivard as author. For
original materials consult (besides the work of Chaponnière)
Galiffe: _Matériaux pour l'Histoire de Genève_, and Cramer:
_Notes extraites des Registres du Consistoire_, a rare book
in lithography (Geneva, 1853). A weak little article in the
_Catholic World_ for September, 1876, bravely attacks
Bonivard as "one of the Protestant models of virtue," and
triumphantly proves him to have been far from perfect. The
charge, however, that he was "a traitor to his
ecclesiastical character," and "quitted his convent and
broke his vows," is founded on a blunder. Bonivard never
took monastic vows or holy orders, but held his living _in
commendam_, as a lay-man. The main resource, however, for
Bonivard's life up to his liberation from Chillon is in his
own works, especially the _Chronicles_ (Geneva, edition
Fick, 1867).
"FOR PERCIVAL."