displeasure to curl his haughty lip. Probably he was dissatisfied that
all the ceremonies of the Romish church were not observed. For as the
prince was a Protestant, and the princess Catholic, the solemnities were
of a mixed nature, accommodated to both. It had been settled in the
marriage contract, that neither party should interfere with the other,
in the exercise of their different religions. To give public proof of
this, as soon as the nuptial ceremony was performed, the bride left the
pavilion to attend mass, and the bridegroom to hear the sermon of a
Protestant divine. Acclamations and music from countless instruments
loudly resounded, when the royal couple again appeared, and proceeded
together to the magnificent bridal banquet. Charles presented his sister
with 100,000 crowns for her dower, and in the festivities which
succeeded the marriage, who could have foreseen the dreadful massacre of
St. Bartholomew?"
"I have read in my history of that frightful scene. Dear Grandfather,
how soon did it follow the nuptials which you have described?"
"Less than a week intervened. The ringing of the bells for morning
prayers, at three o'clock, on Sunday, August 24th, was the signal for
the Catholics to rush forth and murder the Protestants. The holy Sabbath
dawned in peace. The matin-bell, calling the devout to worship a God of
mercy, was heard. Man came forth to shed the blood of his unsuspecting
brother. The work of destruction began in many parts of the city, at the
same moment. Tumult and shrieks and uproar increased, until they
deepened into a terrible and universal groan. The streets were filled
with infuriated soldiers, and almost every habitation of the Huguenots
became a slaughter-house. Infants were transfixed on pikes, and women
precipitated themselves from high windows and battlements, that they
might die without outrage. Thirty thousand fell victims in this horrible
massacre, which extending itself from Paris to the provinces, was not
satiated until more than twice that number had been sacrificed."
"What became of your grandfather during this scene of horror?"
"At the commencement of the tumult, his father hastily armed himself,
and supposing it some temporary disturbance, went forth to aid in
quelling it, commanding him to remain in the house. He obeyed until he
was no longer able to endure the tortures of suspense, and then rushed
out in search of a father whom he was never more to behold. Hasting to
the quarters of Lord Teligny, his friend and benefactor, he found him
mortally wounded, and faintly repeating the names of his wife and
children. He then flew to the Hotel de St. Pierre, where Admiral Coligny
lodged. But his headless trunk was precipitated from the window, and
dragged onward by blood-smeared men, with faces scarcely human.
He had been wounded previous to the massacre. On Friday, the 22nd, he
was coming from the Louvre, with a group of noblemen. He walked slowly,
reading a petition which had been presented him. As he passed the
cloister of St. Germain, he was shot by an arquebus loaded with three
balls. His left arm was deeply wounded, and the fore-finger of his right
hand carried away. No trace of the assassin, who had been employed by
the Duke of Guise, could be found, though the friends of the Admiral
made persevering search.
As the surgeon on examination feared that the copper balls were
poisoned, this illustrious man supposed that his hour had come, and
turning to his lamenting friends, said,
"Why do you weep? For myself, I am honoured to receive these wounds, for
the holy cause of my God. Pray him to strengthen me."
The massacre commenced while it was yet dark, on Sunday morning, and the
Duke of Guise, dreading lest Coligny, notwithstanding his injuries,
should escape, and by his courage and influence reanimate the
Protestants, hastened to his lodgings with three hundred soldiers.
Knocking at the outer gate, they demanded admission in the name of the
king. The gentleman who opened it, fell, stabbed to the heart.
The wounded Admiral, in his apartment, was engaged in prayer with a
minister who attended him. A terrified servant rushed in, exclaiming,
"My Lord, the inner gate is forced. We have no means of resisting."
"It is long since," replied Coligny, calmly, "that I prepared myself to
die. Save yourselves all who can. Me, you cannot defend. I commend my
soul to the mercy of God."
He arose from his bed, and being unable to stand upright, on account of
his wounds, supported himself with his back against the wall. The first
who burst into his chamber was a grim German, servant to the Duke of
Guise.
"Are you the Admiral?"
"Yes. I am he."
And the illustrious man, fixing his eyes without emotion on the naked
sword of his murderer, said, with the dignity of a Christian,
"Young man! you ought to respect my age and infirmities."
The answer of the assassin was to plunge his weapon deep in that noble
bosom. The Duke of Guise traversed the court below, with breathless
impatience. To his fierce spirit, every moment seemed an age.
"Is the work done?" he asked.
"It is finished, my Lord!"
He demanded to see it, with his own eyes. They raised the body of the
Admiral to cast it down to him. Still faintly respiring, it seemed to
cling to the casement.
At length, the ruthless murderers precipitated it into the court-yard.
Guise wiped with his handkerchief the face suffused with blood, and
gazing intensely upon it by the flaring lamps, exclaimed,
"It is the man."
Rushing into the streets, he bade, with hoarse cries, the work of death
to proceed, in the name of the king.
While our ancestor was hurrying in amazement and terror from place to
place, he met a boy of nearly his own age, whose placid countenance and
unmoved deportment strongly contrasted with the surrounding horrors. Two
soldiers apparently had him in charge, shouting "_To mass! to mass!_"
while he, neither in compliance nor opposition, calmly continued his
course, until they found some more conspicuous object of barbarity, and
released him from their grasp. This proved to be Maximilian Bethune,
afterwards the great Duke of Sully, prime minister of Henry IV., who by
a wonderful mixture of prudence and firmness, preserved a life which was
to be of such value to the realm. He was at this time making his way
through the infuriated mob, to the College of Burgundy, where in the
friendship of its principal, La Faye, he found protection and safety."
"Please not to forget what befell our relative."
It was in vain that he attempted to imitate this example of
self-command. Distracted with fear for his father, he searched for him
in scenes of the utmost danger, wildly repeating his name. A soldier
raised over his head a sword dripping with blood. Ere it fell, a man in
a black habit took his arm through his, and with some exertion of
strength led him onward. They entered less populous streets, where
carnage seemed not to have extended, before he perfectly recovered his
recollection. Then he would have disengaged himself, but his arm was
detained, as strongly as if it were pinioned. "Let me seek my father!"
he exclaimed. "Be silent!" said his conductor, with a voice of power
that made him tremble. At length he knocked at the massive gate of a
monastery. The porter admitted them, and they passed to an inner cell.
Affected by his passionate bursts of grief, and exclamations of 'Father,
dear father!' his protector said, 'Thank God, my son, that thy own life
is saved. I ventured forth amid scenes of horror, hoping to bring to
this refuge a brother, whom I loved as my own soul. I found him lifeless
and mangled. Thou wert near, and methought thou didst resemble him. Thy
voice had his very tone, as it cried, 'Father, father!' My heart yearned
to be as a father to thee. And I have led thee hither through blood and
death. Poor child, be comforted, and lift up thy soul to God.'"
"Was it not very strange, that a Catholic should be so good?"
"There are good men among every sect of Christians, my child. We should
never condemn those who differ from us in opinion, if their lives are
according to the Gospel. This ecclesiastic was a man of true
benevolence. Nothing could exceed his kindness to him whose life he had
saved. It was ascertained that he was not only fatherless but an orphan,
for the work of destruction, extending itself into many parts of the
kingdom, involved his family in its wreck. The greatest attention was
paid to his education, and his patron instructed him in the sciences,
and particularly from the study of history he taught him the emptiness
of glory without virtue, and the changeful nature of earthly good. He
made him the companion of his walks, and by the innocent and beautiful
things of nature, sought to win him from that melancholy which is so
corrosive to intellect, and so fatal to peace. He permitted him to take
part in his works of charity, and to stand with him by the beds of the
sick and dying, that he might witness the power of that piety which
upholds when flesh and heart fainteth.
During his residence here, the death of Charles IX. took place. He was a
king in whom his people and even his nearest friends had no confidence.
After the savage massacre of St. Bartholomew, which was conducted under
his auspices, he had neither satisfaction nor repose. He had always a
flush and fierceness upon his countenance, which it had never before
worn. Conscience haunted him with a sense of guilt, and he could obtain
no quiet sleep. He seemed to be surrounded by vague and nameless
terrors. He fancied that he heard groans in the air, and suffered a
strange sickness which forced blood from all the pores of his body.
He was attended in his illness by a faithful old nurse, to whom,
notwithstanding she was a Huguenot, he affectionately trusted. One who
has described the close of his life, says, that two nights before his
death, she was sitting near him on a chest, almost overcome with the
drowsiness of fatigue. She was aroused by hearing the king bitterly moan
and weep. As she softly approached his bed, he exclaimed, through sighs
and sobs, so interrupting his voice that it was difficult to understand
him,
"Ah! my nurse, my dear nurse, what blood! what murders! Alas! what evil
counsels have I followed! Oh my God! pardon me! and have mercy on me, if
thou canst. What shall I do? I am lost! I see it but too well."
The pitying nurse answered with tears.
"Sire! let the guilt rest on those who counselled you to it. For if you
consented not in your heart to those murders, and are repentant, trust
that God will not charge them to you, but will cover them with the
mantle of his Son's great love, to whom alone you should turn."
He listened mournfully to her words, and taking from her hand a
handkerchief, his own being saturated with tears, gave a sign that she
should retire, and take a little rest.
His attachment to this pious nurse was strongly contrasted with his
shrinking aversion whenever his mother approached him. He viewed her as
the instigator to that horrible massacre which troubled his conscience,
and her presence greatly distressed him. This miserable monarch died on
the 30th of May, 1574, at the age of 23, having sinned much and suffered
much, though his years were few.
He was succeeded by his brother Henry III., against whom, and Catharine,
the Queen-mother, three powerful armies were opposed, one led by the
King of Navarre, one by the Prince of Conde, and the other by the Duke
of Anjou. The tidings of these civil wars penetrated into the seclusion
of the religious house where my grandfather had already passed three
years in quiet study. They kept alive the martial spirit which he
inherited, and quickened his desire to partake in their tumultuous
scenes. At length he communicated to his patron his discontentment with
a life of inaction, and his irrepressible wish to mingle again with the
world. Unusual paleness settled on the brow of the venerable man, as he
replied,
"I have long seen that thy heart was not in these quiet shades, and I
have lamented it. Yet thus it is with the young: they will not be wise
from the experience of others. They must feel with their own feet, the
thorns in the path of pleasure. They must grasp with their own hand, the
sharp briers that cling around the objects of their ambition. They must
come trusting to the world's broken cisterns, find the dregs from her
cup cleaving in bitterness to their lip, and feel her in their bosom,
ere they will believe."
The youth enlarged with emotion on his gratitude to his benefactor. He
mentioned the efforts he had made to comply with his desires, and lead a
life of contemplative piety, but that these efforts were overpowered by
an impulse to mingle in more active pursuits, and to visit the home of
his ancestors.
"Go, then, my son, and still the wild throbbings of thy heart over the
silent beds of those who wake no more till the resurrection morn. Think
not that I have read thy nature slightly, or with a careless glance. The
spirit of a warrior slumbers there. Thou dost long to mix in the battle.
I have marked, in thy musings, the lightning of thine eye shoot forth,
as if thou hadst forgotten Him who said: 'Vengeance is mine.' Would that
thou hadst loved peace. Go; yet remember, that 'he who taketh the sword
shall perish by the sword.' As for me, my path on earth is short, or I
should more deeply mourn thy departure. Thou hast been but too dear to
me; and when thou art gone, my spirit shall cast from its wings the last
cumbrance of earthly love."
He gave him his benediction with great tenderness and solemnity, and the
parting was tearful and affectionate. But the young traveller soon
dismissed his sorrow, for the cheering influence of the charms of
nature, and the gladness of liberty.
The genial season of spring diffused universal beauty. The vales spread
out their green mantles to catch the showers of blossoms, with which
every breeze covered them. Luxuriant vines lifted up their fragrant
coronets. Young lambs playfully cropped the tender leaves. Quiet kids
stood ruminating by the clear streams. Music was in all the branches.
The father-bird cheered his companion, who, patient on her nest, brooded
their future hopes.
"Surely," thought he, "the peasant is the most happy of men, dwelling in
the midst of the innocence and beauty of creation."
Then, with the inconsistency natural to youth, he would extol the life
of the soldier, its energy, hardihood, and contempt of danger;
forgetting that, in this preference of war, he was applauding the
science of all others the most hostile to nature and to man.
In the midst of such reflections he reached the spot of his nativity.
The home of his ancestors was in the possession of others, a new and
lordly race. Strange eyes looked upon him, where the voice of his
parents was wont to welcome his returning steps with delight. He could
not endure the grief in which none participated, and this solitude among
scenes which his childhood loved. He sought to shake off at once his
sorrow and his loneliness, and enlisted as a volunteer in the Protestant
army. He flattered himself that religion dictated the measure: yet
sometimes, in a sleepless hour, the monition of his distant benefactor
would come mournfully, "He that taketh the sword shall perish by the
sword." His first exploit in arms was at the siege of Ville-Franche, in
Perigord, in the year 1576. He continued to follow the fortunes of the
King of Navarre, and to endure without shrinking the dangers and
privations of a soldier, with scarcely any intervals of peaceful life,
until the battle of Coutras, where he fell, covered with wounds. This
severe combat took place on the morning of October 20th, 1587. There,
the King of Navarre, who, you remember, was afterwards Henry the Great,
of France, distinguished himself by a daring courage. He first forced
the ranks of the enemy. He seized several prisoners with his own hand.
Conspicuous by the plume of white feathers in his lofty helmet, he was
continually singled out as a mark, and yet escaped uninjured. Perceiving
the Prince of Conde and the Count de Soissons, in the most exposed parts
of the field, he exclaimed, 'All that I shall say to you, is, that you
are of the house of Bourbon, and please God, I will show you that I am
your elder brother.' The victory of the Protestants was complete. The
contest lasted scarcely an hour, yet 5000 of their opponents were left
dead upon the field. They were led on by the Duke de Joyeuse, who with
his haughty brother, St. Sauveur, were drawn lifeless from among heaps
of slain, their brows still fierce and frowning, as if they hated that
death which could thus level all distinctions. I have mentioned that our
ancestor fell in this engagement. He was not thirty years old, and left
a wife and infant son, to mourn his untimely departure."
"Is it then from our grandmother that you learned all the circumstances
of his story?"
"All these and many more. She was never weary of relating the changes of
his life, and the sorrows of her early widowhood. Deeply did she impress
on the mind of her son, and of his offspring, the evils of war, and the
blessings of peaceful Christianity. Under his roof she dwelt, cherished
and venerated, till the children of the third generation rose up to call
her blessed. Never shall I forget with what emotions of grief and
reverence he laid his hand upon her dying eyes, and wept at her tomb.
The piety and love of peace which she had early instilled into his
heart, rendered his home the abode of tranquillity, and domestic
happiness. His industry, and correct judgment restored competence to a
family, which the desolations of war had impoverished, and almost
annihilated. Our paternal residence, even now, seems to rise up before
me, visible and distinct, as in a picture. Uniting simplicity with
comfort, it stood on a gentle slope of ground. In front, a row of
chestnuts reared a canopy of lofty shade. Here the traveller sometimes
rested, refreshing himself with the water of a little fountain, which,
clear as crystal, oozed into a rustic limestone reservoir. In the rear
of our residence, rose a hill where our goats found herbage. There they
might sometimes be seen, maintaining so slight a footing on projecting
cliffs, that they seemed to hang suspended by the mouth from the slight
branch they were cropping. The tall poplars, which were interspersed
among the foliage, conveyed to us the pensive murmur of approaching
storms, and around their trunks, mossy seats were constructed, where we
sometimes sat, watching the chequered rays of the moon, and singing our
simple provincial melodies. Stretching at the foot of this hill, was the
small domain whence we drew our subsistence. Diligence and economy made
it fully equal to our wants, and to the claims of charity. Over the
roots of the filbert, fig, and mulberry, crept the prolific melon. The
gourd, supporting itself by their trunks, lifted its yellow globes into
the air like orbs of gold, while still higher rose the aspiring vine,
filling its glowing clusters for the wine-press. Our fields of wheat
gave us bread, and the bearded oat rewarded the faithful animal that
gathered in our harvest. Bees, hastening with busy hum to their
sheltered cells, provided the luxury of our evening repast. The olive
yielded us its treasures, and furnished an emblem of the peace that
pervaded our abode. A genial soil made our labours light, and correct
principles converted those labours into happiness. Our parents early
taught their large family of twelve children, that indolence was but
another name for vice and disgrace; that he, who for his subsistence
rendered no return of usefulness, was unjust to society, and disobedient
to God. So our industry commenced in infancy. In our hive there were no
drones. We early began to look with pity on those whose parents
neglected to teach them that well-directed industry was bliss. Among us
there were no servants. With the first beams of morning, the band of
brothers were seen cheerfully entering on their allotted employments.
Some broke the surface of the earth, others strowed seeds or kernels of
fruits, others removed the weeds which threatened to impede the harvest.
By the same hands was our vintage tended, and our grain gathered into
the garner. Our sisters wrought the flax which we cultivated, and
changed the fleece of our flocks into a wardrobe for winter. They
refreshed us after our toil with cakes flavoured with honey, and with
cheeses, rivalling in delicacy those of Parma. They arranged in tasteful
baskets of their own construction, fresh fruits or aromatic herbs, or
rich flowers for the market. They delighted sometimes to mingle in our
severer labours; and when we saw the unwonted exertion heightening the
bloom of their cheeks, or placed in their hair the half-blown wild rose,
to us, who had seen nothing more fair, they were perfect in grace and
beauty. Sometimes at twilight, or beneath the soft evening air of
summer, we mingled in the dance, to the music of our flute and viol. Our
parents and our grandmother seated near, enjoyed the pastime, and spoke
of their own youth, and of the goodness of the Almighty Sire. Often,
assembled in our pleasant parlour, each read in turn to the listening
auditory, histories of what man has been, or fictitious representations
of what he might be, from the pages of the moral painter or the poet.
The younger ones received regular lessons in the rudiments of education,
and the elder ones, in succession, devoted a stated portion of each day
to the pursuit of higher studies, under the direction of their parents.
When the family circle convened in the evening, he was the happiest who
could bring the greatest amount of useful and interesting information to
the general stock. The acquisition of knowledge, which to indolent minds
is so irksome, was to us a delightful recreation from severer labours.
The exercise which gave us physical vigour, seemed also to impart
intellectual energy. The application to which we were inured gave us the
more entire control of our mental powers, while the almost unvaried
health that we enjoyed preserved elasticity of spirits, and made all our
pleasures more sweet. Such was our mode of life, that we were almost
insensible to inconvenience from the slight changes of the seasons. In
any temporary indisposition or casualty, our mother was our ministering
angel. Her acquaintance with the powers of the medicinal plants, that
filled her favourite part of the garden, and still more, her intimate
knowledge of the little diversities in our constitutions, usually
produced a favourable result. She also perfectly understood the slight
shades in our disposition and character, and by thus tracing the springs
of action to their minuter sources, advanced with more certainty to the
good ends of education. Mingled with her love, was a dignity, a decision
that commanded our respect. Without this, the parental relation loses
its influence, and sacrifices that attribute of authority with which it
was invested by the Eternal. Piety was taught us by the example of our
parents. We were early led to consider the morning and evening orison
and the Sabbath, as periods in which we were invited to mingle our
thoughts with angels; and that he who was negligent or indifferent to
them, forfeited one of the highest privileges of his nature.
Thus happy was our domestic government. It mingled the pastoral and
patriarchal features. I have never seen any system more favourable to
individual improvement, and the order, harmony, and prosperity of the
whole.
But I am forgetting, dear child, that you must be wearied with my
wandering tale and numerous reflections. It is so pleasant to recall the
days of childhood, and the images of my parents and brothers and
sisters, that I may have taken an old man's privilege too freely, and
talked beyond your patience."
"How much I am indebted to you, my dear grandfather, for your kind
evening's entertainment. I hope I shall profit from the moral of your
story, as well as from the pleasure of listening to it. I trust I shall
learn to love peace, and industry, and piety."
"Strive to do so, my dear boy, and ask God's help, and you will be sure
to be happy. Obey your parents, and respect all who are wiser and better
than yourself, whether rich or poor. This will lay the foundation of
that virtue and subordination to the laws of the land, which make a good
citizen.