As she spoke thus, she rose from her seat and advanced towards the window.

The two friends stood looking together down the street, which, as the sun

descended, began to be deserted of its usual crowd. Their attention was

arrested by a numerous body of footmen, and other attendants, who were

escorting apparently some lady in a sedan chair. They were rather

surprised to observe that the sedan chair directed its course towards

their own house. A knocking at the door was heard; and soon after their

servant brought them word, that a certain Signora ---- desired urgently to

speak with Constantia, but that she could not quit her chair. The person

whose name was announced, was an old lady, one of Constantia's most

intimate friends; she descended immediately into the hall to meet her. She

precipitated herself towards the sedan chair, the door of which stood

open; a slight impulse from some bystander, from a hand which trembled as

it touched her, carried her forward, and she found herself seated in what

indeed was an empty chair. Before she had time to raise an alarm, she

found herself borne swiftly and softly along the street. Leonora, who had

followed her friend down the stairs, and was a witness to her singular

disappearance, called up all the servants of the establishment, and

despatched them after their mistress. They followed, but to no purpose.

The running footmen, on either side of the sedan, drew their swords. They

were students in disguise. Giacomo had succeeded in his daring enterprise.

Constantia had hardly collected her thoughts, when she perceived that her

chair was carried through a lofty archway up a broad flight of stairs, and

deposited in a spacious apartment, once the proud saloon of a palatial

residence, though the whole building, of which it formed a part, had since

been constituted a portion of the university. All her attendants except

one left the room. We need not say that it was Giacomo who handed her from

her temporary imprisonment.

To judge from their bearing and attitude, you would have said that it was

Giacomo who was the captive, bending before the mercy of Constantia. She

stood there, upright, calm, inflexible. He was, indeed, at her mercy. He

felt that his life depended on this present moment, and on the few words

that should fall from her lips. He led her to the upper end of the room

where his imagination had so often placed her. He knelt--he sued.

Beginning with abrupt protests and exclamations, his impassioned pleading

gradually grew more continuous, but not less vehement, till it flowed in

the full torrent of a lover's eloquence. On all this turbulent pathos

Constantia looked calmly down, more in sorrow than in anger. From the

moment she understood in whose power she was, she had ceased (so much

justice she had at least done to the character of her lover) to have any

alarm whatever on her own account; but she was filled with regret,

disquietude, and concern for the fatal consequences which might ensue to

himself from the unwarrantable step he had taken. "Restore me to my

uncle's before he shall hear of this," were the only words she vouchsafed

in return to all his passionate appeal.

But the pleading of the desperate lover was not, as may well be supposed,

allowed to proceed without interruption. Leonora, a young girl of spirit

and animation, immediately sent forth the servants of the household to

rouse up the friends of the family, and to spread every where the report

of the strange outrage which had been committed upon one of the most

respected families of Bologna. A fleet messenger was especially despatched

to the uncle of Constantia, distant only a few miles from the town, to

recall him to a scene where his presence was so much required. There was a

perpetual standing feud between the citizens of Bologna and the students

of the university, which had often disturbed the tranquillity of the city;

it was therefore with extreme alacrity and zeal that the townsmen rushed

in crowds into the streets, armed with the best weapons they could

procure, to rescue the niece of their venerable judge, and to punish the

gross outrage which they conceived had been perpetrated.

When, however, the multitude came in front of the large mansion or palace

in which Giacomo resided, and which was tenanted entirely by students, the

great majority of whom were his zealous partisans, and all of whom were

prepared, in any quarrel whatever, to take part against the townsmen, they

found the enterprise they had undertaken to be one of no little

difficulty. The huge gates were closed and barred, while the windows above

were occupied by a spirited garrison who had already supplied themselves

with missiles of every description to annoy their assailants. These latter

began, with true Italian energy, to pull up the posts out of the street,

to form battering-rams with which to force the gates. They thundered at

them with dreadful din, shaking the whole edifice; and in spite of the

missiles despatched in quick succession from above, seemed to be on the

point of effecting an entrance.

When Constantia heard this horrible din she turned pale with

affright--Giacomo pale with rage. He could make no impression on the cold

beauty before him--his suppressed passion was suffocating him. Against

_these_ assailants all his impetuosity could burst forth--_them_ he knew

at least how to defy;--here was an enemy he could vanquish, or, at worst,

a defeat he knew how to sustain. When, therefore, several of his friends

rushed breathless into the room to tell him that the great gates began to

creak upon their hinges, and were likely to be beaten in, he almost

welcomed this new species of contest. Conducting Constantia into a

side-room, where she would be out of reach of the ensuing tumult and

disorder, and where an aged matron waited to attend upon her, he went with

his friends to meet the rest of his companions in arms, who were anxious

to consult him on the next measures which in their present emergency

should be taken.

The house, or palazzo, was built on a plan very customary in such

structures. In the centre were the tall gates, now undergoing the battery

of the citizens, which opened upon a square, lofty, paved court or hall,

supported by columns, and forming a carriage-way up to the foot of the

staircase. Originally you passed through the hall into a garden beyond,

but when the building had been converted into a residence for students,

and made a part, in fact, of the university, a wall had been erected,

separating the garden from the house. This wall, though lofty, did not,

however, rise to the level of the roof of the hall; both light and air

were admitted from above it, and you still saw the topmost branches of the

orange-trees and the summits of the fountains that were playing in the

garden beyond. From either side of this hall rose the broad and marble

staircase which led into the interior of the house.

Upon both branches of this noble staircase, whose steps faced the

entrance, Giacomo stationed his gallant band, armed each of them at least

with his rapier. He then commissioned one of his companions to proclaim to

the besiegers from a window above, that if they would cease their

battering, and retreat a few paces from the gates, they should be opened

to them.

To this the crowd assented, presuming that it could imply nothing else

than a surrender. The great doors were opened. They rushed forward; but

the staircase they thought to ascend so readily was occupied every inch of

it by a brave phalanx, which awaited them with glittering swords, held

forward in spear fashion, tier above tier. The first rank of this

disordered multitude had no desire whatever to be thrust forward by those

in the rear on the points held forth by this determined phalanx. A great

number of them passed harmless between the two staircases, but the wall we

have described prevented any egress in that direction; and when the lower

part of the hall was quite full, the struggle commenced in earnest between

those of the crowd who desired to retreat, and those who, knowing nothing

of the peril of their companions, were still urging forward. The struggle

rose to a combat. The students, who, at the express desire of Giacomo,

stood steadily at their post, and preserved a dead silence, were

undisturbed spectators of the tumult, and saw their adversaries in

desperate strife, the one against the other.

They seemed to be on the point of obtaining, in this singular manner, a

bloodless victory, when Andrea, the uncle of Constantia, together with the

Podesta, made their appearance, with such military force as could be

assembled at the moment. This had immediately one good effect; the crowd

without, by making way for the Podesta, released their companions within,

still struggling for escape. The military force of the Podesta soon stood

confronted with the little band of students. Yet these were so well

placed, had so decidedly the advantage of position, and their leader was

so well known for his prowess and indomitable courage, that there was a

great unwillingness to commence the attack, and very loud calls were made

upon them to surrender to the majesty of the law.

For Giacomo, the combat was what his blood boiled for. Would that he could

have fought single-handed--he alone--and perilled, and have lost his life!

But when he saw the respected form of the uncle of Constantia--when he

reflected that the experiment he had so long desired, _had been made and

failed_--that the cold virgin whom he had left up stairs was still

invincible, whoever else he might conquer or resist, and that he should be

exposing the lives of his companions in a combat where to him there was

now no victory--he lowered his sword, and made treaty of peace with the

Podesta. On consideration that none other but himself should suffer any

species of penalty for that day's transaction, he offered to resign

Constantia to her uncle, and himself to the pleasure of the Podesta. These

terms were very readily accepted; his companions alone seemed reluctant to

acquiesce in them.

CHAPTER III.

While all this tumult was raging round the house, and within the heart of

Giacomo, the student's lamp was burning, how calm, how still, in the

remote and secluded chamber of his friend Petrarch! To him, out of a kind

and considerate regard, and from no distrust in his zeal or attachment,

the ardent lover had concealed his perilous enterprise. Remote from the

whole scene, and remote from all the passions of it, sat the youthful

sage; not remote, however, from deep excitements of his own. Far from it.

Reflection has her emotions thrilling as those of passion. He who has not

closed his door upon the world, and sat down with books and his own

thoughts in a solitude like this--may have lived, we care not in how gay a

world, or how passionate an existence,--he has yet an excitement to

experience, which, if not so violent, is far more prolonged, deeper, and

more sustained than any he has known,--than any which the most brilliant

scenes, or the most clamorous triumphs of life, can furnish. What is all

the sparkling exhilaration of society, the wittiest and the fairest,--what

all the throbbings and perturbations of love itself, compared with the

intense feeling of the _youthful thinker_, who has man, and God, and

eternity for his fresh contemplations,--who, for the first time, perceives

in his solitude all the grand enigmas of human existence lying unsolved

about him? His brow is not corrugated, his eye is not inflamed: he sits

calm and serene--a child would look into his face and be drawn near to

him--but it seems to him that on his beating heart the very hand of God is

lying.

The poet had closed his door, and unrolled before his solitary lamp his

favourite manuscript, "The Tusculan Disputations of Cicero." How well that

solitary lamp burning on so vivid and so noiseless--the only thing there

in motion, but whose very motion makes the stillness more evident, the

calm more felt; how well that lamp--the very soul, as it seems, of the

little chamber it illumines--harmonises with the student's mood! How it

makes bright the solitude around him! How it brings sense of companionship

and of life where nothing but it--and thought--are stirring!

But though the young student had seated himself to his intellectual feast,

it was evident that he was not quite at his ease; there was something

which occasioned him a slight disquietude. In truth he was destined, by

his father, to be "learned in the law;" was enjoying a stolen fruit; and

whatever the well-known proverb may say, we have never found, ourselves,

that any enjoyment is heightened by a sense of insecurity in its

possession, or a thought of the possible penalty which may be the

consequence of its indulgence. Petrarch might have been observed to listen

attentively to every footstep on the great staircase that served the whole

wing of the building to which his little turret belonged; and till the

step was lost, or he was sure that it had stopped at some lower stage in

the house, he suspended the perusal of his manuscript, and sat prepared to

drop the precious treasure into a chest that stood open at his feet, and

to replace it by an enormous volume of jurisprudence which lay ready at

hand for this piece of hypocritical service. This peculiarly nervous

condition was the result of a paternal visit which had been paid him, most

unexpectedly, a few evenings before. His father, suspecting that he was

more devoted to the classics than to the study of the law, started

suddenly from Avignon, stole upon his son unforewarned, ruthlessly

snatched from him the prized manuscripts in which he found him absorbed,

and committed them to the flames. Petrarch, of gentle temper, and full of

filial respect, ventured upon no resistance; but when he saw his Virgil

and his Cicero put upon his funeral pyre, he burst into a flood of

uncontrollable tears. His father, who was not himself without a love of

classic literature, but who was anxious for his son's advancement in the

world, and his study of a profession on which that advancement appeared

entirely to depend, was smit with compassion and some remorse. These last

two manuscripts he rescued himself from the flames, and restored to his

disconsolate son, with the repeated admonition, however, to indulge less

in their perusal, nor to allow them to take the place due to the science

of jurisprudence.

"Science!" said the young enthusiast, who had recovered something of his

self-possession: "Can conclusions wrested often with perverted ingenuity

from artificial principles and arbitrary axioms, be honoured with the name

of science? And the law, to obtain this fictitious resemblance to a

science, leaves justice behind and unthought of. I will study it, my

father, as I would practise any mechanical art, if you should prescribe it

as a means of being serviceable to my family; but you--who are a

scholar--ah! place not a tissue of technicalities, however skilfully

interwoven, on a level with truth, which has its basis in the nature of

things. I would help my fellow-men to justice; but must I spend my life,

and dry up and impoverish my very soul, in regulating his disputes

according to rules that are something very different from justice?--often

mere logical deductions from certain legal abstractions, in which all

moral right and wrong,--all substantial justice between man and man, is

utterly forgotten?"

"My son," said the father, "you are young, and therefore rash. You think

it, perhaps, an easy thing to do justice between man and man. _We cannot

do justice between man and man._ No combination of honesty and

intelligence can effect it; the whole compass of society affords no means

for its accomplishment. To administer moral justice, each case must be

decided on its own peculiar merits, and those merits are to be found in

the motives of the human heart. We cannot promise men justice. But we must

terminate their disputes. Therefore it is we have a system of law--our

only substitute for justice--by which men are contented to be governed

because it _is_ a system, and applicable to all alike. Believe me, that

wise and able men of all countries are well occupied in rendering more

symmetrical, more imposing, and as little immoral and unjust as possible,

their several systems of jurisprudence."

Petrarch was silent; it was neither his wish nor his policy to prolong the

discussion. Besides, his heart was too full. Had he dared, he would have

pleaded for his own liberty; for choice of poverty and intellectual

freedom--for poverty and greatness! But what he felt within him of the

promptings of ambition, the assurance of fame, the consciousness of

genius, he had too much modesty to express. He could not do justice to

himself, without appearance of overweening pride. It was better to be

silent than to say but half.

It was the remembrance of this visit which, on the present occasion, made

him listen with a painful curiosity to every step upon the stairs. And now

a step _was_ heard. It came nearer and nearer, higher and higher--a rapid

step which never paused an instant till it reached his own door. A loud

knocking followed. But this time it was no spy upon his literary hours.

On opening the door, a fellow-student, breathless with haste, rushed into

the room, and related the tragical event which had taken place at the

house of their common friend Giacomo.

Petrarch immediately descended and ran to meet his friend. He found him

already a prisoner! The Podesta, willing, however, to treat the unhappy

student with as much lenity as possible, had converted his own apartments

into his prison. He well knew, also, the honourable character of his

prisoner; the granting this indulgence enabled him to exact his word of

honour not to escape, and he probably judged, considering the extreme

popularity of Giacomo in the university, that this was a greater security

for his safe custody than any walls, or any guard, which he had at his

command in Bologna.

Petrarch was horror-struck when he came fully to apprehend the extreme

peril to which his friend had exposed himself. Whatever were his motives,

he had committed, in fact, a capital offence, and one to be classed

amongst the most heinous; it was the crime of abduction he had

perpetrated, and for which he stood exposed to the penalty of death. The

poet fell weeping into the arms of his friend.

"Alas!" said Giacomo, "she would not hear me!" The inflexibility of

Constantia was still the only grief that dwelt upon his mind. "She stood

there--on that spot--I could kiss the traces of her footstep could I see

them--cold, cold as the statue--I might have prayed with better hope to

the sculptured marble!"

But Petrarch did not limit his kind offices to sympathy and lamentation.

Meditative as he was by character, and little habituated to what is called

the business of life, he saw clearly the grave nature of his friend's

position. The crime which Giacomo had actually committed--the abduction

from her home of a noble virgin--subjected him, as we have said, to the

punishment of death. Those only who could have read his heart, or knew the

purity of his intentions, could have acquitted him; and even to those, his

conduct would have appeared rash and unjustifiable. But to the citizens of

Bologna, irritated and all but at war with the university, disposed to

magnify every offence committed by a member of that body, and exasperated,

moreover, by the late fruitless contest in which they had been

engaged--the act of Giacomo would appear in all its unmitigated

criminality. They were, in fact, resolved that he should not escape the

utmost rigour of the law; they were already clamouring aloud for his

death--his public execution.

There was but one man in Bologna who could save him. This was Romeo de'

Pepoli, a man exceedingly rich--by far the richest in the city--and who,

by a popular use of his wealth, had obtained a great ascendency in the

republic. This Romeo de' Pepoli was secretly aiming at the tyranny. He

failed, owing to the awakened jealousy of the people; but although he

himself was banished from the city at the very moment when he seemed about

to reap the fruits of his nefarious intrigues, he prepared the way to

power for his sons, who were for some time tyrants of Bologna. There was

no doubt that this man--and he alone--was able, if he chose, to rescue

Giacomo from his threatened fate. For should his influence with the

citizens fail to mitigate their animosity, still, in all the ill-assured

governments of that day, such exorbitant wealth as he possessed gave

something more than influence. Judgments of law were almost always to be

bought, if a price high enough could be paid, or an armed force could be

hired which would set the judgment of a court at defiance, and prevent its

execution.

To this eminent citizen and nobleman Petrarch betook himself. So

remarkable an event as that which had lately transpired in the city, we

may be sure, had drawn the attention of this wily and ambitious personage.

At first he had adopted the indignation and anger of the citizens, as

being the part most likely to increase his popularity. But on reflection

it had occurred to him, that a still greater advantage might perhaps be

taken of this event, if, through his skilful mediation, and a dexterous

advocacy of the cause of Giacomo, he should be able to obtain the favour

and partisanship of the more spirited members of the university. Over

these, no one had so great an influence as Giacomo--in the cause of no

one could they be more deeply interested--nor was it likely that, an

occasion would arise in which he could serve them more signally than by

coming to his rescue. On the other hand, a thousand ways would still be

open to appease and conciliate the offended citizens. Add to all which,

Giacomo himself, like all those on whom classical literature and the early

histories of Rome and of Greece were just re-opening, was distinguished by

an ardent zeal for liberty. Without seeking actually to intermeddle in the

political affairs of the city, he and his associates were

accustomed--probably in much the same manner as the German students of the

present day--to proclaim and uphold the cause of freedom in their songs,

and with the oratory of the wine-cup. They might be calculated on as

stanch friends to the republic, and deadly opponents to the tyranny. To

gain over this band of ardent and enthusiastic spirits, would be a great

step in the prosecution of his ambitious enterprise. Even their neutrality

would be an incalculable advantage to him.

Petrarch had been always well received by one who was anxious to win all

sorts of golden opinions, and therefore desirous to be thought an admirer

of learning and a patron of youthful genius. On the present occasion, he

found the ambitious nobleman singularly courteous, and not indisposed to

listen to his ardent vindication of Giacomo. With the usual artifice of

such men, Pepoli appeared to be listening to the reasoning of the young

advocate, whilst he was revolving only his own thoughts, and was not

unwilling to let it appear that predeterminations of his own were the

results of another's eloquence.

"Let me see your unfortunate friend," he said, with a sort of relenting

air; "something, perhaps, maybe done--I cannot tell. But you see the whole

town is in arms against him. I shall be risking," he added with a

smile,--for there is nothing more common with crafty men than to speak the

very truth in a light jesting manner, giving their earnest motives the air

of sport, and so expressing and disguising themselves at the same time--"I

shall be risking all my popularity with the good Bolognese--I must proceed

cautiously."

Petrarch ran back, full of sanguine hope, to his friend, and repeated the

result of his mission. Giacomo shook his head mournfully. He was slow to

enter into the exhilarating prospects placed before him. Perhaps he had

read deeper into the character of this man than Petrarch.

The interview which Pepoli desired took place. What circuitous terms the

ambitious man employed to suggest the price which was to be paid for his

intermediation, we do not know; but the smile on the lip of Giacomo was

interpreted as the smile of intelligence and acquiescence. Of intelligence

it certainly was. At this interview it was agreed that the student should

assemble together some of the most ardent and influential of his friends,

that he should present Pepoli to them, and induce them to swear a sort of

allegiance and fidelity to his cause, in return for the aid he pledged

himself to bring to Giacomo.

With the liberty allowed by the Podesta to his prisoner, it was not

difficult to arrange this meeting. He was permitted to invite to supper a

considerable number of his most faithful adherents and intimate

associates. It being understood that Pepoli was to be one of the guests,

there was still less scruple in granting this permission.

The supper passed off, as may be supposed under such circumstances, with

little hilarity. Being brought to a conclusion, Giacomo, at whose side sat

Pepoli, entreated the attention of his guests. He rose and addressed them.

He began by proclaiming the intended mediation of Pepoli in his behalf.

Cheers followed this announcement. He proceeded to enlarge on the wealth,

the power, the manifest pre-eminence in the state which Pepoli had

acquired. The students still applauded, but the exact drift of these

somewhat ambiguous praises--ambiguous in the mouth of a republican

speaking of a republican--they could not well perceive. Pepoli alone

seemed to understand and to approve. He then solemnly called upon his

friends to take an oath with him before he died.

"But you shall not die!" was the exclamation with which both Pepoli and

the students interrupted him.

"An oath," he continued, not heeding this interruption, "which I exact

from you in the name of friendship, in the name of virtue, in the name of

liberty. Is it not generous, this offer of Pepoli--of him who has been the

champion of the citizen against the student--the most popular man in all

Bologna,--is it not generous that he should step forward to rescue my life

from the blind rage and mad injustice of the multitude? But you must

understand there is a certain price to be given for this generosity. You

do not expect him to sacrifice his popularity, which is his power, out of

mere compassion to one who has never courted nor applauded him, without

receiving, in return, some compensation. If you accept his benefits, you

must forward his counsels, you must promote his designs. Say, will you

swear?"

"Yes! yes! we swear!" was the general response.

"Students of Bologna!" he proceeded, elevating his voice. "I accept this

mark of your friendship. For my sake you have promised to swear. Now hear

the oath I propose, and to which I bind you. This man offers me my life,

and the price of it is--the liberty of Bologna! Fellow students, Romeo de'

Pepoli aims at the tyranny. Swear that you will never, on any condition,

for any boon, aid him in his flagitious enterprise; that you will thwart,

and resist, and combat it to the utmost. Swear that you will, at all

times, reject his mediation--as I now reject, utterly and with scorn, the

service that he proffers me. I unmask him to you ere I die. I, too, have

lived for one good purpose. This man, my friends, would be tyrant of

Bologna--swear, to me that he shall _not_!"

There was a pause of a few seconds. But it was soon evident that the noble

spirit--of patriotism and of self-sacrifice--of their admired friend, had

found a genuine response in all his hearers. He had touched the true

chord. Carried forward by his disinterested enthusiasm, and pledged by the

promise he, had somewhat artfully extorted from them, they rose, and with

one voice repeated the oath proposed to, them. Pepoli, pale and aghast,

and utterly confounded, and catching here and there the flashing of the

half-drawn steel, made a precipitate retreat. Of all the assembly,

Petrarch alone remained silent--he alone failed, or forgot, to take the

oath;--full of concern for the safety of his noble friend, full of

admiration for his greatness, he fell weeping upon his neck.

CONCLUSION.

After this, there was no more hope for the prisoner. If to the anger of

the Bolognese was added the determined enmity of Romeo de' Pepoli, now

resolved on his destruction, from what quarter could a ray of hope

proceed? He was even now removed--such was the influence which the new

enemy he had provoked possessed over the Podesta--to the common prison,

and treated in all respects like a condemned malefactor. The university

pleaded its privilege to judge a member of their own body, but the angry

feeling of the citizens would not permit them for a moment to listen to

this plea. There, was no power on earth to save him--and his fault was so

light! A man more honourable did not exist. The purity of Constantia was

more safe in his hands than in any others--he loved her so well.

We are not sufficiently in the "tragic vein" to follow the prisoner

through the last hours of his confinement, and of his existence. To be

struck dead in the flush of life, with all his passions in full bloom upon

him, was a hard decree. Sometimes he protested vehemently against the

palpable injustice and cruelty of his sentence; but, in general, he found

his consolation in the mournful sentiment, that had he lived, he should

have been miserable--for the great desire of his life was doomed to be

thwarted. "I told you," he said one day to his friend Petrarch, "that

this love would work my destruction. It has so; but its great misery has

made destruction itself indifferent."

We willingly draw a veil over the last fatal scene, and all the horrors

that precede a public death. Throughout this scene his courage never

forsook him; but flashes of uncontrollable indignation would occasionally

break from him, and occasionally a sigh of more tender despondency would

escape. The last tear he shed, the last complaint he murmured, was still

to the coldness of Constantia: "We should have been so happy, had she

loved--and now!--"

History records that the execution of Giacomo, as well by infringing the

supposed privileges of the university as by the indignation it excited in

the large circle of his friends and companions, nearly led to the

withdrawal of the university from the town of Bologna. The students and

the professors seceded in a mass, and retired to Sienna. No entreaties

could bring them back; the glory of Bologna might have been extinguished

for ever. The Podesta and other magistrates of the town were compelled at

length to send a solemn deputation. They promised, in future, to respect

their privileges; and, by raising the salaries of the professors, and some

other popular measures, they eventually prevailed upon them to return.

Petrarch had not left the city with the rest--he had lingered behind to

perform the last rites and honours to the remains of Giacomo--to raise the

tomb and inscribe it with his verse.

Upon that tomb the solitary moon was now shining. But who was that figure

robed in deepest black that knelt beside it, so sadly, with so desponding

a stillness, her forehead pressed against the marble? Was it, too, marble?

No. The chisel may create beauty as exquisite, but never combine it with

so great a sorrow. It was Constantia. Too late! Too late! She brought her

tears where one smile would have given life and happiness. She felt the

worth of him who had so passionately loved her, when nothing remained to

love but the ashes in that urn. That pleading in the student's chamber

seemed vain--and at the moment it _was_ vain; but when she recalled it in

her own solitude, her heart had half assented. She remembered how

tenderly--with what an ardent and gentle worship--he had pressed her hand;

her own hand trembled then to the touch which at the time it had coldly

rejected. When, moreover, she heard, through their common friend Petrarch,

of the noble manner in which he had refused the aid of Pepoli, and chose

death rather than the least dishonour, and thought to herself--this man

loved me!--all her heart was won. Alas! too late!

She now knelt at the tomb of Giacomo, afflicted with regret that amounted

to remorse. She raised her head--she raised her hand--there was that

within it which glittered in the moonbeam. But her hand was suddenly

arrested. Petrarch, a frequent visitor at that tomb, had seen and

prevented this movement of despair. "No! no!" he cried. "Beautiful

creature, and too much beloved--live on--live! And when some other Giacomo

appears, make compensation to heaven--by loving him!"

HENRY IV.[18]

So closely united are the arts of history and romance, that they may

almost be said to be twin sisters. In both, the subjects are the same: and

the objects which the artists have in view in handling them are identical.

To impress the mind by the narrative of heroic, or melt it by that of

tragic events--to delineate the varieties of character, incident, and

catastrophes--to unfold the secret springs which influence the most

important changes, and often confound the wisest anticipations--to trace

the chain of causes and effects in human transactions from their

unobserved origin to their ultimate results, is equally the object of both

arts. The delineation of character, passion, and transaction is the great

end of both, but to neither is the subordinate aid of description or

pictorial embellishment denied. On the contrary, to both they constitute

one of the principal charms of this art. The sphere of description is

different, but the object and the impressions are the same. The novelist

paints individual places, and strives to transfer to the mind of the

reader a reflection of the brilliant scenes created in his own

imagination. The historian embraces a wider sphere, and aims rather at

portraying the general features of whole districts of country, or even

quarters of the globe. But a painter's eye, a poet's mind, are equally

required by both; and not the least interesting parts of the works of

either are those in which the author leaves the busy and checkered scenes

of dramatic incident, to dwell amidst the recesses of inanimate

beauty,--to traverse the Alps with their shepherds, or the Pampas with

their Gauchos, and mingle with the turbid course of human events somewhat

of the purity which breathes amidst the works of Nature.

Notwithstanding this identity of object and art, there is nothing more

certain than that romance writers in general have not made the best

historians. Poets also, whose art so closely resembles that of the

novelist, have in general failed when they invoked the historic muse.

Smollett was in many respects an admirable romance writer; but the author

of "Roderick Random" has left a History of England, which is nothing but a

compilation of parliamentary debates and gazettes. Scott's powers as a

romance writer were so great and various, and his delineations of historic

scenes, characters, and events, so graphic and powerful, that it seemed

next to impossible that he should not be equally successful as a

historian, especially when the theme was one so varied and animating as

the "Life of Napoleon." Voltaire's genius was universal, and seemed

equally adapted to every object of human pursuit; but his historical

works, though deservedly popular as school books, have never risen to an

eminence approaching that justly attained by his tragedies and critical

disquisitions.

What is very remarkable, and is just the reverse of what might _a priori_

have been expected, the point in which romance writers in general fail,

when they undertake history, is in giving sufficient life and animation to

their narrative. Like race-horses, they seem in general incapable of

carrying any considerable weight. They would break down under the panoply

which a steed of Norman or Flemish extraction can sustain without

difficulty. Their imagination is only kindled when it is at liberty to

roam at will over a world of their own creation. Confined to the narration

of actual events, limited to the delineation of real character, cramped by

the description of actual scenes, their powers fail, their ardour is

weakened, their fire is lost. A mind comparatively prosaic, subject to

such burdens, speedily out-strips them even on their own element; and the

scholar with his authorities kindles the imagination to an extent which

the poet with his verses can hardly excel. Witness Livy's pictured

pages--Gibbon's historical descriptions. Yet minds of the most elevated

cast have occasionally, though at long intervals from each other,

succeeded in uniting the historic and romantic arts. Homer's Iliad is the

annals of the Siege of Troy in verse; his Odyssey, the versified Travels

of Ulysses; and in the recent "Histoire des Girondins" by Lamartine, we

have convincing proof that it is possible to unite the most ardent and

enthusiastic poetical mind with the research, knowledge of character, and

dramatic power, requisite to make the most interesting tragic annals.

As a romance writer, Mr James unquestionably is entitled to a high place.

He has great historical information, especially of the olden times and

their leading characters; an accurate personal knowledge of various

countries, more particularly France, Flanders, and England; great

acquaintance with the dress, manners, arms, and accoutrements of former

days; and a very remarkable power of describing as well the ever-changing

events of ancient story as the varied scenes of inanimate nature. His best

novels, "Attila," "Philip Augustus," "Mary of Burgundy," "The Robbers,"

"The Smugglers," "Morley Ernstein," "Henry Masterton," are happy specimens

of the historical romance. The great and deserved success which has

attended the uniform edition of his novels now in course of publication,

sufficiently proves that his reputation rests on a broader and securer

basis than the fleeting patronage of fashion or the transient interest of

individual satire. The great risk which he runs, is from the _number_ of

his works. It is dangerous to write thirty books. The most prolific

imagination runs into repetition, when repeatedly tasked with invention.

Homer himself could not have written twenty Iliads; Shakspeare's fame has

been not a little enhanced by his having left only twenty-seven plays;

that of Sophocles, by only seven of his having come down to modern times.

Perhaps the best thing that a good fairy could do for James's fame--as was

said of Dryden--would be to withdraw two-thirds of his productions from

subsequent times.

One of the greatest charms of Mr James's writings is the beautiful ideas,

clothed in felicitous language, which are to be found profusely scattered

over them. It is not the general opinion that he excels in this respect;

on the contrary, nothing is more common in conversation than to hear it

remarked, that it is in depth of thought, and knowledge of the human

heart, that he is deficient. But this opinion arises from the frequency,

sometimes, perhaps, redundancy of his pictures of nature, and the

brilliant colours in which he never fails to array her finest scenes.

Thoughts the most beautiful are frequently concealed amidst profusion of

description, as fruit sometimes amidst luxuriance of leaves. Take for

example the following, on one of the most familiar objects in nature--a

drop of rain.

"We spoke of the rain, and I foolishly enough, in mentioning all the

annoyance it had occasioned me, loaded it with maledictions.

"'Call it not accursed, my son,' said the monk. 'Oh no! remember that

every drop that falls, bears into the bosom of the earth a quality of

beautiful fertility. Remember that glorious tree, and herb, and

shrub, and flower, owes to those drops its life, its freshness, and

its beauty. Remember that half the loveliness of the green world is

all their gift; and that, without them, we should wander through a

dull desert, as dusty as the grave. Take but a single drop of rain

cloistered in the green fold of a blade of grass, and pour upon it

one ray of the morning sun, where will you get lapidary, with his

utmost skill, to cut a diamond that shall shine like that? Oh no!

blessed for ever be the beautiful drops of the sky, the refreshing

soothers of the seared earth--the nourishers of the flowers--that

calm race of beings, which are all loveliness and tranquillity,

without passion, or pain, or desire, or disappointment--whose life is

beauty, and whose breath is perfume."--_Henry Masterton._

Mr James cannot be considered as a historical writer of the highest class.

He gives a spirited and agreeable narrative of the events of the reign or

period which he has undertaken to describe, and in many passages the

descriptive powers of the romance writer are strikingly conspicuous. He

is diligent and worthy in the consultation of authorities, and free from

any undue bias in the drawing of characters or narrative of events. But he

has neither the philosophic glance of Guizot, nor the military fire of

Napier, nor the incomparable descriptive powers of Gibbon. His merit, and

it is a very great one, consists in the lucid and spirited telling of the

story, interspersed with interesting descriptions of the scenes of the

leading incidents, and dramatic portraiture of the principal characters.

His greatest fault--no trifling one--is the perplexity produced in the

mind of the reader by the want of proper grouping and arrangement, and the

introduction of a vast number of characters and events at once into the

story, without any preparatory description, to enable him to appreciate

the one or understand the other. This is a very natural error for a

romance writer to fall into when he undertakes history; because, in

novels, where characters are few, and the events only such as happen to

them, there is no need of previous preparation of the reader's mind, of

such grouping and perspective, for the simplification and illustration of

events. But, in history, where the events are so numerous and complicated,

and each actor in general occupies only an inconsiderable portion of the

canvass, it is indispensable, if the writer would avoid prolixity of

details, or achieve that object so well known to artists, which they

denominate _breadth_ of effect.

Biography should be, and when properly handled is, the most interesting

branch of historical composition. It has the immense advantage--the value

of which can only be properly appreciated by those who undertake to write

general history--of being limited to the leading characters who have

appeared on the theatre of the world, and consequently steering clear of

the intermediate periods of uninteresting or tedious occurrence. How to

get over these without exhausting the patience of his readers, on the one

hand, or incurring the reproach of omitting some events of importance, on

the other, is the great difficulty of general history. The biographer

seizes the finest points of the story; he dwells only on the exploits of

his hero, and casts the rest into the shade. If this style of composition

does not afford room for those general and important views on the general

march of events, or progress of our species, which constitute the most

valuable part of the highest branch of history, it presents much greater

opportunities for securing the interest of the general reader, and

awakening that sympathy in the breast of others, which it is the great

object of the fine arts to produce. It has one immense advantage--it

possesses unity of subject, it is characterised by singleness of interest.

The virtues or vices, the triumphs or misfortunes, the glories or ruin of

one individual, form the main subject of the narrative. It is on them that

the attention of the writer is fixed; it is to enhance their interest that

his efforts are exhausted. The actions of others, the surrounding events,

only require to be displayed in so far as they bear upon, or are connected

with the exploits of the hero. But as great men usually appear in, or

create by their single efforts, important eras in the annals of mankind,

it rarely happens that the characters selected for biography are not

surrounded by a cluster of others, which renders their Lives almost a

general history of the period during which they communicated their impress

to the events of the world; and thus their biography combines unity of

interest with the highest importance in event.

This was pre-eminently the case with the history of Henry IV. of France.

So important, indeed, were the events crowded into his lifetime, so great

and lasting have been the consequences of his triumph, so prodigious the

impulse which his genius communicated, not only to his own country, but to

Europe, that he may almost be said to have created an era in modern times.

The first of the Bourbon family, he was, in truth, the founder of the

French monarchy, in one sense of the term. He first gave it unity,

consistence, and power; he first rendered it formidable to the liberties

of Europe. Before his time, during the reigns of the princes of the House

of Valois, it was rather a cluster of separate and almost independent

feudatories, than a compact and homogeneous empire. So powerful were these

great vassals, so slender the force which the crown could command to

control them, that France on many occasions made the narrowest possible

escape from sharing the fate of Germany, and seeing in its chief

nobles--the Dukes of Burgundy and Brittany, the Counts of

Toulouse--independent monarchs rendering, like the electors of

Brandenberg, Saxony, and Bavaria, only a nominal allegiance to their

feudal superior. The religious wars, which broke out with the Reformation,

still farther increased the divisions, and severed the ties of this

distracted kingdom.

The contest of the rural nobility of the south, attached to the new

opinions as fervently as the Scottish Covenanters, with the more numerous

and concentrated Roman Catholics of the north, who clung with

superstitious tenacity to the pomp and ceremonies of the ancient worship,

continued through several successive generations, not only drenched the

kingdom with blood, but altered the character, and obliterated the virtues

of its inhabitants. Revenge became the only passion that retained its sway

over the human heart; cruelty so common, that its atrocity was no longer

perceived. The massacre of St Bartholomew, that lasting and indelible

stain on ancient, as the massacre in the prisons, and the Reign of Terror,

are on modern French history, is not to be regarded as the work of a

blood-thirsty tyrant, aided by a corrupt and perfidious court. The public

crimes of the rulers of men never can exceed, except by a few degrees,

those for which the nation is prepared. It is the frenzy of the general

mind which suggests and renders practicable the atrocious deeds, by which,

happily at long intervals from each other, the annals of mankind are

stained. The proscriptions of the Triumvirate, the alternate slaughters of

Marius and Sylla, the massacre of St Bartholomew, the _auto-da-fes_ of

Castile, the reign of the Duke of Alva in Flanders, the butchery of the

wars of the Roses in England, the blood shed by Robespierre in France, all

proceeded from a frenzied state of the public mind, which made the great

body of the people not only noways revolt at, but cordially support those

savage deeds, at which, when recounted in the pages of history, all

subsequent ages shudder. Even the massacre of St Bartholomew, perhaps the

most atrocious, because the most cold-blooded and perfidious, of all those

horrid deeds, excited at the time no feeling of indignation in the Roman

Catholic party throughout Europe. On the Contrary, it was universally and

cordially approved of by those of that persuasion in every country, as a

most effectual and expedient, and withal justifiable way of lopping off a

gangrened arm from the body politic, and extinguishing a pestilent heresy.

The discharges of the cannon from the castle of St Angelo, and the _Te

Deum_ sung in St Peter's, on the arrival of the glorious intelligence, by

the Head of the faithful at Rome, were re-echoed by the

acclamation--without, so far as appears, a single exception--of the whole

Romish world.[19]

It was the cessation of the hideous scenes of bloodshed and massacre which

had signalised the civil wars in the reigns of the Valois princes, and the

religious dissensions that succeeded them, which gave Henry IV. his great

and deserved reputation. Like Napoleon, he calmed, by his acquisition of

the throne, the passions of a nation in arms against itself. The

hereditary feuds, the dreadful retaliations, the mutual proscriptions, the

fierce passions, the frightful revenge of the feudal and Huguenot wars,

were stilled as if by the wand of a mighty enchanter.

Henry IV. was the man of his age; and hence it was that he achieved this

prodigy. His mental and physical qualities were precisely those which his

time demanded; and it was this combination which enabled him to achieve

his astonishing success. Bold, active, and enterprising, he presented that

mixture of warlike virtues with chivalrous graces which it is the great

object of romance to portray, and which may be said to form the ideal of

the European character. He possessed that individual gallantry, that

personal daring, that spontaneous generosity, which, even more than

commanding intellectual qualities, succeed in winning the hearts of

mankind. Ever the foremost in attack, the last in retreat, he excelled his

boldest knights in personal courage. The battle-field was to him a scene

of exultation. He had the true heroic character. Like the youth in

Tacitus, he loved danger itself, not the rewards of valour. Nor were the

mental qualities and combinations requisite in the general awanting. On

the contrary, he possessed them in the very highest degree. Active,

enterprising, indefatigable, he was ever in the field with the advanced

guard, and often ran the greatest personal danger from his anxiety to see

with his own eyes the position or forces of the enemy. His skill in

partisan strife, on which so much of success in war then depended--in the

surprise of castles, the siege of towns, the capture of convoys, the

sudden irruption into territories, equalled all that poetry had conceived

of the marvellous. His deeds, as narrated by the cool pen of Sully,

resemble rather the fabulous exploits of knight-errantry than the events

of real life. It was thus, by slow degrees and painful efforts, that he

gradually brought up his inconsiderable party, at first not a fourth part

of the forces of the League, to something like a level with his formidable

opponents; and at length was enabled to rout them in decisive battles, and

establish his fortunes on a permanent foundation in the fields of Arques

and Ivry.

The contest at first appeared to be so unequal as to be altogether

hopeless. Though the undoubted heir to the crown, his forces, when the

succession opened to him by the assassination of Henry III., were so

inconsiderable compared to those of the League, that it seemed impossible

that he could fight his way to the throne. The Huguenots were only two

millions of souls, and the Roman Catholics were eighteen millions. The

latter were in possession of the capital, wielded the resources of its

rich and ardent population, and had all the principal towns and

strongholds of the kingdom in their hands. It was in the distant

provinces, especially of the south, that the strength of the Protestants

lay: their forces were the lances of the rural nobility, and the stout

arms of the peasants in Dauphiny, the Cevennes, and around La Rochelle.

But all history, and especially that of France, demonstrates how

inadequate in general are the resources of remote and far-severed

provinces to maintain a protracted contest with an enemy in possession of

the capital, the fortresses, and ruling the standing army of the kingdom.

The forces of the Catholics in this instance were the more formidable,

that they were warlike and experienced, trained to the practical duties of

soldiers in previous civil wars, united in a league which, like the Solemn

League and Covenant in Scotland, formed an unseen bond uniting together

the most distant parts of the monarchy, and directed by the Duke of Guise,

a leader second to none in capacity and daring, and equal to any in

ruthless energy and unscrupulous wickedness.

It was the personal qualities, heroic spirit, and individual talents of

the King which enabled him to triumph over this formidable combination.

Never was evinced in a more striking light the influence of individual

gallantry and conduct on national fortunes; or a more convincing

illustration of the undoubted truth, that when important changes are about

to be made in human affairs, Providence frequently makes use of the agency

of individual greatness. But for Henry's capacity and determination, the

Protestants would have been crushed, and the civil war terminated in the

first campaign. But, like all other illustrious men, he became great in

the school of adversity. His energy, resources, and perseverance triumphed

over every difficulty, extricated him from every peril, and at length

enabled him to triumph over every opposition. It was his wonderful

partisan qualities--the secrecy, skill, and daring of his enterprises,

which first laid the foundation of his fortune, by drawing to his standard

many of those restless spirits, let loose over the country by the former

wars, who in every age are attracted by the courage, capacity, and

liberality of a leader. He was thus enabled to augment the little army of

the Huguenots by a considerable accession of bold and valuable soldiers

from the opposite faith, but who cared more for the capacity of their

leader than for either the psalms of the Huguenots or the high mass of the

Catholics.

By degrees, many even of the Romish nobility, penetrated with admiration

at the manner in which the heir of the crown combated for his rights,

joined his standard, in the secret hope that when he came to the throne he

would revert to the faith of the majority of his subjects. He won all

hearts, even in the enemy's ranks, by his generosity, humanity, and heroic

spirit. The soldiers worshipped the hero who shared all their hardships,

and whose greatest pleasure was ever to be the first in advancing into the

enemy's fire; the officers were filled with enthusiasm for the prince who

treated them all with the hearty courtesy of the camp, and claimed no

distinction save that which all felt to be due to pre-eminent valour and

never-failing capacity. Even his weaknesses augmented the general interest

in his character; and when it was known that the leader whose exploits

riveted the attention of all Europe, not unfrequently stole from the

council-board or the tent to pursue some fugitive fair one through a

forest, or subdue the obduracy of high-born beauty, by watching all night

before her castle walls, the age of romance seemed to have returned to the

earth, and all hearts were interested in the hero who appeared to unite

the greatness of ancient patriotism with the spirit of modern chivalry.

Nor did Henry's conduct, when he had taken Paris and conquered the throne,

belie the expectations formed by this brilliant dawn of his career. He

proved not merely a warrior, but the father of his people. Great projects

of amelioration were set on foot--greater still were in preparation, when

he perished by the hand of Ravaillac. His celebrated saying, that he

"hoped to see the time when every peasant should have his fowl in his

pot," reveals the paternal spirit of his government. It is vain to say

these were the acts of his ministers; that Sully was the real sovereign.

The answer of Queen Elizabeth, when the success of her reign was imputed

to the capacity of her ministers, "Did you ever know a fool choose a wise

one?" affords the decisive reply to all such depreciatory attempts. Under

his beneficent rule, industry was protected, commerce revived; canals,

roads, and bridges penetrated the country in every direction; and, most

marvellous of all, religious schisms were healed and religious fury

stilled. The abjuration by the successful monarch of the faith in which he

had been bred, and the warriors of which had combated for him, was

unquestionably a measure called for, in a temporal view, by the interest

of his dominions at the time, not less than by his own tenure of the

throne. When it is recollected that the Huguenots did not at that period

exceed two millions, among twenty which France contained, it becomes at

once apparent, that, in a country so recently convulsed by the passions of

religious and civil dissension, conformity with the faith of the great

majority was the sole condition on which tranquillity could have been

restored, discord appeased, a stable government established, or the crown

transmitted to the descendants of the reigning monarch. And, while his

biographer must lament the necessity to which he was subjected, of bending

religious conviction to political expedience, all must admire the wisdom

of the Edict of Nantes, which, without shocking the prejudices of the

Catholics, secured liberty of conscience and just immunities to the

Protestants; and which, if adhered to by succeeding monarchs, on the

equitable spirit in which it had been conceived by its author, would

probably have left the direct heirs of Henry IV. still on the throne of

France, and averted all the bloodshed and horrors of the Revolution.

Henry IV., however, was not a perfect character; had he been so, he would

not have been a child of Adam. He had the usual proportion of the

weaknesses, some of the faults, of humanity. They were, for the most part,

however, of that kind which are nearly allied to virtues, and to which

heroic characters have, in every age, in a peculiar manner been subject.

Heroism, love, and poetry, ever have and ever will be found united: they

are, in truth, as Lamartine has expressed it, twin sisters of each other;

they issued at a single birth from the same parents. We may regret that it

is so; but if we do, we had better extend our regrets a little farther,

and lament that we are not all immaculate as our First Parents were in the

bowers of Paradise. His irregularities are universally known, and have,

perhaps, rendered him as celebrated in France as his warlike exploits or

pacific virtues; for they fell in with the prevailing passion of the

nation, and were felt by all to be some excuse for their own indulgences.

They are celebrated even in the well-known air which has become, in a

manner, the National Anthem:--

"Vive Henri IV.!

Vive le roi vaillant!

Ce Diable a quatre

A le triple talent

De boire et de battre,

Et d'etre vert galant."

Henry IV., however, had more apology than most men for these frailties. He

lived in an age, and had been bred up in a court, in which female virtue

was so rare that it had come to pass for a chimera, and licentious

indulgence so frequent that it had become a habit, and ceased to be a

subject of reproach. Naturally ardent, susceptible, and impetuous, he was

immersed in a society in which intrigue with high-born beauty was

universally considered as the great object and chief employment of life.

The poetry and romances which were in every hand inculcated nothing else.

His own Queen, Margaret of Valois, gave him the first example of such

irregularities, and while she set no bounds to her jealousy of his

mistresses, particularly La Belle Gabrielle, who so long held the monarch

captive, she had no hesitation in bestowing her own favours on successive

lovers with as little scruple as the King himself. In some instances,

however, he was more completely inexcusable. It is remarkable that the

attachments of Henry became more violent as he advanced in life, and had

attained the period when the passions are usually found to cool. In some

instances they impelled him into acts of vehemence and oppression wholly

unworthy of his character and heart. His passion, late in years, for the

young Princess of Conde--a child of seventeen, who might have been his

granddaughter--and which prompted her flight with her husband to the Low

Countries, on which he was preparing war for her recovery when cut short

by death, was ridiculous in one of his age, and grossly criminal to one in

her circumstances. But these passions pursued him to the very last; and

when his tomb was broken open, and remained exposed, by the Parisian mob

during the fury of the Revolution, the nicely combed and highly perfumed

beard, the scent of which filled the air, proved that the dagger of

Ravaillac had struck him while still immersed in the frivolities which

tarnished his heroic exploits.[20]

In truth, without detracting from the many great and good qualities of the

hero of the Bourbon family, it may safely be affirmed that his fame in

subsequent times has been to the full as great as he deserved. Many

circumstances have contributed to this happy partiality of subsequent

times. His reign was filled with great and glorious actions; and that

endeared him to the heroic and the brave. His court was the abode of

gallantry--his life devotion to beauty; and that won for him the applause

of the fair. He did wonders, and designed still greater, for the internal

improvement of his dominions and the increase of his people's happiness;

and that secured for him the approbation of the philanthropic and

thoughtful. He gained for the Protestants religious freedom and immunity

from persecution; and that secured their eternal gratitude. He restored

to the Church of Rome the religious supremacy which had been so fiercely

disputed, and in so many other countries had been lost; and that shut the

mouths of the Catholics. He stilled the fury of civil, and pacified the

fierceness of religious discord; and that justly won for him the gratitude

of all. His reign formed a bright contrast to the frightful civil wars and

universal bloodshed which had preceded it. Like Napoleon, he closed the

gulf of revolution; and the admiration of subsequent times was the worthy

meed of the inestimable service thus rendered to humanity. They have not

diminished, perhaps exaggerated, the tribute. He was the first of a race

of sovereigns who for two centuries sat in the direct line on the throne

of France, and the collateral descendants of whom still hold it. Family

partiality, courtly panegyric, thus came to be largely mingled with the

just tribute of a nation's gratitude. The writers of other countries,

particularly England and Germany, joined in the chorus of applause to the

prince who had secured to the Protestant faith its just rights in so

important a kingdom as France. The vices or weakness of subsequent

sovereigns--the feeble rule of Louis XIII.; the tyrannical conduct, the

splendid talents of Louis XIV.; the corruptions of the Regent Orleans; the

disgraceful sensuality of Louis XV.; the benevolent heart, but passive

resignation of Louis XVI.--rose up successively in striking contrast to

his heroic deeds, vigorous government, and equitable administration. But,

without disregarding the influence of these circumstances in brightening

the halo which still surrounds the memory of Henry IV., the sober voice of

distant and subsequent history must pronounce him one of the greatest

princes who have adorned modern history, and certainly the greatest, after

Charlemagne and Napoleon, who ever sat on the throne of France.

But it is time to put a period to this general disquisition, to give some

extracts from the work of our author, in justice both to its own merits

and the character of the hero which it is intended to portray.

Mr James gives the following interesting particulars concerning the birth

and early years of Henry:--

"The Duchess of Vendome was at this time with her husband in Picardy,

but at her father's summons she set out for the south of France in

the wintry month of November; and, displaying that hardy and vigorous

constitution which she transmitted to her son, she traversed the wide

extent of country which lay between the extreme frontier of France

and her father's territories in the short space of eighteen days,

arriving at Pau not quite a fortnight before the birth of her third

child. There is reason to believe that various motives, besides that

attachment to her parent which she had always displayed, induced

Jeanne d'Albret to undertake so long and fatiguing a journey at so

critical a period. Information had reached her, we find, that the

King of Navarre had fallen under the influence of a lady of Bearn,

who had employed her power over his mind, as is usual in such

connexions, to enrich herself; and also that the Prince, with

weakness not uncommon even in great men, had made a will in favour of

his mistress, which was likely to deprive his daughter and her

husband of a considerable portion of their expected inheritance. The

natural anxiety of Jeanne d'Albret to see this will was communicated

by some of the court to the old King, and he in reply assured her

that he would place it in her hands as soon as he beheld the child

she was about to bear, upon the condition that she should sing him a

song in the pains of labour: 'In order,' he said, 'that thou mayest

not give me a crying and a puny child.'

"The Duchess promised to perform the task, and at the moment of the

birth of her son, as soon as she heard her father's foot in the

chamber, she saluted him with one of the songs of her native country.

When the child was shown to him, Henry d'Albret took him joyfully in

his arms, and remembering the sneer of the Spaniards, he exclaimed,

as if with a foresight of what he would become, 'My sheep has borne

me a lion!' Then giving his will to his daughter, he continued;

'There, my child, that is for thee, but this is for me,'--and

carrying the boy, wrapped in a fold of his dressing gown, into his

own chamber, he rubbed his lips with a piece of garlic, and gave him

from his own golden cup some drops of wine.

"Whether the King of Navarre did or did not imagine, as has been

asserted, that such unusual treatment of a newborn infant would

ensure to his grandson a hardy and a vigorous constitution, it

certainly indicated the course of education which he wished to be

pursued; and nothing was left undone that could strengthen the

corporeal frame of the young prince, and prepare him for the

hardships and exertions of a military career. Though a strong and

powerful child, some difficulty was at first found in rearing him;

and, perhaps, too high a degree of anxiety in regard to his health,

caused the frequent change of nurses, which was of course detrimental

to the infant.

"Great rejoicings took place on the occasion of his baptism; and his

grandfather displayed all the splendour of the little court of

Navarre, which the Emperor Charles V. once declared, had received him

in his passage through France with greater magnificence than any

other court he had visited. His godfathers were Henry II. of France

and Henry d'Albret of Navarre; and the rite, which was performed

according to the usages of the Church of Rome, was administered by

the Cardinal of Armagnac, Vice-legate of Avignon.

"From the castle of Pau the prince was speedily removed to that of

Coarasse, situated nearly at the mouth of the beautiful valley of

Lourdes; and there, under the immediate superintendence of his

grandfather and a distant relation, Susannah de Bourbon, Baroness de

Miossens, commenced that hardy education which lasted till after the

death of the King of Navarre. That monarch, we are told by a

contemporary author, 'reproached his daughter and son-in-law with

having lost several of their children by French delicacies; and in

fact,' the same writer goes on to say, 'he brought up his grandson

after the fashion of Bearn, with naked feet and head, very often with

as little refinement as peasants' children are nurtured.' No rich

clothing, no playthings were given to him; and Henry d'Albret

especially commanded that he should neither be flattered nor treated

as a prince, but fed upon the ordinary diet of the country, and

dressed in the simplest manner. He was allowed to climb the rocks and

mountains, and try his limbs in robust exercises from the earliest

period of life; and all that could be done to invigorate mind or

body, appears to have been strictly attended to in his years of

infancy."

At a subsequent period, when he had attained the era, and was engaged in

the studies of youth, his character and pursuits are thus described.

"We learn that he was at this time a very lively, quick, and

beautiful boy, full of vigour and activity of mind and body, apt to

receive instruction, and giving every promise of attaining great

proficiency in letters. La Gaucherie took every pains to render the

study of the learned languages agreeable to him; not teaching him in

the ordinary method, by filling his mind with long and laborious

rules, difficult to remember, and still more difficult to apply, but

following more the common course by which we acquire our maternal

language; and storing his mind with a number of Greek and Latin

sentences, which the Prince afterwards wrote down and analysed. The

first work which he seems to have translated regularly was Caesar's

Commentaries; a version of several books of which was seen by the

biographer of the Duke of Nevers in his own handwriting; and his

familiarity with the Greek was frequently shown in the sports and

pastimes of the court where mottoes in the learned languages were

frequently required.

"It is customary for the historians and eulogists of great men to

point out, after their acts have rendered them famous those slight

indications which sometimes in youth give promise of future eminence;

and thus, we are told the favourite motto, of Henry in his boyhood

was, [Greek: e nikan e apothanein], to conquer or to die. The fact,

however, is worthy of remark, not so much perhaps because it showed

the boy's aspirations for military glory, as because his frequent use

of this sentence seems to have created some uneasiness in the mind of

Catherine de Medicis, who forbade his masters to teach him such

apophthegms for the future, saying that they were only calculated to

render him obstinate.

"It is not probable that the Queen-mother would have taken notice of

such a sentence on the lips of any ordinary child; but it is evident,

not only from the accounts of those biographers, whose works were

composed after the Prince of Bearn had risen into renown as King of

France, but by letters written while he was yet in extreme youth,

that there was something in his whole manner and demeanour which

impressed all those who knew him with a conviction of his future

greatness. We shall have hereafter to cite several of these epistles,

which give an accurate picture of the Prince at the age of thirteen

years; but before that time he had undergone a long course of

desultory instruction. At one period his education was carried on in

the chateau of Vincennes, where he remained for more than a year with

the royal children; and at another we find him studying in the

college of Navarre, together with the Duke of Anjou, who afterwards

became King under the name of Henry III., and with Henry, eldest son

of the Duke of Guise, against whom he was destined to take so

prominent a part in arms. At this early age, however, no enmity or

rivalry was apparent between the three Princes; but on the contrary,

to use the words of the memoirs of Nevers, the three Henrys had the

same affection and the same pleasures, and always displayed for one

another so uncommon a degree of complaisance, that not the slightest

dispute took place between them during the whole time they were at

the college. In regard to the course of instruction pursued with the

Prince of Bearn we have no farther information, and only know that he

acquired a sufficient knowledge of the Latin language to translate

with ease all the best writers of Rome; and that he applied himself,

though apparently with no great perseverance, to the art of drawing,

in which he displayed a considerable degree of talent--the Duke of

Nevers, or his biographer, having seen an antique vase which he had

sketched in pen and ink with a masterly hand, and under which he had

written, _Opus principis otiosi_."

The Massacre of St Bartholomew, which has given an infamous immortality to

the name of Charles IX., was unquestionably the great cause of reviving

the religious wars which in the early part of his reign seemed to have

been in a great measure stilled. Mr James does not add much to the

information on the subject already furnished by the French historians, but

he sums it up in a dramatic and interesting manner.

Our space will not permit of our quoting the entire passage, and we shall

rather proceed to the period when the assassination of Henry III. opened

to the King of Navarre the throne of France. The situation of the monarch,

when this brilliant but perilous succession opened to him, is thus justly

described by Mr James:--

"The situation of Henry IV., on his accession to the throne, was

probably the most perilous in which a new monarch was ever placed.

The whole kingdom was convulsed, from end to end, by factions, the

virulence of which against each other had been nourished during many

years of civil war, and not one element of discord and confusion

seemed wanting to render the state of turbulence and anarchy which

existed of long duration. Not only the fierce and relentless spirit

of religious fanaticism, not only the grasping cupidity of selfish

and unprincipled nobles, not only the ambition of powerful and

distinguished leaders entered as ingredients into the strange mass of

contending passions which the country presented, but the long

indulgence of lawless courses, the habits of strife and bloodshed,

the want of universally recognised tribunals, the annihilation of

external commerce, and the utter destitution of financial resources

on all parts, seemed to place insurmountable obstacles in the way of

any speedy restoration of order and prosperity.

"The capital was in a state of rebellion against its legitimate

sovereign; the large towns were, in many instances, held forcibly by

the party opposed to the great majority of the inhabitants; the small

towns and villages were generally disaffected to the royal cause, or

wavering between opposite factions; and the rural districts were

divided in their affections, sometimes presenting three or four

different shades of opinion within the space of as many leagues. One

province was nearly entirely Protestant, another almost altogether

Catholic, another equally divided between the two religions. The

Parliament of Paris thundered against the Parliament of Tours; the

partisans of the late king looked with scarcely less jealousy upon

their new sovereign than upon their enemies of the League; and many

of those who were indifferent upon the subject of religion, made it

their first inquiry how they could sell their services to the best

advantage.

"The preceding reigns had extinguished all respect for the law; the

vices of the court had banished all notions of morality; and years of

license had left barely the sense of common decency amongst the

higher classes of the kingdom. Complete disorganisation, in short,

existed throughout the whole fabric of society; and no common

principle of action could be found as a permanent bond in uniting the

members of any great party together. The League itself contained most

discordant materials; but it was far more harmonious in its character

than the great body of the Royalists; for community of religion at

least afforded an apparent motive for combination where more

substantial ties were wanting, while difference of faith in the camp

of the King was at all times a pretext for dissensions which at any

moment might produce disorders, if not actual hostility.

"Such was the state of affairs which Henry knew to exist at the

moment when he received the announcement that he had so suddenly

become King of France. The generous devotion, indeed, of a few loyal

and high-minded men tended greatly to encourage him in the

commencement of his career; but apprehension and perplexity must have

been the first emotions by which he was affected on entering the

Hotel de Gondi and learning that Henry III. was dead. He found still

greater alarm, however, reigning amongst the courtiers of the late

King. Everything was confusion and disarray, and his presence did not

tend to produce harmony and order.

"The moment that his arrival was known, the Scotch guard came and

threw themselves at his feet, exclaiming, 'Oh! Sire, you are now our

king and our master;' and the active and energetic character of the

monarch at once displayed itself in a remarkable manner. Without

losing the time of action in thought, he applied himself to take

advantage of the consternation of others, and secure the fidelity of

the troops and of the court as far as possible, in order that the

death of Henry III. might not altogether dissolve the bonds which

held together the Royalist party, and overthrow the monarchy itself.

He sent directly to the quarters of the Swiss and the French guard,

to Marshal D'Aumont, to Biron, and to all in whom he could trust. He

wrote during the same night to England, to Flanders, to Switzerland,

Germany, and Venice, announcing his accession to the throne, stating

his indisputable title, and requesting immediate aid to make it good

against his enemies.

"But on entering the chamber of the deceased King a strange and

fearful scene presented itself. The room was filled with the Catholic

nobility of France; the minions were at the foot of the bed, with

tapers in their hands, singing the service of the dead; and all the

rest, 'amidst howlings of despair, were drawing down their hats, or

casting them on the ground, clenching their fists, plotting together,

giving each other the hand, making vows and promises, of which

nothing was heard but the ending words--"rather die a thousand

deaths."' One voice, however, gave the interpretation of all: a

gentleman exclaiming aloud, at ten paces from the King, that he would

rather give himself up to any enemies than suffer a Huguenot

monarch."

The battle of Arques was the first in which the great martial and heroic

qualities of the King were displayed in their full lustre; and there Mr

James's animated pen finds a fit subject for description. We pass on,

however, to the battle of Ivry, which was, if possible, yet more

marvellous and decisive; for the superiority of force on the part of the

League was still greater; and Henry's heroic band had dwindled away to

little more than one of Napoleon's divisions.

"The numbers of the army of the League it is very difficult to

discover, and, indeed, we can very seldom depend upon the statements

even of contemporaries regarding the forces engaged in any battle. In

one place, Davila reckons the army of Mayenne at four thousand five

hundred horse, and twenty thousand foot; but he evidently greatly

exaggerates the strength of the infantry, while Aubigne states the

numbers at five thousand cavalry, and eight thousand foot, and Cayet

says that Mayenne was accompanied by more than four thousand horse,

and twelve thousand foot. Henry himself, in his despatch to Monsieur

de la Verune, governor of Caen, does not venture even to guess at the

numbers of his adversary, but merely says, that the prisoners state

their army to have consisted of four thousand horse, and twelve

thousand foot, thus confirming the account of Victor Cayet. The

Royalist force did not amount to more than two thousand horse, and

about eight thousand foot. Just as the battle was about to commence,

however, Sully arrived from Pacy, bringing with him his own company,

and two companies of English horse arquebusiers, under Colonel James.

Several other reinforcements joined during the morning; and it cannot

be doubted that the flocking in of zealous friends, while Henry

occupied the plain of Ivry, tended greatly to encourage his forces,

and to make them forget the superiority of the enemy. As at Coutras,

the army of the League appeared covered with glittering trappings,

lace and embroidery, while that of the King displayed nothing but

cold gray steel.

"As soon as his troops had taken up their position, Henry rode along

the line, mounted on a powerful bay charger, clothed in complete

armour, but with his head bare, speaking words of hope and confidence

to the soldiers, and exhorting them to show the same valour here that

they had already displayed in many a perilous enterprise. His

countenance was bold and fearless; but it was remarked, that, moved

by his own words, his eyes more than once filled with tears. He

represented to his troops, that the road to safety, as well as to

glory, lay before them; that the crown of France depended upon their

swords; that there were no new armies to fall back upon in case of

defeat: no other nobles in France to take the field for him, if they

who surrounded him should fail. He then put himself at the head of

the line, where he could be seen by all, and heard by many, and with

his hands clasped and his eyes raised to heaven, he exclaimed: 'I

pray thee, oh God, who alone knowest the intentions of man's heart,

to do thy will upon me as thou shalt judge necessary for the weal of

Christendom, and to preserve me so long as thou knowest I am needful

for the happiness and repose of this land, and no longer.' Then

turning to his own squadron, he took his casque, surmounted by a

large plume of white feathers, and said: 'Companions, God is with us,

there stand his enemies and ours. Here is your king. Upon them! and

if you lose your cornets, rally to my white plume. You will find it

in the road to victory and honour.' During some part of the morning

one of his officers remarked to him that he had provided no place of

retreat, but Henry replied: 'There is no other retreat than the field

of battle.'

"Before commencing the engagement, the King performed one of those

generous and honourable acts, so well calculated to win all hearts,

and carry the love of his people along with him. It would seem that

Schomberg, who commanded the Germans in his service, had previously

demanded the pay of his troops, which was long in arrear, and that

Henry had replied sharply: 'No brave man ever asked for money on the

eve of a battle.' At this moment of peril the King's heart smote him

for what he had said; and approaching the old officer, he spoke thus:

'Monsieur de Schomberg, I have injured you. This day may be the last

of my life, and I would not take away the honour of any gentleman. I

know your valour and your merit, and I beseech you to pardon and

embrace me.'

"'Sire,' answered Schomberg, 'you wounded me the other day it is

true, but to-day you kill me; for the honour you do me will force me

to die for your service.'

"It is probable that immediately after this incident a movement in

advance, mentioned by the king in all his despatches, was made on the

part of the royal army, for, till between ten and eleven o'clock, the

forces of the League were at such a distance, that it was possible

for Mayenne to avoid a battle. The King still apparently imagined

that such might be his adversary's intention, for he says in his

circular letter respecting the great victory of Ivry, that the

enemy's troops having appeared still farther off than they had been

on the preceding evening, he resolved to approach so close that they

must of necessity fight; and having, in consequence, gone to seek

them even to the spot where they had planted themselves, 'from which

they never advanced but so far as was necessary to come to the

charge,' the battle took place. Judging from this adherence to his

position, and from the stillness of his skirmishers, that Mayenne was

determined not to commence the engagement, Henry took advantage of an

error which the Duke had committed in the choice of his ground, and

which exposed his cavalry, scattered over the face of a slope. He

accordingly ordered his artillery to open a fire upon the adverse

squadrons, which was executed by M. de la Guiche with great precision

and effect, nine discharges taking place before the Leaguers could

fire a gun. Nearly at the same time, news was brought that Monsieur

de Humieres, Mouy, and about three hundred horse, were hurrying up to

join the King, and were barely a mile distant; but Henry would not

delay the engagement.

"The battle was now begun by the light horse advancing on the part of

the League, followed by a heavy body of lanzknechts; but they were

met in full career by Marshal D'Aumont, at the head of about three

hundred men-at-arms, and driven back in confusion to the edge of the

wood, called La Haye des pres, where D'Aumont, according to the

commands he had previously received from Henry, halted his small

force, and returned in good order. While this was taking place on the

left of the King's army, a body of reiters from the enemy's right,

advanced against the light horse of Givri and the Grand Prior, but

were repulsed; and having made their charge and fired their pistols,

retired, as was the common practice of the German troopers, to form

behind the men-at-arms. The Royalist light horse, however, had been

thrown into some disorder by this attack, and were immediately after

assailed by a squadron of heavy cavalry, consisting of Walloons and

Flemings, who, with their long lances, bade fair to overthrow Givri

and the Grand Prior, when the Baron de Biron, by a well-timed charge

in flank, broke through their ranks, receiving two wounds in his

advance. Montpensier now moved forward to encounter the same corps in

front, and after having his horse killed under him, succeeded in

restoring the advantage to the Royalists in that part of the field.

Before this was accomplished, Mayenne, with the great bulk of his

cavalry, advanced against the King himself. He was accompanied by

Count Egmont, the Duke of Nemours, and the Chevalier D'Aumale, and

had on his left a body of five hundred carabineers, on horseback, all

picked men, well armed and mounted, who, galloping forward till they

were within twenty yards of Henry's division, poured a tremendous

fire upon it, and then gave place to the men-at-arms. At that moment,

however, the King spurred on his horse two lengths before any of his

troops, and, followed by his whole squadron, 'plunged,' to use the

words of Aubigne, 'into the forest of lances,' which lay before him.

Even that bitter satirist cannot avoid giving way to some enthusiasm

in describing the charge of his royal master. 'By the first strokes,'

he says, 'appeared what quality can effect against quantity.' For

more than a quarter of an hour the struggle was fierce, and the small

squadron of the King was lost to the sight of the rest of the army in

the dense cloud of Mayenne's cavalry.

"At length the Leaguers were seen to waver; some fled, others

followed, and in an instant after, all was rout and confusion amongst

the immense body of horse, which a few minutes before had moved up so

gallantly to the assault. But as the enemy fled from before him,

Henry was exposed to a new danger, and found that the battle was not

yet won. As he issued forth from the midst of the flying masses of

Mayenne's horse, with but twelve or fifteen companions at his side,

and exactly between the two regiments of adverse Swiss, three troops

of Walloons, who as yet had not taken any share in the battle,

appeared ready to charge his little band. D'Aumont, however, with the

Grand Prior, Tremouille, and the gallant Givri, advanced to his

deliverance, and this fresh body of cavalry was routed in a moment.

In the heat of the melee Henry's standard-bearer was killed, and one

of his pages, who bore in his casque a white plume similar to that of

the King, fell beside him. A report had spread instantly that the

King was slain, and a momentary panic had seized the persons round

the spot where he was supposed to have fallen. But when he reappeared

from amidst the dense crowd of enemies, covered with blood and dust,

a loud shout of 'Vive le Roi!' burst from the ranks of the Royalists,

and added speed to the flight of the enemy. Marshal Biron, who had

remained immoveable, watching the progress of the fight, and ready to

act wherever a great necessity presented itself, now joined the

monarch, saying, 'This day, sire, you have performed the part of

Marshal Biron, and Marshal Biron that of the King.'

"'Let us praise God, Marshal,' answered Henry, 'for the victory is

his.'"

Henry's generous temper, and, withal, turn for fun and drollery, is well

depicted in the account of his forgiveness of Mayenne, the ablest of his

opponents--

"In the meantime, negotiations went on for the reconciliation of the

Duke of Mayenne with his sovereign. His demands were greater,

perhaps, than were justified by his position; but Gabrielle d'

Estrees, who was now with the monarch, exerted all her influence to

render him favourable to the Duke, and Henry consented, at length, to

a treaty, by which it was declared, in regard to the death of Henry

III., that, all things weighed, and the evidence examined, it

appeared to the King, that the Princes and the Princesses of the

League had taken no part in that crime. The Parliaments of the realm

were consequently forbidden to proceed against them. Three places

were given to the Duke in Burgundy and Champagne, as security for six

years, the King burthened himself with the debts which Mayenne had

contracted during the war, and a term of six weeks was granted to the

other Leaguers, who were still in arms, to give in their adhesion to

the treaty of peace.

"This having been settled, and Mayenne feeling deeply the clemency of

the monarch, who had thus, in fact, loaded him with favours, when he

had nothing to expect but disgrace and punishment, set out to make

his submission in person to the King, who was then at Monceaux with

the fair Gabrielle. When he arrived, Henry was in the beautiful park

of that place, attended only by Sully, and on his approach the

monarch advanced to meet him. Mayenne knelt before the King, and

embraced his knees, assuring him of his fidelity for the future, and

thanking him for having delivered him 'from the arrogance of the

Spaniards, and the cunning of the Italians.' The King then hastened

to raise him, and embraced him three times with the utmost

cordiality, after which, taking him by the hand, and changing the

subject, he led him through the park, pointing out the changes and

improvements he intended to make. The King walked with his usual

rapid pace; Mayenne, who had become excessively fat, and was troubled

both with gout and sciatica, followed with difficulty, panting,

limping, and growing red in the face. With good-humoured malice,

Henry continued this exercise for some time, whispering to Sully, 'If

I walk this great body much longer, I shall avenge myself without

much trouble;' and then, turning to Mayenne, he added, 'Tell the

truth, cousin, do I not go somewhat fast for you?' The Duke replied

that he was ready to expire.

"'There is my hand,' replied the King, embracing him again; 'take it,

for on my life this is all the vengeance that I shall ever seek.'"

A most imperfect idea of Henry's character, however, would be formed, if

his gallantry in action, conduct in war, and generosity in victory alone

are taken into view. His pacific administration, and plans of social

improvement, are also worthy of the very highest admiration; and his

premature death is, perhaps, chiefly to be lamented, because it prevented

so many of them from being carried into full effect. They are thus

sketched by Mr James on the authority of Sully, the King's prime

minister:--

"It is difficult to arrive at any precise notion of Henry's ultimate

views; and the want of full information has induced many writers to

disbelieve the fact of his having entertained any of the definite and

extensive schemes attributed to him by contemporaries; but the

concurring testimony of those who knew him best, leads me to believe,

that a favourite project, of a comprehensive and extraordinary

character, occupied many of his thoughts from the moment that he felt

himself firmly seated on the throne of France. Sully seems to think

that the scheme was perfectly practicable; but whether the object was

limited, as some have asserted, to reducing the power of the house of

Austria, or whether it extended to the partition of Europe into

fifteen great monarchies, and to the establishment of a 'Christian

Republic,' (by means of a general council, representing those powers,

and sitting permanently,) as others affirm--whether the one design

was a fixed and clearly defined resolution, and the other merely a

brilliant but evanescent fancy, it would be very difficult in these

days to ascertain. Certain it is, that Henry demanded from his

minister Sully various written schemes and statements, as steps to

the execution of some very great and difficult design, which would

require the whole resources of France to be economised for many

years; and, from the plans thus formed, issued a number of most

beneficial projects, few of which, unhappily for posterity, were

carried into effect. In the joint labours of the King and his

minister, new objects, new regulations, presented themselves every

hour; memorial brought forth memorial; one scheme branched out into

half a dozen others; institutions were conceived; laws were drawn up;

and a completely new organisation of society, founded on notions of

transcendent excellence, such as the world has never seen, appeared

as visions to the eyes of the monarch and his friend.

"To afford some idea of the vastness and also of the visionary

character of these designs, I will give, in a somewhat abbreviated

form, part of the account furnished by Sully himself, of the contents

of a cabinet to be prepared for the King in one of the halls of the

Louvre, which were to comprise, arranged in drawers and cases, all

the memoirs and reports about to be collected. 'The labour required

was immense. To obtain a notion of it, without repetitions, let one

imagine every thing connected, immediately or remotely with the

finances, with war, with the artillery, with the navy, commerce and

police, with the coinage, with the mines, and, in a word, with every

part of government, interior and exterior, ecclesiastic, civil,

political, and domestic. Every one of all these parts had its

separate place in this state cabinet, so that all the documents

concerning it would be found ready to the hand at a glance, in

whatever quantity they might be. On the side appropriated to the

finances, were seen the collection of different regulations, records

of financial operations, changes made or to be made, the sums to

receive or to be paid, and an almost innumerable mass of statements,

memorials, totals, and summaries, more or less abridged.

"In regard to military matters, besides the accounts, details, and

memorials, marking the actual state of things, there would have been

found the edicts and state papers, works upon tactics, plans, maps,

and charts of France and other parts of the world. Large copies of

these maps, mixed with various pieces of painting, were to be placed

in the great gallery. The idea also was entertained of appropriating

one of the large halls below, with the floor above, to the purposes

of a museum of models and specimens of all the most curious machines

destined to be used in war, the arts, and different trades, and in

all sorts of exercises, noble, liberal, or mechanical, in order that

those who sought; perfection might come and without trouble instruct

themselves in this silent school. The lower story would have served

for the heavier things, and the higher for the lighter. An exact

inventory of both was to have been amongst the documents of the

cabinet of which I am speaking.

"Lists of all the benefices of the kingdom, with their denomination

and just appreciation, reports of the whole ecclesiastical body,

secular and regular, from the highest prelate to the lowest clerk,

with the distinction of native and foreigner, and of both religions,

would not have been amongst the least curious documents of those

referring to the ecclesiastical government.

"'This labour was the model of another affecting the police, by which

the king would have been able to see, to an individual, the number of

the nobility of the whole realm, divided into classes, and specified

by the difference of titles, estates, &c.; an idea the more agreeable

to the King, as he had been meditating for a long time the plan of a

new order of knighthood, together with that of an academy, a college,

and a royal hospital, destined for the nobility alone, without this

useful and honourable institution being chargeable to the public or

burdensome to the finances. It was proposed at the same time to form

a camp or permanent corps of six thousand infantry, a thousand horse,

and six pieces of artillery, completely equipped. Twelve ships and

twelve galleys kept in good order, corresponded in the naval

department to this new military establishment.

The close of this glorious and beneficent reign is thus described:--

"Certain it is that Henry's mind was filled with gloomy anticipations

which neither business nor pleasure could banish; for the moment he

was unoccupied dark and bitter meditations fell upon him, from which

he found it impossible to rouse himself. Intimations of coming

danger, too, were frequent; a courier from France carried news of his

death to Germany eight days before it happened. On the altar, at

Montargis, was found a paper, announcing that in a few days he would

perish by the hand of an assassin. Public prayers were offered up in

some parts of the Spanish territory for the success of a great

enterprise to be carried on in France; and many warnings were given

to Henry himself. The monarch, however, would pay no attention to

them, notwithstanding the presentiment with which he himself was

filled; and it is said that when, on the day of his death, his son,

the Duke of Vendome, came to tell him that La Brosse, the astrologer,

had predicted that great danger menaced him that day, Henry merely

laughed, saying, 'La Brosse is an old fox who wishes to have your

money, and you a young fool to believe him. Our days are counted

before God.' Perhaps more attention might often have been paid to

astrologers by great men if they had recollected that such

intimations may sometimes come from other sources than the stars, and

that many of those persons looked upon it as a part of their trade to

obtain intelligence of meditated designs in support of their

pretended science.

"The coronation of the Queen passed off without any accident; and her

ceremonious entrance into Paris was appointed for the 16th of the

month. The troops of the crown were already assembled on the

frontier, fifty pieces of artillery had been sent on to wait the

coming of the King, and he was to set out immediately after the

approaching pageant, in order to put himself at the head of his

troops: but, to the surprise of all, Spain and the Low Countries

remained in a state of the most perfect tranquillity; no preparations

for resistance were seen, no movement was made to turn away the

coming storm. This is the only circumstance which could throw the

slightest suspicion on the Archduke of taking any part in the crime

about to be perpetrated. On the 14th of May the King showed himself

restless and uneasy, but nevertheless he went, as usual, to hear mass

at the church of the Feuillans, and returned in safety to the palace.

The Queen, frightened by the predictions of the astrologers, besought

him not to go out any more that day. Henry laughed at her fears, but

still showed himself gloomy and disquieted, walked in an agitated

manner into the gardens of the Tuileries, talked more than once of

death: and when Bassompierre represented to him the immense

prosperity to which he had attained, and asked him what he could

desire more, he replied, with a deep sigh, 'My friend, all this must

be quitted.'

"He twice cast himself upon his bed to seek sleep, but in vain; and

about four o'clock demanded his coach, to proceed to the arsenal, in

order to confer with Sully, who was unwell. As soon as the carriage

was ready, he descended to the court and entered the vehicle,

accompanied by the Dukes of Epernon and Montbazon, with Roquelaure,

Lavardin, and La Force, giving some orders to Vitry, captain of the

guard, before he set out. He was followed by a small troop of

gentlemen on horseback, and the carriage was surrounded by a number

of running footmen.

"The large coaches of that day could be entirely closed by a sort of

door, or blind, which let down from the top: but the day being hot,

and Henry wishing to see the preparations which were going on for the

Queen's public entry, the carriage was left open on both sides, and

he himself remained exposed to the gaze of the people. Passing down

the Rue St Honore, the royal party turned into the Rue de la

Feronnerie, in itself narrow, and still farther straitened by a

number of small shops, built against the wall of the cemetery of the

Innocents, which Henry, some time before, had ordered to be pulled

down. At the moment the carriage entered the street, a cart, loaded

with barrels of wine, was on the right side, and another, filled with

hay, upon the left, so that the coachman was obliged to stop, while

the footmen ran round by the cemetery to remove the obstruction.

"At that moment a man, who had followed the carriage from the Louvre,

put one foot upon the front wheel, the other upon a stone at the

side, and, reaching into the carriage, struck the King a violent blow

with a knife. Henry immediately exclaimed, 'I am wounded;' but

notwithstanding the number of persons who were with him, the assassin

was suffered to repeat the blow, which now pierced the King to the

heart. A third blow was caught in the sleeve of one of the

attendants; and, instead of throwing down the knife and flying, the

man who had done the deed stood with the bloody weapon in his hand,

and calmly allowed himself to be seized by those who ran up at the

outcry which took place. The guards would have instantly put him to

death; but Epernon, fortunately for his own reputation, interfered,

and ordered him to be secured.

"In the meantime Henry uttered not a word, and the report forthwith

spread that the King was killed. His officers, however, wisely

assured the people that he was only wounded, and called loudly for

some wine, while the blinds of the carriage were let down, and the

vehicle turned towards the Louvre. The body was immediately removed

from the coach and laid upon a bed. Surgeons and physicians hurried

to the room; and we are informed by Bassompierre, who was present,

that Henry breathed one sigh after he was brought in. Life, however,

was probably extinguished at once by the second blow; for he never

uttered a word after he received it, but fell upon the shoulder of

the Duke of Epernon, with the blood flowing from his mouth as well as

from the wound.

"Thus died Henry IV. of France, in the fifty-seventh year of his age,

one of the greatest, and certainly one of the most beloved Kings of

France, on whom contemporaries bestowed the title of the Great, but

who was known to his people, and is ever mentioned in history, by the

name of Henri Quatre, a term connected in the mind of every Frenchman

with the ideas of goodness, benevolence, sincerity, and courage.

After having to fight for his throne against the fierce opposition of

fanaticism; after having to contend with the arms and the intrigues

of the Roman Catholic world; after having to struggle with the hatred

of a great part of his people, excited by the wild declamations of

preachers and demagogues, and with the coldness and indifference of

almost all the rest, he had succeeded, not only in obtaining the

crown to which he was entitled, not only in vanquishing his enemies

in the field, in subduing his rebellious subjects, in repulsing his

foreign foes, and overcoming the prejudices of his people, but in

gaining their devoted love, the esteem of all his allies, and the

reverence even of those opposed to him."

The extracts we have now given, will convey to our readers a fair idea of

this very interesting and valuable work. We earnestly recommend it to

their attention: when once in their hands, it will speak for itself.

Several emendations, some in the composition, others in the construction,

will, doubtless, in another edition, suggest themselves to the judgment

and good taste of the author. There are no arguments to chapters, no

index, and no table of contents. These, in a work of history, are

indispensable, and should be added forthwith. A novelist who brings five

or six characters on the stage, can afford to let them explain their own

story; but a historian, who is involved in the transactions of five or six

hundred, has need of every mechanical aid which industry can furnish, to

enable his readers to follow the complicated thread of events, or turn to

them again, when required on reference. It is to be wished, also, that Mr

James would intersperse his spirited narrative, especially in the scenes

of memorable events, with a few of those beautiful descriptions of Nature

with which his novels abound, and which would be peculiarly appropriate in

a work on French history, from his intimate acquaintance with the

topography and scenery of the places where his story is laid.

_Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh._

Footnotes:

[1] "Gentlemen," said a quondam acquaintance of ours, rising to return

thanks to a party of fox-hunters who had proposed his health--"I thank you

all for drinking my health, and E. for speaking as he has just done of my

riding. You all know that a younger son has not much choice in

horse-flesh; but should it please Providence to take my elder brother, you

would see me differently mounted, and I might then, perhaps, be able to do

something more worthy of your commendation; so allow me to propose in

return for your kindness, '_The chances of the chase_.'"

[2] _Out-doors_--because, as we have said in _Birboniana_, it would take

years to explore the numismatic and other treasures of the museums.

[3] _Anas Boschias._

[4] In allusion to the ancient name of Paris, "Lutetia,"--from _lutum_,

_mud_.

[5] "Invita que Jovi nectar Junone ministrat."--OVID.

[6] Divine honours were first paid to this snake in Rome on occasion of a

great pestilence which prevailed during the consulate of Q. Fabius and J.

Brutus. His form, rudely sculptured, and much water-worn, is still to be

made out on the side of a stone barque, stranded in a Tiber-washed garden

belonging to a convent of Franciscans, which convent, rich in Christian as

well as these Pagan relics, possesses the complete osteology of two of the

Apostles.

[7] See the Affiche of the Parisian _Sage Femme; passim_.

[8] Colubraria insula maris Balearinci colubris scatens, vulg. Dragonera.

[9] Vide _Aulus Gellius_, lib. vi.

[10] _Materials for a History of Oil Painting._ By C. L. EASTLAKE, R.A.

[11] We venture to throw out a conjecture respecting this Ludius, (by the

bye, there were two of that name,) as an attempt to throw some light upon

a passage in the "Sirmio" of Catullus, which has puzzled and led the

commentators into very far-fetched explanations. The lines are--

"Salve, O venusta Sirmio! atque hero gaude:

Gaudete, vosque, _Ludiae lacus undae_:

Ridete, quidquid est domi cachinnorum."

I have adopted the word Ludiae, before it is so in some editions given.

Catullus, returning from his profitless expedition into Asia Minor,

addresses his home (his villa) with affectionate address of a weary and

longing traveller. He speaks of his home delights, his accustomed

bed,--and then terminates with the above lines. What were the "Ludiae lacus

undae?" May it allude to the pictures painted on the walls of his villa;

and very probably by this Ludius--for the word _domi_ would seem to

indicate something within his dwelling, and this idea answers accurately

to the sort of pictures which Pliny represents Ludius to have painted.

Though Catullus is said to have died in his forty-sixth year, B.C. 40, and

Augustus, A.D. 14, it is very possible that Ludius, who is said to have

lived in the time of Augustus, may have ornamented with his pictures the

villa of Catullus. We offer this conjecture for no more than it is

worth--it may be at least as probable as many others which have been made.

[12] "Some of the English painters," says Tingry, "too anxious to receive

the fruits of their composition, neglect this precaution, (preserving the

colours in newly painted pictures before they are varnished, by covering

them with white of egg.) Several artists even paint in varnish, and _apply

it with their colors_. This precipitate method gives brilliancy to their

compositions at the very moment of their being finished; but their lustre

is temporary and of short duration. It renders it impossible for them to

clean their paintings, which are, besides, liable to crack and lose their

colour. In a word, it is not uncommon to see an artist survive his own

works."

[13] Van Stry asserted that copal was constantly used by Cuyp--his

pictures are remarkably hard.

[14] _Adventures on the Western Coast of South America, &c._ By JOHN

COULTER, M.D. London: 1847.

[15] See No. CCCLXXXI, page 21.

[16] _Byways of History, from the Twelfth to the Sixteenth Century._ By

Mrs PERCY SINNETT.

[17] See Sismondi's _History of the Italian Republics_, vol. iii. p. 58.

[18] _Life of Henry IV. of France._ By G. P. R. JAMES, Esq. 3 Vols.

London, 1847.

[19] See Capefigue, _Hist. de la Ligue et de Henry IV._, iii. 239. He is a

Roman Catholic writer, and therefore cannot be suspected of Huguenot

partiality, or aversion to the Church of Rome.

[20] Lamartine's _Histoire des Girondins_, vii. 374. We hope ere long to

make our readers acquainted with this magnificent work.

Transcriber's Notes:

Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.

The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these

letters have been replaced with transliterations.

Punctuation has been corrected without note.

The following misprints have been corrected:

"for for" corrected to "for" (page 262)

"of of" corrected to "of" (page 349)

"protraiture" corrected to "portraiture" (page 373)

Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and

hyphenation have been retained from the original.