sired Monsieur de Tulle to bid him come down, and to mount the pulpit in his place; since nothing could sustain the beauty of the spectacle, and the excellence of the music, but the force of his eloquence. My child, this young man trembled when he began, and we all trembled for him. Our ears were at first struck with a provincial accent; he is of Marseilles, and called Lené. But as he recovered from his confusion, he became so brilliant; established himself so well; gave so just a measure of praise to the deceased; touched with so much address and delicacy all the passages in his life where delicacy was required; placed in so true a light all that was most worthy of admiration; employed all the charms of expression, all the masterly strokes of eloquence, with so much propriety and so much grace, that every one present, without exception, burst into applause, charmed with so perfect, so finished a performance. He is twenty-eight years of age, the intimate friend of M. de Tulle, who accompanied him when he left the assembly. We were for naming him the Chevalier Mascaron, and I think he will even surpass his friend. As for the music, it was fine beyond all description. Baptiste exerted himself to the utmost, and was as sisted by all the king's musicians. There was an addition made to that fine Miserere; and there was a Libera, which filled the eyes of the whole assembly with tears; I do not think the music in heaven could exceed it. There were several prelates present. I desired Guitaut to look for the good Bishop of Marseilles, but we could not see him. I whispered him, that if it had been the funeral oration of any person living, to whom he might have made his court by it, he would not have failed to have been there. This little pleasantry made us laugh, in spite of the solemnity of the ceremony. My dear child, what a strange letter is this? I fancy I have almost lost my senses! What is this long account to you? To tell the truth, I have satisfied my love of description. MADAME DE SÉVIONE. LETTER TO MADAME DE GRIGNAN. LAMBESC, Tuesday morning, 10 o'clock, 1672. When we reckon without Providence, we must frequently reckon twice. I was dressed from head to foot by eight o'clock; I had drank my coffee, heard mass, taken leave of everybody, the mules were loaded, and the tinkling of their bells gave me no tice that it was time to mount my litter; my room was full of people, entreating me not to think of setting out on account of the heavy rain which had fallen incessantly for several days, and was then pouring more violently than ever; but I resisted all their arguments, resolving to abide by the promise I made you in my letter of yesterday, of being with you by Thursday, at farthest: at that very instant, in came M. de Grignan in his night-gown and slippers, and talked to me very gravely of the rashness of such an undertaking, saying that the muleteer would not be able to follow the litter; that my mules would fall into some ditch on the road; that my people would be so wet and fatigued, that they would not be able to lend me assistance; so that I changed my mind in a moment, and yielded to his sage remonstrances: and now, my dear child, the trunks are brought back, the mules are unharnessed, the footmen and maids are drying themselves by the fire, for they were wet through in only crossing the courtyard; and I dispatch you this messenger, knowing your goodness will make you uneasy, and wishing to lessen my own uneasiness, being very anxious about your health; for this man will either bring me word here, or meet one on the road. In short, my dear, he will be with you at Grignan on Thursday instead of me; and I shall set out the first moment it pleases God and M. de Grignan, who is become absolute master of me, and well knows my reasons for wishing so much to be at Grignan. I should be glad if this affair could be kept a secret from M. de la Garde, for he will take a most unmerciful pleasure in finding everything turn out as he foretold; but let him take care, and not grow vain upon this pretended gift of prophecy. MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ DURANDARTE AND BELERMA. [MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, author of "The Monk," was born in London in the year 1775, died 1816. His father was deputy-secretary in the War-office. When a child, Lewis had pored over" Glanville on Witches," and other books on diablerie; and in Germany he found abundant food of the same description. Romance and the drama were his favourite studies; and while resi dent abroad, he composed his story of "The Monk," a work more extravagant in its use of supernatural machinery than any previous English tale of modern times, and disfigured with licentious passages. The novel was published in 1795, and attracted much attention. A prosecution, it is said, was threatened on account of the peccant scenes and descriptions; to avert which, Lewis pledged himself to recall the printed copies, and to recast the work in another edition. The author continued through life the same strain of marvellous and terrific composition-now clothing it in verse, now infusing it into the scenes of a drama, and at other times expanding it into regular tales. His "Tales of Terror" (1799), "Tales of Wonder" (to which Sir Walter Scott contributed), "Romantic Tales" (1808), "The Bravo of Venice" (1804), and "Feudal Tyrants" (1806), both translated from the German, with numerous dramas, all bespeak the same parentage as 66 The Monk," and none of them excels it. His best poetry, as well as prose, is to be found in this novel; for like Mrs. Radcliffe, Lewis introduced poetical compositions into his tales; and his ballads (which we give) of "Alonzo the Brave" and "Durandarte" were as attractive as any of the adventures of Ambrosio the monk.] Sad and fearful is the story There fell Durandarte; never "Oh, Belerma! oh, my dear one, "And when now thy heart, replying "Ah! though young I fall, believe me, Death would never claim a sigh; 'Tis to lose thee, 'tis to leave thee, Makes me think it hard to die! "Oh! my cousin, Montesinos, "When my soul, these limbs forsaking, Eager seeks a purer air, From my breast the cold heart taking, Give it to Belerma's care. To Palestine hastened the hero so bold, His love she lamented him sore; But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, behold! His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain, He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain; And now had the marriage been blest by the priest; The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast, Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found His air was terrific; he uttered no sound He spake not, he moved not, he looked not around- His visor was closed, and gigantic his height, All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight; His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay; At length spake the bride-while she trembled: "I pray, The lady is silent; the stranger complies- O God! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes! All present then uttered a terrified shout, All turned with disgust from the scene; While the spectre addressed Imogine: "Behold me, thou false one, behold me!" he cried; God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride, Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, Then sunk with his prey through the wide-yawning Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found, Or the spectre that bore her away. Not long lived the baron; and none, since that time, For chronicles tell that, by order sublime, At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite, Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around! While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, Dancing round them the spectres are seen; Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS. CHARACTER AND CAREER OF [Sir JAMES STEPHEN, born in London 1789, died at Cob- end with the greater composure. Stretched on the naked beach, with the cold blasts of a Chinese winter aggravating his pains, he contended alone with the agonies of the fever which wasted his vital power. It was an agony and a solitude for which the happiest of the sons of men might well have exchanged the dearest society and the purest of the joys of life. It was an agony in which his still uplifted crucifix reminded him of a far more awful woe endured for his deliverance. It was a solitude thronged by blessed ministers of peace and consolation, visible in all their bright and lovely aspects to the now unclouded eye of faith, and audible to the dying martyr through the yielding bars of his mortal prison-house, in strains of exulting joy till then unheard and unimag Weak and frail he may have been, but from the days of Paul of Tarsus to our own, the annals of mankind exhibit no other example of a soul borne onward so triumphantly through distress and danger, in all their most appalling aspects. He battled with hunger, and thirst, and nakedness, and assassination, and pursued his mission of love with ever increasing ardour, amidst the wildest war of the contending elements. At the island of Moro (one of the group of the Moluccas), he took his stand at the foot of a volcano; and as the pillar of fire threw up its wreaths to heaven, and the earth tottered beneath him, and the firmament was rent by falling rocks and peals of unintermitting thunder, he pointed to the fierce lightnings and river of molten lava, and called on the agitated crowd which clung to him for safe-ined. Tears burst from his fading eyes, ty, to repent, and to obey the truth; but he also taught them that the sounds which racked their ears were the groans of the infernal world, and the sights which blasted their eyes an outbreak from the atmosphere of the place of torment. Repairing for the celebration of mass, to an edifice which he had consecrated for the purpose, an earthquake shook the building to its base. The terrified worshippers fled; but Xavier, standing in meek composure before the rocking altar, deliberately completed that mysterious sacrifice, with a faith, at least in this instance, enviable in the real presence, rejoicing, as he says in his description of the scene, to perceive that the demons of the island thus winged their flight before the archangel's sword, from the place where they had so long exercised their foul dominion. There is no schoolboy of our days who could not teach much unsuspected by Francis Xav. ier, of the laws which govern the material and the spiritual worlds. But we have not many doctors who know as much as he did of the nature of Him by whom the worlds of matter and of spirit were created; for he studied in the school of protracted martyrdom and active philanthropy, where are divulged secrets unknown and unimagined by the wisest and most learned of ordinary men. * * * * * * But his earthly toils and projects were now to cease forever. The angel of death appeared with a summons, for which, since death first entered our world, no man was ever more triumphantly prepared. It found him on board the vessel on the point of departing for Siam. At his own request he was removed to the shore, that he might meet his * * * tears of an emotion too big for utterance. In the cold collapse of death his features were for a brief moment irradiated as with the first beams of approaching glory. He raised himself on his crucifix; and exclaiming, In te, Domine speravi-non confundar in æternum! he bowed his head and died. He lived among men as if to show how little the grandeur of the human soul depends on mere intellectual power. It was his to demonstrate with what vivific rays a heart imbued with the love of God and man may warm and kindle the nations, however dense may be the exhalations through which the giant pursues his course from the one end of heaven to the other. Scholars criticised, wits ridiculed, prudent men admonished, and kings opposed him; but on moved Francis Xavier, borne onward by an impulse which crushed and scattered to the winds all such puny obstacles. In ten short years, as if mercy had lent him wings and faith an impenetrable armour, he traversed oceans, islands and continents, through a track equal to more than twice the circumference of our globe; everywhere preaching, disputing, baptizing, and found. ing Christian churches. There is at least one well-authenticated miracle in Xavier's story. It is, that any mortal man should have sustained such toils as he did; and have sustained them, too, not merely with composure, but as if in obedience to some indestructible exigency of his nature. "The Father Master Francis (the words are those of his associate, Melchior Nunez), when laboring for the salvation of idolaters, seemed to act, not by any acquired power, but as by some natural instinct; for he could take neither pleasure nor even exist except in such employments. They were his repose; and when he was leading men to the knowledge and the love of God, however much he exerted himself, he never appeared to be making any effort." Seven hundred thousand converts, (for in these matters Xavier's eulogists are not parsimonious), are numbered as the fruits of his mission; nor is the extravagance so extreme if the word "conversion be understood in the sense in which they used it. Kings, Rajahs, and Princes were always, when possible, the first object of his care. Some such conquests he certainly made; and as the flocks would often follow their shepherds, and as the gate into the Christian fold was not made very strait, it may have been entered by many thousands and tens of thousands. But if Xavier taught the mighty of the earth, it was for the sake of the poor and miserable, and with them he chiefly dwelt. * * * * * * * long-hardened heart, and that to him that apostolate had been committed. So judg ing, or so feeling, he obeyed the summons of him whom he regarded as Christ's vicar on earth, and the echoes from no sublunary region, which the summons seemed to awaken in his bosom. In holding up to reverential admiration such self-sacrifices as his, slight, indeed, is the danger of stimulating an enthusiastic imitation. Enthusiasm! our pulpits distil their bland rhetoric against it; but where is it to be found? Do not our share markets, thronged even by the devout, overlay it-and our rich benefices extinguish it-and our pentecosts, in the dazzling month of May, dissipate it—and our stipendiary missions, and our mitres, decked, even in heathen lands, with jewels and with lordly titles-do they not, as so many lightning conductors, effectually divert it? There is indeed the lackadaisical enthusiasm of devotional experiences, and *the sentimental enthusiasm of religious bazars, and the oratorical enthusiasm of charitable platforms, and the tractarian enthu siasm of certain well-beneficed ascetics; but in what, except the name, do they resemble the "God-in-us enthusiasm of Francis Xavier-of Xavier the magnanimous, the holy, and the gay; the canonized saint, not of Rome only, but of universal Christendom; who, if at this hour there remained not a solitary Christian to claim and to rejoice in his spiritual ancestry, should yet live in hallowed and everlasting remembrance; as the man who has bequeathed to these later ages, at once the clearest proof and the most illustrious example, that even amidst the enervating arts of our modern civilization, the apostolic energy may still burn with all its primæval ardour in the human soul, when animated and directed by a power more than human. No man, however abject his condition, disgusting his maladies, or hateful his crimes, ever turned to Xavier without learning that there was at least one human heart on which he might repose with all the confidence of a brother's love. To his eye the meanest and the lowest reflected the image of Him whom he followed and adored; nor did he suppose that he could ever serve the Saviour of mankind so acceptably as by ministering to their sorrows and recalling them into the way of peace. It is easy to smile at his visions, to detect his errors, to ridicule the extravagant austerities of his life, and even to show how much his misguided zeal eventually counteracted his own designs. But with our philosophy, our luxuries, and our wider experience, it is not easy for us to estimate or to comprehend the career of such a man. Between his thoughts and our thoughts there is but little in common. Of our wisdom he knew nothing, and would have despised it if he had. Philanthropy was his passion; reckless daring his delight, and faith, glowing in meridian splendour, the sunshine in which he walked. He judged or felt (and who shall say that he judged or felt erroneously?) that the Church demanded an illustrious sacrifice, and that he was to be the victim; -that a voice which had been dumb for fifteen centuries must at length be raised again, and that to him that voice had been imparted ;-that a new Apostle must go forth to break up the incrustations of man's SONG OF THE BELL. Fastened deep in firmest earth, Sweat must freely flow, |