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mind of our pious hero being strengthened by this preparatory discipline, he was equal to the last conflict. When the fatal time drew near, and he was informed of the approaching moment, after a short pause, he cried out in the most energetic manner, Thy will, O God! be done: O give me grace to die the death of the just." From that moment he appeared as in the day of battle, occupied but not ruffled, intent but not alarmed, resolute but calm: and he looked upon death with an equal eye, whether it presented itself in the languid form of disease, or whether it rushed on his view in the midst of combat clothed with terror.

Religion now claims his last thoughts, and takes entire possession of his mind. As the ministers of the altar drew near, he cried out with an impressive voice, "These are my true physicians." While they recited the prayers of the dying he listened with an awful and submissive expectation. In these pathetic prayers and agonizing exclamations, our holy mother the church seems to suffer the pangs of labour, and endure the painful anxieties of a parent in bringing forth her children to celestial birth. Now calling his confessor, he solemnly attested that he had ever adhered to the belief of the Christian doctrine: he added, that his belief was now at tended with a stronger conviction, and he cried out with a rapturous confidence, "Yes, I shall behold my God face to face." It seemed as if he was suddenly illuminated, as if a celestial ray had in a moment pierced the cloud of ignorance, and (if I may be allowed to say) the awful obscurity that hangs over our faith. At the dawn of such a pure ineffable light, did not the phantoms of this world recede? How dim now appears the splendor of victory! how contemptible the pride of descent! how trifling the majesty of grandeur! how puerile, how infantine the serious toils and pursuits of life! Let me then summon to this mournful solemn nity, persons of every rank and pro

VOL. I....NO. v.

fession. Draw near, ye great! ye humble! ye rich! ye poor! and chiefly ye, oh illustrious progeny of the house of Bourbon! draw near, and behold all that remains of a birth so exalted, of a renown so extensive, of a glory so brilliant! See all that sumptuousness can perform to celebrate the hero! Mark the titles, the inscriptions, she has flung around! vain indications of an existence that is not now to be found! Mark those sculptured images, that, sorrowfully bending round yon monument, appear to weep! mark those aspiring columns which magnificently attest our nothingness! Amidst this waste of decoration, this profusion of honours, nothing is wanting but the person to whom they are dedicated! Let us then lament our frail and fugitive existence, while we perform the rites of a sickly immortality to the memory of our departed hero. I now address myself particularly to those who are advancing in the same career of military glory. Approach, and bewail your great commander. I can almost persuade myself that I hear you say, "Is he then no more our intrepid chief, who through the rugged paths of danger led us often to victory? His name, the only part of him that remains is all sufficient to goad us on to future exertions ....his departed spirit now whispers to our soul this sacred admonition, that if we hope to obtain at our death the reward of our labours, we must serve our God as well as we serve our earthly sovereign.” Enter then into the service of your God, the great remuneration! who, in the prodigality of his indulgence, will estimate higher one pious sigh, or a drop of water given in his name, than the sovereigns of the earth will prize the sacrifice of your lives in their service. Will not they also approach this mournful monument, they who were united to him by the sacred bond of friendship? Draw near, ye companions of his social hour; pay homage to the memory of your associate, whose goodness of heart equalled its intrepidity; and let his death be at once

7

M. de la Motte Guerin, who had the command of this isle and prison in 1714, assures us, Than M. de St. Mars treated his prisoner with the utmost respect: he was served in silver, and waited on by the governor himself, who was always uncovered, and never sat down but by his express desire. He was furnished with books and the most superb clothes, and seemed particularly fond of lace and fine linen.

When he was ill and used the advice and assistance of a physician or surgeon, he was forbid, under pain of death, to unmask; but they were at liberty, in the presence of the governor, to feel his pulse, or examine his tongue, which might be put forth by raising the lower part of the mask. All boats were prohibited approaching the isle, under pain of being fired on by the centinels.

After remaining in the isle of St. Marguerite eleven years, the man in the iron mask was removed in 1698, to the bastile.

The prisoner, in a litter, preceded St. Mars, escorted by a number of armed men on horseback. At

Villeneuve-Roy, St. Mars ate with his prisoner, who sat with his back to the casement of the dining-room, which looked into the court-yard. The peasants of the place, when interrogated, could not tell whether he ate with his mask on or off; but they clearly observed that M. St. Mars, who was seated opposite the prisoner, had a pistol laid on each side of his plate. They had only one valet de chambre to wait on them, who brought and took away the dishes into the anti-room, carefully shutting the door when he entered or retired. When the prisoner crossed the court, he always wore the black mask on his face; but the peasants remarked, That they could see his teeth and lips; that he was tall, and had grey hair. M. St. Mars slept in a bed near him. We never could learn whether or no he had any foreign accent in his speech.

The following particulars are taken from the manuscript journal of Du Jonca, the king's lieutenant at the bastile.

"On Thursday the 18th of September, 1698, at three in the afternoon, M. de St. Mars arrived from the isle of Marguerite, bringing with him, in a litter, an ancient prisoner, whose name he told not, and whose face was covered with an iron mask. This prisoner was lodged in the tower Basiniere till night, when, at nine o'clock, he was conducted to the chamber in the third story of the tower la Bertaudiere, which according to particular orders given, was furnished with every thing necessary. In conducting him to the abovementioned apartment, I was accompanied by the Sieur Rosarges, whom M, de St. Mars had brought with him, and who bad orders to wait on and take charge of the prisoner,"

The great register confirms the journal of Du Jonca, in the following manner; viz.

Names and quality of prisoners: Ancient prisoner from Pignerol, obliged to wear an iron mask, covered with black velvet: igno❤ rant of his name and quality :

Date of entry: September 18th, 1698, at three in the afternoon.

Motive of detention: Unknown.

This mysterious personage amused himself with reading, walking in his chamber, and sometimes by playing on the guitar. Every deli cacy he wished for, was immediatley ordered: but when he attended mass he was given to understand, that death would be the conse quence of his speaking, or attempting to uncover his face, the invalids who guarded him having their pieces charged with ball. An old physician, who frequently attended

him during his illness, declared, That though he had examined his tongue and other parts of his body, yet he had never seen his face; he said, his voice was clear and plaintive; yet he never heard him complain of his hard fate, nor give the least intimation who he was. The above naturally leads us to the rest of Du Jonca's journal, relative to the sudden death of this illustrious, but unknown person.

On Monday the 19th of November, 1703, the prisoner in the iron mask, being taken ill after the celebration of mass yesterday, died in this evening about ten o'clock. His death was so sudden, that M. Girault, the almoner who confessed him on the 19th, had not time to administer the sacraments, but only to exhort him, a few minutes before his departure. He was interred on the 20th, at four in the afternoon, in the church-yard of St. Paul, (the parish church of the bastile,) under the name of Marchiali; his burial register being signed by M. de Rosarges, major, and M. Reilh, surgeon-major of the bastile: the expenses of his funeral amounting to 40 livres.

His bed, tables, chairs, and the other furniture of his chamber, were burnt, and the ashes carried out: the silver dishes and plates, and even the utensils of copper and brass were melted down; the plaister of the room was scratched off, till the stones were laid bare; the paved floor was chipped; and even the doors and window-shutters burnt with the rest.

Numberless are the courtiers, politicians, and writers, who have hitherto vainly endeavoured to pierce through the thick cloud of darkness enveloping this unfortunate personage. By some he was supposed to have been a twin-brother of Louis XIV, by others, the fruit of an illicit amour between Anne of Austria and cardinal Mazarine. Voltaire imagines him to have been the duke of Vermandois, natural son of Louis XIV, and the celebrated countess la Valiere, who

had so far forgot himself as to give a blow to the dauphin: but the great disparity of their ages, renders this conjecture altogether improbable.

St. Fond, who proved in the most satisfactory manner, that the man in the iron mask could neither be the duke of Beaufort, nor the count of Vermandois, believes him to have been the duke of Monmouth; and this strange hypothesis he sustains with a considerable degree of ardour. "It is certain (says M. St. Fond,) it was currently reported in London, that a gentleman strongly resembling the duke, and lately serving in his army, being condemned to death on that account, received the proposal of passing for this unfortunate nobleman, and being beheaded in his stead, with as much joy as though he had received a free pardon. It is added, that Monmouth escaping in disguise, the sentence was executed on this offcer believed to be the duke; and that a great court lady (the lady Wentworth,) having bribed the warden of the chapel, had his cotfin opened, and his arm stripped, whereon was a mark by which she could recognise him; but seeing none, started back, and immediately exclaimed, "This is not the duke of Monmouth."

"St. Fond adds other remarks, equally tending to impose upon those as credulous as himself; but he who had confuted Voltaire with respect to the count of Vermandois, was in his turn confuted by his antagonist, in the following nanner.

"St. Fond imagines the man in the iron mask to have been the English duke of Monmouth, the son of Charles II, who must have risen from the dead and changed the order of time, to have occupied his place. Is it likely that James Ild, who never pardoned a convicted state prisoner, should forgive one who attempted to wrest the sceptre from his hand; and that he should be so fortunate as to suffer a public execution, from attachment to the duke? That af

ter this transaction, the superb and high-spirited Louis le Grand should submit to be a gaoler to the king of England, though his intimate friend; and that after the abdication of James, he should do the same favour for William III, and his successor queen Anne, both of whom he detested, and with whom he was continually at war; and that he should, during their reigns, with the ut most solicitude occupy the situation of a goaler, with which dignity James II, had honoured him?"

"The duke of Monmouth was publicly beheaded between the hours of ten and twelve in the forenoon, on the 15th of July, 1685; and St. Mars relates, That the man in the iron mask was detained in the citadel of Pignerol, from 1671 to 1691; consequently this prisoner could not be the duke of Monmouth.

By others it was asserted, That the man in the iron mask was Foquet, superintendant of the finances; but it has been incontestably proved, that Foquet died in confinement at Pignerol, and was buried at Paris in 1681; whereas the masked prisoner died at the bastile in 1703. With an equal degree of probability it was asserted, That the man in the iron mask was a secretary of the petty duke of Mantua. If so why should a person of that description be treated with such an extraordinary degree of respect, as is only paid to crowned heads or their relatives? This supposition stands upon so feeble a basis, that it is easily overthrown.

The most probable account seems to be that given in the memoirs of the Mareschal Richelieu, in which it is asserted, That the secret was extorted from the regent duke of - Orleans, by his favourite daughter, who communicated it to Richelieu, at that time her professed gallant. From this detail, it seems that the man in the iron mask was the twin brother of Louis XIV, born eight hours after him. Their father Louis XIII, who was superstitious in a high degree, giving credit to certain impostors, who predicting that should

the queen be delivered oftwins, the kingdom would be involved in a civil war, ordered the birth of the latter prince to be kept a profouud secret, and had him privately educated in the country, as the natural son of a person of distinction. But on the accession of Louis XIV, the young man having given hints that he had made a discovery of his pa rentage, his brother being inform ed of it, ordered him to be imprisoned for life, and to wear a mask to prevent his being known.

Here we seem to have arrived at the solution of this enigma: but what shall we conclude, when we are informed from respectable authority, "That the pretended memoirs of Duc de Richelieu are, in fact, no better than a chain of ingenious fictions, linked together by the dexterous hand of the Abbe Soulavie."

From the high consequence attached to the confinement; the uncommon respect ordered to be paid him; and the silence of the registers of the bastile, we cannot suppose that this celebrated prisoner could be a person of ordinary rank; yet when it is considered, as Voltaire very acutely observes, that no man of superior station was missing at that time, the imagination wanders in vain over an ocean of doubts, without a single star or pharos to direct it to the long desired point.

At the time of his death, this remarkable personage was supposed to be in the 60th year of his age.

MEMOIRS OF DR. JOHN MOORE. DR. John Moore, a native of Scotland, was the author of Zeluco, and of travels into France, Germany and Switzerland. His father, the Reverend Charles Moore, was a clergyman of the established church, and greatly esteemed for the purity of his manners and the amiableness of his disposition. He was one of the ministers of Stirling, where his only surviving son was born in 1730, and he contrived in that country, and at that time of