high rank; for you are all this, madam, and I know it. The world accuses you of coldness and of exaggerated piety. I alone understand you. Your first smile, your first tear, sufficiently disproved the absurd fables which the Chevalier de Brétillac repeated against you. "But, then, what a destiny is yours! What fatality weighs upon you as upon me, that in the midst of a society so brilliant, which calls itself so enlightened, you should have found only the heart of a poor actor to do you justice! Nothing will deprive me of the sad and consoling thought, that had we been born in the same rank, you would have been mine in spite of my rivals, in spite of my own inferiority. You would have been compelled to acknowledge that there is in me something greater than their wealth and their titles-the power of loving you. "LELIO." "This letter," continued the Marquise, "was of a character very unusual at the time it was written, and seemed to me, notwithstanding some touches of theatrical declamation at the beginning so powerful, so true, so full of fresh bold passion, that I was overwhelmed by it. The pride which still struggled within me faded away. I would have given all the remaining days I had to live for one hour of such love. "I will not tell you of my anxiety, my uncertainty, my terror; I could not recollect them with any coherence. I answered in these words, as nearly as I can remember: "I do not accuse you, Lelio; I accuse Destiny. I do not pity you alone; I pity myself also. Neither pride nor prudence shall make me deny you the consolation of believing that I have felt a preference for you. Keep it, for it is the only one I can offer you. I can never consent to see you.' 666 "Next day I received a note which I hastily read and threw into the fire, to prevent Larrieux from seeing it, for he came suddenly upon me while I was reading it. It read thus: MADAM,-I must see you or I must die. Once-once only, but for a single hour, if such is your will. Why should you fear an interview, since you trust my honour and my prudence? Madam, I know who you are; I am well aware of your piety, of the austerity of your life. am not fool enough to hope for anything but a word of compassion, but it must fall from your own lips. My heart must receive and bear it away, or my heart must break. 'LELIO.' "I believed implicity in the humility, in the sincerity of Lelio. Besides, I had ample reason to trust my own strength. I resolved to see him. I had completely forgotten his faded features, his low-bred manners, his vulgar aspect; I recollected only the fascination of his genius, his letters, and his love. I answered: "I will see you. Find some secure place, but hope for nothing but for what you have asked. Should you seek to abuse my trust, you would be a villain, and I should not fear you.' "Answer: "Your trust would save you from the basest of villains. You will see, madam, that Lelio is not unworthy of it. The Duke has often been good enough to offer me the use of his house in the Rue de Valois. Deign to go thither after the play.' "Some explanations and directions as to the locality of the house followed. The "I received this note at four o'clock. whole negotiation had occupied but a day. I had spent it in wandering through the house like one distracted; I was in a fever. This rapid succession of events bore me along as in a dream. "When I had made the final decision, when it was impossible to draw back, I sank down upon my ottoman, breathless and dizzy. "I was really ill. A surgeon was sent for, and I was bled. I told my servants not to mention my indisposition to any one; for I dreaded the intrusion of officious advisers, and was determined not to be prevented from going out that night. "I threw myself upon my bed to await the appointed hour, and gave orders that no visitors should be admitted. "The blood-letting had relieved and weakened me; I sank into a great depression of spirits. All my illusions vanished with the excitement which had accompanied my fever. Reason and memory returned; I remembered my disenchantment in the coffee-house, and Lelio's wretched appearance there; I prepared to blush for my folly, and to fall from the height of my deceitful visions to a bare and despicable reality. II no longer understood how it had been possible for me to consent to exchange my heroic and romantic tenderness for the revulsion of feeling which awaited me, and the sense of shame which would henceforth poison all my recollec"I must say in my own praise, for a gene- tions. I bitterly regretted what I had done; rous and magnanimous trust is always praise-I wept my illusions, my love, and that future worthy, that not for a moment did I fear that of pure and secret joys which I was about to Lelio would betray the trust I placed in him. forfeit. Above all, I mourned for Lelio, whom THE MARQUISE. in seeing I should for ever lose, in whose love I had found five years of happiness, and for whom in a few hours I should feel nothing but indifference. "In the paroxysm of my grief I violently wrung my arms; the vein re-opened, and I had barely time to ring for my maid, who found me in a swoon upon my bed. A deep and heavy sleep, against which I struggled in vain, seized me. I neither dreamed nor suffered; I was as one dead for several hours. When I again opened my eyes my room was almost dark, my house silent; my waiting woman was asleep in a chair at the foot of my bed. I remained some time in such a state of numbness and weakness that I recollected nothing. Suddenly my memory returned, and I asked myself whether the hour and the day of rendezvous were passed, whether I had slept an hour or a century; whether I had killed Lelio by breaking my word. Was there yet time? I tried to rise, but my strength failed me. I struggled for some moments as if in a nightmare. At last I summoned all the forces of my will to the assistance of my exhausted body. I sprang to the floor, opened the curtains, and saw the moon shining upon the trees of my garden. I ran to the clock; the hands marked ten. I seized my maid and waked her: 'Quinette, what day of the week is it?' She sprang from her chair, screaming, and tried to escape from me, for she thought me delirious; I reassured her, and learned that I had only slept three hours. I thanked God. I asked for a hackney-coach. Quinette looked at me with amazement. At last she became convinced that I had the full use of my senses, transmitted my order, and began to dress me. "I asked for my simplest dress; I put no ornaments in my hair, and refused to wear any rouge. I wished above all things for Lelio's esteem and respect, for they were far more precious to me than his love. Nevertheless, I was pleased when Quinette, who was much surprised at this new caprice, said, examining me from head to foot: "Truly, madam, I know not how you manage it. You are dressed in a plain white robe, without either train or pannier; you are ill and as pale as death; you have not even put on a patch; yet I never saw you so beautiful as to night. I pity the men who will look upon you!' 51 "Come, simpleton, give me my mantle and muff.' "At midnight I was in the house of the Rue de Valois. I was carefully veiled, a sort of valet de chambre received me; he was the only human being to be seen in this mysterious dwelling. He led me through the windings of a dark garden to a pavilion buried in silence and shadow. Depositing his green silk lantern in the vestibule, he opened the door of a large dusky room, showed me by a respectful gesture and with a most impassive face a ray of light proceeding from the other extremity, and said, in a tone so low that it seemed as if he feared to awaken the sleeping echoes: Your ladyship is alone, no one else has yet come. Your ladyship will find in the summer parlour a bell which I will answer should you need anything.' He disappeared as if by enchantment, shutting the door upon me. "I was terribly frightened; I thought I had fallen into some trap. I called him back. He instantly reappeared, and his air of stupid solemnity reassured me. I asked him what time it was, although I knew perfectly well, for I had sounded my watch twenty times in the carriage. 'It is midnight, answered he, without raising his eyes. I now resolutely entered the summer parlour, and I realized how unfounded were my fears when I saw that the doors which opened upon the garden were only of painted silk. Nothing could be more charming than this boudoir; it was fitted up as a concert-room. The walls were of stucco as white as snow, and the mirrors were framed in unpolished silver. Musical instruments of unusually rich material were scattered about, upon seats of white velvet trimmed with pearls. The light came from above through leaves of alabaster which formed a dome overhead. This soft even light might have been mistaken for that of the moon. A single statue of white marble stood in the middle of the room; it was an antique, and represented Isis veiled, with her finger upon her lips. The mirrors which reflected us, both pale and draped in white, produced such an illusion upon me that I was obliged to move in order to distinguish my figure from hers. "Suddenly the silence was interrupted; a door was opened and closed, and light footsteps sounded upon the floor. I sank into > chair more dead than alive, for I was about to see Lelio shorn of the illusions of the stage. I "Do you think me so very austere, my closed my eyes, and inwardly bade them farepoor Quinette?' "Alas! madam, every day I pray Heaven to make me like you; but up to this time' well before I reopened them. "But how much was I surprised! Lelio was beautiful as an angel. He had not taken 42 THE MARQUISE. THE MARQUISE. [George Sand (Madame Aurore Dupin, baroness Dudevant), born in Paris, 1st July, 1804; died at Nohant, Berri, 8th June, 1876. She was acknowledged to be the greatest modern novelist of France. She produced a mass of romances, plays, sketches, criticisms, pamphlets, and political articles. An English critic says: "Of all modern French authors, George Sand has added to fiction, has annexed from the worlds of reality and of imagination, the greatest number of original characters-of what Emerson calls new organic creations. Moreover, George Sand is, after Rousseau, the only great French author who has looked directly and lovingly into the face of nature, and learned the secrets which skies and waters, fields and lanes, can teach to the heart that loves them." Unfortunately the early novels of George Sand created much scandal, which is not yet forgotten. It is a source of regret that genius so great should have produced books which must be avoided. Amongst her best works are Indiana, Consuelo, Little Fadette, and Jeanne.] as those who are more so. The marquise had had the misfortune to be unquestionably beautiful. I have seen her portrait, for, like all old women, she had the vanity to hang it up for exhibition in her apartment. She was represented in the character of a huntress nymph, with a low satin waist painted to imitate tiger-skin, sleeves of antique lace, a bow of sandal-wood, and a crescent of pearls lighting up her hair. It was an admirable painting, and, above all, an admirable woman, tall, slender, dark, with black eyes, austere and noble features, unsmiling deep-red lips, and hands which, it was said, had thrown the Princess of Lamballe into despair. Without lace, satin, or powder, she might indeed have seemed one of those fair and haughty nymphs who were fabled to appear to mortals in the depths of the forest or upon the solitary mountain side, only to drive them mad with passion and regret. Nevertheless, the marquise had made few conquests; according to her own account, she had been thought dull and spiritless. The worn-out men of that time cared less for the charms of beauty than for the allurements of coquetry; women infinitely less admired than she had robbed her of all her adorers, and, her fate. The little she had told me of her life made me believe that her heart had had no youth, and that a cold selfishness had paralyzed all its faculties. Yet several sincere friends surrounded her old age, and she gave alms without ostentation. The Marquise de R. never said brilliant things, although it is the rule in French literature that every old woman shall sparkle with wit. Her ignorance was extreme on all points which the contact of the world had not taught her, and she had none of that nicety of expression, that exquisite penetration, that mar-strange enough, she had seemed indifferent to vellous tact, which belong, it is said, to women who have seen all the different phases of life and of society; she was blunt, heedless, and sometimes even cynical. She put to flight every idea I had formed concerning the noble ladies of the olden time, yet she was a genuine marquise, and had seen the court of Louis XV. But as she was, even then, an exceptional character, do not seek in her history for a serious study of the manners of any epoch. Society seems to me, at all times, so difficult either to know or to paint, that I prefer having | nothing to do with it. I shall be satisfied with relating some of those personal anecdotes which establish a sympathy between men of all societies and all times. I had never found much pleasure in the society of the lady. She seemed to me remarkable for nothing except her prodigious memory of the events of her youth, and the masculine lucidity with which she expressed her recollections. For the rest, she was, like all aged persons, forgetful of recent events, and indifferent to everything in which she had no personal interest. Her beauty had not been of that piquant order, which, lacking splendour and regularity, cannot please in itself; a woman so made learns to be witty, in order to be as beautiful One evening I found her even more communicative than usual: there was a good deal of sadness in her thoughts. "My dear child," said she, "the Vicomte de Larrieux has just died of the gout. It is a great grief to me, for I have been his friend these sixty years. And then, there is something frightful in so many deaths. His, however, was not surprising; he was so old." "What was his age?" asked I. "Eighty-four years. I am eighty, but I am not as infirm as he was, and I can hope to live longer. N'importe! Several of my friends have gone this year, and although I tell myself that I am younger and stronger than any of them, I cannot help being frightened when I see my contemporaries sinking around me." "And these," said I, "are the only regrets you feel for poor Larrieux, a man who worshipped you for sixty years, who never ceased to complain of your cruelty, and yet never revolted from his allegiance. He was a model lover; there are no more such men." ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. crushed him. He was old, altered, frightful. His body seemed paralyzed. His stiffened lips attempted an unmeaning smile. His eyes were glassy and dim; he was now only Lelio, the shadow of a lover and a prince." The Marquise paused; then, while her aspect changed like that of a ruin which totters and sinks, she added: "Since then I have not heard him mentioned." The Marquise made a second and a longer pause; then, with the terrible fortitude which comes with length of years, which springs from the persistent love of life or the near hope of death, she said with a smile: "Well, do you not now believe in the ideality of the eighteenth century?" BURIAL ANTHEM. [Rev. Henry Hart Milman, born 10th February, 1791; died 24th September, 1868. He was eminent as a historian and a poet. Fazio, a tragedy, was his first work of any importance, and appeared in 1815. In 1820 he published the Fall of Jerusalem, a sacred poem, and subsequently wrote the History of Christianity, History of the Jews, &c.] Brother, thou art gone before us, And from care and fear released, The toilsome way thou'st travell❜d o'er, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. Sin can never taint thee now, Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, "Earth to earth," and "dust to dust," Where the wicked cease from troubling, ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. 53 [Mrs. Anne Grant, of Laggan, born in Glasgow, 21st February, 1755; died in Edinburgh, 7th November, 1838. Her father, Duncan Macvicar, held a commission in the army, and served some time in America. Having returned to this country, he was in 1773 appointed barrack-master of Fort Augustus, Inverness-shire. Here his daughter married the Rev. James Grant, minister of the neighbouring parish of Laggan. In 1801 Mrs. Grant was left a widow with eight children, and in straitened circumstances. She then turned to account her literary abilities, and produced several poetical and prose works, the most successful of which were, Poems on Various Subjects, 1803; Letters from the Mountains, 1806; and Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, 1811. She was awarded a pension of £50 a year by government in 1825.] Flower of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns For thee the brake and tangled wood,-To thy protecting shade she runs, Thy tender buds supply her food; Her young forsake her downy plumes To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art: The deer that range the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee; The bee thy earliest blossom greets, And draws from thee her choicest sweets. Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor; Though thou dispense no rich perfume, Nor yet with splendid tints allure, Both valour's crest and beauty's bower Oft hast thou deck'd, a favourite flower. Flower of the wild! whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mountain's side, Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, Nor garden's artful, varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild. Of peace and freedom seems to breathe; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, Is all his simple wish requires. Flower of his dear-loved native land! Alas, when distant, far more dear! When he from some cold foreign strand, Looks homeward through the blinding tear, How must his aching heart deplore, That home and thee he sees no more! hatred deserved far other feelings. But I was then old, and my knowledge came too late." "And while you were young," I rejoined, "were you never tempted to make a second trial? Was this deep-rooted aversion never shaken? It is strange." The marquise was silent, then hastily laying her gold snuff-box on the table: "I have begun my confession," said she, "and I will acknowledge everything. Listen! Once, only once in my life, I have loved, but loved as none ever loved, with a love as passionate and indomitable as it was imaginative and ideal. For you see, my child, you young men think you understand women, and you know nothing about them. If many old women of eighty were frankly to tell you the history of their lives, you would perhaps find that the feminine soul contains sources of good and evil of which you have no idea. And now, guess what was the rank of the man for whom I entirely lost my head-I, a marchioness, and one prouder and haughtier than every other?" "The King of France, or the Dauphin, Louis XVI." I "Oh, if you begin in that manner, you will be three hours before you reach my lover. prefer to tell you at once. He was an actor." "A king notwithstanding, I imagine." "The noblest, the most elegant that ever trod the boards. You are not amazed?" "Not much. I have heard that even when the prejudices of caste were most powerful in France, such ill-assorted passions were not rare." "Those ill-assorted passions were not tolerated by the world, I can assure you. The first time I saw him I expressed my admiration to the Countess de Ferrières, who happened to be beside me, and she answered: 'Do not speak so warmly to any one but me. You would be cruelly taunted were you suspected of forgetting that in the eyes of a woman of rank an actor can never be a man.' "He was never famous," answered she, "and was appreciated neither by the court nor the town. I have heard that he was outrageously hissed when he first appeared. Afterwards he was valued for his sensibility, his fire, and the efforts he made to improve himself. He was tolerated, and sometimes applauded, but, on the whole, he was always considered an actor without taste. "In those days tragedy was played 'properly;' it was necessary to die with taste, to fall gracefully, and to have an air of good breeding even in giving a blow. Dramatic art was modelled upon the usages of good society, and the diction and gestures of the actors were in harmony with the hoops and hair-powder which even then disfigured Phèdre and Clytemnestra. I had never appreciated the defects of this school of art. My reflections did not carry me far; I only knew that tragedy wearied me to death. I bravely endured it twice in the week, for it was the fashion to like it; but I listened with so cold and constrained an air that it was generally said I was insensible to the charms of fine poetry. "One evening, after a rather long absence from Paris, I went to the Comédie Française to see Le Cid. Lelio had been admitted to this theatre during my stay in the country, and I saw him for the first time. He played Rodrigue. I was deeply moved by the very first tones of his voice. It was penetrating rather than sonorous, but vibrating and strongly accentuated. His voice was much criticized. That of the Cid was supposed to be deep and powerful, just as all the heroes of antiquity were supposed to be tall and strong. A king who was but five feet six could not wear the diadem; it would have been contrary to the decrees of taste. "Lelio was small and slender; his beauty was not that of the features, but lay in the nobleness of his forehead, the irresistible grace of his attitude, the careless ease of his movements, the proud and melancholy expression of his face. I never saw in a statue, in a painting, in a man, so pure and ideal a capa "Madame de Ferrières' words remained in my mind, I know not why. At that time this contemptuous tone seemed to me absurd, and this fear of committing myself a piece of ma-city for beauty. The word charm should have licious hypocrisy. "His name was Lelio; he was by birth an Italian, but spoke French admirably. He may have been thirty-five, although upon the stage he often seemed less than twenty. He played Corneille better than he did Racine, but in both he was inimitable." "I am surprised,” said I, interrupting the marquise, "that his name should not appear in the annals of dramatic talent." been invented for him; it belonged to all his words, to all his glances, to all his motions. "What shall I say? It was indeed a 'charm' which he threw around me. This man, who stepped, spoke, moved, without system or affectation, who sobbed with his heart as much as with his voice, who forgot himself to become identified with his passion; this man, in whom the body seemed wasted and shattered by the soul, and a single one of whose glances cou |