'UVJIi < J i'^ 
 
 ..^^\E•lIN!\ _^' 
 
 iir itiiii. 'rnp/.. 
 
 i-r-l »^ 
 
 
 /S I ^) 
 
 \WEUNIVER% A>:IC
 
 V 
 
 ^v; 
 
 u3 
 
 * J 1 F • ^
 
 ALBERT LUNEL; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE CHATEAU OF LANGUEDOC. 
 
 VOLUME I.
 
 ALBERT LUNEL; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE CHATEAU OF LANGUEDOC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 CUARLES KNIGHT & CO.,22,LUDGATE STREET. 
 
 1844.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by William Clowes and Sons, 
 
 Stsmford Street.
 
 
 TO 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, Esq., F.R.S., 
 
 ETC. ETC ETC. 
 
 It is natural that the countenance of a great name, the 
 certainty of obtaining an enlightened reader, the benefit 
 of having a candid though severe critic, should be sought 
 by one who has no name at aJl, and only desires justice 
 and intelligence in his judge. These attributes the 
 writer of this work found united in you, and to you he 
 has taken the liberty of inscribing it. 
 
 Should such an accident ever happen as your in- 
 dulging in any curiosity upon so trifling a matter, you 
 will find the mystery in which your unknown admirer 
 is wrapt impossible to pierce. Your sagacity may, 
 from internal evidence, serve to point a conjecture 
 towards France and her colonies, as his country, — her 
 language, as that in which his book may have been 
 written. 
 
 But upon one subject, no doubt must be allowed to 
 rest. In all that relates to political events, and poli- 
 tical characters ; to the manners, the genius, the con- 
 
 558*^7,5
 
 VI DEDICATION. 
 
 duct of nations; above all, to the state of society beyond 
 the Atlantic; there is no fiction, no colouring whatever, 
 any more than in the sacred doctrines most connected 
 with human happiness — peace and freedom — religion, 
 rational as well as pure — morality, uncompromising 
 though charitable — benevolence, universal, but discri- 
 minating — which it is the design of these pages to 
 teach.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Page 
 
 THE BEGINNING 1 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 THE CAVE 36 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 THE MONK ...... 51 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE CONVERT ..... 88 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THE OUTLAW Ill 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC . . l48
 
 viii CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Page 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OP A LANGUEDOC PASTOR 175 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THE EXILE . . . . . .212 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING . . .232
 
 THE CHATEAU. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 It was one of those truly delicious evenings of which 
 untravelled Englishmen know scarcely five or six 
 throughout the summer;, but which in Southern 
 France are frequent, indeed almost constant, during 
 half the year. The sultry heats of midsummer and 
 early autumn, extending into the night, scarcely 
 leave its relish to that sweet season, and the exhaus- 
 tion of the day hardly permits a desire for any 
 exercise ; but as August fades away, the air becomes 
 more temperate, and nothing can be figured more 
 truly delightful than those evenings which succeed 
 the latest heats of the declining sun. A lively 
 pleasure is felt in mere existence ; the air is balmy ; 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 if any breeze moves it^, there is refreshment con- 
 veyed on its wing ; the lightsome feeling which is 
 diffused cannot be described to those who have 
 never known it; there is as much enjoyment as 
 can be tasted without any excitement, and the 
 lang^uor which succeeds to more boisterous and 
 short-lived pleasures, and is itself of brief duration, 
 now becomes the habitual feeling and the pure 
 solace of hours. An Englishman never fails to be 
 deeply struck with these delights of climate; he 
 iinds within him unwonted emotions; his senses 
 are stirred with new enjoyments ; and he compre- 
 hends the Italian's meaning when, against all the 
 joys of active exertion, congenial to our ungenial 
 sky, he sets with an unhesitating preference the 
 sweets of his idol Far Niente, sometimes extolled as 
 dolce, and sometimes exalted to a higher rank by 
 the prefix o^ sanfo, or even sacro-santo. 
 
 As we proceed further southward, the grove is 
 filled with the sweet perfumes of those regions ; 
 each breeze wafts a scent to rouse the jaded senses, 
 or to excite some feeling that may break the languor 
 diffused over them, by providing some new sensa- 
 tion. The corruscations of the sky become more 
 vivid and unremitting, and while the glow-worm's
 
 THE BEGINNING. 3 
 
 lamp is hung out to allure her volatile love, and fix 
 him for a while in her stationary bower, the fire-fly 
 sparkles from bush to bush of tlie shrubbery, giving 
 a lively but a mild illumination, that animates the 
 scene without breaking' its stillness or disturbingr its 
 repose. There wants, indeed, in those delightful 
 regions only one charm ; " Morn ascends not with 
 the charm of earliest birds," and " Her solemn bird 
 attends not silent night." The grove is perfumed; 
 it is not vocal. 
 
 These evenings are the seasons of our existence, 
 when, the soul, free from the interruptions of the 
 senses, at least in their stormy mood, unprovoked 
 by the stimulus of pleasure, nor vexed by the stings 
 of pain, in calm and serene possession of itself, 
 naturally falls into contemplations removed from 
 earthly influence ; expatiates over the prospect of 
 human affairs, if informed for such views, or, at 
 least, ponders upon its own past existence, its future 
 lot ; and rises oftentimes above all merely human 
 scenes to speculate upon its fate in another state of 
 being. The devout Catholic in those moments of 
 repose, like the Brahmin under the shade of his 
 Areka tree, is absorbed in heavenly contemplation, 
 ruffled sometimes by passing doubts, but far more 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 commonly indulging those extatic visions of un- 
 bounded and unceasing bliss, which his infallible 
 Church has declared to her believing sons, and has 
 in tender compassion to human infirmity, as well as 
 in skilful regard to her hopes of human adhesion, 
 annexed to the easy performance of duties within 
 the reach of the least rigid virtue, and calling for 
 the most moderate exercise of self-denial. 
 
 This climate and these nights are enjoyed by the 
 people of Languedoc in a greater degree than their 
 Provencal neighbours know; because there is not 
 the same parching drought which forms the curse 
 of the South, especially beyond the Alpine ridge, 
 and because there is a far more exuberant foliage, 
 and everywhere an ampler vegetation than is to be 
 found in the rocky, arid, though shrubby, region of 
 the "Sweet-scented Mendicant."* 
 
 On such an evening as we have faintly described, 
 and about the hour of sunset, arrived in the extensive 
 grounds of the Marquess de Bagnolles, a travelling 
 carriage, with a gentleman and a single servant, 
 who leaving his master at the gate proceeded to de- 
 
 * Gueuse Parfuraee — the name given to Provence, as 
 the native country of perfumes, and nothing else.
 
 THE BEGIXXING. 5 
 
 liver a letter to the Marquess. The consequence was 
 a,n immediate in\ itation to the Chateau ; where a 
 party was assembled, and had just taken their coffee 
 after dinner. The stranger advanced, courteously 
 but somewhat shyly, if not proudly, and made his 
 obeisance to the circle with some excuse for intrud- 
 ing at so late an hour, but ascribing this to the 
 illness of his niece, whom he had left at the village 
 cabaret, and for whom he was anxious to obtain the 
 hospitality of the Chateau, £is they found it wholly 
 impossible to continue their journey. A servant was 
 immediately dispatched, and the young lady was 
 soon safely placed in a suitable apartment, where 
 the quiet which her ailment required could be 
 secured. The travellers had been enjoying their 
 visit at Nismes, exploring the rich remains of 
 Roman architecture in which it abounds more than 
 any place out of Rome, feasting their eyes upon the 
 exquisite beauties of the Maison Carree, which trans- 
 ports the imagination back to the Augustan age, by 
 its entire preservation and appearance of a temple in 
 actual use, and then gazing with increased wonder 
 on the magnificence of the Pont du Gard, contrasted 
 with its romantic environs, a magnificence to which 
 even the Eternal City itself has nothing at all
 
 6 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 superior, if indeed, it have any thing equal. The 
 fatigues of this day with its excitements had, the 
 Baron de Mouhn said, proved too great for the 
 feeble health of Emmeline, and he desired leave to 
 retire and visit her in order to relieve the anxiety her 
 illness had occasioned him. 
 
 Upon his withdrawing, the Marquess mentioned 
 that the new guest of the chateau was well known 
 to him by reputation, as a person of extraordinary 
 faculties and great attainments, though of a cha- 
 racter somewhat lofty and ungracious, yet one des- 
 tined for great things, should the ferment continue 
 which now existed in the nation by the state of 
 public affairs ; for though residing in Flanders, where 
 his property lay, and where he had held high office, 
 his family was French. " I am too young," said 
 he, " to have any pretension to share in these things, 
 and my father's premature death has called me to 
 the discharge of private duties, that must for some 
 time exclude me from public affairs. But the 
 Baron, whose mature years and great capacity point 
 him out to the friends of improvement as their 
 powerful and natural leader, has only to struggle 
 against the obstacles interposed by the weight of 
 years ; for the letter he brings me says, he is long
 
 THE BEGINNING. 7 
 
 past his prime, although his marvellous vigour both 
 of body and mind appear to gather new strength, 
 and impart to all his actions new life. He has all 
 his days been the most active of men, insomuch that 
 it used to be a joke on him ever since he left the 
 University of Montpellier that he slept with one eye 
 ever open, and could write with both hands at the 
 same time. Had he only your age" (continued the 
 Marquess, addressing himself to M. de Chatillon), 
 "he might reach the utmost heights of our state, 
 should any of the storms that now threaten France 
 unsettle the form of our ancient Monarchy." — " Alas, 
 Marquess," said M. de Chatillon, " how far better 
 would it be for us all that such spirits as you 
 describe the Baron should pass through life like 
 our forefathers, occupied with the care of their 
 peasantry, or the improvement of their estates, and 
 only seeking to excel in the tranquil walks of 
 literature, or shine in the harmless splendour of 
 courts !" 
 
 Tile Baron now returned to join the party in 
 their walk upon the terrace, and he returned with 
 a countenance that showed how much he had been 
 relieved by finding his yoimg charge greatly re- 
 covered and fallen into a sweet sleep, the refresh-
 
 8 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 ment of which he expected would enable her to 
 appear next morning. 
 
 They walked along a spacious lawn, which con- 
 stant care and waterinof enabled the Marchioness to 
 maintain in a somewhat green state, unless in the 
 most burnt-up season of the year, but which the 
 earlier rains of autumn had refreshed and really 
 made somewhat like grass, if it could not be called 
 turf. It was closed at one extremity by a pavilion 
 in which were groups of marble figures by good 
 artists, and one by Canova of the Graces, with a 
 fountain that played in the centre of the vestibule. 
 Through the pavilion you entered the flower- 
 garden, which was extensive and rich and various. 
 The other extremity of the terrace lost itself in a 
 shrubbery, which ended in a woody walk, that 
 wound alonff the side of an eminence near the 
 Chateau, and conducted the party to a path of 
 natural gravel on the margin of a small lake, whose 
 deep blue water now reflected the last rays of the 
 setting sun. Nothing could be imagined more truly 
 delicious than this walk. Its course alonof the lake 
 under the thick shade of the trees was both beauti- 
 ful and refreshing ; and from its extremity there 
 led several footpaths through the deepest recesses of
 
 THE BEGINNING. 9 
 
 the wood. When you followed these, you came 
 into a perfect wilderness, without the least vestige 
 of culture or care. Tangled thickets on every side 
 almost impeded your progress ; the underwood was 
 dense, filling up the space between the trees ; the 
 ground indeed was carpeted with odoriferous plants 
 of every kind, whicli in this delicious climate abun- 
 dantly yield their perfumes to each passing breeze. 
 But wildness was the prevailing character of the 
 scene, and you plainly perceived that you were, 
 indeed, in a desert wilderness, where nothing re- 
 minded you of human cares or even human exist- 
 ence. All at once, after labouring through the 
 thicket, you broke upon a flower-garden of small 
 extent, but of exquisite beauty, whose complete 
 culture was visible in every plant, flower, stem, and 
 group. A fountain played in the centre, and a rustic 
 bower afforded a seat on one side. The eflfects of 
 the contrast were remarkable ; and the pleasure it 
 yielded was the reverse of that which they feel who 
 visit in Holland the thick wood of the Hacrue, the 
 only piece of natural scenery in that country of 
 artificial existence, alike for vegetable and for animal 
 nature. 
 
 In these grounds the company wandered to enjoy 
 
 b3
 
 10 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 the twilight, and the heat beinff still too little 
 abated to allow much walking, they sat down in 
 one of the arbours reared near the lake ; when a 
 small choir of singers, part of the company that 
 had gone round by another route, struck up the 
 national air of Henri Quatre; and then recited 
 some of the fine Troubadour Songs so intimately 
 associated with all recollections of Languedoc and 
 Provence. 
 
 The evening passed in the enjoyment of these de- 
 lightful scenes ; in reading and in games, rather of 
 skill than chance, as chess ; for the family of the Mar- 
 quess was of strict Huguenot principles, like so many 
 of those in that part of France^ and the Marchioness 
 was of the most rigid Calvinistic faith, her family 
 having traced its descent from the old Covenanters 
 of Scotland. The Baron felt this some kind of 
 restraint; for he sincerely respected the religious 
 feelings of others, how much soever he differed with 
 them, and was always delicately apprehensive of 
 giving them pain, by any of the levities into which 
 his wit or humour might naturally betray him, and 
 above all, by any appearance of making their puri- 
 tanism a subject of his ridicule ; but the early hour 
 at which all retired to rest soon relieved him, and
 
 THE BEGINNING. 1 1 
 
 he promised himself the greatest pleasure he could 
 taste, in the restoration of his niece to society after 
 the refreshment of a night's rest. 
 
 Tlie breakfast next morning:, accordincf to the cus- 
 torn of the Marchioness (whose family was English) 
 preserved our social fashion so much approved by 
 Madame de Stael. After this pleasant and lively 
 meal, where all are fresh and gay, and all are full 
 of the morning's projects, or the day's occupation, 
 the family circle had scarcely been formed in the 
 drawing-room, when a slender and graceful figure 
 W£is seen to rise and salute the Marchioness in her 
 mother-tongue, with a peculiar sweetness of voice, 
 and a manner modest even to timidity. Her com- 
 plexion wore not the hue of health ; but it added to 
 the charm of her most delicate features, and her 
 eyes at once shone wdth tenderness and spirit. Her 
 form, though slight, was admirable, and without 
 the traits of regular beauty, the whole effect of her 
 face, figure, air, and expression had something far 
 more attractive than mere loveliness of shape and 
 colour can bestow. The rapture of the Baron's eyes 
 when he presented her to his new friends, at once 
 showed that this was his Emmeline, then in her 
 eighteenth year: the cherished object of all his cares ;
 
 12 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 the only child of a brother with whom he had grown 
 up from childhood in the most undivided intimacy, 
 and whose true affection, whose sage counsels had 
 guided, whose manly spirit had supported him 
 through all his trials, and whose death had inflicted 
 upon him the only great sorrow he had ever known. 
 Since the loss of her father, while yet a child, her 
 mother having died in giving her birth, she had cen- 
 tered all her affections in her uncle, whom indeed 
 she regarded as if she had never known a parent? 
 nor was he more wrapt up in her than she in him. 
 The Marchioness seeing her embarrassed by the en- 
 entrance of so many strangers from the breakfast par- 
 lour, asked if she would accompany her to sit awhile 
 in the Orangery, to which she gently answered, 
 "Please," and with the Baron thev retired. She of 
 course became the subject of conversation. " One 
 plainly perceives," said the Countess de Chatillon, 
 "that this tender creature is not the Baron's imme- 
 diate descendant. His hard metal would not easily 
 cut into so soft a trinket." — " And why," asked 
 the Marquess, "should not his solid gold be beaten 
 into a leaf so li°rht that a breath might move it?" 
 " Rather," rejoined the Countess, " take your com- 
 parison from the iron ribbons into which we saw that
 
 THE BEGINNING. 13 
 
 powerful and intractable metal fashioned the other 
 day at St. Etienne."* 
 
 *^' However," said the Count de Chatillon, " I think 
 you will admit that Mdlle. Emmeline is a very attrac- 
 tive person in all that we can see of her appearance 
 and her manner, which alone we as yet know ; and I 
 am told by her uncle that she is extremely clever and 
 well-informed." '' Aye, indeed, my good lord," said 
 his gifted spouse, " I doubt not he gives his wares 
 a good character as he brings them to market ; 
 but were I a man, I should prefer a less tender help- 
 mate." "My darling," said her husband, "you 
 are eternally speculating on people's designs about 
 their daughters ; when from all I can perceive of 
 the Baron, and indeed from all I have ever heard of 
 him, my belief is that nothing enters less into his 
 head than any such event as you are dreaming of. 
 and that to lose his niece in that way would give him 
 the greatest concern." 
 
 " May be so," said his inexorable partner, "may 
 be so. Did you just observe how tendeidy this young 
 exquisite drawled out her ' Please^ when the Mar- 
 chioness offered her a seat in the Orangery i" — "My 
 
 * The Birmingham of France.
 
 14 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 love," said the Count, " you are a very clever and 
 a very clear-seeing person, and God knows how very 
 clever and clear-sighted you may be without being 
 quite as infallible as you conceive yourself; but any- 
 thing more unlike one of your exquisites, those com- 
 pounds, or rather, let me say, those composts of 
 affectations, selfishness, and false sentiment, I never 
 did see than Mdlle. de Moulin ; and as for her 
 ' please,' which offends you so much, I could not 
 hear it without being convinced that it was merely 
 her giving thanks to unburthen her mind of gratitude, 
 without putting the other party to the trouble of 
 receiving them." "Charming! sentimental! truly 
 becoming a young innocent girl, or a professional 
 poet ! But from you whose tastes and habits we all 
 know " — " Come, Countess," said the host, will- 
 ing to break off a dialogue which plainly annoyed 
 the husband, and did not cover the wife with any 
 glory save that of ability and eloquence — " Come, 
 let us have a drive through the Forest ride before 
 the great heat begins." The Countess felt this 
 rebuke, how delicately soever administered, and the 
 anger, which her husband's less polished weapon 
 had inflicted, was exasperated to something border- 
 ing upon fury by the keen cutting of the Marquess's
 
 THE BEGINNmG. 15 
 
 oil-dipped razor ; but it was a suppressed fury ; and 
 the consequences were startling to each beholder. 
 The fine colour of her face had given place to a 
 harsh paleness that covered as with a shroud each 
 feature ; her eye was not so much animated with rage 
 as glazed in her head ; the expression of her beauti- 
 ful countenance had become hard rather than fierce ; 
 while in her throat there seemed some obstruction, 
 as if a portion of it were swollen by something 
 she could not swallow. The lips from vermilion 
 became pale and were compressed within the 
 narrowest dimensions, betokening a strong efibrt of 
 restraint under which she was endeavouring to lay 
 herself. This appearance, altogether the most re- 
 pulsive that can well be imagined, only lasted a few 
 moments. By a continuance of the same effort 
 she, who without any effort so often conquered 
 others, had now subdued herself; she regained her 
 noble look and wonted self-possession ; nor could 
 any one entering the room at that moment have 
 supposed that a scene had preceded his coming. 
 But, also, no one who had witnessed that scene 
 could easilv forget it ; all felt it alike : and each 
 said to himself, " What would this have burst out 
 in, had she been alone with either the Marquess, or
 
 16 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 the Count, or even the Baron^ whom she now saw 
 for the first time ?" Nor could any one who had 
 witnessed this scene ever fail to recall it to recollec- 
 tion, as often as he afterwards felt the power of her 
 incomparable beauty, extraordinary talents, and 
 commanding position in society. 
 
 While these things were passing in the saloon, 
 Emmeline, with her uncle, was quietly reposing in 
 the Orangery, w4iere the Marchioness had left them 
 to make her morning visit to the children's school- 
 room, and to exercise them in religious offices. The 
 heavenly weather, and the relief from her yester- 
 day's illness, which she now enjoyed, made her give 
 loose to those pious feelings, which, interwoven wdth 
 her gentle and affectionate nature, made her whole 
 existence one continued thanksgiving and prayer; 
 and she could not retain any emotion of her heart 
 from her second parent. " How gracious, dearest 
 Zio* (so she always called him), are all the dispen- 
 sations of our bountiful Father in heaven ! Seldom 
 he visits us with pain, and if he does, how surely 
 does he make the compensation which I am now 
 enjoying, in giving to our state of mind and of body 
 
 * Uncle.
 
 THE BEGINNING. 17 
 
 on emerffinff from sickness a sweet zest unknown to 
 those who have never suffered. I would cheerfully 
 undergo all I yesterday felt to purchase the relish 
 of returning health I now enjoy." The Baron 
 clasped to his bosom this dear charge. " My 
 blessed child/' he said, " I pray it may not be your 
 lot often to exercise your faith and your piety by such 
 devout thankfulness; yet His will be done who 
 disposes all for our good !" As she earnestly whis- 
 pered " Amen," he felt what had so often tried his 
 faith and exercised his piety, the awful doubts which 
 are engendered in the mind by the touching spec- 
 tacle of patient virtue suffering always and never 
 repining, while the children of vice, or the votaries 
 of folly, so often revel in their indulgence without 
 any pain, as without any stint, and complain of the 
 order of nature, should but a rose-leaf be ruffled on 
 their couch. 
 
 When they returned to the drawing-room, Emme- 
 line was soon placed by her uncle near the Mar- 
 chioness, who entered into conversation with her, 
 on the beauties of Nismes, and the wonders of the 
 Pont du Gard ; while the Countess engaged the 
 Baron in a lively talk . Scenery she could not en- 
 dure to hear mentioned, far less discussed. Her
 
 18 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 proper study was man ; and as her understanding 
 was wholly masculine, her tastes were somewhat 
 guided if not formed by it. She disregarded most 
 topics of female interest ; was not much satisfied 
 with the talk which well-bred men even of intelli- 
 gence and information addressed to women of her 
 rank; cared somewhat more for homage done to 
 her matchless beauty, the female stratum here fusing 
 by the central heat and breaking through the harder 
 crust above ; but chiefly she delighted in either at- 
 tack or defence of distinguished personages, or in ex- 
 aminations of literary merit, or above all in political 
 discussion. The fame of the Baron, both as a sa- 
 vant and a statesman, had preceded him ; she cared 
 little for the repulsive plainness of his exterior, and 
 his somewhat brusque though sufficiently high-bred 
 manners ; and she at once gave herself up to dis- 
 cover, as she told the Count, " what he really was 
 made of." 
 
 For his part he was instantaneously attracted by 
 her numberless charms, so fitted to fascinate one 
 like him, because her features were instinct with ex- 
 pression, reflecting the spirit within that supported 
 the exterior, diffused itself through each part, in- 
 spired the mass, and mingled itself with the ample
 
 THE BEGINNING. 19 
 
 but graceful person. Little cared he for her pro- 
 verbial coldness, so he might hope to thaw it by as- 
 siduous efforts; or even for her hardness, ill suited 
 to harmonize with such truly feminine charms, so he 
 might aspire to soften it, and reduce it within what 
 he deemed the limits of her proper gender. 
 
 Thus prepared, these distinguished parties now 
 first met in the single combat of society ; for few 
 besides themselves cared to bear a part in the 
 conversation. 
 
 "What opinion, may I ask, has M. le Baron 
 formed of the expected meeting of the States at 
 Grenoble?"* 
 
 " Truth to tell, I have not as yet made up my 
 mind, nor have I indeed had time to examine the 
 grounds of the hopes and the fears I find entertained 
 and extending far beyond Dauphine. I met M. 
 Courdemont at Nismes, and heard him say his 
 sav. 
 
 ml 
 
 " Oh then tell us what he told you." 
 " Really," rejoined the Baron, " he is a person 
 with all his abilities and acquirements but little 
 suited to my taste, and who don't inspire much con- 
 
 * States of Dauphine.
 
 20 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 fidence, either in his facts or in his views ; at least 
 no confidence that bears any proportion to that 
 which he himself reposes in both." 
 
 " Aye, truly," said the Count, " I hold him 
 to be but a light material." 
 
 "^ Except as regards his pleasantry, " said 
 the Countess ; " that you '11 allow is no light 
 matter." 
 
 " Nor any laughing matter either;" said the 
 Count. " He is, however, a well-meaning, as he 
 is a well-read man, full half eaten up with self- 
 sufficiency. But he is after all not much dis- 
 liked, except by those who hate bores ; and he is, 
 generally speaking, on good terms with everybody 
 he knows." 
 
 '' Including himself," said the Baron drily, 
 '' whom he does not much know, and with whom 
 he seems in no particular haste to improve his ac- 
 quaintance. He has, indeed, a most undivided and 
 even exclusive good opinion of himself — for he has 
 it much to himself; few share it with him." 
 
 " Yes, yes," — said the Marquess, " he is at the head 
 of a small knot of admirers, all of whom have a 
 share in the opinion of him ; like a joint-stock com- 
 pany formed to manage a patent for exclusive sale
 
 THE BEGINNING. 21 
 
 of an invention, the inventor and patentee himself 
 being- at the head of it." 
 
 " Nevertheless/' said the Baron, " he is a man 
 of shining abilities, much book-learning, so profound 
 a mathematician as to have passed all his contem- 
 poraries at Montpellier, of as profound a know- 
 ledge of the law as ignorance of the world, ex- 
 traordinary powers of conversation — eloquent in a 
 high degree — fluent in the highest." 
 
 Co o 
 
 "God knows that he is," qiioth the Countess; 
 " I have groaned under his fluency ; not indeed of 
 conversation, of which he is incapable, but of talk. 
 I do assure you I last Sunday suff'ered under him 
 at Nismes, where I met him at dinner ; and it is 
 a far greater evil than the ordinary inflictions of 
 society." 
 
 "What, dear," said the Count, ''did he cut you 
 out ; leave you no niche in the talk V 
 
 " Chatillon," said she sharply, "your pleasantry 
 is ill placed. I am not apt to engross conversation, 
 nor to grumble when deprived of my share ; I can 
 generally take it when I please ; or if not, I can 
 listen as well as most people to most people. But 
 to the Sieur Courdemont I positively cannot. It 
 is one eternal, miceasi ng, unbroken babble, wholb'
 
 22 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 without relief; a constant glare without any shade, 
 a perpetual flash, or endless prosing, a stream of 
 words that chokes you or makes you nervous. I 
 protest that I could not recollect any one thing he 
 said, after having been exposed to his talk for two 
 hours by the clock ; from the egg to the apple,* 
 which, as he with infinite prolixity and self-appro- 
 bation expounded to a young lady ignorant of 
 Latin, meant from the beginning to the end of 
 dinner — So, you see, I have really contrived to re- 
 tain one thing he said. But, oh heavens ! how 
 much besides of this ceaseless and stintless chatter 
 passed through both ears without in any way reach- 
 ing the mind, or at least the memory ! — I declare 
 I never again, while I live, will run the risk of a 
 like penance." 
 
 " I find people,'' said the Count, " require ex- 
 press notice to be given when he dines any where, 
 and that some, like skilful generals, make it a rule 
 to keep their carriages waiting until dinner is 
 announced in order to secure their retreat, should 
 they find he has effected a lodgment." 
 
 * The eggs came first, the apples last, at a Roman 
 banquet.
 
 THE BEGINNING. 23 
 
 " How strange it is," said the Marquess, " that 
 mere faults of exuberance should be so fatal ! 
 Could he not cut himself down to the dimensions 
 of an ordinary talker ? The parings would set up 
 half a dozen men endued with some sense, taste, 
 and breeding." 
 
 "No, no," said the Baron: "were any one to 
 tell him all this, he would turn a deaf ear; not 
 indeed more deaf than he now does to all that 
 every one says but himself. He has too long 
 spoken to the little circle of admirers, the directors 
 of the joint-stock company you spoke of, to bear the 
 hard-hearted, hard-headed, indifferent public. His 
 ear has been far too lon£ tickled with the sweet music 
 of his own voice, to bear being told how it grates on 
 all the ears on other heads, and gives with his 
 volubility a pain or at least an uneasiness in the 
 stomach to his unhappy audience." 
 
 " Like a concert of drummers learning their 
 trade," said the Countess. " But at least. Baron, 
 you may recount something of his Grenoble in- 
 telligence." 
 
 " Alas, Madam, he was far too much in love 
 with his own theories and historical recollections to 
 tell me anything I could repeat. He pinned me
 
 24 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 by the button for half an hour, while he treated me 
 to a review of the assemblies. States General, 
 Provincial States, and Parliaments. I believe he 
 began with Charlemagne, if not with Clovis, and I 
 only escaped towards the reign of Louis XIII. by 
 the stratagem of a fainting fit, whereupon he pur- 
 sued me to the Hotel, and when I was forced to 
 revive he was prelecting to Madame Faure, the 
 mistress of the house, and the head-waiter Corvon^ 
 upon the circulation of the blood, and organic 
 diseases of the heart. They both kindly prescribed 
 repose, in the hope that I might defer my journey 
 a day or two, and take an apartment. So my 
 tormentor went off in a kind of round trot, half 
 walk, half run, speaking to himself with much 
 vehemence, an auditory of whose attention and 
 admiration he can always make sure ; I understand 
 he was taken for Janon the cobbler, by Madame de 
 la Roche, who met him, and asked where his shop 
 was, as she wanted to have her half-boot mended- 
 Be that as it may, I escaped, and soon after we left 
 Nismes." 
 
 " I perceive plainly enough," said the Countess, 
 '' that your taste does not much differ from mine 
 in regard to the Prince of Bores ; and he often
 
 THE BEGINNING. 25 
 
 reminds me of the Bishop of Autun's* saying, as I 
 have heard it repeated, that to reach eminence in 
 that dismal art, the black art of boring, a person 
 must have something in him — persons merely null 
 cannot attain it." 
 
 " Why, I really must say," replied the Baron, 
 "with all my respect for so high an authority, so 
 great a judge's opinion, I somewhat hesitate on the 
 point. One sees accomplished practitioners go on 
 with marvellous little capital, with very little if 
 anything in them." 
 
 " Yet try to recollect," said she, " and I think 
 you will find not one of those whom you have 
 dreaded as Bores, but had some talent beside that of 
 wearying you to death. It seems as if the instrument 
 required some sharpness as well as strength to pene- 
 trate and perform its office. It may be that we 
 shake off the feebler species of the animal more 
 easily, while the stronger can lodge and fix them- 
 selves like the forest -flies, that drive our cattle mad. 
 People vary, hke the cattle, in the degree to which 
 they feel the infliction." 
 
 "Yes," said the Baron, ''I am unibrtunate in 
 
 * M. Talleyrand. 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 this respect ; I am extremely sensitive to the Bore as 
 I am to the musquito ; easily catch the malady it 
 gives ; and sigh for a Bore-net, a para-bore, to pro- 
 tect me, like our musquito-curtains — I believe I am 
 the natural prey of the Bore." 
 
 " Not so much. Baron," said the Marchioness, 
 " as an old gentleman from India, whom I knew in 
 England, and who had brought back the heats of 
 Bengal to make his nature, if possible, more warm 
 and impatient than it originally was. Once he was 
 under the operation of an artist in this branch, whom 
 he could not in any way brush off, being pinned up 
 in a corner : and the good easy man was going on 
 descanting, like M. Courdemont, with infinite self- 
 applause, and laying down propositions on all his 
 five figures, in the pleasing belief that the old Na- 
 bob's twitches and shrugs were the result of the 
 intense interest he took in the lecture. All of a 
 sudden, the patient " — 
 
 " If one may so call him," said the Baron. 
 
 "Well, the impatient, if you so please, broke out, 
 and collared the talker, exclaiming, with an oath, 
 ' There 's no bearing this one moment longer ! ' 
 and thus escaped. The bystanders describe the 
 face of the astonished performer as beyond the
 
 THE BEGINNING. 27 
 
 power of conception to any that had not witnessed 
 it." 
 
 " I was once circumvented," said the Baron, "by 
 Courdemont, whom I had innocently suffered to get 
 me into a corner, the constant and as it were in- 
 stinctive stratagem of the species ; and my friends, 
 hearing I was in durance, were busy planning means 
 for the relief of the garrison, or to raise the siege. 
 One proposed a ladder applied to the window, by 
 which I might march out ; another the cry of fire ; 
 but they ended in the simple expedient of a flag of 
 truce — a letter by a courier — so I made my escape 
 for that time." 
 
 "But, after all," said the Countess, " I can learn 
 nothing of what most interests me^ — Grenoble ! " — 
 
 " Love," said the Count, taking his fair partner 
 into the library, "you let politics run between you 
 and your wits." 
 
 "Chatillon," said she, "I have often told you 
 not to interfere with my tastes, as I don't interfere 
 with yours." 
 
 " It is entirely for your own sake I speak, and 
 to make you more perfectly amiable than you will 
 allow yourself to be, with every advantage from 
 figure and position that woman can possess." 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 " Spare your kind pains," she answered, with a 
 look of no very mild description, " and let me try, 
 what, I grant you, may prove impossible, to raise 
 you into something more worthy of your position, 
 and make you more respectable than you are 
 pleased to make yourself, with every advantage of 
 station that man can possess." 
 
 "Why, dearest," said he, "what would you 
 have me do?" 
 
 " Almost anything you don't now do ! Why not 
 go to Grenoble and take your seat among the 
 state deputies about to assemble ? I wish to go 
 there without delay ; instead of lingering here, to 
 vegetate, and kill time and patience together. I 
 would be near the scene of action. Something must 
 come of this ferment ; and let us be on the spot to 
 look after our own interest. I plainly perceive that 
 the Baron expects it to increase and to spread, for 
 all he turned me aside to discuss Courdemont and 
 Boring." 
 
 It would not be easy to express the effect which 
 this whole conversation produced on the mind of 
 Emmeline, who heard all of it but the last part in 
 the library. She never before had seen a female 
 pohtician, nor had witnessed the effects of a passion
 
 THE BEGINNING. 29 
 
 not natural to the person or the sex over whom 
 its ravages sweep. With all the Countess's great 
 beauty, all her talents, and all her information, 
 Emmeline felt so much shocked at the unamiable 
 harshness wliich the induWnce of humours and 
 tastes little suited to a young woman diffused over 
 her manner and even her appearance, that she gently 
 whispered the Baron, '' Dearest Zio, I had far 
 rather look as silly and empty as my maid Susette^ 
 who is good-humoured, than shine in repartee, or 
 deal out deep views and form large plans like that 
 great Countess." 
 
 Of the lawyer, on the other hand, she formed a 
 far more merciful opinion than the rest of the party ; 
 and she was so far right that he possessed great 
 acquirements, but his judgment was defective. 
 M. Courdemont was not content with his college 
 fame as a mathematician ; nor with confining his 
 geometry and his algebra to their more ordinary 
 and legitimate employment. He had his peculiar 
 theories on various other matters, into which he im- 
 ported the services of the severer sciences. Thus 
 being long-sighted, as persons past their prime are 
 apt to be, and aware that this arises from the lens of 
 the eye becoming flattened by age, he must needs
 
 30 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 apply muscular exertion to his eyes when reading 
 or writing, and was in a state of hideous contortion, 
 while his neighbour quietly sate with a pair of spec- 
 tacles on his nose, and saw a deal better, though ten 
 years older. So too, he had his theory of the moves 
 at chess, and would, while a cause was going on in 
 court, be going through a game according to his 
 own rules. Whether he had as bad fortune when 
 matched against himself, may be uncertain ; but it is 
 quite certain that playing with any one else he was 
 always sure to be beaten. His adversary, however, 
 had reason, like Pyrrhus of old, to rue his victory, 
 and exclaim, that another such would be his ruin ; 
 for he had to suffer under an hour's lecture, de- 
 monstrating by the rules of algebra that he ought 
 clearly to have been check-mated. 
 
 Next day there came to the Chateau two visitors, 
 whose arrival could not be otherwise than inter- 
 esting, — M. and Mme. de Montricard. They be- 
 longed to Aix, but passed part of the year at 
 Nismes, near which M. de Montricard had pro- 
 perty. He was a young gentleman in high esti- 
 mation for his abilities and accomplishments, which 
 fitted him for filling any station, but his tastes led 
 him rather to the active sports of tlie chase and the 
 
 %
 
 THE BEGINNING. 31 
 
 manege ; while his wife was almost as fond of poli- 
 tics as Mme.de Chatillon herself. In some particu- 
 lars they differed widely ; Madame de Montricard, 
 though a person of great beauty, was not equal in 
 this respect to the Countess, having a less brilliant 
 air, and less handsome figure ; but in all other 
 respects, as talents, information, even wit, she shone 
 equally, and her temper and disposition were in- 
 comparably more amiable. She had a large fa- 
 mily, to whom she was an exemplary mother, 
 and the breath of slander never havinsr assailed 
 her reputation, the men of Nismes indemnified 
 themselves by pronouncing her as cold as ice. It 
 was a cold, however, that repulsed not, if it encou- 
 raged not ; and she wisely reckoned that it served to 
 secure her friendships as well as her respectability. 
 She would quietly make it the subject of a plea- 
 santry or a sensible remark; and once on being 
 charged with it by a person whom she thought 
 somewhat pertinacious in his objection, and who was 
 constantly saying, that she had all manner of 
 knowledge except knowing how to love — she wrote 
 a quatrain with her pencil, as her explanation 
 and her defence, which may be thus translated, 
 though she said at the time that if fiction be the
 
 32 THE BEGINNING. 
 
 soul of song, her lines were much too true to be 
 
 p oetical. 
 
 " Platonic love too chill may seem 
 For mortals to endure ; 
 Two merits yet that fault redeem — 
 'T is lasting, and 't is pure." 
 
 All the wise men, both literary and political, of 
 Nismes and of Aix, were fond of consulting her. 
 With none was she so intimate as with the Second 
 Judge in Languedoc, M. de Balaye; but love- 
 making, of course, neither suited his station nor her 
 tastes ; and hence their intercourse was uninterrupted 
 with any quarrels, though it so happened that he 
 had been a strong political opponent of her father, 
 a man of great eminence in his day. The Judge 
 used to consult her in all matters, even scientific, 
 declaring he knew no sounder judgment, and few 
 more amiable dispositions. 
 
 Her success in society was universal. The 
 Countess could not bear the mention of her name, 
 undervalued her looks, laughed at her pretensions, 
 and assured the Baron that he would find the 
 grapes in this quarter really sour, if they were, by 
 any miracle, to drop into his mouth. There was 
 little fear of his trying their flavour; for he was
 
 THE BEGINNING. 33 
 
 already enslaved elsewhere, and he took but little 
 pleasure in her conversation. 
 
 The Chateau de Bag^nolles in its interior arrangre- 
 ments corresponded with the beavity of its structure, 
 and the scale and the style of its grounds. A con- 
 venient parlour, but not so vast as the dining-room, 
 received the family at breakfast. It was hung with 
 Canaletti pictures of Venice and the terra-firma 
 towns ; the freshness of the colour, especially the blue 
 canals, pleasing and resting the eye. At either end 
 was a sofa, under a case of books, to prevent the time 
 from hanging heavy on those that might assemble a 
 little earlier than the rest. On one or other sofa, you 
 might find a priest of the Church and a pastor from 
 Nismes discussing points of doctrine or of discipline, 
 till the entry of the Marchioness announced that it 
 was time to descend from the higher regions and 
 pay a due attention to the demands of our humbler 
 nature. From the breakfast the company generally 
 retired either to the spacious library, so laid out that 
 no book was above reach, and indented with recesses 
 for reading or conversing uninterruptedly ; or they 
 went out to enjoy the fine air, free from heat, in a 
 shady portico upon which the parlour opened. In 
 this portico were benches placed conveniently among 
 
 c3
 
 34 THE BEGINKING. 
 
 the pillars and marbles which supported or adorned 
 it. Here much time was usually passed ; and as the 
 steps, only two in number, led to the fine walk com- 
 municating at one end with the garden, at the other 
 with the wood and the lake, the portico naturally 
 became a rendezvous both before the drives and 
 walks which the party might take and after they 
 returned home ; so that it was a joke in the Chateau, 
 borrowed from the old steward, Gaspar, who had 
 been brought up in trade at Marseilles, that the 
 portico was the Exchange of Bagnolles {Bourse de 
 Bagnolles) . 
 
 The hospitaUty of the house kept a full propor- 
 tion to its ample means ; there was no distinction of 
 sects suffered to interfere ; the family, though Pro- 
 testant, were highly respected by the clergy for their 
 sincere yet tolerant piety ; to see their friends about 
 them, and contribute to their comforts or enjoyment, 
 seemed to be their own chief gratification ; few dis- 
 tinguished strangers passed through Languedoc 
 without visiting Bagnolles, and when the parties were 
 found to suit each other, a second visit never failed 
 to follow, and to last for such a time that the Sieur 
 Gaspar would remark on the Marquess keeping the 
 best inn in all France, and the most reasonable.
 
 THE BEGINNING. 35 
 
 One thing, however, detracted, it was said, from the 
 accuracy of the Sieur's comparison. Guests who 
 proved tiresome, or empty and frivolous, or in any 
 way either unpleasant or unprofitable companions, 
 never stopped long nor came twice. "Aye," said 
 Gaspar, " then we do make travellers pay ; some- 
 what they must contribute, though it may be in their 
 person, and not in their purse."
 
 ( 36 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE CAVE. 
 
 The Countess, whose attention was ever awake, 
 and whose observation was always on the alert 
 regarding others, as she never had any love-affairs 
 upon her own hands, had remarked that every day 
 when the heat of the weather permitted, the Mar- 
 chioness went out alone through the flower-garden 
 upon which her boudoir opened, and which was com- 
 manded by the windows of the Countess's apartment. 
 She had a small basket in her hand, somewhat 
 larger than could be used merely to carry flowers, 
 and she generally covered this over with the loose 
 cloak thrown upon her arm. Had Mme. de Cha- 
 tillon seen this but once or twice, it might not have 
 struck her as extraordinary. But when it happened 
 day after day, and never less than three or four 
 times in a week, some mystery seemed to be in-
 
 THE CA"V"E. 37 
 
 volved — ^the rather that having once taken notice of 
 it, and offered to accompany her friend to " the cot- 
 tage where she went to dispense her charities" (so she 
 framed what our lawyers call her fishing question), 
 she perceived an evident embarrassment, the subject 
 being immediately warded off by a change on the 
 Marchioness's part in the conversation. 
 
 The suspicious nature of the Countess now had 
 full scope, and as she connected everything with 
 politics, nothing with love, she failed not to ima- 
 gine that some refugee from the arbitrary power 
 of the government, or of the church, was concealed 
 in the forest, to whose wants the hostess was minis- 
 tering. The family being not only Huguenot, but 
 having embraced the liberal opinions now spreading 
 so fast over France, and the people of Nismes hav- 
 ing shown on various occasions a strong disposition 
 to ferment, greatly strengthened the Countess's 
 suspicions, which she communicated to her husband ; 
 but his easy and careless nature could not be fixed 
 upon the question, which seemed little to concern 
 him, while he pursued his favourite occupations of 
 the chase and of the riding-house. She therefore 
 took her own course, and set a watch upon the Mar- 
 chioness in the person of her maid, liolding it quite
 
 38 THE CAVE. 
 
 clear that the manner in which her inquiries had 
 been balked by her friend gave her a full right to 
 prosecute them in her own way. She had at differ- 
 ent times spoken on the subject to the two or three 
 young men who were visitors at the Chateau, and 
 who professed a devotion to her commands, while 
 she used them to gather information for her, and in 
 all other respects, except graciously accepting their 
 services and their admiration, treated them with 
 sufficient contempt, above all laughing without any 
 reserve at their gallantry as often as they thought 
 fit to express any feeling beyond mere admiration. 
 None of them had on the present occasion shown 
 any activity in the matter, possibly from feeling that 
 the indulgence of any curiosity on a subject plainly 
 covered with a veil by their kind and amiable 
 hostess, would betoken a want of due delicacy 
 in her guests. The Abisail was therefore, in the 
 natural course of things, resorted to, and she, in the 
 same natural course, opened a communication with 
 her friend, the valet, who having been unfaithful to 
 his sweetheart, for whom he daily vowed the most 
 eternal and exuberant love, had solaced himself with 
 an attempt upon the heart of the Countess's confi- 
 dential woman, and had so plied her with Parisian
 
 THE CAVE. 39 
 
 anecdotes, with court gossip, with political gossip, 
 with travelling gossip, and so dazzled her with 
 cheap trinkets and mock laces, that he had gained 
 upon the country and Huguenot fair one, notwith- 
 standing her suspicions of all who went to mass and 
 crossed themselves before and after meat. Through 
 these worthy and sharp-sighted personages the in- 
 quiry made some progress ; for it was ascertained 
 that the mysterious basket contained provisions, and 
 that the Marchioness's walk lasted seldom less than 
 an hour, so that she must have some way to go ; it 
 was also certain that the basket returned empty. 
 The Countess's curiosity was now exalted to the 
 utmost pitch, and she once more made an attempt, 
 but it was the last one her courage ventured upon, 
 to wring the secret from her friend. It was an offer 
 to assist her in what she "plainly saw was a com- 
 passionate work." " Beware the anger of a good- 
 natured man," — is a proverb, or at least is so true, 
 so much the practical result of experience, that it 
 deserves to bo one. The mild and even-tempered 
 Marchioness, who had already felt annoyed with 
 her friend's questions, and especially with the plots 
 she perceived her laying to inveigle her into a dis- 
 closure, broke fortli : " Countess, you have more than
 
 40 THE CAVE. 
 
 once pursued this course with me^ and you have 
 failed. Once for all hear me, and believe me when 
 I tell you that all your manoeuvring will not suc- 
 ceed in drawing from me the least hint to gratify 
 your restless and endless curiosity. I let your 
 secrets alone ; pray leave me in possession of 
 my own." So unwonted a vigour, and such plain 
 indications of humour, had two effects on the 
 Countess ; she felt her stay at the Chateau become 
 somewhat irksome, and she felt all her curiosity 
 redoubled by this signal failure, with the addition of 
 resentment, for the treatment she had experienced 
 at the hands of one whose understanding she des- 
 pised. She concealed her feelings, gave a gene- 
 ral assurance of regret at having unintentionally 
 given pain, and retired within herself to me- 
 ditate the means of healingf the wound she had 
 received, and gratifying at once her curiosity and 
 her revenge. 
 
 Her trusty minions failed not soon to make some 
 progress in their investigations. Their speculations 
 were short ; the theory to which they led was plain 
 and simple ; it was embraced with the most unhe- 
 sitating confidence. The Marchioness, it was quite 
 plain, had a lover ; she met him secretly in the
 
 THE CAVE. 41 
 
 forest, and her basket contained a slender repast for 
 the tender pair, while it threw over their transgres- 
 sion the all-covering cloak of charity. But still 
 curiosity was on the stretch to find out the person 
 favoured by the Marchioness, and above all to show 
 her that she was discovered and so in their power. 
 Many days did not pass before the valet found in 
 the deepest recess of the forest, a track branching 
 from the thicket to which one of the unfrequented 
 paths led. Following this track, he came upon a 
 torrent which lost itself among lofty rocks crowned 
 with overhanging wood, in a dell as gloomy as the 
 fancy could paint, and more dark than the eye could 
 pierce. Tlie first rains of autumn had swelled this 
 water-course, and yet there were blocks of stone 
 rudely fashioned and placed across it, over which it 
 did not flow. The accident of finding a lady's hair 
 pin on the first of these blocks, left no doubt in 
 the man's enquiring mind, that this was the path 
 which led to the supposed Dido's cave ; and he 
 crossed over with breathless impatience, making 
 sure of no longer being balked, as he so often had 
 been, by the thickness of the wood during the last 
 week of his pursuit, when he had taken more 
 exercise than in any whole year of his lazy life.
 
 42 THE CAVE. 
 
 He was soon on the other side, and found another 
 path by which his steps were again led to the torrent, 
 and here he lost all trace of any foot-way. He 
 thought, however, that he could perceive a plank 
 resting against a part of the rock that jutted out 
 over the stream, and felt assured that this was used 
 by some one to ascend from the edge of the water. 
 With the utmost difficulty he clambered up the 
 steep sides of the bank among the tangled bushes 
 and trees. Having reached the summit he looked 
 down towards the torrent, and saw standing upon a 
 narrow but flat space on its margin, in a musing 
 posture, with his arms folded, a tall man dressed in 
 black with long brown hair, and a beard of the same 
 colour that descended towards his breast. So 
 sudden an apparition affrighted him, and he re- 
 treated down the bank, having hardly ventured to 
 look at the stranger's features. He hurried home 
 by the path he had taken, and full of his discovery 
 hastened to communicate all he had seen to his 
 friend Jeanette, who repeated it with the usual 
 exaggerations to the Countess, not forgetting to 
 paint the lonely stranger as in the prime of youth, 
 and of the rarest beauty ; facts necessarily unknown 
 to her, inasmuch as her sweetheart had been in
 
 THE CAVE. 43 
 
 t much too great a fright to observe any thing of the 
 kind before he fled. 
 
 That lady was now completely gratified. She 
 had her revenge within her own power. Falling 
 into the doctrine of the servants, she no longer 
 doubted that the secret walks of the Marchioness 
 were connected with a deeply rooted, and as deeply 
 concealed passion. Her curiosity was appeased. 
 But how to obtain the full measure of revenge was 
 a more difficult matter. With all her courage, she 
 hardly ventured to charge her friend directly, for 
 she knew the irreproachable reputation which be- 
 longed to her ; nor could she bear the thought of 
 having her stratagems found out, and the low agents 
 through whom she had been working, known. After 
 much reflection she resolved to obtain the directions 
 of the servant, and herself to pursue the track he had 
 taken ; so she made the Count her confidant, whom 
 she found enamoured of the Marchioness (a thing 
 that gave her no pain), and whose own attachment 
 was thus interested in pursuing the discovery. Ever 
 obedient to her will, indeed, he easily consented to 
 accompany her, according to the description given 
 by the maid from her lover's account. It was after- 
 wards settled that at first he alone should explore;
 
 44 THE CAVE. 
 
 and after several fruitless attempts, he, one day that 
 the Marchioness had gone to pass the morning at 
 Nismes, succeeded in reaching the rock where the 
 foot-plank was found placed so as to join the 
 edge of the river with that eminence. The Count 
 bounded up the path with the lightness of the 
 roe, and in an instant found himself in the pre- 
 sence of the mysterious Solitary; and almost at 
 the same moment felt his throat grasped hard by 
 a powerful hand, while another held a dagger to 
 his heart. 
 
 The Count's orders on his breast at once showed 
 tliat he was there by accident or from curiosity 
 alone; he was also unarmed; the gripe was re- 
 laxed, and the dagger withdrawn. But the long- 
 bearded man burst forth in furious accents : — " And 
 who art thou that darest to intrude upon my deep 
 concealment with thy poor, paltry, unmannerly 
 curiosity? Knowest thou the risk its mean gra- 
 tification exposed thee to ? Had but the weapon of 
 chace or the gun of the huntsman been about thy 
 person, at this moment thou hadst ceased to live ! 
 Yes ! I am a Christian, aye, a Christian Minister. 
 Yet yielding obedience to the first of laws, the law 
 of self-defeacej had it been possible for me to believe
 
 THE CAVE. 45 
 
 that there stood here in my power a minister of the 
 justice which pursues me for yielding obedience to 
 the second law of nature, the law that rules our social 
 affections, my dagger would have been plunged into 
 his bosom, and his corse have been buried in the 
 torrent, my protector and my accomplice, that roars 
 beneath this cave !" 
 
 The horror with which Chatillon heard that he 
 stood in the presence of a felon, perhaps a mur- 
 derer, certainly of one who was prepared for deeds 
 of slaughter, hardly left him the power of observing 
 how perfectly beautiful a form and expressive a 
 countenance was worn by the stranger. He endea- 
 voured to excuse himself for an intrusion which he 
 felt to be rash and also unwarranted, or warranted 
 only by his habitual obedience to her who had 
 commissioned him on this errand. But he was 
 speedily interrupted with — '' Enough ! No more ! 
 Begone ! and learn to respect and to avoid this 
 spot, well assured that if the knowledge you have 
 chanced to gain of this retreat shall ever lead 
 to others approaching it with different designs, 
 you shall then have seen the sun for the last 
 time; you will be pursued, though the mountains 
 were to cover you, and your punishment be in-
 
 46 THE CAVE. 
 
 stantaneous, before my destruction can be accom- 
 plished ! " 
 
 The Count waited not for a second warning ; he 
 swdftly descended the plank which he heard rapidly 
 moved up the rock after he had passed down ; and 
 in a very short time he was stretched breathless, 
 exhausted, and agitated on the sofa in his wife's 
 apartment. She felt somewhat of his alarm at so 
 unexpected a sight, and was impatient for his being 
 able to tell his story. It threw her into one of those 
 fits of reflection and imagination in which her de- 
 signs were usually conceived. Her first impression 
 was one of disappointment at her theory of the 
 Marchioness's conduct beinor found less intelligible, 
 though she still adhered to its outline ; but the feeU 
 ing that next succeeded was pointed against her un- 
 fortunate partner, whom she at once charged ^v-ith 
 want of spirit and determination. — '' Had I been a 
 man, or any thing in the shape of one, think you T 
 should have let this concealed paramour throttle me 
 unpunished?" — "My love," replied the Count, with 
 his accustomed mildness, which never failed to in- 
 crease her irritation, " pray reflect that I put myself 
 completely in the wrong by intruding where I had 
 no right to be." — ''In the wrong?" she replied, "as
 
 THE CAVE. 47 
 
 if that signified, when he profaned your person with 
 his hands !" — " Well then, dearest, recollect that 
 he had drawn from his girdle a dagger, while I 
 was unarmed ; to say nothing of his far greater 
 strength." — " Had you not the roaring torrent close 
 beneath for your ally ? Could you not have at once 
 washed out in its waters your own disgrace, and 
 buried iu them the pious Marchioness's sins?" — 
 "Catherine! Catherine!" said her justly offended 
 and shocked husband, "stay these your unseemly 
 reproaches, and a thousand times more unseemly 
 suggestions ! What man can do have I ever done 
 to love, honour, and obey you, giving honour, as it 
 seemed due, to the stronger vessel ! But one step 
 will I not take in the path of crime to gratify your 
 inordinate ambition, or slake your boundless thirst 
 for vengeance ! God of liis mercy forbid that any 
 blood, most of all any innocent blood, should ever 
 lie on my soul !" 
 
 There was a determination of manner and of 
 purpose so marked in the loud tone and the firm 
 voice which now, for the first time, filled her ear, 
 that she was reduced to silence, and even said, 
 "Perhaps I was wrong. But I will not forgive 
 her whose intrigues have caused me this. I will
 
 48 THE CAVE. 
 
 steadily pursue the inquiry. Be you sure of 
 that ! " 
 
 Chatillon, who, far from sharing in her suspicions, 
 felt entirely convinced that the whole matter, on the 
 Marchioness's part, had its origin in feelings very 
 different from lawless love, yet dreading his wife's 
 reckless and restless disposition when once any 
 scheme had got possession of her, was determined 
 at once to make Mme. de Bagnolles herself his con- 
 fidant, to prevent any further mischief, and even assist 
 in a design, which he could not doubt was wholly 
 founded in charity and compassion for some unhappy, 
 perhaps persecuted, individual. She, on her part, 
 having the utmost reliance upon his honour, and 
 knowing that she could trust the kindness of his na- 
 ture, also gave him every encouragement in his dis- 
 closure, and though she was deeply impressed with 
 his wife's misconduct, yet, holding him free from 
 all blame but that of having too yielding a nature 
 when his duty required more firm resistance, pro- 
 mised to beg that the Hermit would receive him, 
 and, in the course of a few days, took him with her 
 to the cave, by a somewhat less entangled path, with 
 which she alone was acquainted. 
 
 She had taken the very necessary precaution of
 
 THE CAVE. 49 
 
 preparing the Solitary for his reception ; giving a 
 just panegyric of his amiable and honourable cha- 
 racter ; and accordingly, the stern and even terrible 
 manner which he had before been dismayed with, 
 was now composed into a calm and not uncourteous 
 dignity of demeanour, which only served to render 
 his countenance more impressive, and his figure more 
 striking. There was still, however, a lofty and 
 distant tone in all he said ; and the first interview 
 passed without more than a permission to come 
 alone, of which the Count soon availed himself. 
 This led to a repetition of these visits ; for he took 
 much interest in this intercourse with a person so 
 singular in his circumstances, and had a natural 
 curiosity to hear more of his history than the few 
 general intimations of the Marchioness disclosed. 
 The Solitary on the other hand was exceedingly 
 attracted by his new acquaintance, whose suavity of 
 temper and ingenuous disposition gained much 
 upon him, and whose acute understanding he soon 
 learnt to appreciate. His principles too, were of 
 that liberal cast which were then beginning to spread 
 over France. A confidence thus growing up between 
 them, very unlike the feelings that attended the 
 beginning of their acquaintance, the stranger de- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE CAVE. 
 
 sired him to come one morning early to his retreat, 
 when he thus unfolded, for his own defence and that 
 of his kmd protectress, the mystery of his present 
 situation.
 
 ( 51 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 " If I say that the sun does not rise upon a more 
 wretched being to Hght him on his way towards the 
 much-wished-for tomb which every motive drives to 
 seek, and one paramount duty forbids to enter, I 
 use not words of common course, ever in the mouths 
 of those who only half know sorrow ; I speak the 
 sentiments of my inmost heart. You are young ; 
 you may live to be old ; but through all your life, 
 be it ever so prolonged, your eye will never rest 
 upon more misery than it now beholds. 
 
 " Know, then, that I was born of a noble family, 
 though somewhat reduced in its circumstances, and no 
 longer, as its ancestors had done in past times, dis- 
 pensing the charities and performing the duties of 
 large possessions. My early years, however, were 
 spent with kind parents who had ample means of 
 supporting and educating me. I had a brother 
 
 d2
 
 52 THE MONK. 
 
 much older than myself, to ^^hom all the family 
 looked up as endowed with commanding and various 
 talents, capable of anything, as was the current 
 expression of the house ; but ruled by a fiery and 
 ungovernable temper, which gave him, it was 
 thought, little prospect of worldly success. He left 
 us when I was but a boy, and he had reached man's 
 estate ; nor did we even discover which road he took, 
 much less what were his future fortunes. One parent 
 still survives ; the other I have lost ; she believed I had, 
 like my brother, paid the debt of nature ; and it is 
 not one of my least afflictions that I shall never more 
 be permitted to look upon her whom, of all human 
 beings save one, I most constantly and warmly loved. 
 " You will perceive, from what I have said, that 
 the choice of a profession was likely to be made for 
 me, or by me, with a view to pressing as lightly as 
 possible upon the family resources. I was destined 
 for the bar ; and it was the design of my father to 
 save by practising the strictest economy as much as 
 might suffice to purchase a judicial place in either 
 the courts of Montpellier or of Toulouse; these 
 offices being saleable by one of the ancient abuses of 
 our government, an abuse the effects of which are so 
 far mitigated by manners and the habits of society
 
 THE MONK. 53 
 
 that it produces very few of the evils naturally to be 
 apprehended from its manifestly mischievous tendency. 
 In the course, however, of my preparatory studies 
 for assuming the robe, I had been brought in contact 
 with several ecclesiastics; and I had formed as 
 great an intimacy with one of this body as could 
 well be cemented between persons of ages so unequal. 
 I was barely eighteen and he was turned of five- 
 and-thirty. 
 
 " He was a friar of the Benedictine order, a man 
 of profound learning, and of the most winning ad- 
 dress; of a temper the most placid I have ever 
 known, but of principles as fixed as his feelings 
 were lofty ; and, although singularly gifted with 
 both a liberal judgment and a calm mind, yet from 
 die perfect sincerity of his nature, and the powerful 
 hold which his opinions had of his mind, as strongly 
 touched with enthusiasm as was consistent with an 
 intellect so vigorous and acute. Indeed, even in 
 these early years, and while the sphere of my observ- 
 ation was still as limited as that of my experience, 
 I used to remark with interest and curiosity the 
 kind of conflict which his zeal maintained against 
 his extraordinary sagacity ; and to contrast the ease 
 and the quickness of his perception when other
 
 54 THE MONK. 
 
 men's errors were the subject of discussion, with the 
 slowness he evinced to give up his own. I had 
 been carefully educated by my excellent mother in 
 the habit of consulting my reason on all subjects of 
 dispute; and, although the dogmas and the mys- 
 teries of religion were excluded from ihe list, yet I 
 could not believe that the peculiar tenets and obser- 
 vances of the cloister were reconcileable either with 
 right reason or with the genuine spirit of the Chris- 
 tian revelation. To those tenets and observances, 
 he without any reasoning clung. Such was Father 
 Jerome. The vast superiority of his attainments, 
 the large experience by which he was trained, the 
 practice of disputation which had rendered him a 
 consummate master of the logical art, above all his 
 varied and accurate learning, placed me at a dis- 
 tance from him so immeasurable, that I by degrees, 
 and without being sensible of it, became so entirely 
 subjected to his influence, that my original habit of 
 thinking for myself left me, and I seemed, not only 
 to feel with his heart and yield to his understanding, 
 but to see with his eyes, to have but one being and 
 one soul with him. But I doubt if all his solid ac- 
 quirements and real talents could have gained such 
 a mastery over me at that age, when the most solid
 
 THE MONK. 55 
 
 merits are far from making their due impression^ 
 had I not also been dazzled with his great know- 
 ledge of the world and of mankind, for I was to live 
 in that world and not in the cloister. He had taken 
 the vow after attaining a certain age, in consequence 
 of a disappointment in love ; and I have often since 
 reflected on the nice discrimination of character and 
 the profound and just remarks on manners which 
 shone tlirougli his conversation, and which, though I 
 might not at the time perceive their deep sense, I have 
 since learnt fully to appreciate. For example, he 
 would say, ' Observe the noblesse of our provinces, 
 imitators of their caste in Paris, and, indeed, im- 
 porting from thence much of the vice and frivolity 
 with wliich they make our society corrupt and ri- 
 diculous. See the riddles which they present, but 
 which may all be solved by selfishness. Most of our 
 Counts and Barons pass their time in laying siege 
 to the virtue of our countrywomen, and manifestly 
 proceed upon the supposition that not one is impreg- 
 nable to their stratagems and their assaults. Whom 
 they cannot wear out by blockade, they think they 
 can take by storm. Yet only mention to any man 
 of them all that this Countess or tliat Marchioness 
 has yielded to any one of their friends, and he will
 
 56 THE MONK. 
 
 at once deny it, as if he were the lady's champion. 
 And, why ? Merely because every man is jealous 
 of all others, even with regard to women whose 
 virtue he never attempted. For if, without naming 
 any particular person as successful, you give the 
 lady the far worse character of promiscuous liber- 
 tinage, M. le Comte will at once acquiesce.' 
 
 " ' Are the same things to be remarked in the 
 women?' I have asked. 'No^ not the same — 
 but they have their paradox too, though they will 
 eagerly lower everyone to their own standard, there 
 being nothing so credulous of other women's frail- 
 ties as those who are themselves frail. Yet as to 
 the charms of others, you may always expect to 
 find them extremely niggard of their admiration 
 where real beauty or fascination exists, and abun- 
 dantly apt to commend generously the plain and 
 the unattractive.' 
 
 " Then he would comment on the folly of the 
 world_, as living, he would say, at cross purposes and 
 in voluntary self-deception. ' See our great mer- 
 chants giving their entertainments and their wives 
 giving their assemblies at which no cost is spared, 
 nor any pains to invite guests. They ask you as if 
 the favour was done to them by your acceptance i
 
 THE MONK. 57 
 
 yet they all the while have a feeling that they are 
 obliging you, and tlieir gratitude seems to be because 
 you let yourself be laid under that obligation to 
 them ; perhaps, too, it is their thankfulness for hav- 
 ing an opportunity of displaying their wealth; for 
 certainly what is called hospitality very mainly con- 
 sists in this ; in saying inwardly, " See how much I 
 can afford to spend;" and not seldom it is all false 
 and hollow, and much more than can be afforded 
 is spent to give colour to that vain trumpery boast.' 
 He used to tell me of another class by no means in 
 small numbers whom I should frequently meet in 
 the world, persons who were always very reasonably 
 expecting that men should give them credit for 
 uniting in their own persons the most opposite and 
 repugnant qualities. ' I have known,' he would 
 say, ' libertines who were extremely offended if you 
 supposed them tight-laced ; and yet must needs 
 desire to pass with men of probity, for leading strict 
 and temperate lives. But if you should say that 
 this is only a common kind of hypocrisy or double 
 dealing, what say you to a class by no means rare 
 in society, of persons who will insist upon having 
 credit for the very conduct they never held, and the 
 very qualities that don't belong to them ? There is 
 
 d3
 
 58 THE MONK. 
 
 the Baron de I'EscauT, whose family came from Flan- 
 ders, and who is narrow and saving even to meanness. 
 Yet he is haunted with a love of ostentation that tor- 
 ments him unceasingly. While he is doing the very 
 shabbiest things in the world, he will insist upon 
 passing for a mighty lord, who cares nothing for 
 expense, and is the munificent patron of all who 
 approach him. He gave as a wedding present to 
 his cousin an old carriage not worth repairing, and 
 fit only to be broken up for firewood, and spoke of 
 this bounty as if he had set the young man up with 
 a span new equipage !' — I recollect once when 
 Father Jerome was dwelling on this chapter of 
 human folly, having remarked that it was not con- 
 fined, apparently, to persons living in the great 
 world, and pampered by the caprices they figured 
 among, for I had remarked in one or two of our 
 teachers a similar inconsistency. They would be 
 extremely wroth if any one charged them with 
 having written certain papers that were admired, 
 but of somewhat free opinions on political matters, 
 in the Montpellier Journal, and yet would be not 
 a little ruffled if any one either ascribed them to 
 other pens, or declared themselves incapable of pro- 
 pagating such doctrines. ' Aye, truly,' said the
 
 THE MONK. 59 
 
 Father, "^they remind one of Charles XII., who 
 travelled incosrnito, and went to war with a German 
 Prince for taking him to be what he pretended, and 
 treating him as a Baron, not a King.' He added, 
 however, more seriously, ' My good young man, 
 never forget the lesson these men teach by their 
 folly — it is to shun anonymous writing. It only 
 exposes them, perhaps, to a little ridicule, if it does 
 not also taint them with a little duplicity. But it 
 is for a person of your abilities, and who are rising 
 into a learned rank, the most dangerous of seduc- 
 tions, nourishing the worst of vices, the roots of all 
 evil, the sappers of character.' ' And which,' I asked, 
 'be they?' — 'Malice, falsehood, and cowardice,' 
 was the reply. 
 
 " I have said enough to show how near an ob- 
 server of men this friar was wliile yet in the world, 
 and liow little he had forgotten them when buried 
 in the cloister. It was in minute particulars as 
 in greater things, that his perspicacity was acute. 
 Nothinor seemed too small for his fine vision. ' You 
 will find,' said he one day while I observed upon 
 the form of a fellow-student's finger ; ' you will 
 find that nobody, no man at least, cares to have you 
 look narrowly at his hands. I believe, from what
 
 60 THE MONK. 
 
 I have heard, that women are as scrupulous about 
 havinor their feet examined unless when well co- 
 vered.' It struck me at the time that this latter 
 remark betokened a larger experience than I had 
 given him credit for, but with the intuitive sagacity 
 of his nature, and as if he had read what was pass- 
 ing within me, he added, ' Sister Ursula first made 
 this remark to me upon her sex.' 
 
 Such was Father Jerome, and so formed to cap- 
 tivate a novice as I was, yet more inexperienced in 
 the ways of the world than in the forces which 
 disturbed the paths of the planets. The fascination 
 of his rare qualities and of his delightful manners 
 was increased by the affection which he showed me. 
 Precluded by his state, and by the cruel, un- 
 natural law under which he lived, from all the en- 
 dearments of a family, he seemed to regard me as 
 his son ; and I cannot well express the joy I felt 
 when I found the object of my admiration and deep 
 respect took a pleasure in my society, and even 
 in consulting me, whose mind his instructions had 
 formed and trained. There is a delight not easy 
 to describe conveyed to a youth escaped from the 
 season of careless boyhood and from its thraldom, 
 when, toucliing upon man's estate but of a doubtful
 
 THE MONK. ei 
 
 title to its privileges, he finds himself cherished as 
 a friend by one much older, and who admits him 
 to a footing of equality like a man. Ambition may 
 have some part in this feeling ; vanity, thus gratified, 
 has more ; and with this is mingled the leaning 
 upon the superior mind for protection. All these 
 things enter largely into the love of woman for 
 our sex. The homage we pay them, tliough their 
 masters in strength and in understanding, soothes 
 them, and they look up to us for defence ; they 
 lean upon us for counsel and guidance. The 
 ardent love which thev often feel for men much 
 older than themselves, and of comparatively feeble 
 personal attractions, is only to be explained by 
 these sentiments, in which all love mainly ori- 
 ginates. 
 
 "I never shall forget the exultation which filled 
 my mind when, after having for two years set him 
 before me as the object of unceasing admiration, I 
 found that he entertamed for me feelings of friend- 
 ship and confidence. These he had not before 
 shown, apprehensive that favouritism might be im- 
 puted to him by the five or six other pupils who 
 were whh me pursuing their studies at the same 
 convent. It was one evening, while taking our
 
 62 THE MONK. 
 
 accustomed walk in the beautiful garden of the 
 House, where, under a fine lime-walk, we sat down 
 upon a bench, and he went on to descant upon the 
 extraordinary provisions by which the stability of 
 the solar system is secured, referring to the chain of 
 demonstration by which he had shown in his lec- 
 tures that the mutual actions of the heavenly bodies 
 upon each other, while they prevent their motions 
 from being ever continued in one orbit, yet also set 
 limits to their deviations from the elliptical path. 
 He perceived my eye glisten with the feeling of 
 rapture which such proofs of divine power and skill 
 naturally excite, and, seizing my hand, he said, ' I 
 know, and have long known, you to be superior to 
 my other pupils. You are cast in another mould. 
 You inspire me with a confidence which springs 
 from congenial character ; and I regard you more 
 as a friend than a pupil.' When he spoke of con- 
 fidence, it was not that he had any secrets to dis- 
 close either as to his conduct or his opinions. That 
 was pure and blameless ; these were strictly ortho- 
 dox; nor did his devotion to human science ever 
 lead him away from his religious pursuits, much 
 less interfere with the submissive deference where- 
 withal he bowed in all things to the decisions of an
 
 THE MONK. 63 
 
 infallible church. If he did not, with the commen- 
 tators on Newton, affect to disbelieve the true doc- 
 trine of astronomy; if with Galileo, rising from a 
 recantation of his heterodoxy, he firmly exclaimed, 
 ' epur si muove !' — he yet meditated much with the 
 holy men of Galilee on divine things, and could 
 easily reconcile the implicit belief of revelation with 
 the discoveries of science which the Divine Author of 
 that revelation has graciously enabled his creatures 
 to make by the faculties he has bestowed on them. 
 But by ' confidence,' he meant that he could share 
 with me his feelings, communicate his opinions, 
 and discuss the numberless little points of dispute 
 which arise among the members of a monastery ; 
 few of whom had anything like his enlargement of 
 views, and none of whom possessed his modest, 
 amiable, humble disposition. To be thus treated 
 by such a man as his equal, filled me with joy and 
 pride ; it was the gratification of all the ambition 
 I had ever felt ; and I never looked forward to the 
 honours of my destined profession as capable of 
 raising me more in my own estimation than did the 
 friendship and the confidence of Father Jerome. 
 
 "A year glided away in this delightful inter- 
 course; but it was a year not wholly devoted to
 
 64 THE MONK. 
 
 studies that might prepare me for the courts of 
 Toulouse and MontpeUier. I enjoyed the purest 
 gratification in the continued society of my accom- 
 plished teacher; and my studious attention to the 
 lessons he taught was only exceeded by my de- 
 votion to his authority. I found, however, that my 
 father was alarmed at the small portion of my 
 time which was given to jurisprudence ; and perceiv- 
 ing the ascendant which Father Jerome had gained 
 over me, and the pride I took in his friendship, 
 he one day seriously warned me against imbibing 
 a taste for the monastic life. My mother joined 
 in the same entreaties, with that greater gentleness 
 and more fond affection which armed every word of 
 hers with irresistible force. Alas ! the deed was 
 done ; the taste already imbibed ! Though the friar 
 had never spoken one word to me on the subject, 
 nay, rather had received with a repulsive coldness 
 my advances to proselytism, I yet had become ena- 
 moured of the tranquil life he led, the sublime 
 studies which I saw he pursued in his convent ; and 
 I could little bear the vulgar contention of the courts 
 which I occasionally had witnessed, with all the 
 more disrelish that they were petty, provincial tribu- 
 nals. I could still less endure the thoughts of being
 
 THE MONK. 65 
 
 separated from my guide and friend, being severed 
 by a great distance from his fixed residence, and 
 being thrown among strangers, towards whom I felt 
 neither affection nor admiration. It was not long 
 before he discovered the bent of my inclinations ; 
 nor did he fail to combat it. He honestly and 
 strongly opened to me all the evils of monastic 
 life ; the jealousies and heartburnings of the monks ; 
 the rigour of their discipline ; the tyranny, often the 
 caprice of the superior ; above all, the imnatural 
 subjugation of our strongest passions, and the yet 
 more dreadful restraint of our most powerful and 
 most innocent feelings, which the inflexible severity 
 of the vow imposes. With delicacy he alluded to 
 my naturally ardent temperament, and more plainly 
 hinted at the strength of my affections, that bore 
 their due proportion to the constitution of my bodily 
 frame ; and he never failed to set before me the one 
 prevailing motto : — ' Whoso enters the cloister seals 
 his fate for ever in this world, leaving himself no 
 return from his voluntary grave ! ' But though his 
 honest nature led him thus far, and to the very edge 
 of his duty, his vow to further tlie interests of his 
 order would not suffer him to go one step beyond 
 it ; and most brethren, in his situation, would rather
 
 66 THE MONK. 
 
 have removed than raised any obstacles to my be- 
 coming' a novice. His pains were taken only in 
 setting fairly before me the consequences of the step 
 I was bent on taking ; and this he did with all the 
 force of his persuasive eloquence. But all was in 
 vain. I was too young to take prospective views, 
 to cast my look forward into the dark future ; too 
 ardent to see difficulties, or weigh the sober lessons 
 of experience. I saw of a convent only its quiet 
 chambers, its noble library, its green and shady 
 walks ; saw of its inmates only the studious habits, 
 the contemplative life, the pious devotion to reli- 
 gious duties, the tranquil existence, withdrawn 
 from all worldly bustle, and consecrated to kindly 
 charity, or to learned ease. With these prepos- 
 sessions powerfully co-operated my fervent attach- 
 ment to Father Jerome, and my repugnance to any 
 change that should separate me from his guidance, 
 and sever the ties of friendship which had insensibly 
 been formed and had knit me to the brethren of 
 the convent. 
 
 " A few months of earnest entreaty, and a con- 
 viction that resistance to the bent of my inclination 
 must prove vain, coupled perhaps with some re- 
 ligious feeling on the subject, overcame the reluct-
 
 THE MONK. 67 
 
 ance of my parents, and I entered upon my novici- 
 ate. The year wliich this requires was the happiest 
 of my whole life ; nor can anything be more ground- 
 less than the notion that in cases of voluntary enter- 
 ing upon the monastic state, a trial is thus made of 
 the devotee's taste for it. That taste is far more 
 likely to be confirmed than weakened by tlie pro- 
 bation. Accordingly the Council of Trent required 
 that each female novice should, before being allowed 
 to take the veil, leave the convent for some time, 
 after her probationary year has expired, and, at her 
 own home, be examined by her parents and by the 
 bishop as to her fitness and her disposition for the 
 holy state of the Saviour's wedded spouse. My 
 year expired with a great increase of my resolution ; 
 and I finally was received and made my vows. 
 
 " I suppose no one, except perhaps he belonged to 
 the class of the common people, who become mem- 
 bers of the smaller orders for a lazy subsistence, and 
 whose minds are little struck with the ceremonial of 
 tlieir reception, will ever forget that awful proceeding. 
 Every particular of it remains deeply engraven on 
 my memory after the lapse of many years; and, 
 fully as I had been prepared for it, and entirely as 
 my mind went along with tlie step I was taking, an
 
 68 THE MONK. 
 
 involuntary shudder came over me as I uas slowly 
 and solemnly consigned to a living tomb. Tliouo-h 
 I had several times been present at the same cere- 
 mony in the case of others, the ssnsations which I 
 experienced in my own were such as I ne\'er had 
 been at all prepared to expect ; they gave a bias to 
 my mind which afterwards did not fail to produce 
 the most powerful and the most unhappy effects ; in- 
 deed I question if I should not have drawn back and 
 recanted my resolution had I distinctly foreseen 
 what I was to feel ; as I suppose men have com- 
 mitted suicide, repenting of it after the fatal draught 
 was swallowed which the instant before they had 
 eagerly commended to their lips. Certain it is that 
 my firm grasp of the chalice relaxed suddenly, and 
 I was all but ready to dash it on the ground. 
 
 "The ceremonial of reception is abundantly calcu- 
 lated to impress the mind of the neophyte ; and on 
 some, to help in producing the consternation which 
 I felt on first feeling that I had been irrevocably 
 entombed, when just entering on man's estate. High 
 mass succeeds to the magnificent air of Adeste Fide- 
 lis, which fills the vaulted roofs, now thundering and 
 now warbhng — solemn or delightful. The novice 
 experiences, far more awfully than before, a feeling
 
 THE MOXK. 69 
 
 that the daily recurrence of the Mass had deadened 
 the actual presence of the Deity himself, in the tem- 
 ple made with hands ; for it seems as if the God- 
 head had descended to witness and to seal the vows, 
 ready to avenge a breach of the covenant made with 
 the Almighty Father. This is the prevailing idea 
 that fills the mind throughout the ceremony ; and 
 more especially as the Host is raised with number- 
 less bells to fix the attention upon the awful symbol 
 now become a real presence ; but the choirs of sweet 
 and powerful voices which thrill the senses, the chant 
 of the well-selected Scriptures and prayers, the full 
 organ interposing from time to time, the multitude 
 of tapers diffusing their dim religious light over the 
 splendid vestments of tlie ministers, the devout obei- 
 sances of these, comporting themselves as actually 
 before the Divine Majesty — all fill the mind with 
 feelings far removed from earthly things. The ex- 
 hortation, addressed partly to the novice, partly to 
 the auditory, would perhaps make less impression 
 than any other part of the ceremony, except that it 
 comes immediately before the terrible vow. The 
 time for that was now come ; I pronounced the vow, 
 and as the sacred vestment was thrown over me, 
 with the words ' God put on thee the new man with
 
 70 THE MONK. 
 
 this garment ! God put off from thee the old man 
 with all his errors ! ' a cold sweat broke over my 
 brow ; the tapers burnt pale ; a confused noise filled 
 my ear; I stood before God, and in that awful pre- 
 sence, I vowed to sever myself from the world, and 
 in the midst of life to be in death. The dreadful 
 comminations were then pronounced by the Bi- 
 shop, ' Whoso breaketh his vow, vowed to God, 
 whether in act, or word, or thought, let him be 
 Anathema Maranatha ! accursed for ever and ever ; 
 he is guilty of the sin against the Holy Ghost, never, 
 never to be forgiven.' — The sacred music now once 
 more pealed through the roofs of the chapel an 
 anthem of joy on the victory achieved over human 
 infirmity, or human reason. 
 
 " The kindness of my brethren, and above all of 
 Father Jerome, soon awoke me from a trance in 
 which I scarcely seemed to breathe. The terrible 
 ideas that had filled my mind, and given me the 
 feeling of being buried alive, were necessarily short- 
 lived, as all exaggerations are ; for they rested on 
 an imagination, on a metaphor ; and I soon felt that 
 I was still in the world of living creatures, though 
 cut off from so much that makes it worth inhabiting. 
 
 ''My hours glided smoothly and silently along
 
 THE MONK. 71 
 
 for some months after my reception. The novelty 
 of the duties I had now to perform, and the inter- 
 est I took in the affairs of the house, served to 
 excite me and to fill my mind -, while the studies 
 which occupied my time made the day pass with- 
 out weariness. The society of the friars, with most 
 of whom I was well acquainted, and who were gene- 
 rally well informed, and some of them sensible men, 
 was far from unpleasing ; the abbot was uniformly 
 kind and condescending ; and above all I enjoyed, 
 without restraint and in the fullest measure, that in- 
 tercourse with my beloved Father Jerome, which to 
 me was ever the greatest relish I was capable of 
 tasting. Far from becoming less the object of ad- 
 miration upon a close intimacy, like so may shining 
 men, especially men who call in the arts of the actor 
 to support their position, and set off their abilities 
 and acquirements, I might truly say that at a greater 
 distance I had not known his extraordinary endow- 
 ments ; and that the angelic sweetness of his dis- 
 position could only be appreciated by a long and a 
 constant intercourse, which proved how impossible it 
 was for anything to ruffle his temper. On his part 
 he cultivated my friendship more than ever, now 
 that we were brethren of the same order, and that
 
 72' THE MONK. 
 
 he no longer could excite jealousy by bestowing on 
 me any marks of his confidence and esteem. He 
 had no greater pleasure than to consult me upon 
 his literary pursuits, to show me his writings, to plan 
 with me other undertakinofs. Sometimes he would 
 discuss the State affairs which occasionally occu- 
 pied men's minds even in the remotest provinces, 
 when the loss of our North American colony, and 
 the defeat of our fleets, had given to the House of 
 Bourbon the first blow it received since the latter 
 days of Louis XIV. His far-seeing intellect, as it 
 pierced the walls of his cloister, penetrated also the 
 clouds which veil futurity from our eyes ; and 
 much of the ferment now raging in different parts 
 of this country was foreseen by his perspicacity, 
 which could well compare the past with the present, 
 gleaning from the history of other times lessons of 
 wisdom applicable to our own. Inexperienced as 
 I was, and knowing men from books alone, upon his 
 sayings I hung as on the voice of an oracle, while he 
 delivered his opinions with a modesty only equalled 
 by their calmness and sound observation, and with a 
 suavity that I never have since known in another ; 
 and explained difficulties with a clearness that 
 seemed to leave nothing unsolved.
 
 THE MONK. 73 
 
 " Our reading and discussions were not confined 
 to science, or even to history ; tlirougli the realms of 
 fancy we made frequent excursions ; and from him 
 I imbibed the taste both for the poets of Italy and 
 of our own country, which has been one of the few 
 solaces of many weary, painful liours in less happy 
 times. Above all, he inculcated in me the duty of 
 appreciating the awful Florentine ; bade me note 
 the manly energy, the self-denying conciseness of ex- 
 pression, the scorn of yoking to his chariot a number 
 of epithets, like those who drive a substantive and 
 six adjectives, beside adverbs as outriders ; the 
 confinincr of his efforts to careful selection of the 
 best expressions, and leaving all the rest out toge- 
 ther; the just and dignified confidence in the force 
 of a single phrase, and disdain of making his im- 
 pression by a repetition of little blows ; qualities 
 which we in vain seek in any other modern, and 
 only find, perhaps, in two among the great masters 
 of ancient diction, Demosthenes and Lucretius. He 
 would then make me contrast Dante with the other 
 masters of sonof, and mark their invariable infe- 
 riority. ' See,' he was wont to say, ' this poet, not 
 satisfied with one metaphor, but he must give you 
 a cluster, as if a constellation would ever shine 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE MONK. 
 
 bright like a planet ; or that other, who, to describe 
 an object, makes a catalogue, an inventory of all its 
 parts, like an auctioneer or valuer, instead of seizing 
 on the bold and leading features, bringing them 
 out and casting the rest into the shade; while in 
 one respect they seem all to agree; and it is the 
 powerful contrast with the divine genius of Italy : 
 though they often do hit upon the right word, they 
 have in their search found so many others of some 
 value, that they must needs make a setting of these 
 round the jewel itself.' 
 
 " Once, T said when this critique was going on, 
 ' Don't you rather show some lenity to them by 
 allowing they find a jewel and make a setting for 
 it ?' — ' Yes,' he said, ' indeed I do ; rather they 
 resemble sempstresses, who having cut out a flower, 
 must needs gather up the parings and make a vile 
 patchwork round it. But 
 
 Non ragionam di lor', ma guarda e passa.' 
 
 When I would object to the plan and the epic 
 of the Divina Commedia, sometimes comparing it 
 with the Iliad, sometimes with the Odyssey (to 
 which merely superficial readers have found more 
 resemblance), he freely adn)itted its great defects ;
 
 THE MOXK. 75 
 
 confessing that story there is none, nor hardly 
 anything that can be called the action or the speak- 
 ing of persons in their proper character ; and ad- 
 mitting that an immeasurably inferior artist, Tasso, 
 has far more pretension to epic powers, and that 
 even Petrarch more successfully attains his object ; 
 that, however, being only the very humble one of a 
 fine sonnetteer ; a power showing inexhaustible fer- 
 tility of resource in ringing the changes numberless 
 times on two or three ideas. But of Dante, he 
 naturally lauded the wondrous power also of fe- 
 licitous imagination, not always restrained by severe 
 taste; the endless gallery of striking pictures 
 through which he leads us; the extraordinary learn- 
 ing he displays; and the profound metaphysical 
 attributes, above all, of the Paradise. Nor can any- 
 thing be more perfect than both his descriptions of 
 nature with a blow, as in the doves (con Tale aperte 
 e ferme) ; or of sentiment, as in the Pia ; or of 
 moral feelings, as in the evening scene (Era gia 
 I'ora) ; or of horrible emotions, as in the Ugolino ; 
 or of both pain and pleasure combined, as in the 
 Maestro Adamo. However, he recurred to the mar- 
 vellous diction and the dignified self-restraint in its 
 use, s offering the most striking contrast with other, 
 
 e2
 
 76 THE MONK. 
 
 and above all, with modern artists. He said, he 
 understood there was an English poet who, in many 
 passages, came near him : but he could only judge 
 by a literal translation. One description he had 
 seen impressed him with a very high notion of that 
 poet's power. It was a picture of death, exceed- 
 ingly sublime, and which, from first to last, raised in 
 the mind no ima^e of a skeleton, as all others did 
 on the same subject, but left every thing vague, 
 shadowy, shrouded in unutterable horror. 'Such 
 things are,' he would say, 'worthy of Dante him- 
 self. And yet I doubt if his picturesque genius 
 would have avoided the skeleton.' He would ex- 
 tend his criticism, just though severe, even to our 
 masters, the ancients ; few of whom he would allow 
 faultless. For example, Tacitus he could little en- 
 dure; though he would admit his merit of deep 
 observation, and even liis peculiar and sometimes 
 expressive conciseness : as when he puts in two 
 words the idea given in four by Sallust (whom he 
 liked far less, and was prejudiced against for his 
 libel on Cicero), the one saying "alieni cupidus; 
 sui profusus;" the other saying " alieni prodigus." 
 But a style so unnatural, so studded with conceits, 
 often puerile, he little valued ; and would, at times.
 
 THE MONK. 77 
 
 make merry by comparing it with what he called 
 the short-hand writer, Florus. Of all Latin prose, 
 he most relished Livy ; the least trustworthy, how- 
 ever, of historians : and of all Greek, Thucydides, 
 and the Halicarnassian ; Polybius, of course, the 
 least, notwithstanding his honesty. But in De- 
 mosthenes he found every merit; the finest decla- 
 mation, the most lucid statement, the most perfect 
 narrative, the most thundering appeals to reason 
 by sudden juxtaposition, graphic allusions to facts, 
 vivid exposure of inconsistency, marvellous com- 
 parisons, and resemblances, and analogies (rappro- 
 chemens) ; only, he denied that a sustained argu- 
 mentation, a logical train of reasoning, was to be 
 found in that first of masters, nor did he conceive 
 that the levity of an Athenian audience would have 
 borne it. How often has he built castles in the 
 air, and fancied us wandering in Attica : and after 
 rowing over the Ilyssus, 'going down,' like Plato, 
 * to the Piraeus,' visiting the glories of the Parthenon, 
 then placing ourselves on the steps of the Ecclesia, in 
 front of the Bema, and fancying that by the wonder- 
 ful formation of that building, we heard even at a dis- 
 tance tlie voice of him who thundered over Greece, 
 wielded at will the fierce democracy, and made the
 
 78 THE MONK. 
 
 throne of the tyrant to shake. This, and the ex- 
 amination of the Plain of Troy, often was the sub- 
 ject of our waking dreams ; not that, all full as he 
 was of admiration for Homer, he much fancied that 
 any traces of the poet's pictures could be found on 
 the ground, or in the ruins, or that he ever had pro- 
 fessed to describe real existence in one respect, 
 while in all others he was purely the maker of 
 fiction. 
 
 "But on no subject did he more love 1o descant, 
 and on none was he more interestinof, than on one 
 which came close to his own sacred professionj the 
 great topic of Pulpit Eloquence. Here he was 
 peculiarly at home ; and here Massillon, the great 
 Bishop of Clermont, was his Demosthenes ; but also 
 he would compare him to Dante, for the power 
 wliich he has of finishing a topic with a blow. I 
 recollect his remarking how singular it is, that the 
 most celebrated passage in all this great preacher's 
 discourses, that of the Judgment, in the ' Petit nom- 
 hre des ElusJ is imperfectly given in the book itself, 
 and only to be found correct in a place you would 
 the last search for it — Voltaire. He has preserved 
 this magnificent trophy of true eloquence ; the ordi- 
 nary edition makes the preacher only say, ' Are you
 
 TIIE MONK. 79 
 
 sure half here present would then (were Christ 
 suddenly to appear as our Judge) be found among 
 the saved ? Are you sure that ten would be found ?' 
 But Voltaire's edition nobly adds, ' Would there a 
 single one be found ?' {'En trouveroit-il un seul f) 
 It was upon this exclamation that the audience rose 
 up in horror and dismay. I asked if he considered 
 this as the finest passage in Massillon? He said 
 ' No — The first four words of his funeral sermon 
 on Louis le Grand beat every thing ; this is the 
 noblest, the most sublime, the most simple of all 
 the feats of eloquence. ''God only is great, my 
 brethren" — {'' Dieu seul est grand, mes freres"") 
 words which every people can receive, because 
 every tongue can render them alike. But it is 
 grievous to find the sentence not, as it should have 
 done^ stop there. It goes on, " Et dans lesderniers 
 raomens, surtout, ou il preside a la mort des Rois 
 de la terre." — The body of Louis then lying dead 
 before the people, surely, when the great preacher 
 stretched forth his hands, and with a voice as of one 
 sent from above to improve this solemn occasion, 
 proclaimed the King Eternal, Immortal, Invisible, 
 the only living God ; surely, to add his presiding at 
 the death of kings, as if to evince his superiority.
 
 80 THE MONK. 
 
 was somewhat needless. It was like the addition 
 which Tasso makes to the noble simile of the lion 
 in Dante's Sordello : " A guisa di leon qiiando si 
 posa ;" whereunto Tasso is pleased to subjoin, 
 in kind compassion to the reader, for fear he 
 should not comprehend the matter, 
 
 " Girando gli occhi e non movendo il passo." 
 
 Surely,' added Father Jerome, ' Massillon must have 
 for the moment been transformed into Bossuet, to 
 make an addition which himself could no more 
 have made than Bossuet was capable of the sub- 
 lime opening.' I found Bossuet's unctuous style, 
 his sugar sweet (doucereux) sentences, his overdone 
 feeling, when he is touched with nothings, and calls 
 upon his hearers, but calls in vain, to be touched too, 
 was no great favourite of my acute friend, who, 
 however, exceedingly admired his justly celebrated 
 ' Discours ' (on Universal History) both for its 
 learning, its philosophy, and its composition. 
 Bourdaloue he revered as the father of pulpit 
 eloquence, and, contrary to common opinion, re- 
 garded him as the model on which Massillon must, 
 after the ancient masters of speech, have formed 
 himself.
 
 THE MONK. 81 
 
 *' In these discussions and these day-dreams our 
 hours were passed, when not engaged in the duties 
 of the house, or in visiting the poor of the neigh- 
 bourhood, and ministering to their wants ; a duty 
 which Father Jerome held the most sacred, and 
 from the discharge of which his compassionate 
 nature derived the purest gratification. 
 
 "Thus ghded our monotonous and peaceful life. 
 Among the fraternity, there were few indeed whom 
 I did not esteem greatly ; one only for whom I felt 
 any thing like aversion. Father Ambrose was of a 
 noble family, in high favour at Court ; and through 
 that influence, and his own merits, which were of a 
 high order, he aspired to succeed the ancient abbot 
 now at our head — Father Jerome, who by universal 
 consent must have been their choice, having always 
 openly declared that nothing should induce him to 
 accept the abbacy. The faculties of Ambrose were 
 great : his learning extensive in the branch to which 
 with ambitious views he devoted himself, — theology 
 and the scholastic science generally. His spirit was 
 daring ; his art profound ; liis resources inex- 
 haustible. Wholly unscrupulous in the choice of his 
 means ; as wholly unbridled in the selection of his 
 purposes ; of the deepest dissimulation ; of the most 
 
 E 3
 
 82 THE MONK. 
 
 malignant soul when any one crossed his path ; of 
 fiery passions, which nevertheless he kept in habitual 
 subjection to his strong will, and his firm purpose, — 
 he seemed to revive in the eighteenth century the 
 character of the priests who ruled the destinies of 
 the fifteenth ; and to have all the genius and all 
 the ambition, which after raising the possessor of 
 the one, and victim of the other, to the head of a 
 monastery, could elevate him to the custody of the 
 keySj could encircle his head with the triple crown, 
 and make the ' servant of servants' a ruler over the 
 princes and potentates of the Western World. This 
 man had early conceived a jealousy of me, from 
 observing- that I became a favourite with the 
 brethren, and also from perceiving that I did not 
 pay him court ; for Father Jerome, the god of my 
 idolatry, had an unconquerable dislike to him, 
 grounded on his perfect distrust of so designing a 
 person, and his repugnance for one whom he knew 
 to be perfectly unamiable; and in this feeling I 
 easily became a sharer. Occasions frequently arose 
 to prove how little I esteemed him, and oppor- 
 tunities were not wanting to show on his part a 
 return with ample interest of the same sentiments. 
 A trifling circumstance added to the aversion with
 
 THE MONK. «3 
 
 which I viewed him ; he bore a likeness to Father 
 Jerome, so strikingf that I have over and over asrain, 
 on seeing him at the end of our arcades or hme 
 walks, hastened to meet him, and embrace liim, 
 my heart overflowing with affection, when I sud- 
 denly on approaching perceived by the sardonic 
 smile on his fine and expressive, but unamiable 
 countenance, that he both had divined my mistake, 
 and was sensible of the feelings which I experienced 
 on beincr undeceived. It was surmised bv some, 
 and among others, even by the kind and charita- 
 ble Father Jerome, that Ambrose was not that one 
 of the brethren who kept his sensual propensities 
 under the most entire control ; and rumours gained 
 credit of his impetuous nature having broken out 
 in the course of the charitabL visits which he made 
 to objects of the monastery's benevolent care. 
 
 " We had another brother in our convent, whom I 
 did not much like, although certainly I had not the 
 same aversion for him as for Ambrose. But though 
 he was not wicked, and had great abilities, especially 
 a lively and entertaining fancy, yet I never could 
 either place any confidence in him, or take much 
 pleasure in his somewhat amusing society. He was 
 an Irishman by extraction, indeed by birth, having
 
 84 THE MONK. 
 
 come over to our convent when grown up to the 
 age of sixteen ; he was called O'Halloran, of a 
 small gentleman's family, in middling circumstances, 
 though proud of tracing back their lineage to some 
 obscure and local barbarous chiefs, whom they were 
 pleased to call Ancient Kings of Ireland, and of 
 whom I do suppose there may have been scores at 
 a time. He was not a man who would deliberately 
 lie, or wilfully engage in a fraud; yet it was impos- 
 sible to place the least reliance on his account of 
 any person or any thing, partly because he suffered 
 his memory to be ever warped by his imagination, 
 now obscuring it, now creating materials for its 
 exercise^ and partly too from a vile habit he had, 
 and which really seemed a second nature, of looking 
 in his narratives always to the effect they might 
 produce ; so that he would paint a transaction or a 
 person in colours purely fantastic to give amuse- 
 ment to the hearer, or he would mould his statements 
 so as precisely to suit the purpose of the moment 
 in furthering any object he had in view, Father 
 O'Halloran, or Pierre, as he was called, was well 
 natured, too, but more from a joyousness of spirit 
 and a warmth of temperament than from good dis- 
 position. A very surprising part of his character.
 
 THE MONK. 85 
 
 or his temper, was the thin partition that divided 
 his mirth and good humour from his anger; he 
 never gave warning of a quarrel, partly from fear, 
 partly from good humour ; and you found he had 
 passed the line and a rupture had taken place before 
 you had the least suspicion of it. So far he was ami- 
 able that he loved to give pleasure and would go a 
 good deal out of his way and also out of the way of 
 truth rather than give pain. His spirits were exu- 
 berant, and he pretty indiscriminately laughed and 
 made laugh with all. His nerves were very far 
 from beinof as stout as he affected : he would bra- 
 vado and l)luster when there was little danger, and 
 he always knew exactly the person with whom he 
 could venture to behold and stout: he was anything 
 rather than a firm-minded man. He was abundantly 
 selfish too, always had an eye to his own in- 
 terest; and, though his volatile nature kept him 
 from very steadily pursuing it, and his habitual 
 imprudence made him often fail of success, his 
 defeat was never the result of indifference to the end, 
 or of any great scrupulousness about the means. 
 In his demeanour he was more than civil ; he was 
 subservient and fawning, partly from good humour, 
 but partly too on calculation. His judgment was
 
 86 THE MONK. 
 
 bad, with all his acuteness ; you could not trust his 
 decisions any more than his narratives. But after 
 all it was this latter quality that mainly created my 
 dislike for him and that of Father Jerome, who 
 hardly had more aversion for Father Ambrose him- 
 self. He used to say that it appeared to him as if 
 O'Halloran did not know the difference between 
 truth and falsehood ; as if somo organ was wanting 
 in him which other men had ; and he would give 
 this Irishman as an example of a remark he had 
 made very generally, that there are no people more 
 credulous of falsehood than those who themselves 
 deal little in truth ; as if a secret consciousness that 
 they might have occasion for quarter from other 
 breakers of the great moral law induced them to 
 give help and credence to their neighbour in his need. ' 
 With this brother you will readily believe I cultivated 
 little acquaintance and no friendship. He had little 
 solid or accurate learning ; a rubbish of history 
 and theology in his head, ill assorted and no wise 
 arranged ; but no information that could help his 
 own views or win the confidence of others. Its sad 
 characteristic was want of accuracy in the ground- 
 work, of care in the superstructure, and of discretion 
 in the application. Thus, of all the teaching brethren.
 
 THE MONK. 87 
 
 he had the least success. Nothing could exceed the 
 confidence he shewed in the task of instruction he 
 undertook ; nothing could exceed the pains he took 
 to gain his pupil's favour. But his scholars made 
 little or no progress, and he failed even to ensure, 
 with all his chace of popularity, as much favour 
 among them as others of harsh and distant, and 
 even severe, manners obtained. His pupils had 
 quite as little respect for him as his brethren.
 
 ( 88 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CONVERT. 
 
 " Father Ambrose and Father O'Halloran, such 
 as I have described them, formed really the only 
 exceptions of any importance to my esteem for the 
 brotherhood of St. Benedict. Many were inferior in 
 amiable qualities to Jerome ; all were of very far 
 lower talents and accomplishments ; and in the union 
 of a pure angelic character, both in sweetness of dis- 
 position and sterling goodness of heart, with the" 
 rarest faculties of the understanding, none could be 
 named as belonging to the same species. But 
 excepting Father O'Halloran, there were none for 
 whom I had a contempt, and excepting Ambrose, 
 none were positively hateful, and even his character 
 was not of a disagreable, though it might be of a 
 vicious, cast. 
 
 " Time accordingly wore on smoothly in the 
 studies, the duties, and the occupations of the place.
 
 THE COX^^RT. 89 
 
 But time also was working some chang^e in the 
 temperament of a youth only just arrived at man's 
 estate, whose passions had been suppressed and 
 whose feehngs had been trained by the rigour of the 
 monastic rule. Religion and its observances, even 
 the religion of the Romish Church, and even of the 
 regular clergy of that church, though impressive at 
 the first, and well fitted to fill the mind, was not of 
 power sufficient, especially when some time had 
 passed away, entirely to absorb its faculties and to 
 deaden all other feelings. A cloud of ignorance rather 
 than of mystery would sometimes spread over the 
 mind, and prevent it from clearly comprehending 
 what was taught and what was believed. A reluctance 
 would sometimes affect the mind, and weaning it 
 from sacred things, as these had formerly weaned 
 it from the world, would make the total abstraction 
 from the visible world hard, the entire absorption in 
 things unseen im.possible. A doubt would some- 
 times steal into the mind, and beget notions that 
 Providence which endowed men with faculties for 
 active, and feelings for social intercourse, never could 
 have designed any part of the species to vegetate 
 in absolute indolence, and to sheathe their hearts 
 against all the influences of the tender passions.
 
 90 THE CONVERT. 
 
 The struggles which thus arose within me, it would 
 be difficult to describe. A war was waged with the 
 awful sense of religious obligation which my solemn 
 vows had completed, my pious education having 
 begun it. Against that deep sense of duty were 
 leagued the strength of my understanding, the 
 passions of my frame, the feelings of my heart. In 
 this conflict it was vain to consult any one of my 
 brethren ; even Father Jerome forbade the subject ; 
 and though he wept as he marked the agony I was 
 enduring, with his accustomed delicacy he never 
 even reminded me of the warnings he had given, 
 and in spite of which I had persisted in embracing 
 the monastic life. 
 
 "A younger brother of the order, having dis- 
 covered by some chance remark the state of my 
 mind, was the first to break silence with me upon the 
 subject that now engaged all my waking thoughts, 
 and forbade me at night to taste repose. He had 
 entered the convent more in compliance with the 
 wishes of his family, who hoped thus to obtain for 
 him an abbacy, than from any opinions which he 
 had formed, or any religious impressions to which 
 he was subject. He was a fine young man, of noble 
 mien, good abilities, strong passions, warm feelings.
 
 THE CONVERT. 91 
 
 and no fixed principles ; by no means profligate in 
 his notions, entirely void of guile, of an amiable dis- 
 position, and much attached to me from similarity 
 of age, and from a likeness which he very errone- 
 ously supposed to exist in the circumstances of our 
 situation. He had for some time begun to feel the 
 restraints of the order more than he could well 
 endure ; and though he was fully aware that no 
 escape from them was possible, he yet was anxious 
 to open an unreserved communication with a fellow- 
 sufl^erer, as he supposed me to be, and he was not 
 very slow, or very nice, in finding an opportunity of 
 unveiling his heart to me. Though fond of his 
 society, which was amusing and agreeable, I at 
 once repressed all such confidence, and no further 
 disclosure was made to me, until the force of re- 
 strained passion produced its usual effect, and my 
 comrade was soon stretched upon a bed of sickness, 
 to which he summoned me that 1 might minister to 
 his consolation. When I had given him such advice 
 and such comfort as I could render, he gently 
 squeezed my hand, and declared to me that my 
 refusal to receive his confidence, and let him un- 
 burthen his mind, had been the main cause of his 
 present severe indisposition. Ail further severity on
 
 92 THE CONVERT. 
 
 my part now became impossible ; it would indeed 
 have been misplaced ; and in the hope of ministering 
 to his relief, I listened to all his complaints against the 
 monastic rule — complaints which were one continued 
 and mournful echo to the feelings that had for some 
 time been secretly preying upon me, and seemed to 
 gnaw my very heart. Discussion of every subject 
 was the inevitable consequence ; we partook of each 
 other's sentiments ; we began to take up strange un- 
 lawful opinions, to form strange unlawful wishes; 
 and this interesting youth's recovery being much 
 promoted by the relief which my society afforded 
 him, he once more assumed his place in our frater- 
 nity ; and our intimacy being perceived, was marked 
 by Father Ambrose. My friend became an object 
 of his especial suspicion and dislike, almost equally 
 with myself. 
 
 " Father Isidore (that was his name), though 
 not much older than myself, was much more prac- 
 tised in the ways of the world; and he planned for 
 me, I verily believe with the purest wishes for my 
 good, a scheme by which he hoped to effect my 
 emancipation from the thraldom I still laboured 
 under. He introduced me to a cousin of his own, 
 whose health was feeble, whom he loved as a sister.
 
 THE cox\t:rt. 93 
 
 and who he believed would receive comfort from my 
 ministrations. I am quite certain that he had no 
 bad designs in this proceeding ; and that, could he 
 have foreseen how far beyond the interest taken in a 
 penitent my attentions would go, he would at once 
 have put a stop to our intimacy. But long before 
 he could perceive this, long indeed before it was 
 known to myself, the most tender feelings of our 
 nature had been engaged, while I only imagined that 
 I was fulfilling a religious duty^ and occupying agree- 
 ably and with perfect innocence, a few spare hours of 
 my time. The virtue, as well as the accomplish- 
 ments of Mdlle. Louise Orange were unquestion- 
 able. Her family was of the first respectability. She 
 was visited occasionally by Father Jerome, who 
 ministered to her, when unable to attend the con- 
 vent mass; and though he abstained from female 
 society, however agreeable, upon a principle of avoid- 
 ing temptation, he yet now and then saw her for 
 half an hour at a time, holding her to be one of the 
 most interesting and accomplished persons in Avignon. 
 She was a creature of bewitching manners, and of a 
 beauty far more attractive than the greatest regula- 
 rity of feature, or brilliancy of colouring, or grace of 
 form, can ever become ; for her beauty was of the
 
 94 THE CONVERT. 
 
 understanding, and her expression was as varied as 
 powerful. Tt was almost impossible to see, and quite 
 impossible to hear her unmoved ; and to be fascinated 
 was only to have a perception of what is most lovely 
 and most striking in woman. After struggling with 
 my feelings for weeks, after restless days and sleepless 
 nights, after hearing all Father .Jerome's warnings, 
 enduring all Father Isidore's jibes, suffering all my 
 own reproaches, more terrible than any that could 
 come from without, I, at length, was compelled to 
 commune with myself, and confess to myself, that I 
 had become desperately enamoured of this match- 
 less person, and had all but broken my solemn vow 
 in thought — all but transgressed in my heart. 
 
 " Whence comes it to pass that things which at a 
 distance seem so formidable, instead of becoming still 
 more frightful as we approach near, are almost 
 divested of their terrors and cease to dismay ? Is it 
 that we have conjured up ideas more terrific than the 
 reality ? Is it that we have exhausted our stock of fear 
 and horror on the terrific prospect, on the fancied evil, 
 so as to have none left for the thing itself? Or, is 
 it that the mind is still under the influence of the 
 feelings which have betrayed it, and views through 
 the medium of those feelings the peril they have
 
 THE CONl^RT. 95 
 
 made us encounter — the mischief they have drawn 
 down upon our heads? — I know not; but of this I 
 am sure, that I had no sooner made to myself the 
 confession of my fall from grace, than I felt as if a 
 weight was removed from my heart, and as if my 
 emancipation was finally effected. It is true, that 
 had I instantly resorted to Father Jerome, he 
 would at once have opened my eyes to the risks of 
 my position, to the destruction which yawned on all 
 sides of me. One interview with him, one sentence 
 of his firm but sweet voice, one embrace, folding me 
 to his affectionate heart ; and all the fascination of 
 Louise would have become powerless, all my own 
 weakness in yielding to it would have been revealed, 
 and my disease would at once have been cured. But 
 alas ! it was part of that weakness, of that disease, 
 to prevent me from approaching the subject with my 
 most loved and revered friend. I carefully avoided 
 every thing which led to it. Father Jerome stood 
 aloof on the shore, ignorant of the struggle in which 
 I was plunged ; and my destruction was completed, 
 before he knew that I had been assailed. It was 
 not so with Father Isidore; but he loved me so 
 tenderly, and shared so entirely in all my doubts 
 and difliculties, and himself felt so strongly all the
 
 96 THE CONYERT. 
 
 influences under which I was falling, that anything 
 rather than remonstrance was to be expected from 
 him. 
 
 " The giddy, intoxicated state of my mind for 
 some time chased away all the ideas that would 
 naturally have haunted me. I ventured not, indeed, 
 to whisper love in the ear of her whose slave I had 
 become; yet I saw the delight she took in my 
 society, and I gradually accustomed her to hear 
 from my lips expressions of interest in her lot, nay 
 vows of tender friendship, which a httle reflection 
 would have shown to be utterly irreconcileable with 
 the vows I had made to heaven. Possibly my 
 friendship for her kinsman, who lived with her 
 family as a brother, tended to blind her, and prevent 
 her from perceiving how full of hazard was the 
 situation she approached, until she had actually got 
 entangled in all its inextricable difliiculties. An 
 accidental circumstance, the reading together of a 
 poem in which both took deep interest, at once re- 
 moved the veil from her eyes — she heard me declare 
 that could she but love me, my whole soul was 
 devoted to her — she trembled from head to foot — 
 she fell down on the book now closed — with a deep 
 sigh she exclaimed ' Oh, God ! Oh, God ! I love
 
 THE CONVERT. 97 
 
 you too well!' — and I became at once the most de- 
 lighted and the most wretched of mortals ! 
 
 *' Whoever has long sighed in secret for the heart 
 of a lovely being, to whom he never durst disclose 
 the hidden flame that was smoulderinff under a cold 
 exterior, and consuming him night and day, will 
 comprehend the terror with which I ventured to 
 disclose my secret, and the anxiety with which I 
 stifled my breath during the interval of a moment 
 that seemed an age between that avowal and her 
 answer. Whoever has heard the sweetest of all 
 music that can reach the impatient and greedy ear, 
 will comprehend the state of extacy in which the 
 artless expression of fervent passion that burst from 
 her, as if she had felt my delay had been too long 
 to tell the secret in which she took so deep an 
 interest. But ours, alas, was not an innocent love. 
 In me it was apostacy, it was perjury, it was flying 
 in the face of that Divine Being, who had in his 
 own awful person witnessed the vows voluntarily and 
 deliberately made, vows to fly in the face of that 
 nature which the same Being had created, to out- 
 rage all the strongest feelings which he had gra- 
 ciously implanted in the heart. If such rebellion 
 was a crime in me, she who knew of my allegiance 
 VOL. 1. F
 
 98 THE CONVERT. 
 
 became my accomplice and shared my guilt. But 
 all this was not felt at first. We were for the mo- 
 ment plunged in a trance of delight, and each only 
 knew that the other and none else existed in the 
 world. 
 
 "The rapture of this short interview, however, 
 was succeeded, and quickly succeeded, by the 
 fears and the pangs appropriate to our several 
 situations. I can speak of myself only ; and I im- 
 mediately was, like our first parents after their fall, 
 conscious of my nakedness, convinced that other 
 eyes than mine saw it, above all that it was glared 
 upon by the all-seeing eye and by the delegated 
 vigilance of His appointed ministers. I durst not pray 
 that day ! I durst not enter the chapel where I had 
 knelt to make my vow, now shivered to atoms; 
 The bell tolled for mass ; I durst not attend ! The 
 bare idea of again seeing the Host elevated, and 
 standing once more in the presence against which I 
 had revolted filled me with unutterable dismay. 
 Adding falsehood to my other sins, I feigned sick- 
 ness, and remained in my cell. Nor durst I next 
 day see Father Jerome, who I could not help think- 
 ing must perceive the dreadful change which a day 
 had wrought in me. But not only he, every one
 
 THE CONVERT. 99 
 
 that passed seemed to be regarding me with sus- 
 picion, some with horror, and Father Ambrose with 
 the exultation of a fiend-like nature gratified by my 
 fall. Father Isidore alone seemed to remain with 
 whom I feared not to converse, and in him I found 
 all the consolation of which my situation was sus- 
 ceptible. He even rejoiced in the change that 
 had come over me. His own mind was now pretty 
 well made up that monastic vows are unlawful in 
 the sight of God, and his scepticism had extended 
 much further than he cared, or perhaps dared, to let 
 me know. For the present he was satisfied with 
 raising sundry doubts in my mind, open to receive 
 them by the bias which a powerful interest gave to 
 find them well founded ; and, proceeding upon the 
 principle that men easily believe what they wish to 
 be true, he kept by me during my state of distrac- 
 tion without ceasing to comfort and to seduce me, and 
 helped me to avoid Father Jerome, whose eye, mild 
 but piercing, I durst not meet. It was thus that a 
 person of very inferior intellectual powers to my own, 
 and of attainments much less ample, obtained an 
 easy ascendancy over me, aided as his assaults were 
 by the enemy within, ready to fling open the gates 
 and make the garrison surrender. 
 
 f2
 
 100 THE CONVERT. 
 
 " By degrees my mind became tolerably calm. 
 Father Jerome frequently walked with me. The 
 first time I met him was in the dusk, when I could 
 escape his eye ; and his manner, kinder than ever^ 
 in consequence of my supposed illness, put to flight 
 the notion that he was aware of my state. Our in- 
 tercourse was renewed, and I even ventured to hope 
 that I might one day prevail upon him to discuss 
 some of Isidore's doctrines, though 1 secretly felt a 
 fear of beginning the conversation, not so much lest 
 he should forbid the subject, as lest he should put to 
 the rout the sophisms on which I feared, perhaps felt, 
 I had been feeding. But that which most relieved 
 me, and best soothed my distracted mind, though 
 it all the while added fresh fuel to the fire that kept 
 devouring me, was the intercourse which I continued 
 to have with her whom I now dared to call my 
 Louise. Isidore lent himself to this intercourse, from 
 which with the impetuosity of his age and his nature 
 he hoped to discover the means of accomplishing his 
 favourite purpose, our escaping from the monastery, 
 abandoning our faith as well as our profession, and 
 quitting for ever a country which, after such an 
 enormity, we no longer could be suffered to inhabit. 
 With me he had as yet confined his disputations to
 
 THE CONVERT. 101 
 
 questioning the lawfulness of vows by persons of 
 either sex, and consequently the whole monastic sys- 
 tem. But it was easy to see that this led necessarily 
 to a general investigation of the grounds of our 
 Catholic persuasion ; and the terror I lived under 
 at having made a vow to the Deity which I was 
 prepared to break, easily opened my mind to those 
 irresistible arguments by which it is shown to 
 absohite demonstration that we have much better 
 proofs, and of the self-same kind, against the trans- 
 mutation of the sacramental elements, namely the 
 evidence of our senses, than we have of the Saviour 
 having left a record of bis authority for daily per- 
 forming this miracle. He had easily made me a 
 convert to the position that the church never could 
 be right in making Marriage one of its sacra- 
 ments, and yet excluding from partaking in it the 
 whole body of its ministers, while it only gave half 
 the other and holier sacrament to the lay people. 
 He now presented to my mind the argument of 
 the Protestants against the Real Presence ; and it 
 seemed to have a force yet more irresistible. The 
 road to conviction and conversion was in both in- 
 stances smoothed by my interests and my feelings. 
 The one doctrine allayed my greatest apprehensions.
 
 102 THE CONVERT. 
 
 the other gratified my strongest feehngs. Fear 
 secured the triumph of the one argument, love that 
 of the other. 
 
 " Meanwhile my nature, fiery and impetuous, was 
 reasserting its rights, so long withheld ; my passions 
 and my feelings, so long kept under control, were 
 gaining at length free scope ; and the former re- 
 straint only served to make them more ungovern- 
 able. The first penalty which they made me pay 
 was the torment of jealousy, which I was now fated 
 to endure in a measure proportioned to the strength 
 of the attachment I cherished. The most perfect 
 affection for Louise, and her undeviating kindness to 
 me, did not secure me against a whisper that often 
 filled my inward ear. I knew she had erred, nay 
 sinned, by becoming the accomplice of my broken 
 vows ; and she who had gone astray with one, might 
 she not yield also to another ? The hated form of 
 Ambrose now rose before my eyes ; for he had fre- 
 quented her society before I knew her ; and a more 
 formidable rival no one could have to dread. His 
 winning address, peculiarly formed to captivate the 
 female heart ; his graceful form and polished man- 
 ners; his great talents and solid acquirements ; above 
 all his wit, the most fascinating I had ever known ; all
 
 THE CONVERT. 103 
 
 gave a power to his designing mind and most wily 
 disposition, which, as it rendered escape from liis 
 toils diflSculr. for a victim, made suspicion of his 
 rivalry natural and hardly to be avoided. Hitherto 
 I had little known what the power of jealousy was ; 
 but that little I had owed to him. He had laid 
 sieore with success to Isidore, and at one time both 
 estranged him from my society, and obtained an 
 ascendant over him, which only ceased upon the 
 discovery of some subtle artifice he had been em- 
 ploying to circumvent us both. I did not, however, 
 soon forget this passage; and it filled me with sus- 
 picions of his designs upon Louise. I saw that his 
 conversation not only amused but interested her. 
 Full of love for me, she yet saw far more of him 
 than I could reconcile with that attachment, very 
 much more than I could easily bear. His was 
 not the passion comparatively innocent with which I 
 was filled, and which pointed for its only gratifica- 
 tion to the sacrifice of all worldly ambition, and the 
 living for love alone. He had no views but those 
 of the order he belonged to, and hoped to rise in ; 
 his plans, and I never doubted for an instant that 
 he had formed them, must lead to the ruin of her
 
 104 THE CONVERT. 
 
 T adored, and consummate my misery with her 
 destruction. 
 
 "After suffering unspeakable torments in the 
 struggle, and making vain efforts to overcome the 
 suspicions which preyed on me, nay, which, added 
 to the other miseries of my situation, often made me 
 feel life itself a burden I would fain have shaken 
 off, never having ventured to converse with Isidore 
 on the subject from the pride which always enters 
 so largely into the feeling of jealousy, I at length 
 resolved to make Louise herself my confidant, be- 
 cause I could feel no humiliation in confessing my 
 weakness to her. Nothing could be more kind than 
 her demeanour; nothing more gentle than the re- 
 buke which she felt she had a right to give me, for 
 what she described as a groundless fancy, and de- 
 scribed it with perfect frankness^ and a manner so 
 w^hoUy unembarrassed as at once laid all my sus- 
 picions asleep. She even promised to give up all 
 intercourse with Father Ambrose, at least never to 
 see him but in my presence, or that of Isidore ; and 
 as the hours at which alone we could ever see her 
 were known, there could be no difficulty in com- 
 pleting this satisfactory arrangement. For some
 
 THE COXA^ERT. 105 
 
 weeks I perceived the wily and persevering monk 
 repeatedly leaving the door of the house her family 
 lived in, having been refused admittance because 
 she was alone. 
 
 " One day I found her reading some verses which 
 he had sent her, his own composition, and set by 
 him to music, which she was preparing to practise. 
 There was some humour in the remark I made on 
 it, asking her if she intended to allow his accompa- 
 niments when she had learnt the air. There was a 
 proportionate humour in the reply which this drew 
 from her. ' She did not know but she might ; he 
 was the only one of her friends and familiars who 
 played, and his guitar was admirable.' Never had 
 I so perfectly hated him as when he was thus classed 
 with me among her familiars (habitues). Never had 
 I felt so little satisfied with her. 
 
 " I soon made some excuse for leaving her, and 
 was strangely agitated when I found she made no 
 attempt to soothe, or even to chide me, for an anger 
 which she must have seen her remark had engen- 
 dered, and that she suffered mo to depart after a 
 visit as short as it was every way unsatisfactory. I 
 walked about in a state alternately melancholy and 
 irritable, until the time had arrived for my return to 
 
 f3
 
 106 THE CONVERT. 
 
 the evening lessons of the convent pupils, and after 
 that hour it was next to impossible that either myself 
 or Isidore, or any of the younger brethren, should be 
 seen without the walls of the garden. 
 
 " About eight o'clock, the evening was fine and 
 still ; the season was autumn ; the day I am little 
 likely to forget. As I was walking with Isidore I 
 perceived Father Ambrose leaving the evergreen- 
 walk that leads from the cypress garden through the 
 small Gothic back porch, surrounded with flowers, 
 and facing the part of the town where Louise's mo- 
 ther hved. An involuntary shudder came over me 
 as I observed his guitar under his cloak. But I 
 continued the walk, and mastered my feelings suf- 
 ficiently to give an indifferent answer when Isidore 
 asked if I was unwell. A few turns more brought 
 us to his cell, and I hastened through the Gothic 
 porch. I remember stopping to pluck an autumnal 
 flower, which grew in peaceful solitude near the 
 wicket ; and though void of fragrance pleased the 
 eye, and seemed to calm for an instant the ruffled 
 surface of my soul. The flower was pansy; I have 
 before my eyes its round form and violet leaf, with 
 light yellow margin and two small specks. I never 
 see that flower without a bitter pang. I went to-
 
 THE CONVERT. 107 
 
 ward the gate, and stumbled on a cross which the 
 wind had the night before blown down : it lay 
 against a small bench, and I nearly fell over it. At 
 the moment I thought I heard distant thunder, but 
 was not certain. A human bone lay close by the 
 upright hmb of the cross ; I recognised one of the 
 two which our superior had over his bookcase under 
 a skull ; he would sometimes carry them with him 
 while taking his evening walk, and I have before 
 known him to drop one. At any other time I might 
 not have marked it. As I opened the wicket I 
 heard a raven scream hoarsely. After passino- 
 through, I met one of our acolytes near the gate 
 retiring to the convent ; and, in accents that were 
 nearly choked, I asked if he had seen Father Isi- 
 dore, not daring to name the other. He said he 
 had only seen Father Ambrose going into the 
 Countess's house. I made but one step across the 
 Place, now nearly deserted, and sprang to the gate 
 of the Countess's house, which I found standing 
 ajar. The apartment of Louise was reached by a 
 narrow and somewhat lofty stair with a rail, and 
 ending in the passage, along which a rojae was 
 drawn, the continuation of the rail beinor under 
 repair. I mounted the steps in breathless agony.
 
 108 THE CONVERT. 
 
 As I approached the door of her chamber, I heard 
 the last bars of an air which she was singing, or 
 rather had just sung ; I then heard two voices for a 
 minute or two ; I could distinguish no words ; I 
 could only be sure that both parties spoke ; however, 
 it seemed to my troubled brain, that these accents 
 were those of affection, if not of passion ; a pause 
 ensued; and then I heard a step approaching the 
 door, but as it opened, I distinctly heard a kiss; and 
 forth stept Ambrose. No longer master of myself 
 I sprang upon him, and dashed him through the 
 rope, down upon the ground. — Louise shrieked and 
 fell upon the floor. — I looked down into the hall 
 and saw that it was — Father Jerome whom I had 
 slain !" 
 
 " Gracious God !" exclaimed the Count, "Father 
 Jerome !" — " Ah, well may you thus exclaim !'^ 
 resumed the Solitary. " Well may the recounted 
 horror thrill your frame ! But mine it was to witness 
 it, and to have done it ! In the desperate effort to 
 throw myself after my victim and terminate instantly 
 an intolerable existence, I sunk senseless upon the 
 passage floor. On recovering I found I was in 
 Louise's room, but she was gone, and Father Isidore 
 was tenderly watching over me. — I need not stop to
 
 THE CONVERT. 109 
 
 add what I afterwards learnt, that the song I had 
 heard was the Evening Hynni, the kiss was frotn 
 Louise's lips upon the good father's hand, which 
 had previously given her his most precious blessing. 
 " 1 must hasten over the dreadful sequel. My 
 memory is imperfect, for my mind was disturbed 
 for many weeks ; and I have but the recollection of 
 one scene, which never can be erased from my brain. 
 The saint -like man survived about a day, after being 
 conveyed home by the Countess's people, who be- 
 lieved he had accidentally fallen through the rope, 
 and I was taken by Isidore to witness his last mo- 
 ments, or if I dared ask, or dared receive it, to 
 obtain his forgiveness and his blessing. Even of 
 the particulars attending this awful scene I have an 
 indistinct remembrance. The entry of the Host, 
 borne by the abbot himself, the solemn communi- 
 cation of the Sacramental elements, the anointing, 
 the sprinkling, the bestowing of the Viaticum, I less 
 distinctly can call to mind. But the picture that 
 remains burnt into my soul, and wliich has never 
 been absent from my eyes, is the pious father laid 
 meekly on his lowly bed after all the necessary ce- 
 remony of the Church had been performed, and the 
 look of unbroken mildness, of unabated affection
 
 110 THE CONVERT. 
 
 with which his eye beamed upon me as he saw me 
 kneel, unable to beg a blessing. That look, far, 
 far superior to merely betokening forgiveness of his 
 murderer, what would I give that it had been with- 
 held ! How thankful should I have been to see 
 his countenance clothed in frowns, nay, distorted 
 with anger ! His placid smile, his heavenly look 
 of love, his inward prayer for me piercing his ex- 
 hausted and scarcely living features, made the tor- 
 ment I endured ten thousand times more acute ; 
 nor was it till lonff after this dreadful hour that I 
 could have calmness enough to reflect on the most 
 edifying sight which all had witnessed, and of which 
 I alone had not been sensible at the time, the pass- 
 age into endless bliss of one whose whole life had 
 been one of innocence, of kindness, of devotion ; 
 whose latter end was peace, and an example indeed, 
 but far above that of those who, acting a part, would 
 teach us how a Christian can die ; for in him this 
 scene was nature ; and he had been created an angel 
 before he was made a Christian.
 
 HI ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 "The effect of the death-bed scene in awakening 
 me and collecting my faculties was but transient ; 
 soon I relapsed into a state of mind which prevents 
 the pursuing of any reasoning, or the formation of 
 any fixed purpose, or indeed the correct perception 
 of what is going on around us, and easily confounds 
 with realities, the creations of the bewildered brain. 
 I enjoyed nothing, took an interest in nothing, but 
 suffered nothing. I felt as strange to myself, and 
 wholly indifferent to everything around me. The 
 society of the brethren 1 could little bear ; but this 
 was from the exertion it required to answer ques- 
 tions, and sometimes from the acute pain they gave 
 me by the mention of Father Jerome, the only 
 living sensation to which I was subject — all other 
 feelings were blunted in an extraordinary degree. 
 I could even endure the hated presence and voice of
 
 112 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 Ambrose, and though the watchful attention of 
 Isidore was felt, and possibly had some tendency to 
 soothe me, I cared little for it. The feelings of the 
 soul, like the nerves of the body, are liable to a 
 paralytic numbness; and as we sometimes partially 
 lose the use of the latter, so do the former also 
 lose their acuteness. I had lost the taste of both 
 the bitters and the sweets which the society of 
 my brethren afforded. But this was not all ; the 
 enchanting voice of Louise herself fell flat upon my 
 ear, and I took no pleasure whatever in her kind 
 affectionate care to wean my mind from its apathy 
 by touching those chords which she was formerly 
 wont so easily to strike and make harmonious with 
 her own accents. Fits of mere stupor, too, wovdd 
 succeed to my wanderings, and possibly these were ' 
 graciously given to prevent a more complete dis- 
 traction; for they generally succeeded any allusion 
 to the calamity, as it was thotight, which had be- 
 fallen me. 
 
 " How long a time I passed in this dreadful state I 
 know not ; except that tlie opening year was some- 
 what advanced when I slowly began to recover. The 
 restoration of my mental health was attended with 
 extreme suffering from a degree of irritation which
 
 THE OUTLAW. 113 
 
 I had never experienced, and which contrasted 
 mightily with the comparatively passive and insen- 
 sible state I had so longr been in. That state I had 
 now ample reason to regret the loss of. I awoke to 
 an acuteness of feeling almost morbid, a recollection 
 of past scenes hardly possible to bear. Every step 
 in the monastery and the garden called up the most 
 lively images of past happiness, of the hours which 
 I had passed in innocence with my venerated guide, 
 the friend of my bosom. All liis words, his lessons 
 of wisdom, his playful mirth, his rich fund of anec- 
 dotes on the most important personages of past and 
 of present times, above everything the traits of his 
 pure benevolence to all, and of his unceasing kind- 
 ness to myself; these came perpetually into my 
 mind, and these never for one instant of time could 
 be dissevered from the manner of his death. I 
 stood before the eyes of the brethren as one to be 
 pitied for the affliction which had deprived him of 
 his dearest friend, his second father, whom he had 
 loved without the admixture of fear, at least of filial 
 respect, which places a distance between parent and 
 child when of the same sex ; for between father and 
 daughter, son and mother, it exists not. In that 
 light I stood in the eyes of others, the object of
 
 114 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 great compassion ; in my own I stood as a crimi- 
 nal, as one who, minded to pei-petrate one murder, 
 had committed another, and been punished here, 
 and would be hereafter, having saci'ificed his dearest 
 friend to his infernal lust of revenofe, roused within 
 him by another passion, which he had vowed before 
 God never to know. 
 
 " This terrible thought soon became the one ever 
 uppermost in my mind ; but gradually another 
 arose within me more unbearable still. I was as 
 yet wholly unsuspected both of Father Jerome's 
 death, and of an attachment for Louise, which 
 would have given far more scandal to the brethren, 
 than the greater sin that had followed from it. How 
 long might it be before the horrid truth was dis- 
 covered? How could I ever be sure that a secret 
 known to at least two persons beside myself, woidd 
 be kept? If I had no fears of Louise, was it cer- 
 tain that Isidore, with his fiery nature and loose 
 principles, would never form an attachment and re- 
 veal the mystery, in the course of those endear- 
 ments in which lovers ever seek excitement from 
 adventitious circumstances, and are even consoled 
 for the calamities that befal themselves by hav- 
 ing a pathetic or a striking communication which
 
 TIIE OUTLAW. 115 
 
 offers an occasion to work on each other's senti- 
 ments, and indulge in the luxury of feeling together ? 
 But could I even be quite sure that the awful fact 
 was not in possession of others as well as ourselves, 
 those who might not at any time be trusted ? Had 
 no servant of the house heard the short struagle 
 preceding the fall ? Had no suspicion arisen in 
 other minds than Father Ernest's, the lawyer of the 
 convent, who, on seeing the rope torn down, observed 
 that it was driven away on one side, and marked 
 that tlie place where the father- lay was not quite 
 directly under the edge of the passage? Nor 
 was it perfectly certain that Louise's maid, who 
 was in the adjoining room, and had seen me 
 ascend the steps, though she closed the door of her 
 apartment, had not opened it when she found that I 
 stood near the chamber for some minutes with- 
 out entering, as usually I did, immediately upon 
 coming up ? All these things were most harassing 
 to my mind, already both enfeebled by disease, and 
 rendered more irritable and anxious than formerly ; 
 but it must be admitted that some of these consi- 
 derations were sufficiently founded in reason to 
 bring alarm over a more firm and healthy intellect 
 than mine. Nor was it any relief to my apprehen-
 
 116 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 sions that Father Ambrose was confessor to the 
 Countess Orange's family, and was consequently sure 
 to be first in possession of whatever was known by 
 any of them on so grave a subject as the death 
 of a leading Benedictine. 
 
 " Such were the terrors that filled me, and, far 
 fi'om becoming less distracting by being long felt, 
 they gathered strength each time they haunted me 
 according to the rule of our nature by wliich fear 
 long felt, from weakening tha texture of the mind, 
 acquires increased power over its functions, and fill- 
 ing the imagination, gains perpetually new asso- 
 ciates to aid its operation. At first anything unusual 
 excited my apprehensions of a discovery. Anv 
 unusual excitement among the brotherhood, any pro- 
 ceeding out of the common course taken by the 
 abbot, any strange person appearing to demand an 
 audience, any unexpected messenger arriving at the 
 convent, all became the source of alarm, and all 
 were connected with my horrible mystery. But pre- 
 sently it went further. It soon came to pass that I 
 could hardly separate the most ordinary and indif- 
 ferent matters from the idea that constantly pursued 
 me, by day and by night, studying or walking, 
 praying (if ever I ventured to pray), or musing ;
 
 THE OUTLAW. 117 
 
 the one idea tliat haunted ray waking hours and 
 cast its shadow over my dreams. I could not see 
 one of the brethren look at me as I passed without a 
 fancy that he eyed me narrowly, and knew or sus- 
 pected something. If an acolyte, or a verger, or a 
 novice, gazed on me, possibly a little more earnestly 
 from the prevailing notion that my mind had been 
 atfected by my loss, I straightway imagined that 
 they had heard some whispers in the society of the 
 town. If the superior gave me his blessing with more 
 than ordinary unction, from my distressed state, I 
 set it down as a proof that he had penetrated my 
 secret and felt how much I stood in need of his 
 prayers. I could not meet Father Ambrose's eye, 
 glaring as it was formerly wont to be with hatred, 
 now seeming calm with conscious superiority, though 
 mcapable of compassion ; I always felt that he bore 
 me more patiently than heretofore, because he knew 
 me to be humbled by my guilt. He only felt that 
 my protector was gone. I believed he knew the 
 terrible secret of his going. I never saw two of the 
 brothers in conversation but I took it for granted 
 that I ibrmed the subject of their talk. Nothing 
 could have appeased my fears but the gratifi- 
 cation of my restless curiosity to know all that
 
 118 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 all the house were saying, and, if possible, all that 
 each was thinking, in order to make sure that they 
 spoke not nor even thought of me. I could have 
 prayed for omnipresence and omniscience, that I 
 might know what all the people of Avignon were 
 always speaking about when any of them met, in 
 ordpr to be certain that I or my secret did not form 
 the subject of their discourse. With all this I had 
 no resource in religion or its offices. I had re- 
 mained, from mental illness, incapable of the Holy 
 Sacrament ; I continued to affect a partial indisposi- 
 tion that I might avoid what I so much dreaded, 
 the standing once more before the Maker, the 
 Searcher of hearts, of whose actual presence I still, 
 after all my debates with Isidore, relapsed into a 
 belief, though a waning, and shaken, and obscure 
 belief. Confession I durst not think of, and before 
 the season for it at Easter came, there happened an 
 event which compelled me to make up my mind, 
 according to Isidore's unceasing suggestions, and at 
 once to quit the order and the Church. 
 
 "The maid who attended Louise, and who had 
 for many years been an attached servant of the 
 house, fell dangerously ill. Her devotion to the 
 family had hitherto kept her strictly silent on what
 
 THE OUTLAW. 119 
 
 she knew and what she suspected. Even in confes- 
 sion she had let nothing escape which could be a 
 clue to the suspicions she more than entertained. 
 But this concealment, as it was a protection to her- 
 self against disclosing what she was by her duty 
 bound to have made known in the proper quarter, 
 was tlius a sin on her part against the duties of the 
 confessional ; and this weight she had, though with 
 pain, taken upon her conscience, until now when her 
 latter end approached, she could no longer avoid dis- 
 closing what lay so heavy on her departing soul. She 
 therefore sent for Father Ambrose, as I discovered 
 by accident when sitting with Louise, who sincerely 
 lamented the illness of her amiable serving-woman. 
 My first impression was to see the dying woman 
 before the father came to perform his office, but 
 Louise wisely intreated me to avoid this step, as we 
 had no reason whatever for believing she was aware 
 of the truth, and any questions or suggestions from 
 me would at once have converted into certainty 
 whatever suspicions she might entertain. For the 
 same reason Louise was afraid of conversing with 
 her on the state of her mind, or her past recollec- 
 tions ; added to which was the consideration that 
 Father Ambrose must have discovered that such
 
 120 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 criminal advice had been given, and the jealousy of 
 the confessional being roused, the consequence might 
 have been a refusal to grant absolution, with the 
 further gratification of his spleen in throwing the re- 
 sponsibility upon Louise herself, whom, for her late 
 repulsive demeanour towards him, he very heartily 
 disliked. Nothing remained, therefore, but awaiting 
 the event inactive, and as patient as one so deeply 
 interested in it could manage to be. 
 
 " Father Ambrose came ; the visit was not long; 
 he called upon Louise as he departed ; the flash of 
 his eye, and the exultation that reigned through his 
 countenance, at once proclaimed his belief that one or 
 both of us was in his power, and but for the absolute 
 secresy of the contessional would be trodden under 
 his feet, armed with the law. To know this suflaced 
 for our agony of alarm ; but this was not all. He 
 had cunningly, but perhaps not unjustifiably, coun- 
 selled the penitent to communicate to the magistrate 
 her offence, such it undeniably was, of so long a con- 
 cealment; and the unhappy woman had also told 
 him, under no promise of secresy, that she saw 
 through the imperfectly shut door my arm suddenly 
 fiung round, as after a great effort, and instantly 
 lieard a heavy body strike the ground. Li terror at
 
 THE OUTLAW. 12 1 
 
 haviiiff witnessed such a thincr she had retreated, and 
 remained in her room till summoned by her mistress, 
 who had taken refuge in it, and made her fetch Isidore 
 from the Countess Orange's, where he had happened 
 to be, in order that he might succour me, who had 
 swooned a^vay and had been with difficulty dragged 
 into Louise's room by herself. The fall of Father 
 Jerome^ with the certainty that my action could have 
 proceeded from no effort to save him, was quite con- 
 clusive against me ; and my avoiding the duty of 
 confession, my long delay to attend mass, my dread- 
 fully agitated state of spirits, seemed to fill up what- 
 ever these circumstances left defective in the chain of 
 evidence against me. Isidore, being called to our 
 councils, saw the matter in this light; we at once 
 made up our minds that the time for flight had 
 arrived, and that we durst not remain one night 
 longer in Avignon. We left it for ever, and left 
 Louise with a faint hope of once more meeting her in 
 otlier days, a hope cherished like some feeble taper's 
 flame, and sheltered from each blast that assailed 
 me, kept tremblingly half-alive and ever on the 
 point of being extinguished, the only light to shed a 
 gleam on the dismal prospect that now seemed to 
 close in upon me from every side. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 " It never struck us, until we were some distance 
 from Avignon, and had proceeded along the banks 
 of the Rhone in the direction of Beaucaire, that our 
 habit was fatal, and at once must betray us. Ac- 
 cordingly we got rid of the cloak and hat by throw- 
 ing them into a well, and we spent great part of the 
 little money Louise had been able to give us in 
 purchasing the brown jackets and trowsers of a 
 farmer and his servants, at whose house we took 
 shelter, saying we had been robbed of our clothes 
 while sleeping on the bank and half dressed after 
 bathing in the river. This farm was only two 
 leagues from Avignon; and, afraid of waiting till 
 the alarm should reach it, which was certain to 
 spread over the town as soon as day broke, we went 
 on our journey, and began seriously to consult on 
 our anxious prospects. The first idea that struck 
 us was the most painful of all. Clearly we must 
 separate. ' My dearest friend,' said Isidore, ' any- 
 thing rather than this. If I say that I hated the 
 rule and the brotherhood less than I have ever 
 loved you, I should speak without any exagger- 
 ation. All my ideas of happiness from being eman- 
 cipated, all the castles I have built in the air, were 
 founded on the cherished prospect of passing my
 
 THE OUTLAW. 123 
 
 life in your society and friendship ; and when my 
 sanguine temperament would ever let me build 
 dungeons in these castles, my separation from you 
 formed their structure,' 'Alas, Isidore ! ' I replied, 
 ' we dare not, at least for the present, indulge such 
 feelings, God knows that my state most requires 
 joyous and soothing company like yours. But con- 
 sider, for a moment, that the mere fact of two 
 persons being in company, and whose accent de- 
 clares them to come from the Contat*, carries sus- 
 picion, if not proof, along with it ; for the rumour 
 will be, of course, that two friars, charged with 
 murder, have escaped from the monastery.' * How, 
 then, shall I ever struggle alone with my fate?' 
 said Isidore, ' I begin already to feel that I have 
 been rasli, as I ever am, in follovdng my inclina- 
 tion ; and that I never looked forward to probabi- 
 lities until these became events, I might well have 
 foreseen all the difficulties that now surrovmd me, 
 and the greater part of which would have been 
 sure to meet me even had your catastrophe never 
 occurred,' 'Alas, Isidore!' I replied, 'how you 
 
 * Contut of Avignon, or of the Venaissin, This district 
 was then in the Papal dominions, from which one of the 
 earliest acts of republican aggression severed it. 
 
 g2
 
 124 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 harrow up my feelings by that word ! I have been 
 the means of involving you, as well as myself, in 
 calamity, and, what is far worse, in disgrace; for, 
 with your opinions, to have only quitted the order 
 would have been little ; and it is through me that 
 you are involved in a suspicion that will ever attach 
 to you, the suspicion of being privy, if not aiding, to 
 a crime of the deepest dye.' ' Let not this idea 
 vex your mind,' said the generous youth. ' My 
 attachment for you, and my devoted admiration of 
 your superior nature, will never make me feel the 
 disgrace while I know I am free from the guilt.' 
 ' What, then, must my feelings be,' I rejoined, ' who 
 have both loads to struggle under, and the addi- 
 tional pang of causing so great an aggravation of 
 your danger? But, unhappily, part we must ! and 
 I will take the road across to Nismes, where a 
 clergyman serving in one of the temples,* and con- 
 nected with my family, will be ready to receive me, 
 and give me some assistance to further my escape.' 
 " Isidore could not avoid perceiving that our 
 separation was necessary for securing even a chance 
 
 * The name given to Protestant or Reformed Churches. 
 A large proportion of the people at Nismes are of this 
 faith
 
 THE OUTLAW. 125 
 
 of safety. His plan was soon formed vvitli his ac- 
 customed resolution, and pursued with his wonted 
 vigour. He intended to cross the country by Aries, 
 to Aix, and so to reach Marseilles, where he should 
 be safe in the crowd of a great city, until he could 
 procure employment on board a vessel for the Le- 
 vant. 'The errors of Paganism,' he said, 'and the 
 more pure superstitions of the Mahometan, can 
 never much disturb one who has seen men assume 
 to make their followers beUeve their dogfmas in 
 opposition to their own senses, pretend to create the 
 Deity whom they worship, and usurp his most emi- 
 nent attribute, that of granting pardon for sin.' 
 Only half converted from these views, I could not 
 resist an involuntary shudder at hearing the mys- 
 teries I had so long been used to revere, thus treated 
 with scorn ; but all other feelings were lost in the 
 affection with which I embraced the only friend whom 
 my guilty hand had left me in the world. He 
 took the road to Aries, and I, avoiding Beaucaire, 
 journeyed on towards Nismes. 
 
 " I was now left all alone ; and, for the first time 
 in my life, I knew the feeling of solitude. My own 
 reflections were for a while absorbed in the separa- 
 tion from Isidore, who had gained exceedingly on my
 
 126 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 affection during some months, and whose existence 
 I had begun to regard as knit up with my own. 
 The severance of this tie gave me great pain ; but 
 other and far more painful reflections swiftly suc- 
 ceeded when my mind was left to prey upon itself. 
 The idea of Father Jerome was never absent ; the 
 dreadful struggle on the staircase ; the discovery of 
 my fatal mistake; the mild aspect of the dying 
 saint ; his hopeless condition as he lay in his cell ; 
 and last, and worst of all, that kind look, that look 
 of heavenly affection with which he had sought 
 to send peace into my distracted soul; these were 
 the recollections that haunted me, and kept me 
 from recurring to the only idea which could have 
 soothed my troubled spirits, the image of Louise ; 
 for that deserted me ; — and I durst not pray. 
 
 " But these feelings were only those that kept 
 me company while I was alone; one, still more 
 harassing, was joined to them, and tormented me 
 as soon as my solitude was broken. I came near 
 Courbefort, a small village, as twilight began to 
 gleam ; and I hastened through it as if I were pur- 
 sued, without reflecting that the news of my flight 
 never could have reached the place, or, if it did, that 
 I was disguised from all inquiring eyes in my pea-
 
 THE OUTLAAV. 127 
 
 sant's bro^vn garb. I hastened towards Nismes, 
 hardly knowing what I did; and when I arrived 
 there it was broad dayhght. A patrol came near, 
 and I never doubted that his intention was to seize 
 me ; bnt he passed me, and this reassured me. I 
 entered the town and met a priest. This sight fixed 
 me to the ground ; I supposed he must have heard 
 all ; and that my crime and my flight was the con- 
 stant topic of conversation among all churchmen, and 
 all friars, I could not for a moment doubt. But 
 again, I forgot the distance I had come, and the little 
 communication there is between heretical Nismes 
 and the orthodox Contat. I felt as if every eye 
 was glaring upon me, and every one I met was ready 
 to seize and deliver me to justice. In this dismay, I 
 entirely forgot the name of the reformed minister 
 whom I was in quest of; till seeing Rue de Gard 
 written up as the name of a street, I remembered 
 that it was Father Gardein I wanted, and I was 
 easily directed to his modest dwelling. 
 
 " When I asked for him, I was told that I must 
 wait, as the good man was going to morning prayers ; 
 but if I chose, I might partake (the female servant 
 said) of the family worship. I entered the room in 
 which they were assembled, and I shall not soon for-
 
 128 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 get the deep impression made upon my mind by the 
 simplicity of the service, so entirely contrasted with the 
 grandeur and pomp to which I had been accustomed. 
 Surrounded by the servants of his house, the pastor, 
 first asking for the Divine assistance, read some 
 verses of Scripture in the vulgar tongue, and then 
 kneeling, offered up a prayer of his own, the fervour 
 of which affected me exceedingly. Then rising, he 
 seated himself in his chair, opened the Bible which 
 lay before him, and read a chapter of the New Tes- 
 tament, upon which he delivered a few explanatory 
 observations, and from which he drew a lesson of 
 moral conduct. Another prayer succeeded, and then 
 a psalm, in which all present joined. This closed 
 the simple solemnity; and, all else leaving the room, 
 he remained to ask what was my business with him. 
 The disclosure of my name at once obtained his pro- 
 tection, but I did not venture to explain the whole 
 cause of my flight from Avignon ; I only said that I 
 had accompanied Isidore, who had the misfortune of 
 having accidentally occasioned a friar's death, and 
 had quitted the monastery in consequence ; taking 
 nie with him, who partook of his doubts touching 
 the lawfulness of conventual vows. The pastor was 
 visibly alarmed by my recital, foreseeing the risk to
 
 THE OUTLAW. 129 
 
 which he must be exposed from harbouring any one 
 at all mixed up in such a transaction ; and still more 
 (considerbig his cloth barely tolerated in France) 
 from harbouring a monk who had thrown off the 
 garb of his order, violating one, at least, of his three 
 vows, that of obedience. In the state of violence to 
 which controversy then proceeded at Nismes, where 
 the community was split into factions and sects 
 mutually abhorring each other for Christ's sake, 
 and living in daily breach of the Gospel law of 
 charity, to show their zeal for that Gospel, it was 
 undeniable that he encountered no little hazard by 
 any shelter which he might lend me. His own 
 gentle and peaceful nature, too, bore some repug- 
 nance to the contact of one ever so remotely, ever so 
 innocently, mixed with deeds of blood. The friend- 
 ship, however, which he bore our family, and the 
 destitute condition in which he saw me, overcame 
 all other feelings; and he at once introduced me to 
 his wife, his daughter, and his grand-children. 
 Yes, to his wife and children ! This was a strange 
 sight to me ; I could hardly recover from my sur- 
 prise at seeing a priest actually married, and father 
 of a family, and served in the house by only fe- 
 males. It was something so repugnant to all I had 
 
 g3
 
 130 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 ever before witnessed, and all the ideas I had ever 
 formed of the sacred calling, that I seemed to be 
 cast into a foreign land, or rather into a new and 
 untried state of existence. 
 
 "The dreadful situation in which I now was 
 placed received a new embarrassment, from the 
 necessity under which I felt that I lay, sooner or 
 later, to exonerate my dear Isidore from the blame 
 I had been compelled to lay upon him, that I might 
 not be driven forth by the good pastor in his first 
 sensation of horror at seeing, for the first time in his 
 life, blood-stained hands supplicating his protection. 
 But after all, the prevailing alarm under which I 
 suffered, was the hourly terror of being discovered. 
 It was not long before the whole community was 
 occupied with the news which came from Avignon : 
 of course with great exaggerations. Two friars 
 were said to have escaped after murdering and 
 robbing the abbot; it was added, that they had 
 quarrelled about the division of the spoil, and one 
 was supposed to have killed the other, from the 
 circumstance of a hat and garment being found 
 in a well, on the road to Beaucaire. The poUce of 
 Nismes were as much on the alert as the society ; 
 for it appeared that one, at least, of the fugitives
 
 THE OUTLAW. I3l 
 
 had been traced to Beaucaire ; and some one had 
 seen a strange-looking peasant passing very early in 
 the morning of the day after the murder. 
 
 " In the controversial state of Nismes, this dread- 
 ful affair gave rise to opposite views of the great 
 question on which parties were divided. The re- 
 formed sect did not fail to draw from it an argument 
 against monastic institutions ; tlieir tendency to pro- 
 duce an artificial and unnatural state of mind ; the 
 effect of their rigid observances, to make men's 
 natural feelings revolt against their vows ; the conse- 
 quences of broken vows in leading to the breach of 
 other and more sacred duties. The established clergy^ 
 on the other hand, ascribed the crime that had been 
 committed to the relaxed state of disciphne, arising 
 from toleration to Protestants ; the free-thinking 
 opinions propagated by the reformers ; their prose- 
 lyting practices, which had manifestly beguiled two 
 sheep from the fold of the Lord, The more strict, 
 particularly the Regular Clergy, scrupled not to see 
 in the event the hand of Providence, which dealt out 
 this judgment against the abbot for his extreme 
 spirit of toleration (confounding the abbot with the 
 good and dear Father Jerome). It was significantly 
 whispered, that the lenity of the age in this great
 
 132 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 particular, would lead to a belief that the edict of 
 Nantes had never been revoked : and Nismes, the 
 centre of Protestantism, was plainly said to be, by 
 its neighbourhood, the cause of what had befallen 
 the orthodox Contat. Meanwhile, all anxiously 
 desired the discovery of the culprits ; the one party 
 to release itself from all suspicion by showing, as 
 they expected, that Catholic hands alone had been 
 concerned in the deed ; the other to extort, as they 
 hoped they should, confessions that the lessons of 
 the reformers had first seduced the criminals from 
 their duty. The police, on its part, was unceasing 
 in its active efforts to obtain the wished-for dis- 
 covery. 
 
 " It would not be easy to convey any idea of the 
 agony I was doomed to undergo, while these things 
 were going on. It seemed as if the world's ac- 
 customed fickleness and aptitude to be soon tired 
 of one subject of excitement had undergone a change; 
 for, day after day, the same topic occupied all men's 
 minds. Tliis was partly owing to the new matter 
 that every day brought foi'ward to help the search. 
 One man having been found to possess a friar's 
 frock marked mth the name of F. Isidore, he was 
 immediately seized ; and narrowly escaped being
 
 THE OUTLAW. 133 
 
 brought to trial by showing that he had bought it 
 of a boy, who had found it under a hedge. At 
 length the farmer near the Rhone who had sold us 
 the brown dress was so alarmed by the accident, 
 and the general hue and cry, that he went to the 
 magistrate, and related the whole story. No doubt 
 could now remain that the criminals had escaped 
 in this disguise. One was traced to St. Canaut on 
 the road to Aix, but the scent was lost in that town ; 
 he plainly came alone, and plainly was a stranger 
 from his tongue, and a fugitive, from his inquiring 
 the road to Marseilles. The other, therefore, must 
 have left him at Beaucaire ; and as no one could be 
 traced to Aries, and the Courbefort peasant had 
 seen a man pass at a suspicious hour, it was at once 
 concluded that he must have come to Nismes. 
 Happily the man who directed me to the pastor's 
 house was not examined, possibly had forgotten 
 the circumstance, because it was the morning of a 
 feast day, when the streets are crowded. Yet as the 
 offender was concluded to be in Nismes, the activity 
 of the police was redoubled to detect him ; and a per- 
 son answering the description given from Beaucaire 
 and Courbefort, and who had fled upon being 
 questioned, probably only to avoid being detained
 
 134 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 and troubled, was arrested and brought before the 
 magistrate. Unfortunately for him, he proved by 
 his dialect to be from Avignon, and he had pre- 
 tended to be a Nismes man. A purse of silver was 
 found in his girdle, when searched, though he had 
 said a livre piece was all he possessed. He had a 
 rosary and crucifix in his pocket, of a far better 
 kind than peasants ever wear, and could only 
 account for this by saying he had found it ; and he 
 had the folly, when irritated by the searching ques- 
 tions of the magistrate, to speak disrespectfully of 
 the beads as having done him more harm than they 
 could ever after do him good. 
 
 "A scene of general self-glorification was now 
 performed, with abundant self-satisfaction to all 
 the actors. Each person praised some others as a 
 covert method of conveying self-laudation, by point- 
 ing towards himself the public attention. The 
 police were duly inflated with the glory of their 
 successful investigations, and modestly gave the 
 credit of it to wise arrangements of their chief; 
 that chief affirmed that Lieutenant Sartine * him- 
 self had never abler officers than he was happy to 
 
 * The famous chief of the Paris police.
 
 THE OUTLAW. 135 
 
 have under him ; the magistrate complacently said 
 from the bench, that Nismes could vie with any 
 one city in its admirable administration of justice ; 
 a generous panegyric was pronounced upon the 
 beautiful jurisprudence of France in general, * a 
 country happy above all others, in the accurate 
 but humane administration of Criminal Justice, 
 whereby the escape of the guilty was effectually 
 prevented, and the innocent were thus from all 
 suspicion effectually secured;' and the crowning proof 
 of this position (which was applauded by all the 
 audience) was forthwith given by condemning the 
 wretched man to the torture, as the only step in 
 the process now wanting to supply all the defects 
 of the proof against him. Fiu-thermore, the exqui- 
 site justice of the same law required that the ques- 
 tion extraordinary, as well as ordinary, should be 
 applied in this case, because it was one of sacrilege ; 
 thus presuming the party guilty, and dealing with 
 him as such in the very act of ascertaining whether 
 he was not innocent of the charge. 
 
 '* The horror into which I was thrown when the 
 account reached me, that on the next moraing this 
 unhappy man was to have his joints stretched, and 
 his limbs broken, to make him confess a crime of
 
 136 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 which I knew that he was guiltless, cannot easily be 
 imagined. I thought I heard his shrieks while 
 undergoing the dreadful operation ; and I saw him 
 led away to execution for words that he might drop 
 under the agony of his torments. In this state I 
 threw myself on my knees before the good pastor, 
 and besought him to go before the magistrate, with 
 an asseveration to which his spotless character would 
 give weight, that he knew the man was innocent ; 
 but this he could only know by also being aware 
 of tlie guilty person. That he had obtained any 
 knowledge from confession he could not say, 
 because the Protestants have no such exercise. If 
 a Catholic priest had been called in, he was 
 absolutely debarred from making any communica- 
 tion to the magistrate, and must patiently see an 
 innocent man suffer death rather than violate, even 
 by negative assertion, the strict secresy of the con- 
 fessional. In this grievous dilemma, in which I 
 felt prepared to rush on my own destruction rather 
 than see innocent blood spilt for my offence, it 
 occurred to the pastor that the governor of the 
 place, a man of extraordinary honour and good 
 sense, as well as great humanity, might be en- 
 trusted with the secret, only in part as yet revealed
 
 THE OUTLAW. 137 
 
 to himself. I easily assented. To what would I 
 not have agreed to escape the horrors of a second, 
 and now a dehberate murder I General Talmont 
 was accordingly seen, and implored to interpose his 
 authority with the magistrate, and prevail upon 
 him at least to suspend the Question, until he could 
 communicate the particulars to the Government at 
 Paris. The worthy officer nobly agreed to act, and 
 disdained to consider the inevitable consequences of 
 his conduct, that of being charged with screening 
 an offender, for whose detection at all hazards the 
 public, including the contending sects, all alike were 
 eager. The Question was postponed for a fortnight ; 
 but in the meanwhile the prisoner found means to 
 elude the vigilance of the most perfect of all police 
 establishments, the able chief who had equalled 
 himself to Lieut. Sartine, his much lauded officers, 
 and contrived to prevent the most dignified and acute 
 of maoristrates from administering: in his case the most 
 admirable of all systems of criminal jurisprudence ; 
 in fact he had withdrawn from the custody of the 
 officers, the superintendence of the jail, and the 
 blessings of a law as humane as it was accurate, 
 preferring the more certain blessings of fi-eedom 
 from all process, to those of being subject to any.
 
 138 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 In a word he had, to my unspeakable relief, made his 
 escape. It is very likely from all the circumstances 
 that he was an old offender, probably come from 
 Marseilles to maraud at the Candlemas fair of 
 Nismes. Certain it is that he appeared no more 
 in that quarter. 
 
 "The indignation of the police now reached a 
 pitch of fury, and nothing could satisfy them but a 
 general domiciliary visit ; to which in the prevailing 
 ferment a consent was obtained from the governor, 
 to whose interposition the man's escape was not 
 unnaturally ascribed. The Government had also 
 taken the precaution of sending to Avignon to ask 
 the attendance of some one of the Benedictine 
 monastery, whose evidence would be material, but 
 who, residing in a foreign territory, could not be 
 summoned ; and the arrival of one of the brethren 
 was daily expected. 
 
 " My terror may easily be conceived in these cir- 
 cumstances. Should the domiciliary visit lead to 
 my being in ever so slight a degree suspected, I was 
 sure to be at once identified by the testimony of the 
 monk who might come from Avignon ; and even if 
 I escaped this fate, he was sure to give a more cor- 
 rect account of the facts than common report had
 
 THE OUTLAW. 139 
 
 propagated, so that the pastor could no longer be 
 kept ignorant of the deception I had practised upon 
 him in laying tlie chief blame upon Isidore. Hap- 
 pily, a reluctance on the abbot's part to suflfer his 
 brother's examination in a secular court delayed 
 the arrival I so much dreaded, and the domiciliary 
 visit was postponed for the present. Yet I lived in 
 perpetual fear, and learnt by experience that there 
 is no suffering wliich so renders man weary of ex- 
 istence, and so perpetually makes life a burden. 
 What I endured made me easily believe the ac- 
 counts of persons who have destroyed themselves 
 under the terror of dangers to which they were ex- 
 posed, and as for self-murder of a like kind com- 
 mitted to escape disgrace and public odium, I could 
 at all times well credit the possibility of it. 
 
 " My only solace during this period was the kind- 
 ness of the pastor and his family, who, seeing how 
 much I was suffering, exerted themselves to relieve 
 me. Nothing more soothed my troubled spirit than 
 the religious conversation than Monsieur Gardein, 
 in which he mingled learned and rational argument 
 with spiritual consolation. We discussed together 
 freely all the points of dispute between the two 
 churches, and certainly the result was to confirm all
 
 140 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 the impressions which Isidore's reasonings and 
 railleries had made on me, and to wean me entirely 
 from the errors of the Romish faith. This con- 
 version was much aided by the judicious course 
 which the pastor took. He was a man of great 
 learning and much ability, but he was also of a 
 singularly moderate disposition ; tolerant of adverse 
 opinions, and regarding those whom he deemed be- 
 nighted in error with compassion, but without the 
 least pride of conscious superiority far less any feel- 
 ing of hostility. His respectful treatment of even 
 the dogmas to which his clear judgment stood 
 most opposed, helped him to make many a pro- 
 selyte whom a more fierce and contemptuous dis- 
 putant would have for ever alienated and con- 
 firmed in error at the very outset of the argument 
 by haughty assertion, or sconi, or misplaced ridicule. 
 Indeed he held that ridicule was never to be used 
 in discussing sacred subjects, both because it wounds 
 the feelings of the unconverted and because it shuts 
 their minds up against the entrance of the truth. 
 This subject of employing ridicule is diflScult, in my 
 apprehension, and a distinction is to be taken between 
 the different kinds of ridicule. The statement of an 
 absurd consequence drawn clearly from any position.
 
 THE OUTLAW. 141 
 
 the exposure of its self- repugnance, or other gross 
 absurdity and senselessness, inevitably produces a 
 tendency to laugh^ inevitably produces a ludicrous 
 effect. So far, and of this description, ridicule is a 
 necessary part of demonstration. The superficial 
 and ignorant vulgar, always confounding unlike 
 things, are perpetually crying out on either a written 
 or a conversational argument of this truly logical 
 kind that it is merriment and not reasoning, whereas 
 it is the closest and most urgent demonstration. But 
 when to this we add any superfluous picture of a 
 ludicrous kind, and call in anything laughable in 
 manner, or character, or habits, anything personal 
 to the disputant, we clearly go beyond what is the 
 legitimate province of reasoning, especially upon 
 sacred subjects. Nothing could, for example, be 
 more fit than to expose the great absurdity of 
 makinof our senses the test of the words received 
 from Christ through the Evangelists, and then 
 holdinor their evidence inadmissable to show that 
 the bread and wine have retained their humble 
 nature after the priest's benediction. You may even 
 go so far as to show the ridiculous consequence that 
 flows from the doctrine, namely, that a created 
 being is supposed to make, at least to summon into
 
 142 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 his presence, the God who made him. But if you 
 enter into details, letting your fancy luxuriate in 
 the difference between bread and flesh, wine and 
 blood, or speak of a God-maker, or a God-smith, a 
 God-eater, or a God-monger, you needlessly import 
 the ludicrous into a most solemn argument, and 
 descend from the pure and refined wit of reason to 
 the broad and vulgar grins of humour. From the 
 turn of the good pastor's mind, at once serious and 
 forbearing, he applied this principle to all contro- 
 versy, even on secular matters ; and he had a prac- 
 tice in reasoning of rather leaving his adversary to 
 perceive the ridiculous in his own argument, or its 
 consequences, than stating it in terms to him. He, 
 perhaps, was skilful as well as tolerant in this course, 
 for it is certain that there is more or less of triumph 
 in the ordinary proceeding of disputants, who press 
 each other with the weight of their argument, and 
 are over-fond of the pleasure derived from the ex- 
 posure of absurdity. The Socratic method of discus- 
 sion by questions pressed upon the adversary, and 
 making him state his own error, and as it were take 
 of himself the steps to his own refutation, proceeded 
 upon somewhat of the same view. Be that as it 
 may, I can affirm that M. Gardein was a formidable
 
 THE OUTLAW. 143 
 
 disputant, not more from his acuteness and his 
 learning, than from his suavity, and his carefully 
 abstaining from showing triumph or giving offence 
 in any other way. He in this, as in many other 
 features of his amiable and attractive character, bore 
 no little resemblance to my dear and ever lamented 
 Father Jerome ; and had the excellent, and indeed 
 well-gifted, Isidore possessed somewhat of his mo- 
 deration and self-command, I am certain that my 
 conversion would have been accomplished before I 
 left the convent. 
 
 " Much, however, as I owed my escape from the 
 grievous errors of Romanism to the reasoning and 
 the information of the good pastor, I believe that my 
 liberation from the fallacies with which that most 
 artfully contrived system enchains the mind was 
 greatly aided by the co-operation of another cause. 
 The domestic society in which I saw him living 
 and teaching, the endearing company of his wife, of 
 his daughter, and her children, those ties wliich, far 
 from lessening his clerical usefulness, only redoubled 
 his powers of persuasion, and, far from impairing 
 his zeal in the service of God, only made it burn 
 with the purer flame, lit at the tenderest and most 
 innocent feelings of the heart, had a powerful influ-
 
 144 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 ence on my mind, because I daily witnessed the 
 practical exposure of the falsehoods which Popery 
 inculcates, and proved, by constant evidence of my 
 senses, that the state which is natural for man is in 
 nowise dangerous to priests, but, on the contrary, 
 increases their usefulness while it relieves them from 
 the pains of unnatural restraint, and gratifies the 
 most innocent propensities of the human heart. All 
 Isidore's arguments about the clergy revising them- 
 selves one of the sacraments had been feeble com- 
 pared to the practical experience which I now had 
 of a married clergyman, a pastor, at once the 
 spiritual father of his flock and the natural father 
 of his family. 
 
 " As the period of the domiciliary visit and the 
 Benedictine's arrival approached, I grew more and 
 more uneasy. I scarcely dared venture into the 
 streets for fear of exciting suspicion. Walking in 
 the Place at an early hour, for I never ventured out 
 except in the morning and evening, I heard, to my 
 extreme horror, a voice calling out my name twice, 
 < Albert ! Albert! ' I instantly turned round, and was 
 relieved to find it was a woman calling on her child 
 that ran across the walk. But this had at least 
 shown her that my name was Albert. — One day I
 
 THE OUTLAW. 145 
 
 walked to the Maison Carree to indulge in the 
 recollections of past ages, and taste if possible of 
 the peace which, its inscription says, had been esta- 
 blished over the world ; a face which was familiar 
 to me almost fixed me to the ground ; it was a 
 gentleman from Avignon to whom I was known, 
 though slightly. I had only presence of mind to 
 turn round and abruptly quit the portico, on whose 
 numberless beauties he was intently gazing. — I had 
 some days before seen a travelling musician at the 
 public gardens whom I recognized, but who knew 
 me too little to perceive who I was ; yet the alarm 
 which even this gave me had driven me home for 
 several days, until I supposed the minstrel liad de- 
 parted in pursuit of his erratic calling. But all 
 these things, and numberless other alamis which 
 proved false, showed me that my present place of 
 concealment was too near the spot of my shame. 
 The distance was not, indeed, above ten leagues, and 
 though both political and religious considerations 
 restrained tlie intercourse between the centres of hete- 
 rodoxy and orthodoxy, yet intercourse there was, 
 quite enough to bring real risk upon me. 
 
 " I accordingly seriously planned my departure, and 
 having consulted with my kind and revered friend, he 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 helped me, to the utmost extent of his small means, in 
 the accomplishment of this design. All communica- 
 tion with my family at Avignon had of necessity been 
 broken off. My writing or receiving letters would 
 have led to a discovery of my retreat, and even 
 M. Gardein was forced to keep the strictest silence on 
 the subject in his correspondence. Once only he had 
 an opportunity of privately apprizing my wretched pa- 
 rents of my being safe for the moment ; and he learnt 
 from a friend who had seen them, that their grief was 
 largely mingled with the horror of what had passed, 
 so natural to all persons of right feeling, especially 
 such as strictly held by the religion of their an- 
 cestors. Any effort to supply my wants could be 
 little expected from them; they considered me as 
 lost to my family as well as my faith, and that 
 they had now to bewail the loss of another son, but 
 in circumstances far more distressing than those 
 which accompanied their former misfortune of the 
 like kind. But the kind good pastor did not dis- 
 miss me on my weary, solitary, and melancholy 
 pilgrimage, merely filling as far as he was able 
 my scrip. He thought he had a higher duty to 
 discharge, and one peculiarly belonging to his 
 sacred function, — the duty of giving me such coun-
 
 THE OUTLAW. 147 
 
 sels and such warnings as his longer experience 
 had suggested^ and as one in my circumstances 
 peculiarly stood in need of. This conversation made 
 a deep impression upon my mind ; it was at night, 
 after the frugal supper of the family had been 
 succeeded by worship. He retired with me into 
 his study, and kept me in discourse above an hour. 
 Before I went to bed I took a memorandum of 
 what he had then spoken, and I soon afterwards 
 extended it so as to preserve both the substance and 
 the expression, which was exceedingly simple but 
 earnest. This precious memorial of my third father, 
 I have in all the vicissitudes of my life been allowed 
 to preserve, and I will read it to you when next 
 you come here ; for I am too much exhausted now 
 to continue a conversation which, though it has some 
 tendency to relieve me, is sadly mingled with the 
 most painful recollections." 
 
 H2
 
 ( 148 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CONVEESATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 The Count returned to the Chateau entirely occu- 
 pied with the strange and dreadful story of Albert. 
 As nothing more fills or distracts the mind than a 
 constant state of anxiety and alarm^ so no relations 
 more arrest the attention, and make the hearer not 
 merely feel sympathy, but actually partake of the 
 painful sense of danger described ; and the Count, 
 whose imagination was sufficiently lively, and whose 
 feelings were strong, shared largely in all that the 
 Solitary had depicted of his state of mind. He felt 
 uneasy; he was disturbed by the perpetual recur- 
 rence of the scenes which Albert had traced before 
 him ; he saw the officers of justice and the emissaries 
 of the church in pursuit of his friend ; and he found 
 difficulty in believing, that even now, when all the 
 wanderings of Albert had brought him safe to his
 
 CONVERSATION IN L.VNGUEDOC. 149 
 
 retreat, that retreat itself, and the greatly diminished 
 zeal of the clergy, with their much restricted power 
 during late years, could make liim quite secure 
 against discovery and persecution. The likeness 
 which the Baron de Moulin bore to the tenant of 
 the cave, seemed to keep before his eyes the picture 
 he had just come from gazing on ; that resemblance 
 was as great as could well exist between a very 
 handsome and a very ordinary countenance, like the 
 Baron's, whose features, however, were abundantly 
 expressive, and had the impress of genius which 
 always precludes any appearance of deformity. In 
 his presence the Count's mind still more keenly dwelt 
 upon the sad story of Albert; and he fell more than 
 once into a reverie, which was speedily perceived by 
 his fair partner. As soon as she could find him 
 alone, she assailed him with an eagerness which in 
 company she with difficulty suppressed. "Well 
 then ; and you have been to hear the wild and crazy 
 hermit's tale? Of course he has satisfied your easy 
 mind perfectly as to the visits of your friend the 
 Marcliioness ? " " That he most entirely has," said 
 Chatillon, " nor was it difficult. My opinion of 
 her is very high indeed; and I find, as I truly 
 expected, that nothing was ever more completely
 
 150 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 groundless than the suspicions cast on her conduct." 
 "Oh! no doubt," said the Countess, "quite ground- 
 less; and without the least colour of probability 
 from the fii-st. — Mind you, Chatillon," she con- 
 tinued, " I will believe all you now affirm, in terms 
 so very general, as soon as you let me know what 
 were the Solitary's communications to you, and as 
 certainly not otherwise." " My love," he replied 
 " I am most perfectly indifferent." — " None of your 
 insolent abuse," she exclaimed ; " say at once, 
 frankly and freely, that you choose not to confide 
 the matter to me, because it is of a kind better 
 kept concealed, and I am satisfied ; but no imper- 
 tinence, I desire " — and with that she flung out of 
 the room, all the more convinced by Chatillon's 
 silence, that her suspicions were anything but 
 groundless. 
 
 The Count, to relieve his mind, ruffled by his 
 fair helpmate's temper, walked out into the delightful 
 shrubbery that surrounded the Chateau. The rest 
 of the company continued conversing on the subject 
 which the Count's musing disposition, so new in 
 him, suggested ; and the discourse turned, as it is 
 wont to do, upon the two absent members of the 
 society. On no occasion are the absent ever more
 
 CONVERSATION IN L.INGUEDOC. 151 
 
 uniformly in the wrong, and without exception, than 
 when they leave assembled the contents of a Cha- 
 teau, persons for the most part idle, and who, being 
 without pursuits when in the house, occupy them- 
 selves diligently with the concerns and the persons 
 of their neighbours in the same society. The pre- 
 cise period of the day when the absent are most 
 generally in the wrong, and when they form the 
 most animated part of the conversation, is when 
 dinner is waitino^ for their arrival. But at no time 
 of the twenty-four hours are they apt to be very 
 much spared by the company present. So it fared 
 with the Count and the Countess on tliis occa- 
 sion. While they were occupied, the one in a soli- 
 tary walk, with musing over the strange adventures 
 of Albert, the other in her boudoir with her extensive 
 and various correspondence, and with the journals 
 which she diligently studied, and which began now to 
 be filled with speculations on the unquiet aspect of 
 affairs, tiie company were employed in descanting 
 upon the t^vo absentees, each after his own fashion 
 and humour. 
 
 "I marvel," said the Marquess, "that our good 
 and light-hearted Count should have chosen his pre- 
 sent wife, so different from him in both temper and
 
 152 CONVERSATION m LANGUEDOC. 
 
 taste. She was a widow, too, and had not made 
 her first husband happy." 
 
 "Have you not observed," answered the Baron, 
 " that men as well as women are apt to fix their 
 affections on somebody very different from them- 
 selves ? How often do you see close friendships 
 knit between men of the greatest dissimilarity of 
 character and of pursuits ?" 
 
 " Yes, truly," the Marquess observed ; "there is 
 always one obstacle removed by such a differ- 
 ence — there is no interference, and thus no rivalry. 
 However, I believe your remark has another foun- 
 dation as to men's choice of a mistress or a wife. 
 The variety is pleasing; the turn of mind so 
 different from our own amuses ; it is what we term 
 piquant. ^^ 
 
 " For which," said the Marchioness, " I have often 
 reniarked we have in our insular language no word, 
 though we have many that cannot be translated into 
 your tongue." 
 
 " But surely," rejoined the Baron, with much 
 animation, "the matchless beauty of the Countess 
 must at once furnish a key to her husband's prefer- 
 ence for her. Saw you ever beyond the Alps more 
 perfect loveliness than our Tramontane fair one dis-
 
 CONVERSATIOX IN LAXGUEDOC, 153 
 
 closes?" addressiiis himself to Prince Caramelli, who 
 had just arrived from Florence and been visiting the 
 Pont du Gard. 
 
 "Why, really, Baron," replied the Tuscan, "I 
 must at once be ungallant enough to answer with a 
 positive Yes. In the first place your fair one is of 
 an advanced a^e." 
 
 " An advanced age. Prince ! Wliy she is barely 
 thirty." 
 
 " Barely thirty! Baron," said the Italian — " Had 
 you said barely twenty — very well. But I own to 
 you the addition of len years is not very much to my 
 taste. I might admire her society, might even relish 
 the remains of former beauty, and let her live upon a 
 recollection of past charms — 1 might make her my 
 friend, but as for anytliing else, you ^^ill excuse me." 
 
 However, the rest of the company, though not so 
 particular on the point of age, wholly denied the 
 correctness of the phrase selected by the Baron to 
 pourtray the object of his present devotion. 
 
 '' Really," said the gentle Emmehne, " dear Zio, 
 for so great a master of diction as you to choose the 
 word ' loveliness,' and 'perfect loveliness,' as descrip- 
 tive of the Countess, does, I own, a little surprise 
 one. Incomparable beauty, if you will ; but 
 
 h3
 
 154 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 surely to loveliness there goes something beyond 
 form." 
 
 " I agree with Mdlle. de Moulin," said the Mar- 
 chioness, " and I will add, what of course she meant 
 to allow, that though Madame de Chatillon has great 
 expression as well as fine form — it is not a lovely 
 expression at all. It is full of intellect, but it is 
 also tinctured with both pride and temper." 
 
 " Two things the most inconsistent with the idea 
 of lovely, certainly," said Emmeline. "But I hardly 
 wished to say so much against any one I know so 
 little, and am taught by my clear Zio to respect so 
 highly. I only meant to say that she shows some 
 tartness of disposition wliich little suits my poor 
 humble taste." 
 
 " Come," said the Marquess, " I will not stop there. 
 I freely confess to you, Baron, that I never could 
 admire her at all. Her beauty is haughty; she 
 enters the room as if she came to dictate, and ex- 
 pected to be obeyed without hesitation ; moreover she 
 has that sort of look as if she were the only virtuous 
 person in whatever female society she honours witli 
 her presence, and almost the only person of talents 
 or information in the male circles, where she most 
 likes to move and to shine."
 
 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOG. 155 
 
 " Let me tell you. Marquess," said the captivated 
 Baron, " that when a person is so endowed as she is, 
 and leads also a life so pure, she may well hold her 
 head hiojh above the frivolous and the corrupt age in 
 which she lives. But her harshness, of which you 
 all complain — is it not well redeemed by the truth 
 and honour it is akin to, and allied with? Who 
 could ever charge her with a falsehood? When 
 did the breath of slander ever settle upon her 
 reputation ?" 
 
 While these thinofs were under discussion there 
 arrived at the Chateau two guests of note from 
 Nismes ; Madame Leblanc, a widow, considerably 
 past her prime, but who, from her position in so- 
 ciety, had also considerable currency ; and the A.bbe 
 Miltaud, a leader of the high fanatical party, to 
 which the widow herself somewhat inclined. Ac- 
 cordingly the reverend personage had not scrupled 
 to travel with her the journey from Nismes; " al- 
 beit it was," as he observed, "of more than one 
 hour's duration ; and albeit she was not much more 
 than five-and-forty years of age complete." She 
 natvirally glided into the conversation, in which her 
 niche was not likely to be filled in her absence. No 
 sooner had she thus placed herself than she asked if
 
 156 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 the Countess had not set out for Grenoble ; and 
 finding she was still a guest at the Chateau, but also 
 that she had retired for the morning to her extensive 
 correspondence, and that the Count was gone to 
 the chace, she felt it her duty to take these absentees 
 under her especial protection ; not, however, without 
 aid of her spiritual friend the Abbe, whom she thus 
 invoked, somewhat without asking his consent. 
 
 " Aye, truly — ■ correspondence indeed ! The 
 Abbe and I have just been wondering what Madame 
 de Chatillon writes about; for we hear at Nismes 
 that her letters equal in number those of many 
 merchants, and some ministers of state." 
 
 " Verily, Madame," said the reverend man, " I 
 remember me not the remark you mention as having 
 beguiled the time spent on the way. Peradventure 
 was I then commending me to His care who maketh 
 the rough places smooth, and guards them that travel 
 by land and water from the perils of their path. 
 But as to the post-office, know I little or nothing, 
 being of them that use it not." 
 
 " But, Abbe," rejoined Madame Leblanc, "at 
 least you must remember having said you deemed 
 the Countess more intent on the things of this 
 world than of another; and when I said that the
 
 COX\TERSATION IN LANGUEDOC, 157 
 
 case was a common one, you said. The more 's the 
 pity, and the less the excuse." 
 
 "Yes, verily, sister, did I so deliver myself; to 
 the which you replied, that you could have more 
 easily forgiven her worldly-mindedness if she only 
 could now and then show a little charity toward 
 offending brethren." 
 
 " Well, and so I still say — for, considering how 
 many offend, surely nothing is more needful than a 
 capacious and almost indiscriminate charity. There, 
 for instance, is La Marechale de Bournon, whom I 
 never shall say one word against, nor can I say one 
 word for her neither, for I believe she is no better 
 than she should be." 
 
 '' Truly/' said the Baron, "it is a somewhat 
 hard measure of justice to require her to be better 
 than she ought to be." 
 
 " Well, well, as you please," — she replied, " I 
 speak always well of her ; better than I can think — 
 though, indeed, I like her much, only I can get 
 nobody to agree with me. But there 's the dear 
 Countess de Pignerol, whose adventure with the 
 Italian Prince is much talked of — and my belief is 
 that he owes his principality to her good graces ; for 
 a lady told me that he was neither more nor less
 
 158 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEBOC. 
 
 than a courier, whom some Prince turned off. But 
 God help us ! we are all but weak and sinful crea- 
 tures without His aid. And if it be His pleasure 
 the Pignerol should thus have gone astray. His 
 will be done." 
 
 " Amen ! amen !" ejaculated the holy man. 
 
 " So I say of the Countess, and when I hear 
 people all saying she only minds politics, and hav- 
 ing never had any children by either marriage, can 
 think of nothing domestic, here I must take her 
 part. She has long had a lover, to my certain know- 
 ledge, and that page of hers who is always on the 
 fetch and carry is as like her as ever he can look." 
 
 " Certainly," said the Marchioness, " a child she 
 never had, and as to the boy being, as you would 
 insinuate, some kind of natural relation, some child 
 of her father or her brother — " 
 
 " Ma'am, I only said she never had had any child 
 since her marriage ; I go not, God forbid I should, to 
 any thing that may have happened before, either with 
 M. Bertrand or any one else, whatever I may know 
 personally on this subject." 
 
 " Really, Madame Leblanc, you are too bad 
 with your anecdotes and your personal knowledge," 
 said the Marchioness.
 
 CONVEKSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 159 
 
 " Why, look you, my dear," replied the lady of 
 much charity, "you should be cautious of discrediting 
 even a report; for, as we are all in search of truth, 
 how easily may we be deceived by incredulity !" 
 
 " Btit," said the Baron, unable longer to contain 
 himself, " how much more injustice may we do by 
 easy belief !" 
 
 " There I must differ with you," said she of the 
 considerate mind ; " you will observe that a great deal 
 is always sure to be done that never gets out, so 
 that I generally find it a safe rule to believe at least 
 what I hear. A lady told me that she knew the 
 affair with M. Bertrand, and that it is as much 
 alive as ever." 
 
 " That I '11 be sworn it is," said the Baron/' and 
 1 fairly tell you I don't believo'one word of it." 
 
 '' How extremely ill-natured that is. Baron ! How 
 hard \ipon the lady I have been quoting ! Have you 
 no regard for her character ? Why should you so 
 slander one you don't know ?" 
 
 " And whom I never shall know, I dare swear," 
 said the Baron. 
 
 " But, Sir," said the woman slow to blame, " you 
 do neither more nor less than positively charge her 
 with bearing lalse witness against her neighbour. How
 
 160 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 should you like any one disbelieving a story you had 
 told, and of which you knew all the particulars ?" 
 
 "Verily, and of a truth," said the Abbe, "you 
 put the matter in a Christian manner. Howbeit,, 
 I would say a word for the other party, the 
 Countess, but that I learn she is taking part with 
 the evil disposed, who now infest our land — nay, pur- 
 poses going with her obedient husband to Grenoble, 
 where the work of the father of mischief is now for 
 a season permitted by the Lord to prosper." 
 
 " Aye, truly, Abbe, well may you say so ; there 
 she says she must go, and go she will. Her obedient 
 husband, indeed ! well may you so call him ; and 
 her patient, her much-enduring, and her long-suf- 
 fering husband. My heart melts when I think of 
 him ; it bleeds within me to see so much good 
 nature so rewarded with oppression. However, he 
 comforts himself in other quarters — of that, at least, 
 there can be no doubt. But let us be just, even to 
 sinners. It is not true that he keeps four mistresses 
 and introduces them into his house. I believe he 
 never has had more than two at one time ; and if 
 they are admitted into his house, it is always by a 
 back door, so as no one not in the secret shall 
 know anything about it.''
 
 COXVERSATIOX IX LANGUEDOC. l6l 
 
 ' The Marquess here wished to turn aside the con- 
 versation from its present channel, wherein it might 
 have flowed without any interrviption, or any end ; 
 so he reverted to Grenoble, willing to hear the Abbe 
 upon a topic in which he took much interest. But 
 at this moment entered the Countess herself, she 
 having finished her day's despatches; and all eyes 
 were at once turned upon her; as happens on 
 any conversation being suddenly extinguished by 
 appearance of its subject. 
 
 " Well, Baron," she said, on entering the saloon, 
 " you will find I am right as to the great event of 
 the States of Dauphine. They are beginning to put 
 themselves in an attitude ; and if this does not lead 
 to something material, I am much more mistaken 
 than I have usually been." 
 
 " My dear Madam," answered the Baron, " I 
 never had any doubt whatever that something would 
 come of it. I only questioned your very sanguine 
 view, that all grievances were to be redressed in less 
 time than it would take to draw up a catalogue of 
 them ; and I am averse to sudden change, well 
 knowing that the fruit which grows fast spoils 
 quick." 
 
 " They do tell me," said the Abbe, "that some
 
 162 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 mention hath ah'eady been made of tithe, as if that 
 were a grievance. Help us! what shall we next 
 seer 
 
 " Why really, Abbe/' said the Countess, " were 
 that our only grievance, there would need but 
 little time and less trouble to rid ourselves. My 
 opinion is for a clergy like the Swiss, among whom 
 I was brought up, a poor and a working clergy." 
 
 " Mercy on us, to hear you talk ! a poor and a 
 working clergy ! What ! Shall they which serve at 
 the altar not live by the altar? What portion of 
 worldly goods cometh ever to my poor share, that 
 do I freely take unto me ; a.s knowing, that it is 
 the portion of the Lord, and appertaining unto Him 
 and His church, to whom and to which all glory 
 for ever and ever!" 
 
 "Amen," ejaculated Madame Leblanc ; "never- 
 theless, I could wish that in taking their share of 
 our goods, they would let alone our persons. I am 
 sure I have more than suspicions of the Abbe 
 Lafosse and Madame Bertrand. I refer to his late 
 visits and his long walks ; and they do say the 
 bishop has given him severe admonition." 
 
 " Sister !" said the Abbe, " it little becomes you 
 so to speak of the church. The pious should dis-
 
 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 163 
 
 trust their eyes, and yet more their ears, rather 
 than lightly believe iii disparagement of the people 
 of God. ]My brother Lafosse is of the elect, and 
 can hardly fall from grace. Haply," said the pious 
 man, ''the Lord Bishop's admonition which you wot 
 of touched some point of doctrine, wherein the Abbe 
 might have gone astray from the path, and perad- 
 venture might lack wholesome correction." 
 
 " Abbe," said Madame Leblanc, " let you and I 
 take a little walk in the shrubbery, before we go 
 back to Nismes." 
 
 "Yea, verily, sister," said the holy individual, 
 '' for it now is waxing late ; and I may not go on 
 tlie way after the setting of the sun alone even 
 with you in a carriage." 
 
 " Nor in a carriage even without me either. 
 Abbe," said the cliaritable ; " I observed you were 
 in serious alarm each little jolt that we had on the 
 smooth road coming out." 
 
 "Truly," said he, "and I do but regard it as a 
 tempting of Providence, when I expose me to any 
 kind of risk — save the hourly risk we ever run ; for 
 in the midst of life we are in death." 
 
 " Well," said the Countess, as soon as they 
 were gone, " thank heaven, we have got rid of this
 
 164 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 canting pair ! However, Madame Leblanc is not, 
 by half, so bad as this Abbe ; and as to her having 
 some little causeries, I really hardly complain of 
 that; for her abuse is no slander, so well is her 
 venom known. I verily believe I am the only per- 
 son of her acquaintance whom she has not freely 
 charged with a faux pas; and that I ascribe more 
 to my own prudence and reserve on all occasions, 
 than to her forbearance." 
 
 *■' Oh ! certainly," said the Marquess, " you set her 
 at defiance. But also she may set you at defiance ; 
 for you don't hear what she says, any more than if 
 it suited her humour she would care what you 
 did." 
 
 There was a kind of smile on the Marquess's face as 
 he spoke this, that seemed more significant than the 
 fair lady, all conscious of her virtue, quite relished. 
 Havinor assumed, and almost declared, that she was 
 not merely above blame, but beyond attack, she 
 now thought she had been under the searching 
 operation of Madame Leblanc's unsparing tongue 
 before she rejoined the company, and she imme- 
 diately wore her enraged aspect as she said : " Well, 
 I do believe that is the very worst woman in 
 Nismas."
 
 CONVEESATION IN LANGUEDOC. 165 
 
 The Count here came in, havincr returned from 
 the forest, where he had been shooting, to re- 
 lieve his thoughts of the mournful impression 
 made on him by the history of Albert, and to 
 beguile the time, which he thought an age, till his 
 curiosity should be gratified by the remainder of 
 that strange and affecting story. 
 
 Prince Caramelli returned from his drawinff ex- 
 cursion before dinner, and interested the party 
 greatly by the exquisite sketches he had made of 
 the Pont du Gard ; which he pronounced more than 
 Roman in its magnificent and perfectly preserved 
 architecture. '• I really," said he, "■ never could 
 have imagined the French had such good builders. 
 We generally plume ourselves upon our Italian 
 masonry, and the buildings at Rome, particularly 
 the older ones, which I suppose date as far back 
 as our Gothic ancestors, are thought very fine, 
 though now a good deal destroyed, and, in some 
 places, fallen to pieces. But positively I find 
 nothing, even in St. Peter's, equal to the Pont du 
 Gard." 
 
 "The Pont," said the Baron, "is not a French 
 structure, nor even one by the Gauls." 
 
 "Were the Gauls a French province?" inno-
 
 166 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 cently asked the Prince. But no one dared enter 
 fully into this antiquarian discussion^ out of charity 
 towards tliis accomplished descendant of the brave 
 Etrurians, who had the blood of the Medici in his 
 veins, though he valued himself far more on his 
 Gothic descent. 
 
 In the evening he delighted the ears of the com- 
 pany with his music still more than he had their 
 eyes by his drawings. He was an admirable 
 player both on the piano-forte and the violin, sang 
 beautifully either a first or a second part, was so 
 passionately fond of music that he discoursed elo- 
 quently respecting it, and had so much real taste 
 that he almost seemed learned upon the subject. 
 His contempt too for all others, when his favourite 
 subjects of the pencil and the lyre were on the" 
 carpet, was only half concealed by his perfect po- 
 liteness. He plainly perceived, or thought he per- 
 ceived, that the French were, by some physical ne- 
 cessity, incapable of the least relish for the produc- 
 tions of either ; and would cite, ten times in a day, 
 the unfortunate mistake of a gentleman whom he 
 had met at a Marseilles concert, and who, seeing 
 the music-book in his hand, had asked him " If that 
 Adagio was contemporary with Corelh?"
 
 CON\"ERSATION IN LAXGUEDOC. 167 
 
 The conversation, however, was not suffered to 
 rest always on the fine arts. The Countess must 
 needs know what the feelings in Italy were on 
 the ferment now becjinninor in France, and turned 
 his attention to the assembling of the States at 
 Grenoble. The Prince had here as much to learn 
 on the art of discord as the amateur of Marseilles 
 had on that of harmony. He desired to know 
 what States were ; and the Countess kindly under- 
 took to describe that they represented the different 
 orders of nobles, clergy, and commonalty. But 
 the idea of anybody being represented except by 
 his ambassador if a sovereign or his agent if a 
 private person, could not easily enter the Tuscan 
 mind ; and when Madame de Chatillon said that 
 this assembly shared the powers of government in a 
 certain degree, he concluded they were officers and 
 men raised and commissioned by the king ; for he 
 asked if they were a military corps, and drawn out 
 occasionally, or on permanent duty ? When told they 
 were civil functionaries, he supposed they might be 
 a great department of clerks, appointed to conduct 
 the public business. It was impossible to make him 
 comprehend how the government could be carried 
 on by any person except under the king's autho-
 
 168 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 rity ; when the Countess, gently for her, but with 
 an intelligent look that made no small impression on 
 his southern and inflammable nature, reminded him 
 of the republican time of Florence, her halia, her 
 farsi publico, her parlamento, she found him as 
 ignorant of the former history of his own country 
 as of the present state of France. All he could say 
 was, that no country could possibly exist in such a 
 state of confusion as she seemed to speak of, unless 
 perhaps England, which he had understood to be 
 under tlie dominion of a lawless multitude of many 
 hundreds, and to lie accordingly under such a heavy 
 curse of constant confusion that nothing should 
 ever induce him to venture near it. An orchestra 
 of bad fiddlers, without a book or a director, 
 seemed to him harmony compared witli what he 
 concluded the parliamentary government must 
 needs be. 
 
 The Countess, finding all political discussion 
 for ever shut out in this quarter, was fain to sit by 
 while he either charmed the company with some 
 more airs, or with the almost equally pleasing 
 melody of his conversation ; for he was a Sienese, 
 and with the most beautiful Tuscan he had not any 
 of the harsh guttural pronunciation so unpleasant at
 
 COI^^rERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 169 
 
 Florence, Pisa, and Leghorn. His small talk, though 
 far inferior to that of our own cotintrymen, was 
 agreeable, and the animation which his excitable 
 iiature ever showed, prevented his emptiness from 
 being dull. To his ignorance there was a com- 
 pensation in his fire, which rendered him anything 
 but insipid ; while his perfect manners and imper- 
 turbable good nature made an impression on all 
 who valued those lighter qualities. Emmeline, who 
 had never seen an Italian, was much struck with 
 him, and afterwards made a remark which even 
 the profrjund and fastidious Covmtess thought had 
 something in it : She said it was singular to see 
 how a person might appear to have strong feelings 
 who had only in all probability warm passions, 
 and most likely no feelings at all ; for she could 
 not conceive it possible that a person of the Prince's 
 station and family could have remained ignorant 
 of every thing even relating to the history of his 
 own country and his own house, if he had pos- 
 sessed the least dignity of character or any self- 
 respect. 
 
 With all these claims to the contempt of reflecting 
 or manly natures, there was nevertheless so much 
 to attract in the Prince's winningf exterior, and his 
 
 VOL. L 1
 
 170 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEBOC. 
 
 frivolous accomplishments ; his countenance, like 
 that of so many Italians, was so intellectual, and 
 so plainly showed that the genius was in him but 
 asleep, and only requiring the torch of the educator 
 to awaken its fires ; and his good nature so un- 
 ruffled, even by the eager animation of his southern 
 manner, that he proved a favourite in the society of 
 the Chateau, was easily borne, and even liked by 
 all — by all save the Baron, who could not endure 
 him ; but this aversion arose from an accident that 
 worked on his pride, which blinded, and his fiery 
 temper, which impelled him; for he was very far 
 from intolerant of persons inferior to himself, and 
 even loved to repose upon their more tranquil dis- 
 positions. 
 
 Unfortunately the Prince had mistaken him for " 
 another person in the company. Major Drelincourt, 
 an officer though not in uniform, who lived at Aix, to 
 whom he bore some resemblance, and with whom, 
 notwithstanding his impertuibable good nature, the 
 Prince had had an unpleasant quarrel in a place 
 of public resort in that town. Seeing the Baron in 
 the ante-room of the Chateau soon after his arrival, 
 he said, fiercely but not unpolitely, that until their 
 quarrel, interrupted by the regimental colonel's in-
 
 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 171 
 
 terference, should be settled^, one or other must 
 quit the place. The Baron fViriously turned round 
 upon him, and asked when he, the Prince, intended 
 to go. The mistake was instantly discovered ; an 
 ample apology was tendered with the explanation. 
 It was dryly and very imperfectly accepted ; and 
 from that moment the Baron could not endure the 
 sight of one whose most innocent error had, by the 
 merest accident, been the occasion of an uninten- 
 tional annoyance to his feelings. Nor could he bear 
 the Major any more than the Prince, because his 
 idea was mixed up with what had happened. The 
 Marquess, having heard of the unfortunate circum- 
 stance, did all he could to accommodate matters, and 
 it had the crood effect of bringino^ about a reconcilia- 
 tion between the real parties to the only quarrel that, 
 properly speaking, existed. But the Baron would 
 not be appeased, or rather he could not control 
 his humour, and he told Emmehne that they must 
 quit the Chateau, and continue their journey. Her 
 gentle nature was deeply wounded when she heard 
 the cause. She was at first exceedingly hurt that 
 her uncle had received any annoyance from any 
 cause, and still more that his pride blinded him to 
 a just view of the matter and of his position. Her 
 
 I 2
 
 172 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 calm iudcrraent now, as on so many other occasions, 
 saw things in their true light, and her riofid sense 
 of justice, a prevailing character of her mind, made 
 her really unhappy at seeing one whom she so 
 fondly loved violating that most sacred duty. She 
 cared little for the disappointment of leaving a place 
 to which she had begun to feel attached, from the 
 agreeable and instructive society assembled in it ; 
 that or any other sacrifice of her own wishes, she 
 would cheerfully have made ; and indeed one of her 
 inicle's greatest difficulties always was to find out 
 what she preferred, so carefully did she conceal her 
 own likings whenever she feared they might inter- 
 fere with his. But she could little endure the ap- 
 pearance of the Baron going away from what she 
 could not help regarding as a somewhat childish 
 fit of humour. " Dearest Zio," she would say, 
 " do only, I beg and beseech you, consider that it 
 was all a mere mistake, an accident that might have 
 happened to any one as well as the Prince, and re- 
 specting any one as well as you. A more harmless 
 man never lived than he seems to be, and he has 
 many good qualities." — " And the Major too, 
 whom he chose to take me for ; I suppose, dear, he 
 is very harmless and agreeable. I never saw any
 
 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 1 73 
 
 one less so, I own.'' — '■ No, no, dear Zio, I say no- 
 thing of him, excepting this, that if possible, he is 
 even less to blame than the Prince, for he had no 
 part whatever in it, except being of your size, and 
 being taken for you in the dusk of the billiard- 
 room." " Well, well, my little love, but they are 
 all mixed up in it ; let them settle their affairs to- 
 gether as they will ; they have all been the occasion 
 of mv ffettins' ancrrv before strangers, and being 
 hurt by an empty fool ; and the idea of them is 
 hateful." A night's reflection, however, and the 
 unwillingness to give Emmeline pain, independent 
 of the reluctance to quit the Countess, which began 
 to operate powerfully, restored this proud person to 
 a more reasonable frame of mind ; and he at any 
 rate would take no step, and say no more about 
 it, though he still said it was as hateful a thing 
 as had for many years happened to him ; and no 
 entreaty even of Emmeline would induce him so far 
 to throw off his humour as to offer the Prince his 
 hand, or testify by any other courtesy his forgive- 
 ness of an unintentional error which he could not 
 bring himself to forget. 
 
 Thus the evening and tlie next morning passed
 
 174 CONVERSATION IN LANGUEDOC. 
 
 quietly away, and the Count, impatient to hear 
 the continuation of Albert's story, again visited the 
 cave, when the SoUtary proceeded to read his notes 
 of the good pastor's parting advice.
 
 ( 175 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 " ' The young delight in action ; contemplation is 
 best suited and most pleasing to the old. But when 
 the heart is rightly attuned to humane feelings, 
 there is also a disposition in age to make its experi- 
 ence profitable to youth. Not only is there a satis- 
 faction in dwelling upon the results of that expe- 
 rience, wholly apart from all ideas of egotism ; there 
 is a pleasure in conveying instruction, and in the 
 act of making their own history useful to others 
 they have a pleasing consciousness that they have 
 themselves not lived in vain. 
 
 " ' Do not be alarmed, my good young man, at 
 the prospect of a sermon. In the discharge of my 
 pastoral duties I am never ashamed of preaching, 
 nor reluctant to be instant in season and out of 
 season, for the truths committed to my care. Woe
 
 176 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 be to me if I shun the service of my Master! But 
 I have mixed with the world, as well as with the 
 silent inmates of my study, and I have lived in so- 
 ciety as well as in the pulpit. My lessons are of 
 a kind that gownsmen fear too much the ridicule 
 connected with familiar topics to teach on the Lord's 
 day. The successors of our Saviour, even in early 
 ages, much more the preachers of his Gospel in 
 modern days, have lacked the gift of that divine 
 taste as well as wisdom which dictat.Kl the exqui- 
 sitely delicate composition of the parables. All their 
 exhortations must for want of it be covered over with 
 generalities, and, between the dread of exciting 
 laughter and the fear of giving offence, the most 
 impressive kinds of moral instruction are neglected, 
 nay shunned by all who publicly teach the people. • 
 I shall address myself to you on the present 
 occasion without any apprehension of either ridicule 
 or resentment. My purpose is above suspicion ; 
 my heart is single; and on the margin of the grave 
 into which I must soon descend I now stand, to give 
 you the result of my observations upon the world 
 into which you are entering, not forgetting also the 
 great topic of things unseen. 
 
 " ' And I begin with that greatest of all subjects
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 177 
 
 on which the mind can dwell, the highest to which 
 it is permitted to soar. 
 
 "' Think not that I use a clerical commou-place, 
 or am guilty of a professional exaggeration, when I 
 affirm with the soleranitv of a death-bed declara- 
 tion, that in compaiison with the sense of God's 
 presence all other considerations are as of no im- 
 portance, and compared with the liope of his future 
 favour all earthly things are of no value. Whoever 
 has known sorrovv, and whoever has known sin, pro- 
 vided only he believes, will know also the necessity 
 of this consolation to sustain liim. When, under the 
 pressure of either, the soul sinks within us, there is 
 no effort from without can raise it up ; and yet such 
 is the incurable perverseness of human nature that 
 I have generally found a less lively sense of religion 
 in those whose lot was mournful, than in persons of 
 happy circumstances and of a cheerful disposition. 
 You, my dear young friend, belong, unfortunately, 
 to the less favoured class, and on your mind there 
 hangs a load, the accumulation of unlawful pas- 
 sions criminally indulged ; as over your destiny 
 there hovers a cloud which improvidence combined 
 with accident, has gathered to darken your pros- 
 pects. Oh hear the voice which bids you flee to the 
 
 I 3
 
 178 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 sanctuary for comfort ! When all without frowns, 
 and the world is bleak to the eye, the torch of piety 
 lights us from within on our weary way. We can 
 lay our head on the hardest pillow, and commend 
 ourselves to his care who made the world ; and even 
 when oppressed with a sense of our own transgres- 
 sions, though far from me be the attempt to incul- 
 cate an indifference or a callousness to the stings of 
 conscience, still the sincere penitent may humbly 
 hope for mercy, casting his look forward to the hap- 
 pier state of being, where sorrow shall cease, even 
 sins be forgiven, and the inward monitor, ever jea- 
 lous of neglect, shall torment no more. 
 
 " ' My hope is in revelation. I anchor my soul to 
 that rock ; then thmk not that anything I am about 
 to say betokens a preference for another scheme of 
 devotion, another ground of belief. But then I never 
 shifted my faith like you, and it never has been 
 shaken. You have left one churchy a dogmatical, 
 infallible, unreasoning church, and have come over, 
 after long struggles, to another creed. I know not 
 how much this rude trial may have unhinged your 
 belief, how soon you may be visited with fresh 
 doubts, with new misgivings, a thing I have so often 
 witnessed, that for ignorant and for feeble minds I
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 179 
 
 have ever considered the risks of conversion to our 
 purer form of worship as more than counterbalanc- 
 ing the benefits of a nearer approach to the truth. 
 I hope with you it may prove otherwise ; yet, in 
 case of scepticism ever invading your mind, I wish 
 to remind vou that the greatest of all religrious truths, 
 the belief in the existence of the Deity, rests upon 
 natural reason, not upon revelation ; that the belief 
 in revelation pre-supposes a previous belief in a 
 Divine Being; that all we observe around us, all 
 we experience in our own minds, all we feel and see 
 of our own bodily frame, demonstrates the truth 
 that the greatest power and highest wisdom has 
 created the world, both natural and moral, and 
 presides over all its parts, all its movements, all its 
 fortunes. No rational being can be an atheist, or 
 even a sceptic, who examines a plant, an animal, an 
 insect, much less w^ho studies his own body or 
 his own mind, or who hfts his eyes on the wonders 
 of the planetary system and surveys the starry hea- 
 vens. But the hopes of a Future State belong more 
 clearly to the revelation of Him ' who is the resur- 
 rection and the life.' Nevertheless, even from these 
 the pure theist, relying on the light of Nature, is 
 not shut out ; and I have known several men who
 
 180 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOK. 
 
 had the great misfortune of doubting the truth of 
 Christianity, and yet had nearly as firm a behef in a 
 Future State as in a present Deity. The nature of 
 the mind, its surviving the body's decay, its con- 
 tinuing the same while every portion of the corporeal 
 trame is over and over again renewed and changed, 
 forms indeed a cogent argument for its not perish- 
 ing when that frame is dissolved. The improvement 
 of the faculties to the very close of life, our greater 
 fitness for heavenly things at the moment of our 
 mortal existence ceasing, coupled with the prodigious 
 goodness of the Creator, who has filled all things 
 with proofs of his beneficence towards us, affords 
 another, and as strong an argument for the continu- 
 ance of our nobler part in another state of being. 
 The universality of religion, and of the belief in 
 immortality, is not to be despised as an auxiliary to 
 the argument ; perhaps we might add the kindred 
 topic of the consent given to it by the wisest 
 and most enlightened men of all ages and of all 
 nations. 
 
 " ' Wherefore, whatever may betide thee, and even 
 should doubts unhappily assail and cloud thy mind 
 respecting revealed truth, by the faith in those mat- 
 ters, which natural and revealed truth alike teach.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOH. 181 
 
 clins thou ! By these eternal doctrines hold thou 
 fast ! To tlieui, and the comfort, the unutterable 
 comfort which they are fitted to afford, cleave thou ! 
 Cherish them ; revolve them; dwell upon them; give 
 them the first place in thy heart; meditate upon them 
 the first thing each morning, the last each evening; 
 let nothing ever sever thee from them ; for in them 
 of a surety shalt thou find the sweetest enjoyment 
 in good fortune, and in evil the surest consolation !' 
 
 " Kere tiie good old man, whose voice had sunk 
 in loudness, and had become a mere earnest whisper, 
 paused ; he remained wrapt for a short space as if in 
 heavenly contemplation ; his hands folded devoutly 
 over his breast ; his eyes closed ; his face turned up- 
 wards ; his cheeks suffused with a glow that broke 
 through their wonted paleness. When he 0})ened 
 his eyes, in which a tear now stood, he presented 
 the very picture of a saint in devout contemplation ; 
 but it was a saint without ascetic austerity, a devo- 
 tion without abject fear, a rehgion without spiritual 
 pride, a worship which gave glory to God, and 
 breathed good-will to men. After a lew minutes he 
 tenderly squeezed my hands between both of his, and 
 then continued his interesting discourse. 
 
 " ' Think not that the future state of being vvliich
 
 182 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOE. 
 
 I desire you ever to have before your mind, as well 
 in the seasons of action and of sufferins^ as in mo- 
 ments of calmer contemplation, is such as the vulgar 
 feign for want of pure and refined ideas. They 
 take the Oriental metaphors of Scripture in a literal 
 sense, as do the Mahometans with their sensual 
 paradise, the Hindoos with their extravagant super- 
 stitions. Unable to conceive a soul existing separate 
 from the body with which they have always known 
 it united, these practical materialists easily fall into 
 the wild and gross error of fancying the fire de- 
 scribed in the Sacred Writings to be actual fire 
 such as consumes the body, and the torments of the 
 wicked to be of a kind which sends up smoke to 
 darken the air. Far more intolerable anguish than 
 any the nerves of the flesh can endure will be the 
 lot of those who pass their probationary time here 
 below the slaves of lawless passion, and rebellious to 
 the will of heaven. The ancient philosophers and 
 orators, in their benighted state, formed not a bad 
 notion of the fallacy that prevailed in the popular 
 notions of Hell. Those furies, said they, which 
 agitate the men whom they pursue, and are some- 
 times represented on the stage, are the insatiable 
 passions, the vile propensities of our nature, disturb-
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 183 
 
 ino' the reason and giving the soul no rest. Such 
 furies, unceasing in their torments, desires that vex 
 the mental frame and never can be gratified ; rage 
 that spurns restraint and maddens the soul; revenge 
 burnino- with a thirst never to be slaked; fear that 
 sleeps not; shame that cannot be covered; self- 
 abasement, degradation in others' eyes ; the stings of 
 a sleepless and avenging conscience ; yet worse, the 
 terrible presence of the Most High, the insupport- 
 able glare of the eye which is too pure to behold 
 iniquity — these are among the torments in store 
 for the wicked hereafter, and which, if constantly 
 thought of here below, might deter men from sin. 
 Nor is it unlikely that the very first suffering will 
 be the most unbearable. At once the judgment 
 being pronounced the veil will be torn away that 
 hitherto had concealed our wicked deeds and vile 
 thoughts from every eye but one. At once we shall 
 stand revealed in our real colours to all. What- 
 ever crimes we have committed in the flesh, and 
 kept secret with unceasing pains, will all be exhi- 
 bited in their true light. The secret thoughts of 
 the heart will be made public. All our shameful 
 propensities which we had thought would ever lie 
 hid in the bosom that they deformed ; all our shame-
 
 184 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 ful lusts scarce confessed to ourselves ; our de- 
 grading jealousies — our low envy — the anger we 
 had repressed when pretending indifference or affec- 
 tion; the fears under which we had quailed when 
 affecting disregard of danger ; the vicious thoughts 
 that had filled us while covered with the sanctimoni- 
 ous garb of purity ; the disregard of heaven that had 
 lurked beneath the hypocritical mask of devotion ; 
 the furies that had agitated us and made us commit 
 murder in thought, now from hatred, now from 
 spite^ now from sordid calculation of gain — all will 
 now be exposed. All others will read the darkest 
 secrets of our inmost heart ; and our own minds, no 
 longer blinded with self-love, will be astounded with 
 the clear view of our real nature, concentrating 
 against ourselves all the hatred and all the scorn 
 with which we had ever hated or scorned our 
 neighbours ! Think not, then, that I mitigate the 
 punishments of a Future State when I make them 
 such as a spirit unconnected with the body can un- 
 dergo. The Hell which I paint to you is far more 
 dreadful than any that poets have figured or the 
 vulgar fear. 
 
 " ' But believe me_, my good young man, there are 
 not wanting other reasons against swerving from the
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 185 
 
 paths of innocence, and flying in the face of Heaven. 
 You cannot with impunity fly in the face of your 
 own conscience. Vou have felt its stingos, and I will 
 not dwell upon the jurisdiction, severely, unsparingly, 
 unceasingly exercised hy that judge, implanted in 
 our bosoms by Him who wills not that we should 
 swerve from the paths of virtue, but who also wills 
 that no deviation should go unpunished here below, 
 and therefore makes his delegated affent begin the 
 vengeance which himself will finish hereafter. 
 
 " ' But the delight of a virtuous hfe is less felt in 
 description than the sufferings of guilt, just as it is 
 far less easy to paint the enjoyments of heaven than 
 the torments of hell; a difference plainly experienced 
 by Dante, as all but enthusiastic admirers of the 
 great poet will freely admit. They partly from their 
 prejudice, and partly from the love of singularity 
 and the vanity of paradox, a common form of that 
 weakness, profess to admire the Paradiso most, and 
 they have few followers among persons of good sense 
 and honest judgment. Yet I think I may appeal to 
 your own experience when you contrast the peaceful 
 existence you passed in Father Jerome's society, v be- 
 fore you knew Louise Orange, willi the turbulent 
 state ol' your excited feelings after your mind was
 
 18G PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 unsettled. There is a heavenly calm in feeling day 
 after day that we have left no duty unperformed, 
 and suffered no thought to gain admittance into our 
 minds, of which we should care that all the world 
 were aware as well as ourselves. When fortune 
 smiles on us, this consciousness of rectitude doubly 
 sweetens the cup of life ; and when our lot is clouded 
 with adversity, the feeling that we have not brought 
 it upon ourselves, nay that we have not deserved it, 
 enables us patiently to bear the infliction. Even in 
 the exercise of patience itself, we come to take a 
 pleasure, which is one of the best preparations, if 
 indeed it be not an anticipation of a future and 
 more perfect being. 
 
 " ' Of the extreme difficulty of this I am aware. 
 Our nature is unhappily fundamentally gross, and 
 lamentably feeble. It is ill fitted to maintain either 
 its purity or its struggle with ills. We find it hard 
 to conceive how it shall suddenly put on the mantle of 
 innocence and strength. The doctrine of an inter- 
 mediate state of existence, which shall prepare our 
 souls for happiness, has, I am quite clear, no warrant 
 of Scripture. Yet some such preparation does seem 
 to me so necessary, that I regard the want of this 
 intimation as one of the things purposely withheld
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A L.\NGUEDOC PASTOR. 187 
 
 from us in the volume of Revelation. That Sacred 
 Book, which is quite clear and precise in declaring 
 the great fact of life and immortality, and thus is 
 far above the volume of nature in its communi- 
 cations, has no superiority whatever in the details, 
 and leaves us quite in the dark as to the mode and 
 manner of our future being. So it gives us no inti- 
 mation of any purifying or perfecting process. I 
 think it possible the omission may be owing to the 
 Divine Will beincr that we should make this world 
 the place of preparation ; though after all our efforts 
 I cannot help fearing that we shall still be found 
 sadly Avanting in capacity for at once being raised 
 into the mansions of perfect purity, and boundless 
 and most refined enjoyment. 
 
 '^ ' The nature of that enjoyment is wholly con- 
 cealed from our eyes, and for the wisest reasons. It 
 is probably such that unless our present frame of 
 mind were wholly changed, we should be unable to 
 sustain the burden of our existence on earth among 
 sorrows and privations, enfeebled by weakness, and 
 harassed by difficulties, even when not vexed by 
 pain or worn down by sorrow. But we may con- 
 ceive somewhat of the future bliss in store for the 
 virtuous, if we reflect on the purest gratifications of
 
 188 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 which the mind is susceptible ; the free interchange 
 of thoughts and affections with those we love ; the 
 innocent recreations of alternating exertion and 
 repose; the contemplation of new and singular 
 truths ; the pleasure of exerting our power in minis- 
 tering to our own improvement ; and as in our 
 Father's home there are many mansions, we may 
 not all at once be admitted to the full perfection 
 which our nature is capable of attaining, but be 
 gradually raised from step to step, and thus be 
 always tasting the enjoyment of gratified curiosity 
 and conscious progression. 
 
 " ' There is assuredly one part, and in the purest 
 state of our faculties a most interesting part, of this 
 field over which a veil is drawn that we cannot help 
 wishing were removed. They who have known the 
 bitterest of sublunary afflictions, naturally are 
 anxious to be assured that those they have lost will 
 be restored, and that they shall again know one 
 another in the regions where there is no sorrowing, 
 and where separation from those they love shall 
 visit them no more. But the same wisdom, which 
 has shrouded the rest of our future prospects in 
 darkness, has suffered no light to beam upon this 
 portion of it, lest we should not be able to en-
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 189 
 
 dure our present privation and prematurely seek to 
 end it. 
 
 " ' And now, my dear youth, you are entering into 
 the world of action, of suffering, of misdeeds. If 
 your mind b;^ not strengthened and supported by 
 fixed principles of conduct, by an unceasing regard 
 to him in whom von live, and move, and have your 
 being, bv an unremitting dread of incurring your 
 own self-reproach, you are gone, and can hope no 
 more happiness either here or hereafter. Of all 
 virtuous character, and all blameless conduct, I need 
 hardly remind you that a sacred regard for truth is 
 the foundation ; it is the corner-stone of the moral 
 structure. You know the scorn of yoiu'self, the 
 shame which you felt even when no eye saw it, at 
 those concealments and fictions to which your offence 
 in the convent drove you ; and the agony with which 
 you received Father Jerome's commendation for 
 supposed conduct the reverse of that you had been 
 pursuing. You remember too the disgust which 
 vou ever felt at the cunning devices of Father 
 Ambrose, and the contempt with which the more 
 venial falsehoods of the Irish friar inspired you. To 
 have it said of one as Father Jerome said of him, 
 "The story may be true, although Father O'Hal-
 
 190 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 loran told it," — what can be more degradingr? 
 What can render a rational being more utterly 
 despicable ? Yet his untruths were not of the worst 
 kind ; they were rather invented to help himself 
 than to hurt another; but be assured truth is so 
 sacred and paramount a duty, that it can never 
 with impunity be violated ; and when you hear men 
 speak of white lies and pious frauds, tell them 
 boldly that no lies are white, though some are of a 
 blacker shade than others, and that all frauds are 
 impious, though some may be devised to compass a 
 worthy end. The God of truth and purity wills 
 that we seek good objects by right means, and has 
 appointed no dirty road by which men may clamber 
 even to heaven, 
 
 "'In proportion as falsehood is abominable, and 
 undermines every portion of the mind, so are those 
 courses to be shunned which naturally lead to it. 
 You have never lived in Nismes, or indeed in any 
 society beyond the walls of your convent, else you 
 would have seen the consequences of violated truth 
 in the lives many of our grandees lead. The mar- 
 riages which are made spring from no mutual 
 attachment of the parties, hardly even from any 
 personal acquaintance. Often they are arranged by
 
 PHILOSOrHY OF A I^iXGUEDOC PASTOR. 191 
 
 the parents for their own convenience and the sup- 
 posed good of their children ; almost always they 
 are matches of worldly interest, with a view to an 
 estabhshment alone. The heart, however, which 
 had not known love before the indissoluble knot was 
 tied, soon opens to receive what, wholesome before, 
 has now become poison. Attachments spring up, 
 which ripen into connexions, criminal in themselves 
 and a breach of the conjugal vow, but doubly per- 
 nicious in their consequences ; for they can only be 
 indulffed in secret, and must be covered over with 
 every cloak that female ingenuity can weave. Con- 
 stant dissimulation and pretence, endless contrivances 
 devised in falsehood, disguises of the real sentiments, 
 assumption of tliose not felt, an ever ready lie to 
 meet a charge as well as a suspicion — such are the 
 component parts of the existence thus passed in 
 guilt ; and as of the hypocrite so may it be said of the 
 paramour, that his whole life is one lie. You have 
 known somewhat of the same mischief produced by 
 the unnatural restraints of the monastic state, and 
 you have often told me that there are few inmates of 
 a convent in whom the natural feelings and passions 
 are so entirely dead and the obligations of the vow 
 so cheerfully undertaken as to prevent much dis-
 
 192 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGTEDOC PASTOE. 
 
 sembling and much pretence. The hypocrisy thus 
 engendered, you must have been fully sensible^ could 
 never be maintained without irreparable injury to 
 the purity and sanctity of the character ; and if you 
 had to choose in whom your confidence should be 
 reposed, j'ou never could have failed to suspect 
 those for all purposes whom you knew accustomed 
 to practise insincerity for one. 
 
 "'The great Christian rule of conduct forms one 
 unerring test of right acting ; we have but to ask, 
 * How should I like to be so treated ?' Another test 
 is also of much efficacy : ' How should I like this to 
 be known ?' And can anything be more humiUating, 
 can anything lower you more in your own estima- 
 tion, than to feel you are acting, or designing, or 
 even thinking, in a manner which, were the light let • 
 in, and your deeds, or intentions, or thoughts, made 
 known to others, you would instantly become the 
 object of their aversion or their scorn ? Can you be 
 more degraded than by feeling that you only owe 
 your escape from that hatred and that contempt to 
 the veil in which you shroud yourself? You thus 
 are wearing false colours, obtaining forbearance or 
 even commendation to which you have no right, 
 passing for that which you are not, not known for
 
 PHILOSOPHY OP A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 193 
 
 what you are ; in a word, you are a hypocrite, and 
 your life is a lie. 
 
 " ' Such is the sacredness of truth, so fatal is its 
 violation, which throws open the door wide to all evil, 
 that T will suffer nothing to palliate the least devia- 
 tion. All contrivance, all trickery, all stratagem, 
 all concealment, all pretence, I condemn as partak- 
 ing of the master-crime, father of all others, false- 
 hood. When men of experience in the ways of the 
 world lay down such maxims as are often in their 
 mouths, I try them by one test, ' Do they consist 
 in dissimulation ?' They will advise you, when 
 anxious to gain your object with others, that you 
 should appear indifferent or careless, and will assure 
 you that the less you seem anxious about it, the 
 nearer you are to success. True; if your object be 
 one you dare not avow ; if you be in quest of some- 
 thing you have no right to obtain ; if you want to 
 throw your neighbour off his guard, in order to steal 
 a march on him — true; but if your piu'pose be 
 fair, why not openly avow it? If you don't want 
 to overreach, why fear to tell what you mean and 
 what you wish ? 
 
 " ' I carry my hatred of falsehood from the highest 
 to the lowest subjects, and I will not even permit 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 what are called the harmless affectations of the 
 world. The concealment of our opinions too, the 
 avoiding of discussion when the truth is impuo-ned 
 before us, the appearance of assent to avoid opposi- 
 tion, whatever exceeds mere indolence, or good hu- 
 mour, and the unwillingness to give pain by differ- 
 ing, I proscribe as leading to dangerous habits of 
 insincerity. But above every thing, let there be no 
 pretence of affection that is not felt ; no concealment 
 of contempt under the guise of respect. We are 
 not bound to express all our thoughts and feelings; 
 but we are bound to express nothing we do not think 
 and feel. 
 
 " ' I will freely own to you that^ with the most per- 
 fect veneration for the morality of the Gospel, I am 
 sometimes staggered when I reflect on the injunction 
 to love our enemies. That we are bound to return 
 good for evil, at all events that we are forbidden to 
 injure those who have injured us, no one can doubt ; 
 this rule of the Gospel is easily obeyed ; and its 
 observance doing no violence to our nature, offers no 
 injury to our sincerity. But it has often appeared to 
 me singular that the same Being who made us what 
 we are,- should exact a duty from us, which before we 
 can perform, our nature must be changed. To keep
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A L.^JSTGUEDOC PASTOR. 195 
 
 our hands, or even our tongues, from hurtingr an 
 enemy is easy ; it is not difficult kindly to entreat 
 him ; but to love him is beyond our power, and 
 the effort can only, as I think, lead to self-deception. 
 It is a violence to our nature, perhaps, even to return 
 benefits for injuries; to love tliose who have hurt us 
 seems httle consistent with honesty, in the weakness 
 of our fallen nature ; it seems so great a violence 
 done to our strongest feelings that we can hardly 
 hope to practise it, and may be tempted to feign 
 it even with ourselves, thus seduced into either 
 hypocrisy or self-deception. Possibly the divine 
 command is only an Oriental hyperbole, or rather 
 refers to our deeds and words (which are deeds) than 
 to our thoughts ; possibly we should only read it as 
 an injunction to act as if we loved our enemies ; 
 that we should hold out the hand of friendship and 
 loving kindness to them, should embrace them as 
 friends ; and indeed to kiss, to give as it were the kiss 
 of peace, is one sense of the original Greek word, 
 
 " ' It is no deviation from my fundamental principle 
 that we should master and even smother our wrath 
 and our other violent passions ; it would be a devia- 
 tion were it certain that the fire so covered would 
 still burn ; but our nature is so constituted, that by 
 
 k2
 
 196 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 stifling we extinguish the lawless passions^ which, 
 like fire, may be suppressed, and may burn the more 
 fiercely when uncovered to the air. This is true 
 even of our feelings : grief, for instance, may be 
 indulged so as to become extravagant and prey upon 
 the mind, while some alleviation of our sorrow may 
 be derived from avoiding the external display of it^ 
 if to suppress it be impossible. 
 
 " ' Of course I entirely disapprove some practices 
 to which cunnino^ men resort of concealing their 
 angry passions in order to gratify them the more 
 securely or ihe more effectually. I have known 
 some of this class who never took offence at the 
 moment; and, if attacked in society or in con- 
 troversy, defended themselves, but not even in self- 
 defence were much moved, and never retaliated as if 
 to avenge the attack. They bottled up their fury, 
 and let it loose on some occasion for which they lay 
 in wait, that they might spring, as it were, from the 
 thicket on their prey unwarily, and thus prevent any 
 one from perceiving what they did was in revenge for 
 havino- themselves been wounded. Women are of far 
 more sensitive and nimble minds than men, and 
 can better see through others. Their over-suspicious 
 nature no doubt often fancies things to be passing in
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LAXGUEDOC PASTOR. 197 
 
 those they are inspeclmg, but also often hits on what 
 really is going on within our bosoms. Hence no such 
 stratagems as I am referring to ever deceive them ; 
 they connect the attack with its cause; they see 
 into the thicket where resentment is lurkiiig. This 
 clear-seeing of women has often astounded me, even 
 of women little remarkable for abilities. It seemed 
 as if their passions supplied force to their intellect , 
 and sharpened their wits. I have known a jealous 
 woman appear actually to know what passed within 
 the mind of her lover and her rival, as if she could 
 see through their breasts to scan their thoughts and 
 examine their designs. 
 
 " ' Men have discussed the question, whether or 
 not any circumstances, any extreme juncture, can 
 justify a breach of veracity. The dispute is really 
 about words ; for when cases are figured to show 
 that a concealment of the truth, or even the asser- 
 tion of a falsehood, is lawful, we cannot say that any 
 obligation at all is broken. No one is bound to tell 
 an assassin which way his victim has escaped ; no 
 one is bound to disclose the secret I have confided 
 to him because an impertinent person asks him ; 
 and yet, in order to prevent him obtaining the in- 
 formation which he has no right to, and which it is
 
 198 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 a duty to withhold, you may be obliged to say No, 
 at once, and not to refuse an answer, because he may 
 so frame his question, that your refusal would be a 
 confession of the truth which you are bound to con- 
 ceal. The fault in these cases is not in you who 
 only refuse the information which it would be cri- 
 minal to give, but in the other party who asks you. 
 The violation of truth is, in fact, committed by the 
 assassin, who would make you an accomplice ; or 
 the impertinent^ who would make you break your 
 trust. 
 
 " ' If truth, and a sacred regard for it, must ever 
 be the corner-stone of our character, the superstruc- 
 ture is to be reared, and the fabric maintained, by 
 firmness of purpose. This, indeed, consolidates and 
 strengthens the foundation itself; inasmuch, as a' 
 constant regard for truth can hardly be preserved 
 amidst all temptations, unless our steadfastness be 
 guarded against the disturbing forces which are con- 
 tinually acting upon us. How many miserable 
 wrecks of cast-away reputations do we see in all di- 
 rections, when the natural capacity was considerable, 
 the disposition kindly, the desire to do well reason- 
 ably strong, but yet the firm and determined will 
 wanting : and the principles, originally sound and
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 199 
 
 good, were one by one sapped, and the whole 
 crumbled down ! Consider how it happens, that a 
 life of secret indulgfence is a life of falsehood and of 
 guilt. The passion thus gratified is the father of 
 lies, but their foster-father is fear, and to resist the 
 one, as well as be above the other, requires the 
 moral courage, without which no virtue can long be 
 found to flourish. When I trained my children, I 
 was as careful to shun whatever might expose them 
 to terror, as I was to remove any ordinary tempt- 
 ation from their path. In early childhood the 
 habit of truth must be acquired, and whosoever is 
 severe to his child drives him to falsehood. Firm- 
 ness is to be taught by example, more than by 
 precept; and the parent who wavers himself in 
 his treatment infects the child with his weakness or 
 his caprice. 
 
 " ' Of pride, I know not well what to say as a 
 general rule; so closely is it allied to both great 
 ^'irtues and great excesses. In so far as it prevents 
 mean actions, it is useful : and yet, it rather acts 
 thus as a substitute for a higher and more worthy 
 motive ; it operates by the high and overweening 
 opinion of self. JNIany are saved by its influence, 
 whose principles are unsteady in other and better
 
 200 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 respects. In itself, it cometh of evil, and often leads 
 to the worst actions, to want of charity, to intoler- 
 ance, to hardness of heart, even to cruelty; and 
 revenge is its natural fruit. ^\lien it prevents base 
 deeds, as doubtless it often does, we must regard it 
 as a compensatory principle in our machine ; like 
 the parts of an engine which we sometimes see in- 
 geniously contrived to make its aberrations correct 
 themselves, and help the general movement by the 
 effects of a partial obstruction. 
 
 '''Yet after all, what mischiefs come from this 
 same pride, and how little does it become a frail 
 creature like man ! If it occasionally rescues us 
 from the degradation of a lie, does it not often recon- 
 cile us to falsehood, for the sake of covering a weak- 
 ness that is no crime, and that no one needs be. 
 ashamed of? Don't we daily see men persisting 
 in hurtful error, even on important subjects, rather 
 than freely own themselves to be in the wrong ? 
 Even on the highest is this often seen. Does it not 
 obstruct the right and wholesome course of the 
 feelings, leading now to their suppression, now to 
 their perversion ? How often do we see men 
 ashamed of being grateful ; hating to incur obli- 
 gation for fear of being compelled to admit a
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 201 
 
 superior; and when the debt, of gratitude has been 
 incurred, vainly, preposterously, thinking to pay it 
 off by fastening a quarrel on their benefactor ! Oh ! 
 no, there can be no balance in settlinsr the account. 
 It is all on one side ! The sin of the fallen anorels 
 is not redeemed by the little good that ever results 
 from its indulgence. Vanity may make us more 
 ridiculous ; pride makes us more hateful ; and 
 they who to avoid contempt fear not encovnitering 
 hatred, they who say with the tyrant, " let me be 
 detested, so I be only dreaded, and not despised," 
 are in imminent risk of incurring both inflictions, 
 and of being scorned as well as hated. Yet it is 
 more detestable than despicable : or rather our 
 laughter is lost in our indignation. When a Pro- 
 testant poet, T believe an Englishman, said that a 
 naked human heart is a sight so horrid, as only the 
 Deity can bear to look at, he surely must have had 
 in his eye the dreadful havoc that pride makes in 
 its structure. 
 
 " ' Nor is pride without an appointed punishment 
 here below. To suffer endless mortification ; to have 
 the centre of action placed beyond our frame and 
 our power, and suffer for what others do or with- 
 hold ; to be harassed by suspicion — to be riven by 
 
 k3
 
 202 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 jealousy — to be vexed by a sense of wrong because 
 we have imagined a standard of injustice for our- 
 selves; to be pressed down by a feeling of injury 
 because we have set up a rule of justice — these are 
 among the sufferings which the indulgence of pride 
 inflicts ; nor can its victim fail ever and anon to have 
 a misgiving that he is not very much consulting his 
 dignity in all he does, and all he feels ; but, on 
 the contrary, is making himself most contemptible 
 to shun contempt. In this respect, no doubt, the 
 despicable folly of extreme vanity is far less painful 
 to its possessor ; it may sometimes be mortified, but 
 it ministers, for the most part, rather to his content- 
 ment than to his distress; while pride is almost 
 always the source of uneasiness and pain. 
 
 " ' Moderation in all our feelings, my young man, 
 should be cultivated as the parent of many virtues, 
 the protector against many vices. This is so trite 
 a subject that it will bear but two remarks. The 
 utter exhaustion we feel from a relapse into tran- 
 quillity after a vehement excitement, is a paralysis 
 of the mind brought on by ourselves : it unhinges 
 us, and unfits us for all useful exertion, independent 
 of the pain it occasions. Then nothing so warps 
 the judgment as exaggerated feelings. Beware of
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 203 
 
 indulofinor either in violent friendships or strong 
 aversions : both are apt to drive us into the opposite 
 extremes. The most groundless dislikes that I have 
 ever seen succeeded to preposterous partialities ; and 
 as often as I hear a person express unreasonable 
 hatred of another, I look forward to the day when, 
 blind to real imperfections, he will become devoted 
 to the object of his former antipathy. 
 
 " ' Akin to moderation, and growing out of it, is 
 the habit of economy ; itself a virtue because con- 
 nected with justice and charity, and the mother of 
 other virtues, as well as the safeguard against many 
 evil ways. The danger of falling into the almost 
 insanity of parsimony and avarice must at the same 
 time be carefully shunned. The reason why men 
 are prone to indulge the love of mere saving arises 
 from their liking an enjoyment so entirely within 
 their own power, and under their individual control. 
 It also ministers to the love of security, removing 
 day by day all the fears which can ever invade the 
 mind of being needy or dependent. 
 
 " ' I have mentioned two simple tests of conduct, 
 as safe to be trusted ; I must add a caution of sove- 
 reign virtue as a preventative of misdeeds, because it 
 is levelled at the great corrupter, self-delusion. The
 
 204 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 passions are of all sophists the most subtle ; for they 
 not only turn away our eyes from the surrounding 
 perils, but blunt our sense of vision itself, so that we 
 could not see, were our eye pointed to the quarter 
 where the danger lies. But the worst of their sophis- 
 tries is directed against conscience itself, the judge 
 established in our own bosom by the Most High to 
 exercise his jurisdiction, both police and penal, both 
 preventive and vindictive. The sophistries I speak 
 of, practised on that judge, too often succeed in 
 swaying him over to their side. I will speak with- 
 out a figure on this most important matter. Beware 
 of the self-delusion which so often represents a 
 vengeful act as done in self-defence ! How usual 
 is it for him who would gratify a feeling of ven- 
 geance to say, " I am attacked and must protect 
 myselty — for him who would profit at his neigh- 
 bour's expense to say, " I have been injured by 
 another, and must bring myself home," — for him 
 who would gratify hatred to say, "He has wronged 
 me, and I have cause to dislike him ;" — for him who 
 would fly in the face of the public opinion and insult 
 the general feeling to say, '' All men scorn me, and 
 J must be at war with the world ! " Be assured of 
 this, that it is easier by such sophistries to disarm
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A L.VNGUEDOC PASTOE. 205 
 
 conscience of her terrors beforehand, than to quiet 
 her after cruilt has been incurred from a neglect of 
 her "warning voice; and the same power \^ill be 
 found swift and stern to pvmish in proportion as it 
 has been impotent to deter. 
 
 " ' Nor let me among the securities against vice, 
 pass over industry. The love of labour is a pro- 
 pensity not unnatural to us, and it ought to be 
 cherished constantly, never repressed. Industry is 
 a great safeguard to the virtue of a frail being like 
 man, upon whose mind the wicked passions must 
 make fearful inroads while it has no innocent pur- 
 suit wherewith to be occupied. But, independent of 
 the usefulness both to ourselves and others of la- 
 bour, independent of its being subservient to virtue ; 
 its enjoyments are great, both in the exertion of 
 our faculties, and in the repose which succeeds that 
 exertion. I have myself tasted of these sweets ; but 
 I have conversed with others whose lives were passed 
 in labours far more strenuous and unremitting than 
 my own They have described with rapture the 
 exquisite delights of having finished a long task, of 
 beincr rewarded with delicious repose after fatiguing 
 toil, of sinking into tranquil rest after severe or agi- 
 tating efforts, of letting the mind slumber when the
 
 206 PHILOSOPHY OF A LAXGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 body may be awake, or of so changing the Hne of 
 exertion as to give the faculties the same kind of 
 solace that the limbs experience by calling new 
 muscles into action. It is hardly needful to add 
 among the other virtues of great labour that there 
 is no other road to any kind of excellence. The 
 superficial impostors who would make us believe 
 they can by natural genius supply the want of 
 pains, and strike out great works at a heat, may 
 dazzle for a moment by doing badly and speedilj^, 
 what others of less quick parts do not much worse 
 in a longer time. But these works survive them 
 not. See the inimitable remains of ancient ge- 
 nius ! All is elaborated with a care quite equal 
 to the skill displayed. See the works of modern 
 art ! The lyre, the chisel, the pencil, all are used 
 by the hand of intense labour. You will find 
 drawings even of the bones and joints by great 
 painters, Michael Angelo for instance, as accurate 
 as an anatomist could produce ; and if the Venetian 
 school studied design less, it was only to bestow the 
 more pains upon the anatomy of colour and of ex- 
 pression; while botanists themselves have admired 
 the accurate drawinor and colouring' of the foliage 
 in Titian's finest picture.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 207 
 
 " ' The course before you, my dear friend, is in all 
 human probability one that will only be traced through 
 the more private and obscure paths of life. If I be- 
 lieved you were of that small number whose actions 
 could influence the destiny of their fellow-creatures, 
 whose fortunes are connected with the fate of nations, 
 I should have one hope to express, alike on their 
 account as on your own. Seek to raise monuments 
 which may give you not an imperishable name, but 
 a name that never can be pronounced without grati- 
 tude and love ; monuments which will endure, when 
 all that marble and brass can body forth shall have 
 crumbled in the dust — the improvement of your 
 kind in knowledge, in virtue, in happiness, the only 
 work worthy of a rational being, and the work 
 which alone can elevate man towards any resem- 
 blance with his Divine Original ! 
 
 "' I close my parting advice with warning you 
 against the extremes of too easy faith and too rigid 
 incredulity. In the highest of all subjects you 
 have learnt from me the imprescriptible right, and 
 even the sacred duty of exercising your own reason. 
 But, though I would guard you against being tossed 
 about with every wind of doctrine, I would not have 
 vou hastily reject the deliberate opinion of honest
 
 208 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 
 
 and enlightened men, who have well considered 
 holy subjects. The weight of that opinion is great 
 with all rational minds, though it is not derived 
 from the authority of their station, or from their 
 illustrious names, unless in so far as their renown is 
 the reward bestowed by universal consent upon their 
 merits. Upon temporal matters you will steer a 
 safe course by pursuing the same middle path. The 
 most credulous persons are often those who have 
 occasion for confidence to their asseverations, and I 
 have often observed that ready liars are easy be- 
 lievers. But, on the other hand, who will venture, 
 after what we have seen effected by science and by 
 art, to pronounce anything impossible ? You need 
 not, even after beholding men sail in the air, and 
 pump up rivers by steam, or rend rocks by gun- 
 powder, believe that we shall ever live to see them 
 travelling by steam without horses, or sailing by 
 steam against the wind ; * nor because we know how 
 respiration and combustion are performed, is it very 
 likely that we shall ever find out how the internal 
 
 * A few years later, and thirty years before railways 
 were known, Darwin distinctly foretold them in that beau- 
 tiful and philosophic poem which our Cannings made the 
 theme of their shallow wit.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A L.INGUEDOC PASTOR. 209 
 
 structure and functions of our living bodies are in- 
 fluenced by diseases; nor, because we now know many 
 new metals with strange qualities, are we likely ever 
 to see metals floating in the water and taking fire on 
 touchino- the air. Yet fororet not that we have 
 already ascertained the great laws of planetary 
 motion, of chemical action, of animal life; and turn 
 not a deaf ear to any one that predicts the arrival 
 of a time when we shall be able to see that all 
 the apparent irregularities of the heavenly bodies, 
 from their mutual disturbances, are parts of one 
 necessarily harmonious system ; that the mutual 
 actions of substances follow mechanical laws, and 
 their combinations observe definite proportions ; and 
 that the movement of our muscles may be traced 
 to the nerves which connect them with the brain. 
 These are, possibly, dreams, but they import no- 
 thincr more marvellous than the existences which 
 science has already created, and they are cer- 
 tainly more connected with the pleasures of refined 
 contemplation, the gratification of learned curiosity, 
 than with any use or any interest touching ourselves. 
 " ' But one inference powerfully strikes the mind 
 from considerations like these, and gives them the 
 closest connection with our very highest concerns.
 
 210 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR, 
 
 If parts of the worldly system, which being once 
 placed beyond our reach, appeared disjointed, with- 
 out order, and without rule, now fall gradually 
 within the scope of the laws regulating the universe, 
 so that real harmony is found to arise out of appa- 
 rent discord, and absolute regularity to reign where 
 anarchy but yesterday seemed to revel — surely we 
 have a right to conclude, that when the film shall be 
 wholly removed from our eyes and we shall no 
 longer see as through a glass darkly, we shall find 
 what to our limited faculties now wears the aspect 
 of evil permitted by the Great Maker and Disposer, 
 is no longer entitled to the name, and that Perfect 
 Goodness reigns throughout the great system which 
 Perfect Wisdom has planned and Almighty Power 
 has created !' " 
 
 The Solitary ceased to read ; and Chatillon, who 
 had listened with unabated attention to the philo- 
 sophy of the pastor, although it interrupted the 
 narrative and suspended the gratification of his cu- 
 riosity, confessed to himself that he had not passed 
 an unprofitable hour. Little used as he was to 
 deep reflection, and generally careless about any- 
 thing that did not immediately affect his senses, yet 
 the great interest excited by Albert's history, and
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF A LANGUEDOC PASTOR. 211 
 
 the affection he began to conceive for him, had led 
 to a wish that nothing should ba withheld, had 
 made him engage his best attention in the story, 
 and now made him patient of a long and general, if 
 not somewhat abstract, discourse. Many tilings had 
 in the progress of it been presented to his mind in 
 lights which had never struck him before; many 
 thino-s had been discussed on which his mind had 
 never dwelt at all ; and he felt tliat he had listened 
 to what he afterwards called a kind of sermon, with 
 more profit and less weariness than he sometimes 
 felt at the Temple, when the Countess, educated 
 in Switzerland, and having a leaning in favour of 
 the Reformed worship, had made him occasionally 
 accompany her to that congregation. But Albert 
 now resumed the narrative of his own adventures.
 
 ( 212 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE EXILE. 
 
 " I RETIRED to rest full of serious but not unpleasing 
 reflections upon the important matters which I had 
 just during two hours and upwards committed to 
 paper from my recent recollections of the pastor's 
 discourse. I could, however, take but little and 
 interrupted sleep. The anxiety which filled ray mind 
 respecting my own situation, the dark veil which 
 clouded the prospect around me to whatever point 
 I carried my view, above all, the thought that I 
 must now seek refuge in a foreign land, and quit, 
 most probably for ever, the neighbourhood of the 
 Contat, in which were my parents and my love — 
 never more to be cherished by my dear mother, 
 never more to cherish Louise — all this agitated and 
 dismayed me ; the rather that during the perjDetual 
 dread of detection in which I had been living at 
 Nismes, and my agony lest the innocent man should
 
 THE EXILE. 213 
 
 suffer for my crime, I had not been able to have 
 these tender ideas present to my mind, and had 
 never been able to abstract it from the recollections 
 which occupied all my thoughts, unless at seasons 
 when the pastor administered consolation to me, and 
 led me to discuss the articles of the Catholic and 
 Apostolic faith, or the observances of the Romish 
 ritual. I was now about to be left altogether in 
 my own company, and my mind was accordingly 
 filled both with apprehension, for the future which 
 had never left it, and with musings on the past to 
 which it had for some weeks been comparatively a 
 stranger. 
 
 " Early in the next morning M. Gardein tenderly 
 embraced me, and pronounced his blessing with a 
 devout prayer for my welfare. He made his lad 
 take me to a vetturino, with whom he had agreed to 
 carry me as far as Beaucaire ; and I arrived there 
 without any accident or any occurrence worth re- 
 counting. There was no other passenger till we 
 got within a league of the town, when, to my infi- 
 nite consternation, I saw, coming up to take a place 
 in the carriage, a person whom I at once recognized 
 as havincr seen at Avignon, though I did not know 
 him ; and it immediately struck me that he must
 
 214 THE EXILE. 
 
 be on the look-out for me, and had received inti- 
 mation of my travelling by this vetturino. I drew 
 instinctively back, and ensconced myself in the dark- 
 est corner at the back of the long clumsy vehicle. 
 To my no small relief, the man quietly drew out a 
 pipe, and began to strike a light and involve himself 
 in the clouds he exhaled. I took, however, the first 
 opportunity of leaving the carriage and passing 
 swiftly through Beaucaire, till, reflecting that my 
 walking quick might excite suspicion, as I had re- 
 sumed my peasant's dress, I slackened my pace^ 
 and, buying some bread and some cheese, refreshed 
 myself for the journey before me. The road towards 
 Aix is uninteresting ; I met very few people by the 
 way; and at night I slept in a small cabaret, where 
 they let me lie on the bench for a few sous. Next 
 day I arrived at Aix ; and as I sat in an inn fre- 
 quented by muleteers, wishing to obtain a convey- 
 ance or to accompany some one towards Dauphine, 
 that I might get into Switzerland, I was inexpressi- 
 bly shocked to hear the conversation turn upon the 
 murder of Avignon, as it was called. The gross 
 exaggerations with which it was interlarded did not 
 prevent me from recognizing the portion of truth 
 on which the fabrication rested ; and my heart sunk
 
 THE EXILE. 215 
 
 within me when I heard that one of the criminals 
 had been secured on his flight towards Marseilles, 
 and was in the Papal prison at Avignon, where he 
 had been condemned to the rack. I eave a convul- 
 sive start, and well nis^h shrieked to think of Isidore. 
 It now seemed cis if all eyes must be upon me ; but 
 so frantic did I become at the thoughts of my dear 
 companion suffering for me, that I little regarded 
 my own situation, and was prepared to go back and 
 surrender myself, when a remark that escaped re- 
 speecting money having been found in the prisoner's 
 girdle made me conceive the hope that the whole 
 was a mistake of the police proceeding at Nismes. 
 This relieved my anxiety for the moment, but I 
 could not leave Aix under the uncertainty ; I went 
 to a place were the Avignon Gazette could be 
 read; and as I found nothing in it except an ac- 
 count of the Nismes proceeding and the escape of 
 the prisoner, my alarm was quieted. 
 
 " I now took the road to Sisteron, in order to ar- 
 rive at Grenoble. The further I removed from the 
 Contat, I felt that my fears became less strong, and 
 I could even enjoy the magnificent scenery and the 
 fine weather, neither too sultry nor at all chilly, 
 which the season, though advanced to the very end
 
 216 THE EXILE. 
 
 of autumn, gave. When the mind is in an agitated 
 or a melancholy state, there is something peculiarly 
 mournful in the serene aspect of a sunny sky, and 
 the tranquil beauty of a fine landscape, such as 
 many of the valleys near the Durance and the Isere 
 present. The contrast is striking between what is 
 felt within and seen without ; but the thought which 
 prevails when our affliction rests upon the loss of 
 those most beloved, or upon an uncertainty as to 
 their fate, is that we refer to them the surrounding 
 objects.—'^ Shall the dear Father Jerome ever more 
 open his eyes beaming with kindness on this glo- 
 rious sun ? It rises as formerly when we have 
 walked forth in the cool of the morning to contem- 
 plate together the works of the Creator, and when 
 the father's learning taught how that light was- 
 composed, which clothes all nature in varied hues. It 
 sets as formerly when we have gone out to meditate 
 at eventide, and when his lessons taught me that 
 the reflection on a well-spent day is more serene 
 than the summer heavens as night comes on, and 
 the beauties of virtue dazzle more than the sparkles 
 in the starry firmament. Yes, it rises and sets ; 
 lighting men to their labours, or suggesting to them 
 their needful repose ; but on the holy friar's grave
 
 THE EXILE. 217 
 
 it sheds in vain its rays ; for him there is no alterna- 
 tion of seasons ; it is dark always : it is cold the 
 year through ; the warmth of that heart is extin- 
 guished which so long glowed with love of God and 
 man, and the gentle light of that eye is quenched, 
 which shone with intelligence and glistened with 
 tenderness ! Whose impious hand laid the vene- 
 rable Father low? Does he — can he bear yet 
 to live, and live even to be filled with anxious 
 fear about the burden of the vile life he carries 
 about, not daring to shake oif his hated existence ? 
 Then can I be sure of that being the last crime 
 which rests on my loaded conscience, and should 
 bend down my g^^iilty head ? Is it certain after all 
 that Isidore has not fallen a sacrifice to my escape ? 
 His friendship, which made him my accomplice by 
 aiding my concealment and sharing in my flighty 
 has exposed him to the risk of capture ; and am I 
 sure that in my absence he has not become an ex- 
 piatory offering for my sacrilege ? ' — It seemed as 
 if a second time within a few weeks I had involun- 
 tarily the guilt of blood upon me, by the blow 
 which I had wilfully and wickedly designed for 
 others having fallen upon those I most would have 
 desired to spare. Such were the reflections with 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE EXILE. 
 
 which I cast my eyes on the magnificent landscape 
 that is spread from the Isere by Vizille, as far as 
 the sight can reach, terminated by the Swiss Alps. 
 It opened upon me in a fine setting sun, as I came 
 round the point between La Mure and La Freye. 
 There are few more striking or more noble pro- 
 spects to be seen. A vast and cultivated plain 
 stretches to an immense distance in front, with two 
 considerable towns in the foreground, and studded 
 with villages and farm-houses as far as the eye can 
 reach, Vizille is romantic from its fine buildings; 
 and to gain La Freye, you have to cross the Isere 
 on a handsome and spacious bridge. The Drax 
 rolls on in ample flood below Grenoble to the 
 left, and that fine city stands on an eminence 
 which commands the champaign country on either 
 side of the rapid stream. The Higher Alps, on 
 whose chain is the Grande Chartreuse, rise behind 
 it at a moderate distance, and the view on the other 
 side is closed by the lofty mountains of Switzer- 
 land, among which the glaciers are seen to tower 
 in the severe majesty of eternal snow, the loftiest of 
 the whole, Mont Blanc, losing its purple summit 
 in the clouds. This magnificent spectacle for the 
 moment distracted my thoughts from melancholy
 
 THE EXILE. 219 
 
 contemplations, and I cast a wistful eye to the time 
 when I used to visit new scenery, light of heart, and 
 indulge in day-dreams of other excursions and 
 other contemplations witli those I loved and should 
 see no more. 
 
 " As the sun sank behind the lower chain to the 
 west, I entered the fortifications of Grenoble, and 
 could not help feeling a shudder when I found 
 myself surrounded with the force of the place. It 
 seemed as if each soldier was ready to stop and 
 to execute justice on one who was fleeing from it. 
 I buried myself in a low inn, frequented by Swiss 
 cattle-dealers, and at once saw how unlike my dress 
 was to either those persons or any one in the Gre- 
 noble country. My alarm was increased by a 
 servant-girl of the cabaret remarking that I neither 
 seemed to speak like the French nor the Swiss. So 
 I stole out of the inn and took shelter in another, 
 where, happily, I passed without observation. Next 
 morning I sallied forth to find my way up the 
 mountains; and observing a crowd in the public 
 place, I safely mixed in it, all being so deeply intent 
 on something which was passing upon a stage 
 erected near, that none thought of regarding me at 
 all. But what was my horror, my unspeakable dis- 
 
 l2
 
 220 THE EXILE. 
 
 may^ to see that the object all thus gazed on was an 
 execution ! The priests were administering the last 
 rites of the church to the unhappy culprit, a young 
 man of most forbidding aspect^ and rude,, savage 
 mien, against whom the feelings of the multitude 
 seemed strongly excited. I would have given worlds 
 to be at a distance from the accursed spot, but I 
 felt as rivetted to it ; and my agony of mind was 
 severely increased when 1 saw the preparations for 
 the rack before the sentence of death should be 
 executed. I had heard those around recounting 
 the particulars of his crime with horror ; but this 
 feeling was soon to undergo a great and a sudden 
 change. When stretched on the terrible wheel, his 
 screams filled the air, and were echoed by the in- 
 dignant spectators. True, he had committed a 
 cruel murder ! the murder of a working man in the 
 neighbouring wood for the lucre of gain, that he 
 and his comrades, of a gay night, might spend the 
 poor traveller's money, the price of his summer's 
 labours in the Grenoble forest, with which he was 
 hastening home to support his little family, widowed 
 and made orphans by his fate. True, all this was 
 well known, and had been preached upon in the 
 sermons of the friars ever since the condemn ation^
 
 THE EXILE. 221 
 
 as well as promulgated in the proclamation of the 
 sentence by the magistrates. True, the murdered 
 peasant had long been well known as frequenting 
 the vicinity of the town, and respected for his or- 
 derly and quiet demeanour, as well as for his 
 unwearying industry, so that his death had been 
 bewailed, and the public anxiety, till the murderer 
 was discovered, had been wound up to a high pitch, 
 making the discovery the subject of general exult- 
 ation ; and, if a less cruel punishment had been 
 inflicted, even a capital punishment, all sympathy 
 would have been interested on the side of justice. 
 But the sanguinary, the unmerciful spectacle, of 
 agony beyond the power of human endurance, de- 
 liberately inflicted by the officers of the law, oblite- 
 rated all recollection, even the strongest and the 
 most fresh, from the minds of the assembled thou- 
 sands ; all their feelings were perverted ; they had 
 only sympathy with the sufferer whose contortions 
 they saw before them, whose shrieks and groans 
 rent the air ; and if they could find a place in their 
 bosoms for any other feeling, it was for indignation 
 against the merciless law, wliich, execrating for its 
 needless and revolting cruelty, they unjustly ac- 
 cused also of violating all justice. The criminal
 
 222 THE EXILE. 
 
 had changed places with the murdered man^ and 
 become the object of pubUc compassion; the law 
 had taken the place of the crime, and was the object 
 of detestation. Their feeling was to rescue the 
 suffering culprit, and wreak their vengeance on the 
 ministers of justice. 
 
 " I have often since reflected on this exhibition of 
 popular feeling, and drawn from it the conclusion 
 that such must ever be the effect of punishments 
 which, either from being disproportioned to the 
 offence, or from being of a kind needlessly cruel 
 and revolting, fail to carry the public feelings along 
 with them ; and I have further felt persuaded from 
 the savage spirit which I saw excited at Grenoble, 
 that sanguinary punishments have a tendency to pre- 
 pare criminals rather than repress crime by habi- 
 tuating to cruel sights the minds of the vulgar, un- 
 educated, and acting from blind impulse. But such 
 reflections were not the suggestions of that moment ; 
 I could then only tliink of the terrible scene before 
 me ; I felt as if each turn of the wheel was destined 
 for my own limbs ; I seemed as if doomed by Pro- 
 vidence to a foretaste of the fate which awaited me. 
 The finishing stroke, the cowp de grace, was at length 
 allowed to terminate the wretch's agony, and re-
 
 THE EXILE. 223 
 
 lieve the spectators as well as the principal sufferer ; 
 it seemed to terminate my bodily and my far less 
 tolerable mental sufferings : and when the black 
 pall was flung over tlie wheel on which the mur- 
 derer's body lay stretched, I for the moment, could 
 hardly avoid envying him his last, perhaps liis first 
 repose, as I hastened away from the dreadful scene, 
 scarce conscious of what I did, and wholly careless 
 whither I went. 
 
 " My state of mind while winding through the 
 Alpine passes I cannot well describe, for I could 
 think of nothing but the Public Place at Grenoble, 
 and could only see the horribly distorted face of the 
 tortured murderer. But this I remember, that I 
 shunned the path which leads to the Grande Char- 
 treuse, feeling alarmed at any approach to a mo- 
 nastery. After several days of suffering, caused by 
 the cold, which had set in like winter in these 
 elevated regions, I at length came in sight of 
 the frontier, and reflected that I had no passport. 
 Ignorant whether it was a Catholic or a Protestant 
 canton that I was about to enter, I durst not say I 
 had become a convert to the Reformed faith and 
 was flying from persecution; and I could think of no 
 other means of escape from the police of the boun-
 
 224 THE EXILE. 
 
 daries than waiting till night fell, sauntering on 
 the unfrequented road, and then clambering up to 
 some height on the mountain at the peril of falling 
 over a precipice. Fortunately I found a hut in 
 which sheep had been driven for shelter against the 
 cold, and I contrived with the aid of their warmth 
 to pass the night, one of the most dismal I had 
 known since my escape. Next morning I found 
 myself among a race of peasants different from 
 those I had seen any where in France, and I 
 breathed freely on being assured that I had alto- 
 gether escaped from my native country. 
 
 " I did not, however, venture to linger long on the 
 frontier ; I gradually made my way through the 
 canton, reached the Lake of Geneva, and before 
 November set in, which in these parts of the world 
 is completely established winter, I had got as far as 
 the neighbourhood of Vevay, on the upper part of 
 the Leman lake. 
 
 " The country there is exceedingly fine, but I 
 found the winter severe. What made the life more 
 vexatious was the difficulty I found in obtaining 
 work, for my only resource was day labour in the 
 fields. I was afraid to seek employment as a clerk, 
 or shopman, or any capacity showing education.
 
 THE EXILE. 225 
 
 lest I should betray my secret. Even among- pea- 
 sants I ran, or constantly felt that I ran, a risk of 
 discovery. After I had been some time in a farm- 
 house about a league from the town, taking care 
 of the cattle and stables, a work which I certainly 
 must have done very indifferently, I was one morn- 
 ing alarmed by a man who slept in the same room, 
 and whom I observed looking very attentively at my 
 bed while he thought me still asleep. I did not 
 move, and I observed that he went to the door, and 
 whispered to another, a servant-girl who was pass- 
 ing. They both came and gazed. I then per- 
 ceived to my great alarm that it was at the white- 
 ness of my skin they were wondering, one hand 
 and arm Ijing over the bed-clothes as I slept or 
 seemed to sleep. They stood wondering, and 
 looked attentively at me and at each other. Afraid 
 of awakening me, they stole away, and I heard them 
 whisper something on leaving the room, as if they 
 remarked on the language I spoke. All this was 
 enough, and more than enough, to rouse my fears, 
 and I resolved to go further from the town. But 
 the day being Sunday, I determined to go there once 
 before I left the neighbourhood, in order to see at 
 dusk in tlie coffee-house or reading-room whether 
 
 l3
 
 226 THE EXILE. 
 
 there was any mention made of news from Avignon. 
 The first paragraph that struck my eye fixed me to 
 the spot. My having been at Nismes was mentioned 
 as a prevaihng rumour, but probably connected 
 with the pohce proceeding, and it was said that the 
 daughter of a respectable family, the cause of the 
 whole, though she did not accompany my flight, had 
 since left the Contat and taken refuge in the Protest- 
 ant city. The editor or news-writer indulged in 
 severe remarks on the intrigues of the Reformers, 
 and deemed it a duty incumbent on the government 
 of the most Christian king to purge the land of their 
 pastors, as his ancestor of pious memory had done a 
 century ago. 
 
 " I now removed to some distance from Vevay, 
 and sought employment on the opposite side of the 
 lake near St. Gingoulph. On revolving the report, 
 and reflecting upon the likelihood of Louise, who 
 was clearly the person meant, leaving tlie Contat, it 
 appeared very probable she should have heard of my 
 going to Nismes, as the good pastor had informed 
 my family of my retreat. I therefore ventured to 
 write to him, and, putting no name to my letter, I in- 
 formed him where I was, beseeching him to give me 
 any information he could as to poor Louise. Day
 
 THE EXILE. 227 
 
 after day I went to the post-office in hope of receiv- 
 ing his answer ; and after a month had elapsed, I 
 was mortified beyond expression to see my letter 
 stuck up as not having been forwarded, for want of 
 the postage required in the case of letters going out 
 of the canton. I durst not pay it ; because, forget- 
 ing how many of the peasants in these countries can 
 read and write, I was fearful my being able to do so 
 miglit excite suspicion, as it inevitably would in 
 France. But a fellow servant taking his own letter 
 one day shewed me my mistake, and I franked 
 mine over the frontier. Another period of anxious 
 expectation now succeeded, and when I asked for 
 letters directed to Paul Meyer, I was somewhat 
 roughly asked by the post-mistress, if I was a Ger- 
 man, as I spoke a kind of French, I said I came 
 from Alsace, and was no longer molested. 
 
 " The Swiss are a people of rude manners, who 
 possibly on that account get credit for more honesty 
 than they really have. They are exceedingly selfish, 
 and, though not capable of the trickery for which 
 the Italians are famed, will go a good way from the 
 straight path to serve their own ends. They have, 
 I think, less warmth of heart than the Germans, as 
 they also have less grossness. In some parts of the
 
 228 THE EXILE. 
 
 country, as Geneva, Lausanne, Neufchatel, they are 
 sufficiently civilized, and show much aptitude for 
 literary and even scientific pursuits. But their 
 genius is not original ; they are good at abridging 
 and explaining ; they have the gift of didactic 
 faculties in rather an eminent measure ; they are 
 good also at pursuing minutely and into their details 
 the discourses and the theories of more enlarged 
 and original minds ; but they are themselves of a 
 narrow and petty intellect. If, however, their genius 
 is confined, their self-sufficiency is on a very large 
 scale ; no people are better pleased with themselves, 
 nor more easily satisfied with their own perform- 
 ances. This complacent temper extends from the 
 qualities to the possessors. They regard their little 
 coimtry as the eye of Europe, and their paltry 
 affairs as of incalculable importance. Their man- 
 ners have the tinge of their contracted understandings, 
 and of their selfish dispositions. They are pedantic 
 in the extreme; the word precieux (priggish) seems 
 to have been invented for their especial use ; they 
 are also most regular and orderly, being of cold pas- 
 sions as well as sluggish feelings ; method is their 
 god. I used to think they always did the same 
 things, and almost said the same things, at the
 
 THE EXILE. 229 
 
 same hour every day. Their mirth is of a mourn- 
 ful caste ; it is duhiess thrown into action ; so that 
 I can well comprehend what the witty Bishop of 
 Autun is reported to have said when asked if Geneva 
 was not rather dull, ' Yes, particularly in its gaieties' 
 (Oui, surtout quand on s'y amuse). I saw little 
 of the upper classes, until a subsequent visit ; but 
 the peasantry, among whom I lived, are a simple, 
 though a somewhat rude and abundantly selfish 
 people. They are much attached to their country, 
 and have credit for more love of liberty than they 
 can with any truth pretend to, all they care for 
 beinor their own institutions; and those of the aris- 
 tocratic cantons are just as much attached to their 
 slavish customs as the inhabitants of the democratic 
 states are to their free government. They are all 
 brave, however, and I believe would make a stout 
 resistance with their rifles and their stones or rocks, 
 were any foreign power to invade their valleys. 
 The upper classes, even in the most democratic 
 parts, are fonder of rank and value themselves on 
 antiquity of family more than any people I ever saw. 
 " After some weeks of farther anxiety and. sus- 
 pense, I at length, when I asked for Paul Meyer's 
 letters, had one put into my hand in the dear old
 
 230 THE EXILE. 
 
 pastor's handwriting. Who can depict my agita- 
 tion as I ran home with it in my bosom, building a 
 thousand castles in the air, all inhabited by Louise 
 Orange ; but now and then harassed with fears of 
 some sinister accident having befallen her, or those 
 whom I so dearly loved at home ! I stole into a 
 light granary of the farm-house, and closing the door, 
 laid the letter before me, dreading to open it, and 
 dissipate my visions or realize my fears. The state 
 of the seal immediately caught my eye ; it had been 
 broken, it was plainly cut across with some sharp 
 instrument, and its parts were clumsily joined. 
 Thus, satisfied that other eyes had seen the contents, 
 I read them with the most feverish anxiety; and 
 though no names were mentioned, yet if the same 
 hands had opened and the same eyes read mine to 
 M. Gardein, it must be known that the ' young 
 man' meant Louise, and the ' Hospital ' meant the 
 monastery. The alarm which this reflection naturally 
 excited did not prevent me from devouring the good 
 pastor's few lines, in which he informed me that the 
 friars were as vigorous as ever in their search after 
 me ; that he had written to make his brother-in-law, 
 and Ultimate friend, a clergyman near St. Meurice, 
 between that and St. Gingoulph, receive me as his
 
 THE EXILE. 231 
 
 guest; and that from him I should learn more respect- 
 ing all in whom I took most interest. I hastened to 
 M. Girard's house, the spot pointed out, in the dusk, 
 fortunately as the event proved ; for the next day 
 two persons strongly suspected of belonging to the 
 French embassy at Zurich arrived at the farm where 
 I had been working, and enquiring first for one Paul 
 Meyer, and then for a person lately arrived from 
 France, left no doubt as to my being the object of 
 their search. I was thus compelled to confide a 
 portion of my liistory to M. Girard, who provided 
 me with an entirely new disguise, that of a clergy- 
 man; but I took the precaution of disguising my 
 face with red whiskers, and wearing a pair of green 
 spectacles.
 
 ( 232 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 "M. GiRARD was a very worthy man, far advanced 
 in life, of venerable presence, of silent and reserved 
 manners, a model of piety to his flock, and abounding 
 in charitable dispositions ; but he was both of a con- 
 tracted mind compared with M. Gardein, had not 
 any knowledge of the world like him, and gave 
 little pleasure in his social intercourse. He excelled 
 in the discharge of his pastoral duties. To his 
 people he was kind and attentive, distributing among 
 them the savings of an extremely poor income, and 
 often reheving from absolute want the labourers who 
 could at all times with such difficulty find employ- 
 ment, that work was run after, and canvassed for, 
 and distributed among them as places of profit may 
 be in more happy and easy communities. How I 
 have seen the clerk after service on a Sunday, taking 
 the poor working-people aside into the porch and
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNIXG. 233 
 
 communicating with an air of importance, a patron- 
 izing air, what they heard with delight and scarcely 
 could believe to be true, that in the course of a day 
 or two a new wall would be built, not above a league 
 off, and some ground cleared for planting, which 
 would give a month's employment to fourteen or 
 fifteen men !* They went home blessing Heaven for 
 mercies so plenteously showered down upon them, 
 and well convinced that in no country under the sun 
 did more real felicity reside than among the Alps. 
 M. Girard on such occasions never failed to improve 
 their pious and contented feelings, and to draw a 
 moral of patience and submission to the Divine will 
 when things should wear a less smiling aspect. 
 
 " To see this good man in his most attractive 
 aspect, it was necessary to go, not into his society or 
 even his study, for his learning was small, but to be 
 among his congregation on a Sunday. His aged 
 aspect had a truly venerable air ; his silver hair 
 scantily covered a high and arched forehead, in which 
 his eyes were sunk deep ; his countenance was ex- 
 pressive, benevolent, but perfectly serious ; his action, 
 extremely simple, was yet not without the graces of 
 a natural manner occasionally warmed with his sub- 
 * See the ' Leonard and Gertrude' of Pestalozzi.
 
 234 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 ject ; he spread his hands over his flock as if he would 
 gather them under his wing and protect them from 
 the blast of sin, or the blight of unbelief ; his voice 
 was sonorous, but generally of sufficient harmony ; 
 and at times when he exerted it, as in preaching a 
 funeral or other occasional sermon, there was some- 
 thing peculiarly touching in his earnest simplicity. 
 But one method he had of being impressive, of 
 commanding attention, and creating the deepest 
 silence — when coming to a passage intended to be 
 striking and effective, he did not speak loud, but 
 dropt his voice suddenly, and threw it out with ex- 
 traordinary distinctness indeed, but only in a loud 
 whisper. The effect of this was such as I never re- 
 member to have seen equalled in any other preacher 
 or speaker. Another thing I also remarked in his 
 preaching. When he wovild handle any pathetic 
 subject, as on occasion of a funeral, his topics were 
 all of the plainest, most ordinary, even homely kind, 
 and his language the most simple and unadorned : 
 the impression on the feelings which his discourse 
 produced was in consequence very great. He used 
 few notes; preparing himself diligently both by 
 reading, meditation, and prayer, in which he 
 devoutly engaged for some time before going to his
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 235 
 
 church. But his sermons were the fruit of study, 
 and not the wild effusions of extemporary fancy, or 
 undisciplined enthusiasm. He had nothing at all 
 fanatical in his composition ; and though his know- 
 ledge was confined, it embraced the two great sub- 
 jects which it most imports the preacher to know, 
 the Sacred Writings and the human heart. He 
 had the gift of searching both, as both had been 
 the study of his long life. Tliough his occa- 
 sional discourses might be more striking, I con- 
 fess the ministrations in which he has produced 
 upon me the greatest effect were his ordinary dis- 
 tributing of the Sacrament of the Supper, and 
 his reading the Burial Service. He gave the former 
 with his wonted simplicity ; and I was greatly im- 
 pressed with a practice which he had, I believe, 
 himself introduced — -he read with a solemn voice 
 the Ten Commandments, laid down the book which 
 he had held up, and then took the Elements in his 
 hands. The effect was solemn beyond anything I 
 can describe. I never saw him lift before his face 
 the broad volume of inspired truth, and turn toward 
 the congregation, without awe ; and I felt a thrill 
 through my whole frame when he said with a clear, 
 loud, and authoritative voice, ' God spake all these
 
 236 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 words and said, I am the Lord thy God ! Thou 
 shalt have none other Gods but me.' 
 
 " The deep sorrow of which I tasted so largely 
 while under his quiet roof, and which made rae 
 wholly forget my troubles and dangers, has mourn- 
 fully impressed on my mind the recollection of all 
 that there passed around me, nor is the remembrance 
 so unpleasing as might be supposed. I know not if 
 I be constituted as others are made, but I have a 
 strange hankering after recollections of the past ; and 
 no sooner has any portion of my existence become 
 shadowed over in the mist of distance, than I look back 
 upon it with a pleasing emotion, as if wistful that it 
 were renewed. Even when I have been at the time 
 most miserable, nay, while I have the distinct recol- 
 lection of my hours having then been spent far less 
 comfortably than the ones actually flying over my 
 head, yet still it seems enough that they should be 
 the past hours, that tlieir events should have sunk 
 into the shade of distance, and their pains, or their 
 perils, or their languor, only live in the memory, for 
 me to regard them with regret, and sigh for their 
 return with an unavailing and unintelligible fond- 
 ness. It is this feeling that in part makes me take 
 some pleasure in recounting to you my history, and
 
 TIIE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 237 
 
 overcomes a reluctance which I mio^ht otherwise 
 feel to dwell on a retrospect of so much sorrow. 1 
 pursue my narrative. 
 
 " I had not been many days at M. Girard's when 
 he took me into his study, and communicated the 
 information that Louise had set out from Nismes to 
 pass the spring, now beginning to break, with his 
 granddaughter who lived with him, and was a plain 
 but not un pleasing girl of about eighteen. Who- 
 ever has been suffered, beyond his hopes, to escape 
 from a prison to which he saw no end, whoever has 
 been restored to health by some sudden change, 
 after he had been given over, and told to prepare for 
 death, can conceive, none others well can, the sud- 
 den change in all my feelings, thoughts and pro- 
 spects which the intelligence produced. I had only 
 power to ask if she knew I was at St. Gingoulph ; 
 but I was told she did not ; and that it was probable 
 she never would have consented to come had she 
 been apprised of it ; for she was a rigid Catholic, 
 and, having heard of my conversion, had, though 
 v,-ith a severe struggle, done violence to her feelings, 
 and dismissed me from her thoughts, as if the revo- 
 lution in my state and my sentiments, which had 
 truly removed the chief impediment to our union.
 
 238 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 had raised up between us an impassable barrier. 
 There was no reasoning with her on this point, M. 
 Girard said ; for as he j ustly observed, it is unfor- 
 tunate, that on the most momentous of all subjects, 
 that of religion, men seldom reason at all, they only 
 feel. However, I was young, and sanguine, and I 
 awaited her arrival with inexpressible anxiety. She 
 came at length, and I thought she was more beau- 
 tiful than ever. Through my thick disguise, she at 
 once recognized me, and her salutation was perfectly 
 friendly, though it betokened feelings far different 
 from the rapture that filled my bosom, and that she 
 aforetime had also shared. She was calm and she 
 was melancholy ; she frankly avowed to me the state 
 of her sentiments ; declared her fixed resolution ; as- 
 sured me that had she known I was under M. Girard's" 
 roof, or in his neighbourhood, she never would have 
 given me the pain or herself the uneasiness of com- 
 ing ; and finally, begged me to believe that, as she 
 was inflexible in her determination, I must not only 
 avoid any allusion whatever to our former intimacy, 
 but frequent her society as little as it was possible to 
 do in a very small house. Hope is strong when 
 man is young, and though cast down I did not 
 despair ; but I own that the extreme calmness of her
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 239 
 
 whole demeanour, the little effect produced on her 
 by the surprise of finding me at St. Gingoulph, above 
 all the extreme devotion to the observances of the 
 Catholic faith, which I soon found had taken fast 
 hold of her mind, and literally filled her whole time, 
 did give me very painful apprehensions ; these soon 
 were crowned with an alarm from the intimations of 
 her young friend, who though a Protestant had been 
 educated at a convent in Avignon, where her father 
 lived, and had a leaning towards Romanism, which 
 she concealed from her grandfather, though she saw 
 very frequently the Romish priest of St. Meurice, 
 that Louise herself had serious thoughts of taking the 
 veil. This, it seems, had become a favourite plan 
 of Louise after my flight and conversion ; it had 
 become a resource in her hours of sorrow ; and it 
 fully accounted for her calmness on meeting me and 
 her generally altered demeanour. Emilie, I found, 
 had no such thoughts, nor, indeed, had she yet quitted 
 the Protestant faith. 
 
 " Nevertheless, the time passed with me very dif- 
 ferently from anything I had been accustomed to 
 since I left Avignon, and one effect of the passion 
 which now became once more my master, was that 
 it absorbed all other feelings, and left little room for
 
 240 THE HOUSE or MOURNING. 
 
 even the fears that were unavoidably incident to my 
 situation. To this passion^ too, fresh fuel was daily 
 administered ; I saw and conversed with Louise, 
 though always in the presence of Mdlle. Emilia 
 Fonrose. We generally sat in her little room, 
 where her books, her work, her beads, her cruci- 
 fixes, and her little caskets of relics, were tastefully 
 arranged; having no other instrument in that small 
 and frugal household, Emilie used to sing and play 
 on a small guitar ; her grandfather had given her 
 one of the musical boxes made at Geneva, which 
 played the three tunes she most admired. It was one 
 of her simple and innocent relaxations to set these 
 playing after she had fatigued herself with work ; 
 and she had a little bird which sang so sweetly that 
 we would sit for a length of time to hear its war- " 
 bling. With this enchanting Louise, and her amiable 
 friend, the hours flew swiftly away ; and the summer 
 came on with all the loveliness of an Alpine climate. 
 Emilie, indeed, was herself a person of very great 
 merit. Without the least pretensions to beauty, 
 she was pleasing in her expression of countenance, 
 of simple and even graceful manners, of the most 
 mild and placid temper I have ever known, and of a 
 calm and unerring good sense which would in any
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 241 
 
 one have made a profitable exchange if bartered for 
 more showy qualities. Her humble sense of her 
 own merits, her constantly preferring others to her- 
 self in all matters from the greatest to the most 
 trifling, her quiet, retiring demeanour, which only 
 let her come forward into notice when drawn out 
 from her modest retreat, made her a favourite with 
 all that approached her. Her benevolence was un- 
 bounded, and though almost as poor as many of the 
 objects of her bounty, she would deny herself every 
 thing that bore the remotest resemblance to indul- 
 gence, in order to taste what she relished far more, 
 the delights of charity. Her small pecuniary means 
 failing, she would take bread to give when a family 
 was perishing for want of work ; and when she 
 could not in any way help the poor, it was one of 
 her choicest recreations in hard weather to feed the 
 poor little birds that flocked round her, and showed 
 by their chirping and flapping their wings, that they 
 knew their kind protectress as soon as she walked 
 into the garden. She formed the only link which 
 now connected her grandfather with this world, and 
 he was wont to say that, should it ever please Pro- 
 vidence to take her from him, his earthly career 
 was closed. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 THE HOUSE OF MOURXING. 
 
 " To be so many months in the society of EmiHe 
 Fonrose, without feeling deeply penetrated with her 
 virtues, and touched with the incomparable sweetness 
 of her disposition, was impossible. There was even 
 something inexpressibly affecting in the poverty, not 
 squalid, even not inelegant, that reigned through 
 the pastor's small establishment. I have often felt 
 moved with the innocent joy of this artless girl, 
 when she had secretly saved a few sous, and laid 
 them out in purchasing a little tea, a luxury un- 
 known in the ordinary fare of the parsonage. She 
 would then invite her grandfather and me to par- 
 take of this treat in her room. It might have made 
 the hard and silly muscadins of Paris or of Nismes 
 smile to see what only drew tears from my eyes ; 
 the kind of pride with which she would do the 
 honours of her frugal feast, and the little air of 
 patronage and of consequence which she seemed to 
 wear, as a great lady might dispensing a nobler 
 repast. If the good pastor's mind had not been 
 far removed above worldly objects, the feeling 
 which then filled him would probably have been 
 that of repining that his child was not shining in 
 a higher sphere, worthy of being adorned by her. 
 But he seemed to think more justly, and more con-
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOTJEXIXG. 243 
 
 tentedly ; and as he was, though of dry if not hard 
 exterior, yet of a warm and even tender heart, it 
 was easy to see his eye glistening with delight at 
 marking the pleasure she seemed to enjoy. 
 
 ''There is an indissoluble connection between 
 all the feelings of the heart, as much as among 
 the vessels that circulate its blood throuofh our 
 frames. Not to have felt my brotherly aflfection 
 for Emilie ripen -into love, had Louise been taken 
 from me, would, I verily think, have been impos- 
 sible. Shall I own it ? This idea began to pass 
 through my mind as she persevered in forbidding 
 all renewal of the subject which she had at first 
 proscribed ; and Emilie became, naturally, the con- 
 fidant of the afl3iction which this, coupled with the 
 sad prospect of the nunnery ever before my eyes, 
 occasioned. But it pleased the Great Disposer to 
 order otherwise than that any such end of my inter- 
 course with her should arrive. 
 
 *'In order to make some small purchases for the 
 summer, and to see an old friend of her deceased 
 mother, married to the English chaplain, Emilie 
 went to Geneva ; and I, as well as Louise, accom- 
 panied her. We staid over the Sunday, and at- 
 tended the English service ; we all understood the 
 
 M 2
 
 244 THE HOUSE OF MOURNIN-G. 
 
 language well enough to admire that noble liturgy ; 
 Louise greatly preferred it to the simple Calvinistic 
 ritual she had heard at St. Gingoulph. Alas ! we 
 were fated soon to hear a more striking portion of 
 that fine service. After the sermon was over, we 
 looked at the monuments ; and Emilie said to the 
 old clergyman, she should like to be buried there ; 
 but Louise would not allow that it could be called 
 consecrated ground. Next day, we were invited to 
 join a water-party on the lake, given by a family 
 that lived near Secherons, about half-a-league from 
 the town. A younor English sea-officer must needs 
 shew his naval skill by taking charge of the boat, 
 and, for some time, he succeeded well enough, the 
 breeze being steady. But the boatmen, accustomed 
 to the squalls which are common to all lakes sur-" 
 rounded by unequal and abrupt heights, repeatedly 
 warned, and warned him in vain, not to trust his 
 maritime experience, which would here assuredly 
 fail him. In trying to double a point, we met a 
 sudden change of wind, which at once upset the 
 boat. I rushed towards Louise, whom one of the 
 men succeeded in saving ; but poor Emilie sank to 
 rise no more. The officer himself paid the forfeit 
 of his rashness, for though he kept himself afloat.
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 245 
 
 the rudder of the boat, as the men were righting 
 her^ struck him, and he sank in deep water. The 
 boatmen saved the rest of the party. 
 
 " It would be in vain to describe the horror and 
 dismay of Louise, when she came to understand 
 her loss, after being herself rescued from a watery 
 grave. I did not feel less the bitterness of grief, 
 but my relief on Louise's escape, which I had sup- 
 posed impossible, broke the force of the heavy blow. 
 The body of the ill-fated Emilie was conveyed to 
 the inn at Secherons ; and I went immediately back 
 to St. Gingoulph, as fast as a char-au-banc could 
 take me, that I might break to the wretched old 
 man the intelligence of this sad disaster. 
 
 " I found him just risen from his solitary meal, 
 and having returned thanks in presence of his maid- 
 servant, whom I begged to quit the room. My 
 sudden appearance, unaccompanied, at once revealed, 
 as well as ray faltering manner, that I was the mes- 
 senger of evil tidings, and he calmly breathed a 
 prayer, ' God's will be done.' Though thus partly 
 prepared for it, on learning the tmth he was struck 
 dumb, and could not weep. He grasped my arm 
 in his long and bony hand ; he looked almost va- 
 cantly in my face as if to seek some mitigation of the
 
 246 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 cruel blow ; he found no comfort there ; and he 
 breathed out a disconsolate prayer, or rather a re- 
 luctant and compulsory admission that His will 
 must be done and His name be blessed, who giveth 
 and who taketh away. 
 
 " It seemed to soothe him when I proposed that 
 he should accompany me back to Secherons, and 
 attend the last solemnities due to poor Emilie. We 
 arrived there late at night ; and found Louise had 
 given the necessary directions with great firmness 
 and presence of mind. Before retiring to rest the 
 ancient pastor desired to see for the last time the 
 loved remains of his child ; but we dissuaded him, 
 as deeming that it might break that sleep he stood 
 so much in need of, and which sorrow, by a merciful 
 dispensation of Providence, has rather a tendency 
 to bestow than to withhold, provided no undue ex- 
 citement interrupts it. The next day was passed in 
 dismal affliction, and as night fell, just before our 
 family worship, he required us to accompany him 
 to the chamber of death. 
 
 " The coffin lay upon a bed, and the face of Emilie 
 was exposed full to our view, by the light of the 
 tapers that burnt gloomily round the room. The 
 calm expression of countenance was strikingly different
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 247 
 
 from the distorted features of agony and alarm I had 
 last seen while she was struggling in the water ; all had 
 now relapsed into unbroken tranquillity, as if })ain, 
 and fear, and sorrow were now and for ever no more. 
 There was nothing frightful, nothing repulsive in 
 the sight ; on the contrary, there was a peculiar 
 sweetness in her placid features, which wore an air 
 even of beauty that had never before oeen perceived. 
 A kind of fine transparent hue, though pale, seemed 
 graceful ; and the long lashes appeared to pronounce 
 that the eyes were but closed in sleep, though the 
 sleep was to endure for evermore. The dreadful 
 idea, however, soon shrouded the mind, * You see 
 her for the last time !' The pastor softly, as if he 
 feared to disturb her eternal slumber, approached 
 the bed, and fixed a last kiss upon her cold fore- 
 head, but still he could not weep. For a whole day 
 and night his grief had been unmitigated by tears; 
 no refreshment had his parched eyelids bestowed on 
 his suffering ; and we quitted the chamber, throwing 
 the last look behind upon its lifeless occupant. In 
 the room below, to which we withdrew, the reverend 
 old man prayed fervently to the Father of all for 
 grace and for comfort, and that it would please Him 
 to sustain us in this cruel bereavement wherewithal
 
 248 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 He had seen good to visit us. As he closed his 
 prayer a noise fell on our ears, as of screwing 
 some board or other sounding body; instantly the 
 idea flashed through our minds — it was the closing 
 of Emilie's coffin. As if his prayer had been 
 heard the old man now wept aloud^ and all un- 
 used to such tender scenes, he sank into Louise's 
 arms. 
 
 " Next day the funeral took place, and in the 
 English chapel, where, with a prophetic warning of 
 her fate, she had desired to be buried. As the body 
 slowly descended the staircase, the pastor stood re- 
 verently with his head uncovered, leaning on my 
 arm for a needful support. We followed in a mourn- 
 ing carriage to the town, of which the gate or wicket 
 was first shut and then opened to let us pass on- 
 wards. The simple procession arrived at the church- 
 yard. It was here met by Emilie's venerable 
 friend, the English clergyman arrayed in his white 
 vestment. I never had witnessed this solemnity, 
 which I never shall forget. Meeting the corpse as 
 it was slowly borne along, he uttered with a solemn 
 but tremulous voice, — ' I am the resurrection and the 
 life, saith the Lord. Whoso believeth in me, though 
 he were dead, yet shall he live, and he that liveth
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 249 
 
 and believeth in me shall never die !' — Tlie thrill 
 which this shot through my frame I never can 
 forget. As he walked onwards before the coffin, 
 reciting other portions of Scripture to the like effect, 
 there was a manifest emotion excited in all the 
 spectators of so mournful a solemnity. When the 
 reading of the Scriptures selected for the occasion 
 was suspended, the coffin was placed over the grave, 
 near the remains of Emilie's paternal grandmother, 
 an Englishwoman. A pause now succeeded in the 
 service, when unexpectedly to me at least, the organ 
 struck up a sweet and melodious anthem of the 
 most solemn kind ; its notes sometimes rolled 
 over our heads like distant thunder, sometimes 
 warbled plaintive and tender; it seemed a dirge, 
 such as a heavenly choir might be fancied to perform, 
 no person being seen to play it. During this solemn 
 harmony the body was slowly lowered down into 
 its last resting-place ; and we were both shocked and 
 moved to see poor Emilie's little lap-dog, the com- 
 panion of her solitary walks, and which slept in her 
 room, make its way through the crowd and seek to 
 share her endless couch. It had not accompanied 
 her, but seemed to have followed the pastor with 
 the kind of inscrutable instinct which the more
 
 250 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 sagacious of tame animals possess. It was of course 
 removed by the attendants ; and as soon as dust had 
 been committed to dust and ashes to ashes, witli 
 the usual solemnities, and the organ ceased to 
 sound, the clergyman resumed the service with — 
 ' Man that is born of a woman hath but a little 
 time to live and is full of sorrow.' — Not a dry eye 
 could now be discerned in the chapel, and after 
 castino^ a last look on the name •' Emilie Fonrose, 
 aged 19 years,' upon the coffin, the pastor slowly 
 left the place, followed by us ; we entered a small 
 carriage procured by his friends, and arrived sad 
 and silent at his now desert dwelling. Nor spoke he 
 a word that day, unable even to perform the usual 
 family worship in the evening. His race was run ; 
 his earthly career finished : and when next morning 
 he assembled us to prayers, he began the Song of 
 Simeon, ' Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart 
 in peace,' — and there he was obliged to stop, his 
 tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth when he 
 would have continued. 
 
 " The unhappy old man by degrees regained his 
 tranquillity, and frequently blessed God for having 
 reserved this heavy blow till he was so near follow- 
 ing his beloved child, that it made only the dif-
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOUEJ^flNG. 251 
 
 ference of closing his long life witli a kw months, 
 perhaps weeks^ of wretchedness. I remarked that 
 he was more diligent than ever in the performance 
 of all his duties, and would take no help which his 
 neiorhbouring: brethren tendered him in his minis- 
 t rations. He seemed, if not to derive comfort from 
 employment, at least to have his mind seduced from 
 the subject of his loss ; and his piety assumed a 
 more fervent appearance than before. He com- 
 plained, however, that when not employed in his 
 pastoral duties, he suffered exceedingly; and one 
 feeling he could not get out of his mind. As the 
 door of his room opened, he would think Emilie 
 was coming in ; he could not bring liis mind to the 
 belief she had gone for ever. In his dreams, too, 
 she appeared to be restored to him ; he never once 
 dreamt of her death ; yet, he said, there was always 
 a something, as it were, hanging over her; she 
 could not speak ; or she turned from him ; she 
 went away ; he could not follow or find her ; there 
 was always something changed from what it once 
 had been ; yet there she was^ and alive again, and, 
 as if half conscious it was a dream only, he would 
 fear to awake. But when he did, sorrow returned 
 the more grievous when he found it had all been a
 
 252 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 dream ; and then the poor old man would wander 
 about as if to get rid of himself. 
 
 " But to one part of his small mansion he never 
 repaired; I did not once see him enter EmiKe's 
 room ; and indeed I, for a few days, was fain myself 
 to avoid this suffering. At last, alone, and when all 
 were out in the fields, I went into it. Nor shall I 
 soon forget the pang which the sight gave me. There 
 were her books, her drawing-paper, her half-finished 
 letter about some charity at St. Meurice, her pen 
 and inkstand, the chair she sat on. A simple straw 
 bonnet she had thrown off when setting out on her 
 last fatal journey, lay on the little sofa ; her guitar, 
 now mute, was beside it ; the musical box was 
 on the chimney-piece ; and, most touching sight of 
 all, the poor little bird, hopped about in the cage, 
 flapping its wings as I entered the room, and pecking 
 at the bars, expectmg to be taken out, and perch, as 
 heretofore, on its mistress's finger. The sight of 
 this goldfinch was a severe trial to me ; its silence 
 seemed mournful ; but when it began its warbling, 
 as formerly, I really felt quite unmanned. At that 
 moment Louise, who now too, for the first time, 
 ventured into the room on hearing my footsteps, 
 never having dared to enter it alone, came in and
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 253 
 
 found me. She saw I was moved. She heard the 
 poor little forsaken bird ; she had been deeply 
 touched before by the sparrows flocking round her, 
 to receive their pension from their kind protectress's 
 hand, now stiff in the tomb. Altogether, and when 
 she cast her eyes on the bonnet which recalled her 
 friend, as if she had only gone out of the room, she 
 was entirely overcome : all her resolution fled ; her 
 estrangement was suddenly put an end to ; and 
 when she saw how much my feelings were now over- 
 powered, how entirely they were her own, she flew 
 into my outstretched arms, fell on my neck, sobbed 
 aloud, and could only articulate ' My dearest, 
 dearest friend!' 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by William Clowes and Sons, 
 
 Stamford Street.
 
 MR. KNIGHT'S 
 
 EDITIONS OF SHAKSPERE. 
 
 I. THE PICTORIAL EDITION. 
 
 This "work, the sale of -which has far exceeded that of any edition of 
 Shakspere ever published, consists of 
 
 COMEDIES, 2 Vols. — containing fourteen Plays, accompanied by Notes, 
 Illustrations, and Critical Notices ; ■with 335 Woodcuts, executed by the first 
 Artists. 
 
 HISTORIES, 2 Vols. — containing ten Plays, with, in addition to the 
 usual Notes, full Historical Illustrations, and an Essay on the Three Parts of 
 Henry VI. and Richard III.; with 304 Woodcuts. 
 
 TRAGEDIES and POEMS, 2 Vols.— containing eleven Plays, and the 
 Poems ; and, besides tlie accustomed Notes, &c., a full Illustration of the 
 Sonnets ; with 271 Woodcuts. 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VOLUME— containing Titus Andronicus, Pericles, 
 Two Noble Kinsmen, Analysis of the Doubtful Plays, History of Opinion on 
 the Writings of Shakspere, and Index ; with 84 Woodcuts. 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPERE: A BIOGRAPHY.— This Introductory 
 Volume forms a distinct work, exhibiting our great Poet in association with 
 the circmustances of his domestic position, and portraying the Literature, 
 Manners, and Events of his Age. The subject includes a full History of 
 THE Stage. The volume contains above 200 Woodcuts. 
 
 The total number of Woodcuts in this edition is Twelve Hundred, 
 which have been executed at a cost of little less than Ten TJwusand Pounds. 
 The Eight Volumes, handsomely bound in cloth, price Seven Guineas. 
 Each Play may be had separately, price Half-a-Crown. The Work is also 
 being republished in 21 Monthly Sections, at Six Shillings. 
 
 II. THE LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 This is a republication, in demy octavo, with an accurate re\dsal of the Text 
 and Notes, of Mr. Knight's Pictorial Edition. Such Woodcuts are inserted 
 as are strictly illustrative. 
 
 The Edition is in Twelve Volumes. Price Six Pounds in cloth. 
 
 III. THE CABINET EDITION. 
 
 The want of a correct Text of Shakspere, in a neat form, and at a cheap 
 rate, has long been felt. It is now generally acknowledged that tlie received 
 Text, that of Steevens (inaccurately called the text of Steevens and Malone), 
 is shamefully disfigured through the tasteless and unwarrantable deviations 
 from the original copies made by the modern Editors of Shakspere. The 
 text given by Mr. Knight, in his Pictorial and Library Editions, is founded 
 upon the mo.st careful collations ; and a reason is assigned in those editions 
 for every deviation from the received text of the modern copies. To print 
 the Text of the Works of Shakspere, such as we may judge that it proceeded 
 from his pen, so as to make his real Mords accessible to all, is the object of 
 " The Cabinet Edition." Alexander applied the perfume-cabinet of Darius 
 to a noble ase: " I will have it," he said, "to serve for a case for Homer's 
 books." The works of Shakspere, in like manner, deserve a cabinet that may 
 always be at hand, like "the case for Homer's books." This Cabinet Edition
 
 2 MR. KNIGHT'S EDITIONS OF SHAKSPERE. 
 
 will not be rendered bulky by much Commentary. A few glossarial Notes 
 are added to the Text, to explain words and sentences which are not familiar 
 to the general reader. 
 
 The Cabinet Edition of the Dramatic Works is in Ten Volumes, price 
 Twenty-five Shillings, elegantly bound in cloth, with gilt edges. The Poems 
 and Life constitute another volume, to correspond, price Half-a-Crown. Of 
 this Edition each of the Plays may be had separately, price Sixpence. 
 
 IV. THE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKSPERE, 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME ; 
 
 Containing his Plays and Poems, from the Text of the Editions. By 
 CHARLES KNIGHT. With Glossarial Notes ; and Facts connected with 
 his Life and Writings, abridged from " William Shakspere : a Biography." 
 Price One Guinea. 
 
 This is the only edition in One Volume, with Glossarial Notes. Each 
 Play is accompanied by an Introductory Notice, and with engraved Titles, 
 from the designs of W. Harvey. 
 
 V. SHAKSPERE'S POEMS. 
 
 In One Volume, handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, price 9s. 
 
 VL WILLIAM SHAKSPERE: A BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 By CHARLES KNIGHT. One Volume, cloth, ll. 5s. 
 THE COMPLETE CONCORDANCE TO SHAKSPERE ; 
 
 Being a Verbal Index to all the Passages in the Dramatic Works of the Poet. 
 By Mrs. COWDEN CLARKE. Part III. The Concordance will appear 
 in Monthly Parts, at Half-a-Crown each, the whole to be completed in 
 Eighteen Parts, of uniform size with C. Knight's " Pictorial Edition. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS. 
 
 " We think as highly as evei of much that Mr. Knight has done for our great poet ; and 
 wish him all success in the very useful Concordance, of which two numbers have reached 
 us. It seems done on a most judicious plan and with exemplary care." — Quarterly Review. 
 
 " Taken as a whole, this edition promises to be the best we have yet received ; and as a 
 popular one, intended not for those who wish to be acquainted with the cummentators', but 
 for those wlio simply desire to be aided in their study of the Puet himself, it is equally ju- 
 dicious in its plan, and in most parts of the execution. With the principles which Mr. 
 Knight has followed as to the state of the text, we cordially and unreservedly agree." — 
 Edinburgh Review. 
 
 " The commentaries of the editor display knowledge without pedantry, sagacity witliout 
 dogmatism, and are written ' in a spirit of reverence, seeking to understand and define 
 what the poet wrote,' rather tlian of presumption, which believes that it is as easy to 
 amend as to disparage. He has shown that enthusiasm may be reconciled to common 
 sense, and that high admiration may exist without idolatry." — At/iencpiim. 
 
 " The judgment and diligence displayed by Mr. Knight in the formation of his text is 
 desejving of all praise. He has very properly taken the folio of 1623, published by 
 Shakspere's ' fellow's," John Heminge and Henry Condell, for his basis, carefully collating 
 with it the quarto editions of those separate plays which had been already published. * * * 
 But the merits of Mr. Knight's edition do not end with the text: it is scarcely even the 
 chief merit. Each play is preceded by an ample introduction of the chronology, state of 
 the text, supposed sources of the plot, period of the manners and action, &c., full of 
 curious historical matter, and containing much valuable criticism ; while each is followed 
 by a ' Supplementary Notice,' in which the opinions of other critics, as well as those of the 
 Editor, on the characters, incidents, and principal passages, are given at length. Nor is 
 this all. Each act, almost every scene, is accompanied by a body of annotations and 
 ' Illustrations,' full of curious and amusing information on the laws and usages, manners 
 and customs of our ancestors, and forming altogether no inconsiderable mass of traditional 
 and antiquarian lore. These matters are profusely illustrated by those pictorial embellish- 
 ments which so largely characterise tlie literature of the age, and which stamp the present 
 edition of Shakspere with so novel and unique an interest." — Eclectic Rerieiv for Jan. 1843. 
 
 " ' The Pictorial' edition of Shakspere, a work of which we have frequently had occasion 
 to make grateful mention, and which must ever form a component part of any collection 
 of books worthy the name of a library." — Julm Bull. /
 
 
 
 ^.OFCAllF0/?4 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 \'Ef?.^A 
 
 « 
 
 1^ 
 
 % .^OF-C 
 
 
 ' -i IJ JM f OVJ I ■ " " ^ /\q 1 
 
 ^HIBRARY^?/ ^\\EUNIVER5:/ 
 
 -t ■« i—' ^3'y SS!' 
 
 
 -o
 
 UC SOUTHERN 
 
 Re'gIONAL LIBRARY FACIUTY 
 
 AA 000 464 180 9 
 
 AF.ru, 
 
 A>S\!