^. 
 
 «=<|^-^^-=1|^.CS^ 
 
 
 -^'-^■53-
 
 :m^&
 
 p. 
 
 / 'x^e.c 
 
 1858 
 
 /
 
 ',\. '\ 
 
 -^%.?**i 
 
 a«*i-s^-^-^-=-3l#'*^
 
 WORLD-NOTED WOMEN; 
 
 OK, 
 
 TYPES 
 
 OF 
 
 WOMANLY ATTRIBUTES OF ALL LANDS 
 
 AND AGES. 
 
 MAKY COWDEN CLARKE, 
 
 AUTIIOK OF "the iron COUSIN," "tOE GIRLUODD OF SnAKESPEAKE's HEROrNES," 
 
 "the complete C0MC0]!I)AN0E to SHAKESPEARE," 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 lUwstratjti 
 
 WITH SEVENTEEN ENOltAVINOS ON STEKL, FlioM OIJIUINAT, DESIONS 
 I!V CIIAULES STAAI.. 
 
 ■' Tho worUVs Inrge toni^no proclaims y^"i."' 
 
 ^IIAKFSrBARE. 
 
 D 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 34 6 & 348 BROADWAY. 
 
 M.DCOO.LVIII.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 
 
 D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of 
 
 New York.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Pkesenting together in a collected form of analytical disquisition, and 
 pictorial illustration, several of the women most noted in the world's an- 
 nals, it is interesting to consider the individuality marking each ; and the 
 curious variety of respective distinction, which has set these personages 
 apart, as either renowned or notorious, above the ordinary range of their 
 sisterhood. In thus considering them, I have taken leave to judge excep- 
 tional characters by exceptional rules ; and, since this selection was made 
 for me, — not chosen by myself, — I have written upon them with large 
 (not so much allowance, as) construction. 
 
 I have treated the subjects appointed for me to discuss, with my utmost 
 candour, and with as much of discrimination and judgment as in me lay. 
 I have endeavoured to look upon them with unprejudiced eyes; and to 
 throw myself as much as possible into the periods in which they lived, 
 and the events among which they moved. I have tried to judge them 
 according to the complexion of the eras in which they figured, and the 
 incidents which coloured their opinions, their words, and their actions. 
 Lord Bacon, — that great authority in judgment, critical, philosophical, and 
 legal, — has told us, that "it is the part of a just judge to take into consid- 
 eration not only facts but the times and circumstances of facts ; " so, in 
 weighing the facts connected with the Women's characters assembled in 
 this book, I have done my best to render them justice in consonance with 
 this Verulam rule. 
 
 In regarding these World-noted Women, who have severally created 
 so much interest, and awakened so much emotion in the different spheres 
 wherein they existed, it were idle to view them otherwise than as isolated 
 exemplars of special qualities ; they are not so much types of a class of 
 women, as types of particular womanly attributes; and, far from their all 
 being looked upon as models, they are, in some instances, to be beheld as 
 beacons of warning. With this borne in mind, it affords a fascinating 
 study to contemplate a woman like Cleopatra, — that " Serpent of old 
 Nile," — she, who held Mark Antony's heart in thrall, and " caught him in
 
 4 PREFACE. 
 
 her strung toil of grace;" or a woman like Isabella of Castile, who was 
 virtuous as she was wise, modest as she was illustrious. 
 
 It is also interesting to notice the links of historic association which 
 connect such widely various women as Valcntina, Joan of Arc, Margaret 
 of Anjou, Lady Jane Grey, Isabella of Castile, Maria Theresa, and Cath- 
 erine II., through the long series of years, and separate lands in which 
 they respectively lived. As thus: — "ie beau Dunois" bore a part ir 
 both Valcntina's and Joan of Arc's history ; Margaret was niece to 
 the French king, Charles VII., who, as Dauphin, was the object of 
 Joan's loyal chamj^ionship ; Lady Jane Grey was grand-daughter to 
 Charles Brandon, who married the widow-queen of Louis XII., grandson 
 to Valcntina ; and so forth, along the chain of circumstance. Leigh Hunt, 
 in a delightful essay entitled " Social Genealogy," shows how the present 
 generation may have shaken liands with Shakespeare himself, by this 
 " linked sweetness long drawn out " of cordially interchanged palm-clasp- 
 ing. And by similar pleasant tricks of the imagination we may trace the 
 connection between the strangely diflering World-noted Women who ap- 
 pear side by side in these pages. 
 
 It may be well here to observe that I have ventured to annex transla- 
 tions (so close as to be almost literal) of quoted passages for the behoof 
 of those who may not be conversant with the language in which the orig 
 inals are written. 
 
 I gladly avail myself, also, of the opportunity now presented, to offer 
 my thanks to those friends,^ — some, of very recent date, and who therefore 
 deserve the greater acknowledgment, since they assisted one comparative- 
 ly a stranger to them, — who, with kindest promptitude, helped me in pro- 
 curing such literary sources for research as my distance from old familiai- 
 native book-haunts prevented my readily obtaining. 
 
 I must not omit, likewise, to assign the credit of the " Joan of Arc " 
 where it is due, in stating that it has been contributed by another hand 
 than mine ; a lady of Philadelphia, widely known in the ranks of litera- 
 ture as Grace Greenwood, having supplied the memoir of that glorious 
 but misprized heroine. 
 
 Especially pleasant to me is it, to recognize the debt of gratitude I 
 owe to my generous friend, Mrs. Balmanno, of New York, who has writ- 
 ten the account of " Pocaliontas " for me in this work. 
 
 MaKY CoWDEN Cr.AEKE. 
 Nice, /«w«, IBS'?.
 
 TABLE OF CUNTEJ^TS. 
 
 8APPH0, .... 
 
 . Greece, 
 
 B.C. 
 
 612, 
 
 LUCRETIA 
 
 Rome, 
 
 a 
 
 509, 
 
 ASPASIA, .... 
 
 . Greece, 
 
 (. 
 
 480, 
 
 CLEOPATRA, 
 
 Egypt, 
 
 a 
 
 69, 
 
 ST. CECILIA, 
 
 Rome, 
 
 A.D. 
 
 230, 
 
 HELOISE, .... 
 
 France, 
 
 It 
 
 1101, 
 
 LAURA, .... 
 
 . France, 
 
 u 
 
 1308, 
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN, . 
 
 Italy, 
 
 (I 
 
 1370, 
 
 JOAN D'ARC, . 
 
 France, 
 
 a 
 
 1410, 
 
 MARGARET OF ANJOU, 
 
 France, 
 
 a 
 
 1429, 
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE, 
 
 . Spain, 
 
 u 
 
 1450, 
 
 LADY JANE GREY, . 
 
 England, 
 
 a 
 
 1537, 
 
 POCAHONTAS, . 
 
 . America, 
 
 (( 
 
 1595, 
 
 LA VALLIERE, . 
 
 France, 
 
 u 
 
 1644, 
 
 MARIA THERESA, . 
 
 . A ustria, 
 
 a 
 
 1717, 
 
 CATHERINE XL . 
 
 Russia, 
 
 a 
 
 1729, 
 
 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE, 
 
 . England, 
 
 11 
 
 1823, 
 
 9 
 28 
 41 
 61 
 87 
 113 
 145 
 171 
 185 
 205 
 285 
 268 
 283 
 309 
 827 
 345 
 377
 
 LIST OF PORTRAITS. 
 
 SAPPHO, 
 
 LUCRETIA, 
 
 ASPASIA, . 
 
 CLEOPATRA, . 
 
 ST. CECILIA, 
 
 HELOISE, 
 
 LAURA, .... 
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN, 
 
 JOAN D'ARC, 
 
 MARGARET OP ANJOU, 
 
 ISABELLA OP CASTILE, 
 
 LADY JANE GREY, . 
 
 POCAHONTAS, 
 
 LA VALLlfeRE, . 
 
 MARIA THERESA, . 
 
 CATHERINE II., . 
 
 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE, 
 
 CESIONEB. 
 
 ENGBAVER. 
 
 TAOE 
 
 CHARLES 8TAAL, 
 
 FBANCIS HOLl,, 
 
 9 
 
 (( 
 
 B. EYLES, . 
 
 . 33 
 
 (( 
 
 P. HOLL, 
 
 41 
 
 (( 
 
 W. I. EDWARDS, 
 
 . 61 
 
 « 
 
 COOK, 
 
 87 
 
 a 
 
 W. I. EDWARDS, . 
 
 . 113 
 
 » 
 
 P. HOLL, 
 
 Uf) 
 
 (( 
 
 W. I. EDWARDS, 
 
 . 171 
 
 « 
 
 W. H. MOTE, . 
 
 185 
 
 (( 
 
 <l 
 
 . 205 
 
 II 
 
 <l 
 
 236 
 
 (( 
 
 P. HOLL, . 
 
 . 263 
 
 i( 
 
 B. EYLE8, 
 
 283 
 
 « 
 
 W. HOLL, . 
 
 . 309 
 
 <( 
 
 B. EYLES, 
 
 327 
 
 <( 
 
 COOK, 
 
 . 345 
 
 E, " 
 
 W. n. MOTE, . 
 
 377
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 The name of Sappho is almost identical in the mind with the word 
 Poetess. Hundreds of women have written verse ; but of the very 
 few women who have attained the renown of living to posterity 
 as worthy to bear the honoured title of poetess, Sappho ranks pre- 
 eminent. She stands at the head of that select sisterhood privi- 
 leged to take place among those upon whom Wordsworth invokes 
 divine favom* : 
 
 " Blessings be with them — and eternal praise, 
 
 Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares, 
 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
 Of truth and pure delight, by heavenly lays !" 
 
 Eaphael, prince of paintei-s, has given Sappho a conspicuous posi- 
 tion in his picture of " Mount Parnassus :" — She is seated on the left- 
 hand front ; her beautiful plain face looking up in eager intelli- 
 gence towards a group of Earth's greatest poets. It was a piece 
 of fine taste in Eaphael, thus placing the woman-poet as it were 
 at the foot of those grand men, with her eyes turned in sympa- 
 thetic spu'it up among them. 
 
 To Sappho was awarded the exalted distinction of being called 
 
 a.
 
 10 SAPPHO. 
 
 the " Tenth Muse," as worthy to rank with her whom Dan Chau- 
 cer thus apostrophises : 
 
 " Be favourable eke thou, Polymnia, 
 Ou Parnassus that with thy sisters glad 
 By Helicon, and not far from Cirrha, 
 Singest with voice memorial in the shade, 
 Under the laurel, which that may not fade.'' 
 
 The praises of the Lesbian Poetess have been hymned by bards 
 of all ages. The classic writers of antiquity, cited her as foremost 
 in the power of expressing tender and amatory emotions.. Ovid, 
 not only in his " Art of Love," but in his " Heroides," and " De 
 Tristibus," makes allusion to her ; and Horace records her pathetic 
 strains, where, in the ode relating his accident from the fall of a 
 tree, he says how near he was to hearing 
 
 " jiEoliis fidibus querentem 
 Sappho puellis de popularibus ;" 
 
 [" Sappho plaining on ^olian lute 
 Of neighbour maidens mournfully."] 
 
 Plutarch quotes, as infallible authority, her description of the 
 tokens by which a passionate lover may be recognized: "those 
 signs which Sappho writeth to be in lovers ; to wit : that his words 
 and speech did fail him, his colour became red, his eyes still rolled 
 to and ft'o, and then a sudden sweat would take him, his pulse 
 would beat fast and rise high ; and in the end, that after the force 
 and power of his heart hath failed him, and showed all these signs, 
 he became like a man in an ecstasy and trance, and as white as a 
 kerchief." 
 
 That Sappho should have been misunderstood by the vulgar, is 
 only natural ; and the later recognition of her excellence by the 
 more discriminating, is in accordance with that law which prohibits 
 immediate appreciation of the finest genius. Shelley discerningly
 
 SAPPHO. 11 
 
 gays : — " Poetry is ever accompanied with pleasure : all spirits on 
 wliicli it falls open themselves to receive the wisdom which is 
 mingled with its delight. In the infancy of the world, neither 
 poets themselves nor theii- auditors are fully aware of the excel- 
 lence of poetry : for it acts in a divine and unapprehended manner, 
 beyond and above consciousness; and it is reserved for future 
 generations to contemplate and measure the mighty cause and 
 effect in all the strength and splendour of their union. Even in 
 modern times, no living poet ever arrived at the fulness of his 
 fame ; the jury which sits in judgment upon a poet, belonging, as 
 he does, to all time, must be composed of his peers : it must be 
 impannelled by Time from the selectest of the wise of many gener- 
 ations. A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness, and sings to 
 cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds ; his auditors are as men 
 entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that 
 they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why." 
 
 So meagre, and so contradictory are the accounts of Sappho her- 
 self, that we can only collect the varying circumstances, and gather 
 from them those most likely to be the truth : but with the one 
 great fact of what she was in spirit, — and which she has bequeathed 
 to the world in the form of undoubted poetic repute, — we can rest 
 content in grateful credence and admiration. One of the chief 
 causes why so little is known with certainty regarding Sappho, is, 
 that there were two women born in the Isle of Lesbos, both named 
 alike. The native place of Sappho, the poetess, was Mitylene ; 
 while that of Sappho, the courtesan, was Eresos. The fame of the 
 one, and the infamy of the other, became blended in history, from 
 the identity of name, and from the circumstance of Mitylene and 
 Eresos being towns in the same island. "Sappho, the Lesbian," 
 might apjjly to either the lady noted for intellectual pursuits, or to 
 the damsel notorious for dissolute pm-suits. Moreover, from Sappho
 
 13 SAPPHO. 
 
 of Mitylene's verse being peculiarly powerful in the expression of 
 amorous sentiment, it miglit naturally lead to her character be- 
 coming mixed, in common rejiort, with that of Sappho of Ei-esos ; 
 for a passionate and poetic temperament is apt to be misunder- 
 stood by vulgar and prosaic minds, and to be confounded by them 
 with depravity. 
 
 This has probably given rise to popular floating traditions of 
 Sappho's desperate attachment to a youth called Phaou ; a name 
 which does not occur iu any of her poems that are extant, and 
 which, being one of the appellatives given to Venus's favourite, 
 Adonis, might well have been used by the poetess in passages de- 
 scribing the goddess of Love's addressed to the reluctant object of 
 her flame. Another of the ordinarily received legends respecting 
 Sappho, — and which has been so closely interwoven with her idea, 
 that it is almost impossible to think of her without associating the 
 incident, — is, her having sought extinction for her hapless passion, 
 by throwing herself fi'om the Leucadian rock into the sea. But 
 accumulated evidence, — both positive and negative, — fi'om ancient 
 writers, tends to prove beyond a rational doubt, that Sappho never 
 took the leap from the promontory of Leucadia, which was held 
 to be a sovereign remedy for despairing lovers. They who relate 
 this story of her fail to state whether Sappho lost her life, or sur- 
 vived, after precipitating herself from the rock ; and they who 
 omit to relate the incident, have entered into other particulars 
 concerning her, with too much minuteness of detail, not to make 
 theii- very omission of this one, a tacit evidence of its being untrue. 
 For instance : " Herodotus (who, as Voltaire wittily says, " doesn't 
 ahoays lie ") goes into a long account of Sappho^'s addi-essing a 
 remonstrance to her brother Charaxus, for having given a large 
 sum in the purchase of a female slave called Khodopis, from her 
 master at Naucratis in Egypt; and speaks of other family cir-
 
 SAPPHO. 13 
 
 cumstances connected wdtli Sappho : but mentions notliing of the 
 unretumed affection she is supposed to have conceived for Phaon, 
 nor of the leap from the Leucadian rock, which is imagined to have 
 ended her passion and her life. This sUence of the " Father of 
 History " respecting two events, which from their importance 
 deserved commemoration, in a recital where he dwells upon much 
 slighter points, seems conclusive that they did not occur to the 
 Sappho of whom he treats, — Sappho of Mitylene. Yet the Leuca- 
 dian leap, with its attributed mystical power of cuiing hopeless 
 love, was just one of those incidents which Herodotus would have 
 been sure to seize upon, — either for the purpose of making the 
 most of it, or for searching into its origin, — had it occm-red to her 
 of whom he speaks. In an elegy written by Hermesianax upon 
 the jjartialities of celebrated poets, he cites as an example Sappho's 
 liking for Anacreon ; but says nothing of her fondness for Phaon. 
 Now, so fatal a prepossession as her supposed fancy for the latter has 
 been represented, together with its catastrophe, would have fur- 
 nished the most fitting theme possible for elegiac verse, had they 
 actually formed part of the poetess's career. Antipater, of Sidon, 
 composed an epigram relative to Sappho's tomb ; yet he not only 
 reverts nowise to her tragical fate at Leucadia, but according to 
 him, her death was a natural one, and a monument was erected to 
 her memory in the place of her birth, where she was buried. The 
 poet Menander positively asserts that Sappho was the first who 
 took the Leucadian leap ; but Menander lived at the close of the 
 fourth, and the commencement of the third century before the 
 Christian era. This makes the period of the Sappho's existence, who 
 threw herself from the Leucadian rock, reach as far back as more 
 than three centuries before Christ, but not so far back as five ; 
 while the fact that Herodotus, who was in the fifth century, did 
 not record this disastrous end happening to Sappho of Mitylene,
 
 14 SAPPHO. 
 
 leaves tlie deduction to be drawn, that in all probability it was 
 Sappho of Eresos who took the Leucadian leap, slie not being born 
 when Herodotus wi'ote. 
 
 The facts to be gathered respecting Sappho the poetess, are 
 these. She was born in Mitylene, about 612 B. C Her father's 
 name has been variously stated to have been Scamaudronynius, 
 Symon, Semus, or Etarcbus ; and her mother's was generally held 
 to be Cleis. Early in life she became the wife of Cercolus, a 
 wealth}^ and distinguished gentleman of Andros, by whom she 
 had one chUd, called, — ^probably in honour of ber mother, — Cleis. 
 A few years after her marriage, Sappho became a widow; and 
 it was then that she dedicated herself to the cultivation of her 
 poetic gift. She also strove to distract her sorrow by travelling ; 
 and journeyed througb continental Greece, where sbe was much 
 admired and sought after by persons of intelligence. Returning 
 to her native island, she instituted a school of poetry and philo- 
 soj)hy ; and endeavored to inspire the Lesbian ladies with a taste 
 for intellectual pm-suits. Imaginative and ardent natures throw a 
 voluptuous beauty into whatever they undertake ; and enter en- 
 thusiastically into plans formed with a generous view to improve 
 and refine. Fervour of character is almost always mistaken or mis- 
 represented. The generality do not understand it, and either take 
 it for absurdity or vice : — the envious comprehend it better, but 
 are indignant at it, and represent it as selfishness under the guise 
 of noble feeling. Sapjjho's warmth of disposition made her eager 
 in all tbat she did ; and eagerness is resented by the ordinary 
 grade of people, wlio like smooth, commonplace, and easy conven- 
 tionality. Besides, her attempts to introduce a higher state of 
 cultivation among her people was crowned with a certain amount 
 of success ; and success is sure to excite animosity. She numbered 
 among her disciples several illustrious names ; and this was not to
 
 SAPPHO. 15 
 
 be borne tamely by those who smarted beneath a sense of her 
 superior attainments and graces. Sapjiho, although not handsome, 
 was attractive, as well as gifted, — a perilous combination for a 
 woman, whose consciousness of grace and genius, together with 
 ardour of nature, will not suffer her to remain in obscurity. It is 
 a moral necessity with such beings as Sajjpho to exercise the quali- 
 ties with which Heaven has endowed them. They instinctively 
 feel the force of Shakespeare's grand axiom: — 
 
 " If our virtues 
 Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike 
 As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch 'd, 
 But to fine issues : nor nature never lends 
 The smallest scruple of her excellence, 
 But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines 
 Herself the glory of a creditor, 
 Both thanks and use." 
 
 Sappho gratefully used Nature's gifts in the noblest way, when 
 she dedicated them to the endeavour of advancing the mental cul- 
 ture of her native Lesbians; and those among them who were 
 most capable of profiting by her efforts, estimated her duly, honour- 
 ing her as an inspired teacher, an aUuring guide, whose feminine 
 charm aided her admirable faculties in leading them to higher 
 elevation and accomplishment. But by the gross-minded, the 
 little-minded, and the grudging-minded, Sappho's attempts to 
 ameliorate the condition of those around her, and to introduce 
 greater refinement in their social pursuits, were construed into 
 vilest meaning, and made the ground of the most odious im- 
 putations. Her luxurious enjoyment of Art, her exquisite appre- 
 ciation of the passion of Love in its matchless beatitude, her 
 intense perception of the loveliness and bliss existing in Poesy and 
 Music as recreations to the spirit, drew upon her the charge of 
 sensuality ; and she who strove to exalt her associates, was
 
 16 SAPPHO. 
 
 accused of seeking to debase them. Either wounded by these 
 injurious calumnies, or, — as some accounts say, — owing to pohtical 
 causes, (being accused by her enemies of complicity with Alcaeus 
 in a conspiracy against Pittacus, the governor of Mitylene,) she 
 retired for a time into SicUy. Here the friendship between 
 herself and Anacreon, alluded to by Hermesianax, was supposed to 
 have been formed ; but Athenfeus maintains that the elegiast was 
 mistaken in believing that Sappho entertained any preference for 
 Anacreon, since, as he asserts, Sappho hved during the time when 
 Alyattes, father to Croesus, reigned; and Anacreon during that 
 of Cyiais and Polycrates. The well-known rivalry in poetical 
 composition which subsisted between Alcaeus and Sappho, each 
 being held by their respective partisans to excel the other iu 
 merit, seems to preclude the idea of her being engaged with him 
 in any confederacy or jilot. Indeed, so much malice mingles with 
 most that is recorded of Sappho, and so much confusion has arisen 
 from her bearing the same name with a woman of entirely 
 opj)osite character, that it is difficult to arrive at a correct account 
 of her life. Unfortunately, too, her poems, which obtained her so 
 wide a renown, are little better known to us. Few of them have 
 reached our time ; though the majority of her compositions were 
 extant in the age of Horace. They are said to have consisted of nine 
 books, containing a variety of odes, hymns, epithalamia, elegies, 
 epigrams, and other poems. A hymn to Venus, an ode to a friend, 
 and sundry brief fragments, are aU that now remain to prove how 
 truly Sappho deserved the admiration bestowed upon her by her 
 contemporaries, and by the writers of antiquity. But these few 
 productions afford sufficient proof of excellence to justify the 
 award of judges who were acquainted with the rest of her works. 
 Feeling, warmth of expression, elegance of diction, felicity of 
 measure, are to be traced in such excellence as to warrant her
 
 SAPPHO. 17 
 
 beiug ranked liigli among lyric poets; and the specimens that 
 exist of her composition, awaken keen regret that the whole should 
 not have l:ieen preserved, — not only for their own sake, but 
 because of the insight they would have afforded into particulars of 
 Greek Eentiment, as exemjjlified in the heart-effusions of such 
 a woman as Sappho. 
 
 A poetess, who wrote at the opening of the fifteenth century, 
 left a translated fragment from one of Sappho's compositions, — and 
 in the Sajiphic Strophe. The antiquated French, gives it a 
 remote ail", in accordance with the original antique ; and the 
 warmth of Clotilde de Surville's style in expression, assimilates 
 completely with that of the Greek poetess. 
 
 " Qu'a mon gre ceste-la va primant sur les dieux ! 
 Qu'enyvrc ton soubriz, sur qui ton a3il repoze, 
 Qu'encharment, resonnant de ta bouche de roze, 
 Les sons melodieux ! 
 
 Je t'ai vu — dans mon seyn, Venus, qu'ay toute en I'ame, 
 Qui, sur levrc embrasee, estouffoit uies accents, 
 Venus a feux subtils, mais jus qu'ez os pergants. 
 
 Court en fleuves de flame — 
 
 S'ennuaigent mes yeulx ; n'oy plus qu'enmy rumeurs ; 
 Je brusle, je languis ; chauds frissons dans ma vayne 
 Circulent : je paslis, je palpite, I'haleine 
 
 Me manque ; je me meurs. — 
 
 [" How she, above the rest of Gods, shines beauteous ! 
 How glows thy smile, on whom thine eye reposes ; 
 How charm, in flowing from thy mouth of roses. 
 The sounds melodious ! 
 
 I've felt thee, Venus, in my heart, — to soul it came, — 
 Stifling my accents on my lips that burn'd, 
 Venus, with subtle flre, to my very bones return'd 
 Swift in waves of flame.
 
 18 SAPPHO. 
 
 Cloud my moist eyes ; I hear but murmur'd sigh ; 
 I melt, I languish ; hot thrillings in my veins 
 Fleet through ; I pale, I throb, my breathing pains 
 And fails me ; — I die."] 
 
 Clotilde de Surville may justly be called the French Sappho, 
 for that intense glow and passionate earnestness which pervade 
 her beautiful verses. The poem to her husband, Berenger, — a 
 young knight who fought under Charles VII. in the wars against 
 England and Burgundy, — breathes the very soul of conjugal 
 fervour ; and the stanzas to her first-born, are instinct with the 
 rapturous delight of a young and proudly happy mother. A 
 little roundel, graced by the most playful and womanly spirit, — 
 half coy, half tender, and wholly charming, — may well be cited 
 here, in an account of Sappho, the love-poetess. The roundel is 
 addressed to ClotUde's favourite friend, Rocca, and teUs of a 
 certain stolen kiss. It is headed : — 
 
 EONBEL A MA DOULCE MTE RoCCA, 
 
 Sur ee que vinct ung soir le hel amy hayzcr me desroher a la fontaine. 
 
 1422. 
 Qu'au cler do lune ay deduict, se me voy 
 Seulette ez bords d'ung crystal de fontaine ! 
 Ung soir y vint mon espoulx et mon roy; 
 Bayzer m'y prist : ne le sentys qu' a payne, 
 Et sy pourtant fus-je toutc en es moy. 
 
 Me courrouciay : n'avoit eneor ma foy, 
 
 (Si bien mon coeur, car I'eust de prime aubaine;) 
 
 Oncques n'ozions nous dire Tu ny Toy, 
 
 Qu'au cler de lune. 
 
 Done me faschay ; puys, comme il se tint coy, 
 Luy pardonnay ; sur ce diet : " ma rayne ! 
 " N'en coustoit plus d'en prendre une vingtaine, 
 " Se I'avoy sceu !" — Fayz done, amy : pourquoy 
 M'as veu de uuict ; n'est tant la faute a moy, 
 Qu'au cler de lune.
 
 SAPPHO. 19 
 
 PlotnSDEL, TO SIT SWEET FEIEND, RoCCA; 
 
 On the handsome lover coming one evening and stealing a kiss from me at the 
 
 fountain. 
 
 1422. 
 
 How gladly, by moonliglit, I find me alone 
 
 P>y the brink of a fountain's bright crystalline glass ! 
 
 One eve came my husband, my king, and my own ; — 
 A soft kiss he snatch'd ; I felt it scarce pass, 
 
 Yet it flutter'd me, ere it was gone. 
 
 I pretended to pout : — he wasn't then mine ; 
 (Yet my heart was fast his, from the very first dawn ;) 
 Nor then did we venture to say, " Thou and Thine," 
 But by light of the moon. 
 
 So, I pouted ! then as he kept still 
 
 I forgave him — he said : " my queen ! 
 
 " I might have ta'en twenty — and twenty I will, — 
 
 " Had I known !" — Take them sweetheart ; thou'st seen 
 
 Me by night time ; — the fault's not my ill, 
 
 But the light of the moon.] 
 
 A short poem, attributed to Sappho, has been rendered into 
 English verse by one who is worthy to be called a sister poetess. 
 She who (if it were only for those exquisite forty-three sonnets of 
 Shakesperian style ; — for the tender pathos of her " Caterina and 
 Camoens;" and for the condensed passion of that grand little 
 poem, " A year's spinning," — a world of emotion in seven stanzas — ) 
 richly deserves the title of our modern Sappho, — Elizabeth Bar- 
 rett Browning, has given us the opportunity of reading this grace- 
 ful lyi'ic, beheved to have been written by the famed Lesbian. 
 There is a Grecian zest, and flush of beauty in the lines, which 
 makes us feel it properly ascribed to Sappho.
 
 20 SAPPHO. 
 
 SONG OF THE ROSE. 
 
 "If Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirtli, 
 
 He would call to the rose, aud would royally crown it ; — 
 For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the grace of the earth, 
 
 Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it ! 
 For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the eye of the flowers, 
 
 Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves tair, — 
 Is the lightning of beauty, that strikes through the bowers 
 
 On pale lovers who sit in the glow unaware. 
 Ho, the rose breathes of love 1 ho, the rose lifts the cup 
 
 To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest ! 
 Ho, the rose having eurl'd it's sweet leaves for the world 
 
 Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up, 
 As they laugh to the Wind as it laughs from the west.'' 
 
 Sappho possessed tliat rare gift, — ^genius. She merited the 
 names bestowed upon her, of " Tenth Muse," and " Divine 
 Poetess ;" not merely because she was accomplished in writing 
 poetry, but because she was endowed with creative faculty. She 
 had invention, and originality of resource. Her love of Poesy 
 inspired her with power to add fresh beauty to the anthology of 
 Greece; composing in metres of her own design, and devising a 
 pecidiar versification, named after her, the Sapphic Strophe ; a me- 
 trical construction which has been frequently imitated in ancient 
 and modern times. Horace has many Odes in the Sapphic 
 Strophe, the ode to Augustus Caesar (the second in the first Book) 
 being one. It consists of three verses, and a fourth (of two feet), 
 termed the Adonic verse. 
 
 Sappho's ear in rhythmical construction, and her passion for 
 music, enabled her to carry her creative genius into that art also ; 
 for Aiistoxeuus affirms, that to Sappho must be assigned the honour 
 of having invented Mixolydian harmony, so well adapted for the 
 expression of tragic and serious feehn.";. She is also said to have
 
 SAPPHO. 21 
 
 been the inventor of more than one new instrument, and of the plec- 
 trum, or quill with which lyres were struck, in sounding their strings. 
 
 In Sappho, Milton's 
 
 " Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, 
 Wed their divine sounds ;" 
 
 And, "to our high-rais'd phantasy present '" an image of blended 
 
 Art dedicated to paeans in honour of Love, that deity whose own 
 
 utterance is 
 
 " Sweet and musical 
 
 As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair." 
 
 After her death, divine honours were paid her; altars and 
 temples were raised to her memory, and her fame sjiread far and 
 wide. Sicily erected a statue to her; and the inhabitants of her 
 native Mitylene stamped Sappho's image on theii- coin. This 
 tardy tribute fi'om those who had mahgned her, savoured of 
 anxiety to claim reflected honour from her having been born among 
 them, although they could not properly estimate her while she 
 lived among them; but j^osthumous appreciation brought credit 
 on themselves, where value during her existence, swelled her 
 triumphs only. Dead excellence and prosperity are more readily 
 forgiven and acknowledged, than while flourishing in health, 
 strength and beauty. Sappho's fair name was blackened at a 
 period when her heart still beat with power to feel proud of eulo- 
 gium, or hurt by opprobrium ; but when cold to rejwte or injury 
 alike, popularity crowned her ashes, and Envy joined in heaping 
 garlands ujion one whom it had vilified. Great spirits mnst be 
 content to draw breath amid vulgar detraction, and to have plau- 
 dits clamoured over their grave. 
 
 Sappho is a shining exemplar of glowing womanhood, and high 
 genius moulded into that " bright particular star " of humanity — 
 a Poetess.
 
 LUCKETIA. 
 
 Ltjceetia is a world-renowned type of conjugal faith, and chastity. 
 She impersonates Roman matron purity, unable to survive out- 
 raged self-respect. Lucretia was the daughter of Spurious Lucre- 
 tius Tricipitinus ; and was married to Lucius Collatinus, a member 
 of the reigning royal family in Rome. Collatinus's relationshij) to 
 the Tarquins could not preserve him from the injuries of one of 
 its scions ; while it ultimately caused his own downfal. Thi-ough 
 his wife, Lucretia, he was the \'ictim of Tarquin treachery ; in his 
 own person he became a sufferer from Tarquin hatred, — the hatred 
 borne by the people towards the Tarquin race. This wicked 
 brood were signal in crime. Tullia, utterly devoid of woman- 
 hood, had taken her sister's husband in marriage, after murdering 
 her own ; had instigated the assassination of her father for the at- 
 taining of his crown ; and had summed her filial infamy by driving 
 her chariot wheels over her parent's scarce-dead body. Tarquin, 
 surnamed Superbus, — from his insolence of pride, — wielded the 
 sceptre he had gained by blood with tyranny and injustice. To 
 stifle the murmurs of the people at his extravagant and reckless 
 expenditure of the public treasury, he engaged his subjects in 
 war. Sextus Tarquin combined those qualities that the son of 
 such a father might naturally inherit. Self-willed, sensual, treach-
 
 24 L U C R E T I A . 
 
 erous, and cruel, he liesitated at no deed that might secure the 
 gratification of his own evil passions. The history of the period, 
 as jelated by Livy, — and poetically told by Ovid, — forcibly pour- 
 trays the character of all those connected with the sad tale of Lu- 
 cretia's wrongs, besides recording the black event which forms the 
 small but fatal amount of what we know concerning herself. 
 
 Tarquinius Superbus, being at war upon Gabii, a Volscian 
 city, the youngest of his three sons, Sextus, made his way into the 
 enemy's camp ; and when their swords were raised to destroy him, 
 bade them strike, saying that it would obtain them favour with his 
 barbarous father, who had maltreated and discarded him. He 
 stripped his back to show them evidences of his father's ill-usage, 
 in the lacerations which he himself, with crafty device, had pur- 
 posely inflicted there. The foes, seeing the young man's condition 
 (Ovid, here, has a beautiful picturesque touch of its being moon- 
 light in the camp, and revealing the scars), returned their swords 
 to the scabbard, commiserated him, bade him stay with them, 
 and take arms in their ranks. The impostor, rejoicing in tlieii' 
 simplicity, accepted the offer ; and when he found his credit 
 among them confirmed, he despatched a trusty messenger to his 
 tather, inquiring how he might best place Gabii within his power. 
 The message was delivered to the king, who returned no answer, 
 but walked u-p and down his garden, as if in reverie, striking off 
 the heads of the tallest flowers (livy says "poppies," — Ovid, 
 " lilies") with a switch he held in his hand. The man went ])ack, 
 recounting that the king had spoken no word, and repeating what 
 he had seen. The wily son perceived the meaning of the wily 
 father. He immediately put to death the principal men in Gabii ; 
 and the city, deprived of its chiefs, opened its gates to the Ro- 
 mans. 
 
 King Tarquin proceeded Avith his extravagant outlay in Eome.
 
 LUGRETIA. 25 
 
 But in the' midst of these costly works, an ominous event occurred 
 which inspii-ed universal fear. A seipent, issuing from a column 
 of wood, spread consternation amongst the inhabitants of the pa- 
 lace, and put them to flight. The king, at fii'st but little alarmed, 
 conceived nevertheless serious uneasiness respecting the future. 
 The Etruscan soothsayers were usually consulted with regard to 
 those presages which threatened public welfare ; but this one, 
 seeming to menace his own family, Tarquinius Superbus resolved 
 to consult the oracle of Delphos, celebrated throughout the world. 
 At the same time, doubtful what might be the answer of the god, 
 he dared not confide to strangers the charge of going to receive 
 it ; he therefore sent two of his sons into Greece, across lands then 
 unknown, and over seas even more unknown. The princes, Titus 
 and Aruns, set forth, accompanied by the son of Tarquinia, sister 
 to the king, — Lucius Junius Brutus, — who was of a very different 
 character, in reality, to what he professed to be in public. Aware 
 that the leading men in the state, — his own near relatives among 
 others, — ^had fallen victims to the sanguinary oppression of Tar- 
 quinius Superbus, this young man adopted the course, thenceforth, 
 of allowing nothing to appear either in his character or fortune which 
 might give umbrage to the tyrant, or excite his cupidity; in a 
 word, he sought from the contempt of those around him that 
 security which justice afforded not. He feigned to be half-witted, 
 suffering himself to become the laughing-stock of the king, aban- 
 doning all his possessions to his disposal, and accepting the oppro- 
 brious sm'name of Brutus. It was under favor of this title, indi- 
 cative of brutish incapacity, that the futm-e liberator of Kome 
 awaited the accomplishment of his destiny. Taken to Delphos by 
 the young Tarquins, — of whom he was rather the plaything than 
 the companion, — he carried with him a staff of camel-wood, made 
 hollow, and enclosing a wand of gold, which he presented as his
 
 26 LUCRETIA. 
 
 ofteriug at the shrine of the god. This offering mysteriously em- 
 blemed his own character ; at the same time that it served his pur- 
 pose of shrouding the lichness of the gift from curious eyes, and 
 concealing his homage to the oracle under the guise of a senseless 
 deed. Arrived at the Delphic goal, the young princes, after ful- 
 lilhng their father's behest, had the curiosity to endeavour to ascer- 
 tain which among them was destined to succeed to the throne of 
 Rome. It is asserted that a voice replied from the depths of the 
 sanctuary : " He among you, O young men, will attain to sovereign 
 power, who first shall kiss his mother." Titus and Aruns, anxious 
 lest their brother Sextus should anticipate them, agreed to keep 
 the ansAver of the oracle a secret, and prepared to hasten back; 
 but Brutus, interpreting otherwise the words of the Pythian sen- 
 tence, pretended to stumble, and kissed the Earth, — common 
 mother of all mankind. 
 
 On their return to Rome, they found great preparations going 
 on for war against the Rutuli. The capital of the dominions of the 
 Rutuli was the city of Ardea ; and then* nation was both rich and 
 powerful. War was declared against this people on account of 
 the financial exhaustion occasioned by the costly works undertaken 
 by king Tarquin, who sought"' to supply the deficiency in the 
 public treasury, and at the same time to gain, through their love 
 of booty, the liking of his subjects. For the Romans, fretting be- 
 neath his arrogance and despotism, resented his having held them 
 so long in labours of artisans and slaves. At fii-st, an attempt was 
 made to carry Ardea by assault ; but the endeavour was unsuccessful. 
 The siege took the form of a blockade ; and the enemy was driven 
 within the walls. During this blockade, as frequently happens in 
 the course of a war, less fierce than prolonged, furloughs were readily 
 granted — although rather to the officers than to the soldiers. From
 
 LUCRETIA. 27 
 
 time to time, the young jji-iuces relieved the tediunl of idleness by- 
 banquets, and parties of festive debauchery. 
 
 One day, when they were all sujDpiDg with Sextus Tarquin — 
 Lucius Collatinus being among the guests,— the conversation chanced 
 to fall upon their wives ; and each of the company pronounced an 
 eulogium upon his own wife, as deserving the palm of excellence. 
 The discussion growing warmer, Collatinus said there was no occa- 
 sion for so many words, as in a few hours they might prove how 
 completely his wife, Lucretia, surpassed all others. " If we be 
 young and vigorous," added he, " let us mount on horseback, and 
 go and assure ourselves of the merits of our wives. As they do 
 not expect us, we can judge them by the occupations in which we 
 find them engaged, when we take them by surprise." 
 
 Well may Shakespeare observe, at this portion of the story : — 
 
 " Collatine unwisely did not let * 
 To praise the clear unmatched red and white, 
 Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight ; 
 Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties, * 
 
 With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. 
 
 For he the night before in Tarquin's tent, 
 Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state ; 
 What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent 
 In the possession of his beauteous mate ; 
 Reckoning his fortune at such high proud rate, 
 That kings might be espoused to more fame, 
 But king nor peer to such a peerless dame. 
 
 Beauty itself doth of itself persuade 
 The eyes of men without an orator ; 
 What needeth, then, apologies bo made 
 To set forth that which is so singular ? 
 Or why is Collatine the publisher 
 Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown 
 From thievish ears, because it is his own ?" 
 
 * forbear.
 
 28 LUCKETIA. 
 
 The history goes on to relate that, heated "by wine, their young 
 bloods fermenting with mingled excess and excitement, the company 
 accepted the husband's rash challenge. " Let us go !" they ex- 
 claimed with one accord; and away they rode at full speed to 
 Rome. They arrived there about nightfall. From thence they 
 went on to Collatia ; where they found the king's daughters-in-law 
 with their young companions deep in the enjoyment of a sumj^tu- 
 ous repast. Lucretia, on the contrary, was discovered in her 
 private apartment, spinning wool, and employed amidst her women, 
 at a late hour of the night. Lucretia was awarded all the honors 
 of the challenged comparison. She received with courtesy the 
 yoimg Tarquins and her husband ; who, proud of his victory, invited 
 the princes to remain with him. Then it was, that Sextus 
 Tarquin conceived the infamous desire to obtain possession of Lu- 
 cretia, even were it at the price of crime. Besides her modest 
 beauty, which kindled his unholy flame, her reputation for stain- 
 less virtue excited his vanity, and inspired him with double incen- 
 tive to attempt the triumph over this admirable woman ; and it is 
 to be observed, — as a proof of Lucretia's character for invincible 
 purity, — ^that Tarquin never once entertained any other idea than 
 that of prevailing by force. He knew that persuasion or seduction 
 were hopeless. After finishing the night in diversions befitting 
 their age, the young men returned to the camp. 
 
 Some few days afterwards, Sextus, unknown to Collatinus, 
 returned to Collatia, accompanied by a single attendant. As his 
 designs were suspected by no one, he was welcomed with kind- 
 ness ; both on account of his royal rank, and as being a kinsman 
 of Collatinus, the master of the house. After supper, he was con- 
 ducted to the apartment prepared for him ; where, burning with 
 illicit passion, he impatiently awaited the retirement of the house- 
 hold to rest. At length, judging by the silence which prevailed.
 
 LUCRETIA. 29 
 
 that all were asleep, he drew his sword, and crept to the bedside 
 of Lucretia, whom he found in a deep slumber. Placing his hand 
 heavily upon her bosom to prevent her stirring, he hoarsely whis- 
 pered : — " Silence, Lucretia ! I am Sextus. My sword is in my 
 hand ; and you die if you breathe one word." Lucretia, awakened 
 abruptly out of sleep, dumb with terror, defenceless, beholds death 
 impending over her, and hears Tarquin pouring forth his insults 
 of passionate declaration ; pressing, beseeching, threatening, by 
 turns, and conjuring her by all he deems most capable of moving 
 a woman's heart. 
 
 But finding that she only became the more confirmed in reso- 
 lution and resistance, and that even the fear of death could not 
 shake her constancy, he tried to alarm her fears for her reputation. 
 He protested, that after having kUled her, he would place beside 
 her dead body that of a murdered slave, ui order to make it 
 beheved that she had been stabbed in the act of adulterous sin. 
 Vanquished by this horrible di'ead, the inflexible chastity of Lu- 
 cretia yielded to the brutality of Tarquin ; and he, proud of his 
 ignominious triumph, departed back to the camp. Lucretia, over- 
 whelmed by the magnitude of her misfortune, sent a messenger to 
 Rome and to Ardea, to entreat her father and her husband would 
 hasten to her, each accompanied by a sure friend, as a fearful 
 event had occurred which demanded theii" immediate presence. 
 
 Spurius Lucretius came with Publius Valerius ; and Collatinus, 
 with Brutus. The two latter were returning to Rome in company, 
 when they were met by Lucretia's messenger. They found her 
 seated in her apartment, attu-ed in mourning weeds, and plunged 
 in the profoundest grief On the appearance of her friends, she 
 burst into tears ; and upon her husband's eager questioning as to 
 the cause of her agitation, she brokenly recounted the irreparable 
 wrong and misery that had befallen them both.
 
 30 LUCRE TIA. 
 
 Refusing all comfort, and all attempt to persuade lier tliat slie 
 was virtually innocent, since her will had taken no part in the fold 
 deed committed, she drew a dagger fi"om beneath her robe, stabbed 
 it to her heart, and dropj^ed expiring at the feet of her husband 
 and father. 
 
 While they, stricken with dismay, abandoned themselves to 
 their grief, Brutus drew forth from her bleeding bosom the reek- 
 ing dagger, and holding it aloft, exclaimed : — " Hear me swear, O 
 ye gods ! — and you, friends, bear me witness ! — I swear by this 
 innocent blood, — so pure before the outrage it received from this 
 hatefid son of kings ! I swear, to pursue with fii'e and with steel, 
 with all means in my power, the haughty Tarquin, his guilty 
 wife, his infamous son, his whole hateful race, and to endure no 
 kings in Rome — neither these, nor any other !" He then gave the 
 dagger into the hands of Collatinus, of Lucretius, and of Valerius ; 
 all of them amazed at this marvellous change in a man hitherto 
 regarded among them as half-witted. They repeated the prescribed 
 vow to extirpate the accursed Tarquin race ; and, passing at once 
 from grief to thoughts of vengeance, they followed Brutus, who 
 called them forth to the immediate destruction of royalty in Rome. 
 They bore the dead body of Lucretia with them into the pubhc 
 place of the city ; where, — as they exjiected, — this eloquent spec- 
 tacle, in its bleeding evidence of the ruthless violence and outrage 
 of the king's son, excited universal horror and indignation. 
 
 " To see sad sights moves more than hear them told ; 
 For then the eye interprets to the ear 
 The heavy motion that it doth behold, 
 When every part a part of woe doth bear." 
 
 Lucretia's hapless fate sealed the fate of the Tarquins, and with 
 it, that of the regal dynasty. The expulsion of the reigning family 
 was followed by the election of Brutus and Collatinus to considar
 
 L U C R E T I A . 31 
 
 power ; and an annual consulsliij) was substituted for monarchical 
 government. 
 
 "WTieu Lucius Junius Brutus died, funeral honors were pub- 
 licly paid him. The senators, whom Brutus had raised in 
 number to three hundi'ed, came to receive his body at the gates 
 of the city, it being brought to Rome from the field of battle ; and 
 the Roman matrons wore a year's mourning for him, as the avenger 
 of Lucretia. His statue was erected in the Capitol, bearing in the 
 hand a dagger. 
 
 Sextus Tarquin was not long subject either to the stings of 
 remorse, or to the reproaches of his family for being the cause of 
 their downfal. He retired to the city of Gabii, where he held 
 command ; and perished there soon after. 
 
 Lucre tia's death took place in the year 244 of the Roman era, 
 —509 B. C. 
 
 This narrative of Lucretia, has, of course, closely adhered to 
 the historical account ; but it is interesting to trace the different 
 representations of her speech and demeanour — at the point in her 
 sad story where her husband and friends come to her on the 
 morning after the oiitrage — as variously given by those who have 
 depicted the scene. Livy, wdth the staidness of a historian, and 
 the patriotic bent of a Roman, records the address of the Roman 
 matron, Lucretia, to her husband, in words which convey the idea 
 that she seeks to urge his indignation to take the shape of revenge 
 upon her undoer, to turn her wi'ongs into a means of redressing 
 those of Rome ; and while pleading her cause with her injured 
 friends, inciting them to make it one with that of the oppressed 
 Romans, groaning beneath Tarquin tyranny. She seems, in 
 this writer's pages, less occupied with the horror and pain of the 
 revelation she has to make, than solicitous to convert it into a 
 source of futui'e avenging retribution. She brings forward —
 
 32 LUCRETIA. 
 
 almost witli unfeminine coolness — tlie cii'cumstances that may be 
 pleaded in extenuation of her mihappy fall ; and receives the con- 
 soling assm-ances of her husband and friends, — that as her will 
 had no part in the foul deed, she cannot be accounted culpable, — 
 more like arguments that require answering, than soothings of her 
 affliction. Upon their telling her that when the spuit is innocent, 
 the body is guUtless, and that there can be no fault committed 
 where the intention remains pure, she replies, " It is for you to 
 decide upon the doom of Sextus. For myself, if I absolve myself 
 from crime, I cannot exempt myself from the penalty. Hence- 
 forth, no woman surviving her shame, shall venture to cite the 
 example of Lucretia !" And she forthwith plunges the steel into 
 her bosom, and dies. 
 
 Ovid has told the whole story, in the second book of his 
 " Fasti," with gi-eat beauty and tenderness. At the point in ques- 
 tion, he describes her sUence, her confusion, her troubled aspect ; 
 her hidden face, her streaming tears, her hesitation and distress in 
 having to relate the circumstances which she has summoned her 
 husband and father to hear. He has given to theu' words a 
 manly belief in the goodness of her they love, a noble confidence 
 in her faith and vii'tue. " Thou hast not failed in truth or 
 purity !" they exclaim ; " thou yieldedst to violence !" And to 
 her speech he has imparted a womanly tenderness, very character- 
 istic of her modest worth, — gentle, yet firm and constant to her 
 own conviction of right : " You pardon me !" she returns, " but 
 I, — I cannot pardon myself!" And she falls, self-struck, at then* 
 feet. 
 
 Chaucer has a similar touch, here, with the Latin poet ; indeed 
 his " Legend of Lucrece," is, all through, almost a j^araphrase of 
 many of the passages in Ovid. The touch adverted to, is strictly 
 in keeping with the character of the chaste Lucretia, marking her
 
 ,/^^ 
 
 ^
 
 LUCKETIA. 33 
 
 scrupulons modesty in the very last act of Iter dying moments. 
 The old Saxon poet tells it in his own quaintly simple style : — 
 
 " But privily she caughten forth a knife, 
 And therewithal she reft herself of life, 
 And as she fell adown, she cast her look, 
 And of her cloth6s yet good heed she took ; 
 For in her falling, yet she had a care. 
 Lest that her feet or suche things lay bare ; — 
 So well she lov^d cleanness, and eke truth." 
 
 Chaucer's description of her manner when faltering out the 
 terrible revelation she has to make to her husband and friends, 
 forms also a graceful parallel with Ovid's diction ; but, as usual, 
 Shakespeare transcends them all, in his wording of the circum- 
 stance. The pathos, the delicacy, the bashful reluctance, the wifely 
 and impassioned regret /or Tiia sake, which Shakespeare has thrown 
 into Lucretia's speech to Collatinus are completely his own. 
 
 " And now this pale swan in her watery nest 
 Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending : 
 (Pew words), quoth she, shall fit the trespass best, 
 Where no excuse can give the fault amending : 
 In me more woes than words are now depending , 
 And my laments would be drawn out too long, 
 To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. 
 
 Then, be this all the task it hath to say : 
 Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed 
 A stranger came, and on that pillow lay 
 Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head ; 
 And what wrong else may be imagined 
 By foul enforcement might be done to me. 
 From that, alas ! thy Lucrece is not free." 
 
 In this early poem of the great dramatist, he faintly antici- 
 pated some of those exquisite touches which afterwards shone forth 
 with such refulgence in his glorious play of Cymbeline. We are
 
 34 L U C 11 E T I A . 
 
 reminded of Posthumus Leoiicatus's rash wager, in Collatine's boast 
 and challenge ; of Imogen's fervent-chaste wifehood, in Lucretia's 
 modest dignity; and of lachimo's turpitude in Sextus Tarquiu's 
 villainy. Shakespeare, like his brother poets, 0\ad and Chaucer, 
 told the story with full homage to the mingled beauty and delicacy 
 of the real Lucretia ; but there is one subtle point, which perhaps 
 only the painter of Imogen would have thought of addtug. When 
 Sextus first arrives : — 
 
 " He stories to her ears her husband's fame, 
 Won in the fields of fruitful Italy ; 
 And decks with praises Collatine's high name, 
 
 Made glorious by his manly chivalry, 
 With bruised arms and wreaths of victory : 
 Her joy with heav'd up hand she doth express, 
 And wordless so greets heaven for his success." 
 
 The instinct which induces even the intended violator to make 
 his first appeal to the wife through her husband's praises, is pre- 
 cisely one of the thousand instances of Shakespeare's keen percep- 
 tion of human sentiment ; while Lucretia's silent drinking in of the 
 joy, with devout exaltation of heart, is true Imogen. Afterwards, 
 too, when Tarquin, alone, admiringly recalls her beauteous looks 
 and manner, how vividly he depicts the innocent unconsciousness 
 of Lucretia ; reading no hint of the unlawful firethat flames in his 
 eyes, and seeing nothing there save interest, as she thinks, for him 
 she loves. 
 
 " Quoth he, she took mc kindly by the hand. 
 And gaz'd for tidings in my eager eyes, 
 Fearing some hard news from the warlike band, 
 
 Where her beloved CoUatinus lies. 
 O how her fear did make her colour rise ! 
 First red as roses that on lawn we lay, 
 Then white as lawn, the roses took away."
 
 LUCRETIA. 35 
 
 Tlie two stanzas pourtrayiiig Lucretia as she lies asleep, so 
 beautifully prefigure the similar passage describing Imogen, that 
 the poet himself seems reminded of his own former-written picture ; 
 for he makes the Italian lachimo commence the lovely speech 
 with these words : — 
 
 " Our Tarquin thus 
 Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakeu'd 
 The chastity he wounded. — Cytherea, 
 How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! fresh lily, 
 And whiter than the sheets ! That I might touch ! 
 But kiss ; one kiss ! — Rubies unparagon'd 
 How dearly they do't ! — 'Tis her breathing that 
 Perfumes the chamber thus : the flame o' the taper 
 Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids 
 To see the enclosed lights, now canopied 
 Under these windows ; white and azure, lac'd 
 "With blue of heaven's own tinct." 
 
 And here is Lucretia : — 
 
 Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, 
 Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss. 
 Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder 
 Swelling on either side to want his bliss. 
 Between whose hills her head intombed is ; 
 Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies, 
 To be admir'd of lewd unhallowed eyes. 
 
 Without the bed her other fair hand was, 
 On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white 
 Show'd like an April daisy on the grass. 
 With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night. 
 Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheath'd their light. 
 And canopied in darkness sweetly lay. 
 Till they might open to adorn the day. 
 
 The subject has inspired Ovid with a delicacy of description 
 jnusual to him. Those passages in which he describes Lucretia's 
 personal demeanour, are signalized by refined beauty and grace of
 
 36 LUCRETIA. 
 
 womanhood. The one, for instance, where Collatinus brings the 
 young men to his home, and finds the wife among her women, 
 spinning wool, which is to make a garment for her absent husband. 
 She hastens them at their work, asking news of the war, and 
 half deploring her Collatinus's bravery, which ever leads him into 
 the thickest of the danger. At the thought of his peril, her heart 
 turns cold, and she breaks off, weeping at the image her own fears 
 have conjm-ed up. 
 
 [" Desinit in lacrymas, intentaque fila remittet. 
 In gremio vultum deposuitque suuni. 
 Hoc ipsnm decuit : lacrymse decuere pudicam ; 
 Et facies animo dignaque parque fuit. 
 Pone metum, venio, conjuxait : ilia revisit ; 
 Deque viri collo, dulce pependit onus.'" 
 
 [A version of which may be thus ventured : — 
 
 In tears, she ceased : th' extended threads lie slack ; 
 
 Her gentle face upon her bosom droops ; 
 
 Her very grief's a grace : those wifely tears 
 
 Beam chastity, — that look, her lofty soul. 
 
 ' Lay by your fear ; I come !' the husband cried : — 
 
 To joy restor'd, on Collatinus' neck 
 
 She flung the burthen soft of love and welcome.] 
 
 And again, in the crisis of her calamity, Ovid thus depicts her 
 helpless innocence : — 
 
 [" Ilia nihil : neque enim voeem, viresque loquendi 
 Aut aliquid toto pectore mentis habet. 
 Sed tremit, ut quondam stabulis deprensa relictis 
 Parvasubinfestoquumjacet agna lupo : 
 Quid faciat ? Pugnet ? vincetur fcmina pugnet : 
 Clamet ? at in dextra, qui necet, ensis adest : 
 Effugiet ? positis regentur pectoris palmis, 
 Nunc primum externa pectora tacta manu. "
 
 LUCRETIA. 37 
 
 [She, mute : nor voice, nor power to speak one word; 
 No conscious force throughout her soul pi-evails : 
 But trembling lay, as lambkin stray'd from fold, 
 That falls beneath the fangs of ravening wolf. 
 What do ? Contend ? A woman fails in strife. 
 Cry out ? The sword is there at hand to slay. 
 Escape ? Her bosom's held by ruffian clutch ; 
 That bosom now first soil'd by alien hand.] 
 
 Lucretia is one of tliose w^meii of wliom little ls known ; 
 and of wliom nothing would be known, were it not for tlie single 
 point in lier fate — its catastrophe. But in that solitary fact, how 
 much is revealed. It shows forth the lustrous chastity, which, but 
 for that remorseless assault, would have been content, like all 
 modest virtue, to remain unasserted, — claiming no merit for its 
 existence, satisfied with its simple possession as a part of woman- 
 hood. Sir Thomas Browne says : — " "Who knows whether the 
 best of men be known ? And among women, such distinction is 
 even more doubtful ; since it is the peculiar privilege of the best 
 womanly virtue to remain untrumpeted." Lucretia's chary regard 
 for honor is no more than that which exists in every woman's 
 heart ; and she, like the rest of her sex worthy the name of 
 women, would gladly have treasured it secretly, instead of being 
 comj)elled to declare it openly, had her destiny so permitted. The 
 writer just quoted, remarks : — " Happy are they whom privacy 
 makes innocent ; and Lucretia would have been happy, had she 
 been able to preserve her innocence privately and quietly. But, 
 indignation that the ideal of vii'tue enthroned within her soul 
 should be desecrated, resentment that her husband's honor should 
 be defiled in her person, and abhorrence of herself when she 
 deemed her purity impaired, drove her from her peaceful silence, 
 and she felt compelled to vindicate her reverence for conjugal 
 chastity, by an act that at once immortalized her wrongs, and her 
 own keen sense of them.
 
 38 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Wten we consider the age in wliicli Lucretia lived, — live 
 centuries before Christianity had shed its elevating influence upon 
 the world, — the dehcacy of her character, and the refinement of her 
 conduct, strike us as pre-eminently beautiful. In times when 
 rapine and violence of all kinds were mercilessly enacted, when 
 the forcible and treacherous seizure of the Sabine women formed 
 but one signal instance among many a similar act of outrage 
 committed during incessant wars and sackings of cities, — the noble 
 self-respect of Lucretia wears an aspect of singular dignity. The 
 sense she entertained of her injury, the mode in which she sent for 
 her husband and father to reveal it to them, and the self-immola- 
 tion with which she expiated the dishonour they had sustained, all 
 bespeak a sentiment and refined com'se of action rare indeed in 
 those periods. And yet, the way in which Lucretia's memory has 
 been more than once dealt with, affords a lamentable instance of 
 the strange misconception, and unjust misconstruction from which 
 the fairest and purest of humanity have not been exempt. It 
 might be thouscht that the chaste rectitude of this virtuous-hearted 
 woman, must have ensm-ed its own clear comprehension, and honest 
 representation ; but on the contrary, her conduct has been both 
 misinterpreted and mis-stated. St. Augustin, and others, have 
 not scrupled to assail Lucretia with indecent sneers; making 
 her a butt for the shafts they level at paganism, in her person. 
 Well may Bayle indignantly observe : — " The reflections cast upon 
 Lucretia by some writers, are not only tasteless jests, but frivolous 
 quibbles of sophistry. Her yielding to Tarquin, when he threat- 
 ened to kill the slave and place him beside her dead body, has 
 been twisted into an accusation that she pi-eferred maintaining the 
 semblance of wtue, to preserving vii-tue, that she sacrificed honor 
 for the sake of keeping reputation, and that good name was dearer 
 to her than chastity itself. Her self-inflicted death, too, has been
 
 LUCRETIA. 39 
 
 treated as a crime, — judging it by quite otlier standards of religion 
 and morality than those which regulated men's belief in the time 
 of Lucretia. It seems impossible that such distorted views of her 
 character and behaviour could be other than wilful misappre- 
 hension. Surely, for the terrible fear that took possession of 
 Lucretia, when no dread of immediate death to herself could 
 subdue her firmness of resistance, there might be found a far more 
 powerful motive than the merely selfish anxiety for reputation. It 
 was her pang of conviction that she must live dishonom-ed in her 
 husband's belief, — that he would have no chance of leai-ninaf 
 the truth, — that he would never know in what unbroken 
 faith and love to him she had died, that she would be found in 
 in such plight as left no possibility of CoUatrnus thinking her 
 innocent, — which deprived her of all power longer to resist. She 
 could not — no chaste wife could — afford to dwell in a husband's 
 remembrance a thing so fallen. Rather trust to his generous 
 confidence in the unswerving fidelity of her spirit, while revealing 
 to him the loathed subjugation of her too-weak frame ; and 
 avenge for him, by her own death, the destruction of his peace and 
 honor. The way in which her father and husband both received 
 the account of the cruel event she had to relate, shows the esteem 
 in which her single-minded character was held by them, and the 
 thorough reliance they had upon her known unspotted truth. 
 They were the first to assure her that she was innocent in their 
 eyes ; they knew her pure heart, and fii'm faith. Upon her 
 avowal, they felt at once — ^knowing her virtue and strong love for 
 them — that she could not have voluntarily yielded ; and that she 
 must have been a mere passive victim of brute violence. They 
 had no unworthy suspicions of the integrity of her motives ; they 
 knew it was honour, — honour itself, — and reputation as part of hon- 
 our, that were dear to her, for their sakes even more than for her
 
 40 LUCRETIA. 
 
 own ; and posterity Has noriglit to judge this noble-spirited woman 
 less candidly than those manly hearts who knew, loved, trusted, 
 and lost her. 
 
 To sully the glory of Lucretia with scurril insinuations, is to act 
 the Tarquin by her memory. Lucretia ought not to be despoiled 
 of the radiant crown of chastity which encircles her white brow 
 in the thoughts of succeeding generations.
 
 i*6 
 
 / 
 
 
 W 
 
 £m^g^s»^g^i
 
 ASTASIA. 
 
 The great characteristic of Aspasia was intellect. Her powers of 
 mind permitted ter to take rank among men ; and she used her 
 qualities of womanhood but as a means to bring her into men's 
 companionship. She lived among men, she thought with men ; 
 she was a man herself, in every particular but those attractions of 
 her sex which gave her additional influence in winning men to 
 share their intellect, their confidence, and their liking with her. 
 
 At a time when much social license prevailed in the ties ap- 
 pointed to sanctify the intercourse between men and women, and 
 when, also, much social injustice prevailed in the legal disabilities 
 to which foreign -born women were subject in Athens, it is hardly 
 to be wondered at, if considerable latitude in morals obtained 
 among the women of that period. A native of Ionia, Aspasia par- 
 took of the soft Asiatic temperament ; which, blended with her 
 virile mind, made her view with masculine indifference those re- 
 straints of inclination which generally form an integral part of 
 womanhood. Her youth was as devoid of strictness as that of 
 the many young men, whose early conduct is leniently spoken of 
 as folly, indiscreet fondness for pleasure, and " sowing wild oats." 
 
 Aspasia was born in the city of Miletus ; and was the daugh- 
 ter of Axiochus. The year of her bu-th is not recorded, but it
 
 42 ASPASIA. 
 
 may be placed somewliere about 480 B. C. She adopted as lier 
 model, a certain Thargelia, a celebrated courtezan, whose political 
 and literary talents, combined with personal beauty, had enabled 
 her to ' obtain a position of considerable influence in the state. 
 This Thargelia confined her favours to the highest personages, and 
 chief rulers of her time ; and being not only extremely handsome 
 but possessing the art of allurement in a surpassing degree, she 
 succeeded in establishing an intimacy with the greatest men in 
 Greece, which she converted into a means of winning them to the 
 interests of the king of Persia. Aspasia, with her commandiug 
 intellect, and that defective moral discipline which arose out of 
 the circumstances stated, came to Athens with the intention of 
 cultivating the friendship of those Grecians pre-eminent in genius 
 and intelligence, and associating with them on terms of fi"eedom 
 and equality. The Athenian articles of faith in the philosophy of 
 existence made it almost a duty to luxuriate in life to intoxication. 
 With them, indeed, " to enjoy is to obey," formed a tenet of their 
 social creed ; and fully did they yield it observance. The volup- 
 tuous ease of their rejiasts, — ^reclining on couches as they fed ; the 
 cost, the lavishness, and the exquisiteness of their viands ; the rare- 
 ness of their wines, and the immoderate quantities in which they 
 indulged ; the profusion of flowers and garlands with which they 
 heaped their goblets and themselves at their feasts ; the sensuous 
 appreciation of Art ; and the sensual avidity of pleasure, all mark 
 the Greek desire to taste of life to inebriation. Alcibiades, reel- 
 ing in at the banquet of Plato, attended by flute-players, " crowned 
 with a thick crown of ivy and violets, and having a quantity of 
 fillets on his head, led forward, and placed against the door-post, 
 excessively drunk, and roaring out," excites no disgust in his 
 friends, but is welcomed among them with laughter and delight. 
 Finding no goblet large enough, he takes a wine-cooler, holding
 
 ASPASIA. 43 
 
 eight cups, lias it filled ; drinks it off ; lias it re-filled; and passes 
 it to Socrates, wlio emjjties the di-aught ; and another of the com- 
 pany observes : — " Shall we then have no conversation or singing 
 over our cups, but drink down stupidly, just as if we were 
 thirsty?" This gusto of debauchery, mixing intelligence with 
 indulgence, and blending sense with gratification of the senses, is 
 peculiarly Greek, and belongs to that Athenian society in which 
 Aspasia figured. Excess, so far from being a reproach, was an 
 accomplishment. It was an evidence of constitutional strength 
 and refinement in taste. At this very Platonic banquet, the major- 
 ity of the revellers remain till cock-crow ; some sleeping on their 
 couches as they lay ; others deep-eugaged in discussion. Aristo- 
 phanes, Agathon, and Socrates " sat it out, and were still drinking 
 out of a great goblet, which they passed round and round ; Socra- 
 tes disputing between them, on the foundations of the tragic and 
 comic Arts being essentially the same." 
 
 The Cynic and the Stoic philosophers had their teachers and 
 their disciples ; but the Epicurean philosophy ruled in that social 
 assemblage where Asjiasia was the centre of attraction. Her 
 strong natural capacity, and her high acquirements, joined to a fas- 
 cinating manner, made her the admii'ed of all who saw her ; and 
 her house soon became the resort of all the men of note in 
 Athens. Socrates, with his friends, visited her ; and it is said that 
 he was her pupil in the art of eloquence, which she taught. The 
 elegiac poet, Hermesianax, represents Socrates as enamoured of 
 Aspasia ; and says, that, " Venus, avenging herself for his sage 
 austerity, inflamed him with a passion for the gifted Ionian ; so 
 that his profound wisdom occupied itself thenceforth in the frivo- 
 lous cares and anxieties of love. He perpetually invented fresh 
 pretexts for repairing to Aspasia's house ; and he, who had um-av- 
 eUed the truth from the most tortuous sophisms, could not find
 
 44 ASP ASIA. 
 
 tlie clue to tlie windings of Ms own heart." That Socrates was 
 one of her admii-ers, there is no doubt ; he, in common with the 
 host of discerning men who flourished at that period, courted her 
 notice. Alcibiades also was among her guests ; and it is a signifi- 
 cant circumstance, as illustrative of the social code with regard to 
 morals and manners then prevailing in their city, that the Athe- 
 nians who frequented her house brought their wives with them to 
 hear her discourse. She was an accomplished mistress of oratory ; 
 her usual talk was distinguished by noble expressions, and an orig- 
 inal turn of thought. Grand ideas clothed in harmonious lan- 
 guage, was a faculty pertaining to Greek utterance. The conver- 
 sation at Aspasia's was instinct with intelligential beauty ; fine in 
 sentiment, flowing in speech, earnest in opinion, graceful and elo- 
 quent in diction. The ease, combined with refinement, perspica- 
 city, and artistic charm, of the friendly intellectual meetings at 
 her house, were such as to render access to them a coveted privi- 
 lege. 
 
 Among those who were foremost in availing themselves of this 
 desired gratification was Pericles. He, Hke the rest, was struck 
 with Aspasia's brilliant mental endowments. Himself a fine orator, 
 he perfected his style under her auspices. Himself a governor, he 
 studied government, aided by her enlightened views, and acute 
 penetration. He was one of those men, not afraid to believe that 
 his own manly strength of understanding could be yet farther in- 
 vigorated by womanly assistance. Pericles had just one of those 
 natures which, — haughty and reserved with fellow-men, can unbend 
 if it discover a congenial-minded woman ; and which, with large 
 liberality, not only generously receives this feminine sympathy, 
 but generously yields it full measui-e of acknowledgment. Pericles 
 eagerly sought the support which he felt that his vigorous intellect 
 attained in the opinions and counsels of Aspasia ; he gladly availed
 
 ASPASIA. 45 
 
 himself of tlie energetic firmness wliicli her woman's spii-it added 
 to his robust judgment. The female mind has frequently a keen- 
 ness in perception, and an almost instinctive quickness of foresight, 
 which, consociated with masculine calmness and staidness of wis- 
 dom, forms an all-potent combination of intellectual might. Peri- 
 cles, from perceiving this point of reliance afforded him by Aspasia's 
 mental capacity, grew to lean upon it with that pleasant feeling of 
 security, which, in such a man's breast, produces increased liking. 
 A merely clever man, upon discovering that a woman assists his 
 judgment, resents her ability, and dislikes herself; a man of high 
 mind and true genius, becomes attached in proportion as he finds 
 corresponding qualities in the woman he prefers. 
 
 Pericles, — while seeking the society of Aspasia, as a brilliant 
 and accomplished person who could enliven his social hours with 
 her wit and information, improve his intellectual hours by her 
 powers of oratory and knowledge of governmental and state affairs, 
 and beguUe his hours of recreation by her taste in Art, and per- 
 sonal fascination, — learned to love her for herself. His love 
 became confirmed and genuine ; it became that higher kind of 
 attachment, founded on esteem for individual qualities, and in- 
 creased into passionate and exclusive preference, which is not 
 content with mere casual connection, but which desires the bonds 
 of wedded union to ensm-e its permanence. Plato says : — " They 
 who are inspii-ed by this divinity (the Uranian Venus) seek the 
 affections of those who are endowed by nature with greater excel- 
 lence and vigour both of body and mind. And it is easy to distin- 
 guish those who especially exist under the influence of this power, by 
 their choosing in early youth, as the objects of theii* love, those in 
 whom the intellectual faculties have begun to develope. For they 
 who begin to love in this manner, seem to me to be preparing to 
 pass then* whole Hfe together in community of good and evil, and
 
 46 ASTASIA. 
 
 not ever lightly deceiving those wlio love them, to be faithless to 
 their vows." 
 
 The love of Pericles for Aspasia, springing from this blended 
 predilection for her accomphshed intellect, and affection for her 
 attractive graces, could no longer be satisfied with possessing her 
 as the occasional companion of his lighter moments ; he wished to 
 make her his own for life, — to have her constantly by his side, 
 durina: the remainder of his existence. He had been married to a 
 kinswoman, a widow, formerly the wife of Hipponicus, by whom 
 she had one child, named Callias; but neither Pericles nor 
 she caring for each other, they mutually agreed to be divorced, and 
 they wei'e thus set free. Pericles gave her, by her own wish, to 
 another husband ; and he himself immediately espoused the 
 woman of his choice, Aspasia. Plutarch records, in his " Life of 
 Pericles," that, so dearly loved was Aspasia by Pericles, that he 
 never went out, or returned home, without saluting her with a 
 kiss. The biographer adds, that this conjugal caress brought many 
 sneers from the comedy-writers of the time, who were mighty 
 facetious, and even scm-rilous, upon it. But Pericles, like all great 
 men, had many enemies, and they would not let slip any occasion 
 of wounding one, whom they dared not attack directly, thi'ough the 
 person of those dear to him. 
 
 This recorded act of the husband, attesting the continuance 
 and quiet fulness of his joy in her whom he had made his wedded 
 partner, is a comprehensive answer to the malignant attacks upon 
 Aspasia's character, which the comic-writers of the time took 
 delight in showering upon her. There is not the slightest ground 
 for believing that she failed in the most perfect truth and faith to 
 Pericles, when once she became his. And, moreover, there is upon 
 record a sentence of hers (quoted as related by JEschines, a disciple 
 of Socrates), which gives evidence of her possessing a true insight
 
 ASPASIA. 47 
 
 into wliat constitutes the fit basis for married union. On an occa- 
 sion wlien Aspasia was seeking to effect a reconciliation between 
 Xenoj^lion and liis wife, she wound up her exordium by tMs argu- 
 ment : — " From tlie moment that you have answered to yourself 
 this question, that there is not upon earth a better man or more 
 loveable woman, learn to recognize and enjoy this happiness which 
 is mutually allotted yours, — you, to be husband to the best of 
 women, you, to be wife to the best of men." 
 
 Had Aspasia been a gross, or depraved woman, she could never 
 have inspired the rehant fondness, — even the tenderly calm and 
 confiding attachment, of which Pericles' behaviour to her gives 
 evidence. But his own character was j)recisely one to provoke the 
 hostile feeling of inferior natures. His commanding abilities cre- 
 ated envy even while they inspired respect ; and his proud sjiirit 
 awakened resentment while compelhng involuntary allegiance. 
 The whole man is visible to us, in Plutarch's animated account of 
 hiin. The description of his manner is precisely that of a haugh- 
 tily self-concentrated disposition — exteriorly sedate from inward 
 elevation. Thus : " He grew not only to have a great mind and 
 an eloquent tongue, without any affectation, or gross country 
 terms ; but to a certain modest countenance that scantly smiled, 
 very sober in his gait, having a kind of sound in his voice that he 
 never lost nor altered ; and was of very honest behaviour ; never 
 troubled in his talk for any thing that crossed him, and many 
 other such Hke things, as all that saw in him, and considered them, 
 could but wonder at him." 
 
 The anecdotes related of Pericles are equally characteristic. 
 We are told how, once, some idle fellow took it into his head to 
 rail at Pei'icles in the market-place, reviling him to his face, and 
 following him up and down during the whole day with the most 
 villainous words he could use. Pericles took all quietly, answered
 
 48 A S P A S I A . 
 
 him no word, despatclied sucli mattei's of business as he had in 
 hand, until nightfall ; when he went composedly home, showing 
 no appearance of being disturbed in the least, though the fellow 
 still followed at his heels, with abuse and open defamation. When 
 he came to his own door, it was quite dark ; and his people ap- 
 pearing, he commanded one of them to take a torch, and attend 
 the man home to his house. This mute sarcasm, so coolly 
 contemptuous in its dignified calm, is completely the haughty spuit. 
 His reply too, when the people complained that he consumed too 
 much of the public treasure in works of art ; he said : — " Well 
 then, the charges shall be mine, if you think fit, and none of yours ; 
 provided, however, that no man's name be written upon the works 
 but mine alone." 
 
 Pericles in his lofty scorn of the commonalty while providing 
 for their advantage, is like Coriolanus's superb disdain of what he 
 calls " our musty superfluity ;" while, the way in which Pericles 
 showed himself superior to greed, venahty, and corruption, recalls 
 Brutus's indignant remonstrance against Cassius's having betrayed 
 the mercenariness of " an itching palm." 
 
 " What ! shall one of us, 
 That struck the foremost man of all this world, 
 But for supporting robbers ; shall we now 
 Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ? 
 And sell the mighty space of our large honours 
 For so much trash, as may be grasped thus ? — 
 I'd rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
 Than such a Roman." 
 
 Not only was Pericles inaccessible to bribery, but he never in- 
 creased his own patrimony by so much as a single groat ; although 
 he em-iched the city by his excellent management, and brought it 
 to a high state of wealth and greatness. In the economy of his 
 own estate and household, he practised admirable thrift and hus-
 
 ASPASIA. 49 
 
 bandry ; so that, altliongb. liis prudence brouglit upon him the 
 imputation of being illiberal in outlay, from those who were ever 
 on the watch to malign his acts, yet it ensnred him a well-ordered 
 establishment, with easy, and even affluent circumstances. This 
 wise strictness enabled him to be beneficently charitable to the 
 poor, and munificently generous to those less provident than him- 
 self; for when his dearest friend, Anaxagoras, having been careless 
 in exj^enditure, fell into distress, Pericles hastened to him, and con- 
 jured him to accept of help, with an earnestness and delicacy 
 of representation, — as if the favour were done to himself and not to 
 his friend, — that is in perfect keeping with the character of the 
 noble-spirited man. 
 
 Pericles' love of Art, and energetic promotion of its cultivation 
 among the people, is one of the points which evinces where the 
 sympathy and assistance of such a wife as Aspasia would be in- 
 valuable to him. He ordered public entertaiaments for the gratifi- 
 cation of the populace ; and instituted games, wherein music had a 
 predominant share ; he appointed certain feast-days for their cele- 
 bration, presided at them himself, adjudged the rewards to the 
 most deserving among the performers, and provided for the future 
 continuance of these refining pastimes. He was a patron of the 
 renowned sculptor, Phidias ; whom he employed in designing and 
 constructing the image of the goddess Minerva, which was cast 
 in brass, and covered with gold. He erected magnificent buildings 
 on the Acropolis ; thus supplying the artisans with constant work, 
 and introducing a higher taste among them. He placed theatrical 
 representations within the power of the poorer orders to enjoy, 
 and gave them at once a source of instruction, recreation, and en- 
 nobliug ideas. 
 
 He was like the king of a republic ; and enacted the part of 
 a monarch in a commonwealth. He was potent from force of 
 7
 
 50 AS P AS I A. 
 
 enligliteument, and not from arbitrary dictation. He i^revaUed by 
 dint of natural suj)eriority, not by tyranny. He was only a des- 
 pot in so far as a commanding judgment, and a will capable of 
 carrying out its wise conceptions, its virtuous aims, and its benefi- 
 cial purposes act despotically ; tbat is, from the despotism of in- 
 evitable result, and not from the despotism of irresponsible do- 
 minion. Such judgment and will as those of Pericles, operate 
 upon his country and his age, almost independently of their posses- 
 sor's intentions, — out of their own intrinsic necessity to produce 
 important and lasting effects. He was gifted with a prevision of 
 comprehension gi'eatly in advance of his time, — a sure mark of 
 original genius. He was singularly free from superstition ; and 
 viewed with the calmness of a superior mind, those portents which 
 dismayed the ignorant. He was versed in Natural Philosophy ; 
 which, as Plutarch nobly says, " yielding a knowledge of the causes 
 and reasons of such ominous signs, instead of a fearful superstition, 
 brings true religion, with assured hope of goodness." The anec- 
 dote of Pericles and the solar eclipse, is an illustrative case in 
 point. A certain expedition being afoot, his men were shipped, 
 and the vessel about to saU, when suddenly there was a great 
 eclipse of the sun ; the day was very dark, so that the army were 
 stricken with a universal panic, dreading some overwhelming mis- 
 chance was about to befal them, from the threatening of this evil 
 token. Pericles, seeing the master of his galley stand amazed, as 
 if not knowing what to do, cast his cloak over the man's face, and 
 hid his eyes, asking him whether he thought that any harm or 
 not. The master answering that he thought it none, Pericles said : 
 — " There is no difference between this and that ; saving that the 
 body which maketh the darkness, is greater than my cloak which 
 hideth thine eyes." 
 
 Another instance of Pericles' enhglitened mind, is his abhor-
 
 A S P A S I A . 51 
 
 rence of the cruelties of war. When he was chosen general of the 
 Athenian army, he was much esteemed, because he ever paid 
 regard to the safety of his soldiers. By his own good-will he 
 would never hazard a battle, which he saw might have doubtful 
 issue, or incm- much loss of life ; and moreover, he never praised, 
 as good generalship, those actions, in which victory was obtained 
 by great peril of the men ; since he often said, that, " if none but 
 himself led them to the shambles, they would be immortal." 
 
 This aversion from bloodshed caused him comfortins: reflection 
 in his last moments ; for when those standing about his death-bed 
 enumerated his noble acts, and counted up the number of victories 
 he had won when general of the Athenian armies, amounting to 
 nine foughten battles crowned with success to his country, he told 
 the speakers that he " wondered they should so highly praise him 
 for what many other captains had achieved as well, while they for- 
 got to mention the best and most note-worthy thing he had done ; 
 which was, that no Athenian had ever worn a black gown through 
 his occasion." This rejoicing of the dying spii-it that it should be 
 free from the stain of blood-guiltiness, and the exulting of the con- 
 science at having no such haunting memory to oppress it with a 
 sense of crime, is in accordance with the true essence of Christian- 
 ity ; and affords a lesson, fi'om heathen example, that many a pro- 
 fessed Chi'istian might advantageously take home to his bosom. 
 
 The wai'mth that Pericles showed in his friendship is consist- 
 ent with that peculiar concentration, — a combination of fervom' 
 with reserve — which characteri^ied him. His attachments were 
 few and exclusive, but they were intense. The regard which he 
 had for Anaxagoras was strong and steadfast. It was from this 
 serene-hearted philosopher, that he imbibed those habits of self- 
 -controul, and sedate demeanour, which enabled him to maintain so 
 tranquil a countenance in the midst of insult and vexation : — it
 
 52 A S P A S I A . 
 
 was from liiiu, too, that Pericles drew those lessons in Natural 
 Pliilosojihy wMcli rendered liim impassive to the superstitions of 
 his time. That Auaxagoras fully deserved the esteem of Pericles, 
 we know, — ^if it were but for those two beautiful incidents recorded 
 in the life of the philosopher. Fu'st ; that when he was informed 
 the Athenians had condemned him to die, his quiet reply was : 
 — " And Nature them." Second ; that when asked what he 
 would have done in commemoration of him, he requested that the 
 children of Athens might have a holiday on the anniversary of his 
 death. 
 
 The philosophy of Pericles, — a perfectly Greek one, and quite 
 in consonance with the teaching derived from so bland a nature as 
 that of Anaxagoras, — was, that life is a thing to be enjoyed; and 
 death, a thing not to be feared. 
 
 The most powerful sentiments of such natures as that of 
 Pericles are always jealously guarded from observation; and the 
 firmness with which he bore the majority of trials, — even very 
 severe ones, — makes the single occasions when the strong proud 
 heart gave way to uncontroulable emotion, only the more pathetic. 
 But twice in his life was Pericles known to be betrayed into these 
 gusts of feeling ; and both, were where his most deep-seated affec- 
 tions lay garnered. The picture of the father advancing to the 
 bier on which lay his dead child, and, in the act of placing the 
 customary funeral wreath on the head, the sight of that innocent 
 face struck into marble whiteness and stillness melting him into 
 floods of grief, is painted for us by Plutarch, who after describing 
 some of Pericles' cruellest mortifications, and bitterest troubles, 
 goes on to say : — " But all this did never pull down his coun- 
 tenance, nor any thing abate the greatness of his mind, what mis- 
 fortune soever he had sustained. Neither saw they him weep at 
 any time, nor mourn at the funerals of any of his kinsmen or
 
 ASPASIA. 53 
 
 friends, but at the death of Paralus, his youngest son ; for the loss 
 of him alone did melt his heart. Yet he did strive to show his 
 natural constancy, and to keep his accustomed modesty. 
 
 But as he would have put a garland of flowers upon his head, 
 sorrow did so pierce his heart when he saw his face, that then he 
 burst out in tears and cried amain ; which they never saw him do 
 before all the days of his life." 
 
 Yet once besides, did the grand, close-held Periclean heart yield 
 itself to the keen throe of anguish at thought of losing what it had 
 taken to its very centre. When Aspasia was accused of heresy, 
 and in danger of banishment or condemnation to death, Pericles 
 pleaded her cause with such passionate teai's and such eloquence of 
 irrepressible grief, that she was saved. 
 
 The judges could not resist the spectacle of this firm, manly 
 soul wrung to so open a betrayal of its secret workings, and they 
 were moved to acquit her even out of pity and compassion to him. 
 The mere sight of the effect which the dread of her loss produced 
 upon a man like Pericles, was, of itself, a subtle evidence of her 
 worth. To behold 
 
 " One, whose subdu'd eyes, 
 Albeit unused to the melting mood ' 
 
 Drop tears ns fast as the Arabian trees 
 Their medicinal gum," 
 
 awakes profoundest sympathy ; and might well bespeak the value 
 of the woman, for whose sake tears so rare gushed forth. 
 
 Aspasia, with her expansive intellect, and her constant associa- 
 tion with a man of such intellectual force as Pericles, was likely to 
 form very decided individual oi^inions ; and individuality of opin- 
 ion constituted heresy among the Greeks. Orthodox belief meant 
 conventional belief ; and persons of strong intellect, Uke Aspasia, 
 can never be contented with mere conventionality in creed. She
 
 54 ASPASIA. 
 
 was accused of not believing in the gods ; because slie entertained 
 lier own peculiar and higher \dews of their attributes than vulgar 
 believers could compass. But the herd resent peculiarity in faith, 
 as a tacit reproof to their own generalizing and easy subscription 
 to appointed faith ; and they stigmatize distinct belief as unbelief: 
 — the herd dislike enlarged faith as reflection upon their narrow 
 %aews and circumscribed capacity, and call a more exalted faith, 
 want of faith. To the capacious mind of Aspasia, it is probable 
 that the established forms of Greek worshiji, — the offerings of 
 doves to Venus, the libations to Bacchus, the sacrifices to Jove, the 
 ideas respecting Tartarus, the insjjection of entrails by augurs, the 
 interpretation of signs and omens, and the presiding influence of 
 Ceres, Juno, Pallas, or Neptune in their respectively assigned 
 tutelages, seemed insufficient, and perhaps impious. She may 
 have felt the then received notions of the Greek divinities to be a 
 falling-short of what she conceived regarding true divinity. So- 
 crates suffered death for just such liberal faith in advance of his 
 time. In vara had the Oracle of Delphos pronounced him to be 
 the wisest of mankind ; when it was discovered that he dared to 
 think differently from others upon the established forms of my- 
 thology, his wisdom was adjudged to be inadequate for the pur- 
 pose of guiding his conscience, and adopting a mode of belief for 
 himself He might be " the wisest of mankind ;" but he was not 
 wise in their way ; and that is ignorance in the eyes of the ignorant. 
 So with Aspasia ; her superior intellect procured her no claim to 
 mould her creed accordiag to her individual perceptions of right 
 and wrong; although, possibly, it appeared to her, offeruig an 
 indignity to what she conceived of true religion, to follow the 
 Pagan worshij) in its generally-received usages. However this 
 may be, certain it is that Aspasia was one of those included in the 
 charge of holding heterodox opinions ; and when the decree went
 
 ASPASIA. 55 
 
 forth that " Search and enquiry should be made for heretics who 
 did not believe in the gods, and who taught certain new doctrine 
 and opinion touching the operations of things above in the ele- 
 ment," Aspasia was accused at the same time with Anaxagoras. 
 She, as we have seen, was rescued ; but the philosopher was com- 
 pelled to leave Athens. These arraignments of persons so dear to 
 Pericles, were the means taken by those among his envious perse- 
 cutors who dared not assail him more du'ectly, to pierce him 
 through those he loved. Not only did these wasps sting with 
 their utmost venom ; but they befouled the character of her 
 whom they could not vitally injure. They spread the blackest 
 slanders, and insinuated the vilest and most scandalous particulars 
 relative to the conduct of Aspasia ; they charged her with being a 
 party to the basest acts of turpitude, — betraying persons of her 
 own sex to the power of the other, and ministering to Pericles' 
 pleasures by the most abandoned and criminal inveiglement of 
 other women. The absurdity of such a charge against a wife, 
 seems to carry with it its own refutal ; and the cii-cumstauce that 
 his foes fabricated calumnies of a similarly odious nature respecting 
 Phidias, whom Pericles greatly admired and fostered, shows how 
 completely these aspersions had him for the object of their covert 
 attack. 
 
 Besides the more rank imputations thrown upon Aspasia, the 
 enemies of Pericles accused her of having been instrumental 
 in persuading him to engage in two wars, — both ^prejudicial to the 
 interests of the Athenian people. One of these was the war 
 against the Samians, on behalf of the Milesians ; in order to secure 
 the possession of Priene to Mletus, the birth-place of Aspasia. The 
 other was the hostility against the Megarians, by which Pericles 
 was said to have involved the people in a quarrel, more from 
 personal causes, which concerned Aspasia's wrath at the forcible
 
 56 A S P A S I A. 
 
 abduction of two of her attendants by some Megariaus, than for 
 patriotic need. But from the first charge Aspasia is absolved 
 by the tacit evidence of Thucydides ; who in his brief account of 
 the Samian war, gives no ground for beheving that her influence 
 was used in the matter ; allegrag, that it arose out of an applica- 
 tion on the part of the IMUesians to Athens to give a more 
 democratic form to the Samian government. From the second 
 charge she is cleared, by the account in Plutarch, which points out 
 many far more plausible causes for the difiference with the 
 Megarians, than the one brought against Pericles and Aspasia 
 jointly, on the ground of private resentment, by Aristophanes. 
 The latter, in common with other comedy-writers of the period, 
 were peculiarly severe, both upon Pericles, and upon Aspasia. 
 Hermippus, Eupolis, and Cratinus, as well as Aristophanes, were 
 merciless in their venomous attacks. A satu'ist cannot resist a 
 stinging hit ; a comic dramatist cannot forego a telling point, — it 
 is the vitality of their calling. Gravity of deportment, and 
 haughtiness of spirit such as characterized Pericles, were much too 
 fruitful themes for caricature, not to provoke the fleers of humor- 
 ous writers ; while the known former conduct of his wife, Aspasia, 
 afforded a ground for coarse allusion and gross insinuation, greatly 
 too tempting to be resisted by pens whose ink was dyed in 
 gaU, — ^black, and bitter. It is scarcely to be expected that wits 
 like these, who lived by the laughter of the Athenian "groundlings," 
 should withstand the opportunity of making the theatre resound 
 with roars at some broad jest against "the new Omphale," 
 " Dejanira," or " Juno," as they entitled Aspasia ; not refraining 
 from more injurious hints, besides still more open and opprobrious 
 appellations. It is to be noted, that the only recorded unfavour- 
 able representations of Pericles and Aspasia, are to be found in 
 the pages of comic writers of the time ; aU other contemporary
 
 ASPASIA. 57 
 
 accounts of them, contain nothing that inculpates either husband 
 or wife. 
 
 The world is incalculably obliged, by having such a woman at 
 the side of such a man. Pericles would not have so finely acted 
 for the advantage of mankiud, had he not been prompted, 
 stimulated, and aided by Aspasia. Such a qualitied helpmate 
 developes a man's faculties, and perfects his genius. She is perhaps 
 even more valuable thus, acting througli liim, than had she been 
 more j)alpably great in herself. Her intellect operating in 
 enhancement of his, produces probably a larger amount of gained 
 benefit to the world, than had each stood alone, — he, Pericles, 
 such as he was before he knew her, and would have been without 
 ever having had her at all ; — and she, a woman self-distinguished, 
 and self-renowned. A woman's intellect, however high, as mani- 
 fested by its agency upon that of a superior man, must always be 
 more advantageous in result to humanity, than when exercised 
 solely of its own individual power. It doubles itself, it augments 
 his ; and a multiphed emanation of intellectual enlightenment 
 accrues to their fellow-creatures in consequence. 
 
 Plato bears witness to the fact of its being Aspasia to whom 
 Pericles was indebted for his mastery as an orator. It is in the 
 " Menexenus " of Plato that we find this testimony ; and it is put 
 into the mouth of Socrates, who is one of the speakers in the 
 dialogue, saying : — " My mistress in the art of oratory was perfect 
 in the science which she taught, and had formed many other 
 excellent orators, and one ofthe most eminent among the Greeks, — 
 Pericles, the son of Xantippus." In an age when oratory was one 
 of the most active means of guiding public opinion, of teaching the 
 commonalty, and swaying men's minds, it was to place the 
 mightiest sceptre within a ruler's grasp, to gift him with pre- 
 eminent powers of oration. The natural faculty of Pericles, was
 
 58 ASPASIA. 
 
 cultivated into tlie highest perfection ; and the speech which he 
 delivered at the close of. the first campaign of the Peloponnesian 
 war stands renowned as the most consummate in excellence of 
 all the compositions of the kind of antiquity. It was an oration 
 upon those who had fallen in the war, as he had delivered a 
 discourse previously at the close of the Samian war, and as it was 
 then the custom so to address the poi:)ulace on public occasions of 
 the kind. From this great speech may be gathered what 
 Pericles considered to be the character of a good citizen, — thus 
 instructing his hearers in their duties ; and how he placed in strong 
 contrast the Spartan, with the Athenian method of bringing up 
 members of the state, — thus inducing emulation, and exciting 
 noble consciousness. It is said to be impossible to do justice 
 to this magnificent oration of Pericles, by any attempt to render 
 it into a modern language ; but that it more completely reveals 
 the intellectual power and moral character of the man, than all 
 that the historians and biograjjhers have said of him. It is 
 asserted that the form in which the great orator and statesman has 
 here embodied his lofty conceptions, is beauty chastened and 
 elevated by a noble severity. Athens and Athenians are the 
 objects which his aml>ition seeks to immortalize, and the whole 
 world is the theatre of their glorious exploits. 
 
 In this matchless speech of Pericles, Aspasia's oratorical 
 powers shine with reflected glory ; — she having been (as already 
 observed) the instructress who instilled the forms of eloquence 
 and the woman who helped to inspire and develope the thoughts 
 which combine to render it so transcendently great. But it is 
 recorded that her own speeches were remarkable specimens of 
 oratory. Plato, in his " Menexenus," introduces a funeral oration 
 as Aspasia's ; and it is therefore just to conclude that she excelled 
 in pronouncing such discourses. Socrates eulogizes Aspasia's
 
 A S P A S I A . 59 
 
 funeral oration, while declaring her to have been his own 
 instructress in the art of rhetoric. 
 
 Aspasia was so famed in fascination, that Cyi'us gave her 
 name to his favourite, the daughter of Hermotimus of Phocsea ; 
 who had before been called MUto, — vermilion, — on account of the 
 beauty of her complexion. The name of Aspasia passed almost 
 into a synonyme for accomplished attraction, and charm of en- 
 dowment. It was not so much for personal beauty, as for grace of 
 expression, for conversational powers, for skill hi all intellectual 
 attainments, that Aspasia was especially noted. In her, in- 
 tellect outshone all else ; it seemed to spread around her so 
 dazzling a hght, that her moral qualities were obscured by its 
 glare. Her affections seemed merged in her mental faculties ; and 
 as if she could only feel preference, where they found scope for 
 their exercise. 
 
 After the death of Pericles, it is said, — on the authority of 
 ^schines, — that she formed an attachment for Lysicles, a man of 
 mean extraction, of low calling, and of clownish natm-e ; and who, 
 from being but a grazier, grew to be the chief man in Athens, 
 owing to his frequenting the company of Aspasia. That she 
 chose so unpromising an object for her precepts, seems only to be 
 accounted for, by believing it to have been a caprice of conscious 
 intellect, resolved to test to the utmost its power ; — and which 
 must have approached the mii-aculous, if it succeeded in convert- 
 ing a boor into a rider. 
 
 The combination of moral and mental excellence in a woman, 
 — and the fact of her womanhood, generally operates to make the 
 moral preponderate, — is the prefection of womanly character; 
 Ijut it is to be believed, that Aspasia can be cited among the 
 "World's-noted Women, only as strictly and exclusively the woman 
 of Intellect.
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Cleopatea was the grandest coquette that ever lived. Csesars 
 were lier fit slaves, for slie had imperial powers of captivatiou. 
 She was a gorgeous personification of feminine fascination, — of be- 
 witching womanhood in regal magnificence. She used her female 
 graces as enhancements to her queenly state ; and made her power 
 of pleasing, a crown to her royal power. She was born a princess, 
 reigned a queen, won an emperor, swayed a hero, and defeated a 
 conqueror ; while her personal blandishments live, in the imagina- 
 tion of posterity, as far outweighing the facts of her fortune. We 
 think of her as the queen of enslavers, more than as queen of 
 Egypt. She stands conspicuous to fancy in might of allurement. 
 
 The story of her life tells the tale of her supremacy in the art 
 of subduing. She was born about the year 69 B. C, and was the 
 daughter of Ptolemy Auletes, king of Egypt, by whose will she 
 and her elder brother were appointed joint successors to the 
 crown. This partnership in reigning led to endless dissensions, 
 which at length resulted in such fraternal tyi-anny that Cleopatra 
 held herself aloof until she could eftectually make good her claim 
 to an equal share of regal power, and establish herself firmly on 
 the throne. Hearing that Julius Csesar had come to Alexandria,
 
 62 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 and, — since Pompey was slain, — intended settling tlie dispute 
 between her brother and herself, she resolved to gain over the 
 arbitrator to her interest beforehand, and so secure a favourable 
 decision. Confident in her seductive powers, if once she could 
 procure access to him, she contrived to compass this by a plan 
 bold as it was successful. The incident is quaintly related in 
 North's Plutarch ; where the antiquated diction wonderfully well 
 suits with the old-world narrative. These are Sii* Thomas North's 
 words: — "She, only taking ApoUodorus of all her friends, took a 
 little boat, and went away with him in it in the night, and came 
 and landed hard by the foot of the castle. Then, having no other 
 mean to come into the court without being known, she laid her- 
 self down upon a mattress, or flock-bed, which ApoUodorus, her 
 friend, tied and bound uj) together like a bundle with a great 
 leather thong ; and so took her upon his back, and brought her 
 thus hampered in this fardel unto Caesar in at the castle gate. 
 This was the first occasion (as it is reported) that made Caesar to 
 love her ; but afterwards, when he saw her sweet conversation and 
 pleasant entertainment, he fell then in farther liking with her, and 
 did reconcile her again unto her brother the king, with condition 
 that they two should jointly reign together." 
 
 This decision of Caesar's ill pleased the prince ; who rebelled 
 against it, and attempted — first by treason, and then by declared 
 warfare, — to rid himself of his sister's powerful supporter; but 
 Julius defeated the plot, vanquished the army, routed the king, 
 (who, some accounts say, was drowned in the Nile,) and constitu- 
 ted Cleopatra queen of Egypt. She l)ore a son to Caesar, named 
 Caesarion ; and when the father returned to Rome, Cleopatra fol- 
 lowed him thither. Julius here recei\ ed her ; treating her with 
 such marks of fond adulation— among others, placing her statue 
 in gold by the side of that of Venus— that it gave umbrage to
 
 CLEOPATRA. 63 
 
 the Komans. TLis life slie continued to lead ; and remained witli 
 Julius Caesar until Lis death by assassination. 
 
 Ui^on this latter event, Cleopatra hastily quitted Italy, and re- 
 tui'ned to Egypt ; which precii^itate retreat, afterwards drew upon 
 her the suspicion of having aided the chief consj^irators, Brutus 
 and Cassius, in their war against Octavius and Antony. It was 
 with the avowed intention of examining into her conduct upon 
 this occasion, that Marc Antony, while going to do battle with the 
 Parthians, sent messengers to summon Cleopatra to appear before 
 him and answer the accusations brought against her. 
 
 She, — who as an unripe girl, in her " sallet days, when green in 
 judgment," had won " the mightiest Julius " to her will, — was no- 
 wise doubtful, now, in the very flower of womanhood, of gaining 
 her way with Antony, She addressed herself to her pui'pose with 
 equal dexterity and subtlety ; but adopted wholly different means. 
 Whereas before, she had had herself conveyed surreptitiously into 
 Caesar's presence and laid at his very foot, as the surest way to his 
 arms ; she this time shone forth in broad noon-day splendour, and 
 plenitude of conscious attractions, sweeping openly and tiiunqDh- 
 antly to take possession of Marc Antony's heart and senses at 
 once and for ever, as her own rightful conquest. This scene also, 
 shall be given from Plutarch, that the reader may perceive how 
 closely both Shakespeare and Dryden have rendered the picture 
 in theii* verse ; and also because the passage presents most charac- 
 teristic touches of Cleopatra's self: 
 
 " She furnished herself with a world of gifts, store of gold and 
 silver, and of riches, and other sumptuous ornaments, as is credible 
 enough she might bring from so great a house, and from so wealthy 
 and rich a realm as Egypt was. But yet she carried nothing with 
 her wherein she trusted more than in herself, and in the charms 
 and enchantment of her passing beauty and grace. Therefore,
 
 64 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 wLeu she was sent unto by divers letters, both from Antonius 
 himself, and also from his friends, she made so light of it, and 
 mocked Antonius so much, that she disdained to set forward 
 otherwise, but to take her barge in the river of Cydnus ; the poop 
 whereof was of gold, the saUs of purple, and the oars of silver, 
 which kept stroke in rowing after the sound of the music of flutes, 
 hautboys, citherns, viols, and such other instruments as they played 
 upon in the barge. And now for the person of herself: she was 
 laid under a pavilion of cloth of gold tissue, attired like the goddess 
 Venus, commonly drawn in picture ; and hard by her, on either 
 hand of her, pretty, fair boys, appareled as painters do set forth 
 god Cupid, with little fans in their hands, with the which they 
 fanned wind upon her. Her ladies and gentlewomen, the faii*est of 
 them, were appareled like the nymphs, nereids (which are the 
 mermaids of the waters), and graces ; some steering the helm, 
 others tending the tackle and ropes of the barge, out of the which 
 there came a wonderful passing sweet savour of perfumes, that 
 perfumed the wharf's side, pestered with innumerable multitudes 
 of people. Some of them followed the barge all along the river 
 side ; others also ran out of the city to see her coming in : so that, 
 in the end, there ran such multitudes of people one after another 
 to see her, that Antonius was left almost alone in the market-place, 
 in his imperial seat to give audience." There was the first step in 
 advantage gained by Cleopatra over Antony. The summoning 
 judge, the intended enquirer into her behaviour, reduced to 
 solitary state, — left there well-nigh l)y himself, to abide her 
 coming. The account goes on to say : — " When Cleopatra landed, 
 Antonius sent to invite her to supper with him. But she sent him 
 word again, he should do better to come and sup with her. 
 Antonius, therefore, to show himself courteous unto her at her 
 arrival, was contented to obey hei', and went to supper with her ;
 
 CLEOPATRA. 65 
 
 where he found such passing sumptuous fare, that no tongue can 
 express it." Step the second; his invitation set aside, hers 
 accei:)ted, and the delinquent, instead of being the entertained of 
 the judge, becoming his entertainer. " The nest night, Antonius 
 feasting her, contended to pass her in magnificence and fineness ; 
 but she overcame him in both. So that he himself began to scorn 
 the gross service of his house, in respect of Cleopatra's sumptuous- 
 ness and fineness. And when Cleopatra found Antonius' feasts 
 to be but gi'oss and soldier-like, in plain manner, she gave it him 
 finely, and without fear taunted him thoroughly." Here was she 
 already installed as rater of his conduct, instead of rendering him 
 an account of hers; and established upon easy terms, of playful 
 intimacy, rallying, jesting, giving rival repasts,' — in short, drawing 
 him completely within the spell of her witchery. 
 
 All the historical traditions of Cleopatra agree m stating 
 that she was not surpassingly handsome ; not remarkable for 
 beauty, — ^linear beauty ; and this is borne out by the medals extant 
 of her. But every recorded cii'cumstance tends to confirm the fact, 
 that she possessed a matchless and inexpressible charm of face and 
 person ; with incomparable grace in manner and discourse. We 
 are told that she was not so strikingly beautiful as at first view to 
 enamour men ; but so sweet was her company and conversation, 
 that a man could not possibly but be taken." Her demeanour is 
 described as irresistibly engaging ; courteous, sweet, sportive, and 
 varied. " Fm-thermore," says Plutarch, "her voice and words 
 were marvellous pleasant ; for her tongue was an instrument of 
 music, the which she easily tuned into any language that pleased 
 her." She is said to have spoken with few people by interpreter ; 
 having a knowledge of several dialects, besides being perfect 
 mistress of her own, — ^which latter was not uniformly the case 
 with her royal Egyptian progenitors. This command of language 
 
 9
 
 G6 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 was one main instrument, in the power slie exercised over men's 
 minds. Her oriental taste for magnificence, too, combined with 
 tlie refinement and cultivation slie acquired in her relations with 
 Greece, concurred to render her all-potent in seductive accom- 
 plishment. It was upon occasion of one of the rival repasts above 
 alluded to between herself and Antony, on the banks of the 
 Cydnus, that Cleopatra committed the weU-known piece of lavish 
 wilfulness, — dissolving the pearl in the goblet at a banquet. 
 Pliny recounts the anecdote ; and says that Cleopatra, being 
 desirous of proving to her lover that she could surpass him in 
 magnificence, layed a wager with him that she would expend as 
 much 'as ten millions of sesterces at a single feast. Antony thought 
 the thing impossible, and defied her to do it. She unfastened from 
 her ears two pearls of enormous size, caused a cup fiUed with vine- 
 gar to be brought, dissolved therein one of these pearls, and 
 swallowed the draught. She was about to sacrifice the other 
 pearl ; when Plaucus, — the umpire of the wager,^took possession 
 of it, declaring that Antony had lost. This second pearl was pre- 
 served with care, and brought to Rome after the death of 
 Cleopatra; it was then divided in two, and placed in the ears of the 
 statue of Venus, at the Pantheon. The latter circumstance proves 
 both the size and worth of the gem ; which probably Dryden had 
 in his mind when, — alluding to Cleopatra's jewels, — ^he wrote the 
 line : — 
 
 " Each pendant in her ear shall be a province." 
 
 Antony, wholly given up to his passion for Cleopatra, 
 forsook his warlike enterprise with the Parthians, neglected his 
 affairs with Cpesar at home, left his wife Fulvia to promote as she 
 best might their interests abroad, and accompanied the Queen of 
 Egypt to Alexandria. Again the story is best told in Plutarch's 
 words ; which not only depict vividly the facts, but supply curious
 
 CLEOPATRA. 67 
 
 anecdotical particulars, known to Mm by direct family narration. 
 It imparts a singularly real and emphatic effect, to have the his- 
 torian quoting his own relation's description of the occurrence ; and 
 the fanuliar style in which the thing is told heightens the pleasant 
 au' of eye-witness truth we are made to feel in viewing Antony 
 and Cleopatra's mode of life together at this period. He says : — 
 " Antonius yielded himself to go with Cleopatra imto Alexandria, 
 where he spent and lost in childish sports and idle pastimes, the 
 most precious thing a man can spend (as Antiphon says), and that 
 is, Time. For they made an order between them, which they 
 called Amimetobion (as much as to say, no life comparable and 
 matchable with it), one feasting each other by turns, and in cost 
 exceeding aU measure and reason. And for proof hereof, I have 
 heard my grandfather, Lampryas, report, that one Philotas, a 
 physician, born in the city of Amphissa, told him, that he was at 
 that present time in Alexandria, and studied physic ; and that 
 having acquaintance with one of Antonius' cooks, he took him 
 with him to Antonius' house (being a young man desirous to see 
 things), to show him the wonderful sumptuous charge and pre- 
 paration of one only supper. When he was in the kitchen, and 
 saw a world of diversities of meats, and amongst others, eight 
 wUd boars roasted whole, he began to wonder at it, and said : — 
 ' Sure you have a great number of guests to supper.' The cook 
 fell a-laughing, and answered him : — ' No,' (quoth he) ' not many 
 guests, nor above twelve in all ; but yet all that is boUed or roast- 
 ed must be served in whole, or else it would be marred straight ; 
 for Antonius peradventure will sup presently, or it may be a 
 pretty whUe hence, or likely enough he will defer it longer, for that 
 he hath di'unk well to-day, or else hath had some great matters in 
 hand; and therefore we do not dress one supper only, but many 
 suppers, because we are uncertain of the horn" he wUl sup in.''
 
 G8 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Cleopatra gave Marc Antony's voluptuous inclinations tlieir 
 fuU bent. She was natui'ally constituted to sliare them ; and her 
 will seconding her temperament, she ministered to them in their 
 utmost extent. Dedicating herself to the task of coiling him se- 
 curely within the folds she had flung around him, the " Serpent of 
 Old NUe" ceased not to fascinate his senses and drowse his thoughts 
 by every device within her power, now that she had him to her- 
 self in Alexandi-ia. Whether in matters of sport, or in affairs of 
 earnest, she still maintained her influence over his ideas ; ever 
 planning fresh delights to have him at her command, never leaving 
 him night nor day, and scarce letting him go out of her sight. 
 She watched to prevent reflection from gaining hold of him ; and 
 the better to ensure this, she promoted his pleasures "and partook 
 in aU his pursuits with the freedom of a man, and the vivacity of a 
 woman. She made herself at once male associate and female com- 
 panion to him, — both comrade and mistress, she became his fellow- 
 reveller. She would play at dice with him, drink with him, hunt 
 with him, and accompany him in whatever exercise or bodily ac- 
 tivity he practised. Sometimes, when he chose to go about the 
 city at night, disguised like a slave, peering into people's windows 
 and shops, brawling with them in their houses, taking and giving 
 both abuse and blows, Cleopatra would be with him in cham- 
 bermaid's array, rambling along the streets at his side. Among 
 the mirthful idlenesses she devised for him, was the one of the ang- 
 ling alluded to in Shakespeare with such admirable dramatic art, 
 in making it conduce to develope appropriate touches of character 
 in the Egyi:)tian queen-coquette, while told with curious fidelity to 
 the original account in Plutarch. " On a time, he went to angle 
 for fish ; and when he could take none, he was as angry as could be, 
 because Cleopatra stood by. Wherefore he secretly commanded 
 the fishermen, that when he cast in his line, they should straight
 
 CLEOPATRA. 69 
 
 dive under the water, and put a fisli on his hook which they had 
 taken before ; and so snatched up his angling-rod, and brought up 
 a fish twice or thrice. Cleopatra found it straight, yet she seemed 
 not to see it, but wondered at his excellent fishing ; but when she 
 was alone by herself among her own people, she told them how 
 it was, and bade them the next morning to be on the water to see 
 the fishing. Antonius threw in his line, and Cleopatra straight com- 
 manded one of her men to dive under water before Antonius' 
 men, and to put some old salt-fish upon his bait. When he had 
 hung the fish on his hook, Antonius, thinking he had taken a fish 
 indeed, snatched up his line presently. Then they all fell a-laugh- 
 ing. Cleopatra laughing also, said unto him; — 'Leave us Egyp- 
 tians your angling-rod, my lord. This is not thy 2;)rofession ; thou 
 must hunt after conquering of realms and countries.' " The very 
 woman herself is in that little speech ! Winning him to her by 
 playfully bidding him go from her ; and smiling a scoff at conquest 
 of kingdoms as inferior to skill in fishing. The touch, too, of find- 
 ing out the trick at once, yet feigning not to see it, and praising his 
 angling, is precisely the wily Cleopatra. 
 
 But at length ill news from Rome stirred Antony from his 
 trance, and he tore himself from the enchantress's " strong tod of 
 grace," to return to Italy. He is described as " rousing himself 
 with much ado, as if he had been wakened out of a deep sleep, and 
 as coming out of a great drunkenness." 
 
 For some time. Marc Antony withstood the temj)tation to trust 
 himself again within the circle of the " great fairy's " magic attrac- 
 tions; but after Fulvia's death, having adjusted the differences 
 that existed between Octavius Caesar and himself, by an alliance 
 with the sister, Octavia, he went to Asia. Arriving in Syria, it 
 seemed as if, once more near to the speU of her sorceries, he could 
 no longer resist its influence ; for he sent messengers to bring Cleo-
 
 70 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 patra with tlaem to meet him. To welcome her, he heaped gifts 
 of royal domiuiou ; adding to the territories she already possessed, 
 the provinces of Phoenicia, and of lower Syria, the Isle of Cyprus, 
 a great portion of Cilicia, and part of Aratia. These gifts much 
 displeased the Komans ; but even his jDrofuse donations to her, did 
 not so greatly offend them, as the immeasurable honours he paid 
 her. Cleopatra having brought him twins, a son and a daughter, 
 Marc Antony sm'named them the Sun, and the Moon. At a subse- 
 quent period, he caused a silver tribunal to be erected in the public 
 square, with two chairs of gold for their own children, and for 
 CiBsarion, her son by Julius Cissar ; while he proclaimed their 
 several appointed monarchies. Cleojjatra not only wore upon that 
 occasion, but on all occasions when she appeared in public, the 
 attu'es of the goddess Isis, and gave audience to her subjects as Isis 
 in person. When Cleopatra was in Athens, being jealous of the 
 honom's which Octavia had received in that city, she sought to 
 ingratiate herself with the Athenians, by showering gifts ujjon 
 them. They, in return, awarded her high distinctions ; and ap- 
 pointing certain embassadors to carry the decree to her, Antonius, 
 as a citizen of Athens, headed the deputation, and made an oration 
 to her on behalf of the city; Antony was ever foremost in offering 
 her extravagance of homage. The open court he paid her, — ^j^ro- 
 digal as it was, — ^formed only the sincere expression of the feelings 
 he cherished for her. She was the idol of his existence : with her, 
 he was wrapt in joyful fruition ; away from her, he flagged un- 
 satisfied, restless, and but half himself. In Ai-menia, he is described 
 awaiting at a place on the coast Cleopatra's arrival ; — " And be- 
 cause she tarried longer than he would have had her, he pined 
 away for love and sorrow ; so that he was at such a strait that 
 he wist not what to do, and therefore to wear it out, he gave him- 
 self to quaffing and feasting. But he was so drowned with the
 
 CLE OP ATRA. Yl 
 
 love of her, that he could not abide to sit at the table till the feast 
 was ended ; but many times, while others banqueted, he ran to the 
 sea-side to see if she were coming." There is an equally charac- 
 teristic detail of Cleopatra's behaviom*, when di-eading that Octa- 
 via's merits would prevail at length to draw Antony from her 
 society : — " She subtly seemed to languish for the love of Antonius, 
 pining her body for lack of meat. Fm-thermore, she every way so 
 framed her countenance, that when Antonius came to see her, she 
 cast her eyes upon him, like a woman ravished for joy. Straight 
 again when he went from her, she fell a-weeping, looking ruefully 
 on the matter, and still found means that Antonius should often- 
 times find her weeping ; and then when he came suddenly upon 
 her, she made as though she dried her eyes, and turned her face 
 away, as if she were unwilling that he should see her weep." Con- 
 summate coquetry ! 
 
 Among the munificent presents bestowed by Antony upon 
 Cleopatra, was the famous library eni'iched by Eumenes, at Per- 
 gamus, consisting of above two hundred thousand books. Marc 
 Antony caused it to be conveyed to Alexandria, giving thereby 
 one of the many causes of offence to the Romans, which they so 
 highly resented ; reproaching him with lavishing upon his paramour 
 those treasures of conquest which rightfully should have been 
 brought home to his native city. 
 
 At length, Octavius Csesar, indignant at the treatment of his 
 sister Octavia by her husband, fomented the people's hatred 
 towards Marc Antony ; whUe Antony, on his side, complained of 
 injustice, and mutual recrimination resulted in declared war be- 
 tween them. Cleopatra gave her royal aid, by furnishing troops, 
 money, and provisions, to assist Antony in levying his army ; but 
 she lent feminine hindrance, by making a point that she should 
 accompany him to the battle, and by counselling that it should
 
 72 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 take place by sea. Antony's land force exceeded in strength liis 
 sea power ; for his galleys were ill-manned, then" equipage being 
 insufficient in number, as well as raw in discipline ; however, so 
 enthralled was he by "great Egypt's" will, that, he not only 
 yielded himself bliudly to its dictates in thus conducting the action, 
 but when it was lost, he flung himself headlong on her traces, 
 flying when she fled, his vessel following hers, as if literally " his 
 heart to her rudder was tied by the strings, and towed after." 
 The whole account of the expedition strikingly pourtrays the 
 wonted conduct of each. Previously to setting forth, their time 
 was spent in revelry and banqueting ; insomuch that the people 
 exclaimed : — " What can they do more for joy of victory, if they 
 win the battle, when they already make such sumptuous feasts at 
 the beginning of the war ? " While Antony's ship rode at anchor 
 in the harbour, near Actium, awaiting the enemy's approach, 
 Octavius Caesar, advancing, took Toryne, a small town not far 
 distant. Antony's officers were startled, knowing their leader's 
 land force was left behind ; but Cleopatra turned it into occasion 
 for a joke, as the best means of inducing Antony to take it lightly. 
 She made a pun upon the word " Toryne," (which, in the language 
 of the country, signified a ladle, as well as the name of the place), 
 asking, " WTiat danger there could be, from Toryne falling into 
 Caesar's hands ? " And after the battle, when his galley followed 
 her retreating ship, she lifted signals, and waited for him ; but he 
 remained plunged in shame and grief, sitting alone in the prow of 
 the vessel, his face buried in his hands. Three days he remained 
 thus brooding and silent, speaking no word to any one, lost in pro- 
 foundest dejection. But she who had originated his cause of 
 despair, found means to win him from its depths ; and once more 
 cheered him into hope and spirit. He rallied his forces, and went 
 again to meet Octavius Caesar ; but sustained reverse upon reverse.
 
 CLEOPATRA. 73 
 
 On retui'iiiiig to Alexandria, Marc Antony found Cleopatra busied 
 with a gigantic project, by whicli she hoped to secure a means of 
 escape from the perils of the pending war. This project was no 
 other than an attempt to have her ships transported across the 
 isthmus of Suez, so that she might get her treasure and people 
 conveyed away from the Mediterranean sea to the Southern ocean, 
 whence she might sail for India. She succeeded in sending some 
 of her vessels ; but they were seized and burned by the Arabs. 
 
 For a time. Marc Antony indulged a gloomy misanthropic 
 mood ; dwelling apart and alone, in a house he built himself down 
 by the sea, in the island of Pharos. But Cleojiatra ceased not till 
 she lured him from his melancholy. She made him give up his 
 solitude, and come to her royal palace; where they once more 
 launched into the full tide of riotous gayety. They now substituted 
 for their previous order of existence, " Amimetobion," (" no life 
 comparable,") another one, which they entitled Synapothanume- 
 non (signifj'ing the order and agreement of those who will die 
 together). This new order was nowise inferior in sumptuous 
 joviality to the first ; but those who were enrolled, pledged them- 
 selves to enjoy hfe in company unto death. The viands had a 
 flavour of the grave in midst of their costly exquisiteness ; and 
 the festive enjoyment was mingled with a desperate sense of mor- 
 tality. This reckless hUarity was as if to cast off the foreshadow- 
 ing of coming fate. Cleopatra studied the natures and effects of 
 various poisons. She watched the different modes of death re- 
 sulting fr(»n the venom of sundry kinds of snakes and adders, to 
 discover those which caused least pain, and rendered dismissal 
 most easy. She buUt near to the temple of Isis, a superb monu- 
 ment, or tomb, of great size and beauty ; where she collected all 
 the treasures and precious objects derived from her royal ances- 
 tors, in gold, silver, emeralds, pearls, ebony, ivory, and cinnamon, 
 
 10
 
 74 CLEOPATKA. 
 
 together with a large number of torclies, faggots, and flax. It 
 seemed as tliougli slie beheld the menace of death, constantly and 
 certainly, before her ; and only meditated which way she could 
 step to meet it with smallest shock to her sensuous nature. 
 
 Meantime, Octavius Caesar was rapidly and surely gaining 
 ground. Antony succeeded in repulsing him, when he encamped 
 near the city; but this temporary defeat of his enemy, was speedily 
 followed by his own final overthrow. He beheld his men forsake 
 him, and go over to the advancing army; and, behe\dng that 
 Cleopatra had betrayed him, he broke forth into fury against her 
 suspected treachery. She, in terror at his wrath, took refuge in 
 her monument ; and caused the report of her death to be conveyed 
 to him. Marc Antony, overwhelmed with grief at her loss, and 
 reproaching himself with want of manhood for suffering a woman to 
 precede him in encountering death, attempted to stab himself with 
 his own sword. The wound was not immediately mortal, and he 
 prayed those around to despatch him ; but Cleopatra, sending her 
 secretary, Diomedes, to fetch him to her monument, he was con- 
 veyed thither in a dying state. Unwilling to open the gates, she 
 had Marc Antony drawn up by ropes to the window ; herself aid- 
 ing her two women (who were the only persons she had allowed 
 to accompany her into the monument) to raise him. This personal 
 exertion on her part, is actually described : — " It was a hard thing 
 for these women to do, to lift him up ; but Cleopatra stooping 
 down her head, putting too all her strength to her uttermost 
 power, did lift him uj) with much ado, and never let go her hold." 
 She received him in her arms, dried the blood from his face, and 
 poured forth a passion of caresses and lamentings ; but Antony 
 besought her to cease, and listen to his last entreaties. He called 
 for wine ; drank, and then earnestly prayed her to endeavour to 
 save her life, if possible without dishonour, bidding her trust no
 
 CLEOPATRA. 75 
 
 man about Caesar but Proculeius. Witli all the comforting and 
 encouraging words he could frame to sustain her, he contmued 
 while breath lasted to si^eak to her, and expired, Cleopatra occu- 
 pying his sole thought. 
 
 Marc Antony was but just dead, when Proculeius arrived, sent by 
 Octavius Caesar ; who, having heard that Antony had killed himself, 
 was anxious lest Cleopatra should destroy herself and her treasure 
 together by setting fire to the monument, and so deprive him of 
 his expected booty, and his hoped-for triumph of leading her as his 
 prisoner to Rome. Cleopatra held parley with Proculeius, but 
 would by no means trust him so far as to admit him into the monu- 
 ment. The emissary said all he could to inspii-e her with confi- 
 dence in Octavius ; and she, with her usual tact, made stipulations 
 that the kingdom of Egypt should devolve upon her sons. Procu- 
 leius assured her that she might securely leave all in Caesar's hands ; 
 and, having made accurate inspection of the place, returned with 
 an account of his interview. Octavius sent again ; instructing his 
 messenger to hold Cleopatra in talk at the gate of the monument, 
 while Proculeius, by means of a ladder, made good his entrance 
 above. 
 
 One of her women, observing his approach, shrieked out to her 
 royal mistress ; who di*ew a dagger she wore about her, and would 
 have made away with herself. But Proculeius held her hand ; and 
 entreating her to put trust in Caesar, disarmed her. Octavius had 
 her strictly guarded, and watched, that she might not destroy 
 herself ; but in all other respects caused her to be treated with 
 utmost courtesy, while he himself made his entry into Alexandria. 
 Many princes and commanders sent to entreat for Marc Antony's 
 body, that they might give him honourable burial ; but Octavius 
 Caesar would not take it from Cleopatra, whom he permitted to use 
 what treasure she chose in performing the funeral obsequies. She
 
 76 CLEOPATEA. 
 
 sumptuously and royally buried Antony with her own Lauds ; aud 
 immolated upon his ashes heaps of wealth, — that of her beauty in- 
 cluded, maugling her face and bosom, and abandoning herself to 
 extravagance of grief. 
 
 Overcome with passionate sorrow, she fell into a fever of dis- 
 traction ; which she rejoiced at, as affording her a pretext for ab- 
 staining from food, and so dying without trouble. She had a phy- 
 sician named Olympus, to whom she confided this intent, in order 
 that he might assist to rid her of life, as he himself recorded in a 
 book he wrote. But Octavius, conjecturing her purpose, by 
 threatening her children with a shameful death if she persevered 
 in starving herself, succeeded in inducing her to take her usual 
 diet, and submit to be cured. Shortly after, Octavius Caesar came 
 himself in person to see her and comfort her. Cleopatra received 
 him lying upon a little low bed, forlorn and disconsolate ; and 
 when she saw him enter, rose up, and cast herself at his feet, just 
 as she was, disrobed and disfigured, her hair in disorder, her face 
 pale and lacerated, her eyes sunk in her head with continual weep- 
 ing, her bosom bearing the marks she had inflicted in her anguish, 
 her voice weak and trembling. In short, her body showed the 
 condition of her mind ; and yet the natural grace and comehness 
 pecuHar to her, gave a charm beyond beauty to the kneeling queen. 
 
 Caesar raised her from the ground, made her lie down again, and 
 seated himself by her bedside ; whUe Cleopatra entered upon a 
 vindication of her conduct, seeking to excuse and clear herself 
 from blame. Octa^sdus, in his calm cold way, refuted every point 
 she advanced. Then she suddenly altered her speech, and 
 besought his clemency; as though she feared death, and were 
 anxious to live. Next, she gave him a written memorial of all 
 the ready money and treasure she had. But there chanced to be 
 present, Seleucus, one of her treasurers ; who, to evince his probity,
 
 CLEOPATRA. 77 
 
 stated that Cleopatra Lad uot inserted all, but had kept many 
 things back on purpose. This so enraged Cleopatra, that she flew 
 upon him, seized him by the hau* of his head, and soundly boxed 
 his ears. Caesar was highly amused, and rescued the man. Upon 
 which, Cleopatra took a deprecatory tone ; said it was hard that 
 when Caesar took the pains to come to her, and so honoured her, 
 her own servants should accuse her to him ; that she had but re- 
 served some few jewels and woman's trifles, uot for herself, — not 
 to deck her unhappy self withal, — but intending them as presents 
 for Octavia and Livia, that they might intercede with Csesar for 
 favour and mercy. Caesar, pleased to hear her say this, which 
 looked like a desire to save her life, spoke encouragingly to her, 
 assured her of his protection, and promised to use her more hon- 
 ourably and bountifully than she had any idea of, and took leave, 
 imagining that he had successfully imposed upon her credulity, 
 and taught her to trust in his good faith. But he little knew 
 Cleopatra. She had deluded him ; not he, her. The passionless 
 Octavius might be unassailable by the witchery of Cleopatra ; but 
 he was not proof against her practised skill in winding men's judg- 
 ments as she wished. She could not subjugate his senses ; but she 
 beguiled his sense into construing dropped hints as she intended. 
 
 Cleopatra took advantage of the professions Octavius Caesar 
 had made her, by sending to request that he would allow her to 
 offer the last oblations of the dead to the soul of Antony ; and 
 secretly resolved to defeat Octavius's projected triumph, by her 
 own death. The narrative is so eloquently told in Plutarch, that 
 he shall be again quoted : — " She was carried to the jilace where 
 his tomb was, and there falling down on her knees, embracing it, 
 the tears running down her cheeks, she said : — ' O my dear lord, 
 Antonius, it is not long since I buried thee here, being a free wo- 
 man ; and now I offer unto thee the funeral sprinklings and obla-
 
 78 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 tions, being a captive and prisoner ; and yet I am forbidden and 
 kept from tearing and murtliering this captive body of mine with 
 blows, which they carefully guard and keep, only to triumph of 
 thee. Look therefore henceforth for no other honours, oflferings, 
 nor sacrifices from me ; for these are the last which Cleopatra can 
 give thee, since now they carry her away. Whilst we lived to- 
 gether, nothing could sever our company ; but now at our death, 
 I fear me they will make us change our countries. For as thou, 
 being a Roman, hast been buried in Egypt, even so, wretched crea- 
 tm-e, I, an Egyptian, shall be buried in Italy, which shall be all 
 the good that I have received by thy country. If therefore, the 
 gods where thou art now have any power and authority, since our 
 gods here have forsaken us, suffer not thy true friend and lover to 
 be carried away alive, that in me they triumph of thee ; but re- 
 ceive me with thee, and let me be buried in one self tomb with 
 thee. For though my griefs and miseries be infinite, yet none hath 
 grieved me more, nor that I could less bear withal, than this 
 small time which I have been di'iven to live alone without thee.' 
 Then, having ended these doleful plaints, and crowned the tomb 
 with -garlands and sundry nosegays, and marvellous lovingly em- 
 braced the same, she commanded they should prepare her bath ; 
 and when she had bathed and washed herself, she fell to her meat 
 and was sumptuously served. Now while she was at dinner, there 
 came a countryman, and brought her a basket. The soldiers that 
 warded at the gates, asked him straight what he had in his 
 basket. He opened his basket, and took out the leaves that cov- 
 ered the figs, and showed them that they were figs he brought. 
 They all of them marvelled to see so goodly figs. The country- 
 man laughed to hear them, and bade them take some if they 
 would. They believed he told them truly ; and so bade him carry 
 them in. After Cleopatra had dined, she sent a certain table writ-
 
 CLEOPATRA. . 79 
 
 ten and sealed unto Caesar, and commanded tliem all to go out of 
 the tomb wliere she was, but the two women ; then she shut the 
 doors to her. Caesar, when he received this table, and began to 
 read her lamentation and petition, requesting him that he would 
 let her be bmied with Antonius, found straight what she meant, 
 and thought to have gone thither himself; howbeit he sent one 
 before, in all haste, to see what it was. Her death was very sud- 
 den ; for those whom Caesar sent unto her, ran thither in all haste 
 possible, and found the soldiers standing at the gate, mistrusting 
 nothing, nor understanding of her death. But when they opened 
 the doors, they found Cleopatra stark dead, laid upon a bed of 
 gold, attired and arrayed in her royal robes, and one of her two 
 women, which was called Iras, dead at her feet ; and her other wo- 
 man, called Charmian, half dead and trembling, ti'imming the dia- 
 dem which Cleopatra wore upon her head. One of the soldiers, 
 seeing her, angrily said unto her : — ' Is that well done, Charmian ? ' 
 ' Very well,' said she again, ' and meet for a princess descended 
 from the race of so many noble kings.' She said no more ; but 
 fell down dead, hard by the bed. Some report that this aspic was 
 brought unto her in the basket with figs, and that she had com- 
 manded them to hide it under the fig leaves, that when she should 
 think to take out the figs, the aspic should bite her before she 
 should see it ; howbeit, that when she would have taken away the 
 leaves for the figs she perceived it, and said : — ' Art thou here, 
 then ? ' And so, her arm being naked, she put it to the aspic to 
 be bitten. Others say again, that she kept it in a box ; and that 
 she did prick and thrust it with a spindle of gold, so that the aspic 
 being angered withal, leapt out with gi-eat fury, and bit her in the 
 arm. Howbeit, few can tell the truth. For they report also, that 
 she had hidden poison in a hollow razor, which she carried in the 
 hau" of her head ; and yet there wm no mark seen on her body,
 
 80 . CLEOPATRA. 
 
 or any sign discerned that slie was poisoned, neither also did they 
 find this serpent in her tomb ; "but it was reported only, that there 
 were seen certain fresh tracks where it had gone, on the tomb side' 
 toward the sea, and especially by the door side. Some say, also, 
 that they found two little pretty bitings in her arm, scant to be 
 discerned ; the which it seemeth Csesar himself gave credit unto, 
 because in his triumph he carried Cleopatra's image, with an aspic 
 biting of her arm. Now Caesar, though he was marvellous sorry 
 for the death of Cleopatra, yet he wondered at her noble mind and 
 courage ; and therefore commanded she should be nobly buried, 
 and layed by Antonius. Cleopatra died, being eight and thirty 
 years old ; after she had reigned two and twenty years, and gov- 
 erned about fourteen of them with Antonius." 
 
 Shakespeare, with his fine knowledge that truth to Nature is 
 most powerful for producing eifect in Dramatic Art, has adhered 
 with singular closeness to the history of Cleopatra ; weaving the 
 incidents of the narrative with extraordinary skiU and fidelity into 
 his poetic play, and di-awing her character in strict resemblance 
 with the original portrait of the real woman. The heightening 
 touches that he has added, are precisely in keeping ; and are just 
 such as his genius alone knew how to supply, deducing them from 
 the broad sketch, and filling them in harmoniously with the exist- 
 ing outline. The fact is, we can hardly separate the idea of his 
 Cleopatra from Cleopati-a herself; and when we think of her, we 
 think of her as he has painted her. Who but himself coidd have 
 so finished the picture — presenting her to our knowledge with 
 more visible completeness than history itself? Plutarch has given 
 us the queen and woman, Cleopatra, in curiously particularized 
 detail of person, speech, act, and manner, as she lived ; Shake- 
 speare makes her appear, speak, move, breathe, and live again 
 before us. He has caused us to behold her in aU that marked in-
 
 CLEOPATRA. 81 
 
 dividuality, iu those minute by-betrayals of cliaracter, wliich only 
 either personal knowledge, or Shakespeare's page, enables us to 
 witness. No poet but himself has drawn Cleopatra in her true 
 identity, although she has formed the theme of several. Chaucer 
 has depicted her as the ladye-love of chivahy, bewailing "her 
 knight, Antonius" (!), and throwing herself into a pit of serj^ents 
 for his sake, like a heroine of old romance. OorneiUe's Cleoj)atra 
 has scarcely a trait of character in consonance with historic truth. 
 The author owns, — in his analysis of the play (Pompee),— that he 
 makes her merely ambitious in love. Faithful to the requirements 
 of conventional tragic dignity, he drew her portrait according to 
 the pattern of French tragedy-queens ; and left her with hardly a 
 touch of individuality. Perhaps the one couplet that may be cited 
 as containing any approach to Cleopatran nature, in its regal con- 
 sciousness of power to captivate, is where he makes her say : — 
 
 " Apprends qu'une princesse aimant sa renommee, 
 Quand elle dlt qu'elle aime, est sure d'etre aimee." 
 
 [Know, that a queen, whose fame's her concern. 
 When she owns that she loves, must be loved in return.] 
 
 Fletcher, in his play of " The False One," shows her in her 
 early youth, in her first adventure, with Julius Caesar; and it 
 suffices for her in her " sallet days," although the character is too 
 sustained in dignity, too consistent in nobility of feehng and dic- 
 tion, for the wayward, variable Cleopatra. The descriptions given 
 of her might suit any other charming heroine : — 
 
 " By this light, the woman's a rare woman ; 
 A lady of that catching youth and beauty, 
 That unmatched sweetness ." 
 
 " Eyes that are the winning'st orators, 
 
 A youth that opens like perpetual spring. 
 
 And, to all these, a tongue that can deliver 
 
 The oracles of love." 
 11
 
 82 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 In the fii'st interview with Julius Caesar, where she is brought 
 iu the mattress to his chamber, her speech and manner are ingeni- 
 ously tinctured with the delicate flattery by which she won him ; 
 while the most characteristic things she utters in the course of the 
 play are the following passages : — 
 
 " Oh, I could curse myself, that was so foolish. 
 So fondly childish, to believe his tongue, 
 His promising tongue, ere I could catch his temper." 
 
 And:— 
 
 " I will go study mischief, 
 And put a look on, arm'd with all my cunnings, 
 Shall meet him like a basilisk, and strike him ! 
 Love, put destroying flames into mine eyes. 
 Into my smiles deceits, that I may torture him, 
 That I may make him love to death, and laugh at him ! " 
 
 And again: — 
 
 " I love with as much ambition as a conqueror. 
 And where I love will triumph ! " 
 
 There is the future Cleopati'a in those touches ; but they occur 
 as excejitions to the general smooth grace with which Fletcher has 
 delineated her. 
 
 Dryden, like Shakespeare, paraphrased Plutarch's account of 
 Cleopatra's sailing up the river Cydnus to meet Marc Antony ; 
 and he has paralleled in his play of " All for Love," several other 
 of the descriptive passages in " Antony and Cleopatra," with rich 
 poetic beauty. But the dramatic discrimination and develop- 
 ment of Cleopatran character, so masterfully achieved by Shake- 
 speare, is wholly wanting in Dryden. He has made her a tender, 
 impassioned woman, — the fitting heroine for " All for Love, or the 
 World well lost ; " but not the renowned Egyptian queen, — that 
 wondrous combination of all that is winning, with so much that is 
 repulsive, — all that is enchanting, with so much that is despicable,
 
 CLEOPATRA. 83 
 
 — whicli Shakespeare has comjDounded into one gorgeously vivid 
 impersonation. Dryden's most individual bit, is where he makes 
 Cleopatra exclaim : — 
 
 ■' Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms ! 
 You have been too long away from my embraces ; 
 But when I have you fast, and all my own, 
 With broken murmurs and with amorous sighs, 
 I'll say you were unkind, and punish you, 
 Arid mark you red with many an eager kiss." 
 
 Leigh Hunt has hit oS the spiiit of Cleopatra, when he alludes 
 
 to her as : — 
 
 " That southern beam, 
 The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.' 
 
 And Horace sums her magic influence in two words, where he 
 calls her " fatal prodigy " [" fatale monstram."] 
 
 But, both by description, and self-revealment, Shakespeare has 
 exhibited her character in its true and full nature. Diversified, 
 yet complete ; inconsistent, yet in keeping ; whimsical, yet direct 
 of purpose ; replete with jarring elements, yet in perfect conso- 
 nance with itself. In what is said of her, in what is said to her, in 
 what she says herself, he makes us equally behold the actual 
 woman, Cleopatra. 
 
 Enobarbus speaks of her thus : — ' 
 
 " Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
 Her infinite variety : Other women 
 Cloy the appetites they feed; but she makes hungry 
 Where most she satisfies. For vilest things 
 Become themselves in her." 
 
 Antony addresses her with : — 
 
 " Fie, wrangling queen ! 
 Whom every thing becomes, — to chide, to laugh, 
 To weep ; whose every passion fully strives 
 To make itself in thee, fair and admired ! "
 
 84 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 And she, musing of Antony in his absence, and wondering 
 whether he thinks of her, says, — with a fine daring disparagement 
 of her oriental sun-embrowned complexion, secure in its spell upon 
 men's warm imaginations : — 
 
 " Think on me, 
 That am with Phcebus' amorous pinches black, 
 And wrinkled deep in time ? Broad-fronted Caesar, 
 When thou wast here above the ground, I was 
 A morsel for a monarch : and great Pompey 
 Would stand, and make his eyes grow in my brow ; 
 There would he anchor his aspect, and die 
 With looking on his life." 
 
 One of the most perfect touches of characteristic individuality 
 in all that Cleopatra utters, is that little question ; — " What says 
 tlie married woman ? " when askmg Antony of his wife Fulvia. It 
 is a fine piece of pungent insolence — exquisitely Cleopatran. 
 
 Shakesj)eare's epithets for Cleopatra, come into the mind in- 
 voluntarily when sjieaking of her. We use his titles for her, in 
 naming her, while relating her history. The " serpent of old Nile " 
 dwells in our mind as her proper designation ; " this great fairy," 
 " great Egypt," and other of his names, for her, belong to her like 
 her own ; but there is one, which he assigns to her, that wonder- 
 fully distinguishes Cleopatra, in her mingled regality and famili- 
 arity of womanhood. Agrippa calls her " Royal wench ! " in admi- 
 ration at her sovereignty in attracting men ; and it finely indi- 
 vidualizes her character in its twofold quahty of queenly sway 
 with feminine fascination. 
 
 The gi'eat secret of Cleopatra's power of winning, was the 
 instinctive insight she possessed into men's dispositions, and her 
 exquisite tact in discovering their vulnerable points. She won 
 Julius Caesar by throwing herself into his power ; and won Marc 
 Antony by exercising her power over him. She flattered Julius
 
 CLEOPATRA. 85 
 
 Caesar's love of dominion by submitting herself to it ; sbe swayed 
 Marc Antony's Heart by assuming rule tbere. She caused herself 
 to be carried to Julius Caesar ; she bade Marc Antony come to her. 
 She behaved with humility and deference to Julius ; she treated 
 Antony with gay despotism, and wayward playfulness. She deriv- 
 ed her fortune, and held her crown from Julius Caesar's bestowal ; 
 she outvied Antony in costly display and sumptuous entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 Her irresistible allurement lay in her faculty of adapting her- 
 self to men's pecuHar tastes and predilections. She followed Julius 
 to Rome ; she shared Antony's wildest frolics. The ample way in 
 which she at once understood and responded to Marc Antony's 
 propensities, explains the unbounded ascendency attained over 
 him. His enjoyment, his gratification, his pleasure, were her 
 study ; and to minister to them, her dehght. Antony's passion for 
 Cleopatra was a luxurious intoxication ; and she not only pre- 
 sented him the voluptuous draught, but drained it with him. 
 
 Cleopatra is enthroned enchantress of the world. She cap- 
 tivated Juhus Caesar; entranced the heart and senses of Marc 
 Antony, and succeeded in beguiling the wary Octavius. She, of all 
 her sex, in her pei-son gave to the unworthy art of coquetry, a 
 something of magnificent and lustrous in its so-potent exercise. 
 Hers was the poetry of coquetry.
 
 '^m,
 
 SAINT CECILIA. 
 
 Among tlie firm-hearted band who sufifered persecution and 
 death for faith's sake, — the early martyi's, — one of the most shin- 
 ing examples is Saint Cecilia. To use Fuller's quaint form of ex- 
 pression : — " She lived in an age which we may call the fii'st cock- 
 crowing after the midnight of ignorance and superstition." 
 
 The events which mark her career are told with beautiful 
 simplicity in the "Golden Legend" ["Legenda Aurea"]; and 
 Chaucer's charming version of the story, in his "Second Nun's 
 Tale," is almost a literal rhythmical translation of the old Latin 
 legend. The details furnished in the "Acta S. Cseciliae" have been 
 arranged into narrative order with hagiographical zeal, by Dom 
 Prosper Gueranger, Abbe de Solesmes ; who has traced the career 
 of the Saint through her life, martyrdom, and posthumous glory 
 of canonization, in a no less picturesque than reverential form, — and 
 that is the only spirit in which to treat a subject of this kiud. Its 
 remote antiquity, which, while limiting and obscuring authentic 
 particulars, tends to throw an aii- of poetry and idealization over 
 what few facts are known, demands a certain amount of child like 
 credence, when receiving the relation of such histories. The mod- 
 ern fashion is too much for questioning " the old familiar faces " 
 of accepted tradition. We are too fond of doubting ; we are too
 
 88 S A I N T C E C I L I A . 
 
 apt to discredit every tLing that we cannot prove. As Words- 
 worth, in his fine sonnet " The World is too much with ns," pro- 
 tests against the dimmed perceptions of prosaic getters and spend- 
 ers ; so it is with prosy detecters of falsity in antique records ; their 
 literal accuracy blinds them to the intermixture of larger veracity 
 which may he gathered from the very fables they point out as 
 wholly fictitious. They cannot discern the spirit of truth that 
 dwells within the dubious letter of legendary lore. The sceptical 
 sneei'er might find matter for questioning pause, in some of the 
 points of St. Cecilia's story as handed down to posterity by vene- 
 rating tradition ; but those who are willing to perceive the lustfe 
 of purity, — the glory of apostleship, and the courage of holiness, 
 in this beautiful legend, will take pleasure in perusing it according 
 to narrated account. 
 
 Under the empire of Alexander Severus, the persecution 
 against Christians, which previously and subsequently was carried 
 on with terrific virulence, sustained a temj^orary cessation, owing 
 to the influence of the young emperor's mother, Julia MammsBa, 
 who entertained much regard for the members of the new sect ; 
 and who, if Eusebius's words may be so interpreted, secretly pro- 
 fessed their faith. She was known to send for the learned and 
 saintly Origen, from Alexandi'ia to Autioch, while she was there ; 
 and that she held controversial discoui'ses with him, and loaded 
 him with gifts and honours. Mammsea superintended the educa- 
 tion of her son herself; remained at his side through life ; helped 
 him with her counsel in state affairs ; followed him to the field, in 
 all his campaigns ; and even shared his death, when he fell at the 
 head of his troops, on the banks of the Rhine, in a war against 
 the Germans. Coming to the imperial throne when at so early 
 an age as to be in his fourteenth year only, he might 2>robably 
 have embraced the same form of relisjion as his mother, had not 
 
 O 7
 
 T5AINTCECILIA. 89 
 
 policy ajipoiuted liLs creed for him ; but lie nevertlieless enter- 
 tained a regard for Christiauity and its Divine Founder whicli 
 never forsook him. The portion of his palace dedicated to the re- 
 ception of his Lares, or household gods, not only contained the 
 statues of the gods and of those emperors most worthy of regard ; 
 but Severus had there a statue of Jesus Christ Himself, to which 
 he paid divine honours. Lord Bacon, in his " Advancement of 
 Learning," mentions a similar circumstance respecting the Emperor 
 Adrian : — " For having Christ in veneration, not as a God or 
 Saviour, but as a wonder or novelty ; and having his picture in his 
 gallery, matched with Apollonius, with whom in his vain imagina- 
 tion, he thought he had some conformity ; yet it served the turn 
 to allay the bitter hatred of those times against the Christian 
 name, so as the church had peace during his time." Alexander Seve- 
 rus's admiration went so far as to induce him to make a proposal 
 that the Founder of a religion, so pure in its morality, should 
 be admitted among the rank of the gods. The senate desired to 
 consult the oracles upon this extraordinary proposition of the em- 
 peror ; and according to Lampridius, a contemporary writer, the 
 oracular response was, that if this new apotheosis were celebrated, 
 the pagan temples would be abandoned, and all men. would be- 
 come Christians. 
 
 Other particulars recorded of this emperor's mild conduct, and 
 of his enlightened perception of the fine moral influence belong- 
 ing to the new faith, deserve mention. The grandly comprehen- 
 sive maxim : — " As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also 
 to them likewise," was always in his mouth, and openly avowed as 
 being adopted from the tenets of the Christians. He caused it to 
 be graven as an inscription in his palace ; and in the principal pub- 
 lic edifices. By his order, too, a herald publicly proclaimed it, in 
 the punishment of criminals. His regard for Christianity extended 
 12
 
 90 saintcecilia: 
 
 to individuals ; and several official posts about his own court were 
 filled by Christians who enjoyed his favour. A signal instance of 
 his wise ordination occurred with regard to a place called " Taberna 
 meriioria, " [" A place for pubHc entertainment ;" — "A Tavern "] ; 
 which, becoming dedicated to Christian usage under the pontificate 
 of Calixtus, as a church, occasioned much umbrage to the original 
 heathen occupants ; who complained to Severus, that a place pre- 
 viously theirs, had been taken from them and consecrated to the 
 service of a rehgion unrecognized by the laws of the empire. 
 Severus replied thus nobly : — " I would rather God were honoured 
 in this spot, in whatever form of worship, than see it again 
 yielded up to sellers of wine." 
 
 But, if this emperor himself were thus favourable to the Chris- 
 tians, there was a large body of influential men in the state who 
 beheld with abhorrence and dread all progress of the new sect to- 
 wards becoming epidemical. An association that held itself fii-mly 
 impassive to all edicts of suppression, seemed to them a monster 
 that could not be too speedily crushed. They had notable example 
 for persecution ; even for decreeing the massacre of Christians, they 
 could cite strong precedent. Beneath the fierce autocracy of 
 Nero, the leniency of Trajan, and the philosophical forbearance of 
 Marcus Aurehus, this rising body had ahke suffered deadly hostil- 
 ity. Domitian Ulpian, who held the office of Prsefectus Praetorio, 
 under Alexander Severus, was one of the chief of these opjDosers 
 of Christianity ; and as he had considerable ascendency over the 
 young emperor's mind, his animosity against the Christians acted 
 in countei'balance to the maternal influence in theu* favour. Popu- 
 lar prejudice, also, was largely on the side of the prevailing power ; 
 and Tertullian, — in his " Apologetic "Works," written more than 
 thirty years before the period here treated of, — remarks that on 
 all occasions of general tumult, the multitude were accustomed to
 
 SAINTCECILIA. 91 
 
 yell fortli their barbaroua cry, — " To the lions with the Christians ! " 
 Thus, notwithstanding the tolerance of the emperor himself to- 
 wards the oppressed sect — a tolerance which was more negative 
 than active — several martyrdoms of the early Christians took place 
 during his reign, both in the Roman dominions, and in Rome itself. 
 The names of Calepodius, Palmatius, Simplicius, Martina, and Ta- 
 tiana, have reached us as among the victims who fell sacrifices here ; 
 — and Pope Calixtus — one of the earhest Christian pontifis — died a 
 martyr to the proscribed faith. 
 
 Pope Urban, his successor, had been twice summoned before 
 the Praetorium ; and had each time boldly avouched the free right 
 of his ministry. But after that, he could no longer abide within 
 the Ulterior of the city ; and appearing but at rare intervals in 
 Rome, with secrecy and circumspection, he took refuge from his 
 enemies, by lurking in its precincts, concealed and apart. His 
 place of retreat was beneath the shadow of the sacred Crypts of 
 the Appian "Way, near the tombs of the martyi's. It was there 
 he exercised his holy function, receiving into the bosom of the 
 church such heathens as were touched by grace, admonishing the 
 vacHlatuig, and fortifying the faithful. A few priests and deacons 
 assisted him, sharing his duties and his perils. Along the path 
 leading to the pontiff's retreat, were scattered some of those lowly 
 poor, whose brethren were preached to by the Saviom* himself, 
 watching as devoted and vigilant sentinels. Known to the Chris- 
 tians ia Rome, they were the intermediaries between the church 
 and her Head ; and served to screen from the eyes of the Praeto- 
 rian emissaries any trace of those secret communications which 
 maintained the vitality of the Christian church. 
 
 A sketch of the Appian Way, as it existed in the third century 
 — ^the period when Saint Cecilia lived — will best usher in her story 
 with appropriately scenic interest, and give it imaged reahty of
 
 92 SAINTCECILIA. 
 
 occurrence. Moreover, this picturesque track forms a kind of link 
 between the Rome of the Gentiles, and the Rome of the Chris- 
 tians ; between the eternal city, and the centre of Cliristendom ; 
 between ancient Rome, surnamed "Mistress of the "World," and the 
 nucleus of that Spiritual Kingdom founded on the "Rock of 
 Ages." It presents a vast and sumptuous gallery of pagan sepul- 
 chres dedicated to the entombment of illustrious Roman families ; 
 while beneath the soil supporting these numberless fine monu- 
 ments, the very ruins of which still excite wonder and admiration, 
 there lies a consecrated labyi'inth, within whose shade sleep a mar- 
 tyr legion. The grandeur and solemnity of this renowned "Way 
 are unequalled; which, — at the epoch when Alexander Severus 
 was emperor, and when the city was enclosed on that side by the 
 walls of Servius Tullius, commenced at the Capenian Gate, and 
 led out towards the Campagna. Traversing the plain, its line 
 marked by superb villas, and temples of severe or graceful styles 
 in architecture, its principal embeUishment consisted in the double 
 range of tombs extending for more than fourteen miles on each 
 side of the way. The pavement, formed of large masses of lava, 
 proclaims the magnificence and solidity of the works of a regal 
 people ; and on it may be traced deep-indented ruts, made by the 
 chariot-wheels of Romans, more than two thousand years since. 
 Somewhat narrow, like all the ancient roads, the Appian "Way was 
 confined between two foot paths, on the borders of which rose the 
 sepulchres. The form of these funereal monuments was varied : 
 some appeared like temples, of grave or elegant design ; others 
 wore the circular shape of a tower ; many were reared in pyram- 
 idal form; and others again were quadrilateral. These sepul- 
 chres were in some instances appropriated to individuals, in others 
 to entire families. In some cases the body reposed in a sarcopha- 
 gus, while in others the tomb contained only the ashes of the de-
 
 SAINTCECILIA. 93 
 
 ceased, accordiug to the customs introduced in Home towards tlie 
 close of tlie Kepublic. Besides the tombs, the Appian Way con- 
 tained likewise those pigeon-holed receptacles, ["columbaria,"] in 
 which a large number of urns were deposited, containing the ashes 
 of several generations. All this assemblage of sej^ulchres imparted 
 to the Way an aspect of mournfulness, which contrasted strikingly 
 with the luxury and richness of the buildings that formed a back- 
 ground to these avenues of death. The pagans themselves were 
 sensible of this lesson upon the nothingness of life, afforded by 
 choosing a public way as a place for entombment ; while the Chris- 
 tians completed the monition, by hollowing beneath the soil of the 
 Appian Way itself, whole cities of sepulchral abode, destined not 
 only to recall to mankind the thought of mortahty, but to raise 
 them to the contemplation of immortal trust. 
 
 One of the poets in the early period of the Eoman empire — 
 Statius — in his " Sylvse," entitles this majestic road " the Queen of 
 Ways " [" Eegiaa viarum "] ; and thus it appeared, in its general 
 aspect, at the time he wrote. 
 
 Calixtus, during his pontificate, was unwearied in his zealous 
 care to protect the sacred crypts beneath the Appian Way, and to 
 preserve from desecration the saiatly and apostolic remains they 
 enshrouded. He persevered in his pious work ; and the Christians 
 retained as their sanctuary these subterranean burial-places, known 
 under the name of catacombs. Skirting the Appian Way, at some 
 little distance, there rises a gentle eminence, just above a spot 
 which tradition asserts to be the site of the grotto and fountains 
 of Egeria. Here there was a temple erected in the time of the 
 Eoman Eepublic ; and here it was, that Pope Urban found a safe 
 retreat. An oratory excavated beneath the earth, — under the 
 very pagan temple which has since been consecrated as a church, 
 bearing the name of St. Urban, — and having communication with
 
 94 SAINTCECILIA. 
 
 the extensive range of subterranean crypts, afforded a secure 
 refuge aloof from public notice, and allowed of access and inter- 
 course with the Christians. 
 
 Among the flock of the faithful, who revered Urban as their 
 visible head, who resorted to him for counsel and instruction, and 
 who enjoyed his peculiar favour for her piety and innocence, was 
 the youthful Cecilia. Daughter of a noble Roman house (some 
 asserting her to be a descendant of the same family with that Ceci- 
 lia MeteUa whose sumptuous pagan monument adorns the Appian 
 Way, — now, even in decay, serving as a notable adornment to the 
 place), she had early adopted the Christian faith, although her 
 parents adhered to the old heathen form of worship. An ancient 
 tradition in Rome assigns the Campus Martins as the site where 
 the house stood in which Cecilia was born, during the early part 
 of the thii-d century ; and a church was erected there in the eigh- 
 teenth century, by Pope Benedict XIII., bearing the inscription : — 
 " This is the house in which Saint Cecilia prayed." 
 
 HAEC EST DOJrVS 
 EST QVA OEABAT 
 SANCTA CAECILIA. 
 
 Her father and mother appear to have oftered no obstruction 
 to the course of their daughter's religious opinions ; which had 
 already obtained many followers in Rome, and which counted pro- 
 fessors even in the imperial household itself. Either from indif- 
 ference, or from affection, they permitted her to pursue her own 
 form of doctine, and to attend the assemblages of the Christians. 
 Cecilia could not only go and pray with the faithful in the 
 churches where the mysteries of their creed were celebrated with 
 a certain amount of pubhcity, during the period when Christianity 
 enjoyed a temporary immunity from persecution ; but she was able
 
 SATNTGECILIA. 95 
 
 to frequent the crypts of the martyrs, for the purpose of assisting 
 in those anniversaiies of such heroic members of the devoted band 
 as had met death in its cause. The poor, who guarded the secret 
 of Urban's retreat, knew the gentle maiden ; and often conveyed her 
 messages, or conducted her steps to the venerable pontiff himself. 
 
 The Christians at that epoch lived with the idea of possible 
 martyrdom constantly present to them ; it entered, as a necessary 
 element, into all their visions of the future. But this formidable 
 prospect had no power to appal the soul of the young Cecilia. She, 
 on the contrary, learned to dwell upon it, as upon a promised repose 
 of peace and bliss. Martyrdom would for ever unite her with 
 Christ, who had deigned to select her from a pagan family that he 
 might reveal himself unto her. Awaiting this welcome summons, 
 she lived within the depths of her heart in the constant company 
 of her Divine Master, ceasing not to commune with him in holy 
 prayer and converse, day nor night. Enraptured with this secret 
 conference, she sought Him perpetually in His holy oracle, in His 
 volume of Evangels, which she kept hidden beneath the folds of 
 her robe, resting ever in her bosom. [" Absconditum semjjer 
 Evangelium ChrLsti gerebat in j^ectore." Acta S. Ccecilice^ In 
 the ardour of her self-dedication to her chosen Heavenly Spouse, 
 she vowed ever to remain immaculate in virgin faith and pmity ; 
 and abided in meek hope the period when she should be called to 
 receive her nuptial crown of immortality. 
 
 Her guardian spirit was permitted to take visible shape : — an 
 Angel alighted beside her in the silent hours of seclusion and con- 
 templation : Hke the winged messenger sent to the first j)air in 
 paradise, " the glorious shape seem'd another morn risen on mid- 
 noon ; " so bright, so seraphic he appeared : — 
 
 " Like Maia's son he stood, 
 And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill'd 
 The circuit wide."
 
 90 SAINTCECILIA. 
 
 Meanwliile Cecilia's parents, knowing nothing of her vow, 
 chose her an earthly bridegroom. A young and nolde Roman, 
 named Valerian, was the object they selected as a fitting husband 
 for their beautiful daughter. His rank, his generous qualities, ren- 
 dered him worthy to be the possessor of the treasure they proposed 
 to bestow upon him ; while the maiden's gentle graces and good- 
 ness made him rejoice in the prospect of calhng her his own. 
 Valerian had a brother, Tibm-tius, to whom he was fondly attached ; 
 and he trusted that this new tie would be only an additional 
 means of strengthening theu' fraternal bond of happy imion. So 
 indeed was it to be : though not in the way that the pagan youth 
 then imagined. They were all three to be united in links of more 
 than mortal felicity. 
 
 The day for the celebration of the marriage was appointed, and 
 the two patrician families prepared with all due magnificence to 
 honour the espousals of two of their scions, whose youth, beauty, and 
 dictinetion made them a source of joyful jiride to their kindred. 
 Classical and poetical description has handed down to us the cos- 
 tume and envii'onments that marked the nujjtial ceremony in those 
 early times. CatuUus's glowing marriage-song of " Julia and Man- 
 lius," among others, affords indication of the picturesque accompani- 
 ments that attended ancient spousal rites : — 
 
 '• Claustra pandite, januae : 
 Virgo adest. Viden' ut faces 
 Splendidas quatiunt comas ? " 
 
 " But the doors set open wide, 
 For she comes, — the bride, the bride ! 
 Don't you see the torches there, 
 How they shake their shining hair ? " 
 
 Leigh Hunfs translation. 
 
 And there is also allusion to the bridal music ; the songs to 
 Hymen, the glad epithalamia, which crowned the feast with rich
 
 SAINTCECILIA. 97 
 
 harmonious triumpli ; and wliicli form so momentous a feature in 
 CecOia's marriage-day : — 
 
 " Hymen, Hymenasus ; 
 Slip thy snowy feet in socks 
 Yellow-tinged, and girt thy locks 
 With sweet-flowered marjoram. 
 And in saffron veil, come ; 
 
 Meet the day with dancing pleasure, 
 Singing out a nuptial measure, 
 And with fine liand at the air 
 Shake the pine-torch with a flare." 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 We are tlius enabled from classic autliority, to image to our- 
 selves how the fair bride, CecUia, was led forth, attired in a tunic 
 of soft white wool, simply girdled with a slender cincture, also 
 white and woollen; her long and glossy hair braided into six 
 tresses, after the manner of the vestal virgins, — for so the Roman 
 usage permitted to brides on the day they were wedded, as a fare- 
 well token of their maiden state ; a veil of flame-coloured hue 
 floating around her face and figure, screening her from public gaze, 
 while reserving her modest beauty to view of the attendant hover- 
 ing angel. 
 
 Like Edmund Spenser's bride, in his own perfect Epithala- 
 
 " Behold, -whiles she before the altar stands, 
 Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, 
 And blesses her with his two happy hands. 
 How the red roses flush up in her cheeks ! 
 And the pure snow with goodly vermil stain, 
 Like crimsin died in grain. 
 That even the angels, which continually 
 About the sacred altar do remain. 
 Forget their service, and about her fly. 
 Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair 
 The more they on it stare ; 
 13
 
 98 SAINTCECILIA. 
 
 But her sad* eyes, still fastend on the ground, 
 Are governed with goodly modesty, 
 That suffers not one look to glaunce awry, 
 Which may let in a little thought unsound." 
 
 So stood CeciHa, her eyes bent groundward, submitting to 
 lend external participation in tbe pagan rites going on around lier ; 
 but inwardly maintaining lier isolation of purity and devout wor- 
 ship. In her bodily presence, but spiritual absence of abstracted 
 meditation, the heathen observances proceeded ; the offering of wine 
 and mUk took place, the ceremonial of breaking the cake, and the 
 final placing of her hand within that of Valerian, aU went on as 
 if she took part in the celebration of which she was but passive 
 spectatress. 
 
 At close of day, according to antique habitude, the ne-\\^ly 
 wedded wife was conducted to the dwelling of her husband. Va- 
 lerian's house was situated in the transtiberine quarter of Rome ; 
 and it was here that, in after times, the basilica, or church dedi- 
 cated to Saint CecUia, was erected, to mark the spot of her tri- 
 umph. The nuptial torches lighted the way of the marriage pro- 
 cession, as they approached the spousal dwelling. On the thresh- 
 old, beneath the portico adorned with white draperies, amid 
 which hung garlands of flowers and green fohage, Valerian stood 
 awaiting Ceciha. There are two allusions in Shakespeare's Corio- 
 lanus that illustrate this ancient Roman bridal observance. Au- 
 fidius says : — " More dances my rapt heart, than when I first my 
 wedded mistress saw bestride my threshold." 
 
 And Coriolanus himself, in the cheerfulness of his conquering 
 courage and safety, exclaims : — 
 
 " ! let me clip you 
 In arms as sound, as when I woo'd; in heart 
 As merry, as when our nuptial day was done, 
 And tapers burn'd to bedward." — 
 
 * Serious — steadfast.
 
 SAINTCE CILIA. 99 
 
 Cecilia crossed tlie threshold: tliey brought her fair water, 
 emblem of purity ; they gave her a key, symbol of the household 
 duties henceforth to be committed to her charge ; they led her to 
 a seat upon a fleece of unspun wool, in token of the domestic 
 labours she would have to perform. Then the wedding guests 
 passed, with the young couple into the Triclinium, or apartment 
 where the marriage supper was served. During the repast, an 
 epithalamium was sung, which celebrated the union of Valerian 
 and Cecilia : a chou- of musicians filled the hall with their melodi- 
 ous voices in concord with resounding instruments, and with the 
 rich outpouring of the full-toned organ. Amidst this swelling 
 harmony, Cecilia chanted softly to herself, lifting her soul to God 
 in praise and adoration, and praying him to keep her immaculate, — 
 in heart and body, — evermore. [" Cantantibus organis, Cecilia in 
 corde suo soli Domino decantabat, dicens : Fiat cor meum et cor- 
 pus meum immaculatum ut non confundar." Acta S. Oecilice.'] For 
 this pious act of spiritual elevation, shaping itself in musical heart- 
 utterance, Cecilia has been ever since regarded as the patron Saint 
 of Music. 
 
 The feast ended, a band of matrons conducted the trembling 
 steps of the bride to the door of the nuptial-chamber ; where its 
 rich decorations — in all the beauty of Roman taste and luxury — 
 shone with a tempered charm ; amid the silence and darkened light, 
 afibrding delicious contrast with the glare and tumult of the wed- 
 ding banquet. The bridegroom followed ; and the matrons retired. 
 
 When CeciHa found herself alone with Valerian, her young hus- 
 band, a holy calm fell upon her spirit ; and she said to him, with 
 her gentle voice sounding sweeter and softer than ever, amid the 
 quiet of the night-scene : — " Dear friend, I have a secret to confide 
 to thee : swear to me that thou wilt respect and preserve it." — 
 Valerian swore with ardour to keej) her secret, and that nothing
 
 100 S 2V I N T C E C 1 L I A . 
 
 on earth should force him to reveal it. — " Listen, then," replied 
 CeciUa ; " an Angel of God watches over me ;— aid me to preserve 
 my vow, and he will love thee as he loves me, and shower on thee 
 his blessed favours of guardianship and protection." Thereupon she 
 exj)lained to him the vow of virgin purity and immaculacy she had 
 taken, and besought him to respect it. 
 
 The young man, deeply troubled, answered her thus : — " Ceci- 
 lia, if you would that I believe your word, let me behold this An- 
 gel. When I have seen him, if I recognize him for the Angel of 
 God, I will do as you exhort me : but if I find that thou lovest an- 
 other man, be sure my sword shall pierce bpth him and thyself." 
 Upon which, the maiden answered with ineffable impressiveness ; — 
 " Valerian, if thou wilt abide by my counsels, if thou consentest to 
 be washed in the waters of eternal purification, if thou wilt be- 
 lieve in the true and only God, who reigns above in the heavens, 
 thine eye may behold the Angel who watches over me to guard, 
 defend, and protect me." 
 
 " And who is he that shall purify me, to the end that I may 
 see thine Angel ? " asked Valerian. Cecilia replied : " There is a 
 venerable old man who purifies men, so that they may behold the 
 Angel of God." " And where may I find this old man ? " said 
 Valerian. " Go forth from the city by the Appian Way," returned 
 Cecilia ; " proceed until thou reachest the third milliary column. 
 There thou wUt find some poor creatures who ask alms of passers- 
 by. These poor people are objects of my frequent interest ; and 
 my secret is known to them. As thou approachest them, salute 
 them in my name, giving them my benediction, and say to them : 
 ' Cecilia sends me to you, that you may conduct me to the holy Ur- 
 ban : I have a j)rivate message to convey to him.' — When thou 
 comest into the presence of the sainted old man, repeat to him 
 the words I have said unto thee : he will purify thee, and robe
 
 SAINT CECILIA. 101 
 
 thee in fresli white garments. At thy return, thou wilt find me 
 still here awaiting thee ; thou wilt behold the Angel, then become 
 thy friend also ; and thou wilt obtain from him all that thou shalt 
 ask of him." 
 
 With the first dawn of day, Valerian set forth towards the re- 
 treat of Urban ; and all fell out according as Cecilia had pre-de- 
 scribed. He hastened back, clothed in the white baptismal gar- 
 ment of a new-made Christian ; which however attracted no obser- 
 vation in the streets of Rome, where cloaks and tunics of that hue 
 were no rarity. He went straight to the door of the chamber 
 where he had left Cecilia, and softly opened it. On entering, he 
 perceived her kneeling in prayer, while near to her stood the An- 
 gel of the Lord ; his face radiant with celestial light ; his wings 
 with innumerable colours. The spirit of bliss held in his hand two 
 coronals of intertwined roses and lilies. One of these he j^laced on 
 the head of Cecilia, the other on that of Valerian, as he said, in 
 heavenly accents, to the young couple : — " Deserve to keep these 
 crowns by the purity of your hearts, and the sanctity of your 
 bodies : it is from the garden of paradise that I bring them to you. 
 These flowers will never fade, their perfume will be ever fresh and 
 gracious ; but no one will be able to behold them, save by merit- 
 ing the privilege, like yourselves, through purity and implicitness 
 to Heaven's will. Now, O Valerian, for thine acquiescence with 
 the chaste aspiration of Ceciha, Christ, the Son of God, has sent 
 me to thee, to hearken whatever boon thou desu-est that he should 
 grant." 
 
 The young man, full of pious gratitude, fell at the feet of the 
 diNdne messenger, and thus ventured to utter his request : — " No- 
 thing in life is more dear to me than the aftection of my brother : — 
 it would be cruel to me, who am now freed from peril, were this 
 beloved brother to be left in danger of destruction. I beseech of
 
 102 SAINTCECILIA. 
 
 Christ to deliver my brother Tibnrtius, as he hath dehvered my- 
 self; aud that he will render us worthy of Him in the confession 
 of his name." — ^Then the Angel, tm-ning to Valerian a face on which 
 beamed the sajDreme joy that thrills the spirits of bliss at the sight 
 of human virtue, rephed : — " Because thou hast asked a boon of 
 Christ that He is not less willing to bestow than thou to receive, — 
 inasmuch as thy heart was turned to Him through Cecilia, His ser- 
 vant ; so shalt thou win over the heart of thy brother, that both 
 of you may attain the palm of martyrdom." 
 
 The Angel re-ascended to the skies, leaving Valerian and 
 Cecilia to the plenitude of their holy gladness. They were still in 
 beatific conversation, when Tiburtius came into the room, impatient 
 to see his well-beloved brother Valerian, to whom Cecilia being 
 now espoused, he saluted her affectionately as his sister. In stoop- 
 ing towards her to give her his fraternal kiss, he smelt the delicious 
 fraOTance that emanated from the maiden's beautiful hair, as of 
 odorous spring flowers ; yet it was then the winter season. An 
 expression of surprise escaped him ; and the young couple revealed 
 to him the wondrous secret of the heavenly crowns they wore, 
 imparting to him the means by which he might not only behold, 
 but obtain one for himself With the eagerness of the neophyte, 
 Valerian poured forth his tale to his brother's ear ; whUe with the 
 confirmed ardour of the long faithful Christian, Cecilia uttered her 
 persuasive exhortations to Tiburtius. 
 
 Their combined arguments produced the desired fruit ; Tibur- 
 tius was no less desirous than they to fulfil his newly-awakened 
 aspiration to become a Christian; and it was not long ere the two 
 brothers repaired together to the holy Urban's retreat, to seek 
 baptism for the young Koman, from the venerable pontiff's 
 hand. 
 
 For a time, peacefuluess aud calm life were theirs ; but on the
 
 SAINTGECILIA. 103 
 
 return of the vernal montlis, war called the Emperor Alexander 
 Severus away ffom Rome, and the executive legal power was vest- 
 ed in the hands of deputy rulers during his absence. The man 
 who filled the office of Prsefectus urbis, — a civil function, differing 
 from that of Praefectus praetorio, — was Turcius Almachius, noto- 
 rious for the hatred he bore the Christians. No sooner, there- 
 fore, was the emperor gone, whose leniency to the sect was well 
 known, than Almachius commenced a series of persecutions of un- 
 relenting fury. His ferocious malignity first attacked the humliler 
 classes of Romans who professed the denounced faith ; and while 
 he consigned their living bodies to torture and death, he denied to 
 their dead bodies the posthumous consolation of ceremonious 
 burial. He knew what importance the association attached to this 
 final token of respect ; and how frequently, in their zeal to render 
 the last offices to theii* martyred brethren, they themselves incur- 
 red a similar fate. To repose amid that valorous phalanx of 
 devotees, who had died for their faith, and who lay beneath the 
 mould of the crypts in graves bearing the simple, but beautiful in- 
 scription of two emphatic words, — "Zft^^ce?," was esteemed a priv- 
 ilege well worth risking life for. 
 
 Valerian and Tiburtius were among the most active of those 
 who hazarded peril for the sake of giving Christian burial to 
 Christian martyrs; audit was thus that they came to be denounced 
 to Almachius as zealous partisans of the proscribed sect. He had 
 the two brothers arrested, and brought before him ; seeking to 
 intimidate the young patricians before he proceeded to extremity 
 with them. 
 
 But they both, with the nobleness and courage of their re- 
 spective natures, scorned to avail themselves of the opportunity 
 which the venal ma2:istrate ojave them for evading; confession of their 
 foith ; they said enough to let it clearly be seen that they belonged
 
 104 SAINT CECILIA. 
 
 to tlie sect they favoured ; and Almacliius, umvilling to pronounce 
 sentence of deatli against youths of their rank, condemned them to 
 be scourged with rods. Finding that this faUed to subdue them, 
 he sentenced the brothers to be conducted to the fourth milliary 
 column on the Appian Way, near to which there was a temple of 
 Jupiter. 
 
 Here, they were to be asked to burn incense before the idol ; 
 and if they refused to do so, they were to suffer decapitation. 
 
 Ere Valerian could return home to say one word of farewell to 
 Cecilia, he and his brother were led away to their ordeal ; but it is 
 said that she found means to meet them once more, on their way to 
 the appointed spot, and that she had the courage to bid them go 
 forth, as soldiers of Christ, and win their laurels of life eternal. 
 They met death valorously ; and the vigilance of some devoted 
 friends among the faithful, secured to Cecilia the mournful pri\d- 
 lege of enshrouding the mangled remains of Valerian and Tiburtius, 
 and depositing them reverentially in a place of sepulture on the 
 left side of the Appian Way. 
 
 Not long was Ceciha in following the two young brothers in 
 their martyrdom. Soon she was summoned to appear before 
 Almachius, in order that she might abjure her suspected faith ; so 
 far from this, however, her recorded colloquy with the tyrannous 
 prsefect, only served to proclaim her steadfixst adlierence to the 
 creed she had adopted, and openly to avow herself that, which, 
 secretly, she had long been, — a Christian. 
 
 He, — desirous that her death should be as private as possible, 
 so as to avoid scandal and tumult, as well as possible reprehension 
 from the emperor, should Severus come to learn what had taken 
 place in his absence, — ^gave orders that Cecilia should be con- 
 ducted back to her own mansion, and there shut up in the bath- 
 room attached to it, called by the Romans the caMarium. A fire
 
 S A I N T C E C I L I A . 105 
 
 was to be kept up in the hypocaust, or stove ; so that the virgin 
 martyr thus left without air, beneath the heated roof, woukl inhale 
 death with the burning vapour, and obviate the necessity of a lic- 
 tor coming to immolate her. 
 
 But the prgefect's cowardly expedient failed. A miraculous 
 atmosphere seemed to environ her ; and, like the three who were 
 cast into the fiery furnace, without a hair of their heads being 
 singed, the saintly Cecilia remained in the heated bath scathless, 
 awaiting untU her Heavenly Spouse should call her to him. 
 
 This prodigy being reported to Almachius, he beheld his desire 
 to avoid shedding the blood of a Roman lady frustrated ; he 
 therefore sent a Hctor to behead her on the very spot where she 
 had escaped death. So eagerly did the virgin martyr welcome 
 the blow which was to deliver her from earthly bondage, that the 
 executioner's energy was paralyzed, and his iU-assured arm could 
 not strike with certainty at a victim thus submissively ready to 
 encounter her fate. Thrice he brandished aloft his weapon, and 
 thrice it fell with ineifectual force on the neck of Cecilia. An ex- 
 isting law forbade more than three blows dealt by the headsman ; 
 if the third did not kdl, the sufferer was left to die. Thus the 
 lictor left the virgin, stretched on the bath-room floor, weltering 
 in her blood, mortally wounded, but not yet expiring. 
 
 The doors remaining open after the Hctor's departure, a crowd 
 of Christians who had been awaiting the consummation of the 
 sacrifice, made theii' way in, struck with grief and horror. The 
 gentle victim smUed faintly on those holy poor whom she had so 
 long charitably cared for ; and even in this supreme instant de- 
 voted herself to their cause by addressing kindly words of encour- 
 agement and exhortation to them to be firm in faith : and when 
 they brought the venerable Urban to her side, she still showed 
 her affection for them, by bequeathing to him her worldly goods 
 14
 
 106 SAINT CECILIA. 
 
 for their behoof. Thus lay she ; to the last, exertmg herself to 
 utter consoling and hopeful words. Her young and \irginal body 
 lay prone, tenderly couched on its right side ; her limbs laxly ex- 
 tended ; her arms drooped one over the other patiently ; her head 
 bent meekly down. Thus she yielded her last sigh ; and thus, — in 
 this pathetic attitude of martyred maidhood, an Itahan artist, Ste- 
 fano Mademo, sculptured a marble figure of Saint Cecilia, which 
 adorns her church at Rome. 
 
 Her remains were deposited by Pope Urban in the crypt which 
 his predecessor, Calixtus, had prepared for the sepulchre of the 
 pontifis themselves beneath the Appian "Way ; and it was not until 
 six centuries afterwards, that pope Paschal I. exhumed the virgin 
 martyr's body, and caused it to be transported to her transtiberine 
 basilica. On a subsequent occasion, when by Pontifical authority, 
 the saint's tomb was again opened and examined, it is averred 
 that the body was discovei*ed in the same attitude and vesture it 
 had. worn at the moment of death ; and then it was that Maderno's 
 recumbent statue was sculptured as an efligy for her monument. 
 A beautiful incident is related as attending this second homage to 
 Saint Cecilia's remains ; and it is in the true poetical spirit of 
 Catholic reverence for legendary association. While the ceremony 
 of opening the virgin martyr's cofiin proceeded, the usual burning 
 of incense in the sacred edifice was forborne ; on account, as it 
 was said, of leaving free to be perceived the delicious odour of 
 roses and lilies that emanated in undying freshness from the shrine 
 in which the saint's body reposed. 
 
 The legend of Saint Ceciha, is, throughout, one of the most 
 lovely that the world's history records. It associates, in one form, 
 some of the most noble and gracious of humanity's adornments : 
 — youth, beauty, purity, harmony, holiness ; — all have their share 
 in this exquisite story.
 
 SAINTGEGILIA. lOT 
 
 Chaucer, with his taste for refined charm in simplicity, took it 
 for one of his Canterbm-y Tales ; and he has told it with his wont- 
 ed grace. The two beautiful lines describing Cecilia's singing with- 
 in herself, at the marriage feast, are weU known ; — 
 
 " And while that the organs maden melody, 
 To God alone thus in hire hertsong she." 
 
 The point, describing Tiburtius entering the room where his broth- 
 er and new-married sister have just had the interview with the 
 Angel, is told with all the exquisite freshness of primitive inno- 
 cence : — 
 
 " And with that word Tiburce his brother come ; 
 And whan that he the savour undernome * 
 Which that the roses and the lilies cast : — 
 Within his heart he gan to wonder fast, 
 And said ;— ' I wonder this time of the year 
 Whennes that sweet savour Cometh so. 
 Of roses and lilies that I smel here : 
 For though I had hem in min hondes two, 
 The savour might in me no deper go : — 
 The swetes smel that in min herto I find, 
 Hath changed me all in another kind.' — 
 Valerian said : ' Two corones han we. 
 Snow-white and rose-red, that ehinen clear. 
 Which that thine eyen han no might to see : 
 And as thou smellest hem thurgh my praierc. 
 So shalt thou seen hem, leve brother dear. 
 If it so bo thou wilt, withouten slouthe 
 Beleve aright and know the veray trouthe.' " 
 
 The eai'ly martyrdoms of the Christian Church afford beauti- 
 ful subjects for dramatic, as well as poetic treatment ; and it is a 
 wonder that they have not more frequently been made themes of 
 tragedy. Corneille has taken for the hero and title of one of his 
 stately dramas, " Polyeucte," a martyr who suffered under the Em- 
 
 • Undernome — undertook — 'ook in subordinately ; — as it were, dimly perceived the 
 scent of the flowers he could not see.
 
 108 SAINTCECILIA. 
 
 peror Decius, iu the year 250; exactly two decades later than 
 Saint Cecilia's martyi-dom. They who have had the privilege of 
 beholding the great tragic actress, Rachel, perform the part of 
 Pauline, in this play, will have witnessed a wonderful embodiment 
 of the early female martyrs, as we may conceive them to have ap- 
 peared, when proclaiming their adherence to the proscribed faith, 
 and prepared to seal belief with life-blood. Her entrance upon 
 the stage in that simple white tunic, — ^like a victim ready to suffer 
 at the stake, — her hair put back from her brow, her bare arms 
 held to heaven, her face lustrous with the light of new-perceived 
 truth, — was a vision, once seen, never to be forgotten, so long as 
 memory lasts. And ineffably thrilling, too, that voice, in which 
 she uttered those herald words : — 
 
 Mon cpoux, en mourant, m'a laisse ses lumieres ; 
 
 Son sang, dont tes bourreaux viennent de me couvrir, 
 
 M'a desille les yeux, at me les vient d'ouvrir. 
 
 Je vois, je sais, je crois,}e suis desabusee ; 
 
 De ce bienbeureux sang tu me vois baptisee; 
 
 Je suis cuRETiENNE cnfin, — n'cst-ce point assez dit ?" 
 
 [My busband, in dying, bas left me bis faith ; 
 His blood shed upon me by men without ruth, 
 Hath unseal'd mine eyes, and shown me the truth ; 
 I see, I know, / believe, my soul's new advis'd ; 
 With this thrice blessed blood thou sec'st me baptized ; 
 I'm a CHRISTIAN, in short, — needs there more to be said ? "] 
 
 The tone and look that accompanied those two syllables, " Je 
 croLs," were incomparably fine — it was the very soul of fervent ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "Vivia Perpetua," another of the early Christian martyrs, 
 forms the subject of a beautiful dramatic poem, which deserves to 
 be widely known. It is by Sarah Flower Adams, a lady of refined 
 taste, and earnest feeling, who had a sister gifted with a musician's 
 talent ; both fitting followers of Saint Cecilia in Art and in holy
 
 S A I N T C E G I L I A . IQO 
 
 aspii'ation ; and both, like her, now dead. Two passages from the 
 '' Vivia Perpetua " may serve to show the poem's excellence, and 
 to aptly illustrate the subject under discussion : — 
 
 Vivius. What is a CLristian ? 
 
 Vivia. Truth above all, — it is the Christian's word ; 
 
 Love over all, — it is the Christian's soul ; 
 
 Life beyond all, — it is the Christian's hope : 
 
 To lay down life for Christ who liv'd 
 
 For Truth and Love, and died for Life Immortal, — 
 
 This is to be a Christian. — I am ready." 
 
 The second passage glowingly describes that spiritual desire 
 for highest adoration, which burns within the human heart, and 
 lends it a fire of faith strong enough to meet the fii-es of martyi-dom 
 unflinchingly : — 
 
 Vivia. " 0, have you not 
 
 A life within, that asks another life 
 For its unfolding ? Hast not felt thy soul 
 To swell and press against this limiting earth ? 
 Hast never thirsted for a perfect Truth ? 
 Hast never long'd to meet with what should fill 
 Full to its largo desire thy sense of praise ? 
 To praise — praise infinitely, were enough. 
 To dwell for ever with the Great Perfection, 
 , The one untiring, ever-moving Spirit 
 
 Of Good, — what were it ! Then to have reveal'd 
 
 By light, the element wherein he dwells, 
 
 His mighty plans, wrought out of one great law, 
 
 The law of Love. No longer mystery : 
 
 Faith turn'd to sight, as promis'd of the Lord. — 
 
 Think what joy, what loving adoration. 
 
 Would burst the song of praise from forth our souls, — 
 
 Praise' that hadgain'd increaa'd intelligence. 
 
 To meet the work of His intelligence, — 
 
 When, with our upturn'd eyes, we reached the height. 
 
 Where, like the beams of his own sun on the mountain, 
 
 Rested the all-seeing gaze of the Creator, 
 
 Over the world he made ; and he proclaim'd 
 
 That— All was good I "
 
 110 SAINTCECILIA. 
 
 The exact dates of neither Saint Cecilia's birth nor martyrdom, 
 are known ; it is merely ascertained that she met her doom in the 
 spring of the year 230. But the day appointed for the com- 
 memoration of Saint CecUia's anniversary, is the 2 2d of November ; 
 and it has been the graceful custom to celebrate the festival of the 
 patron-saint of Music with a vocal and instrumental performance 
 in her honour. A little volume, containing an account of these mu- 
 sical celebrations of Saint Cecilia's Day has lately been put forth 
 by William Henry Husk ; and among the collection of odes he has 
 appended, Dryden's, Pope's, and Cougreve's are those most distin- 
 guished in name. They are each characteristic of their several au- 
 thor's styles, although treating of the same theme. The passages 
 strictly relative to Saint Cecilia herself, shall be quoted here, as af- 
 fording illustrative evidence of this remark. First, Dryden's ; — ro- 
 bust and vigorous : — 
 
 " Thus long ago, 
 Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
 While organs yet wore mute •, 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
 
 And sounding lyre, 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 
 Inven tress of the vocal frame; — 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 
 Enlarg'd the narrow bounds. 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds. 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 Or both divide the crown ; 
 
 He rais'd a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down." 
 
 Then Pope's ; smooth, neat, and well-turned : — 
 
 " Music the fiercest grief can charm, 
 And fate's severest rage disarm ; 
 Music can soften pain to ease, 
 And make despair and madness please :
 
 SAINTGE CILIA. HI 
 
 Our joys below it can improve, 
 
 And antedate the bliss above. 
 
 This the divine Cecilia found, 
 
 And to her ^laker's praise confin'd the sound. 
 
 When the fall organ joins the tuneful quire, 
 
 Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear : 
 Borne on the swelling notes, our souls aspire 
 While solemn airs improve the sacred fire ; 
 
 And angels lean from Heav'n to hear. 
 Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell. 
 
 To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n 
 His numbers rais'd a shade from hell, 
 
 Her's lift the soul to Heav'n." 
 
 And lastly, Congreve's ; courtly, polished, — almost as bowingly 
 gallant as one of his own comedy fine gentlemen. We seem to see 
 Dan Phoebus, in embroidered coat and ruffles — ^like Mirabell or Bell- 
 mour, at the feet of MUlamant or Belinda — laying his harp and 
 his laurels at the feet of Saint Cecilia, in the hoop-petticoat and 
 powdered head-dress of Mrs. Bracegirdle : — 
 
 " Cecilia comes, with holy rapture fill'd. 
 
 To ease the world of care. 
 Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill'd, 
 Phoebus himself to her must yield. 
 And at her feet lay down 
 His golden harp and laurel crown ; 
 The soft enervate lyre is drown'd 
 In the deep organ's more majestic sound. 
 In peals the swelling notes ascend the skies ; 
 Perpetual breath the swelling notes supplies. 
 
 And lasting as her name 
 
 Who form'd the tuneful frame, 
 Th' immortal music never dies." 
 
 Saint CecUia forms a blended impersonation of Christian faith, 
 divine music and feminine purity.
 
 V, 
 
 '"1- rv*« .'X
 
 HELOISE. 
 
 Hardly could a finer exemplar of the principle of self-abnegation 
 be pointed out than Heloise. She formed an embodiment of that 
 generous passion of love which prefers the honour of the beloved 
 object to its own. That noble affection which lives and has its 
 breath in the welfare of another — the chosen one. That affection 
 whose ambition is exalted, — for it seeks the glory of another self, 
 instead of self-aggrandizement ; whose aspirations are all disinter- 
 ested, having for aim the advantage of the beloved one, forgetfid of 
 personal distinction. Peculiarly a womanly affection, — content to 
 merge all considerations of individual fame (even womanhood's 
 fame itself) in that of the man preferred, proud of his renown, 
 and humbly willing to remain obscure, and even defamed for his 
 sake. 
 
 Her tragical history may be gathered from the celebrated 
 " Letters " written by Abelard, and herself, which fortunately time 
 has preserved ; thus enabling us to trace, almost in autobiograph- 
 ical form (the incidents of the story in his, the inner essence, its 
 truth of respective character in hers), the private particulars of 
 two l^elngs who played so conspicuous a part in the World's great 
 Drama, seven centuries since. In Abelard's letter, which was 
 addressed to a friend, who had suffered severe misfortune, and 
 
 15
 
 114 HELOISE. 
 
 whom lie wished to inspire with fortitude, from a detaU of griefs 
 far exceeding those he strove to console, and indeed, almost unex- 
 ampled in calamity, — are detailed the afflicting circumstances of 
 his and Heloise's life up to that peried ; and in the letters of 
 Heloise, are revealed the intimate vestiges of character, and moral 
 conformation that marked each. Her own character is brightly 
 visible in the warm outpourings of the woman-heart, overflowing 
 through every line and every word ; while that of Abelard is 
 latently legible in the appeals she with such fervom" and eloquence 
 addresses to him. 
 
 Heloise was one of those women, in whom a strong intellect is 
 combined with equal strength of feehng; in whom ardour of mind 
 is co-existent with the most glowing generosity of soul. From 
 childhood, she was distinguished by mental capacity and affection- 
 ate disposition. From earhest youth she applied herself to science 
 and philosophy ; and became mistress of the Latin, Greek, and 
 Hebrew languages. Very beautiful, she diligently cultivated her 
 understanding, which was naturally vigorous. She received her 
 first education in the convent of Argenteuil, near Paris; and 
 during girlhood, pursued her studies under the roof of her uncle, 
 Fulbert, who was a canon in the cathedral of Paris, and almoner 
 to King Henry I. of France. 
 
 Her uncle, proud of Heloise's attainments, — rare at any time in 
 a woman, but especially so at the period when she lived, — which 
 had already won her a name in the world, was eager to promote 
 her tuition. When therefore Abelard appeared in Paris, in the 
 full lustre of his scholastic reputation, and proposed to enter Ful- 
 bert's house as a boarder, gi^^ng instruction to the niece as an 
 equivalent, the canon, — who was no less parsimonious than violent- 
 tempered, caught at this proposal, which aftbrded so fail- an oppor- 
 tunity of fulfilling his views. Abelard's own words remark upon
 
 H E L IS E. 115 
 
 the rash folly of the canon's behaviour ; thus " confiding," as it 
 were, " a tender lambkin to the care of a famished wolf." The 
 advantages to be gained by the plan so blinded Fulbert to its 
 dangers, that he actually placed his young niece under the sole direc- 
 tion of her new preceptor ; begging him to devote all the hoiu-s he 
 could spare, to her iastruction, and went so far as to empower 
 Abelard not only to see her at all hours, but, if he found her neg- 
 ligent or inattentive, to use chastisement. 
 
 Thus, the designs of Abelard were offered every facility for 
 success, by the imprudence of the uncle ; and, placed in this con- 
 stant proximity with his beautiful pupil, he failed not to take full 
 advantage of his position. Heloise was but seventeen, when she 
 first met Abelard ; while he was a man of thirty-nine. Hers was 
 the very age at which a girl of her temperament and her endow- 
 ments, was likely to become enamoured of a man of his age and 
 character. He came to her surrounded by all the influences of his 
 learned reputation, his graces of person and manner, his scholarly 
 and varied accomplishments. She herself makes touching allusion 
 to this. It has an effect, as if recording to posterity her lover's 
 talent, and appealing to it in extenuation of her early fault. 
 
 "Among the qualities that distinguished you," writes she to 
 him many years afterwards, " you possessed two gifts especially, 
 which must have won you the heart of any woman : I mean, those 
 of poet and musician. I cannot think that these accomplishments 
 were ever before possessed by a philosopher in equal degree. It 
 was thus, that, as a relaxation from your philosophical studies, you 
 composed, by way of pastime, numberless verses and love-songs, 
 whose poetic thought and musical grace, found an echo in every 
 heart. Your name flew from mouth to mouth ; and your stanzas 
 remained graven in the memory of even the most ignorant, by the 
 sweetness of your melodies. And ah ! in consequence, how the
 
 116 H E L ISE. 
 
 hearts of all tlie women were drawn towards you ! But as the 
 greater number of your verses sang our love, my name soon be- 
 came distinguished, and then the envy of women was roused." 
 
 The classical reading of Heloise had habituated her to imbibe 
 her ideas of right and wrong from such precejDts as she found in 
 the pages of the ancients. She had no mothei", no female guide 
 near her to counsel and advise ; no friend at hand to point out 
 where a gu'l might run fearfullest hazard in forming her conduct 
 solely upon the tenets of such authors as she read. Aided by 
 womanly admonitions, Heloise might have reaped wholesome ad- 
 vantage from her studies, and learned to gather fuller and wiser 
 meaning fr-om them. As it was, she may be imagined to have 
 made her own crude and too-large construction of such books as 
 she studied ; and that from this — joined with her own generous 
 natm-e — she grew to be over-reliant and confiding, where she gave 
 her heart. It is probable that her girlish enthusiasm implicitly 
 interpreted passages hke the following one from Plato : — " For 
 when the lover and the beloved have once arrived at the same 
 point, the province of each being distinguished ; the one able to 
 assist in the cultivation of the mind and in the acquirement of 
 every other excellence ; the other yet requiring education, and 
 seeking the possession of wisdom ; then alone, by the union of 
 these conditions, and in no other case, is it honourable for the 
 beloved to yield up the affections to the lover." 
 
 From his character of professor of divinity, numbering among 
 his scholars those who subsequently proved some of the most emi- 
 nent men of the time — (a pope, nineteen cardinals, more than 
 fifty archbishops and bishops, among ecclesiastics ; and the almost 
 incredible number of five thousand disciples in all, are asserted to 
 have owed their education to Abelard's school of instruction) — 
 from his high reputation — from being one of the most able dialec-
 
 H E L IS E. 117 
 
 ticians and keen disputants then living — from his attractions of 
 person and manner, then in the prime of mature manhood — fi'om 
 his more refined and tasteful acquirements combined with knowl- 
 edge, — Abelard could scarcely faU of becoming master of the whole 
 heart and mind of a girl whose previous pursuits had moulded 
 her to a loving reverence for intellectual supremacy. Her reading 
 had made the ancient philosophers her book-idols ; and now she be- 
 held embodied before her theii- living representative in this gifted 
 man, possessed not only of their powers, but of a handsome person, a 
 most winning tongue, and an all-absorbing passion for herself. Well 
 skilled in the arts of casuistry, practised in the subtlest and smooth- 
 est forms of sophistry, he was at no loss to beguile the judgment, 
 whUe he fascinated the aflfections of his willing conquest. From 
 being pupil, Heloise became mistress to the man she loved better 
 than herself; and, from that time, made his will — ^not her own — 
 the rule of her life. The uncle — obtuse as he was rash — was the 
 last to discover their intercourse ; and when he did — rash as he 
 was obtuse — burst into fury against this shame to his family, and 
 reproached Heloise with making herself and him the scandalous 
 talk of Paris. The lovers were separated for a time ; but Abelard 
 took advantage of a temjjorary absence of Fulbert's, to convey 
 Heloise away, disguised as a man, into Brittany, where she re- 
 mained with a sister of Abelard's called Denise, and there gave 
 birth to a son, whom she named Astrolabus. 
 
 Fulbert's rage knew no bounds at this public proof of domestic 
 infamy; and Abelard, to ajjpease his wrath, went to him, and 
 offered to repaii- the injury his family honor had sustained by 
 marrying Heloise, on condition that the union should be kept a 
 secret. Repenting the act of treachery he had committed, Abe- 
 lard was w illin g to make the only reparation in his power ; but 
 knowing that it involved the ruin of all his hopes of ecclesiastical
 
 118 H E L OISE. 
 
 preferment, and even — constituted as letters then were — the de- 
 struction of all Lis literary ambition and prospects of learned fame, 
 he affixed this condition to his protfer of redress. Fulbert readily 
 promised compliance, only too rejoiced to secure a proposal beyond 
 his utmost expectation ; for such a marriage, besides salving his 
 wounded reputation, would secure his niece's union with a man 
 whose scholastic renown rendered his alliance a liic^h distinction. 
 
 But the person most nearly interested in the project, viewed it 
 with far less selfish eyes. Abelard, on arriving ia Brittany to commu- 
 nicate what her uncle and himself had agreed upon between them, 
 found Heloise wholly averse from the proposed marriage. Ever 
 more sohcitous for him than for herself, she foresaw, in this step, 
 his ruin, and she chose rather to abide by her own. He had 
 ali'eady taken degrees in clerical office ; and the clergy of his per- 
 suasion are prohibited from wedlock. She knew, that were he to 
 marry, all hope of advancement as an ecclesiastic was precluded ; 
 and she was aware that unless ordained, his prosjiects of attaining 
 fame as a man of letters were at once quenched. Literary eminence 
 was at that time almost wholly confined to the priesthood ; and, 
 were Abelard to put it out of his power to become a dignitary of the 
 chm'ch, he could hardly dream of acquiring that renown which his 
 talents were sure to command, had they free scope for their exercise. 
 
 Heloise placed all these inducements before her lover ; urged 
 all the arguments which her erudition could so well supply from 
 philosophical and theological authority, that might prevail with 
 him to give up the thought of taking a wife; — she cited the 
 Apostle's words, the Saint's exhortations against assuming the yoke 
 of marriage ; represented the loss which the church would sustain, 
 and the detriment phUosojihy would suffer, if so shining a light as 
 Abelard's genius were withdrawn from them ; and, in short, left 
 no plea unadvanced which could support his cause against her own.
 
 HELOISE. 119 
 
 She even went so far as to assure him that she would prefer owing 
 all to his love and voluntary fxith, unshackled by any tie. "With 
 a woman's romance of generosity — in stri\'ing to persuade him 
 into what she thought would be for his best advantage — ^she made 
 it seem her own wish that they should remain united by affection 
 only, without the ties of marriage. 
 
 This piece of prodigal self-abnegation has been curiously mis- 
 conceived. In judging so exceptional a character as that of He- 
 loise, it is impossible to gauge it by ordinary rules ; but conven- 
 tional minds will pronounce conventionally, however singularly 
 above theu- own the mind they contemplate. With tears and 
 prayers she sought to dissuade Abelard from making the sacrifice 
 he meditated ; but finding that he was bent upon its fulfilment, she 
 yielded to his will — as she did from first to last in all things — ■ 
 and accompanied him back to Paris, that the marriage might be 
 privately performed. 
 
 Here, a few days after their return, having passed the whole 
 night in a secluded church, praying with holy vigil and pious ob- 
 servance, Abelard and Heloise went through the nuptial ceremony 
 in presence of her uncle and a few trusted friends ; quitting each 
 other immediately it had taken place, living separately in great re- 
 tirement, and seeing each other but rarely, and with every pre- 
 caution, in order to keep their marriage concealed. 
 
 But Fulbert, forgetful of all his promises, and thoughtful only 
 of the affi'ont his family honor had received, lost no time in spread- 
 ing the fact of the marriage, as pubhcly as possible, to efface the 
 former scandal. Heloise, on the contrary, soHcitous only for Abe- 
 lard's interest, and convinced that his being known as a married 
 man would annihilate his advancement, persisted in denying the 
 circumstance. Her uncle, furious at her steadfast adherence to her 
 views of what was right ; enraged that she should be more careful
 
 120 H E L I S E . 
 
 of anotter's reputation than lier own, and jealous of lier deference 
 to any authority but Ms — for lie suspected Abelard of actuating 
 her conduct — vowed to make his niece repent her pertinacity ; and 
 as she resided in the same house with him, he had no difficulty in 
 carrying his threat into effect. Abelard, coming to the knowledge 
 of Fulbert's harshness towards his niece, rescued her from this 
 treatment by taking her away from the canon's house, and placing 
 her in the convent of Argenteuil, where she had been brought up. 
 This step only the more roused Fulbert's wrath, who saw in it, as 
 he thought, the desire of a villain to rid himself of a woman's 
 claims to be acknowledged as his wife, by inducing her to become 
 a nun. Blindly rash and violent as ever — goaded into ferocity 
 now — he planned a vengeance of pre-eminent cruelty and wicked- 
 ness. He found means to execute his barbarous scheme, by brib- 
 ing Abelard's servant to admit some hired ruffians into his master's 
 chamber at midnight, who there committed a foul deed which left 
 the unhappy husband no other resource than to retire into a 
 monastery, and grieve out the remainder of his life in seclusion 
 and celibacy. Heloise, not only sharing, but anticipating his im- 
 molation, took the veil at Argenteuil ; and then Abelard became 
 a monk in the Abbey of St. Denis. In their cloistered life, as in 
 their worldly sojourn, the natures of the two were conspicuously 
 marked by difference of individual character. Heloise shines nobly 
 the superior, in generosity, unselfish conduct, heroic devotion, firm 
 faith, and constancy of heart. While Abelard — ^restless and 
 miserable — fretted against the horrors of his fate, passing a fever- 
 ish existence of alternate squabbles with his monks, burning regrets 
 for his lost happiness, vain attempts to gain the power and honor 
 which his talent entitled him to obtain ; Heloise set herself bravely 
 and in earnest to the task of subduing her emotions, disciiJining 
 her soul to resignation, and endeavouring not only to preach peace
 
 HE L O IS E. 121 
 
 and virtue but to practise them. At St. Deuis, and afterwards at 
 St. Gildas, Abelard rebuked the disorders of tlie respective com- 
 munities ; but with so little effect, that in the former place, the 
 monks conspired to accuse him of high treason and heresy, and 
 compassed the condemnation of one of his theological works, which 
 was publicly burned at Soissons ; while, in the latter place, the 
 brotherhood resented his interference so virulently, as to seek his 
 destruction by poison. Finding that his suspicions were aroused 
 sufficiently to make him examine ordinary food, they sacrilegiously 
 infased poison into the consecrated wine at the very altar : and on 
 another occasion, one of his attendants chancing to eat of what had 
 been prepared for his meal, died on the spot. 
 
 Heloise — who had also had her difficulties to contend with in 
 the shape of conventual disorderliness and refractory members 
 among the sisterhood, after bearing the ignominy of being exjielled 
 in company with them from the convent of Argenteuil, although 
 her own conduct was blameless — •found refuge in the Oratory of 
 Paraclete, and succeeded in estabhshing regularity among the nuns, 
 whose abbess she became. This Oratory of Paraclete had been 
 built by Abelard ; and by him was she installed there. After 
 eleven years of separation, they met on the occasion of the conse- 
 cration of the community. The husband and wife — the married 
 lovers, fate-divorced for Hfe — ^met after eleven years of mutual un- 
 extinguished passion, and unquenched regret. But theii* respec- 
 tive relations were now so changed as to subdue all token of what 
 passed within the sanctuary of these closed hearts. God alone can 
 know the emotions that surged beneath the outward calm of the 
 Monk's frock and cowl, the Abbess's veil and habit. He was the 
 superior and pastor ; she the holy recluse. Abelard's own words 
 record the exemplary conduct of Heloise in her appointed station 
 here. He says : — " The Abbot of St. Denis reclaimed as an ap- 
 16
 
 123 IIELOISE. 
 
 purtenance formerly subjected to the jurisdiction of liis monastery 
 the convent of Argenteuil, where my Heloise — for some time past 
 my sister in Christ Jesus rather than my wife — had taken the 
 veil. Hardly was she appointed Abbess there, when he violently 
 expelled the community of nuns over which she presided. Be- 
 holding them thus driven out to exile and dispemon, I conceived 
 that the Lord presented me an occasion of establishing my Ora- 
 tory. I repaired thither, and invited Heloise and such of her com- 
 munity of nuns as remained attached to her person to come and 
 take possession. On theii* arrival, I made them a donation of the 
 entii-e Oratory and its dependencies, and after this donation, by the 
 consent and intervention of the Bishop of the diocese. Pope Inno- 
 cent II. confii-med to them by privilege its possession in perpe- 
 tuity, to them and those who should follow them. They lived here 
 some time, poor, and only too desolate. But a ray of Divine mercy, 
 which they so devoutly implored, did not fail to reach them. 
 The Lord, the true Paraclete (the Consoler), touched with pity the 
 hearts of the surrounding population, and inspired kindness to- 
 wards them. One single year multiplied around them the pro- 
 ducts of the earth more, I veritably think (God only knows), than 
 a hundred years would have done for me, had I remained there in 
 their place. For inasmuch as the female sex is feebler than ours, 
 so their distress is more moving, and affects more readily the hearts 
 of their fellow-creatures ; and as in the eyes of mankind, so like- 
 wise to God, is their vii-tue more acceptable. Thus, the Lord, in 
 his goodness towards our dear sister, who directed her companions, 
 permitted her to find favour in the eyes of every one. The Bishops 
 cherished her like a daughter, the clergy like a sister, the laity like 
 a mother ; and all equally admired her fervent piety, her wisdom, 
 and her incomparable gentleness and patience in all things. She 
 was seldom seen, keeping retu-ed' within her cell, that she might
 
 H E L I 8 E . 123 
 
 devote herself the more exclusively to her holy meditations and 
 prayers: but this only made those around her the more eagerly 
 solicitous to obtain her presence, and the pious instruction derived 
 from her conversation." 
 
 Abelard, a prey to disappointment, iiTitable from misfortune, 
 had not the temper successfully to controul those under his gov- 
 ernment, nor to subdue those who were his enemies. These latter 
 pursued their accusations of heresy ; and he resolved to defend 
 himself from the charge before the council. He was again con- 
 demned ; and he then determined to appeal to the Pope. Jour- 
 neying for this purpose, he halted at Cluni, where he was hospita- 
 bly received by Peter the Venerable, abbot there. The good ec- 
 clesiastic soothed his gi'iefs, and strove to appease his foes. He 
 persuaded Abelard to cease from contention, to retire from con- 
 troversy, to withdraw from the vexations and strifes of existence, 
 and to stay and end his days with him at Cluni. Abiding here in 
 the strictest retu'ement, practising the austerities of the order with 
 the utmost rigour, exciting admiration by his penitence and mark- 
 ed humility, he died two years after, in 1142. 
 
 After the death of Abelard, Heloise obtained permission from 
 Peter the Venerable, to have the remains of her husband conveyed 
 to Paraclete, where they were accordingly interred. She survived 
 him ; but held thenceforth no communication with the world. She 
 ceased to correspond with her friends ; and wrote them no more 
 letters. She spoke no word thereafter, save in prayer or in instruc- 
 tion. She never again pronounced the name of Abelard ; and al- 
 lowed her heart to revert to the past only when communing with 
 God. She dedicated herself with fervour to all the observances of 
 her order, fulfilling its several penances, and undergoing its most 
 rigid discipline. She re^Tsed and confirmed those ordinations for 
 the ruling of her convent, and for the conduct of her nuns, which
 
 124 H EL 18 E. 
 
 she had laid down with so much care and judgment ; and the sub- 
 stance of these ordinations proclaims her own admirable nature, 
 and noble-hearted courage. Never did woman, betrayed into a 
 single weakness in early youth, expiate it subsequently by strength 
 of repentance and moral valour more completely than Heloise. 
 He latter life was a fine act of self-redemption. She spent it, not in 
 fruitless murmurs, or doleful lamentations ; but in humble, yet 
 energetic eflbrt, she sought to improve those around her, while 
 meekly chastening her own spirit. She turned her former fault 
 into a source of leniency and forbearance towards others, while sin- 
 cerely repenting it herself; and used her sorrows as a means of 
 ennobling, not of enervating her heart. She made them teach her 
 unselfishness, not selfishness. She made them help her to sustain, 
 not to reproach him, who although their source, was equally with 
 herself their sufiferer. She made them enable her to bury within 
 her own soul her agony of martyred love, and rather try to assuage 
 her husband's murdered happiness by assumed composure, than 
 complain of her wifehood's death. Heloise is a type of womanly 
 fortitude in affection — strong in passion — strong in generous for- 
 getfulness of self — strong in endurance — strong in faith — strong 
 in constancy. She was strong in intellect, and strong in good 
 sense, — not always the same thing. She commanded the respect 
 and esteem of those who knew her ; and won their lasting regard. 
 She was revered and loved by the sisterhood of Paraclete, who 
 owed their welfare to her discretion and prudent governance. She 
 became an object of edification to the world ; was loaded with 
 benefits by princes and potentates; and possessed the steady 
 friendship of Peter the Venerable. 
 
 She died Abbess of Paraclete, the 17th of May, 1164, aged sixty- 
 three, twenty-two years after her husband Abelard. It was ex- 
 actly the number of years between their respective ages ; and it
 
 HELOISE. 125 
 
 seemed as if she merely survived Lim that period, to bring them 
 together in all respects. At her own request, Helolse was buried 
 in the same tomb with her husband ; and here they were at length 
 re-uuited in death. The beautiful belief of the time — more true 
 in the essence of its imaginative and poetical creed than much of 
 the present prosaic literality — averred that when Heloise's body 
 was laid beside that of her wedded lover, his arms opened to re- 
 ceive her. Many learned men of the time affirmed the circum- 
 stance, and bore testimony to its being fact. The very point of its 
 being stated — even invented — ^proves the grand force of mutual 
 attachment recognized as existing between the two. They Avere 
 known to be so united by love for each other, though cruelly sev- 
 ered by fate during life, that it seemed as if then* ultimate joining 
 by death must be marked by some visible sign of welcome — some 
 token of joy beyond the course of mortal operation. The gi-ave 
 closed their griefs, and crowned their wish, by restoring them once 
 more and for ever to each other's arms, together to enjoy eternity 
 of peace and love. 
 
 The tastefully designed Gothic tomb which received the re- 
 remains of Abelard and Heloise, was constructed from the clois- 
 tral ruins of Paraclete, and brought to Paris at the beginning of 
 the present century; subsequently it was placed (in 1817) in the 
 cemetery of P^re-la-chaise, where it still stands — a shrine of interest 
 to visitors from aU. parts of the globe. 
 
 It has been well said of Heloise by one of her biographers, — 
 " She is one of the personages of the twelfth century whom we 
 know most, but not best." She stands forth generally as an object 
 oipity^ rather than of admiration; she is remembered in her 
 errors and her misfortunes, rather than in her expiation and her 
 courage. She is celebrated for her learning, instead of for her 
 strength of understanding. She has come down to us through the
 
 126 HELOISE. 
 
 medium of fiction, instead of in her own fine reality. Poets and 
 romance-writers liave presented her to our fancy invested with at- 
 tributes for compassion, rather than for veneration. They have 
 disguised — nay, disfigured her with their adornments, instead of 
 letting us see her in her simple beauty of plain truth. Her own 
 lettera reveal her high-minded warmth of feeling ; as her life ex- 
 hibits her noble character. Her style is esteemed a model of 
 elegant latinity for the age in which she lived ; — ^it is animated, 
 energetic ; and where her heart, speaks the language is fervent, 
 emphatic and natural. 
 
 Of the language, of the mere diction and construction of the 
 Latin in which these letters are written, scholarly men are, of 
 course, the most competent judges ; but it is, perhaps, only a 
 woman, who can truly discern the intrinsic spirit — what Shake- 
 speare so finely calls " the inly touch of love" — of these letters. 
 It almost requires a woman's heart to penetrate the core of woman- 
 hood resident in these lettera of Heloise. They are so instinct 
 with that involuntary shrinking and veiling of the secret depths 
 of passionate feeling — even when most impulsively uttering its 
 irrepressible emotions — which characterize a woman's writing, that 
 scarcely any man can correctly read its more delicate shades of 
 meaning. That still farther reserve of tenderness which always 
 lies beneath the most unreserved expressions of tenderness in a 
 woman, teaching her to adopt a mode of utterance that conveys 
 but imperfect representation of her heart's workings, demands 
 feminine insight to perceive its fnll extent. No man but one ever 
 deciphered the soul of womanhood in its entirety, in its hidden 
 involutions, as in its outward demonstrations ; and that one was 
 WUliam Shakespeare. In the letters of Heloise are to be descried 
 this intuitive reticence of the womanly nature, conjoined with the 
 singularly bold outspeaking of her time. It is this plain out-
 
 HELOISE. 127 
 
 speaking, tliis straightforward usage of words and terms, which 
 that age sanctioned, and which the custom of writing in Latin aided 
 in producing, which has greatly served to blind those who have 
 hitherto judged Heloise by these letters, to the internal evidence 
 tbey afford of her character. The plain terms she uses, convey to 
 modern ideas, an impression of grossness ; whereas, they were no 
 more than what those, well versed in philosophical discussion and 
 doctrinal disputation, constantly employed. Besides this circum- 
 stance, the involuntary subterfuge of womanhood above alluded to, 
 — and which is not so much a conscious withholding of the whole 
 truth as an instinctive sensitiveness, and generous desire to reveal 
 but that which shall render homage to him who is beloved, in- 
 stead of asserting the claim of her who loves — ^has tended to 
 keep the in warder sense of Heloise's eloquent epistles as yet undis- 
 covered. Some of the ablest biographers and essayists have ex- 
 pressed wonder at certain of her sentiments and acts ; not perceiv- 
 ing the true interpretation they bear. For instance, one of the 
 most esteemed among those who have written upon this subject, 
 confesses himself at a loss to account for the long silence maintained 
 by Heloise during the years which first followed her retreat into 
 a cloister, and to conceive the reason which at length induced her 
 to break this silence, by addi-essing that letter (the first) to Abe- 
 lard. The essayist does not seem to perceive that two causes served 
 to hold that noble heart in mute sufferance : — ^first, its entire resigna- 
 tion to the will of its possessor — an obedient resignation which 
 formed the principles of her whole conduct ; and secondly, the 
 profound wound that her love had received, which made passive 
 endurance her only resource. He whom she had elected controul- 
 ler of her destiny, had willed her life-burial, and she buried her 
 griefs with herself in dumb submission to his decree. The reason 
 of her breaking silence, was the sudden coming to a knowledge of
 
 128 H E L O I S E . 
 
 Ms griefs, of the long years of tortured misery he had gone 
 through, the perpetual harass and disappointment he had sustained, 
 the existing perils which beset him even whUe he wi'ote, which 
 forced from her that passionate outburst of long-pent feeling. His 
 letter to a friend, detailing the history of his injuries, of his sor- 
 rows, and of his anxieties, chanced to fall into Heloise's hands, and 
 she could no longer resist the irrepressible impulse to write to 
 him. The intense feeling — ^the vital freshness of blood-warm emo- 
 tion imbuing every sentence of that letter, di'ew hot tears from 
 eyies that perused it for the first time — ^seven ages af£er the words 
 were peB|ied. They flowed straight from the heart of the woman- 
 writer, and they went straight to the heart of the woman-reader. 
 " One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin ; " and that 
 touch of kindred womanhood struck with sympathetic vibration 
 through long cycles of the world's revolution ; creating direct in- 
 tercommunion between a breather of the twelfth century, and one 
 of the nineteenth in sistership of compassionate interest. 
 
 There is another point upon which the generality have failed to 
 comprehend this great-souled woman. The motive of Heloise's re- 
 fusal to sanctify her attachment by marriage, has been strangely 
 misunderstood and misrepresented: and instead of the spirit of 
 self-sacrifice which evidently dictated it, the relaters of her sad 
 story have attributed her act to caprice of will, and licence of sen- 
 timent. Pope, in his celebrated epistle, " Eloisa to Abelard," con- 
 firms this misconstruction of her motive, in those meretiicious 
 lines : — 
 
 " How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said, 
 Curse on all laws but those which love has made. 
 Love, free as air, at sight of human ties. 
 Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. — 
 Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, 
 August her deed, and sacred be her fame ; 
 Before true passion all those views remove ;
 
 HE LO I S E. 129 
 
 Fame, -wealth, and honour ! What arc you to Love ? 
 The jealous God, when wo profane his fires. 
 Those restless passions in revenge inspires. 
 And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, 
 Who seek in love for aught but love alone. 
 Should at my feet the world's great master fall, 
 Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'cm all; 
 Nor Cwsar's empress would I deign to prove ; — 
 No, make me mistress to the man I love ; 
 If there be yet another name more free. 
 More fond than mistress, make mo that to thee." 
 
 Not by the wild irregular impulse, liere conveyed, was she ac- 
 tuated, but by the purely generous desire to promote the ftme and 
 honour of her lover at the expense of her own ; for not only did 
 she object to maiTy him, but she denied her marriage after it had 
 taken place, because she believed it would be an impediment to 
 Abelard's advancement. So far from being a woman subject to 
 weakness, and swayed by inclination, she possessed remarkable 
 power over her feelings. 
 
 She was a woman of strong passions, with wonderful command 
 over them ; their very strength proving the force of mind she 
 could exercise when called upon to subjugate them. The ascen- 
 dancy which Abelard possessed over her young heart and imagina- 
 tion, and the generous preference she ever gave his wishes and his 
 interests to her own, existed unchanged through her whole life. 
 The same prodigality of affection which occasioned her to sacrifice 
 maiden fame to his persuasions, and caused her to relinquish the 
 privilege of being acknowledged his wife, made her willingly ac- 
 cede to his desire that she should quit the world, and immure her- 
 self in a cloister, when he found himself compelled to retii'e into a 
 monastery. The prompt obedience she showed in this instance, 
 contrasts nobly with the unworthy doubt of her which this con- 
 duct betrayed. His selfish exaction was best rebuked and shamed 
 17
 
 130 HELOISE. 
 
 by her immediate yielding. The injurious mistrust implied in his 
 wishing her profession as a nun to preceds his taking the vows of 
 a monk, was none the less felt by her because she at once deferred 
 to its dictate ; but with her native warmth of character, she em- 
 braced this as an occasion of yet another act of self-devotion to 
 him she loved. Moreover, knowing that to her the world was 
 dead, she was content, still living, to become as one dead thence- 
 forth. The errors of Heloise's passion are almost merged in its 
 excess; and well-nigh forgiven in its constancy. The fortitude, 
 the heroic firmness with which she accepted the lot assigned to 
 her, and the subsequent courage and calm with which she sought 
 to render it a means of expiation in sustained performance of duty, 
 amount to the sublime of human endeavour. Distorted by the 
 medium through which his grosser perceptions viewed them, it 
 was from the two first of Heloise's original letters that Pope took 
 the ground-work of his "Epistle " above-quoted. But — if the 
 opuiion may be given without presumption — ^the fiivour which the 
 poet's version (or rather vulgar travestie*) has met with, is surely 
 rather to be attributed to the neat quotable couplets with which 
 the poem abounds, than to any fidehty of transcript it affords of 
 that noble woman^s sentiments. How poorly does the illicit love- 
 rant in which Pope's heroine bemoans her own departed joys com- 
 pare with the generous warmth of feeling and concentrated force 
 of expression with which Heloise declares her acute sense of their 
 mutual misery — of Ms anguish, Ms afflictions. How pronely, yet 
 how nobly does she assert her readiness to abide by any decree of 
 Abelard's, and share his xitmost rigour of fate, exclaiming : " I who 
 without hesitation, God knows, would have either followed or 
 
 * Such an interpretation of tlio letter of Ileloiso, was to be looked for froiii the man 
 who libelled bis whole sisterliood with the well-known axiom : " Every woman is at heart 
 ft rake."
 
 IIELOISE. 131 
 
 preceded you into tlie burning gulpha of the earth, if such had 
 been your good pleasure ! " Infinitely pathetic and solemn is 
 that " God knows ! " And she says, with an ardour, heightened 
 by the very simplicity of the words, " For my soul was not with 
 myself, but with thee." Even more energetic is the effect in the 
 origiual Latia terseness ; — " non enim mecum animus mens, sed 
 tecum erat." 
 
 This sentence, in fact, contains the key to Heloise's whole course 
 of action. To please him, to fulfil what he wished, she placed her 
 very being at his disposal. In one passage she says, with her own 
 strength of expression: — "I struck my senses themselves with 
 interdict to obey your will. My whole ambition has been to 
 become thus, and above all things, your property." The humility, 
 the lowliness with which she casts herself at the very foot of liis 
 love, so that it will but accept hers in its perfect devotion, is the 
 absolute transcript of womanly affection. "With this clue to 
 Heloise's self-transfer and self-prostration in her love for Abelard, 
 should be read the passage in her first letter, which has been so 
 superficially judged to afford proof of her licence of inclination 
 with regard to the marriage-tie. Wonder has been expressed 
 that she should prefer being a mistress to a wife ; and it has been 
 pronounced extraordinary that she should rather live shamed than 
 righted. It is far more wonderful that they should not see, that 
 it is any thiug but her own preference she is pleadmg for, and that 
 it is his honour that occupies her thought instead of hers. Let the 
 words speak for themselves, in their simple integrity ; nay, even 
 in their old-world plainness and out-spoken freedom. The heart- 
 felt earnestness of their writer will excuse them with those hearts 
 capable of feeling that where the sentiment is sincere, it signifies 
 not whether it be clothed in the candour of the antique fashion, 
 or veiled in the more decorous language of modern refinement.
 
 132 HE LOIS B. 
 
 Tlius writes Heloise to her husband : — " Never, God knows, have 
 I sought in you other thing than yourself. It is you, you alone, 
 not your possessions that I loved. I thought not of rights of 
 wedlock, nor of dowry, nor of my pleasures or my inclinations ; it 
 is yours, you well know, that I have studied to satisfy. Although 
 the name of wife be deemed more holy and more strong, another 
 would always have been dearest to my heart — that of your mis- 
 tress ; and — shall I say it without shocking you ? — that of your 
 concubine or your leman ; hoping, that the more I made myself 
 humble and of small account, the more should I raise myself in 
 grace and favour with you, and that, contenting myself with this 
 lot, I sliould tlie less fetter your glorious future!''' 
 
 " I thank you for having not entirely forgotten all my senti- 
 ments on this subject in the letter addressed to your friend for his 
 consolation. You have not disdained to recapitulate some of the 
 motives which actuated me in striving to dissuade you from this 
 fatal union ; but you have passed over in silence almost all the rear 
 sons which made me prefer love to mamage ; liberty to indissolu- 
 ble bonds. I take God to witness, that if Augustus, supreme mas- 
 ter of the universe, had offered me the signal honour of his alliance, 
 placing at my feet the emj^ii'e of the whole world, I would have 
 accepted with more joy and pride the name of your paramour 
 than the title of empress. For neither riches nor power constitute 
 a mail's su/periority : in tlie one ca^e it is the effect of fortune ; in 
 the other^ that of meritP It is this last clause of Heloise's protest 
 that explains her sentiment. They who discover mere flagitious 
 propensity and perverted appetite in Heloise's declaration that she 
 would rather be Abelard's mistress than Caesar's empress, read the 
 isolated sentence without its context. She proclaims her indivi- 
 dual preference for the sole man in the world who she feels to be 
 worthy of her love and possessed of her love ; and it is this exclu
 
 H E L ISE. 133 
 
 siveness of attacliment which she believes authorizes her utmost 
 prodigality of demonstration. When she asserts that she would 
 rather bear the name of mistress than wife, it is because she feels 
 that the foi'mer lets her owe all to Abelard's favor, and the latter 
 will shackle his cai'eer. Self-abasement is her pride, if it serve to 
 will his love ; self-transfusion into an embodiment of his wUl is 
 that which she desires, so that his content is secured. 
 
 The very words with which Heloise continues her argument 
 for claiming supremacy of merit to be the sole gi'ound on which 
 a woman's preference for a man should be based, proves the jjurity 
 of her love-creed, and evidences that she holds individuality of af- 
 fection to be that which hallows its unreserved bestowal. She 
 goes on to say : — " The woman who espouses more willingly a rich 
 man than a poor man, and who seeks in a husband his rank rather 
 than himself, let this woman be sure she is for sale. Assuredly 
 she who is biased by such calculation to engage in matrimony, may 
 be entitled to the market-price, but not to any tenderness of grat- 
 itude ; for it is very certain that she regards fortune, and not the 
 person of her husband ; and that she moreover regrets not having 
 been able to prostitute herself to a more wealthy jDurchaser." 
 
 Let the reader faii-ly say, whether the open speaking of Heloise 
 does not justify itself, by the honesty and veritable delicacy of the 
 doctrine set forth. The mingling of intense feehng with unselfish 
 thought for him addressed, was never more vividly exhibited. 
 Her appeals are made in the most generous spirit, whUe within 
 them may be traced the involuntary cries of a heart that feels itself 
 scarcely yet understood, even by the man to whom it is wholly 
 given. Men cannot comprehend that yearning for the tenderness 
 of love, when the passion of love is denied, which women feel. 
 Men, when deprived of the passionate expression of their affection, 
 feel as if all were lost, and nothing less contents them ; but a
 
 134 H E L I S E. 
 
 woman can rest satisfied witli deprivation of personal assurance of 
 her lover's fondness, if she possess undoubted proof that his tender- 
 ness of attachment, — his love remains securely hers. And with 
 what exquisite tact of delicate subtlety does Heloise convey this 
 desire of her woman's soul ! How she begins by conjuring Abelard 
 in the name of her sisterhood as well as herself, and gradually, — 
 as her pen warms into more individual fervour as she goes on, — 
 how insensibly does she fall into the more exclusive form of 
 address. She beseeches him to write to her and her nuns ; aud 
 while entreating it as a relief to their anxiety for his safety, be- 
 trays how the feminine instinct, the desire to yield consolation, 
 actuates the request. She says : — " In the name of Christ, who 
 still reserves you for his service, and whose lowliest servants we 
 are as well as yours, — ah ! we conjure you, deign to write to us 
 frequently. Tell us, amid what shipwrecks you are still tossing, 
 we need to know them.- We alone remain to you in this world; 
 let us take part in your sorrows, as in your joys. Wounded spiiits 
 find some consolation in the compassion they inspire ; a burden 
 sustained by many is borne more easily, and seems more light. If 
 this tempest should abate, hasten, — hasten your letters ; we cannot 
 be too soon re-assured. Whatever be their contents, they cannot 
 but do us good, since they will at least prove that you hold us in 
 remembrance. 
 
 " How sweet it is to receive a letter from an absent friend ! 
 Seneca teaches us this from his own example, when he writes to 
 Lucilius : — ' You write to me often, and I thank you ; for you show 
 yourself to me in the only manner possible to you. I never receive 
 one of your letters, but we are immediately together.' K the por- 
 traits of our absent friends gently beguile our sight, and charm the 
 regrets of absence by a vain phantom of consolation, what for more 
 lively joy should we not feel in receiving letters which bring us 
 the actual impress of the absent friend !
 
 H E L I S E . 135 
 
 "Thanks be to heaven, these means still remain to you for 
 affording us your presence ; malice does not forbid it to you, no 
 obstacle interposes ; let not delay, I beseech you, arise from your 
 negligence. 
 
 " You have wi'itten to your friend a long consolation, with a 
 view to hia misfortunes, it is true, but touching yours. While thus 
 minutely recalling them to console him, you have greatly added to 
 our affliction : while seeking to assuage hia hurts, you have open- 
 ed new wounds in oui* grief, and you have widened the old ones. 
 Heal, in mercy, the sufferings you have inflicted, since you pour 
 balm on those that others have caused. You have soothed the 
 sorrows of a friend, of a companion, and you have discharged the 
 debt of friendship and close intimacy ; but your obligation towards 
 us is stUl more sacred : for it is not fiiendship we feel towards you, 
 but adoration and worship ; we are not your companions, but your 
 daughters ; and if there be a name yet more tender and more holy 
 'tis that becomes us. As to the importance of the debt which 
 engages you to us, is it needful to dwell on proof and e\adence, as 
 if of any thing doubtful ? After God, you are the sole founder of 
 this retreat, the sole architect of this Oratory, the sole creator of 
 this community. You have not built upon a foundation already 
 made ; all here is your work. This solitude, frequented only by 
 wild animals and robbers, had never known human habitation, had 
 never possessed a single house. Upon the very dens of wild beasts, 
 upon the very haunts of marauders, here, where the name of the 
 Lord had never been heard, you raised a divine tabernacle, a 
 temple dedicated to the Holy Ghost, the Comforter. For this 
 work you never had recourse to the wealth of kings or princes, 
 when you might have obtained aught you demanded, in order that 
 nothing of what was done might owe its existence to any but your- 
 self Clerks and scholars came in crowds to profit by your instruc-
 
 130 H E L I S E . 
 
 tions, aud furiiisliecl you witli the necessary means ; and tliose who 
 lived by the benefices of the church, accustomed to receive rather 
 than to make offerings, those who till then had hands only for tak- 
 ing and not for giving, became profuse and importunate in their 
 liberalities. This new plantation in the field of the Lord is then 
 truly yom" property. It is filled with young plants which require 
 watering that they may flourish. This i:)lantation is weakly from 
 the very circumstance of its being of female growth : it is feeble, 
 even were it not newly set." 
 
 Thus does she seek to interest him. in their young community ; 
 while, with true womanly sentiment, glorying in attributing all 
 they now possess, to him and his pious exertions. The words with 
 which she concludes this portion of her letter, are beautifully 
 characteristic. " You, who do so much for your enemies, remember 
 what you owe to us, your daughter. And without sj^eakiug of 
 my sisters here, I claim your debt towards myself: — -perchance you 
 will he more eager to recompense at once these women xoho have 
 given tliem^elves to God, in the person of her who gave herself solely 
 to you^ 
 
 How involuntarily in the sentences that follow, does the wo- 
 man's heart betray its deep-hidden sense of bruise and injury, while 
 asking spu'itual consolation ; how the secret pain, crushed down in 
 silence for so many years of outward patience and submission, 
 speaks in throes of agony through those calls for comfort, — the 
 comfort that the assurance of his love in unchanged tenderness and 
 regard for her can alone bring. How unwillingly, even to herself, 
 has she owned the keen sense of his lessened thought of her, yet 
 how irresistibly it presses upon her, and with what self-existent 
 force it penetrates through her words. Thus she proceeds : — 
 " The numerous and extensive treatises which the holy Fathers 
 have composed with so much zeal for the instruction, for the en-
 
 H E L I S E . 13Y 
 
 couragement, and even for tlie consolation of nuns, your vast eru- 
 dition acquaints you with better tlian our helplessness. And it is 
 not without some painful wonder that I have remarked your long 
 forgetfulness of those kindly commencements you made in our 
 conversion. Oh my master ! nothing has moved you on our be- 
 half, neither Christian charity, nor your love for us, nor the 
 example of the Holy Fathers. You have abandoned me in my 
 tottering faith, and in the deep dejection of my soul. Your voice 
 hath not rejoiced mine ear, your letters have not consoled my 
 sohtude. 
 
 " Yet you know the sanctity of the duties which your engage- 
 ments impose upon you. Hath not the sacrament of marriage 
 united us to each other ? And what claims are wanting upon your 
 affection for me, if it be true that in the face of heaven and earth 
 I have always burned for you with a love unlimited ? Dear — 
 dear — you know, and no one is ignorant of it, that in losing you, I 
 have lost all." 
 
 The repetition of that simple title, " Dear — dear," is ineffably 
 moving in its pathos of eloquence: it is like her heart sobbing 
 forth its irrepressible sense of loss and woe. It reminds one of the 
 knell that rings in Milton's beautifully mournful iteration : — " Now 
 thou art gone ! Now thou art gone ! " which has struck upon so 
 many bereft hearts with sympathy of lament in reading the 
 " Lycidas." 
 
 Elsewhere Heloise says with generous compunction, and with 
 the same under-current of appeal, seeking to awaken his tenderness 
 while tenderly and humbly pouring forth her own undying love 
 for him : 
 
 " How dear have I cost you ! And yet, most innocent was I, 
 you know. Crime consists not in deed, but in intention. Justice 
 does not weigh the event, but the thought which produced it. 
 18
 
 138 H E L I S E . 
 
 You, who alone have been the object of my every sentiment, can 
 alone judge them. I abide by your sentence — I leave myself to 
 your verdict.'' 
 
 The conclusion of this finely eloquent letter is worthy to form 
 its climax. It is solemn in its characteristic fervoui* and simplicity, 
 dignity, and humility : — " By that God Himself, to whom you have 
 consecrated yom-self, I conjure you to restore me yom* presence in 
 the only manner possible to you ; that is to say, by the consoling 
 virtue of a letter. Thus re-animated, I shall at least be able to 
 apply myself with more fervency to the Divine service. Formerly, 
 when you sought to win me into mundane enjoyments, you plied 
 me ceaselessly with letters; each day your lays placed your 
 Heloise in every mouth ; every place, every house rang with my 
 name. This eloquence, of old employed to incite me to ten-estrial 
 pleasures, shall it not now dedicate itself to the holy pm'pose of 
 drawing me towards Heaven ? Once again, bethink you of the 
 duty you owe ; consider what I ask : and I conclude this long letter 
 by a brief close. Farewell — you are all to me." 
 
 Abelard's reply was couched in equally characteristic terms. It 
 shows the man to us in %dsible form — ^the egoist, the clever dialec- 
 tician, the expert sophist, with just the touch of pedantry belonging 
 to his conscious attainments, and his pugnacious disposition. He 
 was proud of his intellectual strength, and loved to prove it in 
 intellectual combats ; he felt his erudite superiority, and was fond 
 of opportunity for evincing it to the world. His habit of doctrin- 
 ising and dogmatising not only made him ever on the fret for de- 
 monstrating his learned knowledge in public, but it led him into 
 perpetual quotation in his private letters. He even imbued his 
 pupil, Heloise, with this addiction to the citing of authorities, from 
 the ancient classic wiiters in philosophy, and from the Fathers of 
 the Church in controversy. She quotes Seneca and St. Jerome in
 
 H E L I S E . 139 
 
 tlie course of lier letters to Abelard ; and lie mentions tliat in tlie 
 very act of taking tlie veil, she ejaculated amid sobs and tears the 
 complaint of Cornelia, from Lucan's " Pharsalia." In Abelard's 
 answer to Heloise's first letter, we behold him grave, staid, almost 
 reproving — the austere monk, the admonitory pastor. He absolves 
 himself fi-om the charge of neglecting her and her sisterhood, on 
 the plea, that knowing her to be richly endowed with all gifts of 
 divine grace, he felt support from him to be unnecessary, and that 
 he had therefore administered no exhortation, addressed no precept 
 to the community of nuns at Paraclete. He heaps her with lauda- 
 tion, but expresses no single word of sympathy for her avowed 
 weakness, or any syllable that shows he comprehends herself. The 
 nearest phrases approaching to what might serve to show that her 
 craving for his tenderness meets response, are those where he says, 
 " it is especially with this hope that I send you the psalter which 
 you requested of me. Sister very dear to me formerly in worldly 
 life^ now a thousmid times more dear to m£ in Christ Jesusy And 
 afterwards : — " You know, very dear, and well Moved, what affec- 
 tionate charity your convent, <fec." 
 
 The lack of sympathetic apprehension of her own nature, while 
 overwhelming her with praise as Abbess, is keenly felt by Hel- 
 oise ; and of this her second letter bears witness. In it, her reti- 
 cence is less, her passionate implorings more vehement : she sees 
 that her reserve is misunderstood, her generous self-controul mis- 
 taken for competent self-sustainment. She casts herself now more 
 openly upon his help, invokes it, owns how sorely she requires it, 
 accuses herself of defalcations stUl more deplorably needing his 
 pastoral assistance, and confesses to want of devoutness, and to 
 failing in spirit, in order that he may be urged into supplying her 
 with encouragement. She feels that she has been hitherto too si- 
 lent, too secret in her suffering ; that he cannot comprehend her
 
 140 H E L IS E. 
 
 delicacy of restraint in regret, and that she must no longer 
 forbear from letting him see the extent of her yearning for his 
 comfort and kindness. But with what womanly warmth and 
 earnestness, with what womanly effusion of appeal she flings her 
 soul's troubles before him, and supplicates his manly strength to 
 come to the rescue of her acknowledged weakness. How tragic is 
 that half-wild allusion to her having preferred his will before that 
 of Heaven itself: those bitter self-reproaches ; those vehement dis- 
 claimers of fortitude and merit in endurance ; those almost fierce 
 rejections of his praises : she will not allow herself to deserve them, 
 for she feels but too acutely how far rather she would prefer re- 
 ceiving consolation from him than applause : — " God knows, — God 
 knows, that all my life I have more feared offending you than even 
 Himself; and that it is you, far more than Him, that I have sought 
 to please. It was your command, and not the voice of Heaven, 
 which bowed me beneath the conventual yoke. What then is my 
 fate of misery and despair, if so many S'ufferings are lost for me 
 here below, when I am not to receive any recompense for them 
 yonder above ? My dissimulation hitherto has deceived you, as it 
 has done others : you have attributed to a rehgious impulse that 
 which was but feint and hypocrisy ; this is why you recommend your- 
 self to my prayers ; but you demand of me what I ask from you." 
 
 " Have less confidence in me, I conjure you, lest you cease to 
 aid me by your prayers. No, I am not cured : do not then deprive 
 of the relief of healing. No, I am not enriched with grace ; no 
 longer defer then coming to help my need. No, I am not strong ; 
 take care that I faint not ere you can sustain me in my fall. Many 
 have found their destruction in flattery, and it has bereft them of 
 the support of which they stood in want. * * * * A 
 truce therefore, I entreat you, to your commendations ; do not in- 
 cur the shameful reproach which attaches to the framers of flat-
 
 HELOISE. 141 
 
 teries and lies. If you believe that in me there is still some poor 
 remainder of virtue, dread lest it should exhale in the breath of 
 vanity. A skilful physician descries the hidden malady, al- 
 though no symptoms betray its existence. And God makes little 
 account of aU those outside shows which the reprobate can assume in 
 common with the elect. Often the reaUy just neglect those ex- 
 terior observances which strike every eye, while no one conforms to 
 them with more scrupulous care than the hypocrites." 
 
 And then she concludes with that profoimd humility taught by 
 conscious weakness combined with strength, — the united softness 
 and potency of love in such a nature as hers. 
 
 " I am too hapj^y in your praises, and my heart yields itself too 
 delightedly to them, not to render them dangerous for me. I am 
 but too well disposed to steep myself in their sweet poison, since 
 my sole study is to pleasure you in every thing. Awaken your 
 fears, I beseech you, and lay aside your confidence, so that your so- 
 licitude may be ever ready to aid me. It is now that the danger 
 is greater than ever. Do not exhort me to virtue, and excite me to 
 the combat, by saying : — ' Virtue reaches its height in weakness ;' 
 and, ' the crown will only be given to him who combats to the 
 end.' I seek not the crown of victory ; sufficient for me to avoid 
 danger. It is wiser to remove from peril, than to engage in war- 
 fare. Let but God assign me a place in the smallest corner of hea- 
 ven, I shall be satisfied." 
 
 That axiom of Heloise, — " I seek not the crown of victory ; 
 sufficient for me to avoid danger," — ia a golden one for women. 
 She had but too good reason to know and feel its essential truth. 
 
 Abelard's reply to this second letter is still more severe intone: 
 he rebukes her for murmuring, and constrains her to resume her 
 former quietude. He preaches resignation ; he enforces acquies- 
 cence ; he assumes the character of pastoral director in reproof, and
 
 142 HELOISE. 
 
 reverts to tlieir bygone mutual relations in a light of shared trans- 
 gression that is more consonant with his character than with hers. 
 She is all generosity in blame-taking, as in every thing else ; while 
 he is, — ^but fortunately, it is the province of the present discussion 
 to analyse the character of Heloise^ and not that of Abelard. 
 
 Her next, and third letter, is as characteristic of herself as her 
 former ones, in its way : — ^it begtos by the simple, but impressive 
 sentence : " It shall not be said that you can once accuse me of dis- 
 obedience : my words shall be moderate, if not my grief, and your 
 prohibition shall serve me as a curb." She utters no farther allu- 
 sion to her own inner being after the few words : — " Would to God 
 my sick heart were as disposed as my pen to obey you." — ^After 
 these, — set, as it were, a seal upon the past, — she sedulously applies 
 herself to proving her submission to his wiU, by entering thorough- 
 ly into her appointed course of strict and mere duty. She ad- 
 dresses him no longer as Abelard, the lost husband ; but as Abe- 
 lard, abbot of Saint Gildas. She enters thoroughly into the rules 
 for conventual discipline, her projects for regulating her commu- 
 nity of Paraclete, consulting with him (as their pastoral superior) 
 upon the due observances to be established for the practice of her 
 nuns and herself, and subjecting to his consideration the different 
 points in question. She supports her views with a multitude of 
 citations from the Apostles and the Fathers of the Church ; she di- 
 lates with learned and saintly zeal upon the various arguments she 
 brings forward ; and shows that she not only conforms to his wish 
 by making the exercise of her mind serve as a check to the ebulli- 
 tion of her heart, but that she diligently endeavours to make ho- 
 liness her sole aim henceforth. Religion became to her the climax 
 of her affection. Love which had ruled her heart, now engrossed 
 her soul, and fitly consummated it to immortal perfection of trust 
 and reliance.
 
 H E L O I S E . 143 
 
 With the exception of one other short epistle, addressed — on 
 the same subject, and in the same tone — to Abelard, in his capa- 
 city as spu'itual guide and director, we have no farther letters from 
 Heloise, save one which she wrote to Peter the Venerable in answer 
 to his, sending her the remains of Abelard to Paraclete. She 
 writes briefly, staidly, simply ; but there are two little sentences 
 that speak all the more eloquently for their forced composure. In 
 the one, she entreats of his goodness that he wiU send her the form 
 of absolution, signed and sealed with his own hand, that she may 
 have it affixed to the tomb of " The Master," as she denominates 
 Abelard. In the other, she piously recommends their son, Astro- 
 labus, to the protection and care of her venerable friend ; and 
 seems thus to take leave evermore of life and this world. 
 
 Perhaps never did a few letters — fortunately preserved to pos- 
 terity — contain more clear self-characterization unconsciously evi- 
 denced, than these letters of Heloise. They depict her subtly but 
 surely. 
 
 Her life, as her letters, denote her in marked unequivocal lines 
 of legible trace. Her native excellence speaks for itself in her 
 singleness of love. Ardent, yet constant; susceptible, yet fixed. 
 In her gii-lhood, self-forgetting; in her womanhood, tender and 
 self-sacrificing ; in her widowhood, grave, faithful, self-redeeming. 
 In youth, in the very flower of beauty and promise, voluntarily 
 quitting the world because the man she loved could no longer live 
 there ; in age, devoting herself to the task of rendering herself 
 worthy of him, — as she believed him to be. 
 
 Heloise is the very beau-ideal of generous and unselfish love.
 
 LAURA. 
 
 In the world's thought, Laura sits enshrined as a Poet's Idol. 
 Hers was the happiness of swaying a poet's thoughts to highest 
 beauty of expression ; of influencing his feelings to loftiest senti- 
 ment. She elevated his intellectual faculty ; and ennobled his 
 desu-es — one of the choicest felicities that can befal a woman. She 
 had the rare privilege of exciting a passion warm as it was regard- 
 ful, constant as it was strong, exalted as it was profound. She had 
 the honour of inspiring an affection in one of the most admirable 
 of men, and of enjoying the renown which his genius and his at- 
 tachment conferred upon her, without a shadow of suspicion fall- 
 ing upon her own fiiir repute ; whUe she possessed the power of 
 tempering the ardour that glowed in her lover's veins with a feel- 
 ing of honouring esteem which held them both to virtue, and ob- 
 tained for them virtue's rewards — ^self-respect and the homage of 
 mankind. 
 
 Laura embodies our idea of a perfect lady. She was essen- 
 tially a lady in character, being gentle, refined, discreet, modest, and 
 virtuous ; a lady in manner — benignant, courteous, and blandly 
 dignified ; a lady in habit — accustomed to move in distinguished 
 society with ease and grace ; and a lady by alliance, as well as by 
 
 19
 
 146 LAURA. 
 
 inlieritance. She was born a lady ; being of gentle, though not 
 of noble birth. Her father was Auclibert de Noves, the possessor 
 of a landed estate at the town of this name, which lies about two 
 leagues from Avignon, on the left bank of the river Durance ; and 
 he filled a civic post of some importance at Avignon, where he 
 possessed a house, stUl in existence at the beginning of the six- 
 teenth century, when it bore the name of " Madame Laure," in tradi- 
 tional commemoration of the celebrated beauty's having once dwelt 
 there. The house stood near the entrance of the suburb of the 
 Cordeliers, which has since been enclosed within the walls of Avig- 
 non; and it was either here, or at her father's country-seat at 
 Noves, that Laura first drew breath, in the year 1308. She was 
 left, together with one brother and one sister, under the guardian- 
 ship of her mother, by the will of Audibfert; who, dying in 1320, 
 bequeathed to his eldest daughter, Laura, as her dowry, nearly two 
 thousand pounds — ^a considerable sum at that period. Beautiful, 
 well born, and rich, Laura was wedded to Hugo de Sade; 
 whose progenitors, for several generations, had held some of the 
 most honourable municipal offices in Avignon. The marriage con- 
 tract was signed at Noves, on the 16th January, 1325 ; Laura being 
 then seventeen years old, and her husband rather more than twenty. 
 The detail of a few of the attires which formed part of her bridal 
 equipment, gives a curious idea of the costume worn at that period 
 by ladies of her rank and country. " Two complete suits, one of 
 gi'een, and the other of scarlet, trimmed with fur ; " a coronal of 
 silver, worth twenty golden florins ; " and, " a bed " — ^probably fur- 
 nished with silken, or tapestried hangings, and carved in wood ; 
 which last item conveys the impression of that fashion of southern 
 newly-married wives bringing articles of household value, as well 
 as of wearing apparel, for then- wedding outfit, which still prevails 
 in many parts of the continent. The two suits, furred and lich-
 
 LAURA. 147 
 
 coloured, witli the silver adornment for her hair, betoken the kind 
 of social grade in which she was to take her place ; and accord- 
 ingly, we find her apj^earing at the state assemblies, and court en- 
 tertainments given in the palace at Avignon, which had lately been 
 adojited by the popes as the seat of theii- residence. The rank of 
 Laura's husband, together with her own beauty and distinguished 
 graces, rendered her presence at the papal court indispensable ; and 
 she formed one of the chiefest, and most virtuous ornaments of a 
 spot where the perpetual influx of strangers had introduced much 
 corruption of morals and manners. Among the distinguished Ital- 
 ians, whom the advent of the Romish court had brought to Avig- 
 non, was the young poet, Petrarch; whose family having been 
 driven fi'om Tuscany by the civil contentions of the Guelphs and the 
 Ghibelines, now came to seek an asylum in the county Venaissin. 
 Laura was at this time nineteen years of age; Petrarch twenty- 
 three. At an early hour, in a morning of spring — at 6 o'clock on 
 the 6th of AprU, 1327, (Monday, not Friday, as some have stated) 
 in Passion Week — Petrarch was attending divine service in the 
 church of St. Clair, when he fii'st beheld the face of her who became 
 his life's cynosure. The poetical brain, the heart of youthful man- 
 hood, the Italian temperament, the imagination of fire, and the 
 intellect, refined as it was vigorous, all combined in conceiving a 
 sentiment, which was Love in its most beautiful form — impassioned, 
 devoted, constant. It took bii-th in one instant, and lasted until 
 death. It survived all ; it survived coldness, disappointment — even 
 the grave. It endm-ed through rejection, it was proof against ab- 
 sence, it lost none of its fervour from being jjut into words, and 
 abated nothing of its strength from being versed with profusion 
 of sonnets. The force residing in monotony, which characterizes 
 Petrarch's passion for Lifura, as traceable in his jDoems, is eloquently 
 described by Leigh Hunt, where he says on this subject : — " One
 
 148 LAURA. 
 
 love, and one poet, sufficed to give the whole civilized world a 
 sense of delicacy in desire, of the abundant riches to be found in 
 one single idea, of the going out of a man's self to dwell in the soul 
 and haj^piness of another, which has served to refine the passion 
 for all modern times ; and perhaps wUl do so, as long as love re- 
 news the world." 
 
 That Petrarch's was no Platonic aftection, may be gathered 
 from his own confession, in his " Dialogues with St. Augustine," 
 where he owns that he loves both the soul and body of Laura ; 
 depicting the violence of his passionate emotions when near to her 
 or when far from her ; his fruitless attemj^ts to win her : his vain 
 efforts to conquer a love which he found to be hopeless : and while 
 averring that he had never been able to obtain the slightest favour 
 from her, offers honouring homage to her purity and virtue. And 
 there is touching Avitness borne to the strength, as well as warmth 
 of his passion, where he thus writes in 1343 — sixteen years after 
 he had first seen Laura: — "My love is vehement, excessive, but 
 exclusive and vii'tuous. No, this very disquietude, these suspi- 
 cions, this watchfulness, this delirium, this weariness of every 
 thing, are not the signs of a virtuous love." This self-introspec- 
 tion, and candom" of self-judgment, together with the testimony it 
 affords of the poet's constancy, and inner heart, — ^for the passage 
 is quoted from his " De secreto conflictu," — is unspeakably beauti- 
 ful. There is a soul of melancholy mingled with its charm in Pe- 
 trarch's writing, springing from unsatisfied passion with intensity 
 of satisfaction in the beloved object, that poetry alone can exjiress. 
 Shelley discerningly observes : — " Petrarch's verses are as spells, 
 which unseal the inmost enchanted fountains of the delight which is 
 in the grief of love." There are none like poets themselves for 
 penetratiug to the core of a poet's excellence ; and it is invaluable 
 to have the comments of two such poets as Leigh Hunt and Shel- 
 ley upon a third, like Petrarch.
 
 L A U K A . 149 
 
 Laura's beliaviour to lier reuowned poet-lover seems to liave 
 been consummate iu womauly virtue. Married to a mau she es- 
 teemed, and respecting lierself, slie could not Ijut preserve Lis 
 honour and her own inviolate ; married to a man whom there is 
 every reason to believe she loved, she could feel no passion for 
 any other. But that she entertained a very peculiar regard for 
 Petrarch, is equally true. It was doubtless a regard made up of 
 tender concern and generous sentiment, such as every woman of 
 feeling extends towards any man who loves her above all other 
 women ; she cannot help regarding him with a symj^athy beyond 
 that which other men excite in her. And iu addition to this, 
 Laura's regard for Petrarch must have been compounded of the 
 proudest emotions : pride in his genias, pride that he should ad- 
 mire her, pride that he could be induced to prefer her self-respect 
 to his own gratification ; and pride that his love, instead of injur- 
 ing her reputation, reflected glory on her name, and made it 
 famed throughout the world. Her conduct is described as perfect 
 in disci'etion and feminine tact. She treated him with gentle firm- 
 ness; and by her skill in combining consideration for him with 
 consideration towards herself, succeeded in preserving her own 
 dignity, while she repressed, without lessening his ardour. Hand- 
 some, accomplished, impetuous, her Italian poet-lover must have 
 required all the serene self-possession of a Laura, to restrain his 
 advances without chilling his affection; and to quench his 
 hopes without reducing him to desperation. Courteous, even 
 kind, whenever his manner betrayed nothing that could alarm her 
 prudence ; she failed not to behave with reserve each time he ven- 
 tured upon a declaration of his feelings. She could not avoid 
 meeting him constantly, frequenting the same society as they did ; 
 but her demeanour was so nicely guarded, so judicioasly modified, 
 that each occasion served but to raise his admh-ation for her char-
 
 150 LAURA. 
 
 acter. At parties of pleasure, at court, at tlie houses of mutual 
 friends, at churcli, or in walking, tliey perpetually encountered 
 each other ; but she so happUy blended a modest reticence with a 
 sweet and frank friendliness, that his love for her moral qualities 
 kept pace with his love of her countless personal attractions. 
 
 Laura's behaviour to Petrarch has been called coquetry ; but, 
 — ^besides that his own testimony absolves her from the charge, — 
 a woman who secures the lasting reverence of a man's heart in 
 proportion with its encreasing passionate attachment to her, can 
 never be a coquette. So hollow and vain an art as coquetry, may 
 succeed in enslaving a man's senses ; but it never engages his hon- 
 ouring preference. Laura possessed matchless address ; but it was 
 the address of a pure-minded woman, who respected herself, loved 
 her husband, and regarded her lover with a feehng that intuitively 
 dictated the utmost delicacy of discrimination in dealing with his 
 passion for herself. With the con\'iction of its hopelessness, she 
 taught him the blessing that existed in its beautiful singleness, in 
 its all-sufficing exclusiveness, in its truth and earnestness, — ^in itself, 
 in short, irrespective of return or of fruition ; the simple fact of 
 loving so perfect a being as she, in his eyes was, constituted a bliss 
 with which no ordinary love could compare. Happy the woman 
 who possesses the secret of thus inspiring consociated esteem and 
 love ; of softening the pangs which unrequited passion inflicts, by 
 the balmy consolation that lies in enhanced approval of her excel- 
 lence. The secret of Laura's undying influence over Petrarch, lay 
 in a subtle sympathetic affinity between them ; — she tacitly suf- 
 fered him to perceive that she sympathized with his love for her, 
 vvhUe denying herself to be his love ; and he instinctively felt this 
 symjjathy to exist, although declaring that he never knew whether 
 she loved him or not. 
 
 By frequent travelling, by visiting various parts of Flanders,
 
 LAURA. 151 
 
 France, and Italy, by the cultivation of letters, by the creations 
 of his muse, by alternate retirement in solitude at Vaucluse, and 
 social intercourse at Avignon, Petrarch sought vainly, during a 
 period of twenty-one years, either to forget or to extinguish his 
 passion for Laui*a. Meanwhile she, with her husband, continued 
 to reside at Avignon, where they gradually saw themselves sur- 
 rounded by numerous children, and possessed of their town- 
 people's estimation ; the quarter where they lived being called by 
 the family name of Sade. It lies towards the lower end of the 
 town, on the banks of the Rhone ; and embraces that portion 
 which has since been built over with the streets occupying the 
 space between two of the gates, and near to the church of La 
 Madeleine. Commanding the spot, stands the rock on which the 
 papal palace was erected ; and it is said that from this point, Pe- 
 trarch used to watch Laura, as she walked in her garden amid the 
 leaves of those trees which were his favourite, — recalhng, as they 
 did, her name, as well as her image. He planted the laurel tree 
 in abundance at Vaucluse, where he purchased a small property, 
 and made it his abode ; so great a hking did he take to this seclu- 
 ded vaEey. Leigh Hunt — that prince of poetical translators — has 
 given an English version of one of the many passages in which 
 Petrarch alludes to these associated ideas of Laura, the laurel, and 
 the evergreen wreath which is to crown their joint names hereaf- 
 ter. The passage in question describes Laura as the poet might 
 have seen her in her garden at Avignon ; or in some of the public 
 gardens of the place, where they met amid a concourse of greeting 
 friends, and where her gentle aspect beamed upon his sight, sin- 
 gled out from a host of countenances, as the one^ to him, of the 
 whole human race : 
 
 " Giovano donna sotto un verde lauro 
 Vidi pill biancac pii\ fredda che neve 
 Non pcrcossa dal sol uiolti c molt 'anni :
 
 153 LAURA. 
 
 E'l suo parlar, e'l bel viso, e Ic chiome, 
 
 Mi piacqucr si, ch'l I'ho a gli occhi 
 
 Ed avr6 sempre, ov'io sia in poggio o'n riva." 
 
 " A youthful lady under a green laurel 
 I saw, more fiiir and colder than white snows 
 Unshone upon for many and many a year : 
 And her sweet looks, and hair, and way of speaking, 
 So pleas'd me, that T have her now before me, 
 And shall have, ever, whether on hill or lea." 
 
 In 1339, the painter, Simon of Sienna, arriving at Avignon to 
 execute a commission for embellishing the pontifical palace there, 
 made a portrait of Laura, and presented it to the poet, with whom 
 he was on terms of intimacy, and who returned the invaluable gift 
 in kind, by composing two sonnets for the artist. These inter- 
 changes, by which men of genius possess the power of adequately 
 requiting such inestimable donations, is among their highest privi- 
 leges. It remains matter of doubt, whether Laura sat for the por- 
 trait ; whether it was a duplicate copy of one which the artist 
 painted, as an order, for the Sade family ; or whether it was a 
 transcript of the impression which the personal beauty of the lady 
 made upon Simon Martini's imagination, so that he was enabled 
 to limn her likeness from memory ; but it is ascertained that he 
 introduced Laura as the principal figure in several of his subse- 
 c^uent pictures. 
 
 On Petrarch's return to Avignon in 1342, after ha^^ng been 
 awarded the laurel wreath of poetry at Rome, and crowned there- 
 with in the capitol, Laura was less studiously reserved towards 
 him, finding how docile to reproof his passion for her was, being 
 touched by its unabated constancy, and not insensible to the circum- 
 stance of his recent honours, in which her own were necessarily in- 
 volved, since his verses had given European celebrity to her name 
 and beauty. When Charles of Luxembourg (afterwards the Em-
 
 LAURA. . 153 
 
 peror Charles IV.) came to Avignon in 13-46, one of liis first enqui- 
 ries was for Laura — Petrarch's Laura. At one of the festive en- 
 tertainments given in honour of his visit, — at a hall where the 
 chief heauties of the town and province were assembled — she was 
 presented to him ; and, stepping forward, he reverentially kissed her 
 upon the eyes and forehead. The company — with the taste and 
 enthusiasm of a Provencal court — applauded ; and Petrarch re- 
 corded the event in a sonnet, where he manifests his triumph in 
 this public act of homage to the charms of his mistress, while 
 betraying his jealous sensitiveness at the dehght enjoyed by other 
 lips than his own. 
 
 In the course of years, domestic anxieties, the cares of a large 
 family, and the hand of time, wrought a change in the beauty of 
 Laura ; her complexion lost its freshness, her figure its shapeliness, 
 and the graces of the youthful lady were merged in the mien of 
 the matronly woman. Some involuntary surprise betrayed itself 
 together with the admiration expressed by those who beheld the 
 poet's Laura for the first time. " What ! " exclaimed one, whose 
 rank, in its impunity from censure, gave license to his speech, " is this 
 the fair prodigy who has made so much noise in the world, and who 
 turned "Petrarch's head ? " But to those who uttered their wonder 
 that he should still admire hei-, the lov^r replied, " Had I loved 
 her person only, I had changed long since." The eyes of a true 
 lover, with the ever-youthful sight of a poet, in addition, behold 
 something in the object beloved, which outlasts external change ; 
 the change of mortality itself cannot alter genuine love; for it 
 substitutes in place of the vanished mortal clay, an immortal ideal. 
 and cherishes that evermore as its object of eternal affection. 
 
 Petrarch is said to have had an interview with Laura towards 
 the close of the year 1347, when he beheld her for the last time 
 upon earth. He found her amid a circle of lady-friends ; she was 
 20
 
 154 LA UK A. 
 
 looking serious, and pensive; her di'ess quiet, without jewelled 
 ornament, or embellishment. Her eyes wore an expression of un- 
 defined apprehension, as of some impending evil, or approaching 
 attact of indisposition, hardly yet fully felt. Her lover, moved 
 almost to tears, withdrew abruptly, seeking to hide his emotion. 
 Laura followed him with a look so full of gracious regard and 
 gentle appeal, that it remained graven on his memory. The kind 
 of presage that seemed thus to have struck upon the hearts of both 
 was terribly fulfilled. A raging pestilence, which took its origin 
 in China, after wasting Asia and the coasts of AMca, made its way 
 into SicUy, and quickly spread over the continent of Europe, where 
 its devastations prevailed dming three years. Its march was like 
 that of the modern cholera — from East to West — but more awful 
 and overwhelming. History furnishes no example, since the 
 deluge, so universal, and so calamitous. A fire, beheved either to 
 have sprung from the earth, or fallen from the sky, consumed in 
 Tartary three hundi'ed miles of territory, and devoured in its flames 
 men, animals, trees, and even stones. Earthquakes, inundations, 
 and tempests occurred in various places ; while clouds of venomous 
 insects infested the air. In certain countries of Asia the majority 
 of the inhabitants died of the infection; or, being seized with 
 frenzy, bit and devoured each other. Boccaccio, in the opening of 
 his Decameron, gives a forcible picture of the state of his native 
 Florence, during this disastrous period. In summing up the picture 
 of desolation, the Italian novelist exclaims, with a kind of grim 
 levity at the conclusion, that heightens the horror and sense of the 
 jarring impressions that then confused and oppressed men's minds : 
 — " How many fair palaces ! How many goodly houses ! How many 
 noble habitations, filled before with families of lords and ladies, 
 were then to be seen empty, without any there dwelling, except 
 some servant! How many kindreds, worthy of memory! How
 
 LAURA. 155 
 
 many great inlieritances ; and what jilenty of riclies were left, 
 without any true successors ! How many good men ! How many 
 worthy women ! How many valiant and comely young men, 
 whom none but Galen, Hippocrates, and Esculapius (if they were 
 living) could have reputed any way unhealthful, were seen to dine 
 at morning with their parents, friends, and familiar confederates, 
 and went to sup in another world with their predecessors ! " 
 
 This dread plague broke out in Avignon, in January, 1348; 
 carrying off the enormous number of one hundred and twenty 
 thousand souls in the space of seven months. So large an amount 
 of deaths might seem iucredible in a town since containing scarcely 
 a fifth of the inhal^itants ; but it should be remembered that 
 Avignon was then the capital of Christendom, and that its being 
 the seat of paj)al residence, drew a multitude of strangers thither ; 
 besides that many of the country people from the neighbouring 
 parts took refuge there, endeavouring to fly from infection. All 
 those who were attacked, died of the disease in the course of three 
 days. Among its victims, was Petrarch's Laui-a. She felt the first 
 approaches of the malady on the 3d of April ; the continual 
 fever, and other fatal symptoms supervening, left no hope for one 
 whose health was already dehcate ; and she composedly prepared 
 for death — making her will that same day, and receiving the last 
 sacraments of religion. Her friends and relations, braving infec- 
 tion, hung weeping round her bed, ministering to her, and watch- 
 ing her last moments. They were peaceful, as such a woman's 
 should be. Laura lay there, calm and quiet, reaping the fruits of 
 an innocent, virtuous life, and of a tranquU temperament. Pe- 
 trarch's words describe her : — 
 
 " Aguisa d'un soave e chiaro lume 
 Cui nutrimento a pooo a poco manca. 
 Pallida no, ma piu che neve bianca, 
 Che seuza vento in un bel col fiocchi, 
 Parea posar come persona stanca."
 
 156 LAURA. 
 
 ['' Like unto a clear and beauteous light, 
 Whose nourishment little by little faileth ; 
 Not pallid, but more white than falling snow, 
 In flakes, unstirr'd by wind, ou some fair hill : 
 She seem'd to rest, like wearied traveller.'"] 
 
 She breathed her last pure breath iu the air of early day, ex- 
 piring gently at six o'clock in the morning, on the 6th of April, 
 the fortieth sjjring of her years on earth. That evening, iu con- 
 sonance with her own wishes, her remains were carried to the 
 church of the Cordeliers, and interred within the chapel of the 
 Cross, in the tomb of the Sade family. 
 
 The poet's soul felt the shadow of the approaching blow, in the 
 shape of cruel j^resages, and ill-omened dreams ; but it fell upon 
 him in its terrible truth, when the news of Laura's death reached 
 him at Parma. The traces of what must have been his anguish at 
 the time, are vi sible in that affecting memorandum which his own 
 hand left, written iu Latin, and fastened to the wooden binding of 
 his manuscript copy of Virgil.* The very solemnity and simplicity 
 of the record, witness the strength of his feelings. " Laura, illustri- 
 ous from her own virtues, and celebrated through my verses, was ftrst 
 beheld by these eyes in the period of my youthful prime, in the year 
 1327, on the 6th of April, at the first hour of the morning,f in the 
 church of St. Clair, at Avignon ; and in the same town, in the same 
 mouth of April, the same date, the 6th, and at the same hour, 
 in the year 1348, the light was withdrawn from the world, while I, 
 alas ! was at Verona, ignorant of my loss. The aiflictiug news 
 reached me iu a letter from my friend Luigi ; it found me at 
 Parma, on the morning of the same year, the 19th of May. That 
 
 * This precious volume is still preserved in the Arabrosian Library, at Milan. It is 
 enricheJ with vignettes by the same artist, Simon Martini, who painted Laura's portrait; 
 and lias marginal notes in tlie same liandwriting as Petrarcli's meniorandum, above quoted. 
 
 t According to the Italian method of counting time ; meaning 6 o'clock, A. M. : — and 
 wliicli was tlie same with the old Hebrew mode of dividing time : the " third hour of the 
 day,"' being Nine A. M.
 
 LAURA. 157 
 
 body, so chaste, so beautiful, was dej)osited in the church of the Cor- 
 deliers, on the evening of the day she died. Her spirit, I doubt 
 not, is returned to that heaven whence it came. To preserve the 
 mournful memory of this bereavement, I take a certain bitter 
 pleasure in wi-iting this record ; and write it the rather in this 
 book, which is often before my eyes, in order that there may be 
 nothing henceforth to jilease me in this life, since my chief link 
 with it being broken, I may be reminded, by the frequent sight 
 of these words, and by the just estimation of a transitory existence, 
 that it is time to leave this Babylon; which, with the help of 
 Divine Grace, will be nowise difficult to me, from a manly and cour- 
 ageous contemplation of the fruitless cares, vain hopes, and unfore- 
 seen events which have agitated me during my earthly sojourn." 
 
 His own dismissal was indeed in harmony with his own gracious 
 life. He was found one morning, seated in his library ; his head 
 leaning on a book that he had been reading ; his body at rest, and 
 his spirit flown to its Great Giver. 
 
 Petrarch's poetical temperament enabled him to sustain the 
 pang of Laura's death. She was lost to him on earth ; but he pos- 
 sessed her stiU in heaven. She was his own, there, even more 
 truly, than she had been while here in the flesh : — he worshipped 
 her adoringly as ever — and with yet greater feeling of exclusive 
 appropriation. Her image became sublimated to his thought ; and 
 he could contemplate it with a spiritualized love, undistracted by 
 impassioned wishes. 
 
 The verses in which he hymns her after she was dead, are per- 
 haps finer than those he penned while she was living. They are 
 chastened into higher aspiration, and more exalted ideality. He 
 made the noblest use of her loss — the use befitting a true love 
 losing its sole object — by converting it into the means of raising 
 him to immortal hope. He believed himself to be in constant
 
 158 LAURA. 
 
 communion with her spirit ; he fancied her visibly l^eside him, con- 
 soling his regrets, soothing his sorrow, iUumiuing the dark and rest- 
 less hours of night by her presence, appearing to his sight, and 
 pointing heavenward in token that there they should meet to part 
 no more. It is this elevated tone of feeling in her lover's writing, 
 which bears witness to the purifying influence that Laura exercised 
 over his mind. Had she been any but the noble creature she was, 
 the poet's affection could never have been so constant, and so re- 
 fined in character. Had she been the mere adroit captivator some- 
 times imagined, she could never have exercised this posthumous 
 ascendency over Petrarch's thoughts. But he himself in his sonnets, 
 takes occasion to bless the vii'tuous firmness which turned his 
 course to a happier shore, and preserved him from perishing. And 
 not merely immediately upon his loss, was he thus impressed by 
 her guardian excellence ; but after his heart had been a widower 
 twenty years, he describes Laura appearing to him, as in a haze of 
 beatified glory, assuring him how welcome death is to those who 
 are prepared : and telling him, that when she herself died, she felt 
 no sadness, save pity for him. He represents himself as beseech- 
 ing her to say whether she ever loved him ; and her answering 
 evasively, that although gratified by his love, she deemed it right 
 to repress his warmth by the coldness of her manner ; but that 
 when she saw him dejected and unhappy, she looked consolingly, 
 and gave him words of kindness. " It was by this alternate rigour 
 and gentleness," he makes her say, " that I have led thee — some- 
 times happy, sometimes unhappy ; often, it is true, weary, yet still 
 I have led thee whither there is no more perU, and I have thus 
 saved us both. There has been a sympathy between us, little 
 differing, except in this : that thine was proclaimed to the whole 
 world, and mine was kept concealed. But grief is not the less for 
 being endured in silence; nor is it the more for being loud in 
 Lament."
 
 LAUEA. 159 
 
 We are bound to accept the moral portrait of Laura as drawn 
 by tlie hand of Petrarch ; for though there may be the proverliial 
 extravagance of the lover, and the assumed hypei-bole of the poet 
 in this praise, yet there is much more real truth in the exagger- 
 ations of both lover and poet than conventional judges generally 
 believe. There is a truth in the high colouring of both love and 
 poetry as far superior to the mere verbal truth of strict and bare 
 description, as there is in a portrait, painted by Titian, beyond 
 that of a photographed likeness. The mellowing, and idealizing 
 in high art, gives a truer embodiment of the life, than the hard 
 rectilinear precision of the mechanically stamped similitude. 
 
 The personal portrait of Laura may also be gathered from her 
 poet-lover's verses, as well as her moral picture ; and with the same 
 conviction of its essential fidelity in the midst of heightening fancy. 
 The eye of aftection and of poesy sees the best aspect of the 
 beloved one, it is true ; but the eyes of the world should be glad 
 to behold that best, and should avail themselves of that keener 
 sight lent them by the lover and the poet, when depicting the 
 object of their admiration. And it is curious, too, that from one 
 little negative circumstance, we may believe that Petrarch adhered 
 tathe very letter as well as the spirit of Laura's j^erfections ; since 
 he is.silent with respect to one feature of her face, while eloquently 
 descanting upon all the others. He avoids describing her nose : 
 therefore it is probable that it was not remarkable for beauty ; 
 and his inferred candour on this point — for it amounts to a tacit 
 evidence — may be taken as a proof, that he did not flatter her in 
 any of the others. An Italian dissertator alledges that Laura had 
 a nose, the style of which he designates by the word " scavezzo ; " 
 and adds, that this is considered a beauty in France, implying 
 thereby that she had what the French caU a " nez retrousseP In 
 EnffHsh, there is no term more softened for this kind of nose —
 
 160 LAURA. 
 
 very bewitcliing, nevertheless, to some tastes — than a " snub-nose," 
 or a " turn-up-nose." We all know what havoc Marmontel's Rox- 
 alane, with her " petit nez retroussee," committed in the heart of 
 the Sultan of the Indies. The word " scavezzo " [indented] cer- 
 tainly conveys the idea of that kind of nose, which is in the por- 
 trait considered to be the most authentic of Laura. 
 
 The written picture of her, which may be collectively obtained 
 from the descriptions of Laura dispersed through Petrarch's poems, 
 shows her to have had eyes both brilliant and tender ; and al- 
 though he does not precisely state their colour, yet his allusions to 
 sapphire in his figurative expressions, indicates them to be blue. 
 Her exquisitively-cut mouth was composed of pearls set amid roses. 
 Her countenance was more round, than oval ; her eyebrows were 
 dark, whUe her hair was pale gold ; her skin was of dazzling fair- 
 ness ; her complexion clear and transjjarent, with a delicate yet 
 brilliant colour ; her shape symmetrical, and graceful : her shoulders, 
 neck, hands, and feet beautifully moulded and proportioned ; her 
 carriage noble and majestic ; her looks full of gentleness, sweet 
 cheerfulness, and sincerity ; and a celestial aii" j)ervaded her whole 
 appearance. The expression of her countenance was its charm ; 
 and the tone of her voice was enchantingly soft and melodious. 
 
 Some biographers have asserted that Laura possessed the poet- 
 ical faculty, — that she wrote verses ; and that she took her place 
 among those ladies of her native land who composed " The Court 
 of Love." It is possible that these tribunals, where beauty pre- 
 sided, where gallantry reigned, and where various nice questions of 
 Love and Wit were discussed, counted a lady of the house of Sade 
 among its members ; but it is very unlikely that if Laura de Sade 
 had been this lady, Petrarch would have failed to notify such a 
 circumstance. Had she figured in " The Court of Love," and cer- 
 tainly had she possessed tlie gift of poetry, her poet-lover would
 
 LAURA. 161 
 
 not liave omitted to enumerate these distinctioas when proclaim- 
 ing her merits. Since her name alone supplied him \vith such 
 multiplied ingenuity of allusion, it is not likely that he would have 
 failed to seize upon so fruitful, and so congenial a theme of gratu- 
 lation. We see how beautifully he could assemble her many per- 
 fections in one lovely poem, when we read that which Leigh Hunt 
 has so finely translated for us ; and which he calls, " Petrarch's con- 
 templations of death in the bower of Lam'a." 
 
 " Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams, 
 Which the fair shape who seems 
 To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide ; 
 Fair bough, so gently fit, 
 (I sigh to think of it) 
 Which lent a piUar to her lovely side ; 
 And turf and flowers bright-eyed. 
 O'er which her folded gown 
 Flow'd like an angel's down ; 
 And you, holy air and hush'd, 
 Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush'd ; 
 Give ear, give ear with one consenting, 
 To my last words, my last, and my lamenting, 
 
 If 'tis my fate below. 
 And heaven will have it so, 
 That love must close these dying eyes in tears, 
 May my poor dust be laid 
 In middle of your shade, 
 
 While my soul naked mounts to its own spheres, 
 The thought would calm my fears, 
 When taking out of breath 
 The doubtful step of death ; 
 For never could my spirit find 
 A stiller port after the stormy wind ; 
 Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne, 
 Slip from my travail'd flesh, and from my bones outworn. 
 
 Perhaps, some future hour, 
 
 To her accustom 'd bower 
 
 Might come the untam'd, and yet the gentle she; 
 21
 
 162 LAURA. 
 
 And where she saw me first, 
 Might turn with eyes athirst 
 And kinder joy to look again for me ; 
 Then, Oh the charity ! 
 Seeing amidst the stones 
 The earth that held my bones, 
 A sigh for very love at last 
 Might ask of heaven to pardon me the past : 
 And heaven itself could not say nay, 
 As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away. 
 
 How well I call to mind. 
 When from those boughs the wind 
 Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower ; 
 And there she sat meek-eyed, 
 In midst of all that pride, 
 
 Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower. 
 Some to her hair paid dower, 
 And seemed to dress the curls 
 Queen-like, with gold and pearls : 
 "Some, snowing, on her drapery stopp'd. 
 Some on the earth, some on the water dropped ; 
 While others fluttering from above, 
 Seem'd wheeling round in pomp, and saying, " Here reigns Love." 
 
 How often then I said. 
 Inward, and fiU'd with dread, 
 " Doubtless this creature came fi-om Paradise !" 
 For at her look the while. 
 Her voice, and her sweet smile. 
 And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes ; 
 So that with long-drawn sighs, 
 I said, as far from men, 
 " How came I here, and when ? " 
 I had forgotten ; and alas ! 
 Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was 
 And from that time till this, I bear 
 Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere." 
 
 Tradition intimates that the man who possessed the wedded 
 faith and affection of Laura, scarcely deserved his treasure ; for
 
 LAURA. 163 
 
 there are hints that his temper Avas arbitrary and capricious ; and 
 it is related, that he was so little affected by the loss of her who 
 had brought him eleven children, that he married again withm 
 eisfht months of her death. Traditional accounts relative to such 
 points as these are difficult of trust, — or rather, of decisive con- 
 struction. That the husband's temper could be wayward, seems 
 hardly likely, when he gave such staid sanction, — as he did by 
 tacit consent and approval — to the world-known admiration of the 
 poet for his wife. A man subject to caprice or tyranny would, at 
 some time or other, have made protest against this open assertion 
 of a kind of property in her whom he would have considered ex- 
 clusively his — ^his goods, his chattels, — for this is the light in which 
 men of arbitrary temper regard theii* wives. With respect to the 
 other cii'cumstance, — Hugo de Sade's marrying again, so soon after 
 losing Laura, — that can only be judged according to the character 
 of the man. A husband who is of a social and sympathetic dispo- 
 sition, cannot endure the void left in his existence by such a be- 
 reavement ; and, the more eagerly if he have been extremely hap- 
 py with his first wife, will he endeavour to supply her place by 
 his side, for the remainder of his days. These are completely mat- 
 ters of individual feeling and temperament. The chance is, how- 
 ever, that the man who made an unfortunate selection in his first 
 wife, would deliberate in risking a second : it is reasonable, there- 
 fore, to conclude, that Hugo de Sade was both a worthy, and a 
 happy husband ; and his early re-marriage was a tacit proof of this, 
 as well as a testimony to the mother of his eleven children. 
 
 Two centuries after Laura had been laid in her grave, some of 
 the chief church dignitaries at Avignon, occupied in antiquarian 
 research, obtained permission to have her tomb opened. The 
 interest in Laura had been made universal and enduring by her 
 Laureate: his might had rescued her fi-om what Sir Thomas
 
 164 LAURA. 
 
 Browne calls, " tlie iniquity of oblivion," whicli, lie says, " scattereth 
 her poppy and deals with the memory of men without distinction 
 to merit of perpetuity." Petrarch's poetry had imbued Laura's 
 name with an undying charm that sufficed to render her very dust 
 precious. On raising a large stone bearing no inscription, but 
 having two escutcheons somewhat effiiced by time, surmounted by 
 a rose, a few small bones were found, near to which lay a leaden 
 casket fastened with wire. This box contained a parchment folded 
 and sealed with green wax, with a medal in bronze, representing a 
 female figure veiling her bosom, encii-cled by the initial inscrip- 
 tion, M. L. M. J., which has been conjecturally interpreted to stand 
 for Madonna Laura morta jace. On the parchment was an 
 Italian sonnet, signed with the name of Petrarch ; but which, 
 judging from its mediocrity, is supposed not to have been his, but 
 possibly written by one of his friends, perhaps the very Luigi, who, 
 according to the memorandum in Petrarch's Virgil, conveyed the 
 news of Laura's death to her lover. This exhumed discovery ex- 
 cited much attention. Francis the First, passing thi-ough Avignon 
 in the autumn of 1533, desired to see the tomb of Laura. He 
 read the sonnet ; and when he replaced it in the casket, he added 
 an epitaph of his own composition. This tribute of homage from a 
 prince of such tasteful and chivalrous accomplishment as Francis 
 the First, was a graceful offering paid by royalty at the shrine of 
 beauty ; and the quaint old French verses themselves are so good, 
 as to do credit to both kingly author, and queenly lady. 
 
 " En petit lieu compris, vous pouvez voir 
 Ce qui comprend beaucoup par rcnommee ; 
 Plume, labeur, la langue et le savoir, 
 Furent vaincu par I'amant de I'aimee 
 gentille ame ! 6tant tant estimee, 
 Qui te pourra louer qu' en se taisant ? 
 Car la parole est toujours reprimee 
 Quand le sujet surmonte le disant."
 
 LAURA. 1(55 
 
 [" In small space compris'd you here may behold, 
 That which compriseth a world of renown ; 
 Pen, labour, and knowledge, a language of gold. 
 The beloved one's lover attained as a crown. 
 O gentle-sweet soul ! so honour'd already ; 
 Who, but by silence, may thy praises record ? 
 For words must be always found lame and unready. 
 When the subject of praise exceedeth all word."] 
 
 Francis gave orders that a mausoleum should be erected for Laura's 
 remains, and he contributed the sum of a thousand crowns tovt ards 
 defraying its cost. The architect ivas selected for the work, and 
 the motto was chosen, which was to be graven thereon : — " Victrix 
 casta fides :" but this monument was never executed, although the 
 poet Clement Marot, and others, ascribed to the monarch the 
 credit of its intention. Since the discovery of Laura's tomb, travel- 
 lers have not failed to visit it, and examine the casket, medal, 
 sonnet, and epitaph ; but all these memorials have now disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Towards the beginning of the eighteenth centmy, a certaui 
 friar Bassi, sub-sacristan in the church of the Cordeliers, sold the 
 casket and medal to some English visitoi-s. This ridiculous passion 
 for relics is a terribly Anglican failing, and leads to the most 
 degradingly fatuous conduct. The way in which scraps of ropes, 
 used for hanging notorious felons; slips of bushes, and vials of 
 water from ponds, where murderers have hidden then- victims' 
 bodies ; and similar revolting articles, have been eagerly bought 
 up by relic-fanciers, bitten with this mania, is almost incredible to 
 saner people. These rabid " snappers-up of ill-considered trifles " 
 will hack with their pen-knives some carved wooden efligy, tiQ it 
 shall be a heap of splinters, or chip out bits from some antique 
 marble, till it be a shapeless mass : — (the Sphinx will soon be dis- 
 persed, with the present fashion of the English to winter at Caii-o)
 
 166 LAURA. 
 
 — they will hoard up morsels of dismembered and disconnected 
 trash, with stolid veneration ; yet laugh at Chaucer's Pardoner 
 with his " glass full of jaigges' hones ;" — and at Boccaccio's friar, 
 with his " feather of the Phoenix that came out of the Ark," while 
 sneering at " Popish trinkets, and idol-worship." These gentry 
 have so obtuse a j^erception of the real interest seated in relics, and 
 so craving a maw to possess the mere things themselves, that a 
 handsome sum was offered to the town of Stratford-upon-Avon for 
 the house in which Shakespeare was born, with a view to trans- 
 porting it abroad ! As if that house could have any charm carted 
 away from the sweet English village in which the poet of poets 
 first drew breath. Pulled down, carried off, put up again else- 
 where, it becomes no better than a mere handful of bricks and 
 mortar. 
 
 The leaden casket and bronze medal picked out of Laura's 
 grave, and transferred to some cabinet of curiosities, ticketed and 
 labelled, to be stared at by idle casual eyes, unassociated, unhal- 
 lowed by time and place, are but poor baubles. After all, the 
 best relics are those which are imperishably enshrined within the 
 record of the poet's verse, or the deeds of good, great, and glorious 
 people. A single line of j^oetry immortalizing a beautiful speech, 
 or a heroic act, forms a truer memorial, than an actual portion of 
 a person. A rib-bone of Milton, which we have often reverentially 
 gazed at — and which may have lain close against the poet's heart, 
 when it throbbed with the conception of that great epic, recording 
 the first human-moulded rib, and its long train of consequent 
 wonders — never stirred our soul with one tithe of the emotion that 
 the poet's own lines have excited. How dull and adust, how 
 devoid of interest and meaning that small slender ossicle looked, 
 compared with the vital words : —
 
 LAURA. 167 
 
 "Who stooping, opened my left side, and took 
 From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm, 
 And life-blood streaming fresh ; wide was the wound. 
 But suddenly with flesh fill'd up and heal'd : 
 The rib he forra'd and ftishion'd with his hands ; 
 Under his forming hands a creature grew, 
 Man-like, but different sex; so lovely fair, 
 That what seem'd fair iu all the world, seem'd now 
 Mean, or in her summ'd up, in her contain'd, 
 And in her looks ; which from that time infus'd 
 Sweetness into my heart unfelt before, 
 And into all things from her air inspir'd 
 The spirit of love and amorous delight." 
 
 Petrarcli's verse is the sumptuous reliquary wliere Laura's 
 beauty is eternally embalmed in unfading lustre. In ber life-time 
 his poems showed the world what a woman adorned it : — after her 
 death — and to all time, they will show the world what a creature 
 it once contained. And not only in the poet's productions, but in 
 himself, he enhanced Laura's honour ; for he was so noble a man, 
 morally as well as intellectually, that it reflects credit on the 
 woman who was beloved by such a being. His friendship for 
 Boccaccio, witnesses his high and generous sentiment. The follow- 
 ing extract fi*om one of Petrarch's letters to his brother-writer, is 
 a beautiful instance of manly feeling : — " Reflect whether you 
 cannot, as I have long wished, pass the remainder of yonr days 
 with me. As to your debt to me, I do not know of it, nor under- 
 tands this foolish scruple of conscience. You owe me nothing, 
 except love ; nor that, since each day you pay me ; except, indeed, 
 that receiving continually from me, you still continue to owe. You 
 complain of poverty ; I will not bring forward the usual conso- 
 lation, nor alledge the examples of illustrious men, for you know 
 them already. I applaud you for having preferred poverty com- 
 bined with independence, to the riches and slavery that were 
 offered you ; but I do not praise you for refusing the solicitations
 
 168 LAURA. 
 
 of a friend, I am not able to enrich you ; if I were, I should use 
 neither words nor pen, but speak to you in deeds. But what is 
 sufficient for one, is enough for two : one house may surely suffice 
 for those who have but one heart. Your disinclination to come 
 injures me ; and it is more injurious if you doubt my sincerity." 
 
 How finely does Petrarch's warmth of affection for Boccaccio, and 
 his admiration for that writer's talent, refute the ignorant preju- 
 dices of the common herd, respecting the jealousies of men of letters 
 towards each other. Boccaccio made a beautiful manuscript copy 
 of Dante with his own hand, gorgeously illuminated, as a present 
 for Petrarch ; while Petrarch was so great an admirer of Boccac- 
 cio's story of Griselda, that he translated it into Latin for those 
 who could not read it in Italian ; and took pleasure in frequently 
 reading it himself; and committed it to memory, that he might 
 relate it to his friends. He evidently repeated it to Chaucer ; who, 
 in his introduction to his own version of the Tale (the Clerk's), 
 says that he " learned it at Padua of a worthy clerk," and proceeds 
 to explain that : — 
 
 '' Fraunceis Petrarke, the laureat poete, 
 Hight this ilke clerke, whose Rethoricke sweet 
 Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie." 
 
 Not only have we this link of association between Petrarch and 
 the father of English poetry ; but there is one slender thread that 
 brings him together with Shakespeare in our fancy. Among the 
 places he visited, when wandering over Europe, in the endeavour 
 to free himself from the thraldom in which his senses were held 
 when perpetually within sight and reach of Laura's beauty, while 
 still unable to subdue the more passionate impulses of his affijction, 
 Petrarch rambled to the Forest of Ardennes ; and here we may 
 imagine him vying with Orlando and Silvius in knowledge of 
 ■' the wounds invisible that love's keen arrows make ; " or, bantered
 
 L A U K A . 169 
 
 by Eosalincl for being " a fool, and turned into tlio extremity of 
 love." 
 
 There existed in Florence, in the possession of the Peruzzi 
 family, a small bas-relief in white marble, representing Petrarch 
 and Laura, behind which there were inscribed these words : " Simon 
 de Senis me fecit, sub anno dom: MCCCXLIII." Tliis piece of 
 sculpture is about eight hues thick, six inches high, and each of 
 the two portraits measures about four inches and a half It was 
 brought to Paris by Signor Vincenzo Peruzzi in 1820, and he pub- 
 lished a pamphlet, avouching its genuineness. 
 
 He stated how the marble bas relief came into the possession of 
 his ancestors ; and mentioned that the figiu'e of Laura was more 
 worn than the other, from its having lieen so frequently kissed 
 l)y enthusiastic beholders. 
 
 Petrarch's Laura is dear to the memory of men, for her gentle 
 benignity towards a lover who could not refrain from adoring her 
 excelling beauty, although it could not be lawfully his ; and she 
 will ever be held dear among women, for maintaining her sex's 
 purity and dignity, while using her power over her lover in in- 
 fluencing him to good and high aims. As the Italian Poet's ideal 
 of womanly excellence, Laura must ever be 
 
 " Dear for her reputation tbrougli the world." 
 
 22
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 
 
 Valentena Visconti, otherwise known as Valentine de MUan, was 
 a beautiful instance of womanly purity and virtue, preserved amid 
 the most vicious environments. Her girlhood in Italy, and her 
 wifehood in France, were passed among scenes of grossness and 
 ferocity incredible to us, who live in more civilized times. Her 
 fether, Giovanni Galeazzo Visconti, was the first of his house who 
 held the title of Duke of MUan. In his earlier years, he bore some 
 resemblance to Shakespeare's "Duke of Milan," — Prospero — for 
 Giovanni Galeazzo was addicted to study, and 
 
 " Neglected worldly ends, all dedicate 
 To closeness, and the bettering of his mind." 
 
 But subsequently he gave himself up to far other pursuits ; 
 exchanging the tranquil delights of learning for the turmoils and 
 cruelties of ambition. 
 
 From infancy, he showed so much perspicacity, so much dis- 
 position for silence, and so precocious a judgment, that it was long 
 believed so clever a child would not live to reach manhood. The 
 taste for knowledge, which he at such tender age had evinced, did 
 not forsake him to the end of life ; but it remained a taste, and 
 was no longer an avocation, when the thirst for rule seized him. 
 In youth, the pleasures of study rendered him insensible to the
 
 172 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 
 
 attractions of gaming and dissipation ; lie took no interest in the 
 humours of court-jesters, or the graver discussions of state busi- 
 ness, giving all the time he might have spent thus, to his favourite 
 scholarly pursuits. When compelled to attend to affaii-s, he con- 
 ducted them rather as a student, than as a man of business. He 
 introduced a method and care unknown till then, into the compo- 
 sition of manifestos and state papers. He caused all orders and 
 instructions — even to the most minute — to be written out ; and the 
 archives of Milan contain more ample materials relative to his 
 administration, than to that of any other prince. He had taste to 
 appreciate the high merit of Petrarch ; whom he induced to come 
 to Milan, and sojourn at his court. It was at Petrarch's suggestion 
 that Galeazzo Visconti founded the university of Pavia. He de- 
 serves notable memory, too, for having been the beginner of 
 Milan Cathedral. Soon after his being crowned Duke of Milan, he 
 commenced building that superb edifice ; which rears its white 
 splendour, a monument of its founder's taste in Art, whatever may 
 have been his perplexingly opposed moral qiiahties. 
 
 During his father's lifetime, he had served in the army ; but 
 on his father's death, in 1378, he succeeded to the sovereignty, and 
 renounced arms thenceforth, in his own person. For although after 
 that period, he was almost always at war, he went no longer into 
 battle ; leaving to his commanders the care of its conduct. In 
 1360, his father had united him in marriage with IsabeUe de Va- 
 lois, daughter to Jean, king of France ; who, from distress for 
 money, had granted his daughter's hand in recomj)ense for a timely 
 subsidy. From this imion sprang Valentina ; and one son, who 
 died. After his first wife's death, Giovanni Galeazzo Visconti mar- 
 ried, in 1380, his cousin Caterina, daughter of Barnabo Visconti. 
 From the time of succeeding to his father's dignity, Giovanni Ga- 
 leazzo showed that his ambition would be restrained by neither
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 173 
 
 ties of kindred, uor feelings of honour, and by no comjjacts or 
 treaties, however solemnly made. He seemed to have wholly 
 changed character; and, from a quiet recluse scholar, to have 
 become a violent, rapacious, and crafty despot. The town of 
 Asti haviug revolted against his brother-in-law, Secondotto, Mar- 
 quis of Montferrat, and the latter having recourse- to him for suc- 
 cour, Giovanni Galeazzo caused the town to be delivered to him as 
 mediator, retaining the sovereignty for himself When, too, the 
 ambitious spirit of Barnabo Visconti, his uncle, gave him fears that 
 he might become the victim of his relation's plots, he determined 
 to circumvent possibly intended treason by stratagem and murder. 
 He began by deceiving Barnabo with a false assumption of extreme 
 devotion. He passed his time in churches ; a rosary in his hauds, 
 kneeling in prayer before the images of the saints, or surrounded 
 by friars and priests. At the same time, he made no secret of 
 a pusillanimity, which formed part of his character ; he redoubled 
 his guards, fortified his castles, and expressed fears that seemed in- 
 consistent with any intention of raising an insurrection himself 
 From this aspect of passiveness he suddenly issued, by causing his 
 uncle (and father-in-law) to be arrested at the gates of Milan, May, 
 1385 ; and by afterwards poisoning him. 
 
 It was in a paternal household thus curiously compounded of 
 contrasted elements, — where studious pursuits and ambitious pro- 
 jects, elegant learning and blackest perfidy, held mingled place, — 
 that Valentina Visconti acquired her first lessons in life's strange 
 history. She seems to have learned from them a power of looking 
 on at scenes of vice and violence without stain to her own virtue 
 and gentleness ; and of abiding by conscious goodness as a refuge 
 against calumny and injustice. 
 
 The different wars in which her father was incessantly engaged 
 came to a kind of temporary lull at one time ; and his various as-
 
 174 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 
 
 sailants caused him to consent, 1392, to a general peace. It was 
 at this period, that an alliance was concluded between his daughter 
 Valentiua, and Louis, Duke of Orleans, brother to Charles VI., king 
 of France. Dowered with the province of Asti, and with large 
 sums of money as her marriage-portion, she espoused this roynl 
 bridegroom. The Prince, her husband, was one of the most pro- 
 fligate and factious among the profligate and factious nobles who 
 divided France into party feuds during that unhaj)py reign. The 
 malady of the king afforded pretext to the leaders of all the con- 
 tending factions, for seeking appointment to govern the kingdom 
 as regent for a monarch not caj)able of sway. His luxurious 
 queen, Isabelle, or Isabeau, of Bavaria, his licentious brother, Louis 
 of Orleans, the turbulent Duke of Burgundy, and the aspiring Count 
 of Armagnac, were each restless in striving to make the king's 
 mental disease a step to their own adojition of regal power. 
 
 Valentina's husband, Louis, was leagued with the queen, both 
 in policy and profligacy. No considerations of honour towards his 
 king and brother, acted as a restraint upon the dissolute duke ; 
 and no sentiments of wifely duty or womanly self-respect deterred 
 the abandoned Isabeau from lending herself wholly to the ambi- 
 tious views and vicious inchnations of the Duke of Orleans. Her 
 story, itself, is a romance of sinfulness. Young and beautiful, her 
 hand was sought by Charles VI., who had heard extravagant re- 
 ports of her charms. Under pretence of performing a pilgrimage, 
 she came to Amiens, where the young king was ; succeeded in fas- 
 cinating him at the first interview, and obtained that ascendancy 
 over his weak intellect, which enabled her ever after to sway him 
 at her will. Her tastes were luxurious and expensive ; and Bran- 
 tome, remarks that she was the first queen who introduced into 
 France that frantic passion for extravagant luxury, in which wo- 
 men of the court have since so unlimitedly indulged. The entry
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 175 
 
 of the young king and queen into Paris, is described by historians 
 with curious detail ; and the festivities in celebration of the royal 
 nuptials, were of unprecedented magnificence. They merged into 
 a kind of nocturnal Saturnalia, where all the court were masked ; 
 and the " Chronique de St. Denis " records that, under favour of 
 the mask, there was not a person who did not abandon him or her- 
 self to the extreme of licence and scandal. It was believed that, 
 on this very occasion, began the criniiaal familiarity which ex- 
 isted between the queen and the Duke of Orleans, — so early did 
 Isabeau take advantage of her husband's weak intellect, to plunge 
 into the most wanton disorder and disloyalty. She suffered her 
 talents and beauty to act as means of enhancing the disturbances 
 which racked France with faction, and menaced it with foreign in- 
 vasion ; while indulging unscrupulously in whatever evil passions 
 her unbounded love of magnificence and enjoyment led to. 
 
 Such was the woman whom Valeutina found in scarce-concealed 
 commerce with her libertine husband, Louis, Duke of Orleans. But 
 instead of torturing herself with jealousy, or debasing herself by re- 
 proaches, she took refuge from the pain inflicted by the guilty pair, 
 in attempts to soothe the afilicted condition of him who was fellow- 
 suflferer with herself. Charles VI. took a sti'ong fancy to the gen- 
 tle and beautiful Valentina, between whom and his wife, Isabeau, 
 there was a certain personal resemblance, — probably, a family 
 likeness ; for Isabeau was descended from a scion of the same house 
 as Valentina, being daughter of Taddea Visconti, and Stephen II., 
 Duke of Bavaria. 
 
 The innocent and affectionate attentions of this lovely young 
 creature could win the unfortunate king from his moods of distrac- 
 tion when other means failed. In her presence he felt calm and 
 pleased ; no one knew so well how to tranquillize him when agitat- 
 ed ; no voice like hers could lure him from his fits of sullenness
 
 176 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 
 
 or depression ; and unweariedly she devoted herself to the gentle 
 task of relieving by all means in her power his sufferings of body 
 and mind. The brilliant festivities which the occasion of Valen- 
 tina's marriage called forth, and which the profuse tastes of the 
 queen made frequent in that gay court, were soon left unattended 
 by Valentina, that she might sit with the brain-sick king, and try 
 to alleviate his condition. Her loving goodness touched his best 
 feelings, awakened him to a sense of joy and comfort, and engaged 
 his tenderest gratitude. He called her his " dear sister," his " sweet 
 sister ; " and begged her not to deprive him of her soft whispered 
 talk, which was to him welcomest music. He besought her not to 
 leave him ; not to deprive him of her society, which shed peace 
 on his troubled spirit. He conjured her to return, each time that 
 malignant slander drove her to retreat fi'om court, in the hope of 
 silencing its evil tongue. For, all the clearness of this young crea- 
 ture's conduct, all the transparent innocence of her nature, could 
 not screen her from injurious reports. Though " chaste as ice, pure 
 as snow, she could not 'scape calumny." Party hatred converted 
 even this fair gentle girl into a medium for their envenomed shafts. 
 Through her they attacked the objects of their animosity. The 
 party of the Duke of Burgundy, opposed with deadly rancour to 
 that of the queen and the Duke of Orleans, made the young Duch- 
 ess of Orleans a source of arousing popular prejudice. The belief 
 in Italian skill in sorcery, and Italian knowledge of the uses and 
 properties of various kinds of poisonous drugs, was very general. 
 Even in Shakespeare's time, we find Imogen's fears for her husband 
 taking the shape of invective against " that drug-damned Italy." 
 The Burgundian party did not hesitate to avail themselves of this 
 popular behef, by exciting in the public mind an idea that Valen- 
 tina's influence with the wit-diseased monarch was owing to her 
 being an adept in the arts of sorcery, and in the preparation of
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 17Y 
 
 pliilters conducive to subject the will and the aftections of their 
 victim to the sinister purposes of the swayer. The Duke of Bur- 
 gundy did not fail to hint, that Valentina in her native Italy had 
 had ample opportunity for becoming well versed in the black arts 
 of magic, and that she was proficient as a poisoner. Her father's 
 well-known studious habits as a young man, and his subsequent 
 ci'ime towards his uncle, lent colour to these accusations. The 
 Duke of Orleans' haughty rival insinuated that the young duchess 
 took advantage of her ascendancy over the king's doubly feeble 
 mind — weak from insanity, and weakened by fond-potions — to j^ro- 
 mote her husband's interest, and secure his position of authority 
 in the kingdom. The guardianship of the king's person had been 
 awarded to the queen ; while the government of state affairs had 
 been committed to the Duke of Burgundy. But the Duke of Or- 
 leans had appealed against this disposal ; and his power over Isa- 
 beau's heart enabling him to make her exert herself in his favour, 
 their united cabals had forced Burgundy to yield for a time. It 
 was in his efforts to regain state authority, that the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy did not scruple an attempt to fasten upon Valentina the 
 suspicion of unduly influencing the king's favour on behalf of liis 
 brother, her husband. It is probable that the yoimg wife did ex- 
 ercise such magic as she was mistress of, to augment the partiality 
 which Charles VI. had always entertained for his unworthy broth- 
 er ; for neither Louis's wrongs towards herself, nor his betrayal 
 of both conjugal and paternal honour, could destroy her affection 
 for him. But the magic she used, was the sorcery of loving-kind- 
 ness, the witcheries of affectionate intimacy ; the enchantments of 
 gentle nursing, soothing, cheering, and consoling. Her sole charm 
 was the charm of sweet temper ; her strongest spell that of good- 
 ness and untiring patience. Not only in her behaviour towards 
 the haj)less king was her moral beauty evinced ; but in her for- 
 23
 
 178 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 
 
 bearance and her constancy of attacliment toAvards her scarce- 
 deserving husband. She seems to have possessed the noble virtue 
 of making all generous allowance for the faults of him she loved. 
 In an era marked by unblushing licence of all sorts, she could find 
 large toleration for his open infidelities, his boundless luxury, his 
 rampant ambition. Although her innocent attractions could not 
 suffice to fix his unstable fancy, nor her modest gi-aces succeed in 
 securing her his esteem, she continued to regard him with affection, 
 and to interest herself on his behalf. But not only did he neglect 
 her for other women, wound her feelings by indifference, hurt her 
 tenderness by repulse, and injure her both in love and honour by 
 his unfaithfulness ; he lent weight to the calumnies of her accu- 
 sers — although her accusers merely endeavoured to ruin her on 
 his account — by gi^^ing a kind of countenance to their assertions. 
 Not content with alleging that she contrived to acquire unlawful 
 influence over the king's crazed judgment, they barbarously took 
 occasion, from the sudden death of a beloved child of her own, to 
 frame a tale of treachery and subtle crime against her. The par- 
 tizans of the Duke of Burgundy spread a report that her son had 
 died in consequence of having swallowed by mistake a poisoned 
 draught, prepared by his mother for the Dauphin ; and the Duke 
 of Orleans, heedless of the air of credence that such a step would 
 give to the story, and insensible to the grief of that gentle heart, 
 which seemed doomed to be pierced through its tenderest affec- 
 tions, sent her away to Neufchatel. This might have been at a 
 suggestion from Isabeau ; or it might have arisen merely from his 
 own levity, and a dissolute desire to free himself from the presence 
 of a wife, in order to give still freer course to his profligate incli- 
 nations. Not content with the favours of the licentious queen, 
 Isabeau, he sought those of all the meretricious beauties who 
 abounded in that polluted court ; and it was by one of his innu-
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 179 
 
 merable mistresses that lie had that iJlegitimate son, renowned in 
 history as the handsome Dunois (" le beau Dunois "), and surnamed, 
 according to the out-spoken fashion of the times, " the bastard of 
 Orleans." 
 
 It was this very sin in Louis Duke of Orleans — his insatiate 
 and all-unsparing gallantries — which led to his own untimely fate. 
 
 " The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 
 Make instruments to scourge us." 
 
 Louis dared to cast his unhallowed eyes upon the young Duchess 
 of Bui-gundy's beauty ; and had the audacity to attempt making it his 
 prey. His villainy not succeeding in prevailing against her virtue, 
 his vanity consoled itself with assailing her reputation, by boasting 
 of favours never obtained. But this madly reprobate act cost him 
 his life. The outraged hiisband was not one to let pass such an 
 occasion for signalizing his wrath. It was the crowning circum- 
 stance in a long series of mutual rivalries and antagonisms subsist- 
 ing between the House of Burgundy and the House of Orleans. 
 The present Duke of Burgundy was that John Lack Fear (" Jean 
 sans peur") who had won this proud surname by his dauntless 
 bravery when a youth, in an action against Bajazet, Sultan of the 
 Turks. He made a desperate efltoi-t to regain the power he had 
 temporarily ceded; marched suddenly and unexpectedly upon 
 Paris ; forced the queen's party to take refuge at Melun; obtained 
 possession of the king's person, and of the capital, which was 
 devoted to his interest ; and entered into negotiations for estab- 
 lishing peace. Apparent reconciliation was effected ; but not long 
 after, the Duke of Orleans was assassinated in the streets of Paris. 
 For a few days only, Burgundy dissembled ; then he confessed to 
 being author of the deed, " instigated," he said, " by the Devil." 
 Thus summarily did he account for the foul act ; and though he 
 appeared to feel a brief compunction for it, by retiring to his
 
 180 VALENTINE DE 3IILAN. 
 
 dominions after the murder, lie speedily rallied, boldly justified 
 his act, charged the late Duke of Orleans with diisloyalty, returned 
 to Paris with an armed force, and procured, under the hand and 
 seal of the king, a pardon " for what had lately happened to the 
 Duke of Orleans." 
 
 Such boldly acted, and lightly treated atrocities, glaringly 
 bespeak the lawless disorder of those times ; and place vividly 
 before us the disti-acted state of the realm and of social condition. 
 
 Valentina was at Chateau-Thierry towards the close of the yeai 
 1407, when she learned the fatal tidings of her husband's violent 
 death. His blood seemed to cry aloud for avenging retribution ; 
 and she resolved to obtain this last and sole-remaining satisfaction 
 to his manes. First placing her children in safety — for a faction 
 capable of committing so flagrant a deed, taught her to take the 
 precaution of securing them from possible harm — she sent her 
 family to Blois, while she herself repaired to Paris. Arrived there, 
 she traversed the city accompanied by a long train of women in 
 mourning garments, and went to throw herself at the king's feet, 
 beseeching ven^^eance on the murderers of her husband. The 
 feeble-minded prince promised her redress, with all the marlis of 
 sincere emotion ; but he was a mere puppet in the hands of others, 
 and he had no power to gain for her what he engaged to procure. 
 The widowed duchess, with her sable-clad attendants, moving along 
 the streets of the capital to demand royal vengeance for her mur- 
 dered lord, offers one of those solemn pictures to the imagination 
 of modern times, which then appealed straight to the hearts of liv- 
 ing eye-witnesses. In unlettered ages, when printing was unknown, 
 and when even reading and writing were confined to veriest few, 
 the people had to be addressed in visible tokens. Public opinion 
 was enlisted for or against, by symbols ; public sympathy or jiublic 
 indignation, public favour or public animosity were best and most
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 181 
 
 effectually stii'red by presented images. Verbal repoi't was used 
 as a means of prepossessing, or prejudicing ; wliile visual signs were 
 made the medium of active impression. Contemporary history 
 shows that Valentina's public procession through the streets of 
 Paris, was by no means a singular case of popular apjieal. The life 
 of Isabeau herself affords many such examples ; and while testifying 
 the mode of making those graphic appeals, it accumulates instances 
 of the wild misrule then prevailing. On one occasion, when suc- 
 cessfully grasping at dominant power, this brazen queen caused the 
 acts of her administration to be proclaimed, created a parliament, 
 had a great seal engraved, representing herself with extended arms, 
 towards imploring France ; and entitling herself in all papers 
 issued in her name, " Lsabeau, by the grace of God, Queen of 
 France, holding, as regent for his majesty, the King, the govern- 
 ment and administration." At another time, we find her sid- 
 ing with his enemies against her own son, the Dauphin ; degrad- 
 ing France by treaties with the English, and sacrificing her 
 country's interest to her own, by effecting an alliance in marriage 
 between her daughter Katharine and Hemy V. of England. 
 Isabeau is a veritable " wicked queen " of the stamp depicted in 
 fiction. She is like a royal heroine of melodrama. She had lover 
 after lover ; and stifled her pangs for the loss of each, by taking a 
 new one. She converted love into a means of satisfying hate ; and 
 turned hatred into love, when it served the purposes of her passion 
 for power. The three lovers whom she especially favoured, each 
 met with a tragical end. The Duke of Orleans was assassinated ; 
 Louis de Boisbourdon was tortured, and flung into the river ; and 
 the Duke of Burgundy was stabbed to the heart. The fate of the 
 second was marked by that savage detail, characteristic of the 
 period in question. The queen's amour with the young ofiicer, 
 Louis de Boisbourdon, becoming suspected, he was seized, loaded
 
 182 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 
 
 witli chains, subjected to the torture, forced to confess his crime, 
 thrown into the Seine at night, fastened in a leathern sack bearing 
 this inscription : — " Make way for the king's justice." In the 
 period of her disgrace, when she was deprived of her jewels and 
 treasure, and sent captive to Tours, Isabeau changed her ancient 
 enmity towards Jean sans peur, Duke of Burgimdy, and murderer 
 of her first lover, the Duke of Orleans, into favour ; sent for him, 
 Avon him to her cause, and effected her liberation from prison by 
 his means. A traitor gave admittance to the Burgundian party 
 into Paris, where they made horrible massacre of the Ai-magnacs — 
 the faction for the time in power ; and Queen Isabeau, with her 
 new lover, came to the capital, escorted by twelve hundred men-at- 
 arms. Her entry wore the air of a triumph. She appeared, 
 mounted on a car. Flowers were strewn in her way as she passed — 
 along those very streets fresh stained with the blood shed in the 
 massacre just perpetrated on her behalf. In those very streets, too, 
 where her early lover, Louis of Orleans, had been murdered ; and 
 where his young widow and her mourning train had passed to seek 
 redress. 
 
 Valentina's interview with the king was followed by no effect- 
 ive result. The queen, whose own selfish sorrow at the loss of the 
 Duke of Orleans, inspired her with no commiseration for the 
 rightful grief of his unappy wife, sent her away from court. Val- 
 entina retired to Blois and remained with her childi'en ; but she 
 did not cease from demanding justice. She even made a second 
 attempt to engage the sympathies of the citizens of Paris, by once 
 more appearing before them, robed in black, and attended by her 
 weeping women, on her way to obtain a hearing for her dolorous 
 plea of the unavenged wrong done to her husband ; but the im- 
 punity which then attended crime, and the ascendancy of the 
 culprit, rendered all her efforts unavailing. The j^oignant regret
 
 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 183 
 
 she felt at tlie death of a husband, whose many wrongs towards 
 her could not destroy her love for him, reduced her to a despair 
 which brought her to the grave. Her husband's natural son, 
 Dunois, was then at Blois, with her own children, and the gener- 
 ous tenderness she extended towards this gallant youth — treathig 
 him with no less affection than the rest — was rewarded by a 
 devoted attachment on his part. Finding herself on her death- 
 bed, Valentina caused them to assemble around her, and charged 
 them ever to behave so as to sustain the honour and glory of their 
 house ; and, above all, to persevere in seeking to obtain vengeance 
 for their father's barbarous murder. Dunois responded to her 
 appeal with more of spirit and determination than the others ; and 
 she exclaimed : — " He was stolen from me ; I ought to have been 
 his mother." 
 
 This noble-hearted lady, and womanly princess, died in 1408, 
 at the age of thirty-eight only ; after having yielded to the world an 
 example of the brightest virtue preserved unsullied in the midst of 
 a profligate court, the softest kindness amidst times the most vio- 
 lent and tm'bulent, the mildest forbearance under injurious treat- 
 ment from her husband, and the tenderest constancy towards his 
 memory. Her gentle patience with the king, and her feminine 
 soothings of his malady, are in consonance with the delicate gene- 
 rosity of her behaviour towards " le beau Dunois." A heart like 
 hers could find candour of allowance for human failing ; and could 
 pluck out the core of sweetness that exists within outwardly bitter 
 husks. 
 
 The motto she adopted in her widowhood, e^'inces the utter 
 despondence which took possession of that gentle heart when it 
 had lost the husband who owned its pure and fond affection. The 
 ■simplicity of the wording, enhances the soft plaint and touching 
 resignation of the device : —
 
 184 VALENTINE DE MILAN. 
 
 "Rien ne m'est plus; 
 Plus ne m'est rien." 
 
 [" For me naught henceforth ; 
 Henceforth naught to me."] 
 
 The hereditary riglils of Valentlna, in the Milanese territory, 
 subsequently became an occasion for those wars in Italy which two 
 of the kings of France — both grandsons of hers, Louis XII. and 
 Francis I. — carried on there. She, who was one of the most for- 
 bearing of women, to be made the source of an aggressive warfare 
 upon her native country, seems like a posthumous injury to her 
 eentle nature. The character of Valentina stands "forth in the 
 centre of the discord and licence that surrounded her, like a pure 
 statue of white marlile in a city given up to the bloodshed and 
 rapine of conquering soldiery.
 
 *
 
 W'
 
 JOAN D'ARC. 
 
 From the surging populace of great cities, even from the glittering 
 swarm of palaces, may come military heroes and managers of the 
 state — mere fighters and schemers ; but from the thoughtful quiet 
 and sweet shadow of humble rural life come oftenest the leaders 
 and deliverers of the people, and they for whom wait the divine 
 agonies and sombre triumphs of martyrdom. It is by communing 
 with God, more than with man, that they learn the true grandeur 
 of humanity and the sacredness of human liberty. It is by " nour- 
 ishing a youth sublime " on the simple elements of nature, on the 
 healthful calm of solitude, far away from the belittling follies and 
 degrading passions of the world, that the soul elect to redeem, or 
 to expiate, takes to itself the fiery forces of the hero and the 
 grand sustaining faith of the martyr. 
 
 The unobstructed sight of earth and sky — the dewy sweetness 
 and reverent stillness of early dawn — the unveiled glories of mid- 
 day, the pomp of sunset, the majesty of night — sun and storm, the 
 freedom of winds, the strength of torrents, all minister to them con- 
 tinually, in silent, subtle ways. Even the flowers of the field, 
 brightening lonely places with their prodigal yet beneficent lives, 
 and the trees of the forest, blessing earth with liberal shade, 
 24
 
 186 JOAN D'AR C. 
 
 and stretcWng up yearningly toward heaven, are to them types and 
 teachers of the divinest truths and destinies of humanity. From 
 all they behold of the natural world — ^its marvels, its splen- 
 dours and delights, they learn reverence for man, for whom God 
 has cared and planned so much, and reverence for God from all 
 things, great or small — from the insect, that flashes into life and 
 dances in the sunshine of a single day, to the planet that for ages 
 of ages has wheeled through the limitless heavens ; — from the fire- 
 fly, throbbing out his little radiance in the dusky dell, to the great 
 central fountain of lio-ht at which the worlds drink. 
 
 The chosen of the Lord, the last champion of Freedom, the 
 heroic soul sent to meet some fearful crisis in the life of nations, to 
 lead, save, or avenge the people, is almost always simple, pious and 
 primitive. So was David, the shepherd - king of Israel — so was 
 Wallace, so was Tell, so to a degree was Washington, so was Char- 
 lotte Corday, and so, beyond all, was that beautiful marvel of 
 womanhood and sainthood, Joan D'Arc. 
 
 Nothing could have been lovelier, more sylvan and tranquil 
 than the opening scene in the life-tragedy of La Pticdle. The 
 quaint httle AoUage of Domremy, on the Meuse, and near the vast 
 forest of the Vosges — the humble cottage of Jaques D'Ai'c, ala- 
 bourer — close on to the dense and fairy-haunted Bois Chenus. 
 
 On the May morning when Joan was born — when the fear and 
 the anguish were past, and the peasant-mother slept a sleeji that 
 was like a heavenly trance, deep, and sweet, and calm as God's 
 peace, — slept, yet felt through all, the new life astir in her bo- 
 som, the blind wandering of the soft iittle hands, the faint breath- 
 ing of the small, rosy mouth, — could she have beheld that form 
 when scarce grown to womanhood, encased in armour — ^that hand 
 bearing the banner, the sword or the battle-axe — those lips utter- 
 ing prophecies, rallyiug-cries, or words of vain defence — could the
 
 JOAN D'ARC. 187 
 
 red lights of battle and of martyrdom have flamed through her 
 dreams, how would she have shrieked herself out of sleep to clasp 
 . her baby closer, with, tears and wild caresses ! 
 
 But we may not suppose that any such prophetic intimation of 
 the strange destiny that awaited her child came then or after, to 
 trouble the peace of Isabella D'Ai'c. The little Joan grew up 
 good and beautiful, modest, devout and obedient, and her parents 
 had doubtless great joy in her, hoping for her length of days, ac- 
 cording to the promise — ^peace, the good-will of their little world, 
 and humble happiness. 
 
 But this was not to be. Joan came in a troublous time. 
 France, after a mighty struggle, was sinking at last, in the long, 
 unequal contest; — the Lion of England was at her throat — ^the 
 fierce factions of Burgundians and Armagnacs were rending h&.' 
 limbs apart. War, famine, pestilence, treason, rapine — all imagina- 
 ble crimes and miseries desolated the land. More groans than 
 prayers ascended to Heaven, — for the gift of life, went up curses — 
 for the smiling sunshine, the blaze of burning hamlets — for the 
 sweet silent fall of dews, the rank exhalations of blood, crying to 
 God for vengeance. On the throne, a crazed king — Heniy of 
 England declared the heir — Charles the Dauj^hin disinherited 
 and proscribed — ^the English arms overrunning and laying waste 
 the realm, — was ever kingdom, or people in a more piteous and 
 humiliating strait ? 
 
 All classes felt it, — into the most remote and sheltered village 
 came the shame and the sadness^ over the sunniest spot hung the 
 shadow of the nation's misfortune. It came even to Domi-emy, 
 and lay very dark and heavy on the soul of the little maid Joan. 
 It filled her heart, her young girl's heart, which should have been 
 as full of gladness and music as a nest of singing-birds, with a 
 strange yearning, a vague, but noble melancholy, a divine sorrow, —
 
 188 JOAN D'ARC. 
 
 or as she more simply and grandly expressed it, " the pity for the 
 realm of FranceT This " pity " left her neither by night nor day. 
 It was with her in her humble domestic labours, in the fields, with 
 her flocks, under the fairies' tree, — in the old oak wood, beside the 
 fountain, before the shrine, in the chapel, and in her little chamber. 
 
 Most melodious to her ear and dear to her heart were the 
 chimes of the chapel-bells ; but she loved better than these — bet- 
 ter than the chanting of holy monks, to hear from her mother's lips 
 the legends of saints and prophetesses — of Miriam, of Judith, of the 
 blessed saints, Catherine and Margaret. As she listened, the flash- 
 ing of her deep, dark eyes betrayed the fire of zeal and enthusiasm 
 kindled in her soul. She longed to inspire others, or herself to 
 accomplish some noble work for her country and her God. Then 
 she would blush with holy shame at her presumption, and say — 
 " What am I, that I should so aspire ! — I who am scarce worthy 
 to pray." 
 
 She sought to fuse all her aspirations, her longings, her fears 
 and sorrows and pity into prayer. In all things possible she con- 
 formed her outer life to the example of her " brothers and sisters 
 in Paradise " — her inner life was hidden with God. She haunted 
 the chapel and lonely wayside shrines, dropping tears with her 
 beads. Her breath became as incense — ^her pure body a temple 
 of the Spu'it. She vowed herself to holiness, chastity, and the ser- 
 vice of the Lord. 
 
 Joan was yet a child when she had her first vision. It did not 
 come to her at night, or in the solemn shades of the forest, or dim 
 aisles of the church ; but at noontide, on a summer day, in her 
 father's garden. She saw a bright light, and heard a heavenly 
 voice saying, "• Joan, be a good girl," — ^little more than that ; yet 
 the timid child was frightened, and told no one at the time. 
 
 Again and again came the visions, and, at last, she grew famil
 
 JOAND'ARC. 189 
 
 iar with lier celestial visitors, Michael, and Margaret, and Cathe- 
 I'iiie, and could recognize them by their voices. When they told 
 her to go to the help of her king and country, she answered sim- 
 ply, " I am only a poor peasant girl : I know not how to ride or 
 lead men-at-arms ; " but when they clearly directed her to go to 
 the Governor of Vaucouleurs for aid, and jjromised to befriend 
 and guide her, she bowed her meek head in devout, though tearful 
 resignation to a destiny full of strange terrors, peril and mystery. 
 
 She left her home, her parents, her brothers, the sisters of her 
 heart, the poor and suffering she had ministered to, the flocks and 
 herds she had tended, the fairies' tree, the fountain, the chapel — 
 all the dear places sanctified by her earthly loves and celestial 
 visions, and went before the Governor of Vaucouleurs, a great and 
 terrible personage to her, and calmly proclaimed her sublime mis- 
 sion and her divine appointment. 
 
 How the Sire de Baudricourt scoffed at first, and refused all 
 aid — ^how the people, the common peoj^le, always wiser than their 
 rulers, believed ; and how the hard scepticism of the rude soldier 
 gave way at last, before the simple eloquence, the holy zeal, the sol- 
 emn persistency of the inspired peasant girl — how she clad herself in 
 a man's dress for her man's work, and buckled a sword about her 
 slender waist — ^how she tore herself from the arms of parents and 
 weeping friends — how with a little train of followers, she traversed 
 provinces bristhng with the lances of the foe, deserts, forests, and 
 marshes overflowed by wintry floods, we know ; but all she suf- 
 fered, all she sacrificed, the fiery strife that rent her tender heart — 
 the grief, the dread of that parting, the secret shrinking of her 
 modest and sensitive natm-e from the unmaidenly work to which 
 she was called, we can never know. 
 
 Very brightly and serenely she passed through the ordeals that 
 awaited her at Chinon and at Poitiers, undazzled by the pomps and
 
 190 JOAND'ARC. 
 
 splendours of tlie court, undismayed by the .awful council of 
 learned doctors, unbewildered by their cunning questioning, their 
 theological subtleties and sophistries, unshaken by the doubts and 
 feai-s of priestly infidelity. Through the blackening cloud of base 
 suspicion, through the blinding mists of metaphysics, her pure and 
 ardent soul burned its way. Like the chUd- Christ, she confounded 
 the doctors. 
 
 Again the common people believed in her, and said, " The 
 maid is of God." Women hailed her with joy as a new revelation 
 of the Virgin — children clasped their little hands in adoration and 
 lisped out Aves. 
 
 What a glorious and marvellous vision she must have seemed to 
 people, nobles, priests, and soldiers, when she took her place at 
 the head of the army, in her shining armour, on her black war- 
 horse, her battle-axe and the sword of St. Catherine at her side, 
 her sacred banner in her hand, her beautiful head uncovered, her 
 lovely childlike face radiant with a saintly enthusiasm ! 
 
 And how grand was her entrance into Orleans — the brave and 
 suffering city which had long been praying for her coming — the 
 fair promise of ages — " the Pucelle of the Marches of Lorraine, who 
 was to save the realm." 
 
 She enters at night, in the midst of a storm of thunder and 
 lightning; yet the people crowd around her, eager to pay her 
 almost divine honours. Down each dark street they pour, like 
 torrents — the thunder rolls above them, the rain beats upon them 
 unheeded; — every flash of lightning reveals to the Maid thousands 
 of pale, famished faces, thousands of awe-struck, wistful eyes, 
 hungry for the help she brings. Her war-horse labours through 
 the human flood, and bears her, not to the rest and refreshment 
 her tired body so needs, but to church, to oflier up prayers and 
 thanksgiving. As she prostrates herself on the cold marble floor,
 
 JOAN D'A R C. 191 
 
 before the image of lier Lord, and the silver clang of her armour 
 rings through the church, the people who have followed her, kneel 
 also, scarcely knowing if they are worshii:)ping the creature or the 
 Creator. And from that girlish figure, kneeling with clasped 
 hands, Efting a face pale with mortal weariness, yet strong with 
 divine power — the long dark locks dripping over it, and mingling 
 rain with tears, a wave of devotion seems to flow down the long 
 dim aisle, and out into the open street, prostrating the crowd, who 
 weep, give thanks, and adore. 
 
 From the church, Joan repaired to the house of the duke's 
 treasurer, who entertained her during her stay in Orleans. His 
 wife and family received her kindly, and one of the daughters, 
 Charlotte, shared her chamber and bed. One can but wonder if 
 Charlotte slept much that night, side by side with that wonderful, 
 beautiful, anomalous creature — ^that tender virgin, who had just 
 laid off the armour of the warrior — that prophet, seer, and leader 
 of armies, who, even in her dreams, talked with her saints, and 
 murmured of battles and sieges. 
 
 But though the soul of the Maid was exalted to almost super- 
 human heights of heroism and devotion, her woman's heart was 
 most -nomanly. When, as she rode around the walls, and sum- 
 moned the besiegers to surrender, or commanded them to depart, 
 they returned railing, curses and vile epithets, she shrank and bent 
 under their stinging insults, as from a pelting hail-storm, and cov- 
 ering her burning face with her hands, wept bitterly. Then came 
 to her a voice which none else could hear, a voice of love and 
 strengthening, and she looked up comforted, saying : — " I have had 
 news of my Lord." 
 
 Joan has been compared to David of Israel ; yet surely there 
 is little likeness beyond the fact that she sometimes tended her 
 father's flocks. David, a youth " ruddy " and " goodly to look
 
 192 JOAND'ARC. 
 
 upon," came singing and harping to the camp of the king, uncon- 
 scious of the work before him. Joan, a maiden, pale with the 
 passion of her sublime purpose, came praying and fighting — or, at 
 least, leading fighters, for it was afifirmed, and we like to believe 
 it true, that her hand and holy sword were never stained with 
 blood of her own shedding. She comprehended, in all its magni- 
 tude and peril, the work to which she was called. She had meas- 
 ured her GoUah, and knew that his fall would shake the realm, 
 and mis^ht crush her. When Da\ad's envious brother said to him 
 — " Why comest thou down hither ? and with whom hast thou left 
 those few sheep in the wilderness ? " it is very likely that David 
 smiled quietly, and went on adjusting the avenging pebble in his 
 sling — ^but when the English Glasdale cried out to Joan to " go 
 back to her cows," she wept. Both knew that " the battle was 
 the Lord's "■ — but David flung his fiery young heart into the thick 
 of the fight, into the fury of carnage — Joan's heart was down 
 among the fallen, bleeding with every wound that carried mortal 
 anguish to friend or foe. David devoted his enemies to indiscrim- 
 inate slaughter, and "pursued after them;" Joan, magnanimous 
 and merciful, wept over the dead, comforted the wounded, and 
 spared the flying. 
 
 Throughout the siege of Orleans, how infinitely she transcended 
 the boldest and brightest ideals of the enthusiast and the poet! 
 How grand was she in courage and endurance, how childlike in 
 her simplicity and faith, how di\ane in her " pity." Nothing long 
 disturbed the lofty calm of her perfect trust, the serenity and poise 
 of a modest self-respect, and a simple dignity surpassing the utmost 
 pride of kings, putting to shame the frigid hauteur of queens. 
 Even insult and treachery from those who should have honoured 
 her most, and implicitly obeyed her, as one who spoke and acted 
 as she believed, and they professed to believe, by divine authority,
 
 JOAND'ARC 193 
 
 all failed to moye her to violence. When she heard that a secret 
 council had been held, at which opposite measures from those she 
 advised had been resolved upon, though she saw clearly the un- 
 worthy object of her envious confederates, and must have felt a 
 noble scorn of passions so reckless and so mean, she only said 
 quietly, " You have been at your council ; I have been at mine." 
 
 She had resolved, or rather, as she would have said, " the voices " 
 had told her, that the daring and decisive movement, the attack 
 on the Tournelles, should be made on Saturday, the 7th of May — 
 and who should gainsay her, through whose lips spoke the power 
 and the wisdom that dwelt not in armies, or in councils of men ? 
 At dawn, she went forth, fasting, but strong and full of hope and 
 courage, at the head of a few men-at-arms and a crowd of citizens, 
 eager to follow wherever their fighting angel should lead — -in- 
 spired with one pur2:)ose, one faith, one soul. 
 
 The stoutest English hearts quailed when they beheld this 
 multitude hurled against their bastilles in one stupendous ava- 
 lanche of valour and of fury ; but they shrank with superstitious 
 dread, crossed themselves, and muttered holy woi'ds with white 
 lips, when they beheld Joan, cheering and leading on the assail- 
 ants, her silver armour flashing back the sun, her snowy ban- 
 ner swimming on the breezy air of morn ! What arm of flesh, 
 what mortal valour could withstand this superhuman adversary, 
 this fair young witch, this avenging Nemesis, with the face of an 
 angel— this radiant portent, this beautiful terror ! 
 
 Yet one steadied his brain with sturdy hate, and fixed his dazed 
 
 eye long enough to direct an arrow toward that shining form — or 
 
 it may have been a chance shaft that struck her. Certain it is, 
 
 that Joan was on this day wounded, for the first time, just as she 
 
 was about to mount the wall of the redoubt. She had prophesied 
 
 this ; yet when the cruel arrow plunged into her breast, and the 
 25
 
 194 JOAND'ARC. 
 
 warm blood jetted out over her corselet, slie trembled and burst 
 into tears. The human bled, the woman wept, but the devout 
 heroic soul neither fainted nor despaired. 
 
 For a little while she consented to be borne from the scene of 
 conflict, that her wound might be dressed. Then, comforted and 
 strengthened by her " holy ones," she rose from the grass, wet with 
 her precious blood, (the spot should have grown the lilies of 
 France ever after,) and staggered back to her place in the van. 
 But she found the assailants giving way. It seemed that her 
 wound had drained their hearts of courage. Dunois sounded a 
 retreat, but Joan only counselled them to " rest awhUe, eat and 
 drink." For herself, she prayed. Then she directed that her 
 sacred banner should again be borne against the redoubt, pro- 
 mising victory the moment it should touch the wall. And no 
 sooner were its silken folds seen to surge and ripple against the 
 dark stone, than seized with a fiery impulse of faith and valour, 
 citizens and men-at-arms bounded up the ladders, leaped over the 
 walls, and all was won ! Better than balsam for her wound, and 
 strong wine for her weakness, were to Joan, the victorious shouts 
 of her people. Almost with the same breath she thanked God for 
 the deliverance of Orleans, and prayed his mercy on the souls of 
 the English perishing in battle, or drowning in the Loire. 
 
 The next day, the ninth from that of Joan's entrance into 
 Orleans, the siege was raised and the enemy retreated. Joan for- 
 bade pursuit, saying, " Let them go — it is Sunday." 
 
 Fi'om this, to the crowning at Rheims, how marvellous, how 
 almost passing belief were the acts, and the triumphs of the maid ! 
 — Sweeping on from victory to victory, mysteriously led by an 
 imagination exalted above human reason — by a divine instinct, by 
 a sometJiing awful and infallible, moving ever before her — ^her 
 cloud by day, and her fire by night. What mere hero ever united
 
 JOAND'ARC. 195 
 
 such tigli, unselfisli aims, such faith, such sanctity, to such a genius for 
 war, surpassing and utterly confounding the cunning and strategy, 
 the venerable precedents, the " wise saws and modern instances " 
 of military art. Her successes vindicated her " wUd wisdom," and 
 showed that the haste and boldness of her movements were but 
 prudence and forethought, fused into a passion. At the time when 
 she urged upon Charles the Dauphin the daring policy of marching 
 at once to Rheims, to be crowned before his rival, the boy-king of 
 England — thus securing to himself a most important advantage, a 
 solemn prestige which nothing could set aside — she was opposed 
 by his oldest and so-called wisest counsellors, who all advised 
 delay. Even the soldiers, who had been ready to pay her divine 
 honours in the horn* of victory, doubted and feared. With them, 
 enthusiasm was but the light crackhng flame of fagots, burning 
 itself out with the occasion, and leaving merely ashes for the winds 
 to scatter — in her, it was the intense glow of molten metal, flowing 
 into the heaven-formed moulds of great deeds, and hardening for 
 immortality. In their coarser natures, her mystic illumination 
 became the wUd light of superstition — ^her faith, fanaticism — ^her 
 courage, ferocity — her righteous anger, the fury of rapine and 
 revenge. 
 
 Yet she led them on, wherever her " holy ones " beckoned — 
 led those fierce French captains like bloodhounds in leash, sullen 
 and rebellious, yet yielding a growling obedience — led the soldiers, 
 at first, doubting and grumbling — then, as victory followed victory, 
 again wondering and adoring — ^led the daily augmenting hosts of 
 the people, a motley multitude, some inspired with her inspiration, 
 her love and " pity for the realm of France," some desperate with 
 wretchedness and wrong — worn wrestlers with pestilence and 
 famine, gaunt and ferocious as starved wolves, and mad with the 
 sharper hunger of long unsatisfied hate.
 
 196 JOAN D'ARC. 
 
 In the coronation at Rheims, who does not feel that the real 
 crown descended on the bowed head of the Maid? A crown 
 beside -which the circle of gold and jewels that flashed about the 
 brows of Charles was but the veriest bauble that ever a child 
 sported with ? And when she fell at his feet, and, weeping en- 
 treated that she might be allowed to sheath her sword and fold her 
 banner for ever — to return to her home, and the tending of her 
 flocks at Domremy — to her humble household duties and loves, 
 who does not feel that she was higher and gi'ander than any 
 monarch that ever lived ? 
 
 How soon after leaving Rheims the Maid's path begins to 
 darken to us, with the vast shadows of doom stretching backward 
 from Rouen ! To her it only seemed dark and doubtful after the 
 visions and the voices left her at St. Denys. Repulsed and 
 wounded in the attack on Paris, she saw what the end would be, 
 and nerved her great soul to meet it. With what sublime patience, 
 with what pathetic grandeur her nature endured the darkness and 
 the storm of the evil days, and rose above misfortunes and 
 reverses ! When her sword of St. Catherine was broken — when 
 her sacred banner had trailed in the dust — when, wounded in vain, 
 she had been borne by her soldiers away from a lost battle — when 
 her king reproached and courtiers scofied, blaspheming against her 
 "holy ones" — when her enemies railed, and the heavens were 
 dumb — when men were faithless, and angels forgetful — still, 
 through cloud, as through sunhght, from the valley of humiliation 
 as from the heights of triumph, she looked upward and prayed. 
 When her Lord hid his countenance from her, she clutched at the 
 hem of his garment. 
 
 At the siege of Saint Pierre-le-Moustiers, where she gained a 
 victory, though almost deserted by her men, a glorious "\nsion of 
 heavenly aid was vouchsafed to her. One of her followers testified
 
 JOAN D'ARC. 197 
 
 that seeing the Pucelle ajiart, he asked what she was doing there 
 alone, and she taking her helmet from her head, replied that she 
 was not alone, but had in her company fifty thousand of her people, 
 and that she would not leave the spot until she had taken the 
 town. " And yet," adds the witness, " for all that she said, she had 
 with her no more than four or five men." 
 
 This Danlon was like the servant of the prophet, before his 
 eyes were opened to see the airy army of the saints militant — " the 
 horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha." 
 
 On the night when Joan was taken captive in a sortie from 
 Compiegne — in reality, betrayed into the hands of her enemies, she 
 is said to have prophesied her approaching fate in the church of St. 
 Jaques. After ha\'ing partaken of the holy sacrament, she stood 
 leaning against a pillar, and looking round on the people and the 
 little children, with tender, wistful sadness ; then she said — " My 
 good fi-iends and my dear children, I tell you of a surety, there is 
 a man who has sold me ; I am betrayed, and shall soon be given 
 up to death. Pray to God for me, I beseech you ; for I shall no 
 longer be able to serve my king, or the noble realm of France." 
 
 Does not this scene, do not these words recall a yet more 
 solemn communion — a more august voice of prophecy, of loving 
 and sorrowful farewell ? 
 
 During the nine dark heavy months of her imprisonment, 
 dragged from fortress to fortress, from prison to prison — now in 
 the lofty towers of Beaulieu, and Beaurevoir, where she was tempted 
 for the help of the poor people of Compiegne to fling herself down, 
 vainly hoping that her angels would bear her up, — now in the low 
 donjon-keep of Crotoy, where she looked out on the restless sea, 
 toward the land of her pitiless foes — betrayed, humiliated, " sold 
 for a price," loaded with chains, insulted, and reviled ; spat at and 
 buffeted by Christian England — maligned and abandoned by
 
 198 JOAN D' ARC. 
 
 Christian France — alone, absolutely alone in this awful strait, her 
 lofty and courageous soul remained unsubdued, undismayed — re- 
 gretting not the past, despairing not for the future, neither rej^roach- 
 ing craven friends, nor railing at unmanly foes. 
 
 Yet we cannot but believe that her bitterest secret tears were 
 shed over the coldness of her followers and the cowardly indifference 
 of her sovereign. He who but for the crown she placed upon his 
 head, would have stood unroofed to the heavens — but for the help 
 she brought, would still have been a royal outlaw — hunted per- 
 chance among caves and rocky fastnesses, while his child-rival 
 played securely at kingship, under the red shadow of Winchester 
 — ^he, so immeasurably in her debt, stood aloof from her in the 
 hour of her great need, and sunk his poor soul into depths of 
 infamy unfiithomable. To her whose career was the sole glory of 
 his reign, whose blood had consecrated his crowning more than the 
 holy oil of the Priest, he had made this return ; — ^he gave at her 
 humble entreaty, exemption from taxation to Domremy — he 
 gilded against her wish "the refined gold " of heroic sanctity, and 
 painted " the lily " of chaste womanhood by his miserable letters 
 of nobility. Behold all ! 
 
 In the history of every Republic there are pages blackened 
 with the proverbial crime of Republics, — and how few portraits of 
 Princes can be painted to the life, without the blush, or the brand 
 of the same low crime. How many a beautiful young champion has 
 made his Sovereign " wroth " by the very glory of his triumphs, 
 has been " eyed " with evil suspicion, and heard the air sing with 
 the javelins of kingly jealousy : — ^how many a faithful, white- 
 bearded soldier, with loyalty written in wounds upon his 
 breast, has been driven from court and camp, in age, poverty, and 
 misfortune, like a grand old war-horse turned out on the world's 
 wide common to die ; — how many a statesman, with his life woven
 
 JOAND'ARC. 199 
 
 into the woof of his country's laws, and whose acts are epochs in 
 her history, has been royally frowned out of power and place ; — 
 how many a noble voyager has returned with a bowed head and 
 manacled hands from the quest of continents, from pointing out 
 the track of empires and unlocking the mystery of ages. But 
 what single, gigantic ingratitude of prince, from Saul to Ferdinand 
 — what monstrous, concrete ingratitude of Republic ever equalled 
 in wickedness and baseness, the ingratitude of Charles ? The hor- 
 ror of it seems stamped into the heart of the world — ^the shame of 
 it seems yet to blush in the blood of the race. 
 
 Joan D'Arc was brought to trial on the 21st of May, 1431, 
 before a tribunal of priests — mastly dark, wily, unscrupidous men, 
 the tools of Cauchon, bishop of Beauvais, the tool of Cardinal 
 Winchester. After the full and eloquent account of M. Michelet, 
 it were needless for us, even had we space, to give the details of 
 this strange trial, this monstrous mockery of justice, wherein the 
 bribed and bigoted judges took their seats resolved to give the 
 undefended and uubefriended prisoner not even the benefit of a 
 merciful doubt — to shut their eyes and harden their hearts for con- 
 viction and doom. They arrayed against the Maid all the terrors 
 of ecclesiastical law — they frowned upon her with the black wrath 
 of the Church — they prepared theological pitfalls for her feet — 
 they wove about her snares of cunning subtleties, fine as air — ^they 
 dressed up lies as truths, and truths as lies. But she feared no 
 human law while conscious of perfect obedience to the divine. 
 The terrors of the Church could not awe or alarm, while she was 
 sure of God, nor the power of priests darken the sunshine of his 
 acceptance; her simple faith bridged unconsciously the pitfalls 
 they had dug with demoniac patience — to her child-eyes their mar- 
 vellous snares of cunning subtleties were but frail, trans2:)arent 
 webs, spun by human spiders — black, venomous creatures, but
 
 200 JOAND'ARC. 
 
 powerless to hold or harm her. As for the \'iper-llke doubts with 
 which they sought to sting her soul, she flung them off unhurt ; 
 the poison would not work in her pure blood. 
 
 She neither denied her faith, nor defied her fate. Like a vir- 
 gin-martyi- in the arena, surrounded by curious and mocking foes, 
 while that soft-footed, sleek-coated, priestly hate crept around and 
 around her, nigher and nigher, with a glare of fierce exultation 
 and hot pantings of blood-thu'st, she neither crouched nor towered, 
 but stood erect and calm, in the simple majesty of innocence and 
 maidenhood, sublime in resignation. 
 
 Again and again, upon her trial, she expressed her unshaken 
 faith in God, her rehance upon his goodness, her submission to his 
 will. In vain they applied the rack of inquisition to her soul — 
 they extorted no murmur of weak fear, no faintest shriek of athe- 
 ism. In vain they sought to involve her in a labyrinth of doubts, 
 contradictions and metaphysical objections, — ^sheheld fast to a clue 
 invisible to them, by which she felt her way back to God. 
 
 One of her judges asked — " Joan, do you believe yourself in a 
 state of grace ? " — a cruel and momentous question to put to any 
 human soul, — ^Ijut what mingled meekness and wisdom in lier 
 reply : 
 
 " If I am not, may God be pleased to receive me into it ; if I 
 am, may God be pleased to keep me in it." 
 
 At length, after months of exammation and intimidation came 
 the horrible public parade of judges, preachers, men-at-arms, execu- 
 tioners, torturers, all to confi-ont and terrify one jioor gh'l, pale 
 and weak with recent illness, long imprisonment, anxiety, sorrow, 
 and barbarous usage. On a towering scaflbld in the cemetery of 
 St. Ouen, with memento m.ori written in grave-mounds around her 
 — with grim torturers at her side and the executioner waiting in his 
 cart, beneath her, she was betrayed, tricked into signing a revoca-
 
 JOAND'ARC. 201 
 
 tion. A brief, nnimportaiit paper was read to lier, which she 
 could sign without treason to her " holy ones " or her own soul. 
 And she signed — not that, but a paper which had been artfully 
 substituted — a long, humiliating, traitorous recantation. Then fol- 
 lowed "the sentence of grace!" — the condemnation to life-long 
 imprisonment, penance, and a woman's dress. Then, sent not to one 
 of the prisons of the church, where she woidd have had " ghostly 
 keepers," but back to her old dungeon, where she found herself 
 surrounded by rude soldiers, with no defence against their vengeful 
 hate and brutal passion; manacled, deprived of her male dress, 
 the last trap of monkish craft Avas sprung upon her — the vile 
 fiendish plot by which her virgin purity was made to cost her the 
 cruellest pains of martyrdom. Robbed in the night of her wo- 
 man's robes, she put on her soldier's dress, with no martial thrill in 
 her heavy heart — with no delight in its tinkle and bravery. 
 
 How exulted then her implacable foreign foes and her priestly 
 persecutors — ^how they crowded around the pit into which she had 
 fallen at last, and laughed down upon her in horrible joy. Eng- 
 ILsh and French forgot the fierce enmity of ages, in the grim sym- 
 pathy of superstition, in the fraternity of hate. 
 
 Mr. De Quincey, in that remarkable Essay upon Joan of Arc, 
 in which he seems for a time to be beating off with light jesting 
 and querulous cavilling the full realization of the piteous tragedy of 
 Joan's story, that nevertheless possesses him at last, and fills him 
 with glorious frenzy — argues that M. Michelet bears too severely 
 upon the English for their share in the persecution and martyrdom 
 of the Maid ; and that the French priests, who acted as the tools 
 of Winchester in trying and condemning her, and the French 
 king and people who made no efFort to save her, were more guilty 
 than the English, who had, at least, the excuse of foes, and defeated 
 foes, with lost honour and blood to avenge. It were a difficult, 
 26
 
 '202 JOAN D'ARC. 
 
 and, perhaps, presumptuous tiling, to portion out and balance such 
 gigantic crime — only God's hand can weigh mountains. The flames 
 of the martyrdom of that single woman, that girl of nineteen, are 
 still the lurid light hj which the world reads the character of her 
 people and her king — and, stretching across the channel, they fall 
 as ghastly illuminations on a dark page of English history. 
 
 At one time, Joan's enemies had feared that she would escape 
 them — that the death-angel would dash from her lips the " bitter 
 cup " they had mixed for her. It was when she feU ill in Passion- 
 Week, with home-sickness and soul-sickness, rather than any bodily 
 disease. A sweet, kindly breath of the spring air, which searched 
 into her dungeon, and thrilled through the noisome, stagnant air, 
 a few brave and loving sunbeams smiling through her grated win- 
 dow — perchance the faint, delicious murmur of bu'ds, nest-building 
 in the prison towers, awoke wild yearnings in her heart for Dom- 
 remy, the old oak wood, the haunted fountain, her home, and all its 
 household loves. 
 
 On Easter Sunday, how the joy-peal of Kouen's five hundred 
 bells must have smote upon her heart ! As they swung on high, 
 consecrating the air with melodious benedictions, sprinkling earth 
 with a baptism of holy sound, they rung out hope, and love, and 
 life to all save her. Through her prison walls the many-toned 
 chime came robbed of gladness and mercy — stern, reproachful, 
 ominous — a hnrried death-knell. For the happy world without, 
 the Lord arose from the dead — ^for her, no angel came to roll away 
 the stone from the door of the sepulchre. 
 
 With a diabolical mockery of human kindness, she was cured 
 of this illness. She must not be allowed to steal quietly out of 
 prison, like the Apostle, and escape with the angel down the dark 
 valley by night. She must not die like a child, of home-sickness, 
 like a woman, of a broken heart. Her death must be made a spec-
 
 J A N D ' A R C . 203 
 
 tacle for nations — thousands must feast oa lier torments, and snuff 
 the smoke of her burning. 
 
 There is something infinitely touching in the saint's and hero's 
 relapse into simple humanity and womanhood, on that dark unna- 
 tural May morning, when the heavy news was told her that she 
 must die before sunset. She wept bitterly. Like Jephtha's daugh- 
 ter, she mourned that her pure and beauteous body should be thus 
 cruelly sacrificed, exclaiming : — " Helas I Me traile-t-on ainsi Tior- 
 rihlement et eruellement^ quHl faille que inon corps^ net en entier^ qui 
 ne fut jamais corrompu^ soil aujourd'Ti'wi consume et rendu en 
 cendres ! " 
 
 She shrank, and shrieked, and writhed at the thought of the 
 flames, pitying herself for the pain. But the saint triumphs soon ; 
 even through the fiery vista before her, she sees a better kingdom 
 than France, a better home than Domremy — even in this death, 
 she recognizes the " deliverance " promised by " the voices." 
 
 She appealed to God, fi-om the injustice and cruelty of earth ; 
 she partook of the holy sacrament, with many tears ; she uttered 
 her touching and tremendous words to the Bishop of Beauvais, a 
 summons to answer for her death before God. What a childlike 
 naturalness, what a plaintive naivete marked the words she ad- 
 dressed to one of the preachers standing by : " Ah ! Maitre Pierre^ 
 oil serairje ce soir ? " 
 
 We can fancy the tearful, wistful look, the terrified tremble of 
 the hands, and all the voice broken up in sobs, with which she 
 said this. Then, as the priest replied — " JSfavez vous pas honne 
 esperance au Seigneur ? " the light of reassurance, the smUe, the 
 clasped hands, the heavenward gaze, the voice clear and fervid, as 
 she said :— " Oh ! oui^ Dieu aidant^ je serai en Paradis ! " 
 
 Bound, and borne in a cart, like a common malefactor, sur- 
 rounded by a guard of eight hundred English soldiers,, Joan
 
 204 JOAND'ARC. 
 
 D'Arc passed tlirougli the streets of Rouen, to tlie market-place ; 
 but in the eyes of the angels, that awful hour must have thrown 
 mto shade all foregone hours of triumph — grander to them was the 
 pale martyr in her rude cart, hedged in by bristling lances, than 
 the proudest conqueror in his triumphal car, followed by princely 
 captives, and the spoils of kingdoms. 
 
 At the stake, the Maid again bravely proclaimed her faith in 
 " the voices," and nobly defended her king. Her sublime, yet 
 meek composure — her marvellous womanly sweetness filled many 
 of her persecutors with wonder, pity, and vain remorse. The 
 people looked on as in a horrible dream — weeping, groaning, 
 l^raying, but powerless to help. One last word of reproach 
 shivered the petrified heart of the Bishop of Beauvais — cleft its way 
 to a deep, unsuspected vein of human feehng, and let it out in tears. 
 
 The scaffold towered high above the crowd, a huge pile of fag- 
 gots, lit at the base — a gigantic altar of sacrifice, a fiery Calvary. 
 
 When the flames uncoiled themselves from below, and darted 
 upward, in angry, flashing lengths, hissing and writhing — when 
 they struck their sharp fangs into her flesh, the flesh cried out 
 in shrieks that must have echoed for ever through the guilty and 
 craven souls who heard. 
 
 Well had the young martyr learned the self-forgetful spirit of 
 her Master. In the fierce height of her agony, through the flame 
 and smoke of her torment, she saw the danger of the faithful 
 priest who held the crucifix before her, and entreated him to leave 
 her. He went ; he bore from her sight the image of her crucified 
 Lord, but he left beside her in the midst of the flames, the Lord 
 himself. May not her last cry of " Jesus ! " have been not a cry 
 of fear, or supplication, but of joy and recognition, as she sprang 
 through the fiery gate of martyrdom, into the welcoming arms of 
 his compassion, into the bosom of his infinite, ineftable love !
 
 MARGAEET OF ANJOU. 
 
 No wandering princess of poetic fiction ever sustained more strangely 
 varied chances during the course of her career than Margaret of 
 Anjou. Her fitful periods of happiness and prosperity were bright 
 as they were brief; while the magnitude of reverse she experienced, 
 
 " Downright violence and storm of fortunes 
 May trumpet to the world." 
 
 From her very birth, she entered upon this extraordinary 
 blendinsr of the most brilliant circumstances with the most calami- 
 tons events, which attended her through life, chequering her exist- 
 ence with alternate bursts of sunshine, and long dreary watches of 
 deepest midnight, until death and the grave put theii* final shadows 
 around her tempest-tost body, opening a prospect of endless light 
 to her soaring spii'it. 
 
 Her father, Eene of Anjou, had claims to a long train of titles ; 
 being the second son of Louis II., King of Sicily and Jerusalem, 
 Duke of Calabria and Anjou, and Count of Provence. But his 
 titular dignities brou<?ht him more harass than honour, and more 
 adversity than advantage. Her mother was Isabella, heiress of Lor- 
 raine ; a direct descendant of the renowned Charlemagne, and a 
 princess endowed with virtue, eloquence, and beauty. But with
 
 200 MARGARET OF A N J U . 
 
 her princely patrimony, she brought the fruitful evil of a contested 
 succession. Born of parents no less distinguished by their- royal 
 rank and lineage than by their personal merits, their accomplish- 
 ments, love of learning, and taste for poetry and art, Margaret in- 
 herited greatness, beauty, and talent, as her bii'thright. She came 
 into the world amid ushering grandeur, at one of the first castles in 
 Lorraine, her mother's dower-palace, on the 23d of March, 1429. 
 Her baptism took place with high ceremonial in the cathedral at 
 Toul ; a bishop performing the sacred rite, and royal sponsors 
 standing for her at the font. But she was stiU an infant, when the 
 struggle arising from the disputed succession to her mother's patri- 
 mony of Lorraine, called her father Rene to the field, that he might 
 maintain his wife's claim as^ainst her uncle, Antoine de Vaude- 
 monte, who, on the death of Charles, Duke of Lorraine, asserted 
 his title to succeed instead of Isabella, Charles's grand-daughter. 
 Margaret, before she was two years old, knew what it was to be 
 held in a weeping mother's arms, to have ceaseless murmurs of alarm 
 and anxiety breathed over her, to witness the tortures of suspense 
 in which Isabella lived during the absence of her husband, and the 
 burst of anguish with which the tidings of his defeat and capture 
 at the battle of Bulgueville were received. It was serving an early 
 apprenticeship to suffering and sorrow. She learned thus soon, 
 too, a lesson in that spirit of resolution amidst adversity, which so 
 signally distinguished herself through life. Her admirable mother, 
 the affectionate wife, the noble-hearted duchess, roused herself from 
 her agony of grief, and went to seek an interview with the victor, 
 that she might strive to move his pity on behalf of her captive 
 lord, and induce cessation of hostilities. Her kinsman, Antoine de 
 Vaudemonte, -conceded to her prayers thus much ; he granted a 
 truce of six months; but he was unable to liberate his niece's 
 husband, having given him up to the Duke of Burgundy, who had
 
 M A R G A R E T F A N J tJ. 207 
 
 imprisoned Rene at Dijon, in a lofty tower. Here, with liis cha- 
 racteristic tranquillity of temper, and love of art, Margaret's Pro- 
 vengal father whiled away the hours of his captivity, by applying 
 himself to painting ; and the chapel in the castle of Dijon still 
 contains several miniatures and specimens of painted glass, execut- 
 ed by the tasteful royal prisoner. This gentle philosophy of seek- 
 ing a resource from tedium and regret by employing the faculties 
 in artistic pursuits, stood Rene in good stead ; for the Duke of 
 Burgundy was so well pleased at beholding his own portrait 
 painted on glass among the productions of his accomplished pris- 
 oner, that he relented towards him, and agreed with Antoine de 
 Vaudemonte, that he should be set at liberty. The conditions on 
 which he was freed, were hard to fuMl: Rene's eldest daughter, 
 Yolante, then but nine years old, was to be bestowed in marriage 
 upon Antoine's heir, Ferrand de Vaudemonte, with a portion of 
 the contested Lorraine territories for her dowry ; his baby girl, 
 Margaret, was to be betrothed to the Count St. Pol, whose squire 
 had dealt the blow which prostrated her father on the battle-field 
 of Bulgueville, leaving a scar that he carried to his grave ; his two 
 boys were to be delivered up as hostages ; and he was under 
 covenant to pay a large smn of money for his ransom. The meet- 
 ing of the oppressed family, under these circumstances, was deeply 
 pathetic ; and the scene affected the heart of the child, Margaret, 
 with a liveliness of emotion rarely shown at her tender years. 
 The old chroniclers of Lorraine describe the sensibility evinced on 
 this occasion by " the little creatm-e " [" la petite creature "], as 
 they called Margaret, to have been extreme. Even this reunion 
 with his wife and children — sad, and overshadowed by drawbacks, 
 as it was — ^proved but short-lived. The conditions of Rene's 
 release were beyond his means to fulfil ; and he was compelled 
 again to surrender himself to captivity.
 
 208 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 The death of the King of Naples, Rene's eldest brother, caused 
 the succession to that crown to devolve upon Margaret's father ; 
 and the faithful wife prepared to assert his lights for him in his 
 absence. Gifted with heroic qualities, with conjugal devotion, 
 courage, and constancy, the Duchess Isabella ranks among the 
 eminent women of her time. She was an early appreciater of the 
 beautiful and gifted Agnes Sorel, whose merits won the friendship 
 and esteem of the queen, notwithstanding that Agnes rivalled the 
 royal wife in Charles VII.'s affections ; and Isabella of Lorraine had 
 been a beholder of Joan of Arc's noble conduct. From a mother 
 so endowed with moral energy, Margaret inherited that high sjiirit 
 and indomitable bravery of soul, which carried her through such a 
 series of vicissitudes with ever-renewed animation in strength and 
 purpose ; while the early dwelling amidst perj^etually recurring 
 difficulties and trials, inured her to encounter the extremes of 
 trouble and peril. 
 
 "While taking measures for maintaining by force of arms her 
 captive husband's claims upon the kingdom of Naples, Isabella 
 assumed the title of Queen of the two Sicilies, and repaired with 
 her children, Margaret and Louis, to the Chateau of Tarascon, on 
 the banks of the Rhone. The boy, Louis, had been no longer 
 retained as hostage when Rene had delivered himself up to Ijond- 
 age again ; and the two beautiful children, with their mother, were 
 idolized by the poetical Provencals, who fondly welcomed among 
 them these representatives of their captive prince. Not long were 
 they able to enjoy the kindly and picturesque homage which 
 attended them in Provence; that fearful epidemic, the plague, 
 spreading its terrors there, and menacing the danger of Isabella's 
 children, she hastened to remove them from Tarascon, and they set 
 sail for Naples. 
 
 Finding the pestilence from which they had fled, raging here,
 
 MARGARET OF A NJOU. 209 
 
 Isabella established her residence at Capua, the ancient palace of 
 the family of Anjou in Naples ; and lost no time in causing her 
 absent husband to be proclaimed Mng of the two Sicilies. At this 
 ceremony, the two children, Margaret and Louis, sat beside their 
 mother in the chair of state they occupied ; and again the little 
 gii'l, Margaret, passed through one of those strange episodes of her 
 eventful hfe, when momentary splendour illumined her path, amid 
 clouds of surrounding dark omen. Her queenly-acting mother, 
 and her distant captive father ; the triumphal state procession, 
 amid pestilential threats of death hovering near; all affect the 
 imagination with curious and ojipressive contrast. Isabella spared 
 no exertions to effect Rene's deliverance; and they produced a 
 treaty for his liberation, which involved a remarkable clause. It 
 was proposed by the Duke of Burgundy, that, " to cement the 
 peace between the two powers, Margaret of Anjou, second daughter 
 to Kmg Eene, shall espouse the young King of England ; " thus 
 showing that the English alliance was contemplated as early as 
 1435, when the intended bride was but six years of age. This 
 project was unsanctioned by the English, and, at this period, 
 opposed by Charles VII. ; it was merely a suggestion of the duke's, 
 whose wife, the Duchess of Burgundy, was a Lancastrian princess, 
 bemg daughter to the King of Portugal, by Philippa, John of 
 Gaunt's daughter. 
 
 When Rene obtained his liberation, he made his entry into Na- 
 ples at the head of a Provengal army, mounted on a superb white 
 charger ; and Isabella, with her children, removed from the Capuan 
 palace to the luxurious one adorned by the late queen, Joanna 11. 
 In this voluptuous Italian sojourn, Margaret remained for some 
 time, receiving her education from her brother's tutor, Antoine de 
 Salle, under the care and superintendence of her mother ; but this 
 period of peaceful instruction, southern i-epose, and loving com- 
 27
 
 210 MARGARET OF ANJOTI. 
 
 pauionship, was marred by the loss of her brother, Prince Louis, 
 whose studies she had shared in affectionate fellowship. 
 
 In 1443, Margaret accompanied her royal mother in her i*eturn 
 to Lorraine ; the contract of marriage between herself and the 
 Count St. Pol having been broken off, and her hand having been 
 since sought by the Count de Nevers, nephew to the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy. But as the marriage articles contained a clause that af- 
 fected her sister Yolante's claims, the French King, Charles VII., 
 interfered to prevent the union from taking place. 
 
 King Rene's patrimony was in a disastrous state ; the troops 
 of England occupied the territories of Anjou and Maine, and his 
 finances were reduced so low, that he and his family were in actual 
 penury. Their royal lineage, their high-sounding titles, served 
 only to render their needy plight the more conspicuous ; but al- 
 though his wife Isabella felt these disadvantages keenly for the 
 sake of their children, King Rene viewed them with his usual 
 serenity, retiring into Provence, and occupying himself with verse- 
 writing and musical composition, for both of which he had a 
 talent. 
 
 By this time, Margaret had attained an age, when her youthful 
 attractions gained her wide repute. The courts of France and Bur- 
 gundy rang with her charms and accomplishments ; and it was as- 
 serted that she not only possessed beauty and wit rarely equalled, 
 but that her father's misfortunes had served merely to give her an 
 opportunity of manifesting her lofty spirit and courage. The Duke 
 of Burgundy's learned chronicler, Baraute, declared that "there 
 was no Princess in Christendom more accomplished than my lady 
 Margaret of Anjou." 
 
 The rumour of Margaret's peerless graces had reached the ear 
 of the young bachelor king of England, Henry VI. ; and he de- 
 spatched an emissary in whom he could confide, to the court of
 
 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 211 
 
 Lorraine, for the purpose of procuring a portrait of this incom- 
 parable princess. The pictui'e was obtained; it was painted by 
 one of the best French artists, and did justice to the fair original. 
 The gentleman of Anjou who had been entrusted with the royal 
 commission, described the daughter of his sovereign in glowing 
 colours ; and his report seconded the effect produced by the paint- 
 ing. Moreover, the king's great-uncle, Cai'dinal Beaufort, and the 
 French monarch, Charles VII., lent their combined influence to 
 forward the proposed alliance. 
 
 The cardinal, who had superintended the education of his royal 
 nephew, was aware of the want of energy and decision which formed 
 the defects in his character, and he felt how desirable it would 
 be, could Henry's future consort possess those qualities which might 
 supply the young king's deficiencies ; and, besides that Margaret's 
 reputed endowments promised a fulfilment of those requisites — her 
 youth and inexperience aftbrded likelihood that she would prove a 
 valuable aid in promoting the cardinal's views of political influence 
 and power. 
 
 The King of France, from a prospect of the advantages which 
 would probably accrue to himself and kingdom from this union, 
 and from the affectionate partiality he bore his young kinswoman, 
 — Margaret being niece to Charles VII.'s queen, Marie of Anjou 
 — did all in his power to further the marriage. 
 
 Henry VI. was then in his twenty-fourth year, handsome, cul- 
 tivated, holy, and mUd. He was of scrupulous morals, and bland 
 demeanour. He is represented as finding no allurement in ilhcit 
 pleasures ; but earnestly desirous of securing the joys of wedlock. 
 
 The young king's uncle, Duke Humphrey of Gloster, and his 
 great-uncle. Cardinal Beaufort, were at issue in the choice of a con- 
 sort for their royal kinsman. The Duke of Gloster had a project 
 for uniting Henry to a princess of the house of Armagnac ; but the
 
 212 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 bachelor monarcli's fancy lia\dng been deeply enamoured by the 
 reported and pictured charms of Margaret of Aujou, he resolved 
 upon obtaining her for his queen at whatever cost. This cost was 
 the sacrifice of Maine and Anjou ; as the cession of those provinces 
 was demanded by King Eene, when applied to for his daughter's 
 hand. 
 
 After some little hesitation, this point, which formed an indispen- 
 sable condition in the marriage articles, was agreed to; and the 
 dowerless bride, whose beauty and merits were allowed " to out- 
 weigh all the riches in the world," was accorded to the eager suit 
 of her royal wooer. 
 
 Suffolk, who was raised to the dignity of marquis, and invested 
 with full powers to espouse the lady Margaret of Anjou, as proxy 
 for his sovereign, set sail from England, accompanied by his mar- 
 chioness, and a brilliant train of the nobility. The King of France, 
 with the queen, and dauphiness, attended by the most distin- 
 guished personages of the French court, were assembled in Lor- 
 raine to do honour to the espousals of the youthful Margaret : and 
 the ceremonial took place in the month of November, 1444. 
 
 The bride's father. King Eene, had ample scope for his taste in 
 pageantry and courtly entertainments ; a tournament was held in 
 honour of the young Queen of England, at which the royal and il- 
 lustrious guests there assembled performed gallant passages of 
 arms. Charles VII. broke a lance in honour of his fair kinswoman ; 
 her uncle, Charles of Anjou, Pierre de Breze, Lord of Varenne, and 
 the Count St. Pol — ^formerly plighted to Margaret in infancy, but 
 whose contract was subsequently broken off — all jousted on this 
 occasion. 
 
 The fact that Suffolk did not appear in the lists, together with 
 the circumstance of his age, which exceeded that of the bride's 
 father, may suffice to contradict the alleged passion which fiction
 
 M A K G A R E T OF A N J O U . 213 
 
 writers Lave represented as existing between Margaret and her 
 royal bridegroom's proxy. In the plays of Henry VI., the drama- 
 tist has given weight to the belief of their mutual attachment, 
 where he has introduced Suffolk and Margaret ; and some histori- 
 ans have confii'med his description ; but aU authentic evidence 
 seems to bear testimony that there is no foundation for the 
 scandal. 
 
 The festivities lasted for a period of eight days, during which 
 the throng of princely and knightly gallants wore badges of the 
 daisy-flower, in compliment to the royal bride of fifteen, who had 
 chosen this flower for her emblem. Her name of Marguerite — 
 which in her native tongue signifies also a daisy — had induced her 
 adoption of this symbol. The reader may be reminded of Chau- 
 cer's lines : — 
 
 " And at the last there began anon 
 A lady for to sing right womanly 
 A bargaret * in praising of the daisy ; 
 For, as raethought, among her notfes sweet, 
 She said, ' si douce est la Marguerite.' " 
 
 And also of that anecdote of high poetic taste ; recording how 
 the princess Margaret of Scotland, who married the Dauphin of 
 France (afterwards Louis XI.), sent a tribute to a gifted woman, 
 her namesake — the poetess, ClotUde Marguerite de Surville ; the 
 dauphiness's present consisted of a crown of laurel, surmounted 
 by twelve daisies, with golden bosses and silver petals, twined in 
 couples, bearing for device the words : — " Margaret of Scotland to 
 Margaret of Helicon." 
 
 The way in which the youthful bride was taken leave of by 
 her parents, friends, and kindred, bears witness to the affection 
 with which she was regarded by those who best knew her. They 
 
 * Bargaret, bergerette, a little pastoral.
 
 214 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 were not only proud of her, as one of the most accomplished and 
 beautiful young creatures of her time ; but they were fondly at- 
 tached to her for her own sprightly graces, and attractive quali- 
 ties. The king, Charles VII., is said to have clasped her repeat- 
 edly in his arms, at parting with her, and to have bidden her adieu 
 with streaming eyes and a voice choked with sobs. The old chron- 
 iclers record his very words, so full of aifectionate regard : — " I 
 seem to have done nothing for you, my niece, in placing you on 
 one of the greatest thrones in Europe, for it is scarcely worthy of 
 possessing you." As for her gentle-hearted father, King Rene, he 
 could only commend her to God, and fold her to his heart ; neither 
 father nor daughter could utter one word, but embraced each other 
 in speechless farewell. 
 
 Thus were the splendours of her bridal followed by the tears 
 of her friends and the moui-nfulness of parting. Thus, too, were 
 the pomps of her travel towards England — escorted by a royal 
 train, and protectively attended by the Marquis and Marchioness 
 of Suffolk — but the precursors of after miseries. Through life it 
 was Margaret's fate to be placed on the pinnacle of fortune, only 
 to be precipitated with greater force into the abyss of mischance. 
 Her first landing in England was heralded by a terrific storm ; the 
 cliffs of Albion were fii-st visible to her amid sheeted lightning ; 
 and the shores resounded with peals of thunder. On arriving, she 
 was seized with a dangerous malady, which detained her for a time 
 at Southampton, in a religious hospital, called " God's house ; " whei'e, 
 with the good old practice of such establishments, refuge was afford 
 ed to all sick travellers — from the humblest pUgrim to royalty itself 
 
 The nuptials of Henry VI. with Margaret of Anjou, were sol- 
 emnized on the 22d of April, 1445, in Tichfield Abbey, with 
 great magnificence ; and the nation, although dissatisfied at the 
 bride's portionless condition, yet could not withstand the mingled
 
 MARGARET OP ANJOU. 215 
 
 impression of her youtli, beauty, and noble presence, which pro- 
 cui'ed her an enthusiastic reception wherever she appeared. The 
 populace crowded to see her ; while the nobility and chivalry of 
 England wore the emblematic daisy fastened in their caps, on 
 coming to meet and welcome the royal bride in her progress to 
 London. The descriptions of her public entry into the city, and 
 of her subsequent coronation at Westminster, on the 30th May, 
 when a tournament was held which lasted three days, the lists oc- 
 cupying the entire space between Palace-yard and the sanctuary, 
 show the youthful Margaret as forming the centre of courtly hom- 
 age, and placed on the summit of resplendent prosperity. 
 
 For the time, Humphrey, Duke of Gloster, laid by his opposi- 
 tion to his royal nephew's chosen bride ; and vied with the rest, in 
 marks of welcoming coui-tesy. Cardinal Beaufort, who had been al- 
 ways favourable to the marriage, now that he learnt from personal 
 proof how amply the young queen fulfilled her repute in beauty 
 and spirited character, added fondness of liking to the partiality 
 which rose from interest and policy. 
 
 The theme of universal admiration, idolized by the young king 
 her husband, surrounded by the sumptuous regality of her posi- 
 tion, Margaret stood within the full blaze of this period of sun- 
 shine, which streamed upon her when she first ascended the Eng- 
 lish throne ; but her usual fate of brief triumph and long disaster, 
 of short-lived glory and dark reverse, of transient felicity and 
 protracted trouble, soon attended her. Like most fates of individ- 
 uals, much of its peculiar colouring might be traced to her own 
 complexion of character. Human complaint of destiny may most 
 frequently with justice be resolved into self-investigation — if not 
 self-rebuke. Margaret's fate, so remarkable in its features of alter- 
 nate light and gloom, will be found to have singular analogy with 
 the characteristics which distinguished her own moral conformation.
 
 216 MAKGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 The stormy transition of her fortunes — now at the height of 
 earthly advantage, now plunged in the depths of woful vicissi- 
 tude — are curiously in keeping with the tempestuous vehemence 
 of her own nature; A vivacious child, an indulgently-praised girl, 
 a spoiled beauty, she grew into the imperious and haughty-spirited 
 woman. 
 
 At this epoch of her career, she displayed the wilfulness of 
 the spoiled beauty. She took pleasure in marking her remem- 
 brance that the Duke of Gloster had originally opposed her mar- 
 riage with Henry, by contemptuous treatment, by making him feel 
 her superior influence over the king, and by a pointed display of 
 her preference for Cardinal Beaufort and the Duke of Suffolk, his 
 political opponents. 
 
 Gloster was the idol of the people, who had surnamed him 
 " Good Duke Humphrey ; " and he was also heir presumptive to 
 the throne, Margaret having as yet brought Henry no child, al- 
 though the second year of her marriage had arrived. Cardinal 
 Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, his nephew, and the Duke of 
 Suffolk at the head of the ministry, were instrumental in having 
 the Duke of Gloster arrested, on a charge of high treason ; and 
 seventeen days after his arrest he was found dead in his bed. No 
 marks of violence were to be found on his person ; but the sud- 
 denness of his decease and the well-known animosity against him, 
 led to suspicions of his having been unfairly dealt by. However, 
 no proof could be adduced, and not the slightest contemporary ev- 
 idence implicates the queen in the surmised deed. Her disregard 
 of consequences, when she chose to avow predilection or avow dis- 
 like, was her chief error ; and this was more a defect of judgment 
 than a ftiult against morality. It hurt herself rather than any one 
 else ; for she had to suffer its penalty to the utmost. 
 
 This heedless manifestation of partiality it was, which subjected
 
 M A R G A R E T O F A N J U . 21T 
 
 her open display of regard for Suffolk to be misinterpreted. After 
 Cardinal Beaufort's death, which followed immediately upon that 
 of the Duke of Gloster, Margaret transferred the confidential at- 
 tachment which she had borne the experienced old statesman, to 
 him who was at present her natural adviser — ^the Duke of Suffolk 
 being now at the head of the cabinet, and in this capacity the ap- 
 pointed counsellor of the crown. Thus considered, nothing could 
 be more proper than Queen Margaret's having recourse to Suffolk 
 for guidance ; but her indiscreet wilfulness, her youthful reckless- 
 ness, and her native impetuosity, let her pay no attention to the 
 slanders it might give rise to, or the jealousies it might awaken. 
 
 There were not wantmg hosts of foes to asperse her conduct, and 
 take offence at her display of favouiitism. The Duke of York, Rich- 
 ard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, and his son, the Earl of Warwick, were 
 all powerful, unscrupulous and ambitious nobles, and all inimical to 
 the young queen. Party hatred ceased not until it effected the 
 downfal of Margaret's earliest English friend, faithful adherent, 
 and trusted minister. Suffolk was arraigned, arrested, and com- 
 mitted to the tower. He was sentenced to banishment ; but met 
 his death on board a vessel, in which he underwent a mock trial as 
 a traitor, and his head, with his severed trunk, were flung upon 
 Dover sands, where they were found by his chaplain, who gave 
 them honourable bmial. 
 
 It should not be omitted, that, during the brief interval of 
 peace which permitted Margaret to give token what she might 
 have proved had her reign been less disturbed by the fatal evil of 
 war, she effected some substantial good for her subjects. Queen's 
 College, Cambridge, owes its foundation to Margaret of Anjou : 
 she also endeavoured to encourage the manufacture of silken and 
 woollen goods ; but the factious spirit of the times rendered peaceful 
 
 occupation, and productive pursuits, ill suited to a people torn by 
 
 •28
 
 218 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 civil discord, and exhausted by foreign hostilities. Pestilence and 
 want added their miseries to those of oppression and burdensome 
 taxes ; nay, disease and starvation were the necessary result of bad 
 government and tyrannous exaction. Rebellion broke out ; Jack 
 Cade, a demagogue leader, headed the insurrection, and encamped 
 on Black Heath with his armed mob. Henry VI. marched to 
 meet them ; and the tidings of his approach, with fifteen thousand 
 troops, dispersed the insurgents, who fled to Seven Oaks. 
 
 Margaret betrayed a weakness of alarm on this occasion little 
 consistent with the intrepidity of behavdour which afterwards dis- 
 tinguished her ; but she was bewUdered by fond apprehensions for 
 her husband, whom she implored not to endanger his j^ersou, by 
 pursuing the rebels in their flight. It was not until she became a 
 mother that her aftection and anxiety took the shape of daring. 
 Then, the haughty courage which was the true quality of her dis- 
 position, assumed that fierce and dauntless strength, which no 
 defeat could subdue. 
 
 Cade's rebellion was quelled as suddenly as it burst forth ; and 
 there is little doubt, from historic evidence, that it was the work 
 of a higher faction, acting upon the goaded feelings of the populace. 
 Most surging of the dregs of the people, might probably be traced 
 to the influence of fermenting variances among those in the upper 
 rank in the community. In the present instance, many circum- 
 stances tend to prove that the aspiring Duke of York was the in- 
 stigator of the revolt. He had thrown up his official appointment 
 in Ireland, and was now advancing upon London, attended by a 
 retinue of four thousand men, and demanding of the king in bold 
 terms that he should summon a parliament. 
 
 The timid Henry found some consolation in the arrival of the 
 Duke of Somerset fi-om his regency in France at this crisis ; and 
 Margaret was glad to receive aid and counsel from him, as nephew
 
 M A R Ct A R E T O F A N J O U . 219 
 
 of her old adviser, Cardinal Beaufort. But Somerset was un- 
 popular among iDotli Lords and Commons, who attributed to him 
 the disasters in France and Normandy ; and it was only after hav- 
 ing been impeached, and committed to the Tower, by the Parlia- 
 ment, that he was released at the close of the session, and promoted 
 to the post formerly filled by Suffolk — that of prime minister — on 
 the exertion of all Margaret's authority, seconded by the king's, 
 who personally liked his kinsman, Somerset. 
 
 This nobleman's violent temper was the cause of hastening 
 into open feud the long-cherished animosities that had rankled be- 
 tween the houses of York and Lancaster. Historical tradition 
 agrees in attributing to Somerset the act of first plucking the red 
 rose, and desiring the by-standers to take each a flower of that hue, 
 or a white one, as token of which cause he espoused, on the 
 memorable occasion in the Temple garden, when each man had to 
 declare the party he belonged to. The rival factions assumed 
 those respective badges — the Lancastrians the red rose, and the 
 Yorkists the white rose ; and rarely did beautiful symbol serve to 
 distinguish more deadly quarrel. Those fair blossoms witnessed 
 the contentions which saturated English ground with English 
 blood during two decades. For how many ferocious acts had the 
 red rose to blush its deepest crimson ! At how many ghastly deeds 
 had the white rose to look its palest ! Margaret, with her i-ash 
 display of will, adopted the sanguine-hued rose at once, — but too 
 fit emblem of her career thenceforth, when the field of battle, the 
 perishing of those who fought for her, the death of those she 
 best loved, carnage, ruin, and destruction, were to take the place 
 of those morning years of life when the daisy, in its pearly fresh- 
 ness, was her chosen flower. 
 
 Now that the Duke of York stood forth in the unconcealed 
 character of armed dictator to the throne, Margaret, and her
 
 220 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 minister, Somerset, joined their persuasions to induce the king to 
 advance to meet him in the field. Henry yielded to their urging ; 
 but parleyed, instead of fighting, with his assailant. York's 
 demand chiefly involved the summary punishment of Somerset; 
 attributing to a desii^e of bringing him to justice his own taking up 
 arms on the present occasion. Somerset, who had been liberated 
 from the Tower, where York believed him to be, was, by the 
 queen's provision, stationed where he could overhear the confer- 
 ence between King Henry and the Duke of York ; and upon hear- 
 ing the latter's speech, so hostile to himself, burst from his lurking- 
 place, defying York with his usual ungovernable violence. The 
 rival duke retorted by equal fierceness ; accusing him of misrule in 
 France, and of occasioning the loss of Normandy. The king stood 
 by, in dismay at this hot contention between the two fiery nobles ; 
 until York turned upon him, and reproached him with having 
 broken his royal word. Henry had not been made a party to the 
 concealment of Somerset behind the arras-hangings of the royal 
 pavilion ; and he was equally unaccessory to the Duke of York's 
 arrest, which took place as he left the tent, and which was said to 
 have been made by command of the queen. York was released, 
 on condition of his sweariug a solemn oath of fealty to the king ; 
 after which he was allowed to retii-e to his castle of Wigmore, 
 where his son, the Earl of March, afterwards Edward IV., was rais- 
 ing an army for his rescue. 
 
 Somerset was thus established in his post at the head of the 
 government ; and the part Queen Margaret had in retauiing him 
 there, was made the ground of a similar calumny as the one which 
 had been levelled against her reputation with regard to his prede- 
 cessor, Suflblk. But both dukes were men past theii- prime of life, 
 and both were devotedly attached to theu- wives. A letter written 
 by the Duke of Suffolk during his imprisonment in the Tower,
 
 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 221 
 
 bears touching witness of liis strong aifection for his wife, who was 
 a grand -daughter of the poet Chaucer, and was a favourite fiiend of 
 Queen Margaret ; while Somerset's great love for his wife led him 
 even to sacrifice his honour to tenderness for her person during the 
 period of his regency in France. But j^arty feeling, which spares 
 no malice, and regards no probability in its venomous aspersions, 
 did not fail to seize upon any slander, however wildly unfounded, 
 to fling upon a queen, who was i-ashly unheedful of giving 
 offence. 
 
 In the course of the brief calm which succeeded York's first 
 hostility, Margaret gave her attention to foreign affah'S, and caused 
 the warrior, Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, to be sent, with such 
 troops as could be levied, to the aid of the English force in Guienne. 
 But factions at home, and war abroad, were formidable difliculties 
 to contend with. The queen lost her loyal adherent, and gained 
 no jot of advantage. The veteran Talbot was hewn down in battle 
 at eighty years of age ; and his death was accompanied by heaps 
 of his slain followers. 
 
 The birth of Margaret's son was heralded by gloomy events. 
 Want of success to the English arms in foreign fields ; clamours of 
 discontent within the realm; the loss of her high-souled mother 
 Isabella of Lorraine, with whom her sunnier years had been spent, 
 who had insjOTed her with all the best points of her character, 
 and the bereavement of whose maternal sympathy was at this 
 epoch most keenly felt, by one herself about to become a mother — 
 combined to strain Margaret's powers of endurance with cruel ten- 
 sion. But a yet more bitter source of woe arose to demand her 
 fortitude. King Henry was attacked by a malady which menaced 
 him hereditarily: — he was the grandson of Charles Vlth of 
 France, who was subject to mental disease at frequent intervals. 
 Hemy, never very strong-headed, found the turmoU and fever of
 
 222 MARGAKBT OF ANJOU. 
 
 difficulty under which he had of late years lived, too much for his 
 brain; and the pressure of accumulated perjjlexities not only 
 impaired his health, but produced aberration of reason. Blame 
 has been thrown upon Margaret's assumption of royal power and 
 authority, as unwomanly; but it is more than probable that she 
 best knew the need there was for supplying her husband's lack of 
 mental energy. When too, she has been accused of promoting his 
 inclination for pursuits more befitting a monk than a monarch, it is 
 likely that the wife was aware how incapable he was of attending 
 to state business without vexation to his quiet temperament, and 
 injury to his feeble constitution ; and that therefore she took upon 
 herself a discharge of duty which drew upon her the imputation 
 of undue, and masculine activity in government affairs. 
 
 Henry VI. was in a condition of unconsciousness, and hovering 
 between life and death, when his queen brought into the world 
 their child — the hapless Edward of Lancaster, who seemed born to 
 fulfil Margaret's doom of consociated brightness and bitterness. 
 Her boy's beauty, his excellence, his rare promise in every respect, 
 combined to gladden her motherly heart by forming the ideal of a 
 princely son; while his perilous existence, and early death, brim- 
 med her cup of anguish to overflowing. 
 
 At his very birth, Margaret's delight was dashed by counter- 
 balancing troubles. The parliament appointed the Duke of York 
 Protector of England, until such time as the king might be able to 
 resume the reins of government, or the infant prince should arrive 
 at years of discretion ; whUe her thoughts were divided between 
 lovinof attention to her child, and anxious attention to her husband 
 in his melancholy state. She beheld her minister, Somereet, 
 deposed from office by the newly-appointed protector, and found 
 herself utterly deprived of regal controul during York's ascend- 
 ency ; but she strove to await calmly a better period ; and gathered
 
 MARGAKET OF ANJOU. 223 
 
 comfort from tending her infant treasure. She maintained the 
 form of state in her own person as Queen of England, continuing 
 to hold her court, and grant audiences, although her queenly 
 power was suspended. 
 
 This period of dignified patience, which so well became the 
 royal Margaret, though her native impetuosity of character so 
 seldom allowed her the practice of it, was rewarded by a visible 
 amendment in the king's health, both of body and mind. He was 
 at length sufficiently recovered for her to risk the excitement of 
 presenting him their beautiful boy ; and the father's happiness 
 was expressed in words that manifested his proud satisfaction, as 
 well as his sane condition of mind. 
 
 The queen's J03' was complete : she took prompt measures for 
 reinstating Henry in the possession of sovereign authority ; and 
 the Duke of Somerset was released from the Tower, to resume his 
 post of prime minister. But, as usual, Margaret's hour of success 
 was transient. The Duke of York withdrew to the Welch border ; 
 where, aided by his powerful friends and kinsmen, Salisbury and 
 Warwick, he raised an army, and marched to London. Henry VI., 
 as was his wont, tried what treating with the foe would do, before 
 encountering him in battle : — he accordingly sent a messenger to 
 the Duke of York, asking wherefore he came in hostile array 
 against him. York refused to lay down his arms, unless the Duke 
 of Somerset were dismissed from the council-board, and brought to 
 justice. This drew from the king a spark of Plantagenet foe ; for 
 with the sole imprecation he was ever known to utter, he ex- 
 claimed, " that he would as soon deliver up his crown, as the Duke 
 of Somerset, or the least soldier in his army ; and that he would 
 treat as a traitor every man who should presume to fight against 
 him in the field." 
 
 The Earl of Warwick gave the signal for attack, by leading on
 
 224 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 his men witli the war-cry of "A Warwick ! A "Warwick ! " The 
 battle was brief, but furious ; and after horrible slaughter on both 
 sides, — the fight taking place in the narrow streets of St. Albans, — 
 York became the ^^ctor. King Henry's conduct was character- 
 istic : he stood meekly under his own standard during the combat ; 
 was wounded in the neck by an arrow; waited quietly till he 
 found himself the only man left beneath the royal banner ; and 
 then walked composedly into a baker's shop near at hand. The 
 Duke of York came to him there, and with ruffianly want of deli- 
 cacy, and want of feeling, bade him "rejoice, for the traitor, 
 Somerset, was slain." Henry, with holy mildness, and the charity 
 for his species which distinguished him, and made him ever hold 
 bloodshed in horror, — characteristics more especially becoming him 
 at this juncture, when he had just proved that he did not want for 
 spirit upon his kingly honour being insulted ; nor for courage in 
 exposing his own person to danger — replied by the words : — " For 
 God's sake stop the slaughter of my subjects ! " 
 
 The news of the blow which the royal cause had sustained by 
 defeat in the battle of St. Albans, stunned Queen Margaret into 
 despairing grief She saw her husband dangerously wounded, and 
 reduced to his former insane condition ; for pain and agitation had 
 brought on a relapse of his malady. He was pronounced incapa- 
 ble of attending to public business ; the Duke of York ruled in 
 the king's name ; and the parliament, composed of Margaret's ene- 
 mies, passed a censure upon her late government. 
 
 Henry, whoUy in the Duke of York's power, was constrained to 
 confirm his appointment to the protectorate ; although, notwith- 
 standing his reason was deranged, he manifested extreme unwill- 
 ingness to the step ; and York, once having secured the executive 
 command, allowed Margaret the custody of the king's person, and 
 caused her to remove from London with her husband, and the in-
 
 MARGAE'ETOFANJOU. 225 
 
 fant prince. She applied herself to the care of these helpless ones, 
 giving them all dutiful attention; while secretly, she sought to 
 strengthen their interest, and sustain their cause, by maintaining 
 constant intercourse with the red-rose party. All the Lancastrians, 
 — including those who were alUed to the royal blood, those of 
 noble and gentle birth, and those, whose fathers ha,ving been slain 
 at St. Albans, were eager to avenge their fate, — Margaret con- 
 trived to hold communication with, making herself their rallying 
 point. 
 
 Thus prepared, the queen lost no time, the instant her consort's 
 restoration to health afforded opportunity, in causing him to pre- 
 sent himself suddenly before his parliament. Unknown to the Duke 
 of York this step was arranged ; — and on the 24th February, 1456, 
 the king entered the House of Lords, when York, and the princi- 
 pal members of his faction were absent, declaring : — " that being 
 now, by the blessing of God, in good health, he did not think his 
 kingdom was in any need of protection, and requested permission to 
 resume the reins of empire." The Parliament, taken by surprise 
 at this unexpected appearance of their Sovereign among them, and 
 struck with the collected and dignified manner of his address, im- 
 mediately acceded to his desire. King Henry thereupon sent to the 
 Duke of York, requiring his resignation of office. This decisive 
 measure of the queen's, (for it was all her act,) left her enemies no 
 course but to submit for the time being ; and York, Salisbury, and 
 Warwick, withdrew into the provinces. 
 
 With her usual pertinacious exercise of will, Margaret ap- 
 pomted Henry Beaufort, heii" to the late Duke of Somerset, as 
 prime minister. 
 
 It was by such marked acts of imperious resolve, upon every 
 fresh opportunity of showing her power, that Margaret ever pro- 
 voked hostility and avereion. She seemed determined to oppose, 
 29
 
 226 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 instead of conciliate her adversaries ; and that conduct never wins 
 a nation's regard — especially in a female sovereign. Margaret not 
 only gave her enemies occasion to asperse her, but she weakened 
 the approval and confidence of the people. Even at this period 
 when, in many respects, she exercised wise and able rule, her 
 vehement disposition, and impetuous temper, caused her to ii-ritate 
 the Londoners by untimely interference and constraint: and al- 
 though she won respect and esteem by the way in which she ful- 
 filled her conjugal and maternal duties, — devising every means of 
 calming her royal partner's easily-disturbed mind by the means of 
 music and other genial recreations, — yet, her want of judgment in 
 knowing how properly to influence the public mind, prevented her 
 gaining as much popular favour as her many high qualities de- 
 served. Her talents were marred by want of tact : she was indis- 
 creetly rash ; and injudiciously resentful. A less clever woman 
 with more prudence would have won more liking from her sub- 
 jects ; a less spirited woman with more discretion Avould have 
 inspired greater confidence and attachment. 
 
 Meanwhile France and Scotland took advantage of England's 
 internal divisions to attack her ; and the queen was compelled to 
 promote reconciliation between the antagonist parties at home in 
 order to meet the threatened assaults from abroad. A general 
 pacific congress took place ; wherein York, Salisbury, Warwick, 
 of the white-rose faction; and Margaret, Exeter, the Percys, 
 and the Royal family, as representatives of the red-rose interest, as 
 sembled in the capital, and a solemn covenant was pledged by 
 these conflicting elements, — water and fire themselves, not more 
 antagonist to amalgamation. 
 
 Innumerable rancours, discords, and difliculties necessarily arose ; 
 while Henry, leaving his queen to solve as she best might the prob- 
 lem of their arrangement, retired to the abbey of St. Albans.
 
 M A K G A R E T OF A N J U . 227 
 
 Mutual recrimination kindled into tuniult and sedition; and at 
 length flamed to sucli height as afforded pretext to the three great 
 factious leaders, York, Salisbury, and "Warwick, to burst once 
 more into open aggression against the house of Lancaster. 
 
 At Northampton, York's son, Edward, Earl of March, attacked 
 the Lancastrian host; and ten thousand English strewed their 
 native earth ; while King Henry was taken prisoner, and Margaret 
 with her princely boy, fled for refuge to a remote fortress in North 
 Wales. 
 
 In the hands of his foes, Henry became a mere passive victim. 
 He was made to surrender his son's claims to the royal succession 
 of England, with the empty permission to retain the crown during 
 his own lifetime. News of this fatal abandonment of their child's 
 birthright reached Margaret; but instead of quelling her spii'it 
 into despondency, it roused it into exertion. She went straight to 
 the court of Scotland, succeeded in obtaining succours from the 
 monarch there — who had Lancastrian blood in his veins — and took 
 her measures with such promptitude and vigour that she led the 
 red-rose army, reinforced by the best strength of the northern 
 counties of England, to the field, before the Yorkists knew that 
 she was approaching. Beneath the walls of Sandal Castle, Mar- 
 garet, at the head of eighteen thousand men, defied the Duke of 
 York to come forth and do battle with her. The practised soldier, 
 stung by this challenge from a woman, and not greatly beHe%ang 
 that either mUitaiy skill or warlike valour were hers, quitted his 
 stronghold, and met the queen's commanders, Somerset, Wiltshire, 
 and Clifford, on the plain. York was killed, his army routed ; and 
 the ferocious Clifford, after slaying the young Earl of Rutland in 
 cold blood, struck the duke's head from his body, crowned it with 
 paper, and presented it on the point of a lance to Queen Margaret, 
 with a light speech of derision. It is recorded that she at fu'st
 
 228 MAKGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 shuddered and turned pale, but afterwards — laughed ; — Icmglied ! 
 But it is not impossible that this might have been an hysterical 
 agitation — ^the result of mingled emotions of excitement ; of resent- 
 ment, of physical disgust at the ghastly sight, with crowding 
 thoughts of the enmity long borne to her husband, her boy, and 
 herself, by him whose pale face now lay crowned in mockery at 
 her foot. It is, however, but too true, that she ordered this horri- 
 ble trophy of her triumph to be placed over York gates ; adding — 
 with the headlong arrogance which disgraced her demeanour in 
 the hour of success — that she desired " room might be left between 
 the heads of York and Salisbury for those of the Earls of March 
 and Warwick, which she intended should soon keep them com- 
 pany." 
 
 Fluctuating fortune attended the arms of the red rose and the 
 white rose for some time, during which Margaret maintained the 
 rights of her royal husband and son with unflinching courage and 
 constancy, through alternate prosperity and disaster. In the course 
 of an appeal to France — where her crafty cousin, Louis XL, now 
 reigned — Margaret's gradually -sinking cause was espoused by the 
 chivalrous Pierre de Breze, who attached himself to her service 
 with an enthusiasm and devotion, fervent to a degree of romance. 
 He had been minister and favourite to Margaret's imcle, Charles 
 VII. : he had appeared in the lists at her bridal tournament as a 
 champion of the " douce Marguerite," the " gentle daisy-flower," in 
 the time of her youthful beauty and happiness ; and now that she 
 came a forlorn wanderer, a princess bereft of crown and kingdom, 
 suing for aid on behalf of her husband and child despoiled of their 
 rights, De Breze proffered his knightly duty with an ardour as 
 much surpassing his former homage, as the battle exceeds the 
 joust. 
 
 This gallant gentleman fought for Queen Margai'et in the
 
 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 229 
 
 bloody field of Hexham ; from which she, in mortal terror for her 
 son's life, fled with him on foot through the neighbouring forest, 
 until encountered by a band of freebooters ; whose cupidity being 
 awakened by the rich attire of the fugitive mother and child, pos- 
 sessed themselves of then- jewels and more valuable apparel. While 
 the men were disputing over the division of the booty, Margaret 
 snatched her boy up in her arms, and sped away from the maraud- 
 ers ; but upon meeting with another of the troop, alone, she sum- 
 moned her usual spirit and self-possession ; stepped forward with 
 her little son in her hand, and presenting him to the robber, 
 exclaimed : — " Here, my friend, save the son of your king ! " The 
 man, struck with her beauty and majesty, as well as with the 
 boy's interesting and helpless appearance, turned his aspect of 
 menace into protection ; and led them to a cave, where he sheltered 
 them for two days. Local tradition has preserved record of the 
 exact spot — a low cave in Hexham forest ; and here they were 
 discovered by the faitlifal knight, Sir Pierre de Breze, who, with 
 his squire, Barville, had been seeking the queen with sleepless 
 diligence. On taking leave of the outlaw and his wife, Margaret 
 poured forth her thanks, as all she had left to bestow ; while her 
 adherents would have added some reward from their own scanty 
 supply of money ; but the worthy couple, with a generosity and 
 delicacy that would have honoured any station, declined receiving 
 what must be so needful to the httle band of royal fugitives in 
 their wanderings; and the queen, whose own nature made her 
 peculiarly able to appreciate dignity of feeling, exclaimed, " Of 
 all I have lost, I regret nothing so much as the power to recom- 
 pense such virtue." 
 
 Margaret and the young prince, with their loyal friends, hast- 
 ened to Carhsle and thence to Kircudl^right. Here, the queen, 
 whose royal bearing and beauty made her unable to elude obser-
 
 230 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 vation, was recognized by a Yorkist partisan ; and lie lost no time 
 in securing the persons of tlie wanderers. Margaret's noble pro- 
 tector, De Breze, and tis squire, were seized and hurried on board 
 a vessel ; while the queen and her young son were also conveyed 
 thither : though until the dawn of morning light, they were seve- 
 rally unaware of their having been captured. But De Breze, who 
 among his other knightly qualities, possessed that of uncommon 
 personal strength, had succeeded in freeing himself from his bonds 
 during the night ; and when he had effected the same liberation 
 for his squire, the two set upon the boat's crew ; and after a despe- 
 j'ate struggle, m which they slew some, and threw others over- 
 board, they remained mastere of the craft. A gale was blowing ; 
 and after tossing some hours in the Solway Frith, the boat was 
 driven on a sandbank, near Cantyre ; and it was only by De 
 Breze's wading through the breakers, and bearing the queen to 
 the shore, while Barville carried the young prince in his arms, 
 that they succeeded in landing safely. Margaret took refuge in 
 one of the obscure hamlets of this wild district, under the guardian 
 care of De Breze ; while Barville went to gather tidings of the 
 then condition of Lancastrian hopes. It was such as to leave 
 Margaret no other chance for the present, than to stand aloof, and 
 abide the coming of better times. She, with her son and a small 
 retinue, who clung to their royal mistress, embarked for Flanders, 
 where some of the red-rose party had taken refuge ; but the foul 
 weather, which invariably attended Margaret's expeditions with a 
 gloom of disaster similar to that which perpetually overshadowed 
 her fortunes in her progress through life, assailed her on the pres- 
 ent occasion. A tempest arose of such violence, that every mo- 
 ment threatened destruction ; and when the rage of the huri'icane 
 had somewhat subsided, the ship was compelled to put into port 
 on the dominions of Margaret's hereditaiy enemy, the Duke of
 
 MARGAEETOFANJOU. 231 
 
 Burgundy. However, she was received witli respect, and provided 
 not only with honourable escort to the south, but with a pecuniary 
 supply, when it had been made known how ill able she was to 
 requite the aid she had received from her faithful Lancastrian fol- 
 lowers, the ladies of her train, and those loyal champions who had 
 lost theii' all in her service. 
 
 The affair's of the poor old Provencal King, Rene, were in no 
 condition to oifer his hapless daughter more than a bare asylum 
 in her adversity ; but this he made her welcome to, with all the 
 simplicity and gentle philosophy which characterized .him. There 
 Margaret remained for seven years, watching the growth and im- 
 provement of her boy, under the judicious education of Sir- John 
 Fortescue, who devoted himself to the young prince's instruction. 
 History records nothing farther of Sii- Pierre de Breze, after his 
 attending Queen Margaret ia safety to the court of Burgundy. 
 
 Meanwhile, King Henry had been subjected to ignominious 
 imprisonment in the Tower ; and the reigning sovereign, Edward 
 IV., evinced a dread of Margaret's well-known courageous spirit 
 of perseverance, by maintaining a kind of coast-guard, to pre- 
 vent her making a sudden descent upon the English shores. It 
 has been affirmed that Margaret did visit Britain during the peri- 
 od, in the disguise of a priest, in the train of the ArchbishojD of 
 Narbonne ; and such an adventure would by no means be improb- 
 able, from a woman of her romantic boldness and impetuosity of 
 character. 
 
 In the year 1469, she came forth from her retirement, and re- 
 paired with Prince Edward to Tours ; where a famUy royal meet- 
 ing was held for the purpose of taking into consideration the best 
 means of once again striving to uphold the Lancastrian cause. It 
 was on this occasion, that the wUy and cold-blooded Louis XI. 
 contrived to win the haughty-spirited Margaret into a politic re-
 
 232 MARGARET OFANJOU. 
 
 conciliation witli her ancient foe, the Earl of Warwick, sui'named 
 " the king-maker ; " who had broken with the Yorkist party, and 
 was ready to engage in dethroning Edward IV. With the great- 
 est difficulty, Margaret was prevailed upon to pardon Warwick. : 
 but, once granted, the cat-like Louis seized upon this concession, to 
 make it the ground for proposing an alliance between her son, 
 Prince Edward, and the Earl's youngest daughter, the Lady Anne. 
 At fii'st nothing could induce Margaret to listen to this suggestion ; 
 she treated it with open contempt; but at length, upon being 
 urged by the counsellors of her father. King Rene, gave her con- 
 sent. The marriage took place the next year ; and the year suc- 
 ceeding that, Queen Margaret hearing that Warwick had obtained 
 the freedom of her royal husband, and had re-possessed him of his 
 kingdom, she prepared to set sail for England. But, as iisual, the 
 weather put on its most frowning aspect, when Margaret's enter- 
 prises were at stake. Perpetually beaten back, the elements 
 seemed to act ia concert against her fleet, to prevent its reaching 
 the English shores. Three times did she put forth from Harfleur, 
 before she could get to sea ; and when there, sixteen wearisome 
 days and nights did the queen pass in a fever of burning impa- 
 tience, tossing about the channel, vainly striving to make the pas- 
 sage. At last, she landed l^ut to hear the fatal tidings of the 
 death of Warwick, and the recapture of the king, Henry, at the 
 battle of Barnet ; and scarcely had she revived to entertain hopes 
 from the last brave struggle of the Lancastrian party, at the field 
 of Tewkesbury, than she was stricken into life-long despair by the 
 news of her princely son's overthrow and death there. 
 
 Margaret of Anjou, with the youthful widow of her Edward, 
 were brought in the train of the victor to London ; where, im- 
 mured in the dimgeons of the Tower, she became a widow on the 
 night of her arrival — King Henry having been murdered there, 
 that same time, by Eichard, Duke of Gloster.
 
 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 233 
 
 After a period of blank desolation, Margaret was ransomed by 
 her kindly old father, King Rene, at the sacrifice of his inheritance 
 of Provence, which he ceded to the griping claw of Louis XI. for 
 half its value, in order to rescue his daughter from captivity. Be- 
 reaved, heart-broken, dead to all living interests, the once high- 
 spirited Margaret passively signed a formal renunciation of all her 
 claims upon England, and took her way to her old Provencal 
 home ; — that spot she had quitted in all the beauty and brilliancy 
 of hope, youth, and royal fortune. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's flue picture of the red-rose queen at this pe- 
 riod of her withered life, in his romance of " Anne of Geierstein," 
 is conceived with rich fancy. Bnt forcibly as it pourtrays her pas- 
 sionate despair, the fearful reality of historic truth outdoes its im- 
 pressive delineation. The records of the chroniclers represent her 
 as utterly and awfully changed in person by the torture of her 
 inward anguish : — the whole mass of her blood turned ; her eyes, 
 once so bright and flashing with expression, now hollow, dim, and 
 inflamed from incessant weeping : — ^her skin disfigured by a dry, 
 scaly leprosy, which converted this once renownedly beautiful 
 princess into a spectacle of horroi'. 
 
 Scott has given her a pictui-esque death, amid the (to her) 
 most distasteful recreations of her artistically disposed old father ; 
 but, in fact, she survived him, though only for a short period — ex- 
 piring in her fiffcy-fii-st year. 
 
 The anacbronisms and inaccuracies committed in the three parts 
 of Henry VT., form one of the testimonies against their being the 
 production of Shakespeare. He who so strictly adhered to the 
 spirit and almost to the letter of history, making its facts available 
 in dramatic purpose, and rarely violating them, save for express 
 recj^uirement, would never have so misplaced events as are there 
 transposed. Far less would he so thoroughly have misrepresented 
 30
 
 234 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 and degraded the high-spirited Margaret, by making her the grossly 
 lawless wife and termagant Amazon which she appears in those 
 plays. He never penned that Billingsgate altercation between the 
 famed Princess of Anjou and the Duchess of Gloster in the 3d 
 scene of the 1st Act of the second of those dramas. Isolated pas- 
 sages in them, it is true, wear his manner ; but the whole conduct 
 of the three plays has little of his system of Ai"t. But the 
 character of the dethroned queen, as she subsequently appears in 
 the tragedy of Richard III., lurking near the purlieus of the dis- 
 mal Tower, invoking curses upon her triumphant foes, roaming to 
 and ffo, with wearied yet restless pace, around the scenes of 
 her lost greatness, like some cub-bereft lioness, is indeed true to 
 the style of the prince of poets ; and that one epithet where she 
 speaks of 
 
 " Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, 
 Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves," 
 
 stamps the portrait as being from his master-hand. 
 
 The story of Margaret of Anjou, is pregnant with lessons in 
 moral conduct. Arbitrary during her seasons of authority and 
 power, arrogant in success, imprudent in emergency, vindictive in 
 wrong, she forfeits the respect which her courageous dignity amid 
 adversity would otherwise inspire. ■ 
 
 Her eventful course is picturesquely in keeping with her indi- 
 vidual nature. The tempestuous weather which attended her 
 movements, and the murky storm-clouds of calamitous fate which 
 perpetually hung over her life's career, are akin to the stormy 
 grandeur of her own character.
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 Isabella of Castile is a noble instance of a character based upon 
 principle. Her nature was full of fine impulses ; but her acts were 
 the result of principle. Her heart first dictated her conduct, then 
 her reason approved it ; and the result was, a woman and princess 
 of almost matchless excellence. Her reign was an era iu her 
 country, and left lasting blessings to mark its existence. Her 
 affections were pure ; her passions were lofty. Love for her people, 
 with love of her husband and children, a tender reverence for her 
 mother, and constancy of attachment towards her chosen friends, 
 formed her fondest feelings ; while a thirst for glory was her 
 strongest desire. She possessed natural qualities which enabled 
 her to achieve gloiy ; she was surrounded by circumstances fi-om 
 youth that fostered her native powers of mind, and her life 
 abounded with events that both matured her innate qualifications 
 and ministered to her propensities for glory. She was an example 
 of those who owe less to book-learning than to life-learning. She 
 had powers of observation which rather took aliment from vital 
 occurrences, than from wi"itten precepts ; and she acquired her 
 education rather from her own experience than from set lessons. 
 Withal, she had the fine sense to supply whatever deficiencies 
 early teaching might have left, by her own subsequent diligence in
 
 236 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 acquiiing sucli knowledge as she felt needful. Several modern 
 languages she was acquainted with, and was an elegant mistress of 
 her own ; but being uninstructed in the Latin tongue, she resolved 
 to accomplish herself in what was at that time so much used as a 
 medium of intercourse between learned men, and for the purposes 
 of international diplomacy and negotiation. Amidst her multiform 
 state avocations, she found time to gain in less than a year a suffi- 
 cient mastery of Latin, to enable her to comprehend readily what- 
 ever was written or spoken in that language. What may be called 
 her practical education, was derived through the school of actual 
 circumstance which surroimded her from childhood. She was 
 born in 1450 ; and was the daughter of John II,, King of Castile, 
 by a second marriage. Her father's son, by the first marriage, 
 Henry IV., surnamed " the Impotent," succeeded to the throne ; 
 and during his humiliating reign, Isabella had an opportunity of 
 gathering those first seeds of state training, which afterwards 
 germiuated into such goodly harvest of garnered wisdom in policy 
 and government. From the disorders which disgraced her brother's 
 period of rule — or rather misrule, and from the spirit of faction 
 which i-an high among the grandees and court officials, Isabella 
 quietly drew those instructive lessons of discretion and foresight 
 which afterwards stood her in such good stead when she herself 
 was called to reign. 
 
 Her earliest years, after her father's death, were spent in retire- 
 ment with her mother ; and here she imbibed that devout regard 
 for religion, which influenced her so powerfully through life. On 
 the birth of the infanta Joanna, Henry brought Isabella and her 
 young brother Alfonso to inhabit the palace, lest the factious 
 nobles might make either of them the object of a party, to the 
 prejudice of Joanna's claims; but the seductive pleasures of a court 
 — where levity and license were but thinly veiled by splendour and
 
 ISABELLA OF (JASTILE. 23*7 
 
 magnificence — had no power to undermine the morals of one whose 
 virtue was firmly founded in faith and principle. The dissolute 
 conduct of the queen, together with other confirmatory circum- 
 stances, gave rise to suspicion of Joanna's illegitimacy, and the 
 princess was so generally reputed to be the daughter of the king's 
 favourite, Don Beltran de la Cueva, that she was popularly surnam- 
 ed " La Beltraneja." 
 
 The grandees, leagued in revolt against Henry IV., publicly 
 deposed him, and swore allegiance to the youthful prince Alfonso — 
 then only eleven years of age ; and a civil war ensued, which last- 
 ed till the child-king died. 
 
 On the death of her young brother, Isaljella retired from 
 court, and withdrew to Avila, where the Ai'chbishop of Toledo, on 
 behalf of the confederate nobles, tendered her the crown lately 
 awarded to Alfonso. But Isabella, guided equally by principle 
 and prudence, declined becoming queen of Castile during the life- 
 time of her brother Hemy. She judiciously permitted them to 
 nominate her Princess of the Asturias, which was tantamount to 
 declaring her heir-apparent to the throne ; and a reconciliation 
 was effected between the contending parties. An interview took 
 place between Henry and Isabella ; wherein he was made to re- 
 cognize her as his royal successor. In the compact, dictated by the 
 nobles, and ratified by the Cortes, there was stipidation that Henry 
 should divorce his notoriously profligate queen ; and that Isabella, 
 while promising not to marry without her brother's consent, should 
 not be constrained to marry in opposition to her own wishes. 
 
 That this latter clause was not superfluous, is evident from 
 Henry's having arranged an alliance for his sister, when she was in 
 her sixteenth year, so rejiugnant to her inclinations, from the known 
 dishonourable character of the intended bridegroom, that upon 
 hearing of its proposal, she shut herself in her room, took neither
 
 238 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 food nor sleep for a day and night, and implored of heaven to 
 save her from so detested a fate either by her own death or that 
 of her foe. 
 
 Her prayers were heard ; for a rapid attack of illness carried 
 off the dreaded Master of Calatrava when on his road to claim his 
 bride. In another proposed union, where disparity of years point- 
 ed out its ineligibility, she had evinced steadfast resolution ; for 
 neither menaces nor entreaties could move her to consent to what 
 her reason told her was Ul-judged. With addi-ess, judicious beyond 
 that which her youth and sex generally possess, she declined the 
 match urged by her brother, on the plea that " the infantas of 
 Castile could not be disposed of in marriage without the consent 
 of the nobles of the realm." 
 
 Now that Isabella's succession to the crowns of CastUe and 
 Leon was legally established, her hand was sought in marriage by 
 several of the principal sovereigns of Europe, A brother of 
 Edward TV. of England — in all likelihood, Richard Duke of 
 Gloucester ; the King of Portugal ; the Duke of Guienne, brother 
 to Louis XI. of France ; and Ferdinand, the Prince of Arragon, 
 were all suitors to Isabella of Castile. 
 
 Had "mis-shapen Richard" been the successful applicant, who 
 knows how this noble-spirited woman, bringiag him a throne to 
 share in occupying, and a mind to help in swaying, might have 
 prevented his launching upon that dark sea of crime and ambition 
 which whelmed him in its blood-stained tide ; and how her active 
 intelligence might have operated to aid his able intellect in finding 
 fit channels for its abundant resources. With such a woman at his 
 side through life, the mental strength of Richard might have been 
 put to virtuous and valuable use, instead of being exercised in 
 compassing usurpation, treason, and murder. 
 
 As it was, Isabella's choice fell upon Ferdinand of Arragon.
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 239 
 
 Many circumstances conduced to incline her to turn an eye of 
 favour upon liim. State reasons pointed to tlie advantages which 
 arose from an alliance where descent from one common stock, 
 uniformity of language, and similarity of customs, promised 
 mutual conformity of opinions and views ; while the relative 
 positions of theu* respective kingdoms, seemed to indicate that con- 
 joined into one monarchy, the two subordinate states might 
 become a powerful European sovereignty. Popular opinion, too, 
 greatly leaned towards the Arragonese alliance ; and the people's 
 preferences had ever great weight with Isabella. Besides these pub- 
 lic motives, there were private ones that had their influence upon 
 the womanly nature of the young princess. Ferdinand was comely 
 in person, gallant of bearing, and distinguished for knightly 
 bravery and accomplishment. He had given tokens of possessing 
 staid judgment, although still in the flower of his age ; and he 
 possessed both spirit and grace. 
 
 Isabella was goaded into making immediate selection among 
 her suitors, by the injurious treatment she received from her 
 brother ; who infringed almost every article of the compact, and 
 tyrannously urged her union with the King of Portugal. Feeling 
 herself released from her portion of the treaty, by his violation of 
 engagement, she sought the concurrence of the leading nobles, and 
 supported by their approval, she sent a favourable reply to Arra- 
 gon, without further consulting Henry. 
 
 While the marriage articles were being drawn up, — and they 
 were framed with every regard to Castilian national feeling, so as 
 to preserve the people's rights from encroachment, and to restrict 
 Isabella's husband from trenching upon her exclusive prerogatives 
 of Queen of Castile and Leon in her own right, — she took up her 
 abode under the protection of her mother, in order to await the 
 result of the negotiations with Arragon. But Henry's suspicions
 
 240 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 being awakened, attempts were set on foot by him and his partisans, 
 to obtain forcible possession of his sister's person ; and Isabella 
 sending word to her friends, Admiral Henriquez, and the Arch- 
 bishop of Toledo, she was rescued from her hazardous position, and 
 borne in safety to Valladohd, where she was received by the citi- 
 zens with enthusiasm. 
 
 There being considerable difficulty in the Prince of Arragon's 
 coming to CastUe, where such hostile jealousy and espial sur- 
 rounded his iutended bride, he resolved, — with the chivalrous 
 spirit which formed a part of his character, and the touch of 
 romance which coloured his age and nation, — to proceed thither in 
 disguise, attended by a few trusty adherents only, attired as mer- 
 chants. His arrival was haUed with joy by the little court at 
 Valladolid. Isabella's first care, — with her usual excellent sense 
 and discretion, — was to address a letter to her brother Henry, in- 
 forming him of her intended marriage ; and then, an interview 
 having been arranged between the royal pair, the Ai'chbishop of 
 Toledo conducted the Prince of Arragon to the presence of the 
 Infanta. Ferdinand was then in his eighteenth year ; Isabella, one 
 year older. They were a handsome couple. Ferdinand's naturally 
 fair complexion was sunburned into manliness by exposure to the 
 field ; his well-formed frame was knit into vigour by military ex- 
 ercises ; and his fluency of speech was polished into courteous ad- 
 dress, when desirous of gaining a point. He had a quick, 
 sprightly eye, and a broad, high forehead. Isabella's height was 
 inclined to tall ; she had a clear, fresh colour, with auburn hair, 
 and eyes of radiant blue, — rare peculiarities in Spanish beauty. 
 Her personal charms were enhanced by a graciousness and benig- 
 nity of manner the most winning ; while dignity and modesty were 
 so equally blended in her demeanour, that she was no less womanly 
 than queenly.
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 241 
 
 The public celebration of the marriage took place on the 19th 
 October, 1469 ; and the nuptials were solemnized in the presence 
 of Ferdinand's grandfather, the Admiral of Castile, the Arch- 
 bishop of Toledo, and a large number of the nobility. 
 
 Henry, incensed at this act of independence on the part of his 
 sister, declared that she had forfeited her claims by marrying with- 
 out his approval, and abrogated his nomination of Isabella as his 
 successor. He and his queen took an oath affirmative of Joanna's 
 legitimacy, and went through the farce of affiancing the princess, 
 then in her ninth year, to the Duke of Guienne, with the view of 
 securing the aid of France in support of her pretensions to the 
 throne. 
 
 Ferdinand and Isabella were so ill-provided with funds, that 
 the very money requisite for defraying the expenses of their mar- 
 riage had been borrowed ; and now, they possessed scarcely suffi- 
 cient to supply the ordinary cost of their daily table. Moreover, 
 the presence of her husband, so needful to sustain the sjiirits of 
 Isabella's Castilian party, was about to be withdrawn ; for the 
 King of Arragon was engaged in contentions with Louis XI., that 
 placed him in a perilous situation, and Isabella was the first to 
 urge Ferdinand to march to his father's relief. 
 
 While he was engaged in Arragon, Isabella's influence aug- 
 mented the strengthening of their mutual cause in Castile. Her 
 own virtuous discretion, and the decorum of those she maintained 
 around her, tended to inspire confidence in her fitness for rule, 
 while it contrasted nobly with the le%aty, rapacity, and profligacy 
 of those who formed Henry's court. During the interval that en- 
 sued, Isabella gradually but securely won the esteem of her future 
 subjects ; and when her brother's imbecile reign came to a close 
 by his death, she succeeded to his throne, with the sanction of the 
 Cortes, A herald formally proclaimed : " Castile, CastHe for the 
 31
 
 242 ISABELLA OP CASTILE. 
 
 king Don Ferdinand, and bis consort, Dona Isabella, queen propri- 
 etor (as we should say, queen in lier own right, or queen regnant) 
 of these kingdoms ! " Isabella received the homage of her sub- 
 jects, swore to maintain inviolate the liberties of the realm, and 
 repaired to the cathedral church ; where, when Te Deum had been 
 chanted, she offered up thanksgiving, and invoked the Divine 
 blessing upon her future endeavours to discharge the high trust 
 which devolved upon her, with equity and wisdom — and nobly 
 did she ftdfil this, her coronation oath. 
 
 On Ferdinand's arrival from Arragon, the respective authority 
 to be exercised by the royal husband and wife in the administra- 
 tion of government was discussed ; and upon the issue of this dis- 
 cussion resulting in a decision that Isabella, as sole heiress of the 
 dominions of Castile and Leon, was entitled to all the essential 
 rights of sovereignty (while whatever authority Ferdinand might 
 hold, could only be derived through her), he was so ill-pleased, 
 that he spoke of returning to Ai-ragon. But Isabella, with affec- 
 tionate reasoning, succeeded in soothing his marital susceptibility ; 
 and by representations of equal truth and gentleness, won him to 
 perceive that their interests were uniform. With wifely skill, she 
 healed his wounded pride, while preserving uncompromised her 
 royal trust. 
 
 One of the first acts in common of the sovereigns, was to meet 
 effectually a coalition of those nobles who supported Joanna's 
 party, and who, joining with the King of Portugal, declared war 
 against Ferdinand and Isabella. Unprepared for Alfonso's inva- 
 sion, they made vigorous exertions for resistance. Isabella em- 
 ployed whole nights in dictating despatches to her secretaries ; and 
 encountered personal fatigue with indomitable resolution. She 
 performed arduous journeys on horseback, for the sake of herself 
 inspecting and encouraging those garrisons where she deemed such
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 243 
 
 stimulus requisite ; and shrank from no exertion that might ensure 
 allegiance, although her situation at that time demanded repose. 
 The risk of injury to her constitution, and of seeing her maternal 
 hopes frustrated, could not deter her from pursuing her duty as a 
 ruler. Her sense of queenhood ever kept pace with her sense of 
 womanhood ; and she was as mindful of what she owed to her peo- 
 ple, as of what she owed to her husband, her children, and herself. 
 
 Thanks to her extraordinary exertions, in conjunction with 
 those he himself made, Ferdinand was able to advance at the head 
 of a considerable force, upon the invading army. After varying 
 success during the campaign, — in the course of which, Isal^ella 
 evinced on several occasions the punctilious regard for Castilian 
 rights, and the scrupulous probity and rectitude which distinguished 
 her — victory at the battle of Toro decided the war in favour of 
 Ferdinand and Isabella. The King of Portugal withdrew his pre- 
 tensions ; those of Joanna were set at rest by her retirement into 
 a convent ; and the undisputed possession of Castile which thus 
 accrued to the sovereigns, was shortly after followed by Ferdi- 
 nand's succeeding to the crown of Arragon, by the death of his 
 father, in 14*79. The two kingdoms of Arragon and Castile were 
 united under the joint sovereignty of Ferdinand and Isabella, and 
 became the important Euroj^ean monarchy it has since been. 
 
 While the military accomplishments of Ferdinand found such 
 ample scope in obtainmg advantages for the state, Isabella's fine 
 mental powers, and indefatigable energy, were employed in govern- 
 mental reforms calculated to improve the social condition of her 
 people. Although her husband's able judgment aided her own, 
 yet his policy was of a less upright and pure character than 
 Isabella's ; she was incapable of an indirect or unworthy pro- 
 cedure, while Ferdinand was less absolutely controuled by strict 
 principle in his course of action. Happily for her subjects, the
 
 244 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 internal administration of Castile fell cliiefly within the province 
 of their queen to regulate — and nobly she executed the charge. 
 Their welfare — present and permanent — was her highest aim, her 
 dearest care. Few young queens have been able to effect the 
 substantial improvements in administrative rule that Isabella estab- 
 lished during the first portion of her reign. Before the year 1482 
 most important measures were already adopted, and put into active 
 operation. For the efiicient protection of the country, and for the 
 attainment of the ends of justice, Isabella- persevered in re-organ- 
 izing the Santa Hermandad, or Holy Brotherhood, an association 
 which formed a system of pohce, taking within its jurisdiction 
 offences regardless of the rank of offenders. The opposition which 
 the queen met with from the nobility — who found this new system 
 likely to interfere with their hitherto unchecked oppression of the 
 powerless — was counterbalanced by the popularity of the institu- 
 tion among those for whose behoof it was put in force. The con- 
 sciousness of acting for the true benefit of her people, and the 
 recognition they evinced of their queen's sohcitude for their 
 advantage, supported her through all difficulties, and gained her 
 the unalterable attachment of those she swayed. An instance of 
 her power over the hearts of the populace, and of her own self- 
 possession and reliance upon them, is exemplified in an incident 
 which is recorded to have taken place at Segovia, during an insur- 
 rectionary tumult of the citizens. They assembled in great num- 
 bers before the citadel, calling out, " Death to the Alcayde ! 
 Attack the castle ! " Isabella's terrified attendants entreated their 
 mistress to order the gates to be more strongly guarded ; but she 
 quietly descended into the courtyard, and stationing herself there, 
 ordered the portals to be thrown wide open. On the insurgents 
 pouring in, she calmly addressed them, bidding them tell her their 
 grievances, and promising that she would do all in her power to
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 245 
 
 redi'ess these, as she was sure that what was for their interest, must 
 be also for hers, and for that of the whole city. Her composure 
 and dignity, togetlier with her thus making theii' cause her own, 
 allayed then* wrath, and gained her time to examine into the justice 
 of their complaints ; while by her presence of mind, she quelled 
 without compromise of royal supremacy, a disturbance in its com- 
 mencement which might have gi-own into a serious outbreak. 
 
 She went herself into the provinces where disaffection and 
 anarchy prevailed, for the purpose of enquiring into delinquencies, 
 composing feuds, and reforming abuses, notwithstanding the re- 
 monstrances her ministers made against endangering her safety. 
 Nothing deterred her, where duty and principle called for exertion 
 on her part. She revived the ancient practice of the Castilian 
 sovereigns, of presiding in person over the administration of justice ; 
 and she weekly took her seat on a chair of state, surrounded by 
 her council, receiving suits referred to her decision — thus saving 
 the usual cost and delay of equitable adjustment. Her method in 
 business, and energy of mind, caused admirable despatch in the 
 transaction of affairs ; and she disposed of so many civil and 
 criminal causes within a short space, that it struck terror into the 
 hearts of plunderers and culprits. The certainty with which law 
 was executed, regardless of wealth that could purchase release 
 from penalty, or rank that could obtain impunity, contributed 
 greatly to secure respect for legal institutions, during the reign of 
 Isabella. She herself was superior to all mercenary motive ; and 
 no sophistry could bias her honest convictions on this head. Be- 
 sides the judicatory reforms, Isabella salutarily restricted the nobil- 
 ity's overgrown power, preserved the ecclesiastical rights of the 
 crown from papal usurpation, ordained commercial and trade regu- 
 lations, and maintained royal authority. The private characters, 
 no less than the public measures of Ferdinand and Isabella, tended
 
 246 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 to secure their regal supremacy. Their talents, their sage conduct, 
 their dignity — moral, intellectual, and personal — commanded re- 
 spect, and inspired confidence. But while Ferdinand's wisdom 
 was shrewd and worldly, Isabella's was virtuous and disinterested. 
 She used her high endowments for patriotic pui-poses, and devoted 
 her whole soul to exalted aims. ' 
 
 There can be no doubt that Isabella's nature was as merciful 
 as it was just, as humane and kindly as it was righteous, as benevo- 
 lent and mild as it was strict-principled ; yet nevertheless, in her 
 reign was established a tribunal conspicuous for mercUess, inhuman 
 and deadly severity — the Inquisition. Owing to early impressions, 
 and to having for confessor in her girlhood one of the most relent- 
 less of men, — Thomas de Torquemada (afterwards the Inquisitor 
 General of Spain,) — she had acquired a habit of deferring in all 
 spiritual matters to other arbitrament than that of her own pui-e 
 and sensitive conscience. When, therefore, the introduction of the 
 so-called holy office (blasphemous misuse of terms!) into Spain was 
 proposed, Isabella was gradually won to agree to that which her 
 own excellent judgment and good heart — had they been permitted 
 free exercise — would have revolted from. Ferdinand was readily 
 brought to accede to its institution ; but Isabella, without whose 
 sanction nothing could be effected in CastUe, — ^long withheld her 
 consent. Her nature recoiled from putting in force so terrible an 
 engine ; which, under the name of all that is most revered, might 
 be made the means of cruellest persecution. But a skilful appeal 
 directed to her pious feelings awakened misgiving that leniency 
 might be a sin; she was led to believe that religion requii-ed 
 severity towards apostates and heretics, and that to spare suspected 
 Jews, or infidel Mahommedans, was mistaken mercy. Her ac- 
 quiescence was obtained ; and a Papal bull authorizing the es- 
 tablishment of the Inquisition in Castile was solicited from Rome.
 
 ISABELLA OP CASTILE. 247 
 
 She still hesitated ; and kept the execution of the bull suspended 
 for two years ; but at length, in 1480, the royal order was issued, 
 and the Court of Inquisitors was appointed. The number of pris- 
 oners soon became so great that the space first destined for their 
 reception was wholly inadequate to contain them ; various rigorous 
 penalties followed ; and sentences of death abounded. In the course 
 of the year 1481, two hundi-ed and ninety-eight persons were burned 
 alive in the city of Seville, two thousand in other parts of Anda- 
 lusia, and seventeen thousand suffered different penal inflictions. 
 The property of those who were executed was confiscated ; and Qaeen 
 Isabella wrote to the Pope complaining that what she had done on 
 behalf of the Catholic faith, drew upon her the accusation of hav- 
 ing done it for the sake of the valuable confiscations which accrued 
 from condemnation. Conscious of her purity of motive, and anx- 
 ious to secure the power of administering justice according to her 
 own views of what she held to be its due, she wished to make the 
 judgments of the new tribunal independent of any appeal to 
 Rome ; and her letter to Sixtus IV. stated this request. But mild- 
 ness and moderation, — however much desired by Isabella, and re- 
 commended by the Pope in his reply, — were not easily made part 
 of a system that soon became Irresponsible and potent beyond 
 all limit. The Inquisition was established in Spain ; and there it 
 held its fierce sway, — a terror and a scourge of fearfullest might. 
 
 On reading the dark story of atrocity committed at a later pe- 
 riod of this reign, when the Jews were expelled from Spain, we 
 are filled with iudisrnant rearret that a humane nature like Isabella's 
 should have been so desecrated as to have been wrenched into 
 any participation with such monstrous deeds. It is a lamentable 
 instance of a great mind surrendering its judgment to inferior 
 capacities under the influence of ideas of religion. Steadily did 
 Isabella refuse to sign the iniquitous edict for the expulsion of the
 
 248 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 Jews, an edict wliicli consigned several hundred thousand persons 
 to beggary, exile, and miserable perishing — untU forced into the 
 measure by those who had the spiritual direction of her conscience. ^ 
 The descriptions of the cruel farces enacted, under the name of 
 enquiry into their state of converted faith, against suspected Jews, 
 make Le Sage's account of the fi-audulent process carried on 
 against Samuel Simon, the Christianized Jew, by the mock inquisi- 
 tors, Don Raphael and Ambrose Lamela, in company with Gil 
 Bias, no caricature whatever ; whUe the relation in history of the 
 miseries suffered by the exiled Israelites, stripped of their posses- 
 sions, and turned forth to wander away and starve by thousands, 
 wrings the heart with grief and abhorrence at the ferocities com- 
 mitted under the plea of serving Heaven's cause. Will men never 
 remember God's reply to Abraham, when he thrust the old man 
 from his tent, exposing him to all the evils of the night, because 
 he worshipped the fire only ? Instead of applauding this act of 
 zealous anger on his behalf, God answered : — " I have suffered him 
 these hundred years, although he dishonoured me ; and could'st 
 not thou endure him one night ? " * We cannot but recall Mo- 
 liere's spirited expostulation : — 
 
 "Des interets du Ciel pourquoi vous chargez-vous ? 
 Pour puiiir lo eoupable, a-t-il besoin de nous ? 
 Laissez-lui, laissez-lui le soin de ses vengeances : 
 Ne songez qu'au pardon qu'il prcscrit aux offences ; 
 Et ne regardez point aux jugements humains, 
 Quand vous suivez du Ciel les ordres souverains." 
 
 [ Why take on yourself Heaven's cause to defend ? 
 To punish the culprit, need He our help append ? 
 Leave to him, leave to him, the care to avenge : 
 Remem,ber, that pardon's enjoined as revenge ; 
 And judge not according to Earth's human leaven, 
 When obeying the orders of sovereign Heaven.] 
 
 * The reader is referred to Bisliop Jeremy Taylor's sermon on " Liberty of Propliesy- 
 infi," for this beautiful parable-story ; and to Leigh Hunt's poetical version of it, under 
 the title of '• Abraham and tbe Fire-worshipper."
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 249 
 
 A great feature in the political conduct of Isabella and her 
 husband, was the prudence and temper they displayed iu their ne- 
 gociations with foreign courts ; and the judicious moderation 
 blended with dignified firmness and spirited assertion, which mark 
 all their international and ambassadorial treaties. They possessed 
 that valualjle secret in diplomacy — as it is in most human inter- 
 course — of preserving coolness amid perplexing discussion ; and 
 maintaining strict right and justice in privilege, while using for- 
 bearance of expression. 
 
 Their invariable selection, too, of the fittest and worthiest men 
 for appointment to the highest oflices in the state, secured to the 
 sovereigns the ablest assistance in ruling their kingdom. The 
 names of two such men as Cardinal Mendoza and Cardinal Xime- 
 nes, who successively filled the post of primate of Spain, amply 
 instance Ferdinand and Isabella's appreciation of lofty intellect 
 and commanding powers ; with their care to place gifted persons 
 like these in positions which should appropriate the exercise of 
 their endowments to the national behoof. 
 
 Isabella's zeal for religion, and thirst for glory, excited in her 
 a desu-e to expel the Moslemites from their last stronghold in 
 Spain. War was therefore carried into the kingdom of Granada ; 
 and she, by her indefatigable exertions, provident forethought, and 
 dauntless courage, was the very soul of the expedition. Ever so- 
 licitous for her people's welfare, she neglected nothing that could 
 ensure the personal comforts of her troops, as well as sustain their 
 valour. Her tender care for the sick and wounded soldiers, led to 
 her appointing a number of large tents, known as the " queen's 
 hospitals," to be established for then* reception ; where the needful 
 attendance and medicines were provided at her own charge. Isa- 
 bella has the honour — a noble one for her, as queen and woman— 
 of this being the first instance on record of regular camp hospi- 
 32
 
 250 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 tals. She supported lier husband by her cheering views ; she en- 
 couraged the leaders by frequent letters and bestowal of honours ; 
 she visited the camp in person ; and set a perpetual example of 
 heroism in spii-it and in action. She proved herself an able gen- 
 eral ; she levied forces, she constructed roads, she supplied stores 
 and provisions, she devised means for meeting expenditure, and — 
 as a last resoui'ce, pawned not only the crown jewels, but her own 
 ornaments, to furnish the requisite amount of military cost. When 
 the protracted siege of Baza wore out the spirits of the army, her 
 presence acted like an angelic influence to inspire fresh vigour and 
 determination. She appeared upon the field, mounted on horse- 
 back, and clad in complete armour. The suit of mail she wore, is 
 still preserved as a precious memorial in the armoury at Madrid. 
 She superintended the military preparations, and pei-sonally in- 
 spected every part of the encampment. On one occasion, subse- 
 quently, an accident occurred, which might have been attended 
 with fatal consequences ; but which was made the source of ulti- 
 mate and permanent good. By the carelessness of her attendants, 
 a lamp was suffered to remain in such a situation, that it set fire to 
 the hangings of the tent in which the queen was lodged ; and the 
 flames, spreading rapidly, threatened a general conflagration. For- 
 tunately, Isabella escaped uninjured, and, to prevent any recurrence 
 of a similar danger, it was resolved to erect a substantial town on 
 the site of the encampment. The work proceeded with such dili- 
 gence, that in less than three months the task was accomplished. 
 The army were desirous that the new city should bear the name of 
 their well-beloved queen ; but Isabella, with her usual modesty and 
 judgment, declined this tribute, and entitled the place Santa Fe^ 
 in token of the holy faith with which the war had been under- 
 taken by herself and people. 
 
 At length, the capital of Granada surrendered ; the keys of the
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 251 
 
 Alhambra were delivered up ; and Ferdinand and Isabella took 
 possession of the city, — the grandees kneeling to the queen, and 
 saluting her hand in sign of homage as sovereign of Granada. 
 
 WhUe the conquerors moved triumphant towards the scene of 
 their glory, the Moorish King, Abdallah, or Boabdil, took his way 
 from his lost possessions. The unhappy prince drew bridle when 
 he reached a rocky point which commanded a last view of Gra- 
 nada ; and unable to bear the sight, burst into tears. His mother, 
 (whom some authorities name Ayxa, others Zoraya ; both having 
 been wives to Abdallah's father and predecessor, Muley Abul 
 Hacen,) — of more haughty and inflexible spirit than her son, — ^is 
 said to have exclaimed bitterly : — " You do well to weej) like a 
 woman, for what you could not defend like a man ! " The spot 
 is poetically commemorated by the title given to it by the people 
 of the country, '■'•El ultimo sospiro del Moro^'' — " The last sigh of 
 the Moor." 
 
 Mr. Washington Irviug's beautiful " Chronicle of the Conquest 
 of Granada," gives the most graphic description of all this brilliant 
 period in Isabella's life. The air of rich-hued romance thrown over 
 the account, together with a certain antique fashion of simplicity 
 in the diction, give it a resemblance to the pages of old Froissart. 
 
 The conqnest of Granada, — ^grand as that achievement was, — 
 formed, as it were, but the prelude to a still more glorious event ; 
 an event which gilds Isabella's reign with a splendour the most 
 lustrous. To her belongs the especial credit of listening with 
 favour to proposals, which, to most persons who heard them, ap- 
 peared but the delusions of a visionary. Christopher Columbus had 
 vainly sought from other crowned heads, the necessary patronage 
 and support for the prosecution of his schemes of discovery. His 
 fii'st application to the court of Spain came at an unpropitious 
 season, when the sovereigns were engrossed with the Moorish war ;
 
 252 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 and were conveyed tlirougli an adverse channel, — no other than 
 the queen's confessor, who, at that period, was Fernando de Tala- 
 vera, a man of narrow views, and averse from any thing like innova- 
 tion or enterprise. Columbus's warm and steadfast friend, — Juan 
 Perez de Marchena, superior in the convent of La Rabida, where 
 Columbus, when a needy wanderer, had asked bread and shelter 
 for his young son, — ^had from the first taken strong interest in the- 
 great navigator's theories of discovery; and had furnished him 
 with letters of introduction to Talavera, as the best method of ob- 
 taining access to Isabella's ear. The confessor's intervention was 
 not more favourable to Columbus's cause, than so lukewarm an 
 advocacy as Talavera's of what he thought mere wild improbable 
 fantasy, was likely to be ; and years elapsed in profitless delay. 
 Heart-sick and weary, Columbus prepared to quit Spain, in order 
 to submit his proposals to the court of France. Again, however, 
 his good friend, Juan Perez stepped in, and persuaded Columbus 
 to suspend his resolution, until he himself tried what a personal ap- 
 plication would do. Perez had at one time been confessor to 
 Isabella ; and possessing the queen's esteem for his many excellent 
 qualities, he went at once to her, obtained an audience, and pleaded 
 Columbus's cause with so much fervom', that he succeeded in ex- 
 citing the attention and securing the interest of the sovereigns. 
 The prosperous close of the war in Granada afforded additional op- 
 portunity for listening to proposals that opened a prospect of such 
 vast and important acquisitions ; and Columbus was recalled to 
 state his own views to the Spanish sovereigns. This he did with 
 BO much eloquence and skiU, that while the imagination of the 
 king was dazzled with ideas of gain and dominion, that of Isabella 
 was fired with the ho^je of extending the hght of Christianity over 
 nations ignorant and heathen. Even then, Ferdinand's calculating 
 spu-it would have placed a bar to the fulfilment of the project ,
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 253 
 
 for, upon Columbus's stipulations on his side being announced, the 
 king demurred to them ; and as nothing could induce the stout- 
 hearted Genoese to relinquish points that he knew to be his due, 
 the conferences were broken off, and he once more left the Span- 
 ish court, to try his fortune elsewhere. The friends he had there, 
 ventured boldly to represent to the queen the risk she ran of be- 
 holding some other monarchy avail itself of Columbus's services to 
 secm-e the glory and advantage of his discoveries; and one of 
 them went so far as to remind Isabella that her present policy was 
 not in accordance with the magnanimous spirit which had hitherto 
 made her the ready patron of great and heroic enterprise. She, — 
 with her usual line sense, — far from being displeased at this honest 
 eloquence, was moved by it to give Columbus's proposals their due 
 consideration, and to view them in their true light. Refusing to 
 listen longer to the suggestions of cold or timid coimsellors, she 
 gave way to the natural imjjulses of her own noble and generous 
 heart, and declared that she would assume the undertaking for her 
 own crown of CastUe ; and that she was ready to part with her 
 jewels to defray the cost, should the funds in the treasury be in- 
 sufficient. Thus spiritedly did this high-minded woman ever 
 behave where a principle or a right course was involved. 
 
 No sooner were the conditions settled, and the expedition 
 resolved upon, than Isabella, with her characteristic promptitude 
 and ability, took the requisite measures for forwarding its com- 
 mencement. Orders were despatched for stores and articles neces- 
 sary for the voyage ; a small fleet of three vessels was appointed 
 to sail from the port of Palos ; and, as the expedition was far from 
 popular, a royal ordinance was issued, promising protective privi- 
 leges to aU who should embark in it. On the 3rd August, 14:92, 
 the illustrious navigator set sail — with what immortal success, is well 
 known.
 
 254 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 To Isabella of Castile is doubtless attributable a share in the 
 glory of Christopher Columbus's grand discovery. Had she not 
 yielded credit to his theories, and partaken in the noble enthusiasm 
 of his views, he might have continued to pine out the remainder of 
 his life in vain solicitations, and fruitless seeking for patronage. 
 The acquisition of a new hemisphere is partly her triumph ; and 
 the generous credence which an elevated soul gives to conceptions 
 deemed chimerical by less exalted minds, is wholly her own. 
 Isabella's interest in Columbus and his undertaking was no fickle 
 or transitory sentiment ; from the time she first put faith in him, 
 she remained his steadfast friend and protectress to the last. His 
 own words bear testimony to her enlightened benignity, where he 
 says in one of his letters : — " In the midst of the general incre- 
 dulity, the Almighty infused into the queen, my lady, the spirit of 
 intelligence and energy ; and, whilst every one else in his igno- 
 rance was expatiating only on the inconvenience and cost, her High- 
 ness ajiproved it, on the contrary, and gave it all the support in 
 her power." And one instance, among others, of the gracious con- 
 sideration she evinced for Columbus, is marked by the circum- 
 stance of her taking his two sons, Diego and Fernando, as her own 
 pages, on the death of Prince John, in whose service they had 
 formerly been. 
 
 The sudden loss of this prince, in the full bloom of youthful 
 promise, Avas a blow to his mother's heart from which she never 
 entirely recovered. He died on the 4th of October, 1497, in the 
 twentieth year of his age, not more than six months after his 
 auspicious marriage with the Princess Margaret, daughter of the 
 Emperor Maximilian. Prince John was the darling of the nation, 
 as well as of his parents ; for never did royal heu- give greater hope 
 of future excellence. Isabella received the news of this beloved 
 son's death with the resignation and fortitude of one who had
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 255 
 
 schooled lier soul to bear the dispensations of her Creator with 
 unmurmuring submission; but though meek and patient of de- 
 meanour, her inmost heart felt the wound. This trial was suc- 
 ceeded the very year after, by one no less afflicting : her eldest 
 daughter and namesake, Isabella, who had been married to the 
 Prince of Portugal, died in childbu-th ; and this second bereave- 
 ment, so soon following the first, caused her health to sink under 
 the heavy calamity. 
 
 The queen's affections received reiterated shocks at this period ; 
 and it seemed as if her domestic sorrows were to be heaped in 
 proportion with the abundance of her regal prosperities. She had 
 lost her mother, the dowager-queen ; who, during the latter years 
 of her life, had suffered from a mental infirmity that drew forth the 
 tenderest personal care of Isabella; and she had now a fresh 
 misery to endure, which caused her bitter anguish both in maternal 
 and in queenly relation. Her second daughter, Joanna, who had 
 been allied in marriage with the archduke Philip of Flanders, at 
 this time gave unequivocal symptoms of insanity ; and as — owing 
 to the deaths of Prince John and the young Queen of Portugal— 
 the succession devolved upon Joanna, Isabella's heart was torn by 
 mingled grief for her hapless daughter, and filled with anxious 
 forebodings for the future welfare of her beloved people. Yet 
 even in the midst of these accumulated sources of sorrow, and not- 
 withstanding the rapidly-declining state of her own health, she 
 still continued to devote the energies of her mind to the interests 
 of her subjects ; and up to the period of her death, ceased not to 
 take an active share in the provisions for their protection and 
 benefit. A threatened invasion from France occupied her ardent 
 and unselfish efforts to aid Ferdinand in repelling it ; and she 
 resolutely held illness at bay, that her husband might dedicate his 
 undivided attention to the needful military preparations for defence.
 
 256 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 The enemy was eflfectually driven back over the border ; and a 
 truce, honourable and advantageous to Spain, was effected. De- 
 prived of her eldest daughter, and only son, by death, and doomed 
 to behold her second daughter, Joanna, a prey to a living mental 
 death, Isabella had to part with her youngest daughter, and behold 
 her removed to a distant land. This princess, known to us in 
 English history as Catharine of Arragon, had been affianced at an 
 early age to Arthur, Prince of Wales ; and was subsequently wed- 
 ded to him. The union lasted but six months ; and was by many 
 believed to have been but a nominal marriage. Henry VIII., after 
 his brother's death, espoused the young widow. Isabella added 
 her influence to her husband's, in prevailing upon Catharine to 
 enter into these second nuptials ; but she was spared a knowledge 
 of the melancholy catastrophe they ultimately entailed upon her 
 daughter. Her own death preceded the climax of her daughter's 
 sad fate, as depicted by Shakespeare with such noble pathos ; yet 
 it is impossible to help recalling the link that associates the affect- 
 ing words which Shakespeare has placed in Queen Catharine's 
 mouth, with the subject of our narrative, where she says : — 
 
 " They that my trust must grow to, live not here : 
 They are, as all my other comforts, far hence, 
 In mine own country, lords." 
 
 We can hardly forbear fancying that her thoughts here wander 
 back to that fond, devoted parent, that heroic-hearted mother, 
 whose dearest care was for her children. 
 
 Bravely as Isabella had borne her multiplied afflictions, their 
 poignancy destroyed her. Repeated warnings of decay were ac- 
 cepted with pious fii'mness, and she availed herself of their indica- 
 tion to execute her will, while her faculties retained their clear- 
 ness. This renowned document is instinct with her charaicteristic 
 virtue and high principle ; and remains a monument of her grand 
 mind and heart — showing how perfectly the gentlest tenderness
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 257 
 
 co-exists with the strongest mental sense. The passages where she 
 makes mention of her husband, in this solemnly-beautiful testa- 
 ment, are characteristic in the extreme. She directs that her re- 
 mains may be transported to Granada, to the Franciscan monastery 
 of Santa Isabella in the Alhambra, and there deposited in a low 
 and humble tomb, without other memorial than a plain inscription 
 on it. " But," she adds, " should the king my lord prefer a sepul- 
 chre in some other place, then my will is that my body be there 
 transported, and laid by his side ; that the union we have enjoyed 
 in this world, and, through the mercy of God, may hope again for 
 our souls in heaven, may be represented by our bodies in the 
 earth." And she concludes, with a wifely deference exquisitely 
 blended with the fervour of affectionate monition — such as had 
 made her his better angel through life, and now rendered her his 
 guardian spirit in death : — " I beseech the king my lord that he 
 will accept all my jewels, or such as he may select, so that, seeing 
 them, he may be reminded of the singular love I always bore him 
 while living, and that I am now waiting for him in a better world ; 
 by which remembrance he may be encouraged to live more justly 
 and holily in this." 
 
 A point in this will is worthy of notice, as a hint that 
 might be judiciously followed by the generality, who are prone to 
 absurd expenditure in a matter that this great queen held to be 
 unworthy of profuse cost. She commanded that her funeral ob- 
 sequies should be performed in the plainest and most unostenta- 
 tious manner, and that the sum saved by this economy should be 
 distributed in alms among the poor. 
 
 She expired on the 26th of Novemberj 1504, in the fifty-fourth 
 year of her age, and thirtieth of her reign. Spain lost its noblest 
 monarch ; her husband and family theii- best friend ; her subjects 
 their benignest protector. 
 33
 
 258 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 Mr. Prescott, in his admirable " History of Ferdinand and Isa- 
 bella," has drawn a parallel between Elizabeth of England and 
 Isabella of Castile, showing with masterly discrimination the points 
 of cii'cumstantial resemblance, and of moral dissimilarity, which 
 existed between the two women-monarchs. In conclusion, he says : 
 " Both pined amidst their royal state, a prey to incurable despon- 
 dency, rather than to any marked bodily distemper. In Elizabeth 
 it sprang from wounded vanity, a sullen conviction that she had 
 outlived the admiration on which she had so long fed — and even 
 the solace of friendship and the attachment of her subjects. Nor 
 did she seek consolation, where alone it was to be found, in that 
 sad hour. Isabella, on the other hand, sunk under a too acute sen- 
 sibility to the sufferings of others. But, amidst the gloom which 
 gathered around her, she looked with the eye of faith to the 
 brighter jirospects which unfolded of the future ; and, when she 
 resigned her last breath, it was amidst the tears and universal lam- 
 entations of her people." 
 
 A very beautiful trait in the character of Isabella, is her large 
 humanity. This is perhaps one of the greatest — while it is, alas ! 
 one of the rarest attributes in sovereign rulers. They are gene- 
 rally so intent upon the aggrandizement of their people, that they 
 are apt to omit giving sufficient consideration to more immediately 
 pertinent concerns. The social wants and grievances of subjects 
 are less usually thought foi*, than theii* national advantages and 
 state position. But Isabella had a woman's solicitude for those 
 who were committed to her queenly guardianship. Not only was 
 her vigilance sleepless onbehalf of her own Castilian people, but her 
 interest for those indirectly within the scope of her dominion, was 
 hardly less animated. The commiseration she exj^ressed for the 
 African slaves imported into Seville — with her repeated interfer- 
 ences to procure them more equal protection from the laws, as well
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 259 
 
 as such social indulgences as might mitigate the hardships of their 
 lot — affords proof of this. And the compassionate sympathy she 
 evinced for the Indian captives ; desu'ing lenient measures to be 
 taken for their conversion ; indignantly protesting against having 
 them treated with harshness ; causing missionaries to be instructed 
 in the language of the natives, so that persuasion and argument 
 might win the unoffending islanders, instead of consigning them to 
 the horrors of slavery ; and finally, the fact of her inserting an 
 especial clause in the codicil to her last testament, wherein she ear- 
 nestly enjoins her successors to quicken the good work of convert- 
 ing and civilizing the poor Indians, to treat them with the greatest 
 gentleness, and redress any wrongs they may have suffered in their 
 persons or property — eloquently bespeak her humane and enlight- 
 ened spirit. The way in which she obtained commutation of the 
 most rigorous portion of the sentence passed upon an assassin who 
 attempted Ferdinand's life, bears evidence of her merciful disposi- 
 tion ; and the endeavours she made to lessen the ferocity attending 
 the national sport of bullfights, at the same time exhibiting due 
 regard for popular predilection, proclaim her united wisdom and 
 benevolence. 
 
 Besides her passionate attachment to her mother, husband, and 
 children, her friendships were warm and lasting. In the arms of 
 her earliest and dearest friend, Beatrice, Marchioness of Moya, who 
 was seldom separated from her royal mistress during life, Isabella 
 yielded her last breath ; and her faithful adherent, Peter Martyr, 
 in a letter written on the very day of the queen's death, says, with 
 mournful fervour : — " My hand falls powerless by my side for very 
 sorrow. The world has lost its noblest ornament ; a loss to be de- 
 plored not only by Spain, which she has so long carried forward 
 in the career of glory, but by every nation in Christendom ; for 
 she was the mirror of every virtue, the shield of the innocent, and
 
 260 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 
 
 an avenging sword to the wicked. I know none of her sex, in an- 
 cient or modern times, who in my judgment is at all worthy to be 
 named with this incomparable woman." Such a testimony from 
 one who was in close and intimate opportunity of witnessing her 
 course of conduct for a long period of years, comes with affecting 
 weight. 
 
 Bayard, the chevalier " Sans peur et sans reproche," in his 
 chivalrous admiration of her achievement in recovering the king- 
 dom of Granada from Moorish sway by force of arms, is an evi- 
 dence of her martial repute. In adverting to her death — after 
 calling her " one of the most triumphant and glorious ladies that 
 for three thousand years hath dwelt upon this earth " — he says, in 
 the quaint fashion of an old chronicler, with his antique French 
 diction, and poetic colouring : — 
 
 " Je veux bien asseurer aux lecteurs de ceste presente hystoire, que sa vie a este 
 telle qu'elle a bien merite couronne de laurier apres sa raort." 
 
 [" I can assure the readers of this my present history, her life hath been such, 
 that she hath well merited a crown of laurel after death."] 
 
 Her patronage of letters, her encouragement of intellectual 
 culture among the ladies of her court, her admirable system of 
 education for the prince, her son, as heir-apparent to the throne, 
 her engagement of the ablest preceptors for the infantas, her 
 daughters, her inducements to men of learning to settle in Spain, 
 her sagacious discernment of talent, and her taste for collecting 
 books, are so many exemplifications of her mental perspicacity ; 
 while the introduction of the art of jirintiug into Spain, at the 
 very outset of her accession, most opportunely tended to promote 
 her enlightened efforts. Isabella's reign formed a literary epoch in 
 her country. 
 
 She was singularly free from prejudice, and had none of the 
 narrow dislike of foreiojn or rival excellence common to inferior
 
 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 261 
 
 natures ; yet her fine understanding allowed full weight to national 
 feeling, popular preference, and public opinion. She was so much 
 in advance of her age, that the manner in which she made 
 pubhc opinion a main guide of her actions, while preserving the 
 integrity of her own faith and principle, anticipated the wisdom 
 with which sovereign power is now controuled by this mighty 
 element. Isabella possessed foresight, tolerance, prudence, and 
 benevolence ; and wherever those virtues failed to operate actively, 
 it was because they were restrained by an influence to which she 
 yielded her own will. Meek as she was gifted, her modest self- 
 mistrust and pious humility rendered her docile to remonstrance 
 from her spiritual directors ; and advantage was taken of her 
 reverence for religion to obtain her acquiescence in deeds of bigotry 
 and persecution performed in its sacred name, which were the only 
 blots on her otherwise unblemished career. 
 
 Her reign exists a period of glory and advancement to Spain ; 
 her life was a beneficent influence and lasting blessing to her sub- 
 jects ; and her memory will be cherished, in immortal honour, by 
 her native country. Isabella of Castile was the model of a vu-tuous 
 woman, and arch-ad mii-able queen.
 
 "^^V 
 
 C^ 
 
 W'9?r'y L/A^^y
 
 LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 Lady Jane Grey affords an illustrious instance of youthful erudi- 
 tion in a lady, high-born, beautiful, and modest. She was of royal 
 descent, yet meek and unassuming ; learned, yet simple. She had 
 neither vanity, pride, nor ambition ; although her charms of per- 
 son, her acquii-ements, and her exalted rank, might, in a young 
 lady of weaker mind, have generated all three. 
 
 Unfortunately, her family connections were not equally free 
 from these defects: for they were vain of Lady Jane's beauty, 
 and took advantage of her gentleness to treat her with severity, 
 and ultimately with cruelty : they were proud of her endowments, 
 yet behaved as if she had neither sense, feeling, nor volition ; and 
 they made her birth and position a source of their selfish ambi- 
 tion, sacrificing her to it without remorse, or even the common 
 natural affection of kindred. 
 
 Lady Jane Grey was born in 1537, at Broadgate, her father's 
 seat in Leicestershire. She was of the blood-royal of "England, 
 being great grand-daughter to Henry VII.; whose daughter, 
 Mary, married, first, Louis XII. of France, and secondly, Charles 
 Brandon, Duke of Suftblk, by whom she had a daughter, the lady 
 Frances Brandon, married to Hemy Grey, Marquis of Dorset — 
 Lady Jane Grey's father.
 
 264 LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 That Charles Brandon was the gallant Gentleman, whose ro- 
 mantic fortune is like a tale of chivalry. In his boyish days he 
 was a playmate of the Prince Henry, afterwards Henry VIH. ; 
 and Princess Mary, afterwards Queen of France. The royal 
 brother and sister felt a strong affection for the handsome, accom- 
 plished youth, — an affection which subsequently took the form of 
 friendship in " bluff King Hal," and love in the beautiful widow of 
 Louis XII., who married the object of her early preference, when 
 released from the tie of a State alliance. Charles Brandon received 
 with the rapturous eagerness of a lover the happiness his mistress 
 bestowed, by wedding her pi-ivately and immediately ; but with 
 the true spii'it of noble feeling, he marked his delicate sense of the 
 honour she had conferred, by appearing at a tournament given in 
 celebration of their public nuptials, on a saddle-cloth, made half of 
 frize and half of cloth of gold, bearing a motto on each half : — 
 
 And, 
 
 • Cloth of frize, be not too bold, 
 Though thou art match'd with cloth of gold." 
 
 ' Cloth of gold, do not despise 
 Though thou art match'd with cloth of frize." 
 
 This piece of fine taste in her maternal grandfather, is like the 
 germ of that mingled humility and dignity which Lady Jane Gi'ey 
 possessed in so remarkable a degree — and which is,in fact, moral 
 dignity. That nobility of soul, which, while it perceives its own 
 capacity for high and refined excellence, is content to advance no 
 claims, enabled Lady Jane Grey not only to bear mildly the 
 austerities of her girlhood, but to endure with fortitude and resig- 
 nation the calamities that beset her youth, and brought her inno- 
 cent life to a premature close. The strict, and even rigid authority 
 which it was then the custom for parents to exercise towai-ds their 
 children ; the excess of respectful distance observed by the latter
 
 LADYJANEGREY. 265 
 
 towards them, can alone account for the rigorous treatment Lady 
 Jane Grey experienced from her father and mother in childhood ; 
 while she, with her native sweetness of disposition, made it but an 
 extra motive for reajiiug delight and solace from study, for which 
 she showed an extraordinary capacity at an early age. 
 
 Her parents, proud of her talents, and anxious that they should 
 obtain due cultivation, engaged as her preceptor, John Aylmer, 
 afterwards Bishop of London. She also received instruction from 
 the erudite Roger Ascham ; and she seems to have inspired both 
 these learned men with the fondest partiality for their fair young 
 pupil. Many learned divines entertained great admiration for her ; 
 and exj^ressed themselves in terms so flattering on her behalf, that, 
 had she been less devoid of self-sufliciency, it might have proved 
 injurious. Between herself and Ascham, indeed, there existed 
 an affectionate intimacy of intercourse not often to be found 
 between a girl of her years and a man of his. She confided to 
 him her home griefs and her home resources, with a candour 
 touchingly artless. In reply to his enquiry, how it was that at 
 her age, she had attained such proficiency in languages, and acquir- 
 ed such a habit of study, she wrote him a letter, wherein she 
 says : — " I will tell you a truth, which, perchance, you will marvel at. 
 One of the greatest benefits which ever God gave me is, that ho 
 sent me such sharj) and severe parents, and so gentle a teacher. 
 For, when I am in presence either of my father or mother, whether 
 I speak, keep silence, sit, stand, or go ; eat, drink, be merry, or sad ; 
 be sewing, playing, dancing, or doing anything else, I must do it, 
 as it were, in such weight, measure, and number, even so perfectly, 
 as God made the world. Or else — ^I am so sharply taunted, so 
 cruelly threatened, nay, prevented sometimes, with pinches, nips, 
 and bobs, and other ways, which I will not name, for the honour 
 which I bear my parents — I am so disordered, that I think myself 
 34
 
 266 L A D Y J AN E GRE y. 
 
 in hell, till tlie moment comes that I must go to Mr. Aylmer ; who 
 teaclietli me so gently, so pleasantly, and with such fair allurements 
 to learning, that I think all the time nothing while I am with him, 
 but when I am called from him I fall a weeping ; because what- 
 ever else I do but learning, is full of grief, fear, and trouble. 
 And thus my book hath been so much my pleasure, and bringeth 
 daily to me more enjoyment, that, in respect of it, all other plea- 
 sures, in very deed, be but trifles and troubles unto me." 
 
 She drew the truest philosophy from her reading ; for she 
 taught herself the happy wisdom of turning evils into sources 
 of good ; and learned the divine secret, how to suck the honey of 
 content, instead of the gall of discontent, from life's trials. That 
 she spoke nothing but truths, when she said, that compared with 
 the pleasure and enjoyment she derived from her book, all other 
 pleasures were trifling to her, we find from an interesting anecdote 
 related by Ascham to a friend of his. On one occasion, paying 
 a visit to the Marquis of Dorset, at Broadgate, he found all the 
 family out in the park on a hunting excursion, with the exception 
 of Lady Jane, whom he discovered in her own apartment, alone, 
 engaged in reading Plato in the original Greek. She understood 
 that language perfectly ; although then not fifteen years of age. 
 She spoke and wrote Greek, Latin, Italian, and French, with 
 fluency and correctness ; and was acquainted with Hebrew, Chal- 
 dee, and Arabic. 
 
 Such classical knowledge in a young lady of high rank, was by 
 no means a singular instance at that period ; for the Duchess of 
 Somerset's three daughters. Lady Jane, Lady Margaret, and Lady 
 Mary Seymour were distinguished by similar attainments, and were 
 considered to be the most learned and accomplished ladies in Europe, 
 with the exception of the Princess Mary, (afterwards Queen Mary 
 I.) and the Lady Jane Grey. Queen Elizabeth, also, was versed
 
 LADYJANEGREY. 267 
 
 in the classics, so that although Lady Jane Grey ranked as one of 
 the first lady-students of the time, she stood not alone in her pre- 
 eminence. Lady Jane, in a manner, partook of the same education 
 with her royal cousins ; Ascham having been tutor to the Princess 
 Elizabeth, and Latin secretary to Edward VI. In the princess 
 Mary's private account-book, where she kept a list of her jewels, 
 there is an entry bearing evidence of the friendly intercourse 
 which then existed between the young kinswomen ; whde it in- 
 volves impressive points of subsequent association. — Mary's hand 
 wrote this entry; the same hand that afterwards signed Jane's 
 death warrant. The entry registers a gift for Lady Jane Grey's 
 throat: — that fair throat which was ordered to be severed by the 
 headsman. " One gold necklace, set with j^earls, — given to my 
 cousin Jane Grey." We seem to see in place of those words : — "A 
 red necklace, red with blood, — ^given to my cousin Jane Grey." 
 The origin of iU-feeling on the part of Mary towards one who sub- 
 sequently became her rival claimant to the English throne, may be 
 traced to difference of religious opinion. The Princess Mary was 
 a staunch Catholic ; Lady Jane Grey was equally devoted to Pro- 
 testant principles, being firmly and strongly attached to them. 
 Mary adhered to her creed, none the less scrupulously from its 
 being almost proscribed. There was a kind of heroism in abiding 
 by a ritual that incurred risk of persecution in its performance ; 
 and, moreover, her character was obstinate, and her faith zealous 
 to bigotry. Lady Jane, from her intimacy with Chui'ch of Eng- 
 land prelates, and her own mental powers, was warm in her advo- 
 cacy for the tenets she professed. An incident recorded of the two 
 cousins, bears out the view of the probable source of their mutual 
 variance. During the summer of 1552, the Princess Mary received 
 Lady Jane Grey as her guest at New Hall. The mass, and other 
 rites of her persuasion, were constantly performed in Mary's
 
 268 LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 domestic household, uotwithstaudiug the prohibition that existed 
 against their celebration. It chanced that Lady Wharton (one 
 of the Princess Mary's ladies) passing through the chapel at New- 
 Hall, in company with Lady Jane Grey, at a time when service 
 was not going on, made a genuflexion to the host, Avhicli was in the 
 sanctuary on the altar. Lady Jane asked " if the Lady Mary were 
 in the chapel ? " Lady Wharton said, " No." 
 
 " Why then, do you courtesy ? " asked Lady Jane Grey. 
 
 " I courtesy to him that made me ; " replied Lady Wharton. 
 
 " Nay," said Lady Jane Grey, " but did not the baker make 
 him ? " 
 
 This flippant retort, alluding to the consecrated wafer in a 
 mode that could not but be deeply offensive to the religious belief 
 of the person she addressed, was perhaps pardonable in a young girl, 
 hot in controverted doctrinal points ; but it would have been well for 
 her, and more in accordance with the beautiful meekness and fine 
 understanding which characterized Lady Jane Grey on other occa- 
 sions than this, had her rej^ly been actuated by the spirit of Sir 
 Thomas Browne's noble sentence : — " At the sight of a cross or 
 crucifix, I can dispense with my hat, but scarce with the thought 
 of my Saviour. I could never hear the Ave Maria bell without 
 an elevation, or think it a sufiicient warrant, because they erred in 
 one circumstance, for me to err in all — that is in silence and dumb 
 contempt." 
 
 Unfortunately, Lady Jane's uttered " contempt " was reported 
 to her cousin Mary ; who, it is certain, never after that time loved 
 Lady Jane Grey as she had done before. Another circumstance 
 equally confirms the idea of what formed the basis of the two 
 cousins' disagreement. The princess had presented Lady Jane with 
 a rich dress ; and it is more than probable that there were plenty 
 of court whisperers to repeat the terms in which Lady Jane
 
 LADY JANE GREY. 269 
 
 remarked upon the sinfulness of wearing this gift from " one who 
 left God's word." 
 
 But the Protestant ardour which prompted Lady Jane Grey to 
 make these indiscreet animadversions upon her cousin Mary's form 
 of behef, and which gave such umbrage to the person who was 
 their object, formed the main ground of her cousin Edward VI.'s 
 approval. The young king, who was of the same age as herself, 
 had always entertained a high and admiring esteem for Lady Jane 
 Grey. The progress she made in her studies won his respect and 
 regard ; whUe her elegant person and amiable disposition had 
 inspired him with great aftectiou for her. The opportunities he 
 had enjoyed of becoming acquainted with the tenor of her reli- 
 gious principles, as well as with the fervour and strength of her 
 adherence to them, caused him to listen -with greater complacency 
 to those suggestions for setting aside his sister's claims to the crown 
 in favour of his cousin, Lady Jane Grey, and appointing her his 
 successor, than he might probably otherwise have done. 
 
 The chief instigator of this proposal was the Duke of Northum- 
 berland, a crafty and intriguing nobleman, who contrived to possess 
 himself of the young king's ear, during the lingering malady which 
 seized Edward VI. ; and having previously effected an alliance 
 which rendered the interests of Lady Jane Grey uniform with 
 those of his own family, he neglected no argument which might 
 induce the king to listen to his plan for placing her on the thi-one. 
 Northumberland had caused the Marquis of Dorset to be created 
 Duke of Suffolk ; and then he prevailed with him to bestow his 
 daughter. Lady Jane Grey, in marriage upon Lord Guilford 
 Dudley, Northumberland's fourth son. The languishing state of 
 the young king's health, made him a facUe prey to the designing 
 courtier ; whose plausible representations, jomed to his own predi- 
 lection for Lady Jane Grey, and his anxiety to secure a Protestant
 
 270 LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 successor, rendered it little difficult to obtain from Edward VI. a 
 deed in her favonr. 
 
 The king's sudden death followed almost immediately upon the 
 execution of this document ; and Northumberland, knowing that 
 the concerted change in the succession, would raise violent opposi- 
 tion, carefully concealed the destination of the crown signed by 
 Edwai'd. He kept the royal demise a secret as long as he could, 
 with a view of getting the two sister princesses into his power ; for 
 he had persuaded the council to write letters, desuing the presence 
 of Mary and Elizabeth at court, on the plea that the king's precari- 
 ous state of health demanded the aid of their advice, and the comfort 
 of their company. But the intelligence of their brother's death hav- 
 ing actually taken place, reached the princesses in time to warn 
 them of the snare that was tendered them ; and they kept aloof 
 from London. Mary, upon receiving these tidings, wrote letters 
 to the nobility and chief gentry in every county of England, sum- 
 moning them to assist her in the defence of her rights ; and 
 Northumberland, perceiving that farther dissimulation would be 
 useless, proceeded to carry out his deep-laid schemes. 
 
 He repaired to Sion House, where Lady Jane Grey had resided 
 since her marriage with his son ; and, accompanied by the Duke 
 of Suffolk and a train of nobles, he approached her with all the 
 respect paid to royalty, and addressed her as his sovereign. He 
 informed her that she was now Queen of England, in virtue of her 
 cousin Edward VL's decree in her favour. Lady Jane, who was 
 wholly ignorant of the intrigues of her father-in-law, and who her- 
 self was free from ambition, heard this announcement with little 
 short of dismay. Her studious habits, her love of intellectual 
 pleasures, her preference for quiet and retirement, rendered her 
 peculiarly averse from grandeur and regal state. In addition to 
 her native delight in the pm-suit of learning, her heart was now
 
 LADY JANE GREY. 271 
 
 filled with a still tenderer interest — love for lier young husband, 
 who was worthy of her aftectiou. But not only did her own predi- 
 lections cause her to feel disinclined for the onerous burthen of a 
 crown ; her sense of justice taught her that the claims of others, 
 better entitled, were infringed by this assertion of her own. She 
 refused the royal dignity they offered; denied her right to the 
 throne ; urged the preferable titles of her cousins, the princess 
 Mary and princess Elizabeth ; expressed her dread of the results 
 which must attend an enterprise so perilous and so criminal as an 
 attempt to make her queen in their stead ; and entreated that she 
 might be suffered to remain in the private station in which she had 
 been born. Northumberland, not to be moved from his purpose, 
 engaged her father to second him in his remonstrances ; and the 
 two ambitious dukes joined in importunity with her to yield to 
 their wishes. The innocent victim of their fatal greed, withstood 
 their cruel and selfish pleading, until Lord Guilford Dudley, the 
 husband she so fondly loved, added the weight of his persuasions 
 to those of her parents, and father-in-law ; and then, no longer 
 able to resist the mingled instancy of authority and affection, she 
 yielded — though with shuddering reluctance, and paiafullest fore- 
 boding. Her own subsequent account of this scene, declares its 
 distressing nature. In a letter, addressed to Queen Mary I. from 
 the Tower, Lady Jane Grey describes her consternation when 
 Northumberland first announced the news, doing her homage as 
 queen ; her agony of mind at the importunities of her relations ; 
 and her final falling to the ground in a swoon, from present agita- 
 tion, and future Ul-presage. 
 
 She now became a passive instrument in the hands of the un- 
 scrupulous Duke of Northumberland ; who immediately conveyed 
 her to London, where she was proclaimed queen ; but without one 
 applauding voice. The people heard the proclamation with silence
 
 272 LADY JANE GKEY. 
 
 and concern ; the preachers themselves (who were naturally eager 
 to advocate the claims of a known firm Protestant as successor to 
 the throne) employing their eloquence in vain to convince their au- 
 ditors of the justice of Lady Jane's title. Respect for the royal 
 line, and indignation against the factious and aspiring duke, were 
 stronger even in the breasts of Protestants than the dread of jio- 
 pery. Reverence for right is a religion with the English people. 
 
 According to established custom, on the accession of a sovereign, 
 the Tower of London became the place of royal residence during' 
 the first days oi reign ; and Lady Jane Grey, as the new queen, 
 wa.« conducted thither by her father-in-law. 
 
 Every thing tends to confirm the extreme unwillingness with 
 which Lady Jane shared in any of the proceedings of her relatives 
 to assume regal state on her behalf. She took no step of her own 
 accord ; and even resisted their attempts to make her elevation a 
 pretext for advancing their own. She went so far as to incur the 
 resentment of her husband, by opposing plans for his adoption of 
 power, inconsistent with the limits appointed for the consort of a 
 queen-regnant in England. This is demonstrated by her own de- 
 scription of an incident that occurred. On her being conveyed to 
 the Tower, as queen, the Marquis of Winchester — unsent for — 
 brought her the crown to try on her head, to see how it would fit 
 her ; and when she scrupled to put it on, the Marquis said that 
 she need not do so, for he would have another made to crown her 
 husband withal. To this hinted idea of coronation for her hus- 
 band. Lady Jane strenuously objected; and she consequently drew 
 upon herself coarse and violent behaviour from both him and his 
 mother, the Duchess of Northumberland. They seem actually to 
 have resorted to personal ill-usage ; for she says, with indignant 
 emphasis, " I was maltreated by my husband and his mother." 
 
 Thus supervened the first of those disastrous results, which the
 
 LADY JANE GKEY. 273 
 
 hapless Lady Jane foresaw must accrue from her unjust accession to 
 queenly station. Her young husband, who, when thoy together 
 enjoyed their hapjay privacy, was united to her by loving confi- 
 dence — now that the seeds of ambition had been made to spring 
 up in his mind by this ripened project of his father, was led to treat 
 her with harshness and unkindness. 
 
 In all ways. Lady Jane was the unoffending sufferer from the 
 misdeeds of othei'S. She was made the means of advancinof their 
 selfish ends ; and when blame or danger ensued in consequence of 
 their acts, she was made the scapegoat and sacrifice to endure the 
 penalty for them. 
 
 The princess Mary lost no time in asserting her claims, and 
 striving to make them good. She succeeded in levying a large 
 force. The people declared for her, when she assured them that 
 she had no intention of altering the laws of Edward VI., as re- 
 garded religion ; and the nobility and gentry supported her cause 
 by daily reinforcements. 
 
 Northumberland, at the head of the troops, marched to resist 
 Mary's army; but he not only sustained defeat — he abandoned the 
 stake he had so shamelessly played for, by as shameful a with- 
 drawal, and forsook Lady Jane's cause with as little compunction 
 as he had forced her into becoming its centre. He, her unworthy 
 father-in-law, basely betrayed the allegiance he had compelled 
 Queen Jane to accept, by being the first man to throw up his cap 
 in Cambridge market-place, and cry, " God save Queen Mary ! " 
 
 The Duke of Suftblk, who commanded in the Tower, was no 
 truer to the unhappy daughter, whom he had constrained to come 
 there as queen ; for, finding the struggle hopeless, he threw open 
 the gates of the fortress, and beheld Lady Jane arrested and lodged 
 in the prison rooms of the very place where she had nominally 
 reigned for nine days. 
 35
 
 274 LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 No sympathy for the fate of his child, however, seems to have 
 touched the father's heart so keenly as anxiety for his own. He 
 was himself detained a prisoner in the Tower ; and this circum- 
 stance occupied both his wife and himself so entirely as to leave no 
 room for thought of their daughter's peril — a peril, which they 
 themselves had been so instrumental in bringing upon her. The 
 Duchess of Suffolk, directly her husband was imprisoned, hastened 
 to throw herself at Queen Mary's feet ; and left no plea imurged 
 that might effect his liberation. She represented that the Duke 
 was in ill health, (although there is no evidence to prove that 
 this was the case,) and that he would die if confined within the 
 walls of the Tower. Mary was moved by her lamentations and 
 entreaties. She granted Suffolk's liberation ; and three days' im 
 prisonment was all the penalty he suffered for his conspiring with 
 Northumberland to compel Lady Jane Grey's acceptance of the 
 crown. The heartlessness of the father, is only equalled by that 
 of the mother. There is no record of one word having been ut- 
 tered by the Duchess Frances in intercession for her unfortunate 
 daughter ; who now lay a captive from having pursued that very 
 course, which her mother had been one of the most active agents 
 in urging her to adopt. The Duchess had promoted her marriage 
 with Northumberland's son ; she had used her maternal influence 
 on the momentous occasion at Sion House ; and she had borne her 
 train as queen, during her brief pageant of royalty. A more con- 
 sistent instance of parental barbarity towards a child so dutiful 
 and gentle as Lady Jane Grey, than she experienced, can hardly be 
 cited. They coerced her in childhood, they sacrificed her in youth, 
 with a want of common natural feeling almost incredible. 
 
 The Duke of Northumberland was brought to trial, condemned, 
 and beheaded for high treason; and sentence was pronounced 
 against Lady Jane Grey, and Lord Guilford Dudley, although
 
 LADYJANEGREY. 275 
 
 they were respited on account of their youth, neither of them hav- 
 ing attained the age of seventeen. It is related, that the same 
 time-serving lord-treasm'er, the Marquis of Winchester, who brought 
 Lady Jane the crown, unbidden, in the period of her ascendancy, 
 — when Mary's coronation was prejiaring, came to the gentle pri- 
 soner in the Tower, and told her that several valuable jewels were 
 missing fi-om the state crown, and that she was accountable for 
 them. On this pretence, all the money and jewels of Lady Jane 
 and her husband were confiscated. 
 
 Mary had no sooner ascended the throne, than she forfeited her 
 pledged word to the people, by proceeding to manifest her par- 
 tiality for the Catholic cause. As Fuller pithily says: — "Queen 
 Mary got the crown by Our Father^ and held it by Paternoster. 
 The violent party-spirit that raged at this period in the metropolis 
 is described by Mr. Edward Underhill, a Worcestershire gentle- 
 man ; who, on account of his flaming Calvinism was called the 
 "Hot Gospeller." He had penned a satirical ballad against 
 " Papists ; " and for this squib was summoned before the council in 
 authority, and condemned to imprisonment. A child was born to 
 him while he was in the Tower, which chanced to be during the 
 period of Lady Jane's brief royalty ; and it is a significant cir- 
 cumstance that she was about to have stood godmother to the 
 "Hot Gospeller's" baby, when her reign ceased. 
 
 Mary's favour to the Romish church was more and more 
 openly displayed ; untU, at length, her proposed union with Philip 
 of Spain becoming known, it raised a hope in the opposite faction 
 that popular party-feeling would be sufliciently strong against the 
 intended match, to warrant their taking up arms again. The week 
 after the marriage articles became public, three insurrections broke 
 out in different parts of England. One of these was actually 
 headed by the Duke of Sufiblk, with the express view of Lady Jane
 
 276 LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 Grey's restoration to that position she had so shunned, and which 
 had already jJroved so calamitous to her. So infatuated was this 
 self-engrossed father, that no warning could deter him from his 
 prone jiursuit of the regal phantom he clutched at. He was as 
 mean in duplicity : as mad and selfish in ambition : for he had so 
 completely deceived Queen Mary, by affected approval of the pro- 
 posed Spanish marriage, that she thought of employing him to 
 quell Wyatt's revolt in Kent ; and sending for him to Sion house, 
 found he had decamped to head his own insurrection in the mid- 
 land counties. His brothers, Lord Thomas and Lord John Grey, 
 were with him; and a strong party of horse they had raised. They 
 took their way to Leicestershire ; proclaiming Lady Jane Grey 
 Queen, in every town through which they passed. She, in whose 
 name such rash deeds were performed, was still a prisoner in the 
 Tower, lying under suspended sentence of death, and each fresh 
 delinquency on their part acted to her prejudice. She, with her 
 high endowments, was made a mere puppet in their hands ; she, 
 with her meek spirit, was made a plea for their reckless outrages. 
 She was at the mercy of their ill-judgment and incapacity; and 
 bore the imputation of their guilt. 
 
 The several rebellions were speedily crushed. Wyatt lost his 
 head ; and Suffolk was condemned. The Duke was once more sent 
 to the Tower ; and Queen Mary was pressed on all sides to consent 
 to the execution of his hapless daughter and her husband. The 
 fatal fact of her re-proclamation by her father, and uncles, was ve- 
 hemently urged. Poinet, bishop of Winchester, affirms that those 
 lords of the council who had been most instrumental at the death 
 of Edward VI., in thrusting royalty upon Lady Jane, were how 
 the sorest forcers of men, yea became earnest councillors for that 
 innocent lady's death. He plainly indicates these lords to be the 
 Earl of Pembroke and the Marquis of Winchester, — no other than
 
 L A D Y J A N E G K E Y . 2*77 
 
 the same vile trimmer wlio first delivered tlie crown to Lady Jane ; 
 then vii-tually accused her of purloining the crown jewels ; and 
 lastly endeavoured to crown her with martyrdom. 
 
 Mary was prevailed upon to sign the death-warrant of her kins- 
 woman ; and the decree which had been suspended, was put into 
 execution against Lady Jane and Lord Guilford Dudley. 
 
 Fuller, in his "Life of Lady Jane Grey," hints an awful addi- 
 tional point in this tragedy. He says : — " Some report her to have 
 been with child when she was beheaded (cruelty to cut down the 
 tree with blossoms on it), and that which hath saved the life of 
 many women, hastened her death ; but God only knows the truth 
 hereof." 
 
 The meek victim, when the order was brought to the Tower, 
 declared that she was by no means unjirepared for its advent. 
 She had for some time expected it ; and had endeavoured to for- 
 tify her spirit to meet her fate with resignation. She had had 
 frequent conferences with Dr. Feckenham, the queen's chaplain, 
 and had always steadily defended her religious opinions, in a man- 
 ner to gain his friendly regard, even while regretting that he could 
 not succeed in converting her from them. She had written a let- 
 ter to her sister in Greek, accompanied by a copy of the Biljle in 
 the same language, exhorting her to maintain, through all fortunes, 
 a similarly steadfast adherence to principle. It was Dr. Fecken- 
 ham who was now sent to Lady Jane, to prepare her for speedy 
 death, and to exert every means in his power to change her faith. 
 She declined discussion on the present occasion, being anxious to 
 be spared dispute on their differing creeds ; and pleaded that her 
 time' was too short for controversy. The confessor hastened to 
 Queen Mary and represented that it could be scarcely hoped Lady 
 Jane would die a Catholic, if she were hurried to the block with- 
 out sufficient time for conviction. The queen granted a respite of
 
 278 LADYJANEGREY. 
 
 three days ; and Dr. Feckenham returned to the Tower with the 
 tidings of delay. Lady Jane smUed mournfully on her eager 
 friend, and told him that he had misconceived her meaning : it was 
 not that she wished her doom deferred, but that she was desirous 
 of avoiding religious argument. The gentle saint added, that " she 
 was prepared to receive patiently her death in any manner it 
 might please the queen to appoint. True it was, her flesh shud- 
 dered, as was natural to frail mortality ; but her spii'it would 
 spring rejoicingly into the eternal hght, when she hoped the mercy 
 of God would receive it." The record of this devoutly resigned 
 speech is preserved by Feckenham; who, though he failed to 
 turn Lady Jane from the Protestant faith, felt interest for her youth 
 and vii'tue, Avhile inspiring her with gratitude for his kindness and 
 friendship. In the course of the three days that elapsed between 
 the signing of the death-warrant, and the period of her execution. 
 Lady Jane learned the condemnation of her father ; who during 
 this interval was brought to the Tower. His victim wrote him a 
 letter, which contains poignant reproach in the very serenity of its 
 submission. This is a portion of it : — 
 
 " Fathek. — Although it has pleased God to hasten my death 
 by you, by whom my life should rather have been lengthened, yet 
 I can so patiently take it, that I yield God more hearty thanks for 
 shortening my woeful days, than if all the world had been given 
 into my possession, with life lengthened at my own will : and, 
 albeit, I am very well assured of your sorrow, both in bewailing 
 your own woe, and especially, as I am informed, my woeful state ; 
 yet, my dear father, herein I may account myself blessed, that, 
 washing my hands in innocency, my guiltless blood may cry before 
 the Lord, Mercy to the innocent. And yet, though I must needs 
 acknowledge that, being constrained, and, as you know well 
 enough, continually assailed, yet in taking upon me, I seemed to
 
 LADY JANE GREY. 279 
 
 consent, and therein grievously offended against the queen and her 
 laws : yet do I assuredly trust that this my offence towards God is 
 so much the less, in that being in so royal a state as I was, my 
 enforced honour never mingled with my innocent heart." * * * 
 " And thus, good father, I have opened unto you the state wherein 
 I presently stand — my death at hand. 
 
 " Although pei'haps it may seem woeful, yet there is nothing 
 which can to me he more welcome, than from this vale of misery 
 to aspire to that heavenly throne of all joy and pleasure with 
 Christ my Saviour, in whose steadfast faith (if it may he lawful 
 for the daughter so to write to the father) the Lord that hath 
 hitherto strengthened you, so continue to keep you, that at the last 
 we may meet in heaven, with the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 " I am, 
 
 " Your obedient daughter till death, 
 
 " Jane Dudley." 
 
 During her imprisonment Lady Jane composed several prayers, 
 suggested by her distressful circumstances, and showing with what 
 pious sedateness she sustained them ; while her mind was so calm 
 and unshaken by the near approach of death, that she corrected 
 these manuscript prayers the night before she suffered. 
 
 It had been intended that Lady Jane and Lord Guilford Dud- 
 ley should be executed on the same scaffold on Tower Hill ; but 
 the councD dreading the impression which the sight of this unfor- 
 tunate young couple, in their beauty, innocence, and suffering, 
 would produce upon the people, gave orders that Lady Jane 
 should be beheaded within the verge of the Tower. 
 
 She would not consent to take leave of her husband on the 
 day of their execution ; sending him word, that the tenderness of 
 parting might unbend their minds from that firmness with which it 
 behoved them to meet their approaching fate. " Our separation,"
 
 280 LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 slie added, " will be l:)ut for a moment ; we shall soon rejoin eacli 
 otlier in a scene where our affections will be for ever united, and 
 ■where death, disappointment, and misfortune, can no longer dis- 
 turb our felicity." She beheld Lord Guilford led to execution 
 without discovering any sign of weakne&s ; but, with a woman's 
 true sentiment — combining deepest feeling with outward controul, 
 and prompting fond recognition in the midst of mutual courage for 
 both their sakes — she gave him a token of remembrance from the 
 window, as he passed beneath. She even met his headless body 
 with calmness, as she herself went to execution ; strengthened by 
 the account she had received of his magnanimity in meeting death. 
 At the sight, she exclaimed, " Oh ! Guilford, Guilford ! the fate 
 you have tasted, and which I shall soon taste, is not so bitter as to 
 make me tremble ; it is nothing to the feast that you and I shall 
 partake of this day in heaven ! " 
 
 As he conducted her to the scaffold, the Constable of the Tower 
 requested her to bestow upon him some trifle which he might keep 
 as a memorial of her. She gave him her tal)le-)>ook, in which she 
 had just written three sentences ; one in Greek, another in Latin, 
 and a third in English. Their purport was, that although human 
 justice was against her husband's body, divine mercy would be 
 favourable to his soul : that if her fault deserved punishment, her 
 youth and inexperience might plead her excuse ; and that God and 
 posterity, she trusted, would show her favour. 
 
 Her closing speech, addressed to those who stood around her on 
 the scaffold, was marked by her characteristic meekness and com- 
 posure. She took all blame upon herself ; and made no complaint 
 of the severity used towards her. She said that her fault was not 
 so much in assuming the crown, as in not having refused it with 
 sufficient constancy: that she willingly received death as atone- 
 ment to the laws, which she had been led to violate from filial
 
 LADYJANEGKEY. 281 
 
 duty, and through ignorance : that she deserved this punishment, 
 for having allowed herself (though reluctantly) to be made the 
 instrument of the ambition of others ; and that she hoped the 
 story of her life might at least be useful as proving that innocence 
 does not excuse errors which tend in any way to public crimes. 
 " My offence against the Queen," she said, " was none of my seek- 
 ing, but by council of others. I knew little of the law, and nothing 
 of the titles of the crown : — from all guilty intentions I do wash 
 my hands in innocency before God and you ! — Assist me with 
 your prayers ! " Having pronounced these words, she bade her 
 women assist to bare her throat; and then ejaculating in a clear 
 voice : — " Lord ! into thy hands I commend my spirit ! " she laid 
 her head upon the block, and with a steady and serene counte- 
 nance, submitted to the stroke of the executioner. 
 
 Lady Jane Grey perished in the early flower of her age, with 
 a piety and fortitude the most exemplary. Her reading had in- 
 vigorated her mind, and strengthened her moral feeling. It 
 instilled the wisdom of seeking from intellectual pleasures a re- 
 source against peraonal hardships; and inspired the courage to 
 face early death undismayed. There was only one thing which it 
 failed to give her, — and that was the power to abide by a resolution 
 formed on the conviction of simple right. In a girl of her tender 
 years, it is perhaps almost too much to expect that she should have 
 continued to withstand the combined dictates and entreaties of her 
 assembled family, seconded by those of a beloved husband : but 
 Lady Jane could be firm on points where she held it virtuous to be 
 steadfast ; and she should have been consistently determined, in a 
 case where conscience told her that her fii'st imj^ulse was an honest 
 one. Although she asserted in the course of her dying declaration 
 that she " knew nothing of the titles of the crown," it is evident, 
 from her pleading the preferable claims of her cousins, the two 
 
 princesses, on the memorable occcasion at Sion House, that she 
 as
 
 282 L A D Y J A N E G R E Y . 
 
 knew sufficiently of the titular degrees in royal succession to be 
 aware tliat site had not so valid a birth-right as either Mary or 
 Elizabeth. It is true that there were not wanting sophistical ol> 
 jections against theu* claims, and various attempted impeachments 
 of their legitimate title to reign : and moreover, her cousin 
 Edward's testamentary decree in her favour had doubtless much 
 weight. But still, her own instinct told her that the attempt to 
 raise her to the throne was wrong ; and she should have main- 
 tained the refusal to participate in it, which her pure heart and 
 judgment prompted her to make. 
 
 After all — ^it is but one kind of admiring tribute to this gifted 
 young creature, when we thus point out the single approach to 
 blemish in the otherwise speckless character of Lady Jane Grey. 
 Her name will always be dear to English hearts ; — ^for although 
 her fate is a stain in English annals, her womanly gentleness and 
 modesty, her rare excellence in learning, her holy meekness and 
 firm piety, are all so many sources of legitimate pride to her 
 countrymen and countrywomen. 
 
 Lady Jane Grey forms an ideal of youth, beauty, worth and ac> 
 complishment, that gives to the old, when they think of her, the 
 sense of possessing an ever-living daughter in immortal bloom of 
 promise ; and to the young, a feehng of affectionate esteem, as 
 towards an honoured and beloved sister, of whom Death itself can- 
 not deprive them. 
 
 Fuller, in his " Holy State," epitomizes Lady Jane Grey's de- 
 scription in these words : — " She had the innocency of childhood, 
 the beauty of youth, the solidity of middle, the gravity of old age, 
 and all at eighteen : the birth of a princess, the learning of a clerk, 
 the life of a saint, yet the death of a malefactor, for her parents' 
 offences." He, in his own original manner adds : — " Let all great 
 ladies who bear her name, imitate her virtues, to whom I wish her 
 inward holiness, but far more outward happiness."
 
 \ "^^a 
 
 / 
 
 CK
 
 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 The heart of every womau is a romance, and its master-chord is 
 Love. Of all the passions, it is that which exercises the strongest 
 controul over female character ; the fruitful parent of a thousand 
 virtues, and a thousand crimes, which, though oft ascribed to other 
 sources, have, in reality, their origin from it alone. Its purity and 
 ennobling strength are beautifully exemplified in the history of 
 the Indian Princess Pocahontas, in whose guileless and untutored 
 heart a passion for one of the most chivalrous adventurers of 
 America's early history, has rendered her the heroine of one of 
 the most simple and touching stories of its olden time. 
 
 The maiden, according to all the traditions that have been received 
 of hei*, presented a perfect model of Indian beauty, at its most at- 
 tractive period, when the young gii-l just expanding into womanhood, 
 combines the loveliest attri])utes of both — wild yet bashful, quick 
 in transition, yet gentle and affectionate. Slender and stately as a 
 young palm-tree, the small head, proudly carried, with a wild no- 
 bility of look, characteristic of the freedom of the forest. The 
 featui'es pale and statuesque, lighted up by the luminous fawn-like 
 eyes, fuU of tremulous light, stealing through the long dark lashes ; 
 every movement of the supple form and unfettered limbs showing 
 the superiority of Nature over Art, alike graceful in action or re-
 
 284 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 pose, even as a plume when motionless or waving in the wind ; the 
 hands and feet small and symmetrically formed, while over the pic- 
 turesque tunic and mantle, bordered with swan's-down and ermine, 
 as denoting the virgin-daughter of an Indian king, floated the long 
 silken tresses of bluest-black, fancifully wreathed with shells and 
 flowers, the arched instep and rounded arms displaying the same 
 gay ornaments. Such was Pocahontas in the year 1606, when 
 during the autumnal stillness of a September day, along the grassy 
 rampart which surrounded the great house of Powhatan, her fa- 
 ther, at Werowocomoco, the trampling march of two or three hun- 
 dred Indians announced the approach of a prisoner, whose capture 
 being considered an achievement of the highest importance, was 
 to be celebrated with suitable solemnity and magnificence. 
 
 This captive was Captain John Smith, a soldier of fortune, second 
 in authority of a band of English adventurers, who, a few months 
 previously, had landed on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, with in- 
 tent to found a colony. From boyhood he had been a soldier, 
 serving with peculiar distinction in the armies of Germany against 
 the Turks, and crowning his military career on the plains of Regall, 
 in Transylvania, by an action that has no equal, save in the stirring 
 pages of Froissart — he having there, in presence of both armies and 
 a number of Turkish ladies, victoriously encountered and slain in 
 the lists three successive Turkish champions, whose heads, horses, 
 and armour, were yielded to him as their conqueror.* His portrait 
 at the age of thirty-seven, gives the idea of one who, ten or twelve 
 years previously, at the time when these events occurred, must 
 have been eminently handsome, especially when, as a gay young 
 cavalry ofiicer, charging at the head of his men, or overthrowing 
 his adversaries in the lists before the eyes of assembled thousands. 
 Among the strange turns of fortune which had marked his event- 
 
 * See account at the eutl of this aiticle.
 
 POCAHONTAS. 285 
 
 ful life, it was uot the least to find himself a prisoner amongst the 
 Indians in the wilds of North America, dragged into the presence 
 of their "Great Emperor," Powhatan — a wily and ferocious 
 chief, whom his people obeyed with fear and adoration, theu- 
 greatest spirits trembling at his frown, and who, uniting in himself 
 all the sterner attributes of his race, was accessible only to the 
 softer emotions through the agency of his daughter — the child of 
 his old age — the good and beautiful Pocahontas. 
 
 Although she must have heard a thousand exaggerated accounts 
 of the exploits of the renowned warrior from the land of the pale 
 faces, during so many months that he had struggled against the 
 stratagems of her father and his followers ; yet it is probable that 
 she now beheld him closely for the first time, and the sight could 
 only tend to increase her admiration, since, according to Indian 
 ideas, stoic hardihood under the taunts of an enemy is the quality 
 of all othei-s most worthy of praise. With Captain Smith this in- 
 trepidity of character was too innate to yield under any circum- 
 stances ; and though in the most forlorn condition that can be im- 
 agined, bruised, wounded, covered only with a loose robe that Ma- 
 ocassater, an Indian to whom he had formerly been kind, had 
 thrown over him ; yet in boldness of carriage he sui-passed the 
 proudest of his adversaries ; and that stern contempt of death, 
 learned amidst the defiles of Hungary and the plains of Germany, 
 was shown in its fullest force amongst the savage enemies by whom 
 he was surrounded. 
 
 His entrance was greeted with a great shout from all present ; 
 the tiger-like roar of three or four hundi-ed Indians, exulting and 
 terrible, shaking to its centre the house of Werowocomoco, but fail- 
 ing to move a muscle in the countenance of the prisoner thus rudely 
 ushered into the presence of Powhatan, surrounded by his grim 
 courtiers, savagely adorned in all the hideous glory of their war-
 
 286 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 paint, feathers, and wild-beast skins ; in addition to which, some of 
 the most distinguished braves had small live snakes suspended from 
 the lobe of the ear, cm-ling their glittering folds around the necks, 
 and sometimes raising theii* heads to the lips of the wearers ; one 
 and all of these savage warriors seeming to have vied with each 
 other in endeavouring to render themselves frightful, their bronzed 
 and muscular forms in every variety of violent action, brandishing 
 their weapons, their large black eyes all glaring at him as at a 
 monster. 
 
 " Before a large fire, on a seat like a bedstead, sate Powhatan, 
 covered with a great robe of Karowcum skins, and all the tails 
 hanging by : a tail, and powerfully-built old man — finely propor- 
 tioned, with white hair, and a countenance stern and ominous. 
 On his right hand sate Pocahontas, on his left her younger sister : 
 along each side of the house two rows of men, behind them as 
 many women, with all their heads and shoulders painted red ; many 
 of their heads bedecked with the white down of birds, but every 
 one with something by way of ornament — and all with great 
 chains of beads about their necks. Presently the Queen of Appa- 
 matuk is appointed to bring the prisoner water to wash his 
 hands — another female a bunch of feathers instead of a napkin to 
 dry them. Then being abundantly feasted after their best bar- 
 barous manner, a long consultation is held — after which two great 
 stones, or Pawcorances, are brought and laid at the feet of Pow- 
 hatan," still sitting grimly on his rude throne with frowning and 
 gloomy aspect. These stones but too well declare the fate in- 
 tended for the prisoner — for they are the stones of sacrifice ; and 
 the introduction only serves to make the assembled mass of savage 
 humanity heave and struggle more fiercely towards the completion 
 of the rite. 
 
 All is tumult and excitement. Pocahontas no longer sits by
 
 POCAHONTAS. OgY 
 
 the side of her father — she has thrown herself in agony on the 
 ground before him — twining her beautiful arms around his knees, 
 and entreating with wUd supplications and many tears for mercy ! 
 — mercy on the prisoner ! Every endearing word that on former 
 occasions she has ever used with success, she pours forth now iii a 
 flood of tender and passionate vehemence that pierces every 
 heart but that of Powhatan. Unmoved by her appeal, he makes 
 a sign — a dreadful rush is made upon the prisoner, every hand 
 striving to reach him ; and as many as can, by any means, lay 
 hold upon him, seize, and drag him to the fatal stones, forcing 
 down his head upon one of them in order to beat out his brains 
 with their uplifted war-clubs, already swinging to destroy him, 
 when, with a wUd, resounding shriek, tearing away every object 
 that would impede her progress, Pocahontas, forcing her way 
 among them, throws herself across his breast, and clasping his head 
 between her arms, lays her own upon it in breathless expectation 
 of the event — silent, devoted, prepared to give her own young, 
 sweet life ere his shall be sacrificed. In vain the furious clamour 
 of the fanatic and vindictive priests — or boastful braves disappoint- 
 ed of their prey. As well might they attempt to remove the eagle 
 when defending her young, as Pocahontas from him she has de- 
 termined to shield. Hoarse murmurs and threats are heard on 
 every side, quelled but by the word of Powhatan ; whose mood, 
 changing with the scene, has yielded to the love and grief of Poca- 
 hontas what a world iu arms would not have wrung from him. 
 The old history quaintly remarks: "Whereat, the Emperour 
 was contented he should live to make him hatchets, and her bells, 
 beads, and copper." 
 
 In order, however, not wholly to defraud the priests and 
 chief warriors of the entertainment they had anticipated in tor- 
 turing the victim, he was carried off to a great house in the woods,
 
 288 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 and subjected to every experiment their art could devise in order 
 to intimidate him, but in vain. For tliougb " the king disguised 
 himself in the most fearfuUest manner he could, with two hundred 
 more, so black as to be more like devils than men," those iron 
 nerves, tried for so many years in storm, siege, and battle, were 
 beyond the pale of Indian incantation, and the next morning he 
 was permitted to return to the fort and his companions at James- 
 town. There, after every four or five days, came the gentle guar- 
 dian-angel Pocahontas and her wild train, bearing provisions to the 
 starving colonists ; part always being as presents from the king or 
 herself, the rest to be repaid as Captain Smith should dictate. His 
 power over the Indians was now boundless, we are told, " so had 
 he inchanted these poor soules, being their prisoner ; and now 
 Captain Newport, whom he called his father, arriving near as 
 directly as he foretold, they esteemed him as an oracle, and had 
 them at that submission he might command them at what he listed. 
 That God who had created all things, they knew he adored for his 
 God : and now they would also talk of the God of Captain Smith! " 
 This wonderful man, amongst his numerous endowments, pos- 
 sessed in a remarkable degree the power of winning to himself the 
 hearts and minds of others. During the campaigns in which he 
 had been engaged in the year preceding his arrival in Virginia, he 
 had attracted the admiration and regard of a fair Turkish princess, 
 and also of other noble ladies, whose generous intervention in his 
 cause fall like pleasant gleams over his varied and torrent-like 
 career, where no day was like its predecessor, but each teeming 
 with strange and startling vicissitude. Soldier, captive, fugitive, 
 but all in honour. 
 
 Nobly winning, bravely daring, 
 Ladies glove his bright helm wearing — 
 Through paths of death. 
 
 Possessed of powers which thus enabled him to fascinate the
 
 POCAHONTAS. 289 
 
 high-born and beautiful ladies of Europe, it excites little marvel 
 that to the eyes of the young and inexperienced Pocahontas he 
 should have seemed a superior being. Bred in the seclusion of the 
 forest, accustomed only to such nurture as its primitive and super- 
 stitious occu2:)ants are wont to bestow upon their offspring — ^no 
 companions or objects of admiration save the wild maidens of her 
 tribe, and the savage feats of its young braves ; in all things a simple 
 child of nature, unskilled in the arts of her sex; a heart like that 
 of Pocahontas, so noble, ardent, and affectionate, must have turned 
 as naturally to the commanding and chivalrous soldier as the lowly 
 marigold to the sun — and as purely — her whole com-se of conduct 
 towards him being an undeviating flow of spontaneous child-like 
 worship, happiest when loading him with benefits, and neither 
 desu'ing nor expecting a return. There are few who, looking back 
 on their own childhood or youth, cannot remember instances as 
 pure and passionate — a sort of yearning idolatry towards some 
 object that to the rest of the world offered no more interest than 
 a stick or a stone, but who, to the childish worshipper, appeared the 
 incarnation of all that was most perfect ; and though perhaps the 
 impression might fade in after life, yet no length of years could 
 remove the memory of the intensity with which it had once been 
 cherished. 
 
 But though motives more tender than those of common human- 
 ity may be suj^posed to have influenced all these gentle bene- 
 factresses ; yet, on the part of Captain Smith, the measured terms of 
 high and courteous respect in which the generous instances of their 
 bounty are somewhat formally enumerated, forbid the idea that he 
 entertained for themselves a warmer sentiment than gratitude ; — 
 glory and ambition seeming to have been his only idols: — for, 
 though apparently every way fitted to inspire attachment , it ap- 
 pears to have been either his fault or his virtue never to have 
 37
 
 290 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 reciprocated it. Such, it must be confessed, invariably inspire the 
 deepest and most lasting attachments; possibly that under the 
 hard rock of such a character lie some few grains of genuine gold, 
 which appearing from time to time, are at once a reward and 
 excuse for the ill-starred votary — who devotes heart and soul to 
 the task of worshipping them. 
 
 Like a little flower growing under the shadow of such a rock was 
 the young Indian maiden — ^her image flits through the heart like 
 that of some inhabitant of earth ere sin was not — when woman, 
 fresh from the hands of her creator, could love all that was 
 worthy, good, and noble, nor blend with such devotion one tint of 
 that strange mingling of many thoughts, sensations, feehngs, pas- 
 sions, which men, women, aye and children also, feel now, and call 
 it love. In reading the history of Captain Smith, it is impossible 
 not to be struck by the resistless energy of his character ; in all 
 lands, and with all men, he occupies the position which it is the 
 proud privilege of a master-mind to attain. Amongst the com- 
 panions of his maritime adventm'es he was at once looked up to as 
 their leader; prompt to remedy every deficiency — as skilful in 
 conception as fearless in execution, nature seemed to have formed 
 him for a great workman, but to have denied him the proper tools 
 — all his plans being crossed, cu'cumvented or betrayed by his un- 
 happily-assorted associates. After his return from his imprison- 
 ment among Powhatan's Indians, for a time all went well; the 
 hungry were filled, the discontented set to work, and industry and 
 hope gave peaceful days and nights to the colony. Trade, too, 
 went on briskly, and a constant interchange of presents and good 
 offices begot so friendly a feehng in the breast of the stern old 
 " Emperour " Powhatan, that he resolved to give a grand feast by 
 way of giving expression to it. Accordingly, he sent forth between 
 two and three hundred savages to conduct Captain Smith, his
 
 POCAHONTAS. 291 
 
 friend Captain Newport, and the rest of theu- company, to 
 Werowocomoco, where, surrounded by a body-guard of forty or 
 fifty of the tallest * men his country afforded, he received them in 
 great state. The ceremonial of reception being for " the guests 
 to sit down on a mat opposite their host, when all present with a 
 tuneable voice of shouting bid them welcome. After this, several 
 of their chief men made them grand orations, testifying their love 
 with such vehemency and such great passions, that they sweat till 
 they drop, and are so out of breath they cannot speak ; that a man 
 would take them to be exceeding angry, or stark mad." 
 
 In this fashion, therefore, did Powhatan receive his honoured 
 guests, " straining himself to the utmost of his greatness to enter- 
 tain them with great shouts of joy, orations of protestations, and 
 with the most plenty of victuals he could provide to feast them. 
 Sitting upon his bed of mats, his pillow of leather embroidered 
 after their rude manner with pearl and white beads, his attire a 
 fair robe of skins as large as an Irish mantle, at his head and feet 
 a handsome young woman ; ou each side his house sat twenty of 
 his wives, their heads and shoulders painted red, with a great chain 
 of white beads about each of their necks. Before those sat his 
 chiefest men in like order in his ai'bour-like house, and more than 
 forty platters of fine bread stood as a guard in two files on each 
 side the door. Four or five hundred peojjle made a guard behind 
 them for our passage, and proclamation was made none upon pain 
 of death to presume to do us any wrong or discouitesy. With 
 many pretty discourses this gi'eat king and our captain spent the 
 time. In feasting, feats, dancing, singing, and trading, we spent 
 three or four days, wherein Powhatan carried himself so proudly, 
 yet discreetly in his savage manner, as made us all admit'e his 
 
 * Captain Smith describes a Sasqiielianock Indian, the calf of whose leg was three 
 iliiarters of a yard in circumference, and all the rest of his limbs in proportion.
 
 292 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 natural gifts. Scorning to trade as his subjects did, lie bespake 
 Captain Newport in this manner : — ' Captain Newport, it is not 
 agreeable to my greatness in this peddling manner to trade for 
 trifles ; and I esteem you also a great werowance (leader), there- 
 fore lay me down all your commodities together ; what I like I 
 will take, and in recompence give you what I think fitting their 
 value.' Captain Smith being our interpreter, regarding Newport 
 as his father, knowing best the disposition of Powhatan, told us 
 his intent was only to cheat us ; yet Captain Newport let Powhatan 
 have his desire, who therefore valued his corn at such a rate that 
 we had not four bushels for that we expected twenty hogsheads. 
 At this Captain Smith glanced in the eyes of Powhatan many 
 trifles, who fixed his on some blue beads; the more he desired 
 them, the more the captain seemed to afifect them, as being 
 composed of a most rare substance of the colour of the skies, and 
 not to be worn but by the greatest kings of the world. This made 
 him half mad to be the owner of such strange jewels ; so that ere we 
 parted, for a pound or two of blue beads he brought over the king 
 for two or three hundred bushels of corn, yet parted good friends. 
 By this means blue beads grew into such estimation, that none 
 durst wear any but their great kings, their wives and children." 
 
 Notwithstanding all this feasting and pleasing show of amity, 
 there ran a deep under-current of mistrust and treachery, resulting 
 at last in the discovery of a plot concerted by Powhatan, to murder 
 all the whites. The subtle old chief, in order to mollify Captain Smith, 
 sent his " dearest daughter, Pocahontas " to him with protestations 
 of humility, rich presents, and assm-ances of " love for ever." As 
 the Captain did not wish to proceed to extremities, he feigned to 
 feel satisfied, and having given up to Pocahontas some prisoners 
 who had revealed the plot, he professed to have saved their lives 
 solely on her account, and sent them away rejoicing.
 
 POCAHONTAS. 293 
 
 It is worthy of remark that the name of Pocahontas is seldom 
 mentioned by any of the various early writers of the history of 
 Virginia, without some prefix denoting her angelic disposition — 
 jewel, nonpareil, dearest daughter, and others — ^her presence being 
 always signalized by some generous or kindly action. Between 
 the rude Indian tribes and the scarcely more polished colonists, she 
 comes and goes hke a carrier dove, waving her white wings unsul- 
 lied by the contaminations to which she is exposed. No taint of 
 dishonour or aught unbeseeming maiden modesty ever attaches 
 itself to the name of Pocahontas. Even in the strange and frantic 
 masque which it was the custom of her people to give on occasions 
 of grand welcome, she is not described as one of its participants, 
 but only as the bearer of assurances that no harm is intended ; for 
 when the Captain Governor, thinking from the horrible noise of 
 shrieking, and the violence of the proceedings generally, that Pow- 
 hatan had evil designs upon him, we are told " Presently came 
 Pocahontas willing him to kill her if any hurt were intended." 
 The wild revel then proceeded, than which nothing more singular 
 or truly savage can well be imagined. That one so good and gen- 
 tle as Pocahontas should have sprung from such weird ancestry, 
 verifies the saying of Shakespeare: 
 
 " The strawberry grows underneath the nettle ; 
 And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best 
 Neigbbour'd by fruits of baser quality." 
 
 Henry V., Act 1., Scene I. 
 
 As this masque is a wonderful thing in its way, and was doubt- 
 less often performed among the Indians, we give it in the words of 
 Captain Smith : " In a fayi-e plain field, about a fire, presently were 
 we presented with this anticke. Thirty young women came out 
 of the woodes only covered behind and before, with a few green 
 leaves, their bodies all painted, some of one colour some of anoth-
 
 294 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 er, but all differing ; their leader had a fayre payre of buck's horns 
 on her head, and an otter's skin at her girdle and another at her 
 arme, a quiver of arrowes at her backe, a bow and arrowes in her 
 hand ; the next had in her hand a sword, another a club, another 
 a pot-stick ; all horned alike ; the rest every one with their several 
 devises. These fiends with most hellish shontes and cryes, rushing 
 from among the trees cast themselves in a ring aboute the fire, 
 singing and dancing with most excellent ill variety ; oft falling 
 into their infernall passions, and solemnly again to sing and daunce : 
 having spent near an hour in this mascarado, as they entred, in 
 like manner they departed. Having re-accommodated themselves 
 they solemnly invited him to their lodgings, where he was no sooner 
 within the house, but all these nymphs more tormented him than 
 ever, with crowding, pressing, and hanging about him, most tediously 
 crying, ' Love you not me ? ' ' Love you not me ? ' This salutation 
 ended, the feast was set, consisting of all the savage dainties they 
 could devise ; some attending, others singing and dancing about 
 them, which mirth being ended, with fire-brands instead of torches, 
 they conducted him to his lodging." 
 
 It is worthy of remark that Pocahontas is not mentioned as 
 dancing amongst these females, although, doubtless, according to 
 Indian custom, she might have done so without blame. It may be 
 presumed she would be more Hkely to sing some simple ditty like 
 the following, the Indian Hne of the chorus being explained by the 
 one which follows it : 
 
 SONG OF POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Come to the forest, warrior fair ; 
 For thee the feast my maids prepare 
 Beneath the old oak tree : 
 Thy foreign name I cannot speak —
 
 POCAHONTAS. 295 
 
 But tliroiigh all words I fondly seek 
 The sweetest oue for thee. 
 
 So-an-ge-ta-ha, Sowain ne me shin. 
 
 Strong-hearted ! pity me ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh come ! 'tis the sweet Moon of Leaves,* 
 
 The owaissa f builds beneath the eaves 
 
 Or sings upon the bough. 
 
 Son of the land where freedom dwells, 
 
 Of happy homes, and Sabbath bells, 
 
 A princess calls ! come. Thou ! 
 
 So-an-ge-ta-ha, Sowain ne me shin. 
 
 Strong-hearted ! pity me ! 
 
 in. 
 Hast thou in thy dear land a mother ? 
 A sister dear — a friend — or brother 
 More dear than life to thee ? 
 Bring all thy griefs — I'll share thy sorrow, 
 Till thou shalt mother — sister — borrow — 
 Friend — brother — all — from me. 
 
 So-an-ge-tci-ha, Sowain n6 me shin. 
 
 Strong-hearted ! pity me ! 
 
 The innate dignity which assuredly was one of the character- 
 istics of Pocahontas, seems worthily derived from Powhatan, her 
 father, who never seemed to forget he was a king. On being told 
 that Captain Newport had brought out some presents for him from 
 England, as a crown, robe, and other coronation baubles, offering 
 at the same time to help him to take revenge on a neighbouring 
 tribe who had done him some grievous wrong; the proud old 
 Indian, with a voice that seemed to come out of a vault, thus re- 
 plied : " If your king have sent me presents, I also am a king, and 
 this is my land : eight days I will stay to receive them. Your 
 father is to come to me, not I to him, nor yet to your fort ; neither 
 
 * May. + Blue-bird.
 
 296 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 wiD" I bite at such a bait. As for the Monacans, I can revenge my 
 own injuries; and as for Atquanachuck, where you say your 
 brother was slain, it is a contrary way from those parts you sup- 
 pose it ; but for any salt water beyond the mountains, the relations 
 you have had from my people are false ; " (here he began to di-aw 
 plots on the ground of all those regions.) 
 
 On the day appointed to crown Powhatan, the presents were 
 set before him, his basin and ewer, bed, and furniture, set up ; his 
 scarlet cloak and apparel with much ado being put on him, after 
 being persuaded by Namontack that they would not hurt him, but 
 " a foule trouble there was to make him kneel to receive his crown, 
 he neither knowing the majesty nor meaning of a crown, nor bend- 
 ing of the knee, endured so many persuasions, examples, and 
 instructions, as tired them all ; at last, by leaning hard upon his 
 shoulders, he a little stooped, and three having the crown in their 
 hands, put it on his head, when by the warning of a pistoU, the 
 boats were prepared with such a volley of shot, that the king 
 started up in a horrible feare till he saw that all was well ; then re- 
 membering himself to congratulate their kindness, he gave his old 
 shoes and mantle to Captain Newport." 
 
 These presents, which had been bestowed much against the ad- 
 vice of Captain Smith, who well knew the effect they would produce 
 on the uncultivated mind of a savage, immediately began to show 
 what results might be expected. Powhatan became inflated to an 
 extrordinary degree. The idea that the King of England should 
 not only acknowledge him as a brother sovereign, but also send 
 him the insignia of royalty, was an event so stupendous that his 
 self-importance knew no bounds, and he determined as the first ex- 
 ercise of his royal authority to rid himself of the colonists. Ac- 
 cordingly, he began to plot more diligently than ever, and it was 
 only by the intervention of his daughter that his designs were frus-
 
 POCAHONTAS. 297 
 
 trated. " For Pocahontas, his dearest jewel and daughter, in that 
 dark night came through the irksome woods, and told our cajjtaine 
 ' great cheer should be sent him by and bye ; but Powhatan 
 and all the power he could make would come after and kill us all, 
 if they that brought it could not kill us with our owne weajsons 
 when we were at suj)per. Therefore, if we would live, she wished 
 us presently to begone.' Such things as she delighted in, he would 
 have given her, but with the tears running down her cheekes, she 
 said she durst not seem to have any, for if Powhatan should know it, 
 she were but dead, and so she ranne away by herself as she came." 
 
 " Fore- warned, fore-armed — they are safe " — must have been the 
 thought of the courageous and noble-hearted Pocahontas on her re- 
 turn through the dark forest at midnight, when aware at a distance 
 of the approach of the bearers of the treacherous feast, she would 
 glide stealthily behind the trees till they had passed ; congratulat- 
 ing herself the while that her errand would not prove fruitless. 
 Nor less, doubtless, the satisfaction with which Captain Smith and 
 his hungry comjianions would devour the good things sent them with 
 so evil a purpose, when fully prepared to mete out a just reward to 
 the donor. Accordingly, " within less than an hour after the de- 
 parture of Pocahontas, came eight or ten lusty fellows with great 
 platters of venison and other victual ; very importunate to have 
 us put out our matches, whose smoke they pretended made them 
 sick, and sit downe to our victuall ; but the Captaine made them 
 taste every dish, and sent them back to tell Powhatan he knew his 
 design, bidding him to make haste, he was ready for him." 
 
 The sweetness of danger seems to have been keenly appreciated 
 by these hardy colonists, every day of their lives abounding in focts 
 whose narration given by themselves in the fewest words as mere 
 items in a business account, yet sufficiently shows the dangers and 
 hazards they perpetually had to encounter. 
 38
 
 298 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 But witli such a governor as Captain Smith, the veriest laggard 
 must have grown alert — ^the coward brave, if only from the force 
 of example. The old spirit of " Olympagh" and "Regall" seems 
 to have been continually at work within him, and Pocahontas, with 
 all the ardour of her Indian blood, would have to listen to the re- 
 cital of the following adventure between himself and her uncle 
 Opechancanough, a few days after the timely warning she had 
 given him of her father's plot against his life. 
 
 Captain Smith, with fifteen of his companions, having arrived 
 at the house of Opechancanough, King of Pamaunkee, for the pur- 
 pose of buying corn, was informed by one of their number that 
 the house was surrounded by at least seven hundred Indians. 
 The men were for the most part struck with terror, but their cap- 
 tain, after such threats and entreaties as he thought most likely to 
 restore their courage, addressed Opechancanough as follows: — 
 " I see, Opechancanough, your plot to murder me, but I fear it 
 not. As yet, our men have done no harm on either side. Take, 
 therefore, your arms ; you see mine ; my body shall be as naked 
 as yours. The isle in the river is a fit place if you be contented, 
 and the conqueror of us two, shall be lord and master over all our 
 men. K you have not enough, fetch more, and bring what num- 
 ber you will, so every one bring a basket of corn, against which I 
 will stake the value in copper ; you see I have but fifteen, and our 
 game shaU be, the conqueror take all." The king, well guarded by 
 forty or fifty of his chief men, endeavoured to allay all suspicion of 
 unktndness ; but at the same time endeavouring to draw him out 
 of the door where the bait was guarded by at least two hundred 
 men, besides thirty lying under a great tree that lay athwart hke 
 a baiTicade, with their arrows all notched, ready to shoot. This 
 sight made the men more cowardly than ever, which, together 
 with the audacity of the Indians, threw the captain into such a
 
 POCAHONTAS. 299 
 
 rage, that leaping upon Opechaucanough in tlie midst of his guards, 
 he seized him by the long scalp-lock, and pointing his pistol to his 
 breast led him along half dead with fear, trembling like an aspen. 
 Having been made to deliver up his vambrace, bow, and arrows, 
 the multitude were easily induced to lay down theii" arms, while 
 the captain, still holding the trembling savage by the haii-, made 
 them an oration, in which, by judiciously intermingling threats 
 with kindness, he obtained, for the time, his utmost wishes. 
 
 The almost superhuman bravery exhibited on this as on all 
 other occasions, joined to a quick wit, and infinite ingenuity in 
 tm'ning their superstitious fears to his own advantage, gave him 
 from this time so much authority over them, that the whole coun- 
 try became as free to the English as to themselves. Nevertheless, 
 Powhatan's hatred was inextinguishable, and a few days after- 
 wards would have shown itself by murdering Richard Wyffin, a 
 friend of the captain's, who had called at the house of Powhatan, 
 had it not been for Pocahontas, who hid him for a time, sending 
 those who pursued him in an opposite direction : by her efforts, 
 extraordinary bribes, and much trouble, in three days' travel he at 
 length rejoiued the captain. 
 
 In 1609 Captain Smith resolved to resign the thankless and 
 laborious office he had long filled with so much honour. In addi- 
 tion to the treachery of the Indians, he had nothing but ingi-ati- 
 tude and circumvention from those with Avhom he was associated ; 
 and meeting also at this time with a dreadful accident from the 
 explosion of a bag of gunpowder, when in an open boat on the 
 river, he resolved to retm"n to England. The absence of the shep- 
 herd was soon taken advantage of by the wolf, for Powhatan took 
 an opportunity to perpetrate a dreadful massacre on a party of 
 thirty-two, who, without due precautions, were bartering with him 
 for corn. Thirty were slain, one escaped, and a young boy of
 
 300 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 good descent, named Henry Spillman, was rescued by Pocahontas, 
 through whose intercession he was received amongst the Pata 
 womekes, where residing many years, he became a proficient in 
 their language, and did good service many times between them and 
 his own countrymen. 
 
 Pocahontas also sought refuge with the same friendly nation, 
 being heard of no more at Jamestown after the departure of Captain 
 Smith until 1611, when Captain Argall, whose ship was then lying 
 in the River Potomac, having in London frequently heard his friend 
 Captain Smith eulogize Pocahontas as the " nonpareil of Virginia," 
 conceived the idea of making her his prisoner, in order to induce 
 Powhatan to more favourable negotiations with him. Having had 
 an interview with Japawzaws, an old Indian, who had formerly 
 been a friend of Captain Smith, he entered into a treaty with him 
 to decoy Pocahontas aboard under pretence of seeing the ship, 
 solemnly assuring him that no further harm than a short imprison- 
 ment was intended her. Japawzaws listened as though he heard 
 not, until the ravishing gleam of a copper-kettle displayed before 
 him as the reward, completely overpowered every scruple, and he 
 at once repaired to Pocahontas, taking care, however, to carry his 
 wife along with him, thinking that she might prove a valuable 
 aid ; nor was he mistaken, for Pocahontas, who had seen many 
 ships, had no curiosity to visit that of Captain Argall, and would 
 have totally negatived the proposals of Japawzaws, but for the 
 tears of his wife, who pretending never to have seen the interior 
 of one, was so importunate with her husband to allow her to go 
 aboard, that with much pretended violence he threatened to beat 
 her, whereat she wept still more, insomuch that pretending to 
 relent, he told her that if Pocahontas would accompany her he was 
 content. It was not in the nature of Pocahontas to withstand 
 tears and supplications, she therefore accompanied her betrayers to
 
 POCAHONTAS. 301 
 
 the vessel, where a fine entertainment was served to them in the 
 cabin, and every attention and kindness shown to them by Captain 
 Argall, who, during the repast, had to undergo repeated pressures 
 on his toes from the foot of Japawzaws, intended as intimations 
 that he had fulfilled his part of the contract and now wanted the 
 reward. Acting upon this hint the captain requested Pocahontas 
 to retire for a little while into the gun-room, in order that he might 
 confer on some private matter with Japawzaws ; this was to the 
 effect that she might not think the latter was privy to her detention. 
 On sending for her again. Captain Ai'gall told her in the presence 
 of Japawzaws and his wife, that she must accompany him until 
 such time as peace was concluded with her father, whom she must 
 never expect to see again until that event had taken place. 
 
 The poor deceived Pocahontas wept long and violently, while 
 the two base creatures who had inveigled her into the snare set up 
 the most terrible bowlings, bewailing their unhappy fate even more 
 loudly than Pocahontas ; who upon the captain's fair persuasions, 
 by degrees pacifying herself, Japawzaws and his wife, with their 
 beloved kettle and other toys, went merrily ashore, and Pocahon- 
 tas was conveyed prisoner to James Town — a sad return for all 
 her disinterested kindness to that place and its inhabitants. A 
 messenger having been dispatched to Powhatan informing him that 
 he must ransom the daughter he loved so dearly, with the men, 
 weapons, and commodities he had stolen, the old chief, though 
 deeply exasperated deigned no answer, and three months passed 
 ere he condescended, (on being again urged) " to send back seven 
 of our men with each an unserviceable musket." After a loner 
 time, during which many bravados and skirmishes took place, a 
 truce was proclaimed, and two of Powhatan's sons came to see their 
 sister, with whom they had a most joyful and rejoicing meeting. 
 Master John Rolfe, and Master Sparks, then accompanied these
 
 302 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 brotheES to Powhatan ; but though kindly entertained, he would not 
 admit them to his presence. Master Rolfe having conceived a vio- 
 lent passion for Pocahontas, a marriage was concluded between 
 them ; Powhatan not choosing to honour the ceremony with his 
 presence, but sending as his deputy, an old uncle of Pocahontas, 
 named Opachisco, who with the two young men, her brothers, did 
 what was necessary on his behalf for the confirmation of the mar- 
 riage. After this event, the lovely messenger of the wilderness was 
 known no more as Pocahontas, but was styled the " Lady Rebecca" — 
 instructed in the English language, baptized and converted to the 
 Christian faith, of which she is said to have been "most capable 
 and desirous," as also " that she had no desire to return to her father, 
 nor could well endure the society of her owne nation ; bearing 
 most true and constant aifection to her husband, by whom she 
 had one son, whom she most dearly loved." It is also related 
 of her that " she became very fwrnal and cwU after the Eng- 
 lish manner, and that divers persons of great rank and quality 
 were very kind to her on her arrival in England, whither she had 
 accompanied her husband." Captain Smith, on hearing that she 
 was in England, wrote a short memorial concerning her, addressed 
 to Anne of Denmark, wife to James I., in which, after enumerating 
 the valuable services she had rendered the colony, he asks the 
 royal favour for her " exceeding desert, her birth, virtue, want, and 
 simplicity." In consequence of this appeal, Pocahontas was pre- 
 sented to the King and Queen,* as well as to many of the nobility, 
 who, in afterwards speaking of her, generally concluded " that God 
 had a great hand in her conversion, and that they had seen many 
 English ladies worse favoured, proportioned, and behavoured." 
 
 This style of panegyric, be it remembered, applies not to the 
 beautiful Indian maiden, graceful in her own national garb, and 
 
 * She had also her portrait taken in the horrible costume of that period.
 
 POCAHONTAS. 303 
 
 lightly springing along the prairie, but to the " Lady Kebecca " — 
 inst^'ucted^ laptized, converted, formal^ civil, wearing an Anne of Den- 
 mark hat and short feather, a long tight boddice, a monstrous ruif, 
 and still more monstrous hooped-petticoat and farthingale, bearing 
 the same resemblance to her former self as does the airy blue-beU 
 when pressed, dried, and pasted down in a lady's album, to its wild 
 sisters, nodding gaily in the sunshine between the fern and fox-glove. 
 But, 'twas but outside change after all — the heart beat truly, softly, 
 still. When Captain Smith went to see her before setting sail for 
 New England, he says, " after a modest salutation she turned away, 
 and hiding her face, spake not to any one for two or three hours." 
 When she began to talk she said, " You did promise Powhatan 
 what was yours should be his, and he the like to you ; you called 
 him father, being in his land a stranger, and by the same reason so 
 must I do you." The captain here with grave formality says, 
 " which though I would have excused, I durst not allow of that 
 title, because she was a king's daughter ; with a well-set counte- 
 nance, she said, ' Were you not afraid to come into my father's 
 country, and caused fear in him and all his people but me, and fear 
 you here I should call you father ? I tell you then I will, and you 
 shall call me child, and so I will be for ever and ever your coun- 
 tryman.' " Then, as if in the fullness of her heart, she thus con- 
 cludes : " They did tell us always you were dead, and I knew no 
 other till I came to Plymouth ; yet Powhatan did command Ut- 
 tamotomakkin to seek you and know the truth, because your coun- 
 trymen will lie much." This savage, one of Powhatan's chiet 
 men, was pui-posely sent by the king to number the English and 
 inform him of their condition. Arriving at Plymouth, he got a 
 long stick and made a notch on it for every person he met, but 
 soon grew weary of the task. Meeting Captain Smith accidentally 
 in London, he told him Powhatan had ordered him to find him
 
 304 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 out, that he might show him his God, king, queen, and prince. 
 He was told that he had ah-eady seen the king, but could hardly 
 be persuaded that King James could be a king. Then he said very 
 sadly, " You gave Powhatan a white dog, which Powhatan fed as 
 himself; but your king gave me nothing, and I am better than a 
 dog." When Powhatan, on his return, asked him how many peo- 
 ple there were in England, he answered, " Count the stars in the 
 sky, the leaves on the trees, and the sands upon the sea shore ; for 
 such is their number." 
 
 Shortly after the interview of Pocahontas with Captain Smith, 
 when at Gravesend, a small port about twenty-five miles from 
 London, when about to embark with her husband and child for 
 America, she was taken ill of violent fever, and died very suddenly. 
 Her little son, Thomas Rolfe, was left at Plymouth, with Sir Lewis 
 Stukeley, who desired to take charge of it. The words that describe 
 her death are, " It pleased God, at Gravesend, to take this young 
 lady to his mercy, where she made not more sorrow for her unex- 
 pected death than joy to the beholders to hear and see her make 
 so religious and godly an end." 
 
 Thus perished untimely, in the bloom of life, the lovely and 
 benign Pocahontas, whose whole life was a pure and freshening 
 stream of love and goodness to all with whom she came in contact ; 
 and whose sweet life may serve as a remembrancer to the daugh- 
 ters of civilization, how little lower than the angels, a life passed 
 in practising the mild and gentle virtues of her sex, could make 
 even an untutored child of nature like Pocahontas — from whom, 
 at this day, many of the first faraihes in Virginia are proud to trace 
 their descent.
 
 POCAHONTAS. 305 
 
 DIRGE OF POCAHONTAS. 
 
 I. 
 The graceful Mondamin * lies shatter'd and broken 
 
 In the pride of her blooming, ere touched by decay ; 
 In the land of the stranger, her grave the sole token, 
 
 The Flower of Windagua f is withered away. 
 
 u. 
 No more her swift foot o'er the prairie is bounding, 
 
 No more her canoe lightly skims o'er the bay ; 
 Her maidens in sorrow the reed-flutes are sounding ; 
 
 The flower of Windagua is withered away. 
 
 Captain Smith died in Loudon, in the year 1631, aged fifty-two. 
 His encounter with the three Turks, alluded to in the beginning 
 of this article, is as follows : 
 
 " In the plaines of RegaU is a city not only of men and fortifi- 
 cations, stronge of itselfe, but so environed with mountaines that 
 made the passages so difficult, that in all these warres no attempt 
 had been made upon it to any purpose. To possess himselfe first 
 of the most convenient passage, which was a narrow valley betwixt 
 two high mountaines, the commander, Earl Meldritch, sent Colonel 
 Veltus with his regiment, to lye in ambuscade and to drive all the 
 cattle they could find before a fort in that passage, whom he suf- 
 posed would sally, seeing but some small party, to recover their 
 prey ; which took such good success that the garrison was cut off 
 by the ambuscade and the Skonces seized ; yet, six days elapsed 
 ere with six thousand pioneers he could make a passage for his ord- 
 nance. The Turkes having such warning, strengthened the towne, 
 made frequent sallies upon the besiegers, and scornfuUy deriding 
 the slow progress they were compelled of necessity to make, de- 
 clared their ordnance were at pawn, and how they grew fat for 
 
 * The Indian maize [ilant. t Wingandocoa ; Indian name of Virginia. 
 
 39
 
 306 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 want of exercise, and fearing they should depart ere they could 
 assault the city, sent this challenge to any captaine in the Christian 
 army. That to delight the ladies, who did long to see some coui-t- 
 like pastime, the Lord Turbashawe did defie any captaine that had 
 the command of a company who durst combat with him for his head. 
 The matter being discussed, it was accepted; but so many questions 
 grew for the undertaking, that it was decided by lots, which fell 
 upon Captain Smith. 
 
 " Truce being made for the time, the Rampiers all beset with 
 faire dames and men in armes, the Christians in Battalio ; Tm'ba- 
 shawe with a noise of howboyes entred the field, well mounted 
 and armed : on his shoulders was fixed a great pair of wings, com- 
 posed of eagle's feathers within a ridge of silver, richly garnished 
 with gold and precious stones, a janizary before him, bearing his 
 lance ; on each side another, leading his horse ; where long he staid 
 not, ere Smith with a noise of trumpets, only a page bearing his 
 lance, passing by him with a courteous salute, took his ground with 
 such goode successe, that at the sound of the charge, he passed the 
 Tui'ke thorow the sight of his beaver, face, head and all, that he 
 fell dead to the ground, where alighting and unbracing his helmet, 
 cut oif his head, and the Turkes tooke his body ; and so returned 
 without any hurt at all. The head he presented to the Lord 
 Moyses, the generall, who kindly accepted it ; and with joy to the 
 whole armie he was generally welcomed. 
 
 " The death of this captaine so swelled in the heart of one 
 Gruako, his vowed friend, as rather inraged with madnesse than 
 choller, he directed a particular challenge to the conqueror, to re- 
 gaine his friend's head or lose his owne, with his horse and ar- 
 mour for advantage, which according to his desire was the next day 
 undertaken ; as before, upon the sound of the trumpets, their 
 lances flew to pieces upon a cleare passage ; but the Turke was neere
 
 POCAHONTAS. 30Y 
 
 unhorsed. Their pistoUs were the next, which marked Smith npon 
 the placard ; but the next shot, the Turke was so wounded in the 
 left arme, that being not able to rule his horse and defend himselfe, 
 he was throwne to the ground, and so bruised with the fall, that 
 he lost his head, as his friend before him ; with his horse and ar- 
 mour ; but his body and his rich apparell was sent backe to the 
 towne. 
 
 " Every day the Turkes made some sallies, but few skirmishes 
 would they endure to any purpose. Our workes and approaches 
 being not yet advanced to that height and effect which was of ne- 
 cessitie to be performed, to delude time. Smith with so many incon- 
 tradictible perswading reasons, obtained leave that the ladies 
 might know he was not so much enamoured of their servants' heads, 
 but that any Turke of their ranke who would come to the place of 
 combate to redeem e them, should have his also upon the like con- 
 ditions, if he could winne it, 
 
 " The challenge was accepted by a formidable Turke named 
 Bona Mulgro. The next day the champions entering the field as 
 before : each discharging their pistolls, having no lances, but such 
 martial weapons as the defendant appointed, no hurt was done ; 
 their battle-axes were the next, whose piercing bills made some- 
 times the one, sometimes the other to have scarce sense to keepe 
 their saddles, specially the Christian received such a blow that he 
 lost his battle-axe, and failed not much to have fallen after it, 
 whereat the supposing conquering Turke had a great shout from 
 the rampiers. The Turke prosecuted his advantage to the uttermost 
 of his power ; yet the other, what by the readinesse of his horse, 
 and his judgment and dexterity in such a businesse, beyonde all 
 men's expectation, by God's assistance, not onely avoided the 
 Turke's violence, but having di'awne his faulchion, pierced the 
 Turke so under the culets thorow backe and body, that although
 
 308 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 he alighted from his horse, he stood not long ere he lost his head, 
 as the rest had done. This good successe gave such great en- 
 couragement to the whole armie, that with a guard of six thousand, 
 three spare horses, before each a Turke's head upon a lance, he 
 was conducted to the Generall's Pavillion with his presents. 
 Moyses received both him and them with as much respect as the 
 occasion deserved, embracing him in his armes, gave him a faii-e 
 horse, richly furnished, a semitere and belt, woi'tll three hundred 
 ducats ; and Meldritch made him Serjeant Major of his regiment. 
 Sigismundus coming to view his armie, and being made acquainted 
 with the service Smith had done at Olumpagh, Stowle, Wesenburg, 
 and Kegall ; with great honour gave him three Turke's heads in 
 a shield for his armes, by Patent under his hand and seale, with 
 an oath ever to wear them in his colours, his picture in gould, and 
 three hundred ducats yearly for a pension."
 
 ■^ 

 
 LA VALLIERE. 
 
 Louise Fran?oise de La VAXLifeEE was made up of feminine ten- 
 derness. Slie was tender un,to softness ; modest unto diffidence ; 
 gentle unto timidity. Her nature was so tender that it divided 
 itself wholly between love of heaven, and love for one sole earthly 
 object. Her love for heaven was trembling adoration ; her love 
 for her lover was idolatry. She gave heaven her rej)entant wor- 
 ship after giving her lover all heart-worship. She was a signal in- 
 stance of a woman loving a monarch for himself; she loved the 
 man, not the king, in Louis XIV. She was born in 1644 ; and 
 came of distinguished parentage. Her mother married again ; and 
 this second husband, being in the household of Gaston, Duke of Or- 
 leans, Mademoiselle de La Valliere passed her early years at the 
 court of that prince, residing alternately at Orleans and at Blois. 
 Her youth was marked by sweetness of disposition and discreet 
 behaviour ; and when the king's only brother espoused Hem'ietta 
 of England, daughter to Charles I., Mademoiselle de La Valliere 
 was placed about her person, as maid of honour. Shining in the 
 midst of a brilliant scene, taking part in the pleasures of a young 
 and gallant court, she won the esteem of all, by her rectitude, her 
 innate love of virtue, her gentle manners, and the sincerity and 
 simplicity which distinguished her. Her personal advantages.
 
 310 LA VALLlftRE. 
 
 which exceeded her mental endowments, attracted universal ad- 
 miration. The Duchess of Orleans — Elizabeth Charlotte — thus 
 describes her : — " Her countenance possessed an inexpressible 
 charm ; she had a delicate shape ; and her eyes appeared to me far 
 more beautiful than those of Madame Montespan. Her deport- 
 ment was modesty itself. She limped slightly ; but that did not 
 detract from her grace." 
 
 In the habit of constantly beholding Louis XIV., the "tender 
 and susceptible heart " of which La Valliere herself makes frequent 
 mention, became fascinated by the embodiment he formed of her 
 young ideal. In her eyes he showed a hero — a hero of romance 
 in living perfection, — young, handsome, princely, radiant with 
 glory and renown. He inspired her with the liveliest admiration, 
 which soon ripened into the liveliest affection. Her timid nature 
 shrunk from admitting even to herself her sentiments; but its 
 tenderness could not resist' the bewitching influence of passion. 
 Her very gentleness of disposition made her vainly attempt to 
 subdue love by duty ; her gentleness softened into weakness, in- 
 stead of gathering strength from effort. Such characters as La 
 Valliere's, reap no courage from warmth of heart ; their best virtue 
 is submission. Tliey are moral cowards, notwithstanding their 
 fervour. The best womanly tenderness generates fortitude of 
 mind ; the tenderness of such a woman as La Valliere degenerates 
 with feebleness of soul. Her attachment for Louis was a fond and 
 exclusive preference ; it absorbed her thoughts, and engrossed her 
 whole being. Her piety towards heaven was not so much an ac- 
 tive principle, as a helpless leaning upon devotion as a resource — 
 a turning for support towards divine comfort, when earthly trust 
 had failed. La VaUiere's tenderness limited, not enlarged her 
 spirit ; but, within that limit, it was beautiful of its kind. It ren- 
 dered her meek, unreproachful, and purely disinterested. It
 
 LA VALLIERE. 311 
 
 enabled her to sustain injurious treatment that would have mad- 
 dened a woman of less yielding temper ; and it caused her to love 
 with a prodigahty, that made love itself all-sufficing to her happi- 
 ness. Through all the various inclinations for other women which 
 Louis XIV. by turns indulged, he constantly returned to her, who, 
 by her genuine affection, more than by the chaims of her person, 
 had won him without art or guile. 
 
 It was at Fontainebleau, in 1661, that the intimacy of their 
 connexion commenced. During two years, Mademoiselle de la 
 Valli^re was the secret object of all the entertainments and bril- 
 hant pastimes given at court. The celebrated fete at Versailles, 
 which, under the title of " The Pleasures of the Enchanted Isle," 
 occupied seven entire days, was ostensibly in honour of the queen- 
 mother, and queen-consort, but was in reality a gallantry on the 
 part of Louis XIV. offered at the feet of the young beauty he had 
 wooed and won. The royal amour, though studiously concealed 
 from the principal personages concerned, was not so absolutely a 
 mystery but that it was suspected by many ; and various evidence 
 may be traced that the real centre of the king's purposed homage 
 in giving this magnificent festivity, was tacitly understood to be 
 the lovely Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The descrijitiou of the 
 seven days' entertainment bears testimony of the regal splendour 
 and rich taste exercised by Louis XIV., on this occasion. Not only 
 were the pageants and banquets of the most sumptuous descrip- 
 tion, but the talent of LuUi, and the genius of the great Moliere 
 himself, were enlisted to lend the refinements of music, wit, poetry, 
 and di'amatic representation, to adorn the scene. The king himself 
 took part in the fii'st day's pageant, which had for subject the 
 Palace of Alcinoe, where Ruggiero and his Ijrave knights are 
 assembled to enjoy the pleasures of the Enchanted Isle. Louis, 
 who represented Ruggiero, is described as " mounted on a superb
 
 312 LAVALLIERE. 
 
 cliarger ; its harness of the colour of fire, and shining resplendent 
 with gold, silver, and precious stones. His Majesty himself was 
 armed in the Grecian style ; and wore a cuirass of silver, covered 
 with a rich embroidery of gold and diamonds. His action and 
 whole deportment were worthy of his rank ; his helmet, covered 
 with flame-coloured plumes, was incomparably elegant ; and never 
 did an air more lofty, more martial, exalt a mortal above his 
 fellow-men." 
 
 Moliere's " Princesse d'Elide," " Les Facheux," the first three 
 acts of his admirable " Tartuffe," and " Le Mariage Force," formed 
 the chief substance of the second, fifth, sixth, and seventh days' 
 several entertainments. In the first-named of these dramas there 
 occurs a passage which affords one of those instances above alluded 
 to, of the idea that prevailed of the king's partiality for Made- 
 moiselle de La Yalliere, and of her being the secret object of this 
 unparalleledly tasteful entertainment. The upholding of an amour- 
 0U9 passion, as the crowning princely quality in a youthful royal 
 nature, is a subtle compliment addressed to Louis's admiration for 
 the fair young creature who was real queen of the fete, instead of 
 its apparent queens — the (in every sense) nominal queens. 
 
 The lines are put into the mouth of Arbate, tutor to the young 
 prince, Euiyale ; and are addressed to him ; — 
 
 " Et bien que mon sort touche a ses derniers soleils, 
 Je dirai que I'amour sied bien a vos pareils ; 
 Que CO tribut qu'on rend aux traits d'un beau visage, 
 De la beauto d'une ame est un clair temoignage, 
 Et qu'il est malaise que, sans etre amoureux, 
 Un jeune prince soit et grand et genereux. 
 C'est une qualite que j'aime en un monarque; 
 La tendresse du coeur est une grande marque 
 Que d'un prince a votre &ge on pent tout presumer, 
 Des qu'on voit que son ame est capable d'aimer. 
 Oui cette passion, de toutes la plus belle,
 
 LA VALLIERE. 3I3 
 
 Tralne dans un esprit cent vertus apres elle ; 
 
 Aux nobles actions elle pousse les coeurs, 
 
 Et tous les grands heros ont senti ses ardours." 
 
 Which — for the few who are unfamiliar with French — may be 
 rendered thus : — 
 
 [" Although my old life numbers years in long suns, 
 Young blood, such as yours, fervent loving becomes. 
 I maintain that the homage you pay a sweet face. 
 Is proof of your judgment, your feeling, and grace ; 
 And unless a young prince be deeply in love, 
 He's scarce to be ranked usual great ones above. 
 'Tis a point I admire in monarchs to see : 
 Tender-hearted and gracious young rulers should be ; 
 In a prince of your age we look for this sign 
 That all may be hoped from a nature so fine. 
 Believe me, this passion, the finest of all, 
 Brings myriad virtues in train with its thrall ; 
 To loftiest actions it prompteth the soul. 
 And heroes the greatest have owned its controul."] 
 
 Amidst the general assemblage of ladies, La Valli^re could 
 enjoy, undistinguished, the splendours of this gorgeous fete, and 
 accept, unobserved, the compliment it conveyed to herself from her 
 royal lover. Its veiled meaning precisely suited her retiring dis- 
 position, and soothed her scruples of delicacy. She dreaded 
 nothing so much as open attentions. It was neither from vanity 
 nor ambition, that she loved the sovereign of France ; she had a 
 genuine affection for him, never throughout her life having a single 
 other attachment, and desirino: that he alone should know of her 
 love, as he alone possessed it. Her first pregnancy was concealed 
 with so much care, that no one in the court was aware of the cir- 
 cumstance ; and the queen had no suspicion of it. Two only, of 
 the four children she had by Louis, lived — Marie- Anne de Bour- 
 bon, named Mademoiselle de Blois, afterwards Princess de Conti, 
 born in 1666; and the Count de Vermandois, born in 1667. In 
 
 40
 
 314 LAVALLlfiKE. 
 
 tliat year, the king created a duchy from two baronies, and the 
 estate of Vaujour in favour of Mademoiselle de La Valliere, and 
 the princess, her daughter. When she received this honour, and 
 when her children were legitimatized, she was much troubled : for 
 she had thought that her being a mother ought to remain un- 
 known ; or at any rate, that it should be left unacknowledged. It 
 is worthy of note, that she always called her daughter " Made- 
 moiselle ;" while the princess called her " belle maman." Madame 
 de Sevigne alluded to Madame de La Valliere, when she wrote thus 
 in 1680: — "You must imagine her" (Madame de Montespan), 
 " precisely the opposite of that httle violet who hid herself 
 beneath the grass ; and who was ashamed of being mistress, 
 mother, and duchess. There will never be another of her stamp." 
 La Valliere was — so to speak — vu-tuous in the midst of her errors ; 
 for each fi-esh fault cost her as much as her first step in guUt. She 
 was modest in the midst of her frailty ; for she avoided its evi- 
 dences, and shrank from its preferments. The marks of superior 
 distinction and regard which the king bestowed upon her in pre- 
 ference to the queen, were distasteful to her reason and sense of 
 right. His tokens of favour, thus conferred, hurt her dehcacy. In 
 this respect, she was tempted to complain of being too well loved — 
 she, whose own abundant love involuntarily craved correspondent 
 return. Very different from most royal favourites, she never once 
 took advantage of her influence. She loved the king — not his 
 power. Her patronage confined itself to intercession for those 
 persons who had displeased Louis, and to solicitations for those 
 who needed assistance or advancement — without exceptional bias 
 in favour of her own relations. Her absence of mercenary spirit is 
 testified in the case of Fouquet ; who, being struck with the early 
 charms of Mademoiselle de La Valliere, and utterly unscrupulous in 
 his modes of satisfying his transitory inclinations, oftered the young
 
 L A V AL L I ERE. 315 
 
 maid of Jiouour the sum of .£8,000, an oflfer which she rejected with 
 indignation, although at that time entertaining no idea of having 
 attracted the king's attention, nor any hope of winning his heart. 
 At a court with a school of morals like that amidst which La 
 Valliere dwelt, such conduct has sufficient singularity to give it 
 merit ; otherwise, from a young lady, a similar refusal would be 
 nothing extraordinary — nay, not worth recording. In her case, it 
 deserves praise. Her disinterestedness is also evinced in a subse- 
 quent incident of her life ; — when her brother died, in 1076, she 
 entreated the king to retain the post filled by the Marquis de La 
 Valliere, in acquittal of his debts, without alluding in the slightest 
 way to her nephews. Her discretion, and freedom from all self- 
 seeking, during the season of her ascendancy, caused her to be 
 entrusted unhesitatinglj^ Avith the most important secrets by her 
 royal lover ; who obtained from her a promise to be equally candid 
 on her side, and conceal nothing from him. The single instance 
 recorded, in which can be traced her possessing corn-age to act with 
 independence and firmness, does her honour — although natural 
 timidity soon regained its characteristic sway. It seems that, in a 
 certain delicate case, where a friend's concerns were at stake, she 
 failed to disclose the secret to the king, notwithstanding her 
 promise to tell him every thing. This was much for her — so 
 tender and so willingly sincere — to risk giving offence in love, for 
 the sake of preserving faith in friendship. But, upon Louis's pene- 
 trating the mystery, and reproaching her keenly for withholding 
 any thing from his knowledge, her short-lived courage failed her, 
 and — in the trouble, confusion, and consternation of finding she 
 had incurred her lover's displeasure — she crept at early morning 
 from the Tuileries palace, where she still dwelt in attendance on 
 the princess Henrietta, and took refuge in the convent of S'" Marie, 
 at ChaUlot. However, being sought with extreme diligence, and
 
 316 LAVALLlfiRE. 
 
 speedily discovered, she was prevailed upon to return ; wliere she 
 resumed her chains, only to be more closely riveted than ever. 
 
 Meantime, modest and retiring — as she had always been — she 
 continued to behold only the king himself in all the homage, pub- 
 lic and private, that surrounded her. A look from Louis — a single 
 smile from this beloved master — crowned her fondest wishes. 
 
 Allusions to the characteristics of Madame de La Valliere are 
 to be found in another court dramatist of the time. Racine's " Be- 
 renice " contains many unequivocal points in reference to Louis 
 XIV. and his tender mistress, under figure of the Emperor Titus 
 and the heroine of the play. Berenice exclaims — 
 
 " Jugez de ma douleur, moi dont I'ardeur extreme, 
 Je vous I'ai dit cent fois, n'aime en lui qui lui-meme, 
 Moi qui, loin des grandeurs dont il est revetu, 
 Aurais choisi son coeur et cherche sa vertu." 
 
 [" Judge of my grief: I, whose ardent affection 
 Loves in him but himself, has no other direction ; 
 Had I known him apart from his grandeur's condition, 
 His heart and his virtues had roused my ambition."] 
 
 And afterwards, she addresses Titus himself, thus : — 
 
 " Depuis quand croyez-vous que ma grandeur me touclie ? 
 Un soupir, un regard, un mot de votre bouche, 
 Voila I'ambition d'un coeur comme le mien : 
 Voyez-moi plus Bouvent, et ne me donnez rein." 
 
 [" Since when, can you think, that my greatness concerns me, 
 A sigh, look, or word from your mouth, is what burns me ; 
 These, these, are the aims of a heart such as mine : 
 See me more oft, give me nought that is thine."] 
 
 In the midst of her fond weakness, however, she never ceased 
 — with the instinct of her soft nature — to seek a sense of sustain- 
 ment, and consciousness of some endeavour on her own part, from 
 the strict performance of her religious duties. No appointed
 
 LA VALLIERE. 317 
 
 periods of fasting and prayer appeared too long or too severe for 
 her; no church observances, during which the custom of the 
 workl, or the etiquette of the coui't prescribed an abstinence from 
 pleasure and gaiety, did she neglect. They were haUed as a kind 
 of respite — moments of suspended wrong — occasions of temporary 
 good — which she might employ in making a virtuous return 
 within herself, and indulge the pious yearnings her tender nature 
 had ever nourished. La Valliere may be called a saintly sinner ; 
 for through all her mundane aberrations, she preserved a constant 
 regard for sacred institutions. Her Catholic creed well suited 
 with her loving and gentle character ; its promises of mercy and 
 pardon towards erring mortality when repentant, its consoling 
 hopes, its cheering absolution, were precisely needed by a soul at 
 once affectionate and timid. 
 
 During the time when La VaUiere was the declared mistress 
 of the king — which did not prevent numerous infidelities on his 
 part — Louis yielded to the fancy with which he was inspired for 
 Madame de Montespan. This latter, wanting in delicacy — both as 
 a woman, and as one who loved — consented to live in companion- 
 ship with Madame de La VaUi^re, sharing the same table, and al- 
 most the same apartments with her. " She preferred at fii'st," says 
 Madame de Caylus, " that the king should arrange it thus ; either 
 because she hoped thereby to mislead the public and her husband, 
 or because her pride took greater pleasure in the humiliation of 
 her rival, than alarm lest the charms of this latter shoiJd counter- 
 vail her own." 
 
 The meek-spirited La Valliere — ever incapable of any other 
 sentiment than love, with fond clinging to its object — remained, 
 not only at the court, but in the train of Madame de Montespan ; 
 who heartlessly abused her advantages. Numberless were the af- 
 fronts, the mortifications, that La Valliere had to endure the whole
 
 318 LA VALLlfiRE. 
 
 of the time she still stayed at Versailles. Her heart was wrung 
 by them ; Ijut she rarely complained, deeming herself still happy 
 that she could behold him she had no power to cease loving as if 
 he had not changed towards her. One day, when she ventured 
 mournfully to tell the king of the pain she felt in this consociation, 
 he answered coldly, that he was too frank to conceal the truth from 
 her ; and that she must be aware that a king of his disposition did 
 not like to be controuled. She is said to have addressed a sonnet 
 to Louis on this occasion ; and it is added, that the verses were 
 praised by him, although he contented himself with assuring his 
 fii'st mistress that he should ever regard her with esteem; but 
 there is doubt as to the sonnet having been LaValliere's own com- 
 position. It is supposed to have been written for her by some one 
 of the men of letters whom she, as Duchess de La Valliere, was 
 acquainted with, and encouraged. However that may be, there 
 is sufficient evidence existing, that, at this time, Madame de La 
 Valliere suffered much unkindness. The Duchess of Orleans said : 
 " The king treated her very ill, at the instigation of Madame de 
 Montespan ; that he was harsh with her, and ironical to a degree 
 of insult ; that the poor creature imagined she could not make a 
 greater eacrifice to God, than in sacrificing to Him the very origin 
 of her misdeeds, and believed she was doing the more rightly, 
 since her penance emanated from the same source where she had 
 sinned ; and therefore she stayed, as a penance, with La Montes- 
 pan." 
 
 It was in 1674 that the Duchess de La Valliere put in practice 
 a resolution she had long formed. In the month of February, 1671, 
 she had retired, for the second time, to the convent of S*' Marie 
 de Chaillot, wishing to weep there uninterruptedly. She wrote to 
 the king, that "she should sooner have quitted Versailles, after 
 having had the misfortune to lose his good graces, if she could
 
 LA VALLlfeRE. 319 
 
 have induced herself never more to behold him ; that this weak- 
 ness had been so invincible, that it was hardly even yet she felt 
 capable of making such a sacrifice to God ; that she trusted, how- 
 ever, the i^assion she still entertained for him might serve her in 
 her penitence, and that after having given him her youth, it was 
 not too much to dedicate the remainder of her life to the care of 
 her salvation." Madame de Sevigne, who records this, adds: — 
 " The king wept abundantly, and sent Monsieur Colbert to ChaU- 
 lot, entreating her to return immediately to Versailles, that she 
 might speak with him again. Monsieur Colbert conducted her 
 back ; the king talked for an hour with her, and was affected to 
 tears." 
 
 After some days, to the great vexation of the reigning favourite, 
 Madame de La VaUiere appeared to be on better terms with the 
 monarch than she had been for a long time past. Two years 
 elapsed without the duchess showing any sign that she had re- 
 curred to her idea of retirement from the world ; but a severe ill- 
 ness, which reduced her to the verge of the grave, brought her 
 back fully to the design of retrieving her past life. The " Keflec- 
 tions on the Mercy of God," which she was said to have written, on 
 her recovery, forms a transcript of the sentiments at that time oc- 
 cupying her mind ; although it is by no means certain that she 
 was its author. Her confidential friend was the Marechal de Bel- 
 lefond ; he it was who had carried her letter to the king. Mad- 
 ame de La VaUiere also possessed an excellent guide and adviser 
 in Bossuet, then bishop of Condom. It is to the Marechal de Belle- 
 fond that those letters of Madame de La Valli^re are addressed, 
 which have been printed, and the first of which is dated June, 
 1673. On the 21st November, she writes thus to her friend, the 
 marechal : — " I feel that, notwithstanding the magnitude of my 
 fault — which is ever present to me — love has a greater part in my
 
 _ 320 LA VALLlfiRE. 
 
 sacrifice, than the necessity for doing penance." This passage af- 
 fords a characteristic epitome of La Yallifere's nature. It shows 
 how, with her, religious love was "but the substitute for secular 
 love ; and that when the one was debarred, the other was adopted. 
 Love was the necessity of La Valliere's tender temperament. Love 
 for Louis XIV., if possible ; if not, love for heaven. She thought 
 that alone worthy to succeed to the king in her affections. Her 
 royal lover was the first object of her soul ; nest to him, God. It 
 is curious to notice how closely upon irreverence, these weakly- 
 revering characters trench. Soft, sweet, and loving, La Valliere's 
 tenderness wanted strength to be high-souled. But it was gentle, 
 and beautifully meek. Never, but on one occasion, was that mild 
 disposition betrayed into bitterness of expression. It was when, 
 having finally decided upon quitting the com"t, she said to Madame 
 de Scarron (afterwards Madame de Maintenon), who had sought 
 to dissuade her from immuring herself in a cloister : — ■" Whenever 
 I may endure sorrow at the convent, I shall call to mind what 
 those people have made me suffer." She alluded to the king and 
 Madame de Montespan. The pang must have been great indeed 
 that could cause her to speak of Louis in such terms ! Coupling 
 him with her rival, to speak of them as " those people " (ces gens- 
 \k !) Her heart must have been sore to writhing, before it could 
 have smarted her tender nature into such contemptuous utter- 
 ance. 
 
 She resolved upon the convent of the Carmelites for her retreat ; 
 and took leave publicly of the king, who witnessed her departure 
 with dry eyes. She was then not above thirty years of age. Tlie 
 Abbe de Fromentieres , afterwards bishop of Aire, pronounced the 
 customary sermon that celebrated her noviciateship ; taking for 
 his text, the parable of the lost sheep, gathered into the fold by 
 the good shepherd.
 
 L A V A L L I E R E . 321 
 
 Her profession as nun, took place on the 3d of June, 16*75. 
 The queen herself placed the black veilon the head of Madame de 
 La Valliere ; and her friend, Bossuet, bishop of Condom, celebrated 
 for his powers of Christian eloquence, delivered the sermon on this 
 occasion. Madame de Sevigne gives an account of the ceremony 
 in one of her letters ; which, while it testifies the public esteem in 
 which Madame de La Valliere was held, and the universal interest 
 she inspired in the cu'cle where she had moved, affords a lively pic- 
 ture of the manners of the time, when com-t intrigues, court piety, 
 court ladies, court divines, are all discussed in a gay mingling of gos- 
 sip which deals almost equally lightly with the anxiety for places at 
 a fashionable ceremonial, and with the solemn event it celebrated, — 
 with the king's regret for his former mistress, his gi\ang her up to 
 a superior claimant (viz : Heaven !) and his liberal provision for 
 his own child by her as a proof of his affection ! This is what she 
 says: — "Yesterday, the Duchess de La Valliere was professed. 
 Madame de Villars jiromised to take me there ; and by some mis- 
 understanding, we feared we should not get a place. We had but 
 to present ourselves, although the queen had said that she did not 
 wish the privilege extended ; however, God would not have it so, 
 and Madame de Villars was quite afflicted. But she performed 
 this action — this beautiful creature — as she did all her others; 
 that's to say, in a manner the most charming. Her loveliness 
 amazes everybody. But what will astonish you, is, that the ser- 
 mon of Monsieur de Bossuet was not so divine as we all expected. 
 So many virtues, joined to the most touching charms of person, 
 made Louis XFV. feel very acutely the loss of such a heart as 
 Madame de La Valliere. He was obliged to yield it to heaven, 
 which alone was worthy to possess it. But what he has done for 
 Mademoiselle de Blois, whom he married to the Prince de Conti, 
 proves to what a degree he loved the mother." 
 
 41
 
 322 L A V A L L I E R E . 
 
 Madame de Caylus wrote, at a miicli later period, that she had 
 seen her in the latter years of her life, and that she had heard her, 
 with a tone of voice that went to the heart, uttering admirable 
 things ujion the condition and happiness she already tasted, not- 
 withstanding the rigour of her penance. 
 
 The queen and the Duchess of Orleans, used to visit, in her 
 convent, sister Louisa of Mercy ; and it was to the former — the 
 wife of Louis XIV. — that the penitent nun answered, iu 1676: — 
 " No, I am not glad ; but I am content." It was not agreeable to 
 her own feelings, this having frequently to receive the queen, and 
 several of the court ladies, who came, as they said, to profit by the 
 edification afforded by the holy nun ; but, with her native gentle- 
 ness, she submitted to the necessity. It was a kind of fashion ; 
 one of those elegant amusements under the name of religious avo- 
 cations adopted by fine ladies, to soothe their consciences by a show 
 of devotional enthusiasm, in the midst of gaieties that grow insipid 
 by too uninterrupted a monotony of recurrence. When Paris and 
 Versailles cloyed, a visit to the convent of the Carmelites, formed 
 an agreeable variety — at once a relaxation, and a jjiece of pro- 
 priety. When Montespan's caprices wearied, and " le grand 
 monarque's " glories palled upon the appetites of the court ladies, 
 a morning with La ValHere, to witness how decorously she fulfilled 
 her vocation, was a delectable pleasure. It was like — to use a 
 French turn of expression — assisting at a performance, and observ- 
 ing how well the part of a nun was enacted by an ex-maid of 
 honour. Another of Madame de Sevisfne's letters contains a 
 passage confirming this idea of the tone of court feehng then pre- 
 vailing. In 1679, Madame de La Vallitsre had to face the comph- 
 ments of the whole polite world, to undergo the congratulations of 
 the court, the Parisian circles, the fashionable populace entire, upon 
 the marriage of her daughter ; and it was upon this occasion that
 
 LA VALLIERE. 323 
 
 Madame de Sevigne writes, in her usual peculiarly French, style of 
 touching upon highest and trivialest things in a breath, which 
 seems to our staider notions little else than elegant levity : — " She 
 seasoned perfectly her tenderness as a mother, with that of the 
 spouse of Jesus Christ. She was still handsome, in 1680 ; possess- 
 ing much grace, a fine air, together with the noblest and most 
 touching modesty. In truth, this habit, and this retreat, impart to 
 her a great dignity." It is singular to notice what stress French 
 minds lay upon hecomingness in every act or appearance they 
 record of a person. They admire great deeds ; but, above aU, 
 they admire them greatly performed. 
 To parody Hamlet's words : — 
 
 Rightly to be great, 
 Is, not to stir without great pompousness. 
 But greatly to find grandeur in a straw. 
 
 In the month of November, 1683, Bossuet having undertaken 
 to announce to Madame de La Valliere the death of the Count de 
 Vermandois, she at first shed many tears ; but suddenly recovering 
 herself, she exclaimed : — " I am weeping too much the death of a 
 son, whose birth I have not yet sufficiently wept." 
 
 From the year 1675 to 1710, she lived practising the greatest 
 austerities. She consecrated to heaven all that warmth of tender- 
 ness which constituted her nature ; and poured forth at the foot of 
 the altar that passionate softness of which her heart was com- 
 pounded. Her sweetness of temper enabled her to triumph in the 
 worthiest — because the most Christian-spirited manner — over her 
 former rival ; for upon one occasion, when Madame de Montespan 
 came with the queen in April, 1766, to see her, and inquired if 
 there was any thing she wished to have said to the king, she 
 evaded answering, with a grace and amiability the most complete, 
 although feeling deeply hurt. Many years afterwards she achieved
 
 324 L A V A L L I E K E . 
 
 a still more signal triumph of meekness and forgiveness ; for 
 Madame de Montespan, being herself no longer at court, returned 
 to the convent of the Carmelites, where Madame de La Valliere be- 
 came for her a kind of spiritual director. 
 
 On the 6th of June, lYlO, Louise de La Valliere expired, after 
 having been a long sufferer from protracted and painful infirmities. 
 The Abbe de Choisy, in his memoirs, has bequeathed us a written 
 portrait of her : " Mademoiselle de La Valliere was not one of 
 those perfect beauties, who are often admired without being loved. 
 She was very loveable, and this line of La Fontaine's, 
 
 ' Et la grace plus belle encore que la beaute,' 
 [And grace more beauteous still than beauty's self,] 
 
 seems to have been made expressly for her. She had a fine com- 
 plexion, an agreeable smile, blue eyes, with a look so tender, and 
 at the same time so modest, that it awakened love and esteem si- 
 multaneously. Although possessed of little intellect, she never failed 
 to cultivate it daily by continual reading. Without ambition, 
 without vices, she was more occupied with thinking of him she 
 loved, than with pleasing him. Wholly absorbed in herself and 
 her passion — which was the sole one of her life — prizing reputation 
 above all things, and ex]:)osing herself to the risk of death more 
 than once, rather than allow her frailty to be suspected ; sweet- 
 tempered, liberal, timid, never forgetting that she had done ill, 
 ever hoping to return to the paths of virtue, this Christian senti- 
 ment obtained for her the treasures of Divine mercy, by causing 
 her to pass a large portion of her life amid the solid and even ex- 
 quisite joys of an austere penitence. From the time of her own 
 and the king's mutual attachment, she would never see her former 
 friends, nor even hear speak of them ; solely occupied with her 
 passion, which supplied to her the place of all else. It was not that 
 the king required of her this extreme seclusion ; he was not formed
 
 LA V A L L r K R E . 325 
 
 to be jealous — still Itiss, to be deceived. But it was, tbat she wish- 
 ed constantly to see her lover, or to think of him, without being 
 disturbed by indifterent persons." 
 
 This summary of her character wholly confirms our estimate of 
 its exclusiveness and limited qualities. It shows her tenderness ; 
 but it demonstrates that she was neither large-minded nor large- 
 hearted. It also offers another significant point of consideration — 
 borne out hj similar particulars in the foregoing account of La 
 Valliere — as displaying the complaisance with which ecclesiastical 
 dignitaries can extend leniency towards female error in the person 
 of a king's mistress ; the moderation they can afford in treating of 
 a monarch's misdemeanours, and the chary terms in which they can 
 dress a royal favourite's lapse from virtue. Extenuation and apology 
 wait on court sin. A poor deluded peasant-girl would have been 
 heaped with scorn and reprobation ; while La Valliere is lauded as 
 a specimen of excellence, and hailed as an interesting and edifying 
 penitent. She has a palliative homily pronounced for her by a pro- 
 spective bishop ; her inaugural sermon is preached by one of France's 
 most eminent prelates, an existing bishop; and her panegyric is 
 written by a literary Abbe. Queens, princesses, and marchionesses, 
 flock to admire her ; a pattern-woman writes to her own daughter 
 applauding her ; while she herself is raised to be a duchess, and 
 rises into a reputed saint. Verily, when female weakness is hardly 
 dealt with in the person of lowly women, it might be as well to 
 call to mind the story of La Valliere. Error springing from a too 
 tender heart in those both indigent and ignorant, should find some 
 forbearance, when the ultra-tenderness of La Valhere, rich, high- 
 born, and educated, found such distinguished toleration.
 
 *'^''^4ll 

 
 MARIA THERESA. 
 
 Maria Theresa was an embodiment of executive regality. She 
 had the promptitude, forethought, and vigilance of a detective 
 officer ; and discharged duty with the rigid precision of a police- 
 man. She was essentially practical, and thoroughly industrious- 
 minded. She was ready in an emergency, equal to a difficulty, 
 and sturdy for order and regulation. She met reverses with bold- 
 ness and fortitude, and used prosj^erity for instituting reforms. 
 She was greatly remedial ; remedying sudden mischances by en- 
 countering them firmly ; and remedying existing evils with the 
 strong hand of eradication. 
 
 She was daughter of Charles VI. of Austria, Emperor of Ger- 
 many, and Elizabeth Christina, of Brunswick Wolfenbuttel. In 
 default of male issue, Charles VI. appointed that his daughter, 
 Maria Theresa, should be heiress of all the Austrian dominions; 
 and, consent to this appointment — entitled the Pragmatic Sanction 
 — was obtained from the Diet of the empire, all the German 
 princes, and several of the European powers. 
 
 At the age of nineteen, Maria Theresa married Francis, of 
 Lorraine ; who became Grand Duke of Tuscany the year after his 
 nuptials; and accompanied by his consort, repaired to Florence. 
 Upon her father's death, in 1740, Maria Theresa lost no time in
 
 328 M A E I A T H E R E S A . 
 
 returning to Vienna, that she might assert her rights, and take 
 possession of those dominions bequeathed as her inheiitance. She 
 had to maintain her patrimony against the various claimants that 
 arose to dispute her succession : for the Elector of Bavaria, and of 
 Saxony, the Kings of Spain, France, and Sardinia, each advanced 
 pretensions to certaia portions of the Austrian Monarchy, which 
 they agreed to dismember, and divide among them in respective 
 shares ; while Frederick II. of Prussia, sm-named the Great, as- 
 serted that he was entitled to four Duchies in Silesia. Maria 
 Theresa met all these claims with the resolution and energy that 
 marked her character. She assumed immediate supremacy in 
 Austria, Bohemia, and her other German states ; and went straight 
 to Presburg, took the constitutional oaths of Hungary, and 
 caused herself to be proclaimed Queen of that kingdom. One of 
 her first cares was to secure the joint nomination of her husband to 
 all the crowns she inherited ; conferring upon him the title of co- 
 regent, while preserving to herself all the rights of sovereignty 
 guaranteed by the Pragmatic Sanction. Meantime her enemies 
 pressed forward. Frederick of Prussia's offer to befriend the 
 young monarch, on condition of her yielding Silesia to him, having 
 been at once rejected, he proceeded to invade that province ; while 
 the Elector of Bavaria, aided by France, marched upon Vienna, 
 and forced Maria Theresa to retire from the capital. She repaired 
 to Presburg, convoked the Hungarian Diet, and made personal 
 appeal to them. Young, handsome, and spirited, she knew that the 
 best method to secure the fealty of those assembled, was to arouse 
 their chivalrous sentiment, and generous feeling : she therefore ap- 
 peared among them, bearing her little son in her arms, and said, 
 that assailed on all sides by foes, abandoned by her friends, and 
 finding even her own relatives hostile to her, she had no hopes 
 save in the loyalty of those she addressed ; and that she had come
 
 M A R I A T H E R E S A . 329 
 
 to place the daughter and the son of their king beneath their pro- 
 tection. The Hungarian nobles responded by an unanimous shout 
 of enthusiastic allegiance. Their swords flew from the scabbards, 
 as they exclaimed with one accord : — " Moriamur pro rege nostro, 
 Maria Theresa ! " [" Let us die for our king, Maria Theresa ; " — 
 the title of hing being applied to the sovereign, whether male or 
 female.] The address and the reply were both pronounced in 
 Latin ; Maria Theresa being mistress of that language, and all pub- 
 lic acts in Hungary being in that tongue. The generous impulse 
 of the Hungarians was followed up by their immediately putting the 
 whole military force under arms, and preparing to defend their young 
 queen's cause. They fought gallantly ; and in conjunction with 
 the troops she could muster, succeeded in driving back the French 
 and Bavarians from Maria Theresa's hereditary states. Charles 
 VI. had left but exhausted financial resources, with scantily-main- 
 tained soldiery ; and his daughter's condition verified Prince 
 Eugene's remark, that " an army of one hundred thousand men 
 could better guarantee the Pragmatic Sanction than a hundred 
 thousand treaties." So hemmed in was Maria Theresa by mena- 
 cing hostilities from all quarters, that at one time, when expectiog 
 another child, she wrote to her mother-in-law, the Duchess of Lor- 
 raine : — " I hardly know whether I shall have a single town left 
 me, where I can lye in." Her spirit and resolution never forsook 
 her throughout the complicated difliculties of her position. The 
 courage with which she met them, and the energy with which she 
 extricated herself from them, enforced respect even from her oppo- 
 nents ; while the multiplicity of disasters that threatened her, drew 
 sympathy from surrounding nations. In England, the interest 
 which her situation inspired, was such, — especially among the 
 women there, that they determined to place at her disposal the 
 sum of one hundred thousand pounds ; selecting Marlborough's 
 42
 
 330 MARIATHERESA. 
 
 widow, the Duchess Sarah, to be the medium of their offer. It 
 was deeply felt by Maria Theresa ; but she did not think hei-self 
 justified in accepting it at a time when the parliament were 
 voting subsidies for her defence. 
 
 Some of Maria Theresa's antagonists made peace with her ; 
 others became her allies; and in 1745 the Elector of Bavaria, who 
 had been created Emperor of Germany, under the name of Charles 
 VII. dying, Maria Theresa's husband was called to the throne, as 
 Francis I. The war of the Austrian succession was carried on 
 during three years longer ; when the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, 
 in 1748, terminated the struggle, leaving Maria Theresa in full 
 and undisturbed possession of all her hereditary dominions, with 
 the exception of Silesia, which she had been compelled to yield to 
 Frederick of Prussia. 
 
 No sooner did Maria Theresa find herself settled in peaceful 
 security, than she prepared to carry out her systems of internal 
 reform. The vestiges of war were effaced ; agriculture was 
 revived ; commerce and the arts were encouraged ; shipping inter- 
 ests were regarded ; roads constructed and repaired ; Vienna was 
 enlarged and embellished ; manufactories of woollen cloths, of 
 porcelain, of glass, and silken stuffs, were established. Science 
 flourished in the foundation of several universities and colleges ; 
 while one of them, still enjoying celebrity, bears its sovereign's 
 name in gratitude to its foundress — " Collegium Theresianum." 
 Special schools of drawing, painting, and architecture were insti- 
 tuted ; while Prague and Inspruck had public libraries endowed. 
 Observatories, eni-iched with valuable apparatus and instruments, 
 arose in Vienna, in Gratz, and in Tirnau ; Van Swieten was sum- 
 moned to regenerate the study of medicine and surgery ; and 
 Metastasio was invited to help in disseminating a cultivation of the 
 Italian muse on the banks of the Danube. Measures of import-
 
 MARIATHERESA. 33I 
 
 ance and magnitude were eflected by Maria Theresa in the govern- 
 ment of her people. She introduced great amelioration into the 
 feudal system as it then existed in Bohemia ; protecting the peas- 
 antry from the worst oppressions of their seigneurial superiors, and 
 freeing them from personal services, which she commuted for a 
 sum of money. She abolished the torture in her hereditary states 
 in Hungary, and in Bohemia. Severe penalties were attached to 
 literary piracy. She exerted herself to promote popular education 
 throughout her dominions, establishing a general system, and tak- 
 ing means for its efficacious operation. She divided into three 
 classes the schools she instituted : — firstly, " Normal Schools," one 
 in each province, to serve as a model for all the other schools in 
 the province ; secondly, " Principal Schools," in the large towns ; 
 and thirdly, " Commercial Schools," in the smaller towns and vil- 
 ages. The normal schools were superintended by a director: 
 those of the large towns were under the superintendence of a 
 magistrate ; and the commercial schools, under that of a parish 
 priest, or an assessor of the communal council. A central commis- 
 sion of studies was likewise appointed for general supervision of 
 the whole, receiving annual reports, and examining candidates for 
 masterships. Maria Theresa's practical mind, moreover, suggested 
 that nominal labour should be added to intellectual culture in the 
 instruction given at the communal schools. She granted extra 
 emolument to those teachers whose wives taught the girls sewing, 
 knitting, and spinning ; so that, children thus taught, were able to 
 earn a daily addition to the family income. The system worked 
 admirably ; and formed the basis of that extended popular educa- 
 tion which operates so beneficially throughout the Austrian mon- 
 archy. It was as if the ear of prescience had conveyed to Maria 
 Theresa the import of Wordsworth's noble aspiration for a national 
 education.
 
 332 MARIA THERESA. 
 
 " O for the coining of that glorious time 
 When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
 And best protection, this imperial Realm, 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
 An obligation, on her part, to teach 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 
 Binding herself by statute to secure 
 For all the children whom her soil maintains, 
 The rudiments of letters, and inform 
 The mind with moral and religious truth, 
 Both understood and practis'd — so that none, 
 However destitute, be left to droop 
 By timely culture unsustained ; or run 
 Into a wild disorder ; or be forc'd 
 To drudge through a weary life without the help 
 Of intellectual implements and tools ; 
 A savage horde among the civiliz'd, 
 A servile band among the lordly free ! 
 This sacred right the lisping babe proclaims 
 To be inherent in him by Heaven's will, 
 For the protection of his innocence; 
 And the rude boy — who having overpass'd 
 The sinless age, by conscience is enroU'd, 
 Yet mutinously knits his angry brow, 
 And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 
 Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 
 To impious use — by process indirect 
 Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 
 This sacred right is fruitlessly announc'd. 
 This universal plea in vain addressed, 
 To eyes and ears of parents who themselves 
 Did, in the time of their necessity. 
 Urge it in vain ; and therefore, like a prayer 
 That from the humblest floor ascends to Heaven, 
 It mounts to reach the state's parental ear ; 
 Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 
 And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
 Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
 The unquestionable good." 
 
 The active benefactions of Maria Theresa embraced all classes
 
 MARIATHERESA. 333 
 
 of her subjects. The iufii'ui, or wounded soldiery, until then 
 suffered to remain exposed to neglect, were received into large 
 hospitals ; while the widows of officers, and young ladies of decayed 
 families, found refuge in asylums provided by humanity and piety. 
 With such a neighboui* as Frederick of Prussia, Maria Theresa 
 could not but feel her period of peace to be a kind of armed 
 repose : she therefore maintained numerous troops, keeping them 
 constantly exercised and disciplined ; and she founded military 
 academies at Vienna, Neustadt, and Antwerp. 
 
 Maria Theresa was a pious Catholic ; but she yielded no im- 
 plicit subservience to the court of Rome, and preserved strict 
 discrimination between spiritual and temporal jurisdictions. She 
 maintained as a principle that all things, not of divine institution, 
 were subject to the supreme legislative authority of the state ; and 
 reserved to the crown the right of executing several momentous 
 reforms. She effected some of these in the temporalities of the 
 clergy ; and ordered all clerical property to be registered. She 
 suppressed the pensions charged at Rome upon benefices ; and for- 
 bade the alienation of property in favour of ecclesiastical bodies. 
 She entrusted the spiritual rule of convents to the respective 
 bishops, and placed their secular affairs under the controul of the 
 civil magistrates. She restricted the arbitrary power of the Inqui- 
 sition, then existing in her Italian dominions ; and withdrew fi-om 
 its hands the censorship of books, which she transferred to a com- 
 mission of civil magistrates appointed for that purpose. In Tus- 
 cany, where government was administered by a council of regency 
 in the name of her second son, Leopold, she directed that lay 
 assessors should be conjoined with the inquisitors in the prosecu- 
 tion of all suits for heresy. The check she put upon the iri-espon- 
 sible and despotic operations of the Inquisition, led to its final 
 abolishment in Lombardy and Tuscany at a subsequent period.
 
 334 MARIA THERESA. 
 
 Maria Theresa was a woman of the strictest morality. She 
 was immaculately \'irtuous herself; and she exercised severe disci- 
 pline over the morals of her subjects. One of her acts recalls a 
 point in Shakespeare's play of " Measure for Measure ; " which, by 
 the way, evinces the poet's extraordinary knowledge of local circum- 
 stances, and shows that in his time houses of ill-fame existed on 
 the same spot, as a Viennese public nuisance, which, at a later pe- 
 riod, was cleansed by Maria Theresa's command. She suppressed 
 the suburban taverns of Vienna, and endeavoured to clear her 
 realms of impurity and vice, by exterminating haunts of profli- 
 gacy, and by condemning their tenants to perpetual banishment. 
 Swarms of female delinquents were conveyed down the Danube 
 to manufactories established at Teneswar or Waradine, where they 
 were sentenced to hard labour. She carried her guardianship of 
 public morals even into interference with the domestic arrange- 
 ments of her nobility ; for, if she discovered that a married noble- 
 man so far forgot his conjugal duties as to court the smiles of an 
 opera dancer, or other frail celebrity, Maria Theresa sent her lieu- 
 tenant of police on a visit to the obnoxious personage, who, with- 
 out farther ceremony, was ordered to take her departure from the 
 Imperial city within twenty-four hours. The noted Signora Gabri- 
 elli was thus summarily dismissed to her native city of Naples, 
 upon the empress's coming to the knowledge of the favours which, 
 this syren of song and gallantry conferred upon one of the noble- 
 men in her imperial Majesty's court. Rigorous etiquette was a 
 feature in Maria Theresa's household ; her own august inflexibility 
 both setting the example, and enforcing the observance of a staid 
 decorum the most absolute. 
 
 It must have cost the austere propriety of Maria Theresa no 
 slight effort, when she penned that letter to the meretricious fa- 
 vourite of Louis XV., addressing Madame de Pompadour as " Ma
 
 MARIATHEKESA. 335 
 
 chere amie ! " The necessity must have been stringent which 
 could urge the imperial hand to trace such words as a form of ad- 
 dress to such a woman. But Maria Theresa was not one to hesi- 
 tate when a point was to be gained. That she calculated justly in 
 believing that her condescension would have its desired effect, was 
 proved by the event. Prince Kaunitz, who possessed the entire 
 confidence of the empress, had been despatched by Maria Theresa, 
 embassador to the court of Versailles, with a view to inducing the 
 French king to enter into friendly alliance with Austria. For 
 some time the royal favourite exercised her influence to prevent 
 Louis XV. from listening to the embassador's proposals ; — but 
 when imperial prude-punctilio yielded to imperial policy, and a 
 letter came from Maria Theresa to herself, beginning " Ma chere 
 amie^'' Pompadour's self-love was so agreeably flattered, that she 
 used her utmost eftbrts to obtain the king's acquiescence with the 
 empress's wishes ; and France, long inimical to her claims upon the 
 Austrian succession, became one of Maria Theresa's most powerful 
 supporters. 
 
 It was in memory of the success which crowned her arms at 
 the battle of Kollin, when victory was obtained under Marshal 
 Daun, that Maria Theresa instituted the military order which bears 
 her name : and the peace of Hubertsbourg, on the 15th February, 
 1763, terminated the seven years' war, which Frederick the Great 
 waged against the combined forces of Russia, France, and Austria. 
 It ended, leaving Austria with the same boundary of dominion as 
 at its commencement. It is strange that the small amount of sub- 
 stantial alteration effected by war, seems never to teach mankind 
 any lesson ; they still pertinaciously continue to expend millions of 
 wealth, shed rivers of blood, and destroy multitudes of homes, in 
 this fatal game — a game wherein all parties are losers. 
 
 In the year 1765, the Emperor Francis I. died ; and Maria The-
 
 336 MAKIATHERESA. 
 
 resa lost a husband to whom she was strongly attached. She wore 
 mourning for him until the period of her own decease ; and visited 
 monthly the imperial mausoleum where his ashes reposed. Haunt- 
 ed with images of death, she caused her own coffin to be made, 
 and sewed her shroud herself. In these very grave-clothes — made 
 secretly by her own hand — ^it is said she was loltimately buried. 
 But while in private dedicating her thoughts to funereal reflection, 
 she still gave her attention to political interests and public duties. 
 The dazzhng successes of a woman who, like herself, occupied an 
 imperial throne with extraordinary pomp and brilliancy, excited 
 her notice, and drew forth her energies into their wonted activity. 
 Catherine II. bore so hard upon Turkey by her force of arms, that 
 Maria Theresa hastened to declare her intention of making common 
 cause with the Ottomans, if the Russian troops crossed the Dan- 
 ube. A convention had even been already signed between Austria 
 and the Sublime Porte at Constantmople, in 17Y1. But on a sud- 
 den, a mutual understanding was visibly taking place between the 
 two empresses; and Europe was far ft'om conjecturing its cause. 
 It was only at the end of a twelvemonth that the dismemberment 
 of Poland, concerted between the courts of Petersburg, Berlin, and 
 Vienna, was made public by acts of taking possession, and by 
 manifestos. Maria Theresa's participation in the iniquitous deed 
 of the partition of Poland rests a blot upon the policy of her 
 reign. She has been rescued from the charge of having originated 
 the plan ; since the document of the secret convention, signed at 
 St. Petersburg on the 17th February, 17*72, exists to prove the 
 contrary ; wherein it is stated that if the court of Austria refuse 
 consent to the plan of partition, Prussia and Russia will combine 
 against her. This presented to Maria Theresa a perplexing dilem- 
 ma. She had to abandon Turkey to its fate ; and, moreover, to 
 risk a rupture with France, whose direct interest it was to support
 
 M A R I A T H E R E S A . 337 
 
 Poland. She sounded the court of Versailles ; and its hesitation 
 deciding her, she agreed to the dismemberment and partition in 
 question. Her allotted share was sumptuous ; among other acqui- 
 sitions were the lucrative salt districts of Wielitzka, Bochnia, and 
 Sambor. Amid the general outcry that arose in Europe against 
 the crowned spoliators, Frederick the Great slily observed : — " As 
 for me, I fully expected all this uproar of blame ; but what will 
 they say of her saintship, my cousin ? " His cousin of Austria, the 
 righteous Maria Theresa, was not a woman to care for popular dis- 
 approbation, when she had satisfactorily achieved a purpose, or 
 gained an advantage. She acted on the principle, " faites bien, et 
 laissez dire ; " especially when the " faites bien " could be interpre- 
 ted in the large and double sense of the phrase rendered into Eng- 
 lish, " do well." Thus considered, Maria Theresa was perfectly 
 content to " do well, and let them talk." 
 
 On the death of her husband, Francis I., their son was elected 
 emperor, as Joseph II. : but Maria Theresa continued to hold the 
 reins of government ; using the power she retained, for the bene- 
 ficial rule of her subjects. She exercised firm sway, and carried 
 her authority to the verge of hardness. She was an imperial mar- 
 tinet. Whatever she deemed right, was to be done at all hazards ; 
 whatever she judged expedient, was to be fulfilled, without demur, 
 and at any cost. An incident is related of her despotic decree in 
 a matter where she had willed obedience, which led to the sacri- 
 fice of one of her own children. Her young daughter, the arch- 
 duchess Maria Josepha, had been espoused by proxy to the 
 king of the two Sicilies ; and previously to the bride's departure 
 for Naples, the empress-mother insisted that she should visit the 
 imperial sepulchre, and perform her orisons on the tomb of her 
 departed ancestors. A beloved sister had been lately laid there, 
 a victim to the ravages of that fearful disease, malignant small- 
 43
 
 338 MAEIATHERESA. 
 
 pox ; and the young princess suffered invincible teri'or at the 
 thought of repairing to this gloomy spot. She threw herself on her 
 knees, entreated to be spared this shock, pleaded the dread she en- 
 tertained lest her vivid recollection of the horrors she had lately 
 witnessed in the death of her sister from the awful malady, and her 
 own fear of infection, might lead to fatal consequences : — but all 
 in vain. Maria Theresa's fiat had gone forth ; and her will must 
 be obeyed. The poor girl's alarm was but too well founded ; and 
 whether from this very pre-conceived and pre-disposing fright, or 
 whether from other causes, the bride-queen sickened and died a 
 short time after her enforced descent into the imperial vaults in 
 submission to her mother's command. Maria Theresa's sternness 
 of discipline in exacting the fulfilment of a religious observance, 
 and what she deemed an act of duty, sufficiently explains the mo- 
 tive of this cruel inexorability : but there are not wanting those, 
 who impute the empress's tyrannous conduct towards the young 
 Maria Josepha, to the fact of her being the only one of Maria 
 Theresa's daughters whom she could not hope to make the medium 
 of arriving at knowledge useful to her in her course of foreign 
 policy. It was believed that the spirit of intrigue and manoeuvre 
 belonging to diplomacy, caused Maria Theresa to make the alli- 
 ances of her beautiful daughters, the young arch-duchesses, with vari- 
 ous crowned heads, a means of getting at the secret councils of the 
 several cabinets in Europe ; and Maria Josepha was supposed to 
 have shown symptoms that she would not prove equally tractable 
 in revealing her consort's secrets. However, the fate of Marie An- 
 toinette, and that of Maria Carolina, who subsequently became 
 queen of Naples, in place of the deceased Maria Josepha, make it 
 doubtful whether the gentle girl who died in her youth, had not, 
 after all, a better destiny than her sisters. The tragical end of 
 Marie Antoinette, and the career of turmoil, conflict, and peril that
 
 MARIATHERESA. 339 
 
 attended Maria Carolina to the close of life, makes the early death 
 of the young creature who evinced sufficient moral principle to 
 render her betrayal of her future husband's confidence a matter of 
 doubt, appear blessed in comparison. 
 
 In Belgium, Maria Theresa was regarded with esteem and ven- 
 eration ; and her subjects there proved their attachment, by the 
 readiness with which they advanced the loans requii-ed by her 
 in the prosecution of the seven years' war. 
 
 Her adminstration of government in Lombardy was conducted 
 with energy and efficiency. Her minister. Count Firmian, carried 
 out his imperial mistress's views with judicious exactitude. Maria 
 Theresa gave orders for a new " censimento," or valuation of es- 
 tates, for the purpose of equitably assessing the land-tax ; she 
 caused to be made the " bilancio camerale," or regular budget of 
 the public revenue; she put a stojj to a custom that had obtained 
 of farming out the various branches of the indirect duties to the 
 highest bidder; she made regulations to protect the peasantry 
 against the oppression of their feudal superiors, and established 
 representative communal council to superintend the local expen- 
 diture : in short, she began and made considerable progress in 
 effecting that great legislative and administrative reform which 
 afterwards gained ground under her son and successor, Joseph 11. 
 The encouragement which her minister. Count Firmian, gave to 
 men of letters, protecting them against the cabals of their enemies, 
 and conferring honourable offices upon themselves, reflected credit 
 upon the imperial mistress in whose name he acted. Carli was 
 constituted president of the council of commerce ; Beccaria was ap- 
 pointed pixifessor of political philosophy ; and Pietro Verri was 
 made counsellor and president of the board of finance : while the 
 wisdom and judgment of these able men were turned to state ad-
 
 340 MARIATHERESA. 
 
 vantage, by tlieir suggestions and advice being sought, beard, and 
 adopted. 
 
 During Maria Theresa's sway, the " navigbo," or navigable canal 
 of Paderno, which joins the Adda to the Martesana, was executed. 
 At the period of her coming into peaceable possession of Lombardy, 
 in 1749, the duchy of Milan numbered nine hundred thousand in- 
 habitants ; and in 1Y70 the population had increased to the 
 amount of a million one hundred and thirty thousand. Bossi, in 
 his " Storia d'ltalia," l:)ears testimony to the merits of Maria The- 
 resa's government there, when he says : — " Lombardy had never 
 enjoyed so much happiness and tranquillity as under her reign : — it 
 is recorded to her praise, that she desired to be informed of every 
 act of the administration ; that she afforded the poor and humble, 
 as well as the noble and rich, free access to her presence ; that she 
 listened benignantly to all, either granting their petitions, or, if she 
 denied them, giving reasons for her refusal, without delusive prom- 
 ises, or vague evasions. Just before her death, she declared that 
 if any thing reprehensible had been done in her name, it was cer- 
 tainly without her knowledge, as she had always desired the wel- 
 fare of her subjects. During a forty years' reign, she invariably 
 showed a love of justice and truth ; and she stated, as a principle 
 of her conduct, that it is only the pleasure of alleviating distress 
 and doing good to the people that can render the weight of a 
 crown supportable to the wearer." 
 
 Maria Theresa gloried in the character of a benefactor ; — she 
 liked to bestow. She preferred that all advantages should flow 
 from her immediate gift, rather than that they should be obtained 
 by independent exertion. This is precisely the bias of character 
 which renders a sovereign in what is called a " paternal govern- 
 ment," valuable to his or her subjects. Possessing this inclruation
 
 MAKIA THERESA. 3il 
 
 to confer benefit, unrestricted power in a monarcli is advantageous ; 
 but human beings, with their fallible and imperfect natures, are 
 rarely so firm and constant in good intention as to be safely 
 entrusted with limitless and irresponsible sway. Maria Theresa 
 gained the title of " Mother of her people ;" and she deserved 
 it, by her benevolent solicitude for their interest ; at the same 
 time, it cannot be doubted that a queen like Isabella of Castile, 
 who considered public opinion, popular feeling, and even national 
 prejudice in acting for her subjects, was a nobler sovereign than 
 the Empress Maria Theresa, who consulted chiefly her own views 
 and judgment in what she decreed for the benefit of those she 
 ruled. Some of the anecdotes recorded by her biographers as 
 proof of her inexhaustible charity and goodness of heart, confirm 
 the impression of that self-emanation which is to be traced in all 
 her conduct. She seemed as if she wished every benefit to her 
 subjects could proceed directly from her own hand, — ^that she 
 could confer advantage by a nod ; or shower blessings upon them 
 at a breath. One of these related incidents not only illustrates 
 this view of her character, but it tends to exhibit its haughty 
 belief in its own right to dispense advantage proportionately with 
 its desire to do so. Her imperial majesty's will to do good, 
 challenges equality with Divine ordination ; and claims the power 
 to relieve distress in emulation of Omnipotence : — thus curiously 
 arrogant in then* fancied humility, are these austerely strict per- 
 sonages apt to be. This is the anecdote in question : — one day, 
 ha%dng perceived in the vicinity of her palace, a poor woman and 
 two children, starving for want of food, she exclaimed in a tone of 
 the deepest grief: — "Alas! what have I done to Providence, that 
 such a fearful spectacle should afflict my sight, and disgrace my 
 reign ?" And thereupon she gave orders that the unfortunate 
 mother should be served with viands from her own table ; caused
 
 342 MARIATHERESA. 
 
 her to be bi-ouglit into her presence, questioned her, and assigned 
 her a pension from her own private funds. 
 
 The sacrifice of personal ease which Maria Theresa was ever 
 ready to make in the discharge of her duty, the scrupulous exact- 
 ness with which she fulfilled the various demands of her high sta- 
 tion, the unblemished virtue of her own life, command the highest 
 respect. She had been heard to say : — " I reproach myself with 
 the time I spend in sleep, as so much robbed from my people." 
 
 Frederick the Great, although politically her foe, entertained 
 esteem for Maria Theresa's character, and manifested concern when 
 he heard of her death. What he wrote to D'Alembert relative to 
 her, testifies the sentiments with which he regarded his imperial 
 kinswoman. He said, that " although he had made war against 
 her, he had never been her personal enemy ; that he had always 
 respected her, and that she was an honour to her sex, and the 
 glory of her throne." 
 
 A contest for the succession of Bavaria, to which Joseph II. 
 had induced his imperial mother to lay claim, was brought to a 
 close by the mediation of France and Russia, and resulted in what 
 Frederick of Prussia called " a war of the pen." Austria was com- 
 pelled to renounce its pretension, and the peace of Teschen, in 
 1779, which terminated the affaii", was the last political act of 
 Maria Theresa. 
 
 She exj3ired at the age of sixty-three, on the 29th of Novem- 
 ber, 1780, leaving eight children; among whom the most remark- 
 able are the Emperors Joseph II. and Leopold II. ; the Queen of 
 Naples, Maria Carolina, and the Queen of France, Marie An- 
 toinette. 
 
 With Maria Theresa the house of Austria-Hapsburg ceased ; 
 and the present dynasty of Austria-Lorraine commenced. 
 
 Possessed of great beauty, and a fine person, the dignity of this
 
 M A R I A T H E K E S A . 343 
 
 regal woman's manner set off her high rank, and gave effect to her 
 distinguished mental qualities.. 
 
 Maria Theresa was one of those energetic, active-thoughted 
 women, whose peculiar characteristics co-exist with the very re- 
 verse of a voluptuous temperament. She had none of the weak- 
 nesses incident to impassioned or sensuous natures ; but at the 
 same time she had few of the generous impulses or warm emotions 
 which belong to more ardent spirits. She was exempted by her 
 own inherent disposition from falling into error ; and the model of 
 virtue that she presented both in her public and her private con- 
 duct, was a constitutional merit. 
 
 Maria Theresa forms a striking picture of an Imjierial "Woman 
 of Business.
 
 ^■M^>^>;^^i&::h^
 
 CATHERINE IT. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 This sovereign may be cited as a notorious example of female 
 coarseness. She was essentially a woman of gross ajipetites. Her 
 ambition was gross; — ^it sickened at no deed however violent, 
 however unscrupulous, to secure its object. Her love of glory was 
 gross ; — it strove at achieving showy and ostentatious acts, rather 
 than beneficial ones for her people. Her love of fame was gross ; — 
 condescending to court applause, and cajole into flattering repre- 
 sentation those who she thought would be the chroniclers of her 
 reign. Her love, as regarded the aftections, was gross — since it con- 
 sisted in the most sensual and undisguised preference for those 
 men distinguished by merely handsome persons : and her love of 
 the table was only not gross, because her vanity led her to guard 
 against the ill effects which excess in eating and drinking would 
 have upon her good looks. She was a kind of female Henry the 
 Eighth. Like him, not without talent — even great talent ; but 
 combined with so large a preponderance of animal propensity, as 
 to make the intellectual become merged in the physical nature. 
 The nearest approach to an excuse for her private conduct, is, that 
 in reading the history of her Russian predecessors, we perceive 
 Catherine's mode of life to be no worse than the usual course pur- 
 sued by these semi-barbarians; where swinish indulgence went 
 
 44
 
 346 CATHEKINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 hand in hand with cost and luxury ; where the only idea of refine- 
 ment was expense and profusion ; where wallowing in all kinds of 
 debauchery was held to be the height of regal privilege; and 
 where a monarch surnamed " the great," used to chastise those who 
 oifended him with blows, and administered corporeal punishment to 
 culprits with his own royal hand, strildng off their heads or inflict- 
 ing the knout, as the case might be, instead of the headsman or 
 common executioner. He not only struck with his fist courtiers, 
 generals, and ministers, who committed slight faults ; but when the 
 Archbishop of Novogorod, the primate of Russia, crossed his wiE 
 on one occasion, he brought him to obedience, by the means he 
 used to any of his subjects who displeased him — ^by a shower of 
 blows from a stick. 
 
 The Empress Elizabeth, daughter to Peter I. and sister to 
 Peter II., named as her successor to the throne of Russia, her 
 nephew, the young Duke of Holstein Gottorp, who afterwards 
 reigned as Peter III. His imperial aunt chose him a consort in 
 the person of Sophia Augusta von Anhalt, a princess possessed of 
 youth and prettiness sufficient to attract the liking of the imperial 
 heu* ; and after changing her name to that of Catherina Alexiewna 
 on adopting the Greek form of faith, the marriage was decided 
 upon. Catherine was about one year younger than her appointed 
 husband; born at Stettin, on the 25th of April, 1729. She was 
 sixteen years of age when married to the Grand-duke of Russia. 
 But before the nuptials were solemnized, the intended bridegroom 
 was attacked by a violent fever, which terminated in malignant 
 small-pox ; and when he recovered from the malady, it had so 
 altered and disfigured him, that he was hardly recognizable. 
 Catherine's mother, the Princess of Zerbst- Anhalt, an intriguing and 
 aspiring woman, used her utmost efforts to prepare her daughter 
 for the change in her lover's appearance ; and this precaution not
 
 CATHEKINE II. OP RUSSIA. 347 
 
 only enabled Catherine to controul any evidence of disgust, but 
 inspii'ed her with sufficient courage and dissimulation to run 
 towards him and express her joy, on first seeing him after his 
 restoration to health. Courage and dissimulation formed a. part of 
 Catherine's character. She never wanted for boldness in emer- 
 gency, or for power of concealing her real feelings under an appear- 
 ance of ease and cheerfulness. On the present occasion, her feign- 
 ed delight cost her so great an effort, that on reaching her own 
 apartment after the interview, she fell down in a swoon that lasted 
 three hours, ere she recovered from her state of insensibility. 
 
 But on regaining her senses, they returned to her in their 
 usual condition of sharp greed and blunted delicacy. She mastered 
 her disinclination for the present husband, by the strength of her 
 inclination for the future emperor, and the marriage was celebrated. 
 From such a beginning, what could ensue but unhappy wedlock ? — 
 mutual indifference ; mutual neglect ; mutual aversion. He, Ul- 
 educated, ill-mannered, and of intemperate habits, spent his time in 
 di-inldng and revelry with boon companions : she, sprightly, well- 
 informed, speaking several languages with facility and elegance, 
 fond of company, amusement, and pleasure : he, ashamed and 
 vexed at his wife's superiority of intelligence; she, vexed and 
 ashamed of her husband's inferiority to herself. In a court like that 
 in which the young couple lived, there were not wanting those 
 who found their own interests in fomenting the mutual disagree- 
 ment between the Grand-duke and Grand-duchess, and in re- 
 presenting it disadvantageously to the Empress-aunt ; while even 
 those who were swayed by honester motives, and ventured to re- 
 monstrate with Elizabeth on the is;norance and want of culture in 
 which the heir to her throne was suffered to remain, were defeated in 
 their attempts to effect improvement. Not only did the Grand- 
 duke's own want of mental capacity with degraded tastes and hab-
 
 348 CATHEEINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 its militate against his advancement, but tlie empress felt that 
 strange mixture of kindliness and jealousy which Is frequently- 
 visible in reigning sovereigns towards their appointed heii'S. It is 
 said that one of these honester persons about the court (a privi- 
 leged tire-woman of the empress) dared to express her wonder 
 that her imperial mistress should not allow the Grand-duke to at- 
 tend the council-board, sajdng : — " If you do not let him learn any 
 thing of that which he ought to know in order to govern, what do 
 you think will become of him, and what will become of the em- 
 pire ? " The empress made no other reply than by fixing her eyes 
 angrily upon the speaker, with the words : — •" Johanna, do you 
 know where Siberia is ? " 
 
 But for one generous partizan, there were scores of insidious ene- 
 mies, who asked no better than the opportunities afforded l)y his 
 own misconduct for injuring the Grand-duke in the opinion of his 
 imperial aunt, and leading his young wife into retaliation of neg- 
 lect and infidelity. They magnified his faults in repeating them to 
 the empress ; they took advantage of his indifference towards 
 Catherine to seduce her from him. The grand-chancellor, Bestu- 
 cheff, was his chief enemy, politically, and strove to destroy his 
 favour with Elizabeth ; while his chamberlain, Soltikoff, found 
 means to supplant him in the good graces of Catherine. The em- 
 press had bestowed on her nephew, on the occasion of his marriage, a 
 small palace with pleasure-grounds, called Oranienbaum ; and here 
 the Grand-duke and Duchess held their little court. Here it was, 
 that in idleness, and the e\als that grow out of idleness, the Grand- 
 duke lounged away his time ; and here it was, that partly insti- 
 gated by the intriguing spirit of a vicious and unscrupulous mo- 
 ther, and partly inspired by natural inclination, the Grand-duchess 
 began her career of gallantry and political manoeuvre, pleasure, 
 and ambitious plotting, that eventually flourished in such rampant
 
 CATHERINE II. OF IIUSSIA. 349 
 
 growth. The Princess of Zerbst-Anhalt iustilled into her daughter 
 precepts of cii'cumspectiou and caution ; and set her the example 
 of joining craft with licence. Having awakened suspicion by her 
 trickery and diplomacy, she was watched ; her movements nar- 
 rowly observed : she had, therefore, some difficulty in conveying 
 her communications to those with whom she was in correspond- 
 ence, surrounded as she was by vigQant espial. Being at one of 
 the court balls at Oranienbaum, and desiring to get a letter 
 transmitted to her brother the King of Sweden, the princess, with 
 her daughter, the Grand-duchess, approached Lestocq, who was a 
 confidential emissary ; and, as he stood conversing with a circle of 
 ladies, the Grand-duchess threw him her glove, saying she would 
 dance with him. Lestocq perceived that it held a paper, and said 
 with a ready smile : — " I accept your challenge, madam ; but in- 
 stead of returning you your glove, favour me with its fellow, that 
 I may present them both to my wife ; and then your gracious pres- 
 ent will be complete ; " — and, securing the gloves within his vest, 
 the moment the dance was concluded, the adi'oit courtier quitted 
 the ball-room, lest the empress should have him searched before he 
 could retire. 
 
 Such was the school of intrigue in which Catherine graduated ; 
 an apt pupU, she became an accomplished proficient in the art, and 
 eventually excelled the maternal mistress under whose professor- 
 ship she took her degrees. The Princess of Zerbst, soon after this, 
 received an imperial order to leave Russia ; but the seed of her 
 instructions remained behind to reach maturity in the after-conduct 
 of her daughter, the Grand-duchess. 
 
 Catherine beheld her mother depart with regret ; but speedily 
 a round of entertainments given at Oranienbaum, by the contriv- 
 ance of the young chamberlain, Soltikofl^ who suggested them 
 to the Grand-duke for the behoof of the Grand-duchess, effiiced
 
 350 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 all thouglits but tiose of gaiety, gallantry, and more deep designs 
 beneath tbe semblance of frivolous pastime and festive amusement. 
 The bu-th of a son (who afterwards reigned as Paul I.) brought 
 little change of sedateness or higher moral feehng to Catherine. 
 She cared no more for her husband now than she had ever done ; 
 and when the empress's eyes were opened to the scandal of the 
 Grand-duchess's too great favour to SoltikoflE^ and that Elizabeth 
 had sent him on an embassage to remove him from Russia, Cathe- 
 rine replaced her first lover by a second. Count Poniatowsky. The 
 chancellor, Bestucheff, who had been a main agent in effecting 
 the removal of Soltikoff, lost no opportunity of conciliating the 
 good graces of the Grand-duchess, by favoring her partiality for 
 Poniatowsky; and he prosecuted his schemes against the Grand- 
 duke, by strengthening the party which was gradually forming it- 
 self in secret around the Grand-duchess, and making her interests 
 its centre ; but a counter-cabal was plotted against Bestucheff, which 
 ended in his disgrace, and the appointment of Count Woronzoft' to 
 succeed him in his office of chancellor. The picture of court-cabals 
 and court-intrigues in this Russian history, is deplorable, — and 
 revolting as deplorable ; — ^but it affords a striking instance of the 
 unenviable life passed amid such scenes. While one party schemed 
 to undermine the Grand-duke in the favour of the empress, another 
 vied in ministering to his low pleasures ; and he himself passed his 
 hours in aping Frederick the Great, dressing up the soldiers in the 
 Prussian uniform, mimicing the look, tone, and manners of his mili- 
 tary idol ; and in the midst of his drunken rant, vowing that he 
 would one day conquer the whole North, and imitate the great 
 Frederick in the minutest particular himself, while making aU his 
 subjects follow in the same track. One of those who most vilely 
 flattered the Grand-duke's coarse tastes, and shared in his boister- 
 ous orgies, was Romanowna Woronzoff, sister to the chancellor who
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 351 
 
 had succeeded Bestucheff; while the Princess Daschkoff, another 
 of "Woronzoff s sisters, attached herself to the party of the Grand- 
 duchess, — planning pastimes, and hatching designs, with equal zeal 
 and vivacity. Meantime, the empress, Elizabeth, was rapidly 
 declining in health ; but, with her natural indolence joined to her 
 loathsome habits of excess, she neglected state affairs, and thought 
 only of balls, feasts, masquerades, and theatres, eating and drink- 
 ing, and sleeping off the effects of her intemperance. When her 
 illness could no longer be mistaken, and her danger became immi- 
 nent, her death-bed was made a scene of indecent party-influence, 
 and hollow mockery of the nearest relationships. The confessor 
 of the empress was biassed by Count Panino, tutor of the young 
 Prince Paul, to induce the dying woman to affect a reconciliation 
 with her nephew and his wife, in order that the interests of the 
 boy-heir might not be prejudiced : a profession of esteem and at- 
 tachment was therefore dictated by these intriguers, and uttered by 
 Elizabeth in favour of two people kneeling by her bedside as she lay 
 there dying, whom she had long held in contempt and dislike. A 
 .lie of monstrous and glaring flagrancy, put into the mouth of an 
 expiring sovereign by her spiritual director at the instigation of 
 a self-seeking courtier. In presence of conniving attendants, and 
 addressed to hypocritical mournei-s ! — a more abhorrent picture of 
 court depravity could hardly be adduced. A biographer of this 
 empress, Elizabeth, sums up her character in these pithy words : — 
 "Her devotions often rendered her impious, and her clemency 
 cruel." He adds in illustration, that " she had made a vow not to 
 permit any sentence of death to be executed during her reign ; and 
 the judges, therefore, who could not have criminals beheaded, caused 
 them to perish by the barbarous torture of the knout. Moreover, 
 never were there more tongues cut out, or more wretches exiled to 
 Siberia, than beneath the sway of this princess, so unworthily sur-
 
 352 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 named, ' the clement.' Two anecdotes suffice to characterize her. 
 Observing that one of tlie court-ladies assisting at her toilette was 
 in pain, she asked her the reason : ' My legs are much swelled,' 
 answered the lady. ' Well, then,' replied Elizabeth, ' lean against 
 that bureau, and I will pretend not to see you.' She never per- 
 mitted the ladies of the court to wear the same faations and materi- 
 als as herself; to adopt them they must wait until she had done witli 
 them. It is true, indeed, that she changed them frequently ; for at 
 her death, were found in her wardrobe thirty thousand dresses." 
 
 On the demise of the Empress Elizabeth, the Grand-duke 
 ascended the throne as Peter III., and at first showed very differ- 
 ently in his new character of emperor from what he had done as 
 heir to the crown. He showed himself just, forbearing, and bene- 
 volent. He treated his wife with consideration and respect; he 
 behaved with generosity to those who had beeu friendly to his 
 cause, and with almost magnanimity towards those who had been 
 inimical to him. He recalled from Siberia several of those who 
 had been tyrannously banished thither ; and the people, in conse- 
 quence of these auspicious omens, hailed with enthusiasm this 
 earnest of excellence in their new ruler. But this fit of good con- 
 duct was as transient as it was sudden : he fell back into his old 
 habits ; — he ceased to treat his wife with decent regard ; he passed 
 his days in debauchery with his riotous companions, paid public 
 attentions to Romanowna, Countess of Woronzoff, while openly 
 slighting Catherine ; played off his absm-d baboonery of Frederick 
 the Great ; and lastly, — to crown his delinquencies in the eyes of his 
 subjects, — he made no secret of preferring the Lutheran to the 
 Greek church. He lost his popularity in proportion as he thus 
 affronted the predilections of his subjects ; — he even went so far as 
 to risk oftending them, by devising a plan to repudiate his wife 
 Catherine ; declaring her son. Prince Paul, to be illegitimate ; and,
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 353 
 
 after effecting the divorce and disgrace of the mother, creating his 
 mistress, Komanowna, empress in her stead. His only demur to 
 the scheme was, as to whom he should appoint for his successor in 
 lieu of the young prince, Paul. When the previous empress, 
 Elizabeth, had been placed on the throne of Russia, Ivan, son to a 
 niece of the empress, Anne, had been deprived of his appointed in- 
 heritance to make way for Elizabeth's accession : since when, this 
 unfortunate jirince had languished in a pi-ison-dungeon. Peter III. 
 thought of Ivan for his successor; he determined, therefore, to 
 repair to the fortress of Schlusselburg ; where, in a secret interview, 
 unannounced and unknown, he might judge of the prisoner's fitness 
 for the post to which he destined him. This melo-dramatic inter- 
 view actually took place ; and the Prince Ivan's behaviour was 
 such as to afford no reason that should induce the emperor to alter 
 his intentions with regard to him ; nevertheless, he took no active 
 steps to fulfil them, — ^having neither the mental resources, nor the 
 courage for carrying out such an enterprise against a woman of 
 such talent as he knew his wife to possess. 
 
 But although these intentions of Peter III. were neither exe- 
 cuted nor known in their fuU extent to Catherine, their scope was 
 sufficiently suspected to render her eager to frame some plan by 
 which she might take advantage of the animosity they would gene- 
 rate against her husband, and the interest they would inspire 
 towards herself and son, so as to effect a decided movement in her 
 favour. Living retired at the palace of Peterhof, she had leisure 
 not only to devise schemes and conspiracies, but to replace Poniar 
 towsky by a new favourite, — Gregory Orloff. This young officer was 
 not only a gaUant peculiarly suited to the taste of the imperial 
 she-libertine, but he was a valuable confederate in the plot that 
 Catherine was now designing in combination with the Pi-incess 
 
 Daschkoff ; whose spirit of intrigue and general cleverness render- 
 45
 
 354 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 ed lier a most active assistant in tlie secret project for dethroning 
 Peter III., and causing Catherine to be constituted empress in his 
 stead. Under pretence of literary pursuits, and other elegant 
 amusements enjoyed together in the retii-ement of Peterhof, and in 
 correspondence by letter, when the princess occasionally repaired 
 to Petersburg in order the more effectually to prosecute their con- 
 certed plans, Catherine and this lady carried on the conspiracy, 
 aided by OrlofF and his brothers ; with Bibikoft^ Odart, Panino, 
 Razoumoffsky, "Wolkousky, the Archbishop of Novogorod, Gleboff, 
 and others ; and only waited for a favom-able opportunity to put 
 their designs in execution. The members of the confederacy 
 differed in their several views respecting the plot in its ultimate 
 result, as they did in the measures most advisable for its carrying 
 out. Catherine, and a few of her more devoted partizans, were for 
 placing her on the throne as empress : others, — Panino chiefly, — 
 were for appointing her regent during the minority of her son, 
 Prince Paul. With regard to the manner of conducting the revolt, 
 there were also differing opinions : some were for awaiting the 
 celebration of the festival of St. Peter at the Palace of Peterhof, 
 which always occasioned a vast assemblage of maskers and revel- 
 lers there : and the emperor's person might be secured dm'ing one of 
 the orgies sure to form part of the entertainment when he arrived. 
 Others counselled more direct and open violence. Lieutenant 
 Passeck, — a ferocious soldier and savage, — proposed stabbing him 
 in the midst of his court ; and he stationed himself Avith one of his 
 comrades in ambuscade during two whole days, with the intention 
 of svirprising the czar as he passed ; but it so chanced that Peter 
 did not come as expected. By means of Orloff and his brothers, 
 some regiments of the troops were gained over ; and through the 
 medium of a borrowed sum of money, Catherine bought over other
 
 CATHERINE II. OF EUSSIA. 355 
 
 of the soldiery, seeing that it was greatly essential that the military 
 should be on her side when the outbreak came. 
 
 In the mean time, the czar was preparing, on his part, a scheme 
 which, only awaited the celebration of the festival of his namesake 
 saint for execution. He intended an expedition against Denmark, for 
 which the Russian fleet was equipped and lay ready, partly at Cron- 
 stadt, partly at Revel ; while the regiments that were to accompany 
 him by land, were already assembling in Pomerania. The invasion 
 of Ilolstein was one of his objects ; and a visit to his idol and model, 
 the King of Prus,sia, formed a scarcely less important one. During 
 his absence, the arrest of Catherine was to take place, as the first 
 step to her repudiation; but she trusted that she might anticij^ate 
 him in this plan, by her own. All now wanting, was opportunity, 
 and that was not slow in presenting itself. An inadvertence at 
 Petersburg, had nearly occasioned the discovery there of the con- 
 spiracy that was brewing ; and this incident hastened its crisis. 
 On the Princess Daschkoff 's learning from one of her spies what 
 had chanced, she dressed herself in men's clothes, went out to 
 meet the chief conspirators, decided with them that it was best 
 not to wait till morning, but to take advantage of the silence 
 and darkness of the night then setting in : — while, therefore, 
 Gregory Orloff and Bibikoff went to the barracks to prepare the 
 soldiers to act at the first given signal, Alexius Oi'lofll^ undertook to 
 bring Catherine from Peterhof. 
 
 Under pretext of leaving the princijial apartments free for the 
 ajiproaching festival to be held here ; but, in fact, to be the better 
 ready for getting away, Catherine had established herself in a 
 small summer-house, situated at the extremity of the garden- 
 grounds, on the banks of the gulf of Finland ; where a small vessel 
 lay at hand, serving for clandestine visits from her gallants, and
 
 356 CATHEEINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 for means of escape to Sweden, should the conspiracy be discovered. 
 It is said, (and the anecdote is related as Laving been told by her- 
 self,) that happening to walk through these grounds on the eve of 
 the insurrection, Catherine perceived a seedling oak growing 
 there, and being struck by thus meeting with a species of tree 
 somewhat rare in that country, she had it enclosed and preserved. 
 Subsequently, growing into a fine tree, Catherine took pleasure in 
 regarding it as an emblem of her reign. 
 
 Alexius Orloff had been supplied by his brother Gregory with 
 the key of the summer-house, and with instruction how to find his 
 way to the spot ; while the Princess Daschkofi" had given him a 
 note, urging 'the empress to accompany him, without delay, to 
 Petersburg. 
 
 It was two hours past midnight ; — ^the empress expecting no 
 farther intelligence, had retired to rest, and was fast asleep, when 
 she felt herself abruptly aroused, and saw standing by her bed a 
 soldier whom she did not recognize, who said hastily : — " Your 
 majesty has not a moment to lose ; be pleased to be prepared to go 
 with me," — and hurried out. Catherine, bewildered, called to her 
 confidential attendant, Iwanowna, who assisted her mistress to rise 
 and dress ; and both disguised themselves so as to pass the sen- 
 tinels without being recognized. They were no sooner thus equip- 
 ped, than the soldier, re-entering, conducted them to a coach that 
 the Princess Daschkofi* had kept in waiting for some days at a 
 place not far distant. For some time all went well ; but about 
 half way, the horses being worn out, stopped short. The empress 
 descended from the coach, expressing her readiness to proceed on 
 foot; but, fortunately, they overtook a peasant's cart; and in 
 this, exhausted with fatigue and anxiety, but sufiiciently mistress 
 of herself to assume an air of composure, and even cheerfulness, 
 Catherine arrived in the capital at seven o'clock in the morning.
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. S5l 
 
 She went straight to the soldiers' quarters, where those regi- 
 ments ah-eady gained over, were stationed ; but whom the con- 
 spirators had not permitted to turn out until her appearance, lest 
 any act of precipitancy should cause failure. On the report of her 
 anival, some score of half-dressed guards ran out and received her 
 with shouts of joy. Surprised and alarmed to see so small a num- 
 ber of the soldiery, she was silent for a few moments, but recover- 
 ing herself, she told them that imminent peril had forced her to 
 come and seek their help : that the czar intended that very night 
 to kill her and her son ; that she had only avoided death by flight, 
 and that she trusted sufficiently to theu' good will, to place herself 
 in their hands." Those who heard her flamed with indication, 
 and swore to die in her defence. Their example, and that of their 
 colonel, Razoumoffsky, soon incited the rest of the soldiery, who 
 now poured in crowds round Catherine ; and they all with one 
 voice proclaimed her for their sovereign. The chaplain of the 
 regiment was summoned ; and he received, upon a crucifix, the 
 oath of allegiance from the troops. Some few voices amid the tu- 
 mult proclaimed Catherine regent ; but they were soon quelled by 
 the menaces of Orloflf, and drowned by the more numerous cries of 
 " Long live the Empress ! " 
 
 A couple of hours' time sufficed to see Catherine surrounded 
 by two thousand of the military, and a large portion of the popu- 
 lace of St. Petersburg, who mechanically followed the movements 
 of the soldiery. This numerous concourse escorted her through 
 the streets, — where the windows and door-ways were thronged 
 with spectators, mingling theii* welcoming acclamations with the 
 shouts of the soldiers, — to the church ; and there the archbishop 
 of Novogorod, attired in his sacerdotal robes, and attended by a 
 large body of the priesthood, — then- long beards and flowing white 
 hair in picturesque contrast with the assembled multitude, —
 
 358 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 awaited her at the altar. The primate pLaced the imperial crown 
 upon her head, and, with a loud voice, proclaimed her sovereign 
 of all the Kussias, under the name of Catherine 11. ; at the same 
 time declaring the young Grand-duke, Paul, as her successor. Te 
 Deum was then chanted, accompanied by the applauses of the mul- 
 titude. After this ceremony, the empress repaired to the palace 
 formerly occupied by Elizabeth; when the doors being thrown 
 open to all who chose to enter, during many hom-s the populace 
 poured in, falling on their knees, and tendering their vows of 
 loyalty and obedience to their sovereign and empress, Catherine. 
 Meanwhile, the conspirators were not inert ; — they visited every 
 quarter of the metropolis, establishing guard, and keeping cannon 
 ready appointed, encountering ]:»ut little opposition. Prince 
 George of Holstein, the czar's uncle, on offering some show of re- 
 sistance, was instantly arrested, and conveyed to prison. One sin- 
 gle man, named Bressan, who owed his fortune to the emperor, 
 dared to prove his gratitude and fidelity. He dressed up one of 
 his servants as a peasant, and despatched him with a note to the 
 emperor, who had left Oranienbaum for Peterhof 
 
 On aiTiving at the palace, Catherine had immediately sent a 
 detachment of soldiers for her son, Paul. The young prince was 
 seized with a panic at the sight of so many armed men ; for he had 
 often been told of the designs which the czar, his father, had 
 formed against him ; but Count Panino, his tutor, took the chUd in 
 his arms, and conveyed him to his mother. She carried him with 
 her into the balcony, raising him up in view of the people, who re- 
 doubled theii' acclamations at the sight. The nobles, finding how 
 the current of public feeling ran, were not slow in following its 
 direction : — ^they also came, in the course of the day, to tender their 
 homage to the empress. Towards noon, she put forth a manifesto, 
 which was distributed throughout the metropolis ; and placed in the
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 359 
 
 hands of all tlie foreign ministers. It is recorded, that the conspi- 
 rator, Odart, who had been entrusted with the secret printing of 
 this document, and had kept it by him during some days, ex- 
 claimed on the morrow of the revolution : — " Heaven be thanked ! 
 I'm quit of the fear of being broken on the wheel ! " During the 
 distribution of the manifesto, Catherine dressed herself in the uni- 
 form of the guards, borrowing the suit of a young officer, named 
 Tahzin. She wore the order of St. Andrew ; mounted on horse- 
 back, and went, accompanied by the Princess Daschkoff (who also 
 was equipped in regimentals) to review the ranks. It was on this 
 occasion that Potemkin, then a young cavalry ensign, perceiving 
 that Catherine had no sword-knot, advanced to ofter her his. The 
 horse he rode, accustomed to milltaiy evolutions, and to form 
 in line, was some time ere it would retreat from beside the chai-ger 
 on which the empress sat ; so that she had leisure to remark the grace 
 and addi-ess of him who, at a subsequent period, gained so great 
 an ascendancy over her. The troops, well charged with l^eer and 
 brandy, and won by her imperial majesty's gracious conduct, were 
 uproarious in their demonstrations of attachment, — their enthusiasm 
 reaching its climax upon her dining near to an open window, 
 within view of the soldiery and a multitude of gazei-s assembled in 
 the principal square. 
 
 As yet Peter III. knew nothing of what was passing ; but the 
 disguised emissary, sent by Bressan, brought the fatal news, and 
 spread dismay amid the little band of profligates that, as usual, 
 were immediately about the person of the dissolute czar. The 
 chancellor, Woronzoif, proposed going to Petersburg to parley 
 with the empress, and induce her to return to her allegiance. 
 The emperor accepted the proposal ; but, on the chancellor's arri- 
 val in the capital, Catharine received him with a quiet smUe, and 
 said : — " You see ; it is not I who act ; I yield but to the nation's
 
 360 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 desire." The pliant chancellor, who had sold his sister's honour, 
 and could care little for his own, bowed to the necessity, and inge- 
 niously suggested his being placed under guard : thus, by a neat 
 contrivance, securing his own safety from Catherine's partizans, 
 and sheltering himseK from the czar's inevitable suspicions. 
 
 In the evening, Catherine again mounted on horseback ; and 
 with a drawn sword in her hand, and a wreath of oak round her 
 head, she prepared to lead her troops, who were marshalling into 
 order for march ; while Princess Daschkoff and Colonel Razou- 
 moftsky attended at her side. A crowd of courtiers thronged 
 around her ; and all vied in manifesting their eagerness to share 
 her dangers and swell her triumph. She halted at the head of her 
 army, in a little village, about seven versts from Petersburg; 
 and here she entered a cottage, where she slept for some hours on 
 a heap of military cloaks, which the officers who formed her escort 
 piled up to make a couch for her. From first to last, in short, of 
 that eventful day, she enacted to perfection the part of a revolu- 
 tionary heroine ; and she secured the reward she had in view — 
 firm and sole possession, thenceforth, of imperial dignity. 
 
 Peter III., despoiled of power, and deprived of respect by his 
 pusillanimous conduct and total want of decision or dignity, sank 
 into a mere negation. He was made to sign a deed of renuncia- 
 tion ; and was conducted to a small country-house, belonging to 
 Razoumoffsky, where he was kept under strict guard. He had not 
 been in this retii-ed spot more than six days, when Alexis Orloff, 
 and a ruffian named Teplofi", came into his apartment, and told him 
 that the object of their visit was to announce his speedy deliver- 
 ance ; at the same time inviting themselves to dine with him. Ac- 
 cording to the Russian custom, glasses and brandy were brought 
 in ; and while Teploff held the czar in talk, Orloff filled the glasses 
 with liquor, and di'opped into one of them a poison furnished by a
 
 CATHEKINE II. OF RUSSIA. 361 
 
 court-pliysician of infamous memory, named Crousse. The czar, 
 suspecting nothing, took the draught and swallowed it ; but was 
 immediately seized with such racking pains, that the whole truth 
 rushed upon him, and he vehemently taxed Orloff with his foul 
 deed, uttering loud cries for help. One of his valets ran to his as- 
 sistance ; but the man was quickly compelled to leave the room, 
 while Baratinsky, who was captain of the guard on duty there, 
 came in during the scuffle that ensued. Alexis Orloff, who had 
 flung the czar on the ground, knelt upon his breast, and with one 
 powerful hand grasped his throat, while with the other he pressed 
 in the skull. Baratinsky and Teploff passed a handkerchief round 
 his throat, and drew it tight with a slip-knot. Peter, in struggling, 
 inflicted a severe scratch on the face of Baratinsky, of which the 
 traitor long bore the mark; but the wretched czar's strength 
 quickly gave way, and the murderers finished their work of stran- 
 gulation. 
 
 A sudden attack of mortal illness was publicly announced as the 
 cause of Peter III.'s death ; and Catherine's behaviour, on the oc- 
 casion, was marked by a prudence and self-possession which did 
 greater honour to her powers of dissimulation than to her moral or 
 natural feeling. She played her part to admiration — such as it 
 was. After Alex-is Orloff brought her the news, she dined in pub- 
 lic as usual ; held her court in the evening with the utmost gaiety ; 
 and next day — causing the tidings to be announced to her while 
 she was at table — she rose and retii'ed, her eyes filled with tears. 
 Certes, of such a woman's weeping, might be added what Shake- 
 speare's Antony says of the crocodile : — " And the tears of it ai'e 
 wet." 
 
 Catherine had a strong idea of the value of keeping up appear- 
 ances ; she neglected nothing that might tell well, that might gain 
 her credit, and make her pass for one who deserved the prosperity 
 46
 
 362 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 that attended her. She knew the advantage of seeming holy, — of 
 " assuming a virtue if she had it not ; " and she, accordingly, among 
 other convenient simulations, could put on a cloak of piety when 
 she thought it requisite to have a regard for religion. For instance, 
 at the period of the Empress Elizabeth's death, she courted popu- 
 lar admiration by frequenting the churches where prayers for the 
 the imjierial restoration to health were being offered up, although 
 at other times not being eminent for religious observance. And 
 on her first accession to the throne, she paid a sedulous deference 
 to the dignitaries of the church, which she knew would win her 
 the affections of her people, but which her subsequent conduct to 
 the clergy little bore out. Her want of gratitude to the Princess 
 Daschkoff — who, however flighty and vain her motives might 
 have been in aiding the conspiracy, was still serviceable to Cathe- 
 rine in her zeal throughout the affair — was consistent with the rest 
 of her heartless conduct. Once securely established in her impe- 
 rial seat, she disregarded all the princess's claims to notice and re- 
 compense ; and upon Madame Daschkoff 's requesting — with the 
 liveliness of her character and years (she was not much more 
 than eighteen) — the colonelcy of a regiment of guards, as her re- 
 ward ; Catherine replied, smiling ironically, that she " would figure 
 better in an Academy of Letters than in a military post." The 
 princess, deeply hurt at this retort — which reflected upon her lite- 
 rary pretensions — could not conceal her mortification ; with her 
 native impetuosity, therefore, she spoke loudly among her friends 
 of Catherine's ingratitude. This was reported to the empress, 
 who forthwith ordered her to retire to Moscow. 
 
 Nevertheless^ Catherine's private character, however little 
 worthy of regard, should not be allowed to act so far prejudicially, 
 as to cause her being denied the merits which were undoubtedly 
 hers. She was a clever-headed woman, with very little conscience,
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 363 
 
 and no heart. She was shrewd in perception, astute in judgment, 
 and hard in principle. It was a maxim with her, to be steadfast 
 in adherence to design. She held this as a rule : — " It is requisite 
 to observe constancy in projects. Better do Ul than change a re- 
 solution. Fools only are undecided." 
 
 The reign of such a woman as Catherine, was felt to be greatly 
 more important for Kussia and for Europe, than that of the feeble- 
 minded debauchee who had preceded her on the throne : and not 
 only her subjects, but the other powers of the Continent soon be- 
 came aware of her consequence as a sovereign. She knew how to 
 make herself looked up to, — if not ^vith resjiect and liking, at least 
 with deference. Frederick the Great, of Prussia, Maria Theresa, 
 of Austria, Louis XV., of France, and the cabinet of George III., 
 of England, each, in turn, learned to regard with attention the 
 acts of Catherine II., of Kussia. In Poland she exercised long 
 dictatorship. Her favourite, Poniatowsky, had been appointed to 
 the Polish throne, and reigned under the title of Stanislaus Augus- 
 tus ; while frequent appeals to the Russian court from the king 
 and senate of Warsaw, placed this unhappy country almost in 
 vassalage to her power, until 1772, when Catherine II., Frederick 
 II., and Joseph II., agreed upon the inter-partition of Poland. In 
 1785, the long-continued war between Russia and Turkey, ended 
 in the Crimea becoming a province of the Russian empire ; and in 
 1787, Catherine made a progress to visit this addition to her do- 
 minions. Her journey was like one grand triumphal procession the 
 whole of the way. Palaces, like that of Aladdin in the Eastern 
 tale, sprang up to receive her when she halted ; villages arose, like 
 magic, in the most desert spots ; whole populations crowded the 
 banks of rivers, where a week before all was solitude and desola- 
 tion ; herds and flocks grazed in meadows that previously pre- 
 sented no trace of living creature : but like the pageants at a thea-
 
 364 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 tre, as the scene shifted, so did its occupants make their exit, but 
 to re-appear in endless numbers. To please the eye of the Russian 
 empress, and to give her an idea of smiling abundance, this show 
 was got up ; with just such a glittering falsehood as the palace of 
 ice, erected to gratify the caprice of one of her predecessors, the 
 Empress Anne, daughter of Peter the Great. The reader will not 
 decline a reminder of the poet Cowper's gi'aceful description of 
 the Imperial "Folly." 
 
 " Less worthy of applause, though more admir'd, 
 Because a novelty, the work of man, 
 Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ, 
 Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, 
 The wonder of the North. No forest fell 
 When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores 
 T' enrich thy walls ; but thou didst hew the floods. 
 And make thy marble of the glassy wave. 
 In such a palace Aristseus found 
 Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale 
 Of his lost bees to her maternal ear : 
 In such a palace Poetry might place 
 The armoury of Winter ; where his troops 
 The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet. 
 Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, 
 And snow, that often blinds the traveler's course, 
 And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. 
 Silently as a dream the fabric rose ; 
 No sound of hammer or of saw was there : 
 Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts 
 Were soon conjoin'd, nor other cement ask'd 
 Than water interfus'd to make them one. 
 Lamps gracefully dispos'd, and of all hues, 
 lUumin'd every side : a wat'ry light 
 Gleam'd through the clear transparency, that seem'd 
 Another moon new risen, or meteor fall'n 
 From heav'n to earth, of lambent flame serene. 
 So stood the brittle prodigy ; though smooth 
 And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound 
 Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within.
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 355 
 
 That royal residence might well befit, 
 For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths 
 Of flow'rs, that fear'd no enemy but warmth, 
 Blush'd on the pannels. Mirror needed none 
 Where all was vitreous ; but in order due, 
 Convivial table and commodious seat 
 (What seem'd, at least, commodious seat) were there ; 
 Sofa and couch, and high-built throne august. 
 The same lubricity was found in all. 
 And all was moist to the warm touch ; a scene 
 Of evanescent glory, once a stream, 
 And soon to slide into a stream again. 
 Alas ! 'twas but a mortifying stroke 
 Of undesign'd severity, that glanc'd 
 (Made by a monarch) on her own estate. 
 On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 
 'Twas transient in its nature, as in show 
 'Twas durable ; as worthless, as it seem'd 
 Intrinsically precious ; to the foot 
 Treacherous and false ; it smil'd, and it was cold. 
 Great princes have great playthings." 
 
 So, for Catherine ; tliis pretty plaything of simulated villages, 
 and pretended flourishing peasantries, and supposed prospering 
 farms, was brought together for her entertainment. An emperor 
 (Joseph n. of Austria) met her, and escorted her into the Crimea ; 
 a ship was launched for her amusement ; and she inspected the 
 docks which were being constructed by her orders at Cherson on 
 the Dnieper. 
 
 Catherine gave token that she was competent to reign ad- 
 vantageously : she effected several useful reforms, and established 
 many valuable institutions. She corrected the tribunals ; she 
 founded schools, hospitals, and colonies. She ameliorated the con- 
 dition of the serfs; and she encouraged popular instruction. She 
 promoted international intercoui-se ; and sought to extend good 
 understanding between her own and foreign courts. She began
 
 366 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 several canals; and erected arsenals, banks, and manufactories, 
 besides founding numerous towns. She composed a code of legisla- 
 tive regulations, founded on the works of Montesquieu, and other 
 writers on jurisprudence. This composition gained her great and 
 wide-spread renown ; for Catherine was not a little proud of her 
 production, and forwarded copies of it to those sovereigns whose 
 applause she was anxious to obtain. Among others, Frederick of 
 Prussia, who knew her appetite for eulogium, wrote her a long 
 letter, in which he placed her between Solon and Lycurgus, — 
 (Catherine's capacity for gorging praise was indeed large !) and in 
 the despatch to the Count de Solms — of course meant to meet the 
 imperial eye also — ^he added : " History informs us that Semiramis 
 commanded armies ; that Elizabeth of England ranks among ablest 
 politicians ; that Maria Theresa showed great intrepidity on her 
 coming to the throne ; — but no female monarch has yet been a 
 legislatress : this glory was reserved for the Empress of Russia, who 
 has well merited the title." 
 
 She encouraged the arts; and effected various excellent im- 
 provements in the academy, where artists in the different branches 
 of painting, sculpture, architecture ; together with artificers in 
 watch-making, metal-founding, and instruments for physical and 
 mathematical science, received instruction, and were boarded at 
 the state expense. She took esjDecial pains to mark her encourage- 
 ment of literature ; she appointed the yearly sum of five thousand 
 rubles, to pay those who would make versions in the Russian lan- 
 guage of such foreign books as were worthy of translation : she 
 granted fresh privileges to the Academy of Science, in Petersburg, 
 and invited several strangers of note to come and share in the 
 honours it awarded. She was a patroness of literature, and made 
 a point of displaying her encouragement of men of letters. She 
 was a great admirer of the French writers, especially of their
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 367 
 
 tragic poets. She made great advances to their " savans," and 
 " philosophers," and was munificent in her offers to them. She 
 caused overtures to be made to D'Alembert, to induce him to come 
 to Petersburg and finish the " Encyclopedic " there ; at the same 
 time that he should undertake to superintend the education of the 
 Grand-duke Paul, a pension of two thousand pounds being named 
 as his remuneration ; but D'Alembert declined the proposal. 
 Hearing that Diderot was straitened in his circumstances, and 
 intended selling his library to obtain a dowry for his only 
 daughter, Catherine bought the hbrary, and left the former owner 
 its enjoyment, by appointing him librarian. Some of the anec- 
 dotes recorded of the pleasant terms of famiharity which she main- 
 tained in her intercourse with Diderot, are among the most agree- 
 able relating to her social history. He was accu.stomed to converse 
 with her every day after dinner. Philosophy, legislation, politics, 
 ordinarily formed the topics of these discussions. Diderot used to 
 dilate upon his principles of liberty, and the rights of the people, 
 with his accustomed enthusiasm and eloquence. The empress 
 appeared delighted ; but she was very far from adopting his views. 
 She has been heard to say : — " Monsieur Diderot, in many things, 
 is a hundred years of age ; m others, he is not more than ten years 
 old." She used to make the philosopher sit beside her ; and some- 
 times, in the eagerness of his discourse, he would forget the rank 
 of his interlocutor, and tap the empress on .the knee with the back 
 of hLs hand as he talked ; but her good sense never reproved in 
 him this breach of etiquette. To Voltaire she showed invariable, 
 and marked deference ; repeatedly inviting him to Petersburg ; 
 but the " dog-fox " sage knew better than to exchange the luxury 
 of independence in his retreat at Ferney, for the uneasy distinc- 
 tion of a Russian court-residence. Catherine took every pains to 
 secure Voltaii'e's good opinion, and obtain his good word. She
 
 368 CATHEKINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 knew that lie was tlie arch-dispenser of glory to European sove- 
 reigns at that period ; and that it rested mainly with his pen to 
 delineate them advantageously to the eyes of posterity ; she neg- 
 lected no means, therefore, that might wm her his favourable report. 
 Thus playfully and gaily she was wont to write to him ; mingling 
 graceful comphment with condescending familiarity : intimating, 
 at the same time, a desire for his applause, couched in the most 
 flattering terms : — " I shall feel pleased with myself, whenever I 
 shall obtain your approbation, su\ I have revised my instructions 
 for the code, some weeks since, because I then thought the peace 
 nearer at hand than it was ; and I believe I acted rightly in what 
 I did. It is true, this code, — for which a great deal of material is 
 preparing, and some is already arranged, — will still give me con- 
 siderable work to do, before it becomes as perfect as I wish to see 
 it ; but no matter, it must be finished, although Taganrok has the 
 sea on its south, and high grounds on its north. 
 
 " Meanwhile, your projects respecting this place cannot be car- 
 ried into effect before peace shall have secured its environs from 
 all apprehension by either sea or land ; for until the capture of the 
 Crimea, it was the frontier place against the Tartars. Perhaps, 
 ere long, they'll bring me the Crimean Khan in person. I have 
 just learned that he has not crossed the sea with the Turks ; but 
 that he remains up in the mountains, with a small band of follow- 
 ers ; something like the Pretender in Scotland, after his defeat at 
 CuUoden. K the Khan come to me, we'll try what we can do to 
 polish him a httle ; and to revenge myself upon him, I'll make him 
 dance, and he shall go to the French theatre." 
 
 Catherine was fond of mingling a certain drollery with her 
 rebukes. Her answer to the Princess Daschkoff, ah-eady related, 
 contains an instance of this touch of humour in her sarcasm, — and 
 which, naturally, rendered it doubly pungent to the princess. On
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 369 
 
 another occasion, when the empress had been dispensing sumptuous 
 recompenses to her different generals, for their military services in 
 the gaining of an important victory, some of them chose to consider 
 themselves inadequately rewarded, and not only expressed their 
 discontent, but sent in their resignations. Catherine accepted 
 them ; and during the evening she said to her courtiers : — " I sent 
 off a courier to-day ; and I give you, as a riddle, to guess where I 
 sent him." No one (of course) could possibly imagine, — and 
 would not, if they could : but the next day the enigma was solved. 
 The empress had sent for, from a village near Moscow, some 
 dozens of little peg-tops, — boys' playthings ; and these she directed 
 should be carried to the three generals who had just resigned, with 
 this message from her : — " that as henceforth they would be sadly 
 out of work, she had sent them something to amuse themselves 
 with." 
 
 One of the strong proofs of Catherine's superior talent, was her 
 being able to do so very many things at once, and all well. 
 Although incessantly occupied with grand projects, she seemed as 
 if wholly given up to pleasm-e. The secret lay in her admirable 
 distribution of time. She found time, — owing to her excellent 
 economy of hours, and orderly arrangement of them for each 
 employment, — to work at state-affaii's with her ministers ; to decree 
 new laws ; to write with her own hand the orders and despatches 
 sent to her ambassadors and generals ; to maintain a continued 
 correspondence with men of letters, and artists ; to give regularly 
 appointed audiences to her subjects; to be present at all the 
 court amusements ; and to attend to her intrigues and gallantries. 
 Constant in her ambition, she was inconstant in her amours ; and 
 both these opposed pursuits made large demands upon her time. 
 To keep in view ambitious schemes, and to change a favourite, 
 require some attention and management ; and Catherine found time 
 
 47
 
 370 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 for both these occupatioas. The number of her favourites chron- 
 icled by name in the memoirs of her time, amount to no fewer than 
 twelve; while the numberless officers and courtiers who were 
 reported to have been regarded by her ^vith an eye of partiality, 
 may be summed up in one word, — ^Legion. 
 
 The way in which Catherine disposed of her discarded favour- 
 ites, is characteristic. They received an order to travel ; and on 
 an'iving at the first stage of their journey, they found munificent 
 presents awaiting them, — diamonds, plate, money, and an estate 
 valued at so many serfs' worth : estates in Russia being estimated 
 by the amount of peasants — ^human live-stock ; so many heads of 
 (not cattle, but) men and women — upon them. Some of the 
 anecdotes related of the empress's favourites, serve to show the sort 
 of men she approved, as well as to exhibit traits of her own char- 
 acter. One of them, named Zoritz, complained of his sudden 
 dismissal, and besought a friend in power to enquire the cause of 
 his imperial mistress. She answered lightly : — " Yesterday I liked 
 him ; — to-day I don't like him. Perhaps if he were better educated, 
 I should like him still ; but his ignorance makes me blush " 
 [Catherine's ilus/ies f^ " He can speak nothing but Russian. He 
 must travel in France and England to learn other languages." 
 And Zoritz, accordingly, was sent on his travels. Another young 
 officer, Rimsky Korzakoff, who succeeded Zoritz in imperial liking, 
 wishing, probably, to profit by the example of his predecessor's 
 defect, was so anxious to supply the deficiency in his mental en- 
 dowments, of which he was conscious, that he sought to give him- 
 self the reputation of a reading man ; and accordingly ordered one 
 of the first booksellers in Petersburg to fit him up a library ; but 
 when asked what description of books he would have, the court- 
 military-dunce replied : — " You ought to know that better than I ;
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 371 
 
 that's your affair. Put big books below, and little ones a-top ; 
 that's how they are in the empress's library." 
 
 The mode in which Catherine behaved, when she found a 
 favourite possessing more intellect than Zoritz and Korzakoff, is 
 noticeable in her conduct to Potemkiu ; and, in its way, not a whit 
 less characteristic. The first-rate politician was not to be turned 
 adrift, like the young fribljles above alluded to : both his adroit- 
 ness and her shrewdness forbade this. When, therefore, Potem- 
 kiu, like the rest, had ceased to please, he received the order to 
 travel ; but the very next evening, instead of being on his way, he 
 quietly presented himself at the empress's whist-table, and took his 
 seat opposite to her, just as she was beginning the game. With- 
 out noticing his flagi-ant disobedience, she dealt him a card, ob- 
 serving that he was " a lucky player ; " — and no farther mention 
 was made of his retirement. She, on the contrary, made a friend 
 of the discarded favourite ; and retained him near her, as her con- 
 fidential minister, availing herself of his consummate abilities as a 
 statesman, until the period of his death. When this occurred, 
 Catherine gave an energetic proof of her diligence and business- 
 habits ; she shut herself up, and dedicated herself to work in the 
 administration and government of the empire, for fifteen hours at 
 a time, and apportioned out among her other ministers the duties 
 which Potemkin had, till then, so alily discharged. 
 
 Catherine knew how to make her feelings subservient to her 
 views. In the fii'st place, her feelings were not sensitive ; and in 
 the next place they were entirely under controul. She had secret 
 anxieties lest she should be dethroned, or her life attempted : but 
 whenever these beset her, she used to talk with gaiety of the long 
 and prosperous course she hoped to enjoy. She once found 
 among her papers, in her study, where she was in the habit of
 
 3*72 CATHERINE II. OF EUSSIA. 
 
 spending many hours alone, reading or writrng, a little note, con- 
 taining a menace of assassination ; — and never had she worn a 
 countenance of greater composure and confidence than upon that 
 occasion. Her thirst for glory enabled her to constrain her fea- 
 tures to assume what expression she chose ; and to feign such sen- 
 timents as she thought most likely to win panegyric. When her 
 interests demanded it, she could be full of glowing profession, and 
 zealous show ; when her purposes required an appearance of good- 
 ness, she could talk virtuously ; but her actions rarely seconded 
 her protestations. She cloaked defective worth with large words ; 
 and when liking waned, concealed it by profuse gifts. 
 
 " When love begins to sicken and decay, 
 It useth an enforced ceremony." 
 
 Certainly Catherine's did : she heaped presents, as soon as she 
 cared not a straw for the object of her munificence. She was a 
 pattern-politician for a hollow world. 
 
 The pleasantest points to contemplate in Catherine, are her oc- 
 casional ease of condescension, and gi-aciousness of demeanour, in 
 the midst of her imperial hardiness, and haughtiness of etiquette ; 
 and her fondness for children. The former is noted in her familiar- 
 ity of behaviour with Diderot, and her manner of sufifering 
 freedoms from a few privileged adherents. An example of the 
 latter is recorded, in her allowing herself, in one or two instances, 
 to be called " Katinga," or " Katouschka," which are the Russian 
 diminutives for Catherine. A certain facetious doctor of the name 
 Janijossy, addressed her thus : she was occasionally subject to fits 
 of depression ; and when he observed her under the influence of 
 one of these moody humours, he used to say, jocosely : " Come, 
 come, Katinga ; we must be gay if we wish to be well ; and we 
 must take exercise if we wish to be gay." And then he would 
 take her ai-m in his, and walk her with him round the palace gar
 
 CATHERINE II. OP RUSSIA. 373 
 
 dens. It recalls Dick Tarlton's style with Queen Bess, as related 
 by Fuller ; who says that when her majesty was gloomily disposed, 
 this privileged jester could " undumpish her at pleasure." 
 
 Catherine's fondness for children is made manifest by the care 
 with which she provided for theii* education ; and by the delight 
 she took in having them constantly about her. She had a number 
 of them always in her departments ; and allowed them to use the 
 same liberties and freedom of intercourse with her, as the young 
 princes, her grandsons. They never called the empress by any 
 other title than gi-andmamma ; and she received, and returned 
 their caresses with pleased cordiality. She not only promoted 
 public education with ceaseless interest, but she gave it her jier- 
 sonal superintendence and inspection ; and the minuteness with 
 which she entered into the details of her grandchildren's instruc- 
 tion, is even beautiful, fi-om such a woman. She directed its course 
 herself; — she devoted a portion of her time, daily, to its progress : 
 she wrote several essays on history and moral philosophy for the 
 use of the young princes, and chose a very superior woman as 
 governess to the young princesses. She attended their lessons, 
 and looked over theii- studies and copy-books, apj)ending notes to 
 them with her own hand, addressed sometimes to the j^upils, some- 
 times to the teachers. One day, chancing to come into their 
 school-room in their absence, she perceived that the morning's 
 lesson had for its subject, the government of Switzerland; and 
 that the tutor had treated the theme with the candour and warmth 
 of a man who knew how to appreciate the advantages possessed 
 by a free people. She wrote at the foot of the page : — " Monsieur 
 La Harpe, pray continue your lessons in this manner. Yom- senti- 
 ments extremely please me." Later on, the French i-evolution 
 gave a check to the empress's liberal sentiments ; but it was some- 
 thing for her to have seen the value of liberahty at any time, —
 
 374 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. 
 
 especially when influencing the opinions of those who were to be 
 the future rulers of the Russian empire. 
 
 Catherine was still in the full ardour of her ambitious aspira- 
 tions, and the eager pursuit of her projects for extending the pos- 
 sessions of Russia, together with her own aggrandisement and 
 glory, when a sudden death put an end to her schemes and her life 
 at once. She expired on the lYth November, 1796, after having 
 reigned thii-ty-five years. 
 
 Catherine II. was pretty during her youth ; and when in matu- 
 rity, she possessed both grace and majesty. She was of medium 
 height, but well proportioned ; and as she carried her head very 
 upright, she seemed taller than she really was. Her forehead was 
 ample ; her nose rather aquiline ; her mouth well cut, and pleas- 
 ing ; her chin somewhat long, but not ill-formed. Her hair Avas of 
 a chestnut brown ; her eyebrows, dark and full. Her blue eyes 
 were capable of sweetness, which they often put on ; but still 
 offcener wore a haughty look. Her countenance was not wanting 
 in expression ; but this expression served but little to reveal what 
 was passing within, — or rather, she made it a means of the better 
 disguising what she really felt. She generally wore the Russian 
 costume, — a green or scarlet dress (those being the favourite 
 national colours) which formed a shortish robe, opening in front, 
 with light sleeves descending to the wrist. Her hair, lightly 
 powdered, lay in curls upon her shoulders ; and on the top she 
 wore a little cap covered with diamonds. Towards the latter years 
 of her life she rouged highly, thinking to hide the traces of time, 
 — md perhaps because it was a prevalent mode in France, the 
 Russians having been always fond of adopting Paris fashions 
 (which people are not ?) as a mark of refinement. She took a far 
 better method for preserving her complexion in juvenile clearness 
 and smoothness, — she was abstemious in her meals ; taking but a
 
 CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA. Sih 
 
 light breakfast, eating moderately at dinner, and never indulging 
 in suppers. So temperate a diet was tlie more remarkable, in one 
 who lived where the richest viands and rarest wines were partaken 
 of to excess : — but possibly, the very examples she had before her 
 eyes, served as a warning to a woman of Catherine's shrewd good 
 sense. 
 
 In order truly to depict her character, particulars have been 
 narrated in the couree of this account which otherwise would not 
 have been discussed. But it was impossible to give a faithful pic- 
 ture of Catherine II., and not allude to her moral, or rather her 
 immoral principles. It would have been unjust to a pure and 
 noble woman, illustrious, and, morally, a perfect woman, like 
 Isabella of Castile — seeing that, as a queen, she combined all 
 that was finest in virtuous conduct with all that was greatest in 
 regal accomplishment — not to have represented the Empress 
 Catherine in her true colours. She was a female sovereign of 
 even masculine energy of cleverness ; but she was masculine in her 
 views of morality. Catherine II. of Russia had male favourites as 
 kings have mistresses ; and she would doubtless have asserted her 
 equal claims — ^having equal power with the kings — ^to act as they 
 did : it would therefore be di-awing but an imperfect pourtrayal 
 of her character, were not this coarse particular adduced, while 
 recording the talent for state administration, and for extension of 
 territorial dominion, which distinguished her ; and which rendered 
 this empress, perhaps, the most eminent monarch that ever occu- 
 pied the Russian throne.
 
 -^h^ 
 
 y 
 
 '-''■m- ) '
 
 MISS NIGIITOGALE. 
 
 Instead of commencing the present subject, like the rest, with a 
 definition of the peculiar characteristic emhodied by her, as one of 
 our World-Noted Women, it might perchance be better to begin 
 with an apology for venturing to introduce a living personage at 
 aU in a book discussing character. It has been justly said by a 
 celebrated French writer : — " On doit des 6gards aux vivants ; on 
 ne doit aux morts que la verite." [We owe consideration to the 
 living; while to the dead, we owe but truth.] Happily, mere 
 truth is the most honom-ing consideration that can be paid to the 
 character of Miss Nightingale. The only inj ustlce that could be 
 done to her merit, would consist in forbearing to state simply and 
 candidly the facts of her career, or to pass them over in silence ; 
 for no written praise can add honour to the merit of her, who, as 
 Shakespeare says, is — 
 
 " One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, 
 And in the essential vesture of creation 
 Does bear all excellency." 
 
 Therefore encomium may be spared, not only out of regard to her 
 modesty, — for hers are just the kind of virtues which of all others 
 most shrink from laudation ; — namely, Philanthropy, Charity, Be- 
 nevolence, — but because theii* very existence and exercise bespeak 
 
 48
 
 378 M I S S N I G H T 1 N G A L P] . 
 
 their own liomage. Happy tlie deeds, wliicb. in their bare enumer- 
 ation proclaim theu' own surpassing worth. The bald chronicle 
 of Miss Nightingale's actions suffices at once to record and eulogize 
 them. 
 
 It were difficult to write of a living illustrious woman without 
 dread of wounding her sensitive dehcacy ; but the reverential spirit 
 in which her character is held forth to admiration, — the wholesome 
 emulation excited by relating such deeds, — the hope of thus pro- 
 ducing yet another good, in addition to all that she has effected, 
 will, it is trusted, plead in extenuation with the object of this nar- 
 rative, for making her the subject — not of panegyric, that has been 
 shown to be out of the question, but — of admiring discussion. 
 
 Miss Florence Nightingale is the youngest daughter and pre- 
 sumptive co-heiress of Mi-. William Shore Nightingale, of Embley 
 Park, Hampshire, and the Lea Hurst, Derbyshire, in England. 
 
 As it has been frequently stated in the British public prints 
 that Miss Nightingale numbers the same years with the Queen of 
 England, and as that royal lady playfully entered her age in the 
 list, at the time the census was taken of the population of Great 
 Britain, it would be no infringement of discretion to place the 
 period of Miss Nightingale's birth somewhere about the year 1819 ; 
 but one authority affii*ms that she was born at Florence in the 
 year 1823, and received her Christian name in memory of that fair 
 Italian city. It is well known also, that she is a young lady of 
 singular endowments, both natural and acquired. She possesses a 
 knowledge of the ancient languages, and of the higher branches of 
 mathematics; while her attainments in general art, science, and 
 literature, are of no common order. Her command of modern 
 languages is extensive; and she speaks French, German, and 
 Italian, fluently as her native English. She has visited and 
 studied the various nations of Europe, and has ascended the NUe
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 379 
 
 to its farthest cataract. While in Egypt, she tended the sick 
 Arabs with whom she came in contact ; and it was frequently in 
 her power, by judicious advice, to render them important services. 
 Graceful, feminine, rich, and popular, her influence over those with 
 whom she comes in contact is powerful as it is gentle and per- 
 suasive. Her friends and acquaintance embrace a large circle, and 
 include persons of all classes and persuasions ; but her happiest 
 place has ever been her home ; where, — in the centre of numerous 
 distinguished relatives, and in the simplest obedience to her admir- 
 ing parents, she dwelt. 
 
 Yet this was the life she left — a life not only blessed with all 
 that renders existence privileged, but with all that makes it useful 
 to others (the dearest of all privileges to her nature) — to fulfil a 
 self-imposed duty. 
 
 It was because she felt the sphere of her utility to be even 
 larger than the one aftbrded by her afiluent home, that she gave up 
 that home. From infancy she had a yearning affection for her 
 kind, — a sympathy with the weak, the oppressed, the destitute, 
 the suffering and the desolate. The schools and the poor around 
 Lea Hurst and Embley first saw and felt her as a visitor, teacher, 
 consoler, and expounder. Then she frequented and studied the 
 schools, hospitals, and reformatory institutions of London, Edin- 
 burgh, and the Continent. In 1851, when the whole civilized 
 world had a holiday during the Great Exhibition, and were en- 
 gaged in parties of pleasure. Miss Nightingale was within the walls 
 of one of the German houses, or hospitals, for the care of the lost 
 and infirm. At the Great Lutheran hospital, established at 
 Kaiserwerth, near Diisseldorf, on the Uhine, — an establishment 
 out of which no person is allowed to pass to practise as a nurse, 
 except after having gone through severe examination, — Miss 
 Nightingale spent some months in daUy and nightly attendance on
 
 380 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 the sick and the miserable, accumulating experience in all the 
 duties and labours of female ministration. The gentleman at the 
 head of that establishment, the Pasteur Fhedner, asserted that 
 since he had been director of that institution, no one had ever 
 passed so distinguished an examination, or shown herself so 
 thoroughly mistress of all she had to learn, as Miss Nightingale. 
 
 On her return to England, she, for a space, became again the 
 delight of her own happy home ; but it was not long before her 
 desire to extend her aid to those who needed relief, prevailed 
 to bring her forth. The hospital established in London for sick 
 governesses was about to fail for want of proper management ; 
 and Miss Nightingale consented to be placed at its head. Derby- 
 shii-e and Hampshire were exchanged for the narrow, dreary 
 establishment in Harley Street, to which she devoted the whole of 
 her time, and her fortune. While her friends missed her at assem- 
 blies, lectures, concerts, exhibitions, and all the entertaiaments for 
 taste and intellect with which London in its season abounds, she 
 whose powers could have best appreciated them, was sitting beside 
 the bed and soothing the last complaints of some poor dying, 
 homeless, hapless governess. Miss Nightingale found pleasure in 
 tending these poor destitute women in their inlii-mities, then- sor- 
 rows, then- deaths, or their recoveries. She was seldom seen out of 
 the walls of the institution ; and the few friends whom she admit- 
 ted, found her in the midst of nurses, letters, prescriptions, ac- 
 counts, and interruptions. Her health sank under the heavy 
 pressure ; but a little Hampshire fresh air restored her ; and the 
 failing institution was saved. 
 
 Then came the disastrous accounts of the sufferings in the East ; 
 of the additional rigours that the soldiery were endm-iug from want 
 of effectual hospital treatment, and fi'om defective management 
 in supplying stores and necessary relief. There arose at once an
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 381 
 
 entliusiastic desii'e to remedy the evil. The English, with their 
 energy of resolve, where existing mischief demands instant cure, 
 raised a fund which should furnish the requisite power to provide 
 what was needed immediately, without waiting for forms, and 
 boards, and official obstruction under the name of authorized 
 organization. A subscription was set afoot ; and in less than a 
 fortnight the sum of =615,000 was sent into the Times Office for 
 the above purpose. The proprietors of that journal sent out a 
 special commissioner, Mr. Macdonald, to administer this fund, from 
 which thousands of shirts, sheets, stockings, flannels, quilted coats, 
 and hospital utensils, besides large quantities of arrow-root, sago, 
 sugar, tea, soap, wine, and brandy, were supplied. One of the 
 chief points in which the deficiency of proper comfort and relief 
 for the sick and wounded sufferers was felt, was the want of good 
 nursing. To send out a band of skilful nurses was soon found to 
 be one of the most essential of all supplies. But unless these were 
 really skilled, more harm than good would certainly accrue : zeal, 
 without experience, could effect httle ; and a bevy of incompetent, 
 or ill-organized nurses, would prove an incumbrance, instead of an 
 assistance. Now it was that a field was opened for the wider 
 exercise of Miss Nightingale's genius and philanthropy ; and now 
 it was, that her admirable abilities were secured for the great 
 object in view. At the request of the Right Hon. Sydney Her- 
 bert, Miss Nightingale at once accepted the proposal that she 
 should undertake to form and controul the entire nursing estabhsh- 
 ment for the British sick and wounded soldiers and sailors in the 
 Crimea. Indeed, it is asserted, that by a strange coincidence- —one 
 of those coincidences arising out of urgent necessity felt and met 
 at once — she had herself written to Mr. Herbert on the very same 
 day, volunteering her services where they were so much needed. 
 The task was one which involved sacrifices and responsibilities of
 
 382 MISS NIGHTINGALE- 
 
 formidable magnitude : — the risk of her own life, the pang of sepa- 
 ration from her family and friends, the certainty of encountering 
 hardships, dangers, toils, and the constantly recurring scene of 
 human suffering amidst all the worst horrors of war; together 
 with an amount of obstacle and difficulty in the carrying out 
 of her noble work, wholly incalculable. Few but would have 
 recoiled from such a prospect ; Miss Nightingale, however, met it 
 with her own spirit of welcome for occasion to devote herself in 
 the cause of humanity. Heroic was the firmness with which she 
 voluntarily encountered her task ; glorious was the constancy with 
 which she persevered in, and achieved it. The same force of nature 
 which had enabled her quietly and resolutely to accumulate powers 
 of consolation and relief for the behoof of her fellow-creatures, 
 enabled her to persist steadily to the end, and carry out her high 
 purpose with a success, holy as it was triumphant. 
 
 On Tuesday the 24th of October, 1854, Miss Nightingale, ac- 
 companied by the Kevd. Mr. Bracebridge, and his wife, and a staff 
 of thirty-seven nurses, set out from England. On her way 
 through France, she and her companions were received with the 
 most respectful attention ; hotel-keepers refusing pa}'ment for 
 their accommodation, servants dechning the customary fees, 
 and all classes vieing to show sympathy with their mission. On 
 passing through the French metropolis, one of the Paris journals 
 made a characteristic remark upon Miss Nightingale's appearance, 
 which, coming from the source whence it did, was the extreme of 
 intended compliment and interest. The paper observed, that " her 
 toilet was charming ; and she was almost as graceful as a Parisi- 
 enne." On the Friday following, Miss Nightingale and her com- 
 panions embarked at Marseilles in the Vectis steamer ; and, after 
 a stormy passage, they reached Scutari on the 5th of November, 
 just before the wounded in the action of Balaklava began to ai'rive.
 
 M I S S N I G H T I N G A L E . 383 
 
 Five rooms which had been set apart for wounded general officers, 
 were happily unoccupied ; and these were assigned to Miss Night- 
 ingale and her nurses ; who, in appearance and demeanour, formed 
 a strong contrast to the usual aspect of hospital attendants. Un- 
 der such management, the chaotic confusion of the vast hospital 
 was quickly reduced to order : — ^the wounded, before left for many 
 hours unattended, now scarcely uttered a groan without some 
 gentle nurse being at hand to adjust their pillow, and alleviate 
 their discomfoi-t : — tears stood in the eyes of many a veteran while 
 he confessed his conviction, that indeed the British soldier was 
 cared for by his country ; since ladies would leave the comforts 
 and luxuries of home to come and tend him in his misery. Far from 
 realizing the fears which had been entertained by officials, that 
 this new addition to the staff of a military hospital would not 
 work well, Miss Nightingale and her nurses were " never found in 
 the way, except to do good." — Wlienever, as after the battle of In- 
 kermann crowds of wounded arrived, there was feminine ministry at 
 hand to tend them ; and when medical stores failed, or demand arose 
 for articles not forthcoming, the Times Commissioner supplied Miss 
 Nightingale at once with what was needed, if it could be procured 
 by money in the bazaars or stores of Constantinople. This promp- 
 titude of Mr. Macdonald in seconding Miss Nightingale's exertions, 
 deserves all praise ; for it mainly enabled her to carry out the im- 
 mediate requisites of her plan. His own excellent letters, written 
 at the time, give a most vivid picture of the difficulties she had to 
 contend with, in the shape of ill-contrived arrangements alone, be- 
 sides other obstructions to her procedure. A rule of the service, 
 which requii-ed, that articles (needed for present use) should be 
 obtained from home through the Commissariat ; and a regulation 
 which appointed that a " board " must sit upon stores already 
 landed, before they could be given out, wUl serve as instances to
 
 384 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 show what were some few of the obstacles against which Miss 
 Nightingale had to exert her energies of discretion and presence of 
 mind. To comprehend the evils occasioned by such impedunents, 
 an extract from one of the nurses' letters will offer an example : — 
 " I know not what sight is most heart-rending ; to witness fine-looking, 
 strong young men worn down by exhaustion, and sinking under it, 
 or others coming in fearfully wounded. The whole of yesterday 
 was spent in sewing men's mattrasses together ; then in washing 
 and assisting the surgeons to dress their wounds ; and seeing the 
 poor fellows made as comfortable as their circumstances would 
 admit of after five days' confinement on board ship, during which 
 their wounds were not di-essed. Out of the four wards committed 
 to my charge, eleven men died in the night, simply from exhaus- 
 tion ; which, humanly speaking, might have been stopped, could 
 I have laid my hands upon such nourishment as I know they 
 ought to have had." 
 
 In the article of hospital clothing, the same deplorable effects 
 resulted from the delay and confusion which existed before Miss 
 Nightingale's remedial measures came into operation. The original 
 supply of these articles, inadequate as it was, had been long reduced 
 so low, that but for the purchases made with the money of the 
 Fund, and distributed through Miss Nightingale, a large propor- 
 tion of the invalids must have been without a change of under- 
 clothing, condemned to wear the tattered filthy rags in which they 
 were brought down from the Crimea. A washing contract ex- 
 isted, indeed, but it was entirely inoperative ; and the consequence 
 was, that not only the beds, but the shirts of the men were in a 
 state foul and unwholesome beyond description. To remedy this, 
 a house well supphed with water, was engaged at the charge of 
 the Fund, close to the Barrack Hospital, where the clothing sup- 
 plied by Miss Nightingale might be cleansed and dried. Her
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 385 
 
 supervision had an eye for all needs; her experience had a know- 
 ledge for all that should be done ; and her energy enabled her to 
 have carried into effect that which she saw and knew ought to be 
 effected. 
 
 In ten days after their an-ival, Miss Nightingale and her as- 
 sistants fitted up a sort of impromptu kitchen ; and from this hastily 
 constructed resource eight hundred men were daily supplied with 
 their respective needful quantities of well-cooked food, besides 
 beef-tea in abundance. They who are acquainted with the plan of 
 cookery pursued in barracks, where all a company's meat and 
 vegetables are boiled in one copper, the portions belonging to 
 messes being kept in separate nets, will know how that food is 
 likely to suit the sickly appetite of a fevered patient, and how 
 invaluable a system which provided the needful light diet pre- 
 pared with due quickness as well as nicety, would be in hospi- 
 tal treatment. This was effected by Miss Nightingale's kitchen, 
 even in its early operation ; and it subsequently attained a degi-ee 
 of excellence productive of extensive benefit scarcely to be es- 
 timated by those unacquainted with the importance of such de- 
 tails. Her extraordinaiy intelligence and capacity for organiza- 
 tion, showed itself in subordinate, as well as principal points of ar- 
 rangement. In what might be called " house-keeping duties," she 
 showed womanly accomplishment, no less than nice judgment. 
 When the nurses were not needed at the bedsides of the sick and 
 wounded, they were employed by her in making up needful 
 articles of bedding, and surgical requisites, — such as stump pillows 
 for amputation cases. Not only was the laundry in excellent 
 working-order, but by the strong representation of Miss Nightin- 
 gale the dysentery wards were cleansed out, and general purifica- 
 tion was made a diligently regarded particular. 
 
 During the first two months of her arrival, when there was no 
 
 49
 
 386 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 one else to act, Miss Nightingale was the real purveyor of those 
 vast establishments — the hospitals at Scutari ; providing what could 
 not be obtained through the regular channels of the service, and, 
 especially from her kitchen, supplying comforts without which 
 many a poor fellow would have died. Her name and benevolent 
 services were the theme of frequent and grateful praise among the 
 men in the trenches ; and the remark was made, that she made 
 the barrack hospital so comfortable, that the convalescents began 
 to show a decided reluctance to leave it. Stores of shirts, flannels, 
 socks, and a thousand other articles, which she and her nurses dis- 
 tributed ; brandy, wine, and a variety of things, required at a mo- 
 ment's notice, and which could be procured from Miss Nightingale's 
 quarters without delay or troublesome formality, rendered her the 
 virtual purveyor for the whole of that period, during which she 
 was avowedly the person in whose keeping rested not only the 
 comfort, but the existence of several thousand sick and wounded 
 soldiers. One of Mr. Macdonald's impressive sentences serves to 
 paint the condition of the spot in which Miss Nightingale at that 
 time drew breath. He says : " Wounds almost refuse to heal in 
 this atmosphere ; the heavy smell of pestilence can be perceived 
 outside the very walls." In one of the last letters he wrote, before 
 he was compelled by failing health to return to England, the Times 
 Commissioner bore the following earnest testimony to Miss Night- 
 ingale's excellence. It affords a beautiful picture of her in the 
 midst of her self-imposed task of mercy and charity. These are 
 his words : — " Wherever there is disease in its most dangerous form 
 and the hand of the spoiler distressingl}- nigh, there is that incom- 
 parable woman sure to be seen; her benignant presence is an influ- 
 ence for good comfort, even amid the struggles of expiinng natm-e. 
 She is a ' ministering angel,' without any exaggeration, in these hos- 
 pitals : and as her slender form glides quietly along each corridor,
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 387 
 
 every poor fellow's face softens with gratitude at the sight of her. 
 Wheu all the medical officers have retired for the night, and si- 
 lence and darkness have settled down upon those miles of prostrate 
 sick, she may be observed alone, with a little lamp in her hand, 
 making her solitary rounds. The popular instinct was not mistaken 
 which, when she set out from England on her mission of mercy, 
 hailed her as a heroine ; I trust that she may not earn her title to 
 a higher though sadder appellation. No one who has observed 
 her fragile figure and delicate health, can avoid misgivings lest 
 these should fail. With the heart of a true woman, and the man- 
 ners of a lady, accomplished and refined beyond most of her sex, 
 she combines a surprising calmness of judgment and promptitude 
 and decision of character. * * * I confidently assert, that, 
 but for Miss Nightingale, the people of England would scarcely, 
 with all their solicitude, have been sj^ared the additional pang of 
 knowing, which they must have done, sooner or later, that then* 
 soldiers, even in hospital, had found scanty refuge and relief fi-om 
 the unparalleled miseries with which this war has hitherto been 
 attended." 
 
 The difficulties of Miss Nightingale's task were not only those 
 arising out of its own appertaining perils and sacrifices, and those 
 which resulted from official mismanagement ; but she encountered 
 much opposition springing from professional prejudices and jeal- 
 ousies. On their first arriving, so far from being welcomed, the 
 advent of the nurses was looked upon as an evil, resented as an 
 »nterference, and treated with tacit, if not open discountenance. 
 At the best, they were tolerated, not encouraged. Cabals were 
 got up, ill-feeling fostered, party differences disseminated and fo- 
 mented. Passive resistance in every shape was resorted to, to 
 prevent the installing of the nurses in the military hosjiitals. 
 Against all this, nothing but the exquisite tact, firmness, and good
 
 388 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 sense of Miss Nightingale could have prevailed. Having' proved 
 herself a vigorous reformer of hospital misrule, she had to encoun- 
 ter the tacit opposition of nearly all the principal medical officers : 
 her nurses were sparingly resorted to, even in the Barrack Hospi- 
 tal, while in the General Hospital, — the head-quarters of one of 
 the chief medical authorities — she held a very insecure footing. 
 But the return of this person to England, the continued deficien- 
 cies of the purveying, and the increasing emergencies of the hos- 
 pital service, enabled Miss Nightingale to extend the sphere of her 
 usefulness ; and thus, together with her own admirably patient per- 
 severance, she succeeded in having her nurses employed in their 
 proper posts, and her own system established in perfect working 
 order. 
 
 It seems incredible that even professional prejudice should in- 
 spire men with such narrow-minded fears, and actuate them to such 
 unworthy conduct ; but, more incredible still, that the grand Chris- 
 tianity of Miss Nightingale's undertaking could not protect her 
 from Pharisaical attacks. It is truly marvellous, that a self-devo- 
 tion so pure, and so noble, that it spoke its own sacred spirit of 
 piety and holiness, should require not only explanation, but actual 
 vindication. In one instance, a friend had to write a defence of 
 Miss Nightingale from one of these invidious attacks — a defence of 
 her, who deserved universal veneration for her sublime self-dedica- 
 tion to deeds divine in their charity and goodness ! While Miss 
 Nightingale was still in the outset of her onerous task in the East, 
 this was the letter which the Hon. Mrs. Sydney Herbert wrote on 
 behalf of her absent friend — the friend of thousands of sick, 
 wounded, and dying brethren at that very time : — 
 
 "49 Belgeave Square, Dec. 9, 1864. 
 
 " Madam : By this post I send you a Christian Times of Friday 
 week last, by which you will see how cruel and unjust are the re-
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 339 
 
 ports you mention about Miss Nightingale and her noble work. 
 Since then we have sent forty-seven nui'ses, of which I enclose you 
 a list. It is melancholy to think that in Chi-istian England no one 
 can undertake any thing without the most uncharitable and secta- 
 rian attacks ; and, had you not told me so, I should scarcely have 
 believed that a clergyman of the Established Church would have 
 been the mouthpiece of slander. Miss Nightingale is a member of 
 the Established Church of England, and what is called rather Low 
 Church. But ever since she went to Scutari, her religious opinion 
 and character have been assailed on all points : — one person writes 
 to upbraid us for having sent her, ' understanding she is a Unita- 
 rian ; ' another, ' that she is a Roman Catholic,' and so on. It is a 
 cruel return to make towards one to whom England owes so much. 
 As to the charge of no Protestant nurses being sent, the sub- 
 joined list will convince you of its fallacy. We made no distinc- 
 tions of creed ; any one who was a good and skilful nurse, and un- 
 derstood the practice in surgical wards, was accepted, provided, of 
 course, that we had their friends' consent, and that in other re- 
 spects, as far as we could judge, they were of unexceptionable 
 character. A large portion of the wounded being Roman Catho- 
 lics, we accepted the services of some of the Sisters of Charity 
 from St. Stephen's hospital, Dublin. I have now told you all, and 
 feel sure that you will do your utmost to set these facts plainly 
 before those whose minds have been disquieted by these false and 
 unjust accusations. I should have thought that the names of Mi*, 
 and Mrs. Bracebridge, who accompanied and are remaining with 
 Miss Nightingale, would have been sufficient guarantees of the 
 evangelical nature of the work. But it seems nothing can stop 
 the stream of sectarian bitterness. 
 
 " I remain, madam, yours faithfully, 
 
 "Elizabeth Hekbert."
 
 390 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 On a subsequent occasion, in a speech delivered by Mr. Sydney- 
 Herbert at Oxford, on the same subject, he said : " I recollect an 
 excellent answer being given to a query of this kind by an Irish 
 clergyman, who when he was asked to what sect Miss Nightingale 
 belonged, replied : ' She belongs to a sect which unfortunately is a 
 very rare one — the sect of the Good Samaritans.' " 
 
 The Hon. and Revd. Sydney Godolphin Osborne, in his 
 painfully interesting work upon " Scutari and its Hospitals," ob- 
 serves, relative to these disgraceful animadversions upon Miss 
 Nightingale ; — " I have heard and read with indignation, the re- 
 marks hazarded upon her rehgious character, I found her myself 
 to be in her every word and action a Christian ; I thought this 
 quite enough. It would have been in my opinion the most cruel 
 impertinence, to scrutinize her words and acts, to discover to 
 which of the many bodies of true Christians she belonged. I 
 have conversed with her several times on the deaths of those, who 
 I had visited ministerially in the hospitals, with whom she had 
 been when they died. I never heard one word from her lips, that 
 would not have been just what I should have expected from the 
 lips of those who I have known to be the most experienced 
 and devout of our common faith. Her work ought to answer for 
 her faith ; at least none should dare to call that faith in question, 
 in opposition to such work, on grounds so weak and trivial as 
 those I have seen urged. That she has been equally kind and at- 
 tentive to men of every creed ; that she would smooth the pillow 
 and give water to a dying fellow-creature who might own no 
 creed, I have no doubt ; all honour to her that she does feel, that 
 hers is the Samaritan's — not the Pharisee's work. If there is 
 blame in looking for a Roman Cathohc Priest to attend a dying 
 Romanist, let me share it with her — I did it again and again." 
 
 This gentleman's more particular description of the lady her-
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 39I 
 
 self, is especially interesting. He says : — " Miss Nightingale in ap- 
 pearance, is just wliat you would exjiect in any other well-tred 
 woman, who may have seen, perhaps, rather more than thirty 
 years of life : her manner and countenance are prepossessing, and 
 this without the possession of positive beauty: it is a face not 
 easily forgotten, pleasing in its smile, with an eye betokening great 
 self-possession, and giving, when she wishes, a quiet look of firm 
 determination to every feature. Her general demeanour is quiet, 
 and rather reserved : still, I am much mistaken if she is not gifted 
 with a very lively sense of the ridiculous. In conversation, she 
 speaks on matters of business with a grave earnestness, one would 
 not expect from her aj^pearance. She has evidently a mind dis- 
 ciplined to restrain under the principles of the action of the 
 moment, every feeling which would interfere with it. She has 
 trained herself to command, and learned the value of conciHation 
 towards others, and constraint over herself I can conceive her to 
 be a strict disciplinarian : she throws herself into a work — as its 
 Head — as such she knows well how much success must depend 
 upon literal obedience to her every order. She seems to under- 
 stand business thoroughly. Her nerve is wonderful ; I have been 
 with her at very severe operations ; she was more than equal to 
 the trial. She has an utter disregard of contagion. I have known 
 her spend hours over men dying of cholera or fever. The more 
 awful to every sense any particular case, especially if it was that of 
 a dying man, her shght form would be seen bending over him, ad- 
 ministering to his ease in every way in her power, and seldom 
 quitting his side till death released him." 
 
 Inexpressibly delightful is that intimation that Miss Nightin- 
 gale gives token of being " gifted with a lively sense of the ridicu- 
 lous." Possessing the exquisite perception of the pathetic in ex- 
 istence which her whole career proclaims her to have, — it would
 
 392 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 have been a defect in her nature, — nay, a lack of the complete 
 feeling for pathos itself — had she not betrayed a capacity for re- 
 ceiving humorous impressions. Humour and pathos are so nearly 
 allied, in their source within the human heart, — so mingled in 
 those recesses whence spring human tears at the touch of sympa- 
 thy, that scarcely any being deeply affected by mournful emotion, 
 can remain insensible to the keen appeal that resides in a ludicrous 
 idea. Shakespeare, — who comprehended to perfection every im- 
 pulse of humanity — affords multitudinous illustrations of this close 
 consociation of a sense of pathos and a sense of humour in the finest 
 natures. That particular feature chronicled by Mr. Osborne in his 
 personal description of Miss Nightingale, is just the exquisite point 
 — to our imagination — that crowns her admirable qualities. It 
 accords with an intensely beautiful account of her, that was related 
 by Mr. Sydney Herbert at a public meeting, convened in Miss 
 Nightingale's honour. He said, an anecdote had lately been sent 
 to him by a correspondent showing her great power over all with 
 whom she had come in contact. He read the passage from the 
 letter, which was this : — "I have just heard such a pretty account 
 from a soldier, describing the comfort it was, even to see Florence 
 pass — ' She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile 
 to a many more ; — ^but she coiddn't do it to all, you know ; 
 we lay there by hundreds ; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, 
 and lay our heads on the pillow again, content.' — What poetry 
 there is in these men ! I think I told you of another, who said, 
 ' Before she came, there was such cussin and swearin ; and after 
 that, it was as holy as a church.' " That consoling word or two, 
 that gentle " nod and smile " in passing, were precisely the tokens 
 of sympathy that would come with such home-felt charm to those 
 manly hearts from a face possessing the emotional expression which 
 we can conceive it naturally to have. Just the woman, Avith just
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 393 
 
 the countenance to exercise an almost magical moral influence over 
 men's minds. We are told, — eye-witnesses liave averi'ed, that it 
 was singular to remark how, when men, frenzied, perhaps by their 
 wounds and disease, had worked themselves into a passionate re- 
 fusal to submit to necessary operations, a few calm sentences of 
 hers seemed at once to allay the storm ; and the men would sub- 
 mit willingly to the painful ordeal they had to undergo." — Noble 
 being ! Exactly that blended firmness and gentleness which makes 
 a woman's nature so all-potent in its beneficial ascendancy over 
 manhood. Rough, brave fellows, that would have resisted like 
 iron, any amount of men's persuasion, would melt at once into sub- 
 mission at a " few calm sentences " from those lips of hers. We 
 can fancy the mouth, — capable of smiles, or quivering with deepest 
 feeling, — compressed into resolute steadfastness, as it persuaded 
 the men into reasonable acquiescence with what was for their good, 
 while betraying the latent sympathy with their every pang. 
 
 Florence Nightingale is a woman for every living woman to be 
 proud of calling sister ; and she herself is one who would not disdain 
 to allow the claim of sisterhood from the very lowliest of her sex. 
 
 Long before Miss Nightingale returned from the East — and she 
 would not hear of going back to England, until the war was over ; 
 although her health and strength were so far impaired, that when 
 a yacht was placed at her disj^osal by Lord Ward to admit of her 
 taking temporary change of air in sea-excursions to recruit her for 
 farther work, she had to be cari'ied down to the vessel, carefully 
 and reverently, in the arms of the men, amidst their blessings and 
 prayers for her speedy recovery — the Nation's gratitude could not 
 be restrained from its eager desire to bestow some public token of ac- 
 knowledgment towards a woman, who they felt, had earned so im- 
 perative a title to theii' afifectionate thanks. A testimonial of some 
 sort was agreed upon as the only means of exhibiting their unani- 
 
 50
 
 394 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 nious feeling, and of permitting every one to contribute their share 
 in the offei-ing. But of what was it to consist ? Sums of money to 
 a lady in affluent circumstances, would be futile ; ornaments to one 
 whose chosen sphere was by the bedside of the sick, the poor, and 
 the dying, would be idle. Any gift to herself, who had given her 
 most precious possessions, her time, her attentions, her sympathy 
 to others, was not to be thought of In the first place, it was 
 like an attempt to reward that which was beyond reward, — 
 to pay for that which was a free donation, and, moreover, Miss 
 Nightingale herself distinctly declined receiving any thing for her- 
 self. The only thing that remained then, was to raise a fund for 
 benevolent purposes ; and to place it at her disposal, that she 
 might appropriate it according as her own philanthropic heart and 
 admii'able practical judgment should think best. Public meetings 
 were called, presided over by a prince of the blood-royal, and one 
 who had been a personal witness of Miss Nightingale's grand work 
 in the East ; and attended by peers, members of parliament, and 
 some of the highest men in professional repute. They debated the 
 question of the proposed " Nightingale Fund " in the noblest spirit 
 of consideration ; — consideration for the delicate feehngs of her 
 who was the object of this testimonial of a nation's gratitude ; and 
 consideration for those who were desirous of making this public 
 proffer of their homage. It was decided that " a fund to enable 
 her to establish an institution for the training, sustenance, and pro- 
 tection of nurses and hospital attendants " would be the best form 
 for this national testimonial to take ; and a copy of the proceed- 
 ings was sent out to Miss Nightingale. Her own reply will best 
 express the feelings with which she received it : — 
 
 " Scutari Barrack Hospital, January 6, 1856. 
 
 " Dear Mks. Herbert, — In answer to your letter (which fol- 
 lowed me to the Crimea and back to Scutari) proposing to me the
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 395 
 
 undertaking of a Training School for Nurses, I will first beg to say 
 that it is impossible for me to express what I have felt in regard to 
 the sympathy and the confidence shown to me by the originators and 
 supporters of this scheme. Exposed as I am to be misinterpreted 
 and misunderstood, in a field of action in which the work is new, 
 complicated, and distant from many who sit in judgment upon it,- — 
 it is, indeed, an abiding support to have such sympathy and such 
 appreciation brought home to me in the midst of labour and difii- 
 culties all but overpowering. I must add, however, that my present 
 work is such as I would never desert for any other, so long as I see 
 room to believe that what I may do here is unfinished. May I, then, 
 beg you to express to the Committee that I accept then- proposal, 
 provided I may do so on their understanding of this great uncer- 
 tainty, as to when it will be possible to me to cai-ry it out. 
 " Believe me to be, 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 "Florence Nighttngaxe." 
 
 Like all her lettere, this one is most characteristic. The steady 
 perseverance in the work she had in hand, and the determination 
 not to abandon it, until it were completed, is precisely t\ie. practical 
 and constant spirit which enabled her to achieve so much ; while 
 the reference to the contingent uncertainty, is consistent with one 
 who was hourly witness to the precariousness of human projects, 
 human hopes, human existence. 
 
 This " Nightingale Fund," in its ultimate destination, is in fact, 
 but giving the admirable lady more Avork to do ; but as her friend, 
 Mr. Sydney Herbert, observed : — " Miss Nightingale looks to her 
 reward from this country in having a fresh field for her labours, and 
 means of extending the good that she has already begun. A com- 
 pliment cannot be paid dearer to her heart than in giving her more 
 work to do." The object of the " Training School for Nurses," is
 
 396 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 to educate Nurses in the Central Institution, to practise them in 
 the schools for such duties which the various fine hospitals already 
 in existence present, and to send them out fitted to re-instruct other 
 nurses, in branches of the parent institution ; thus establishing a 
 kind of normal college for nurses, that shall ramify throughout the 
 whole country in its beneficial efifects. Thus, at least, the present 
 idea of the institution seems to be ; l)ut its future details are ju- 
 diciously left entii-ely at the discretion of her who has proved her- 
 self consummately competent to judge and act on this subject ; and 
 to whom, moreover, the Fund is offered as a peoples' gift of grati- 
 tude. 
 
 But while the nation was preparing its tribute, crowned heads 
 presented their individual tokens of admu'ation to the woman who, 
 as Mr. Osborne forcibly remarked, was " the one individual, who in 
 this whole unhappy war, has shown more than any other, what real 
 energy, guided by good sense, can do to meet the calls of sudden 
 emergency." 
 
 Oriental taste and good feeling in the person of the Sultan, 
 presented Miss Nightingale with a magnificent bracelet, set in 
 brilliants, "as a mark of his estimation of the devotion evinced 
 by this lady in the British hospitals." English heart in the per- 
 son of England's queen, the gracious sovereign, who with her own 
 royal hand wrote those cordial words : — " I wish Miss Nightingale 
 and the ladies would tell these poor noble, wounded, and sick men 
 that no one takes a warmer interest, or feels more for their suffer- 
 ings, or admires their courage and heroism more than their queen ; 
 day and night she thinks of her beloved troops," — sent Miss Night- 
 ingale a jewel, the design of which was even more precious, in its 
 beautiful emblematic significance, than even the costly gems that 
 composed its adornment. It is described as being foi-med of a St. 
 George's cross, in ruby-red enamel, on a white field, representing
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 397 
 
 England. This is encircled by a black band, tyj)ifying the office 
 of charity, on which is inscribed a golden legend, " Blessed are the 
 merciful." The letters ' V. E.' surmounted by a crown in diamonds, 
 are impressed upon the centre of the St. George's Cross, from which 
 emanate rays of gold. Wide-spreading branches of palm in bright 
 green enamel, tipped with gold, form a framework for the shield, 
 their stems being banded with a riband of blue enamel, inscribed 
 with the word, ' Crimea.' At the top three brilliant stars of dia- 
 monds illustrate the idea of the light of Heaven shed upon labours 
 of Mercy, Peace, and Charity. On the back of the jewel is an in- 
 scription written by her Majesty, recording it to be a gift in memory 
 of services rendered to her brave army by Miss Nightingale." 
 
 Meantime, the lady was diligently pursuing to a close her 
 glorious task in the East ; and while these mai'ks of home sym- 
 pathy reached herself, she was still impersonating the sympathy of 
 home to many a poor fellow dying far away. She not only shed 
 this balm over the hearts of those hapless ones whom she had 
 taken beneath the wings of her dove-like ministry ; but she sped 
 homeward, on the wings of her kindly feeling, missives of consola- 
 tion and aid scarcely less needed. A poor woman, named Lau- 
 rence, living in South Shields, whose husband was in the 89th 
 regiment in the Crimea, not having heard of him for many months, 
 was emboldened to write to Miss Nightingale, soliciting her to 
 make enquiiies regarding his fate. This was the reply : — 
 
 " Scutari Barrack Hospital, 5th March, 1856. 
 
 " Dear Mes. Laurence, — I was exceedingly grieved to receive 
 your letter ; because I have only sad news to give you in return. 
 Alas ! in the terrible time we had last year, when we lost from 
 seventy to eighty men per day in these hospitals alone, many 
 widows had to suffer like you ; and your husband, I regret to say,
 
 398 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 was among the number. He died in this hospital, February 20th, 
 1855, just at the time when our mortality reached its height of 
 fever and dysentery ; and on that day we buried eighty men. In 
 order that I might be sure that there was no mistake in the name, 
 I wrote up to the colonel of his regiment, who confirms the news 
 in the note I enclose ; and though he is mistaken in the precise 
 date of your husband's death, there is no mistake, alas ! in the 
 fact. I wished to get this reply before I wrote to you. Your 
 husband's balance due to him was £1. 2. 4^, which was remitted 
 home to the Secretary of War, September 25th, 1855, from whom 
 ,you can have it on application. As you were not aware of 
 being a widow, you are, of course, not in receipt of any allowance 
 as a widow. You should, therefore, make application to Colonel 
 Lefroy, R. A., Hon. secretary of the Patriotic Fund, 16 a, Great 
 George Street, Westminster, London. I enclose the necessary 
 papers for you to fill up. Your colonel's letter will be sufficient 
 proof of your husband's death. I enclose it for the purpose. You 
 will state all particulars about your children. Yom* minister 
 will help you to fill it up. I am very sorry for you and your 
 trouble. Should you have any difliculty about the Patriotic 
 Fund, you may make use of this letter, which will be sufiicient 
 evidence for you to produce of your being a widow. With sincere 
 sympathy for your great loss, 
 
 " I remain, yours truly, 
 
 " Flokence Nightengale." 
 
 Thus minutely did this gentle-hearted woman enter into the 
 griefs and wants of those, only indirectly connected with her self- 
 ajipointed work : in the midst of all her arduous duties, present 
 and immediate, she could still find time for consolation and assist- 
 ance to those at a distance, even in veriest details. Among all her 
 anxieties, responsibilities, and more vital aflairs, also, she found
 
 M I S S N I G H T I N G A L E . 399 
 
 opportunity to attend to intelligential needs ; for on one occasion, 
 ■we find from a letter written in the camp before Sebastopol, during 
 the spring of 1856, that " through the exertions of Miss Nightin- 
 gale, a considerable quantity of school materials, such as maps and 
 slates, was supplied to the schools." From her own stores she sup- 
 plied books and games to cheer the dull hours of convalescence : 
 and was foremost in every plan for aifording the men harmless 
 recreation. On her own responsibility, she advanced from the 
 " Times Fund " the necessary sum for completing the erection of 
 the Inkermann Cafe ; she aided the active senior chaplain in estab- 
 lishing a library and school-room, and warmly supported him in get- 
 ting up evening lectures for the men. She took an interest in their 
 private affau's, and forwarded their httle savings to their families in 
 England at a time when there was no provision for sending home 
 small sums ; she wrote lettere for the sick, took charge of bequests 
 for the dying, and punctually forwarded these legacies of affection to 
 relatives ; she studied the comfort of those who recovered, and had 
 a tent made to protect such of them as were permitted to take the 
 air from the searching rays of an eastern sun, — moreover, enduring 
 the mortification of a refusal from the hospital authorities to have 
 this tent put up. Her activity of intelligence was almost miracu- 
 lous ; one of its personal observers, Dr. Pincoffe, declares : — " I be- 
 lieve that there never was a severe case of any kind that escaped 
 her notice ; and sometimes, it was wonderful to see her at the bed- 
 side of a patient who had been admitted perhaps but an hour 
 before, and of whose arrival one would hardly have supposed it 
 possible she could already be cognizant." 
 
 And now the time approached when her noble duty in the 
 East came to a close, by the declaration of peace. The date of 
 her intended return to England was kept a profound secret, out 
 of dread of that publicity which she has ever carefully shunned.
 
 400 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Not only were tlie day and spot of her probable landing preserved 
 unknown, lest the popular welcome that would have greeted her 
 arrival should take place ; but desirous of maintaining the strictest 
 incognito, she refused the offer of a passage in a British man of 
 war, and embarked on board a French vessel, passing through 
 France by night, and travelling through her own country unrecog- 
 nized, until she arrived at her own home in Derbyshire, on Friday, 
 August 15th, 1856. 
 
 The respect observed towards her evident desire for privacy, is 
 well expressed in some graceful stanzas that appeared in " Punch " 
 for August 28th, 1856 :— 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE'S KETURN. 
 
 BY MR. TOM TAVLOR. 
 
 Most blessed things come silently, and silently depart ; 
 Noiseless steals spring-time on the year, and comfort on the heart ; 
 And still, and light, and gentle, like a dew, the rain must be. 
 To quicken seed in furrow, and blossom upon tree. 
 
 Nile has its foaming rapids, freshes from mountain snows : 
 But where his streams breed fruitfulness, serene and calm it flows ; 
 And when he over-brims, to cheer his banks on either side. 
 You scarce can mark, so gradual, the swelling of his tide. 
 
 The wings of Angels make no stir, as they ply their work of love ; 
 But by the balm they shed around, we know them that they move. 
 God spake not in the thunder, nor in the crushing blast ; 
 His utterance was in the " still small voice " that came at last. 
 
 So she, our sweet Saint Florence, modest, and still, and calm, 
 With no parade of martyr's cross, no pomp of martyr's palm, 
 To the place of plague and famine, foulness, and wounds, and pain. 
 Went out upon her gracious toil, and so returns again. 
 
 No shouting crowds about her path, no multitude's hot breath. 
 To feed with wind of vanity the doubtful fires of faith : 
 Her path by hands official all unsmooth'd, her aims decried 
 By the Levites, who, when need was, pass'd on the other side.
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 401 
 
 When titles, pensions, orders, with random hand are shower'd, 
 'Tis well that, save with blessings, she still should walk undower'd. 
 What title like her own sweet name, with the music all its own ? 
 What order like the halo by her good deeds round her thrown ? 
 
 Like her own bird — all voiceless while the daylight songsters trill, 
 Sweet singer in the darkness, when all songs else are still, — 
 She on that night of sufF'riug, that chill'd other hearts to stone, 
 Came with soft step and gentle speech, yet wise and firm of tone. 
 
 Think of the prayers for her, that to the praying heart came back 
 In rain of blessings, seeming still to spring upon her track : 
 The comfort of her graciousness to those whose road to death 
 Was dark and doubtful, till she showed the light of love and faith. 
 
 Then leave her to the quiet she has chosen : she demands 
 No greeting from our brazen throats, and vulgar clapping hands. 
 Leave her to the still comfort the saints know, that have striven. 
 What are our earthly honours ? Her honours are in heaven. 
 
 There was one gracious welcome that Miss Nightingale could 
 not but accept ; and that was from the Royal Lady who was the 
 sovereign head of the army which had so long been the especial ob- 
 ject of Miss Nightingale's devoted care. A visit of some days at 
 Balmoral, where the Queen was then staying in highland seclusion 
 and enjoyment, was spent by Miss Nightingale in the sunshine of 
 kindly favour ; being treated, during her sojourn there, with the 
 most marked distinction by her Majesty and every member of the 
 royal family. 
 
 Since her return home, Miss Nightingale's name has met the 
 public ear, but in quiet deeds of practical goodness, consistent with 
 her whole career. Her own letters best serve to show the siagle- 
 minded views that actuate her. When a desire was testified by 
 some of the working men of Sheffield to erect a monument in that 
 town to the memory of their countrymen who fell in the Crimea, 
 application was made to Miss Nightingale, through her relative, 
 Miss Shore, of Meersbrook Hall, requesting that she would consent 
 
 51
 
 402 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 to lay the foundation-stone. Miss Nightingale's reply was 
 this : — 
 
 "Lka Hcrst, Matlock, Oct. 23, 1856. 
 
 " My dear Lydia : — The purpose mentioned to me in your let- 
 ter has my deepest sympathy. It would have been most congenial 
 with my feelings, on my return from the death-beds of so many 
 brave men to take a part in it. I shall be with the men of Shef- 
 field in spii'it whenever they execute their proposed plan. It is 
 with real pain that I feel compelled to decline the privilege which 
 they offer to me, of laying the first stone. But I beheve I shall 
 best honour the cause of those brave dead by abstaining from ap- 
 pearing to court that publicity which I consider to have been my 
 greatest impediment in the work I have been engaged in for their 
 sakes ; impeding it by arousing in some minds care for worldly 
 distinctions. I will ask you to give this letter to Mr. Overend ; 
 and I should be glad that Mr. Overend should make known to 
 those who had expressed a desire that I should lay the first stone, 
 my reasons and my sorrow for not doing so ; and I should say also 
 that I feel an especial regret in declining this at Sheffield, from old 
 and dear family recollections connected with the place. I must 
 apologize for so late an answer, as I have only just returned 
 home. 
 
 " Pray believe me, my dear Lydia, 
 
 " Very truly yours, 
 
 " Floeence Nightingale." 
 
 Enclosed was a check for £20 towards the object proposed. 
 
 These letters of Miss Nightingale are singularly auto-character- 
 istic ; they exhibit that beautiful union of vigour and gentleness, firm 
 decision and quiet modesty, fine judgment and enthusiastic feeling, 
 which compose her womanly character. 
 
 A striking instance of the right-minded firmness and spirit she
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 403 
 
 could display, when occasion demanded self-assertion, is contained 
 in a letter wliicli accompanied the one that she wrote from Scutari, 
 accepting the original proposal of the " Nightingale Fund." The 
 remarks in this subjoined letter appeared to the committee (to use 
 their own expression) " so replete with sound common sense, that 
 they used the permission they had received to quote them," These 
 are her words : — 
 
 " The confidence which the subscribers to this fund have shown 
 me has been so generous and extraordinary that it is perhaps hardly 
 necessary for me to allude to a very natural letter, which I am told 
 has been printed, to the effect that I must forward a prospectus of 
 what I am going to do, before I can expect to have money sub- 
 scribed to do it. I think this perfectly reasonable if I originally 
 had asked for the money, which, of course, I did not. But to fur- 
 nish a cut and di-ied prospectus of my plans, situated as I am here, 
 when I cannot look forward a month, much less a year, is what I 
 woidd not if I could, and I could not if I would. I would not if 
 I could, because every thing which succeeds is not the production 
 of a scheme of I'ules and regulations made beforehand, but of a 
 mind observing and adapting itself to wants and events. I could 
 not if I would, because it is simply impossible to find time in the 
 midst of one overpowering work to digest and concoct another ; 
 and if it could be done it would be simply bad, and to be hereaf- 
 ter altered or destroyed." 
 
 In these few pithy sentences lies the clue to understand much 
 that is almost incomprehensible in the wondrous magnitude, difiH- 
 culty and complication of the work that Miss Nightingale achieved. 
 She possesses that mind capable of " observing and adapting itself 
 to wants and events ; " the power of seizing at once the scope and 
 necessities of emergencies as they arise ; the courage and ability to 
 meet them ; and the faculty of fastening the attention upon that
 
 404 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 particular work which demands immediate doing. The being able 
 to concentrate the whole thought upon the present act in hand, to 
 cope with it promptly, and to execute it solely — one thing at a 
 time — is the way to perform these wonders of accumulated achieve- 
 ment. Probably no one — ^not even eye-witnesses of the perplexi- 
 ties and painful duties that surrounded her — will ever be able fully 
 to conceive the amount of spmt-toil as well as body-toil which that 
 truly-called " incomparable woman " went through, while carrying 
 out her great design in the East ; and, therefore, it is next to im- 
 possible duly to estimate the true bulk of what she accomplished ; 
 but even so far as we can discern of that which she effected, it is a 
 marvel of womanly achievement. 
 
 It was just one of those extraordinary tasks, — entii-ely out of the 
 ordinary course of events — that none but a woman could execute ; 
 yet, that not one woman in ten million could have performed. It re- 
 quired a woman's tenderness, a woman's delicacy, a woman's instinct 
 of discernment, in its nursing ministry ; while it required the intellect, 
 the moral command, and the nerve, — rarely to be found united in 
 woman, — necessary to meet the multifarious difficulties it involved. 
 
 The grand point in Miss Nightingale's character is this rare 
 combination of invincible spirit, and softest charity. Her high 
 spirit is of the noblest sort ; it gives her perfect controul over her- 
 self and others, — temper, patience, endurance in herself; courage, 
 firmnness, influence with others. Her charity is of the largest 
 kind ; it includes forbearance, gentleness, loving sympathy with aU 
 her human brethren. It inspired her with the divine desire to 
 soothe care, to minister to sickness, to cheer and console death it- 
 self : it taught her how to alleviate distress in the living, and even 
 how best to comfort survivors. 
 
 The liberal-minded, as well as liberal-hearted way in which this 
 lady confers her benevolences, may be illustrated by the following
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 405 
 
 incident and letter. There is a charitable institution in France, 
 called the " CEuvre de Notre Dame D'Orient," under the direction 
 of the Abbe Legendre, almoner of the hospital of Bourbonne-les- 
 bains, a town where a great number of military men are accus- 
 tomed to resort every year for the benefit of the waters. On the 
 formation of a rehef fund, destined to ameliorate the condition of 
 infirm soldiers after they are discharged from the hospital, Miss 
 Nightingale forwarded her donation of a hundred francs through 
 Lady Fox Strangways, widow of the general who was killed at In- 
 kermann ; the donation being accompanied by this letter addressed 
 to the Abbe Legendre : — 
 
 " SiK, — I feel the warmest sympathy with you in the touching 
 object of your work, and I am happy to join in it to the limited ex- 
 tent which my own engagements allow. I received, too, from the 
 excellent religious ladies who were attached to the French army in 
 the East, so many tokens of their friendship, — they gave me their 
 assistance with such entire self-denial, and lightened my hard task 
 in the hosjjitals with so much devotedness, that I shall always seek 
 any opportunity of showing my gratitude to France, and to her 
 brave children, whom I have been taught by those ladies to love 
 and respect. 
 
 " I am, sir, yours truly, 
 
 "Florence Nightingale." 
 
 From slight but significant circumstances constantly transpiring, 
 the public may gather how faithfully and steadily Miss Nightin- 
 gale is persevering in the lofty course she has adopte d as that of 
 her life's aim. They find that she is quietly adding to those stores 
 of practical knowledge and experience, which she has hitherto so 
 effectively devoted to the service of her suffering feUow-creatures,
 
 406 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 and whicli she evidently purposes dedicating to their cause, when 
 the " Nightingale Fund " shall have placed munificent means at her 
 command for the farther carrying out of her vast design. By oc- 
 casional tidings of her movements, we find her occupied in visiting 
 surgical hospitals, examining medical wards, inspecting infirmaries, 
 and continually treasuring up fi-esh opportunities for observation 
 and administration. Like a truly great and modest mind — hers 
 never thinks it can cease to learn. 
 
 With such a natm-e, — at once so humble yet reliant, so tender, 
 yet powerful and energetic, so devoted, so firm, and so liberal, 
 — Miss Nightingale will doubtless effect beneficial results to her 
 species now unforeseen in then- full extent. She who appropriated 
 her own fortune with a lavish hand to the work she had undertaken, 
 wUl assuredly distribute with judicious outlay sums of large amount 
 committed to her disposal. God direct and speed her in her new 
 task, as he manifestly guided and protected her through the pre- 
 vious one ! His blessing rests upon such single-souled beings as 
 Florence Nightingale; and it visibly re-emanates through the 
 multiplied blessings His grace enables her to shed upon man k ind. 
 
 Not only in the dii-ect benefits conferred by such a woman as 
 Miss Nightingale, does her sacred commission stand revealed ; but 
 in the indirect effects produced by her example, is her heaven-sent 
 goodness presented to the world. It is this thought — that she is 
 an evidence of her Creator's vouchsafements to his creatures — that 
 Miss Nightingale must submit to the gaze of admiring humanity. 
 It must reconcile her to have her motives canvassed, her character 
 scrutinized, her actions applauded ; and moreover, when her modest 
 delicacy would shrink from homage, let her benignly remember that 
 gratitude is an irrepressible feeling, and must be yielded its eager 
 and enthusiastic utterance.
 
 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 407 
 
 In Florence Nightingale all the world glorifies a woman who 
 embodies the principle of devotion, in the widest sense of the 
 word; true devoutness to God, — worshipping him by best service, 
 in benefiting her fellow-mortals ; and fervent consecration of her- 
 self to a hiti;'h and immortal cause. 
 
 THE END.
 
 5P1SK 
 
 i^ 
 
 ,M 
 
 .•<?• 
 
 ) 
 
 ^ 
 
 mm
 
 \
 
 -r.4- Vy 
 
 -^^-^^