banner. We did not despair of being able to corrupt his fidelity, and two hundred crowns, and the promise of a benefice of three thousand livres a-year did the business. It now remained to gain over some of the garrison; the Sieur Du Rollet undertook this, and was successful; he addressed himself to a corporal and two soldiers, who easily induced the rest of the garrison to confide the guarding of one of the gates wholly to them. Every thing being thus prepared, the king presented himself before the gates at eleven at night. No priest rung the bell, no movement within the garrison gave alarm. Du Rollet entered, and opened the gate, through which the King marched without the smallest resistance into the very centre of the town." * Thus surprised, all attempts at defence was vain. The city was delivered up to be pillaged ; and Sully tells us that the produce of his share of the plunder was three thousand livres. Whether the pious warden of the belfry ever received his promised benefice we are not told.

It was at this time that, while remaining at Mante, an accident brought Sully acquainted with Madame Châteaupers, a young widow lady of rank, whose attractions were such as to incline him to

entertain thoughts of a second marriage, and on returning to the same place about two years afterwards, he renewed his professions of regard for her; his suit was successful, the lady had good sense enough to estimate his high qualities, and she rewarded them with her hand.†

It is one of the peculiar excellences of Sully's character, that he, at no time, when at the height, either of his military fame or his political elevation, ever ceased to consider the tenderness of female society, and the endearments of domestic life, as the chief source of real and rational happiness. However disheartened by the conflicting selfishness of public men, or worried by the intrigues of his official adversaries, in his household he was always cheerful. When in the bosom of his family his delight and consolations as a husband and a father, were refreshing to him. His mind and heart were ventilated from the noisome vapours of the court, for he had nothing before him but truth and innocence, To all those talents which fitted him for high station, he combined all those estimable qualities which make an agreeable and interesting fireside, Madame Châteaupers never repented her second union.

S.

“Why, lady, from those eyes so fair
Do tears in torrents flow?
Wherefore thus rend thy golden hair,
Whence this excess of woe ?"

"Palmer, my hair I well may rend,
Well floods of tears may weep!
The ills that over me impend
My soul in anguish steep."

"Lady, reveal thy cause of grief;
Perchance by Palmer's aid

Thy bosom's pangs may find relief,
Th' impending ills be staid."

* Memoirs, liv. iv. p. 304.

"Oh reverend Palmer 'tis in vain!
Nought can avert my fate,
And but thy pity to obtain
Will I my griefs relate.

"My father in the Holy Land
Fights for the Christian name,
Whilst lawless tyranny would brand
His own with sin and shame.

"The monarch's guilty roving glance Has fall'n on this sad face ;

His suit of insult to advance,

And plunge me in disgrace,

"My plighted bridegroom, stout and bold,
But trustingly unwise-
A sentenced captive in his hold,
If I submit not dies.

"To-morrow is his day of doom-
And mine to bid him live'

-I must redeem him—and the tomb
From shame shall refuge give."

"Hold, lady, hold, nor heav'n thus brave
But strive by prayer to win
That mercy which alone can save;
Such blessing crowns not sin!

"Be 't mine to seek this tyrant king,
And trust a Palmer's word,
His guilty spirit I will wring;
Or should it fall unheard,

"On wilful ears the warning strain-
Still, still, despair thee not!
Thy minstrel-friend, John de Rampagne,
Lady, is he forgot?

"He, who thine infant beauty sung,
Who chose thee for his muse,
His fancy's lady, whilst too young
For feelings balmy dews?

"Lady, whate'er can knightly sword
Or minstrel-skill achieve
Must fail, or for her plighted lord
No more shall Edith grieve."

The Palmer's hat was flung aside

To meet the maiden's gaze; With kindling check and eye she cried, "To blessed Mary praise !

"Who to redeem me from despair

Sends mine own minstrel true-
Oh well I know what man may dare
John de Rampagne will do!
"Bending before our Lady's shrine,
In penitential guise,
Will I implore her aid divine
To speed thine enterprise.
"Incessant will I weep and pray,
On knee unwearying kneel;
Nor food shall touch my lips this day,
Nor sleep mine eyelids seal;

"The livelong night shall hear my voice,
The morning meet my cry;
I rise nor rest, till I rejoice
In thy success-or die!"

Fair Edith to her chapel went
Our Lady's aid to seek :-
His steps the Palmer court-ward bent,
In her dear cause to speak.

The shell, the palm, the pilgrim weed,
Suited but ill a court,
Swarming with those who nothing heed
Save merriment and sport.

The Palmer pleaded Edith's cause,

In monitory tone;

But they who scoff at virtue's laws,
And Heav'n's commands disown,

Will they the preacher's voice respect
Obeying his behest?

With insult they enhance neglect,
And many a scurrile jest

The Palmer from the palace drives—
Sighing he pass'd away.

The hours roll on until arrives
The evening banquet gay.
The bowl is circling merrily,
Discarded all restraint,
And food for graceless mockery
Affords the routed Saint.

Lo! visitors more welcome far,

More meet for pleasure's sphere!
Whilst yet unseen, the gay guitar
Proclaims a minstrel near.

He comes-a momentary thrill
Of horror shakes each breast;
Black as the father of all ill,
Appears the tuneful guest.

The first such terrors to command,
Was England's King, who said,
"In what yet undiscover'd land

Wast thou, dark Minstrel, bred ?"

"My native Ethiopia lies

Beneath the torrid zone,
Whose scorching sun, in tyrant guise
Thus brands us as his own."

"And in that distant sultry clime

Heard'st thou of England's King?" "Oh, Monarch, neither space nor time May bound Fame's restless wing:

Thy triumphs over many a king,
O'er knights approved in arms,
O'er noble dames, their hands who wring
And curse their fatal charms,

"All, all the voice of Fame employ,
And grace, or stain thy name."
The Monarch's laugh spoke idle joy
And recklessness of blame.

He bade the sable Minstrel show

His Ethiopian skill.
The sable Minstrel bending low,
Observant of his will,

Sang a soft tale of faithful love,
And woman's constancy;
Sang how her honour to approve

The gentlest maid can die;

And sang of tyrants from the throne
By honour's vengeance hurl'd—
The Monarch frowned-" The Ethiop's
tone,"

He said, with lip scorn-curl'd,

"Were meeter for the nunnery grate,

Or burgher's hour of glee,

Than for the hall of royal state
And courtly revelry."

Again the son of night bow'd low,

Then sang the joys of wine, Those that from power unbounded flow, And love, no laws confine.

Loud laugh'd the Monarch, raised the bowl

And pledged the Minstrel deep,
And asked more lay-still o'er him stole
Excess's offspring, sleep.

The Prince was to his couch convey'd,
Dispersed the jovial band;
But music's friend, de Bracy, staid,
And grasp'd the Minstrel's hand,

And pray'd, unless he too confess'd

Slumber's resistless pow'r, With wine and music as his guest

He'd cheat the midnight hour.

With glad assent the Minstrel heard
A prayer his wish that met,
And following, utter'd many a word
Of kindness and regret

For knights in distant regions known;
Then stout Sir Audulf named.
The gay De Bracy's alter'd tone

Sad pity's touch proclaim'd.

"Alas!" he said, "at break of day

Must that good knight be slain." Loud cried the Minstrel, "Well away! His friendship to obtain,

"Your far-famed English court I sought; And must my travel's end

Be with such disappointment fraught?
He, whom my future friend

"I deemed, shall he unknown expire ?"
"Nay be not thus cast down,
But disappointment, friendship, ire,
In brimming goblets drown."

As in De Bracy's chamber now

The new companions stood,

With hands clasp'd tightly o'er his brow, In melancholy mood,

The Minstrel 'gainst the casement leant, And said with heavy sigh,

66 Might I, with fruitless toil forespent, But see him ere he die!"

De Bracy mused-" The nightly guard,
Is set, secured each gate;
Why should the Minstrel be debarr'd,
A wish allowed by fate?

"Bade me his fancy's Lady seek,

And thee, her plighted Lord."
More than his words his glances speak,
And glimmering hope afford.

Whilst mute, perplex'd, the captive hung
On each mysterious glance,
The sable Minstrel smiled and sung,
"Of knights with sword and lance

"Who battled in the Holy Land;

And of ONE luckless knight, Made captive by a paynim band,

Through treachery, not might. "Who lay of Saracens the thrall,

Doom'd for his faith to bleed;
Who saw his last of evenings fall,
His last of nights succeed."

Sang how, "of rescue hopeless now
As long of clemency,

The knight in prayer bent down his brow,
And fitted him to die;

"And thought upon his Lady love, Who, in her peaceful bow'r, Breathed orisons to Heaven above

To speed their nuptial hour."

The Minstrel tells, "on waters deep, The prison walls that lave,

How waits that Lady, when all sleep, Her knight from death to save."

Tells how "the stream and prison's height Deeming sufficient guard,

The Paynim, unsuspecting flight,

His casement left unbarr'd.

"A ladder framed of silken cords
He from her boat mast lift:
Scarce his rent clothing length affords
To reach the life-fraught gift.”

Tells how," when he at last obtained,
And fixed the slender stair,
No further obstacle remain'd;
But light as viewless air

"The captive through his casement stept,

Alighted in the boat,

And kiss'd the tears his Lady wept,
As down the stream they float."

No pause the Ethiop songster brook'd,
Till ceased his minstrelsy;
But heedful on the warders look'd,
Then sought Sir Audulf's eye.

The watchful captive notes that glance,
And with a glance replies-

And now, as morning's hours advance,
The bowl De Bracy plies.

And whilst the sparkling wine he quaffs,
And presses on each guest,
He at the ardent Minstrel laughs,
From song who scarce will rest

Th'exhilarating cup to share:
Then in the deep carouse,
Lost every thought of warder's care,
His head in slumber bows.

The Minstrel 'neath his ample cloak
Then show'd a silken stair,
And whilst his skilful fingers woke
A poppy-strewing air,

In tones, sleep's spirit had imbued,
His whispering ditty said,
"A vessel waits on Severn's flood,
Prepared escape to aid :

""Twill answer to whoever calls
The sable Minstrel's friends.
Stay not for thanks.-Within these walls
Death over both impends."

The Knight makes fast the silken stairs
And down them eager springs;
The Minstrel draws yet drowsier airs
Lullingly from his strings;

Observes Sir Audulf's rapid course

Adown each slender cord;

Lists for the watchword, low and hoarse,
Beholds him safe on board :

Then lightly cross'd the chamber floor,
Made every fast'ning good,
Barr'd carefully the chamber-door,
Lest prying eyes intrude;

And down the ladder swiftly flew;
He gain'd Sir Audulf's side,
And instantly the little crew

Their oars with vigour plied.

Whilst on his gratitude's fond theme
Sir Audulf strove to dwell,
The vessel gliding down the stream
Reach'd a sequester'd dell,

Where chargers barb'd, for battle dight,
Stood ready to their need:
Mounted the Minstrel and the Knight,
And urged their coursers' speed.
Scarce had the earliest blush of morn
Illumed the twilight gray,
When, under battlements that scorn
A threatening foe's array,

The fugitives first drew the rein;
Then loud the Ethiop calls,
"Undo your gates! none e'er in vain,"
Sought shelter in these halls !''

Still at our gracious Lady's shrine
Fair Edith knelt in pray'r;
Now supplicating aid divine,
Now writhing in despair.

Hark! footsteps-From her knees she

springs,

Convulsed with maddening fear,
And to the altar wildly clings:
"The murderers draw near!

"My plighted consort's bleeding head
They bring my soul to quail;
And to the hated tyrant's bed

The widow'd bride would hale."
Whilst thus in agony she shrieks,
Averting her closed eyes,

The voice best loved, "mine Edith!" speaks

She faints in glad surprise. And when again her eyes unclose Upon her bridegroom's breast, Her head is pillow'd to repose,

His heart her place of rest.

One hand down hanging, grasp'd she feels
In friendship's cordial strain;
The Ethiop Minstrel smiling kneels-
""Tis he, John de Rampagne."

M. M.

the world whom I should call into consultation upon the subject. Love never talks in the learned languages, nor ever holds fellowship with bookworms.

Poets are a privileged class. They are among the elect; but even among them there are but few that are thoroughly initiated into the mysteries. The reason of this I take to be, that when Cupid holds a cabinet council none are admitted but females. It is in the hearts of the angelic host alone that the secrets are registered. This accounts for the fact of their being the only true teachers, and that it is in their instructions only that we can put implicit trust. I, who have been a Bachelor years that shall be nameless, have turned the subject of love over and over in my mind a thousand and a thousand times. I have read of ithave talked of it-have dreamt of itand after all I know no more about it, up to this hour, than if I had never been born. How is this to be accounted for? Is it that some vassals are made to honour, and that I am not one of the number? It must be, I take it, that the Art of Love-for that it is an art we have the high authority of Ovid-is not one in which it is easy to take a master's degree. Certain it is, that I have never yet become a member of the craft. Have never taken up my freedom in the company of married men. Not but there have been times in my life when I have fancied myself enamoured, and I once remember to have got nearly the length of a sonnet to Charlotte. I say nearly the length, because when I came towards the close I could not get a word that pleased me to rhyme with that adorable name, till at last, in a fit of ill-humour, not uncommon with amorists, I flung the sonnet into the fire, and with feelings that would have given a tongue to a stone, saw it slowly expire in the flame, and felt my flame expire with it. None but those who have felt in this way the pang of "Love's labour lost" can take fair measure of the misery that such a disappointment brings along with it. As for myself, I discarded Charlotte for ever from my thoughts, which, however, was matter of no great difficulty, for-truth to tell-she was a purely ideal personage; and having now given her up, I returned her magic eye, her vermeil lip, her teeth of pearl, and her cheek which shamed the lily, together with the rest of her unutterable charms, to the common stock of poetical

perfections from whence I had stolen them. But although I could thus readily persuade my imagination to surrender its mistress, it was with grief that I abandoned the Muses, with whom I had fondly flattered myself that I was about to cultivate an amicable intimacy; but the tuneful Nine have all their sex's, coquetry and love of teasing about them. Never should I have attempted writing a sonnet had they not, in a moment of delusion, inspired me with the following couplets:

My spell-bound heart with hope reposes
On chains of gold with links of roses,
Of roses such as intertwine

To tint that virgin cheek of thine. I was delighted with this; it was an effusion, as I thought, of great promise, and it was the casting of it into the burning fiery furnace that caused me, at the time, such an intense pang; but when the paroxysm had subsided, and the fervour of fancy had time to cool, I sat down to examine this burst of inspiration in the cold critical temper of a reviewer. No sooner did I do so than my heart sunk within me; I perceived that my cherished metaphor was sheer nonsense; I had made the links of one material and the chains of another, this it grieved me to admit was at war with possibility. quite clear how a golden chain of roses could intertwine to tint the virgin cheek.

Nor was it

The fit of metrical fiction being no longer upon me I became sober and reflective. I found that I had been deluded into a belief of my poetical pretensions. I retired, abashed and inortified, from the inspired circle, and never after was able to hold up my head in the presence of the Muses.

But it did not follow because I could not make sonnets, that, therefore, I could not make love. But before you can make any thing, be it what it may, you must know how it is made, and what are the materials of which it is composed. Then it was that the question forced itself upon me-What is Love? No sooner did I begin to meditate upon it than I was in a labyrinth. Often, when I thought it within the very grasp of my contemplations, its essence seemed to evaporate, and all my conceptions, like the Weird Sisters disappearing before the gaze of Macbeth, "vanished into air." At length, after