attached to a woman, not to be susceptible of jealousy. This jealousy takes a tinge of the character of the person who is affected with it. The mild man becomes afflicted, falls ill, and dies, if a repentance, which he is always disposed to believe sincere, does not console him: the cho leric man breaks out into rage; and, in the first moments, it is not known how far this may carry him; but men of this disposition are soonest appeased, and most frequently to be deceived. Pecuniary interest should never be the basis of an amorous connection; it renders it shameful, or at least suspicious: money, says Montaigne, being the source of concubinage. But when a tender union is well formed, interest, like sentiment, becomes common; every thing is mu tual; and there is but one fortune for two sincere lovers. If they be equally honest, and incapable of making a bad use of it, this is just and natural; but frequently the complaisance of one makes him or her partake too much of the misfortunes and errors of the other. Love should never have any thing to do with affairs: it ought to live on pleasures only: but how is it possible to resist the solicitations of a beloved object, who, though she ought not to participate in affairs which she has not prudence or courage enough to manage, yet having always, for a pretext, her interest in your reputation, welfare, and happiness, how is it possible to resist an amiable woman, who attacks with such weapons? Some ladies have a real, others a borrowed reputation; that of the first is pure and unspotted, founded on the principles of religion, consequently the only genuine one; it belongs to women really attached to their duty, and who have never failed in the least point of it, whether they have had the good fortune to love their husbands, who have returned their affection; or whether, by an effort of virtue, they have been faithful to a man whom they have not loved nor were beloved by. There is another reputation, unknown to religion, which delicate morality, although purely human, does not admit, but which the world, more indulgent, will sometimes accept as good; that founded upon the good choice of lovers, or, rather, of a lover, for multiplicity is always indecent. We are so disposed to think that each loves his likeness, that we judge of the character of men and women by those of their own sex with whom they have formed an intimacy; but infinitely more by the persons for whom they conceive a. serious attachment. Many a man of wit has established the reputation of his mistress, without composing madrigals for her, but by making known the passion with which she had inspired him; many a woman of merit has created or established the reputation of him whom she has adopted her chevalier. After all, it is more dangerous to solicit than to decline this kind of reputation it happens more frequently that a man loses himself by making a bad choice, than he adds to his fame by making a good one. If the public are indulgent to the attachments of simple individuals, they are much more so to those of kings, and people in place, when they think them real, and do not suspect in them either ambition, intrigue, or motives of interest. All France approved of the love of Charles VII. for Agnes Sorel, because she had the courage to say to this prince, that, unless he recovered his kingdom, he was not worthy of her affection. The Parisians applauded the love of Henry IV. for La Lelle Gabrielle, and sung with pleasure the songs this monarch made for her; because, knowing her to be handsome, and of a good disposition, they imagined she would inspire the King with sentiments of benevolence. Never did a woman love a man more sincerely than Madame de la Valliere loved Lewis XIV. She never quitted him but for God alone; and, swelled with vanity as that monarch was, he could not complain of this rivality; so much the less, as the Supreme Being had but the remains of the heart of his mistress, and perhaps never possessed it entirely. I have heard an anecdote of Madame de la Valliere, which I do not remember to have seen in print. This lady was so modest, and had so little ambition, that she had never told the king she had a brother, much less had she ever asked any favour for him. He was still young, and had made his first campaign among the cadets of the king's household. Lewis XIV. reviewng his troops, saw his mistress smile in a friendly manner at a young man, who, on his part, bowed to her with an air of familiarity. In the evening, the King asked, in a severe and irritated tone of voice, who this young man was. Madame de la Valliere was at first confused, but afterwards told his Majesty it was her brother. The King, having assured himself of it, conferred distinguished favours upon the young gentleman, who was father of the first Duke de la Valliere. The King's intrigue with Madame de Montespan was not of a nature to be approved of so much as that he had with Madame de la Valliere; yet the nation did not complain, because it was thought the love of this lady procured the public magnificent feasts and elegant amusements. The following verses were a good deal sung at that time: Ah! quelle est charmante Notre aimable cour; Sous le meme tente On voit tour a tour. La gloire et l'amour, Marquent chaque jour. On the contrary, the public were a good deal disgusted with the amours of the King and Madame de Maintenon, although more decent, and that a secret marriage had rendered them legitimate. It was observed that a love, conceived when both parties were in years, afforded a ridiculous spectacle: moreover, Madame de Maintenon med dled with the affairs of government; and it was when she most interfered with them that things fell into decline, and that Lewis XIV. began to experience misfortunes, which were all laid to her charge. When the Duke of Orleans, who was Regent, fell in love with Mademoiselle de Sery, he was not censured on account of it. The Duchess of Orleans, natural daughter to the King, was rather beautiful, but she was not amiable; Mademoiselle de Sery, on the contrary, was very much so. She had a son, and it was predicted of him that he would one day become Duke of Dunois. But he did not fulfil what was expected of him; yet he had wit, and was, in many respects, amiable. In process of time the Regent fell into such an irregularity of conduct, that the public were shocked at it. It was necessary for him to have many other brilliant and estimable qualities to be pardoned so great a defect; but people were so much disposed to indulgence for him, that his affection for Madame de Parabere was approved of, because it was supposed she really loved him, and that he loved her, although he was frequently unfaithful to her. Exterior decency is generally admired, and princes and men of distinction ought to do nothing to disgust the public; but, right or wrong, it is but too true, that in the end the public assumes the authority of censuring, without delicacy, every fault: woe to them who are the first objects of gross scandal; they become the victims of its rage: the public judges, and punishes them for it; or at least hoots at, hisses, and despises them; but, when the number of the guilty increase to a certain degree, it is found, that although hisses are sufficient to condemn bad pieces, they are not rods enough for those men who deserve to be lashed; they then become tolerated, nothing more is said, and, what is worse than all, a resolution is sometimes taken to imitate them. It must be acknowledged that the temptation to sin is very great, when we are sure to do it with impunity; and that people are made easy upon this head, when they are sheltered from reproach and ridicule. BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN. THE great Turenne lies in the abbey of Saint Denis, without any monumental inscription, owing, as it is said, to the jealousy of a monarch, by no means wanting, in other respects, in magnanimity: Bertrand du Guesclin, a hero of earlier times, reposes in the same chapel, in a monument unworthy of the sacred deposit. This warrior, the pride of chivalry, and the glory of France, appears, by the diminutive figure on his tomb, to have been little fitted for the arduous enterprises of war; yet cotemporary historians represent him of an athletic and manly size. The last scene of Guesclin's glorious career is singularly remarkable. The governor of Rendon, to which he had laid siege, had capitulated, and engaged to give up the place, in case no succour arrived within a certain number of days. Du Guesclin fell ill before this time, and died on the day preceding the expiration of the truce. On the morrow, the governor was summoned to surrender: he kept his word; but as it was to Du Guesclin himself he had given it, he came out attended by the chief officers of the garrison, and going directly to Guesclin's tent, he placed the keys of the town upon the coffin of the breathless hero. THR DEATH OF ARGYLE. FROM FOX'S HISTORY OF JAMES THE SECOND. • Before he left the Castle he had his dinner at the usual hour, at which he discoursed not only calmly, but even cheerfully, with Mr. Charteris and others. After dinner he retired, as was his custom, to his bed-chamber, where, it is recorded, that he slept quietly for about a quarter of an hour. While he was in bed, one of the members of the council came and intimated to the attendants a desire to speak with him: upon being told that the Earl was asleep, and had left orders not to be disturbed, the manager disbe lieved the account, which he considered as a device to avoid further questionings. To satisfy him, the door of the bedchamber was half opened, and he then beheld, enjoying a sweet and tranquil slumber, the man who, by the doom of him and his fellows, was to die within the space of two short hours! Struck with the sight, he hurried out of the room, quitted the Castle with the utmost cipitation, and hid himself in the lodgings of an acquaintance who lived near, where he flung himself upon the first bed that presented itself, and had every appearance of a man suffering the most excruciating torture. His friend, who had been apprised by the servant of the state he was in, and who naturally concluded that he was ill, offered him some wine. He refused, saying, No, no, that will not help me; I have been in at Argyle, and saw him sleeping as pleasantly as ever man did, within an hour of eternity. But as for me.' The name of the person to whom this anecdote relates is not mentioned, and the truth of it may therefore be fairly considered as liable to that degree of doubt with which men of judgment receive every species of traditional history. Woodrow, however, whose veracity is above suspicion, says he had it from the most unquestionable authority. It is not in itself unlikely, and who is there that would not wish it true? What a satisfactory spectacle to a philosophical mind, to see the oppressor, in the zenith of his power, envying his victim! What an acknowledgment of the superiority of virtue! what an affecting and forcible testimony of the value of that peace of mind which innocence alone can confer! We know not who this man was; but when we reflect, VOL. IV. Tt |