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Although French notions of delicacy and morality are very different from our own, it is but fair to say, that in every other respect but that of furnishing excitement to a fancy already too excitable, he showed much care and prudence in the books which he selected for me.

Poetry he gave me abundantly, both French and English, but it was of the best kind, and with books of travels he also supplied me, which sometimes certainly raised my curiosity on points that might as well have been left to elucidate themselves, but which had no tendency to weaken my mind or corrupt my morals.

I was idle enough, certainly, but I was tolerably quick in intellect, and consequently contrived to please all the different masters in a certain degree, though those I liked best were certain both to command more of my attention and respect than the others. At the end of six months I returned home for the holidays, and, on the very first interrogation in reference to my progress at school, established, to my mother's full satisfaction, the fact of my being a miracle of genius and application.

Somers, the banker, had come down himself to bring me home in his carriage, and after leaving me some hours with my mother he returned to dine, bringing with him his little daughter as a playfellow for me. He was a kind good-hearted man; and, after asking we several questions, to satisfy himself that I had not misused my time, he also declared himself perfectly satisfied.

I remarked, that both he himself, his servants, and his daughter, who was then about six years old, were all in mourning, and I afterwards found that he had lost his wife some months before. I need dwell no further on my life at school, though the mixed character of the studies which I there pursued, and the nature of the books with which the good-natured Frenchman supplied me, gave that desultory character to my mind which it has never lost.

I had a great greediness for information, without much regularity of arrangement or steadiness of pursuit; and when I left that school, which was at the end of two years and a half, I knew a great many things that other boys did not know, and a great deal less of many things than they did know.

What was the occasion of my quitting the school remains to be told. About half a year before I did quit it, my mother became Mrs. Somers, and my brother, whose ship was at Deal, was present, as well as myself, at the wedding, which was to give us a new father and a new home. Somers was very kind, and looked very happy; my mother was serious, but her vanity was flattered in various respects, and she easily found means to persuade herself that she was doing what was quite right and expedient.

My brother, as smart as a naval uniform could make him, was as gay as a lark, and in robust health; and little Emily Somers, who was now a sweet girl of about eight years old, looked all delight, and was only too sure that she should love her new mamma most dearly.

Strange enough to say, I was the only person who did not fully participate in the gaiety of the occasion. I had been, I am afraid, a spoilt child; my mother had seemed to love me better than any thing on earth; and certain it is that, even at that early age, I felt a degree of jealousy when I thought of any one else except my brother sharing in her affection. My poor brother was soon destined to leave me alone in her love. He returned to his ship as soon as the wedding breakfast was over, and shortly after sailed for the coast of Spain.

One epistle, dated Gibraltar, informed us that he was well and happy, but the next ship-letter my mother received was written in the hand of the captain--an old comrade of my father--and its purport was to inform her, that her eldest son had fallen a victim to one of the severe fevers which occasionally visit the Peninsula. My worldly prospects were of course greatly changed by this event.

I was far too young myself--even if at any time of life I could have known such feelings--to derive the smallest portion of consolation for the loss of my brother from the acquisition of fortune which thus befell me: but my mother and Mr. Somers saw the affair both in an affectionate and in a worldly light. They both grieved sincerely, I am sure, for my brother, who was, as Mr.

Somers declared, a very good lad indeed; but they both agreed also, that there was a considerable difference between four hundred and twelve hundred per annum; and my mother was delighted to believe, and Mr. Somers well pleased to suggest, that a private tutor might now very well be kept for me at home, instead of putting Mrs.

Somers to the pain of having me always at a distance from her maternal eye. Thus I at once received the news of my brother's death and a summons to return to Portland Place, which was destined to be my home till I set out in the world for myself. On my arrival I found my mother installed mistress of a splendid mansion, furnished newly from the garrets to the cellars, with a very kind and affectionate husband, and a lovely little girl for her companion in the person of his daughter.

Her affection for myself, however, seemed to have increased rather than diminished, and it was easy to perceive that my will was to be her law. Two years before, such a perception would have ruined my disposition for ever, but I had already been some time at a school with, a great many boys older than myself.

I had been drilled into some kind of discipline by the masters, and beaten into some knowledge of myself by my elders in the school. I had learned also a habit of scrutinizing my own thoughts and feelings, as well as those of other people, very unusual at that period of life, which has never left me, though I acknowledge that I have but too often been wrong in my conclusions, not only in regard to others, but even respecting myself.

If our fellows in society can, for purposes of their own, throw a veil over their actions which we can seldom penetrate, surely vanity, passion, interest, and every other modification of selfishness, can, with art a thousand-fold more specious, still conceal from us the springs and motives of what is passing in our own bosom.

It is only long-confirmed habit, dear-bought experience, and strong determination, which can tear away the mask successfully in either case. However, I had a strong sense of what is just and right also, and I was not long in perceiving that my mother not only loved me a great deal better than little Emily Somers--which I should not have objected to, because it seemed natural--but she also contrived to show that partiality in a manner which was not fair towards Emily.

What Emily did was seldom right--what Emily said was always nonsense with her stepmother--and many and many a time have I had to fight Emily's battles, and defend Emily's cause, and petition in Emily's behalf, when the dear little creature neither did, nor said, nor desired, any thing but what was right. Emily felt the change, and as yet remembered her own mother sufficiently to weep over that change; but she was of a gay and happy disposition, bearing no malice, forgetting injuries, retentive of kindness, frank, true, and gentle; yet, withal, with a firmness of determination on points where some internal principle of rectitude told her that she should be firm, which contrasted strangely enough with the general mildness and placidity of her character.

I could, were I so inclined, write down a thousand examples of this peculiar trait in her character; but as I intend merely to give a sketch of those years, it will be unnecessary. Suffice it, that when Emily had positively pledged herself to do or not to do any particular thing, no one attempted to turn her from it, for we all learned to know that it would be in vain.

It must be added, however, that these firm resolves were but seldom taken, and then only upon great occasions, when we were sure, sooner or later, to discover that Emily was right, for they were the offspring of firmness and not obstinacy, and I have often seen her execute her resolve with tears, so great was the struggle between her inclination and her sense of right.

Soon after my arrival in London, a tutor was found for me, and brought with him to our family a strong recommendation. Yet, although he was a learned and clever man, I am not sure that he was exactly the person best calculated to bring up a youth of a fiery temperament and an erratic imagination like myself. He had been long in Germany, it seems, where his mind had become strongly tinged with a sort of mysticism, a small portion of which soon communicated itself to me, and which only served to set my fancy wandering more wildly still.

But that was not alone the evil which his residence in foreign lands had wrought in him. His moral principles had become strangely twisted, and though he advocated most eloquently the strictest adherence to truth, and was most rigorous and exact in his notions of justice and equity, yet, upon many other points, his notions were sadly relaxed. He was a tall uncouth man, too; by no means thin, but with no breadth of bone, and only gifted with a considerable quantity of muscle and fat, covering a frame originally long and narrow.

Nor were his manners peculiarly pleasant, though they were by no means harsh or rude, but he was extremely fond of a joke, and knew no limit in pursuing it: often too, before the joke was apparent to other people, his fancy, tickled by some internal movement of his own mind, would set him off into long fits of laughter, during which his eyes would stream and his shoulders shake as if he were actually in convulsions.

Under his care and instructions I remained seven years, reading when it pleased me, for my mother took care that my own will was the only measure of my studies. Nevertheless, I read a great deal; for when I was fatigued by great corporal exercise, the craving of my mind for constant employment always returned, and I sat down with greediness to whatever was presented to me.

A good deal of Latin, a very little Greek, an immensity of French, and a certain portion of Italian and Spanish, were thus run through, with, perhaps, little benefit; but the whole system of my studies, if that can be called system which had no regularity, was altered from what it had been when I was at school. It was my tutor's maxim that a man was born to know every thing, and consequently, no expurgated editions were put into my hand. The warmest of the Latin poets, and the least chaste of the French and Italian, were given to me without ceremony; and where I wanted notes or interpretations, my worthy tutor supplied them fully, sometimes in a grave and scientific manner, sometimes laughing till he was ready to fall from his chair.

Immense quantities of English also did I read, ancient and modern, good and bad--Milton's purity and Rochester's filth; Southey's inimitable poetry, and the novels of Maria Regina Roche. Four books especially took possession of my imagination, and remain to the present time amongst those in which I can read every day. My love for Shakspeare, Milton, and Wordsworth, came at an after period; and towards the age of seventeen, I began to read the romances of Sir Walter Scott--works which were calculated to do my mind the most infinite service, to blend the love of virtue with the spirit of adventure, and tame wild imagination to the uses of the world.

Fencing, riding, cudgel-playing, varied the time with mathematics, geometry, and astronomy. History came in for a great portion of my attention, and books of travels maintained their share. Thus did I become one of the most desultory beings that the world ever produced; so that, before I was eighteen years of age, my mind was literally like a pawnbroker's shop, full of an odd assemblage of unconnected things, huddled together in the storehouses of memory, unmarked and disarranged, and difficult to be got at.

Many of these stores also were calculated to be injurious to me in various ways; they did prove so, certainly, in some degree; but that they did not become more so, I owe, I believe, to two causes--first, my early fondness for the writings of Southey, where virtue, robed in poetry and eloquence, is splendid enough to catch even imagination; and next, my having fallen in love before I was much exposed to the temptations of the world.

The reader--if any one do read these pages--will easily divine the object of that early, but not less permanent, affection. I loved her because I protected and defended her even against one whom I loved also. But soon I began to take an interest in the development of her mind, and I used to write out the purest and most beautiful passages of all I read, to read to her again; and learned to love her from the sympathy and the reciprocation of mutual ideas which this produced: but, by the time I was eighteen and she was sixteen, other feelings began to make themselves felt in my bosom.

Then came the period when, from a very pretty child, she burst forth into one of the loveliest girls that it was possible to behold, and I soon learned to love with all the ardent and thrilling passion of manhood. Such is the history of my affection for her, and it is hardly necessary to say that it was returned. She had known me from infancy; she had never met with any thing but kindness at my hands; she had made me on all occasions her protector and her confidant; and she had found something even in the faults and foibles of which my character was composed to excite her interest.

Neither did she see much of any one who was likely to compete with me in any respect. Our society, though large, was rather general than intimate; my mother was very averse to the idea of introducing Emily, what she called, too soon ; and thus, before she mingled with the world, her heart was given never to be recalled.

Roving over the earth as I did, from time to time, I had made some friends and a good many acquaintances; but I did not give them great facilities of rivalling me in Emily's affection. At Mr. Somers's house I had my own apartments, where I received my own visitors--not indeed with any confessed purpose of keeping them away from Emily, but perhaps with some latent feeling of jealousy, which endured till I felt certain that I possessed her love in return. In such matters I was much more learned than she was, and soon found out the state of my own heart, but I did not so easily convince myself of the state of her's; for sisterly affection was too cold a return to satisfy so ardent a nature as mine, and I feared that the feelings which she entertained towards me might be of no warmer a kind.

Perhaps, indeed, if I had always remained near her, her feelings might have remained such as I feared they might be; but I was absent from time to time, and returned from a long visit to Paris, just at that period of Emily's life when a woman's heart is most open to the more powerful affections. That she would marry me if I asked her, I felt sure, but I wished her to love me with all that thrilling ardour which I felt towards her, and I only learned to believe that she did so by one of those sudden glimpses which accident sometimes gives us into the best-concealed feelings.

I was accustomed to treat her in every respect as a sister, to employ every endearing term towards her, and to use all those kind familiarities which one does to a dear and near relative. Thus one day, when I was in my twentieth year, and she was approaching eighteen, I returned from some visits I had been paying, and, finding her alone in the drawing-room at work, I sat down beside her, and threw my arm lightly round her.

After a moment, however, she raised her eyes, and said, "She is a very charming girl indeed, James, and I dare say will make an amiable wife. I heard papa and mamma talking about it this morning, and saying what a good thing it would be for you and her. But I am glad you have told me, dear girl, for certainly I will never set my foot in that house again alone, till Helen is married.

I have forgot something up stairs," cried Emily, starting up and going towards the door with her face turned entirely from me. But she passed two looking-glasses ere she reached the end of the room, and the first showed me something very bright swimming in her eyes and reflecting the light from the windows; the second displayed those bright drops running rapidly over her eyelashes, and rolling down her cheeks.

I was by her side in a moment, and, closing the door she had partly opened, I drew her gently back to the sofa, where, holding her fondly to my heart, I kissed away the tears from that beloved cheek. It were tedious, perhaps, to detail all that followed. I soon gained a confession that I was loved as I could desire, but I could not make Emily promise to be mine positively, till I had spoken both to her father and my mother, and as we knew that neither would consent to our union before I had reached one-and-twenty years of age, and judged that they might make us spend the interval apart if we mentioned the matter before, we determined--or rather I determined both for Emily and myself--to say nothing upon the subject till that period had arrived.

The familiarity which had already existed between us gave us every opportunity of expressing our feelings to each other, and I promised Emily to claim her hand without further concealment, on the very day that should see me the master of my own actions.

I knew Emily too well to feel one doubt from the moment that she told me her heart was mine, and I even took no small pleasure in seeing the attention and admiration she excited when, at my wish, my mother took her out into society, and gave several large parties at our own house, for the purpose of introducing her. At these parties I paid her ordinary attentions, but no more; and left her entirely to her own guidance in regard to her conduct towards other men: and yet I cannot but say, that amongst all who flattered, and courted, and sought the beautiful heiress of the rich banker, I never saw her give the slightest encouragement to any one but myself.

I was thus perfectly at my ease; but there was one person that frequented our house, who was apparently far from being pleased at the attentions which Emily received. This was the son of a man almost omnipotent on the stock exchange.

His father, born a Jew, and converted to nominal Christianity by the revelations of self-interest, had been early connected with Mr. Somers in large pecuniary transactions, and Alfred Wild, the son, had, in consequence, always been a privileged visitor in the family. He had received a good education, was gentlemanly in his manners when no violent passion was called into action, and often proved a pleasant companion to myself, when I had nothing else to do.

His face was fine, showing the features of the Hebrew softened and refined by a considerable admixture of Teutonic blood; his grandmother having been a German, and his mother an Englishwoman; but at the same time, there were moments when it assumed an expression both of cunning and of malice which was any thing but agreeable. To me he was always excessively kind and civil, and although from very early years he saw more of Emily than any one else except myself, it never entered my thoughts to be jealous of him, nor indeed to fancy that he had any particular affection towards her, till I saw the uneasiness which he could not conceal, when at any of our parties she was singled out as an object of attention and admiration by other men.

Even when I did perceive this fact, it gave me no apprehension, for of Emily I was sure; and with the rest of the family, it was the tale of the village schoolmaster over again: my mother I had commanded all my life, and she completely commanded Mr. At length my twenty-first birthday arrived, and upon it had been fixed three great events by the members of our family. Somers had previously reserved that morning for winding up his accounts with me as executor to my father.

I had appointed it in my own mind as the day for demanding Emily's hand, and my mother had issued cards both for a great dinner-party and for a ball at night. My first meeting on that morning was with Emily, and a dear and tender meeting it was. I next visited my mother in her bed-room, where she always breakfasted, and to her I first told my purpose with regard to Emily.

At first she seemed very much surprised and a little vexed; but Emily had grown wonderfully in her good graces since she came out, and after a little while, she told me, only to make my proposal to Mr. Somers, and then to refer him to her, when she would settle every thing with him as I wished it.

Poor Emily I could see was in a terrible state of agitation during breakfast; but I gained a moment ere I followed her father to the library, to tell her that I had spoken with my mother and obtained her full consent. Nothing could have afforded her more relief; for towards her, when my mother did not interfere, Mr.

Somers was indulgence itself, and she had no doubt of his approbation, as soon as she heard that my mother's had been obtained. The first part of my business with Mr. Somers was somewhat tedious; for he insisted upon my looking over the executorial and guardianship accounts, item by item, and then, taking me to the bank, put me in possession of my own property, amounting now, by his excellent management, to more than twelve hundred per annum, independent of my mother's jointure, which was settled upon a small landed estate.

When this was all done, and we had returned to the house in Portland Place, I shook my good step-father by the hand, and thanked him warmly for all the kindness he had shown me, as well as for the prudence and skill with which he had managed to increase so largely my little patrimony. What is it? Oh, I guess! The chestnut mare! Well, you may have her. Take her, take her; she is too gay for me--getting old and heavy, James, now.

Take her, take her! It is neither more nor less than the hand of your daughter Emily. The idea had evidently never crossed Mr. Somers's mind till that moment; and from some cause my application seemed to embarrass him. Dear me! Of course I shall," replied Mr. What says the poor dear girl? Somers; "nor I either, luckily.

But I'll go and speak with your mother, James--I'll go and speak with your mother;" and he walked towards the door. Ere he reached it, however, he turned, and, holding out his hand to me, added, "I'm sure you know, my dear boy, that I will never oppose any thing that may be conducive to the happiness of Emily and yourself.

There may have been a little talk between me and an old friend about her marriage with some one else; but I have not committed myself, and I will not oppose your wishes; so go and tell her so, and make her mind easy, poor girl. The consultation between Mr.

Somers and my mother was soon brought to a close, and I was called to hear the result. After a sort of half explanation, by which I found that Mr. Somers, as he had before hinted, had embarrassed himself by speaking of Emily's marriage to somebody else, I was told that if I would consent to go abroad again for half a year, we should be united on my return; but that in the mean time, I was to leave matters exactly as they were, so that if any one else made their proposal, Emily might be able to say that it was from her own free will that she rejected him.

As far as I was concerned this was quite satisfactory, feeling as sure of Emily's conduct as if she had been already my wife; but to guard her from troublesome importunity, I made it a stipulation that no one else was to be suffered to press their suit upon her after the first proposal, and that in all cases her rejection was to be considered definite.

This was agreed to; and when Mr. Somers was gone, my mother informed me that this arrangement had been made solely to give him time to extricate himself from his embarrassment, in order that no persons might say he had been misleading them with false hopes. She herself, however, undertook to guard Emily for me, and if possible to keep all other suitors from teasing her during my absence.

I soon found that she instantly employed the surest means of obtaining that object by spreading the report of a positive engagement between Emily and myself. Her maid was first made the depositary of the secret, and thence it proceeded upwards and downwards in all directions, so that, ere dinner-time, it had reached my own servant, who, while I was dressing, congratulated me on the occasion in all due form.

From him also I first learned positively who was the rival aspirant to the hand of my sweet Emily; for my mother I suppose from fears of my violence had refused to tell me; but my servant had been recommended to me by no other than my worthy acquaintance, Alfred Wild, and now with tender malevolence, while he offered me his felicitations upon my approaching happiness, he took an opportunity of commiserating the disappointment of his late master and patron.

The day ended happily, Albert Wild did not make his appearance, Emily's mind was calm, and mine was full of hope and delight. The idea of visiting the continent was not at all disagreeable to me. I would certainly rather have taken Emily with me, but I had a great deal of the boy still in my nature, and many and marvellous were the pleasures which I anticipated from my short tour. Whither I was to direct my steps, became the first question, but that was soon decided.

I was not disposed to wander far from home. Emily besought me not to go to Paris, which I had visited twice before, and which was somewhat disturbed at the time, and I determined to cross from Brighton to Dieppe, and roam about Normandy and Brittany till the long six months were expired. Amongst the desultory stores of information which I possessed, I knew a good deal of those two provinces of Old France, and looked forward with much pleasure to exploring a part of the country, which at that time had not been so much betravelled as the rest of the country; and as both Emily's heart and my own were rendered more accessible than ever to all the wiles of imagination, I willingly promised her to collect every tale and anecdote of the lands through which I passed, and on my return to make her a sharer in all the thoughts and feelings that my visit to a foreign country, under such circumstances, called up in my bosom.

I will not dwell upon the pain I felt in quitting, even for a short period, one so deeply beloved; for no one, with an imagination less exciteable than mine was then, can conceive all the vague and whirling visions of sorrow and misfortune which assailed me in bidding her adieu for the first time since our affection for each other had grown into maturity.

At Brighton I met with an acquaintance who was bound also to France, and we agreed to travel together as far as our roads lay in the same direction. The passage took place without any occurrence worthy of note, and late in the evening, or rather in the beginning of the night, we arrived at Dieppe, and took up our abode in the dwelling of Monsieur Petit, who, at that time, kept the only tolerable inn which the place possessed. Notwithstanding love, and the pain of quitting my native land, and the somewhat sickening feeling of hope delayed, I slept as soundly as it is possible for man to sleep, and woke late the next morning to see as bright a sun as ever shone, pouring his rays in at the window.

As soon as I was dressed, I took out pencils and paper to sketch landscapes and houses, and pen and ink to sketch men and events, and I seldom ceased to employ either the one or the other for several months. I was busily preparing them for use when in walked Monsieur Petit to wish me good morning, and my meeting with him is the first sketch of that year, the course of which I am about to detail.

Let them think as they will, so I might be at liberty to act as I will, and spend my time in such a manner as is most agreeable to me. Monsieur Petit assured me, that he had nothing to do with it; for that the house had been built a hundred years before he was born. I went down to the salon. The walls were painted in imitation of porphyry, with niches containing the Venus and Apollo; but the floor was still of brick, the doors had no idea of shutting, and Venus, with the true spirit of a ci-devant , seemed more ashamed of the straw chairs and dirty deal table for ever under her nose, than even of her nudity.

Here you will find the arts and sciences in a cottage, and the loves and graces in a kitchen; and yet one is often obliged to pick one's steps in the corridor of princes. To my friend, France possessed more novelty than to me: and as we sallied forth to examine the town, the first step in this terra incognita , perhaps he thought me rather cold and uninquisitive; but what was new to him was old to me, and it had thus lost a part of its bright freshness.

It is wonderful how soon the gilded outside of the world tarnishes by use. We wandered through the streets some time, and at length arrived at the faubourg, called le Pollet , the only part of the ancient city of Dieppe, which escaped the bombardment of Their language is also totally unintelligible to the uninitiated, and there are many among them who can scarcely speak a word of French.

It is not extraordinary that such people as the Welsh, the Highlanders of Scotland, and the Bas Bretons, should maintain their ancient habits; for they may be considered as separate nations; but it is singular that the Polletais, surrounded by the French of Dieppe, and in constant communication with them, inhabiting alone a petty suburb of a petty town, should have preserved, from age to age, a total separation in manner, dress, and language.

Besides the Pollet, the only object we met of any great interest was the shop of an ivory-worker. In former days the Dieppois had a station on the coast of Africa, called also Dieppe, which supplied France with great quantities of spice, but more particularly with ivory; and it is, perhaps, from this circumstance, that the people of this country have carried the art of working in ivory to such a high degree of perfection.

If I remember rightly, Ovid describes the statue of Pygmalion as of ivory, and the beautiful copies we saw here of several celebrated figures made me easily conceive how the Greek fell in love with his own work. Indeed, so much in love were we with the work even of other people which never comes half so near our affections as our own , that it was with some difficulty we got away from the shop, and did not even do that, until our purses were lighter by several napoleons.

I would advise every one, in entering a foreign country, to remember that he cannot buy everything, however cheap it may appear. Many a man has ruined himself by such economy. The ivory we bought was certainly well worth the money, but we acquired, in addition, a little anecdote of Napoleon's wars.

While we were occupied with our purchases, a young Frenchman, with but one arm and a red ribbon at his button, looked in and spoke a few words to the turner, who, after he was gone, told us his history, with a mixture of fun and sentiment which is peculiarly French. I afterwards passed through the country in which the scene was laid, but will tell the story here. The sun was shining as fair as the sun could shine in a beautiful May morning; bright, yet gentle; warm, but fresh; midway between the watering-pot of April and the warming-pan of June, when, in the beautiful valley of Vire--every body knows Vire--but, lest there should be anybody in the wide world who does not, I will point out the means of arriving at it.

Get into the stage-coach, which journeyeth diurnally between London and Southampton; enjoy the smoothness of the road, bless Mr. M'Adam, put up at the Dolphin, and yield yourself to the full delights of an English four-post bed, for no such sweets as stage-coach, smooth road, or four-post bed, shall you know from the moment you set your foot on board the steam-boat for Havre, till the same steam-boat, or another, lands you once more on the English strand.

Supposing you then arrived at Havre--get out of it again as fast as you can; rush across the river to Honfleur; from Honfleur dart back to Caen; and after you have paused five minutes to think about William the Conqueror, put yourself into the diligence for St. Maloe, and when you have travelled just twelve leagues and a half, you will come to a long steep hill, crowned by a pretty airy-looking town, whose buildings, in some parts gathered on the very pinnacle, in others running far down the slope, seem as if coquetting with the rich valleys that woo them from below.

Go to bed; and should you bathe your feet beforehand--which if you are of our faction you will do--walk over the tiled floor of the inn bed-room, that you may have a fit opportunity of abusing tiled floors, and of relieving yourself of all the spleen in your nature before the next morning. Then, if both your mood and the day be favourably disposed, sally forth to the eastern corner of the town, and you will have a fair view over one of the loveliest valleys that nature's profuse hand ever gifted with beauty; the soft clear stream of the Vire too, is there, winding sweetly along between the green sloping hills and the rich woods, and the fields and chateaux, and hamlets, and the sunshine catching upon all its meanderings, and the birds singing it their song of love, as its calm waters roll bountifully by them.

Look upon it, and you will not find it difficult to imagine how the soul, even of an obscure artisan in a remote age, warmed into poetry and music in the bosom of that valley, and by the side of that stream. It, then, in that beautiful Vale of Vire, not many years agone at Francois Lormier went out to take his last May walk with Mariette Duval, ere the relentless conscription called him from his happy home, his sweet valleys, and his early love. It was a sad walk, as may well be imagined; for though the morning was bright, and nature, to her shame be it spoken, had put on her gayest smiles as if to mock their sorrow, yet the sunshine of the scene could not find its way to their hearts, and all seemed darkened and clouded around them.

They talked a great deal, and they talked a long time; but far be it from me to betray their private conversation. They parted--and first to follow the lady. Six months afterwards he died, when, to the wonder of the whole place, he left his large fortune to Mariette Duval! Attached to the great Northern army, he underwent all the hardships of the campaigns in Poland and Russia, but still he never lost his cheerfulness, for the thought of Mariette kept his heart warm, and even a Russian winter could not freeze him.

All through that miserable retreat, he made the best of every thing. As long as he had a good tender piece of saddle, he did not want a dinner; and when he met with a comfortable dead horse to creep into, he found board and lodging combined. His courage and his powers of endurance called upon him, from the first, the eyes of one whose best quality was the impartiality of his recompense. The star of Napoleon went down, and foreign armies trod the heart of France.

Pass we over the rest. The cottage was gone; and on inquiring for Madame Duval, he was directed to a fine farm-house by the banks of the stream. He thought there must be some mistake, but yet he dragged his heavy limbs thither, and knocked timidly against the door.

A painter must raise his ideas beyond what he sees, and form a model of perfection in his own mind, which is not to be found in reality, but yet such a one as is probable and rational. When I was a child, nothing pleased me so much as the woodcuts in Gay's fables, and my nurse could do any thing with me if she promised me a pretty picture. The taste has grown up with me, and I have as much difficulty in passing a printseller's window without looking in, as some people have in passing a book-stall.

In returning from our ramble, we fell upon a shop of the kind; but that which most amused us was an engraving of the departure of Louis XVIII. In truth, there was little to be represented, except the good old king getting into his carriage in a great fright. But the object of the painter was to represent the sorrow of the people of Paris; and for this purpose he has drawn the two sentinels in tears, one hiding his eyes with his hand, and the other on his knees, not a little embarrassed with his musket, while a great many other tragic attitudes were expended in the background.

Frenchmen in many of their undertakings seem striving to do better than nature, and, consequently, nine times out of ten they caricature what they attempt. Their most glaring efforts of this kind are in painting and engraving, and there they appear to have totally forgotten that the beau ideal does not consist in generating what nature never produced, but in assembling the most beautiful objects which naturally harmonize together.

Painting is one of the most purely imitative of the arts, and the utmost licence which its greatest masters have allowed it, is simply the power of choosing and combining what is pleasing to the eye, and rejecting all that can offend it. This, however, does not content the present school of painting in France. They must have something such as never was, and never will be, and in their colouring especially they have succeeded to a miracle.

David's naked Spartans are brilliant instances of how far art can go beyond nature; for certainly never was any thing seen under heaven like the skins of those polished gentlemen. Perhaps the great corrector of all things, time, may deprive these pictures of their adventitious glare of colouring; but even then, though they may be admired for their fine bold outline, one violent defect can never be banished, the forced and extravagant attitudes of some of the principal figures.

David had certainly a strange penchant for sans-culotteism; he never missed an opportunity of leaving his heroes without any apparel except a helmet, which sits rather preposterously on a naked man. The grand and dignified simplicity of the ancient masters forms a most striking contrast with the laboured and overcharged productions of the present French school.

A modern painter, certainly possessing very great talent, has attempted a picture of the deluge. He has crowded into it great many horrors, all very horrible; but the principal group will be sufficient. It consists of a family vainly endeavouring to escape from the surrounding destruction by climbing a rock in the foreground. The agonies of such a moment might have been expressed most touchingly, had the artist chosen to keep within the bounds of moderation: but no, he must out-herod Herod; and, consequently, he has contrived to make one of the most dreadful situations the human mind can conceive actually ludicrous.

The wife for her part suffers considerable inconvenience from a young gentleman behind, who, having a mortal aversion to being drowned, has got his mother fast hold by the hair, by means of which he almost pulls her head off her shoulders. The whole family are certainly not very comfortably situated; and, in fact, the old gentleman who is riding on his son's shoulders is the only one at all at his ease, and he appears to have a very good seat, and not to care much about it.

Yet I have heard this picture lauded to the skies both in France and England. Poussin painted a picture on the same subject. It scarcely could be surpassed. The scene is a wild mountainous desert, which the ever-rising waters have nearly covered. The ark is seen floating in the distance, and a solitary flash of lightning, shown dimly through the thick rain, breaks across the lurid clouds in the background.

Amongst the dull bleak rocks in front, a monstrous serpent winds its way slowly up, to avoid the growing waves. The sky lowers upon the earth, and the earth looks heavily back to the sky: all is wild, silent, and solemn; one awful gloom, and mighty desolation. In every art but that of music, and perhaps even there in a degree, nature furnishes us with a standard by which to regulate our taste.

In judging of what is most beautiful in nature herself, there may be many opinions; but that which is out of nature altogether must always be in bad taste. The same Being which formed every thing in this beautiful world formed equally our minds to enjoy and admire it. He made nature for man, and man for nature, with perfect harmony between his soul and all that surrounds it; and the least deviation from those forms, to which the great Artist restrained his work is discord to the human mind.

Whenever we see any thing distorted from its original shape, or represented in circumstances in which it could not have been placed, without thinking, of why, our taste revolts as from something impossible and untrue. With respect to engraving I can say but little, as I have no knowledge of the art; but it strikes me that in modern French prints, at least, there is hardness without force, and feebleness without softness; nor have I ever seen the beautiful roundness of flesh well represented.

A French, artist of some merit assured me, one morning, that the arts had now migrated from Italy to receive their highest degree of perfection in France. In that point, I believe, every other nation on the face of the earth will be found to differ from this favoured people.

But there is, however, one observation to be made, not only with respect to painting, but to all other arts. They are far more generally diffused in France than in England. The French have always conceived perfection in the arts to be a part of the national glory. Their king and statesmen have thought the encouragement of arts and sciences at home, to be as much a part of their duty, as the defence of their country in the field, or the maintenance of its interests in the cabinet; and the wise spirit which has actuated them of course has produced its result upon the minds of the people.

The taste for what is beautiful--one great step to the taste for what is good--is general throughout France, and every one strives to gratify it in its degree. Amongst us it is the wealthy and the great alone, who have the inclination to seek, or the power to patronize, the arts; and paintings or statues are found almost solely in their collections. In France, every second person is taught to draw, whether he succeeds or not. Every little town has its gallery and museum; all the world are admitted to study if they like, and improve if they can; and the chimney-sweep and the peer stand side by side to criticise or admire.

A walk through a strange town after dark possesses fully as much interest as a walk in the day-time, if it be but well timed and properly conducted. There is a pleasure in the very act of exploring, which can never be so fully enjoyed as when we find our way through any unknown place half hidden in the obscurity of night. But it is necessary that it should not be all darkness. We should choose our time when the greater part of the people have shaken off the load of cares which weigh them down in the light, and when national character walks forth freed from the bonds of daily drudgery: yet it should be long before man has extinguished his mimicry of heaven's best gift, and whilst most of the shops are lighted up, shining out like diamonds in the gloom around.

I had been preaching this doctrine to my friend after dinner, till I fairly persuaded him to turn theory into practice, and try a night ramble in the town of Dieppe; though our landlord, Monsieur Petit, who, looking upon us as true Englishmen, doubtless counted upon our drinking another bottle if we stayed at home, informed us that there was absolutely nothing to be seen in Dieppe, for that the theatre was closed. However, forth we sallied, like the Knight of La Mancha and his Squire, in quest of adventures.

At first we tumbled over some posts, and then hid nearly fallen into the basin; but after this we found our way into some of the principal streets, which were all filled with a sauntering do-nothing crowd, and ringing with the idle merry laugh which always springs from the careless heart of a Frenchman as soon as he is free from labour or pain. There is no medium with him; merriment or melancholy, and as much of the first with as little of the last as Heaven chooses to send.

At the bottom of one of the streets was a low Gothic archway, with a swinging door, which we saw move backwards and forwards to admit several persons of a more serious demeanour than the rest. After considering whether it was love or religion made them look so grave, we concluded that it was the latter, and determined to attempt, in person, the adventure of the swinging door, which soon admitted us into a long high aisle. All was darkness except, where, at the further extremity, appeared an illuminated shrine, from which sundry rays found their way down the far obscurity of the church, catching, more and more faintly, as they came upon the tall columns and the groins of the arches, and throwing out the dark figures of the devotees who knelt before the altar.

The side aisles and more remote parts of the building were scarcely at all affected by the light; but passing up in the shadow of the arches to the right, we came suddenly upon a young couple engaged in earnest conversation. Probably two of the many whose open communion is barred by the hand of circumstance, and who had chosen that spot to tell the feelings they were forced elsewhere to hide.

The facility which the ceremonies of the Roman Catholic religion lend to intrigue, requires no comment. But too often the ever-open churches on the Continent are made a place of rendezvous; frequently with thoughts which such a sacred spot should scare, but often also for more pardonable purposes. I remember a circumstance of the kind which happened under my own eyes; but ere I begin to tell it or any other story, let me premise that, as most of my tales are true tales, and as many of the people who figure in them are still acting their part upon life's busy stage, I must bargain for one concealment throughout, and take care not to give the name of the particular person who played this or that part on this or that occasion.

Indeed, most frequently, I shall not even put down, with any degree of accuracy, the name of the town or place in which the various events occurred, for this very simple reason; that, making no pretensions to novelty or invention, and all that I relate being simple matter of fact, well known in the place where it occurred, the anecdotes I relate would be easily attached to those who were the principal actors therein.

Under this discreet view of the case, then, the distinctive appellation of the town, city, or burgh, in which the following circumstances occurred, shall be as tightly sealed up in silent secrecy as a bottle of Hervey's sauce, Ball's patent mustard, or any other savoury thing which it is difficult to open. However, though I do not give the name, I may at least give the description, which, indeed, is necessary to the right understanding of my story.

In a part of France, not a hundred miles from the fine port of St. Malo, stands a town containing some eight thousand inhabitants; anciently a fortified place of considerable strength. It is pitched on the pinnacle of a high hill, with its antique battlements, covered with time's livery, the green ivy and the yellow lichen, still frowning over the peaceful valleys around, and crowning the rocky ridge which confines the river Rance.

That valley of the Rance is as lovely as any in Europe; now spreading out for miles, it offers a wide basin for the river, which, extending in proportion; looks like a broad lake; now contracting to a narrow gorge, it confines the stream between gigantic rocks that rise abruptly from its edge, and sombre woods that dip their very branches in its waters. But it is where the town, which I have just mentioned, first bursts upon the sight, that the scenery is peculiarly picturesque.

Winding through a deep defile of rocks, which cut off the neighbouring view and throw a dark shadow over the river, the stream suddenly turns a projecting point of its shores, and a landscape of unequalled beauty opens on the sight. Rich wooded valleys, with soft green slopy sides, broken with crags, and diversified with hamlets, are seen diverging in every direction, with the Rance winding forward in the midst of them; while high in air, lording it over all around, rises the stately rock on which the town is placed, with wall and battlement and tower hanging over its extreme verge.

In front, and apparently immediately under the town, though in reality at about two miles distant from it, lies a high craggy piece of ground, which the water would completely encircle were it not for a narrow sort of isthmus which joins it to its parent chain of hills. In the town which I have above described, lived, sometime ago, a very pretty girl, whom I shall designate by the name of Laure. Her mother was well to do in the world; that is to say, as things go in Brittany, where people can live splendidly for nothing at all, and do very well for half as much.

Laure's father, too, had left the young lady a little property of her own, amounting to about eighty pounds per annum; so that, being both a fortune and a belle, all the youth of the place, according to the old Scotch song, were.

However, there was something about Laure which some called pride, and others coldness; but which, in truth, was nothing more nor less than shyness, that served for some time as a complete safeguard to her maiden heart. At length the angel, who arranges all those sort of things, singled out a young man at Rennes, called Charles and gave him a kick with his foot, which sent him all the way from Rennes to the town in which Laure abode.

It is but thirty miles, and angels can kick much farther, if we may believe the Normans. I cannot stop for it now; but some other time, when the reader is in the mood, I may relate that Breton story of Saint Michael and the Fiend, and you shall hear how the saint kicked him from hill to hill for forty leagues or more. However, Charles's aunt lived not far from Laure's mother, and many a time had she vaunted the graces of her nephew's person.

According to her account he was as tall and as straight as a gas-lamp-post, as rosy as a Ribston pippin; with eyes as brilliant as a red-hot poker, teeth as white as the inside of a turnip, and his hair curling like the leaves of a Savoy cabbage; in short, he was an Adonis, after her idea of the thing: and Laure, having heard all this, began to feel a sort of anxious palpitating sort of sensation when his coming was talked of, together with sundry other symptoms of wishing very much to fall in love.

Laure got ready in a very great hurry, resolving, primo , to be frightened out of her wits at him; and, secondo , not to speak a word to him. However, the time came, and when she got into the room, she found Monsieur Charles quite as handsome as his aunt had represented: but, to her great surprise, she found him to be quite as timid as herself into the bargain.

So Laure took courage upon the strength of his bashfulness; for though it might be very well for one , she saw plainly it would never do for two. The evening passed off gaily, and Laure, as she had determined from the first, went away over head and ears in love, and left the poor young man in quite as uncomfortable a condition. I need not conduct the reader through all the turnings and windings of their passion.

Suffice it to say, that both being very active, and loving each other very hard, they had got on so far in six weeks, that their friends judged it would be necessary to marry them. Upon this Laure's mother and Charles's aunt met in form to discuss preliminaries. They began a few compliments, went on to arrange the money matters, proceeded to differ upon some trivial points, grew a little warm upon the subject, turned up their noses at each other, quarrelled like Turks, and abused each other like pickpockets.

Charles's aunt called Laure's mother an old cat, or something equivalent! The two young people were in despair. Laure received a maternal injunction never to speak to that vile young man again: together with a threat of being locked up if she were restive. She would not have staid away from mass for all the world. So to church she went, when, to her surprise and astonishment, she beheld Charles standing in the little chapel of the left aisle.

Laure felt a good deal too much agitated to say her prayers properly, and, looking about the church, she perceived that, as she had come half an hour before the time, there was nobody there, so slipping her arm through that of her lover, she tripped nimbly along with him down the back street, under the Gothic arch and high towers of the old town gate, and in five minutes was walking with him in the fields unobserved.

Now what a long sad pastoral dialogue could one produce between Laure and Charles as they walked along, setting forth, in the language of Florian, and almost in the language of Estelle, the poetical sorrows of disappointed love. It would be too long, however; and the summary of the matter is, that they determined that they were very unhappy--the most miserable people in existence--now that they were separated from each other, there was nothing left in life worth living for.

So Laure began to cry, and Charles vowed he would drown himself. Laure thought it was a very good idea, and declared that she would drown herself too. For she had been reading all Saturday a German romance, which taught such things; and she thought what a delightful tale it would make, if she and Charles drowned themselves together; and how all the young ladies would cry when they read it, and what a pretty tomb they would have, with "Ci gissent Charles et Laure, deux amans malheureux!

The water was before them, and the only question was, who should jump in first, for the little landing-place from which they were to leap would hold but one at a time. Charles declared that he would set the example. Laure vowed it should be no one but herself: Charles insisted, but Laure, being nearest the water, gained the contested point and plunged over. At that moment the thought of what he was going to do came over Charles's mind with a sad qualm of conscience, and he paused for an instant on the brink.

But what could he do? He could not stand by and see the girl he loved drowned before his face, like an intruding rat or a supernumerary kitten. Forbid it heaven! Forbid it love! Demolish the architect who suggests such a thing? The name, derived, suggestively enough, from lutum , the Latin for mud, has been invested with a peculiar significance by those stern moralists who see in Paris nothing but a sink of iniquity.

Lutetia, however, can afford to smile alike at the slurs of moralists and the sneers of cynics; and the etymology of her name need by no means alarm those of her admirers who will reflect that lilies may spring from mud, and that the richest corn is produced from the blackest soil. As to the dimensions of the ancient Lutetia, neither historians nor geographers are wholly agreed. Then, simulating a retreat along the left bank of the Seine, he was pursued by the Gauls, in spite of Camulogenes, their cautious leader; who, unable to restrain them, fell with them at last into an ambuscade, in which chief and followers all perished.

Raoul de Presles gives some interesting details about the marsh which Labienus, on making his advance against Paris, was unable to cross. Some identify it with the Marshes of the Temple, which formed, on the north of Paris, a continuous semicircle; but Raoul de Presles seems to hold that the marsh which stopped the advance of Labienus protected Lutetia itself: that Lutetia of the Island which sprang from the mud as Venus sprang from the sea.

After the victory of Labienus, Lutetia, which the conqueror had destroyed, was quickly re-built; and it was then governed as a Roman town. Thus it may safely be said that of the original Lutetia nothing whatever is known. It is certain, nevertheless, that in the new Lutetia, built by the Romans, the most important edifices stood at the western end of the island, including a palace, on whose site was afterwards to be erected the Palace of the French Kings; while at the eastern end the most striking object was a Temple to Jupiter, in due time to be replaced by the Cathedral of Notre-Dame.

Encouraged, no doubt, by what Julian, in his enthusiasm, told them about the already attractive capital of Gaul, a whole series of Roman emperors visited the city, including Valentinian I. More than a century before in St.

Denis had undergone martyrdom on the banks of the Seine, walking about after decapitation with his head under his arm. This strange tradition had probably its origin in a picture by some simple-minded painter, who had represented St.

Denis carrying his own head like a parcel, because he could think of no more ingenious way of indicating the fate that had befallen the first apostle of Christianity in Gaul; just as St. Bartholomew has often been painted with his skin hanging across his arm like a loose overcoat. After the defeat and death of Gratian, the government of Lutetia passed into the hands of her bishops, who often defended the city against the incursions of the barbarians. In Lutetia was besieged by the Franks, when Childeric gained possession of it, and destroyed for ever all traces of the Roman power.

In the ninth century Paris underwent the usual Norman invasion, by which so many European countries, from Russia to England, and from England to Sicily—not to speak of the Norman or Varangian Guard of Constantinople—were sooner or later to be visited. Sixteen years later, after a sufficient interval to allow of a reconstruction, the Normans again returned, when once more the unhappy city was plundered and burnt. For twenty successive years Paris was the constant prey of the Norman pirates who held beneath their power the whole course of the Seine.

With the advent of the Capet Dynasty a continuous history began for Paris—in due time to become the capital of all France. Ancient Paris was three times burnt to the ground: the Paris which dates from the ninth century has often been conquered, but never burnt. Ancient Paris, the Lutetia of the Romans, was an island enclosed between two branches of the Seine.

Then under Louis XVI. Paris extended in time even to these outer boulevards. Then, under Louis-Philippe, at the instigation of his Minister, M. Thiers, a line of fortifications was constructed around Paris; which, proving insufficient in and to save the capital from bombardment, has in its turn been surrounded by a circle of outlying detached forts intercommunicating with one another.

The fortifications of Paris have had a strange history. At the time of their being planned, opinions in France were divided as to whether they were intended to oppose a foreign invasion or to control an internal revolt. In all probability they were meant, according to the occasion, to serve either purpose. They were not only designed by M. Paris had been invaded and occupied in , and again in On the other hand, domestic government had been upset in by a popular insurrection, which, with adequate military force to oppose it, might at once have been suppressed.

Was it as patriot, people asked, or as minister of a would-be despotic king, that M. Thiers proposed to raise around Paris a new and formidable wall? They did not in prevent the French capital from falling into the hands of the Germans: but they delayed for a considerable time the fatal moment of surrender; and if the army of Metz could have held out a few weeks longer—if, above all, the inhabitants of the inactive south, who practically took no part in the war, had been prepared, to fight with something like the energy displayed by the Confederates against the Federals during the American Civil War—then the fortifications would have justified the views of those who had chiefly regarded them as a valuable defence against foreign invasion.

The fortifications erected by M. In time Lutetia, with fresh developments, may require yet another new girdle. AN effective contrast might be drawn between London and Paris. But, unlike as they are in so many features, physical, moral, and historical, they differ most widely, perhaps, by the relative parts they have played in the history of their respective countries.

The history of Paris is the history of France itself. The decisive battles which brought the great civil and religious wars of the country to an end were fought outside or in the very streets of Paris. It was in Paris that the massacre of St. Bartholomew—darkest blot on the French annals—was perpetrated. In England, on the other hand, London had little or nothing to do with the battles of the great Rebellion, the Revolution, or the two insurrections by which the Revolution was followed.

But the English visitor to Paris is in the first place struck by external points of dissimilarity. As regards the difference in the structural physiognomy of the two great capitals less pronounced now than at one time, though Paris is still loftily, and London for the most part dwarfishly, built , it was ingeniously remarked, some fifty years ago, that the architecture of one city seemed vertical, of the other horizontal.

To pass from the houses to their inhabitants, the population of Paris is as remarkable for variety as that of London for uniformity of costume. For in Paris almost every class has its own distinctive dress. In England, and especially in London, the employer and his workmen, the millionaire and the crossing-sweeper, wear coats of the same pattern. In London, again, every work-girl, every market-woman, wears a bonnet imitated more or less perfectly from those worn by ladies of fashion.

Shop-girls and work-girls in Paris wear neat white caps instead of ill-made, or, it may be, dilapidated bonnets; though the more aspiring among them reserve the right of appearing in a bonnet on Sundays and holidays. The French workman wears a blouse and a cap, and looks upon the hat as a sign, if not of superiority, at least of pretension.

Owing to the varieties of dress already touched upon, a crowd in Paris presents a less gloomy, less monotonous appearance than the black-coated mobs of London; and in harmony with the greater relief afforded by the different colours of the costumes are the animated gestures of the persons composing the crowd. Observe, indeed, a mere group of persons conversing on no matter what commonplace subject, or idly chatting as they sip their coffee together on the boulevards, and they appear to be engaged in some violent dispute.

To mention yet another point on which Paris differs from London: the most interesting part of Paris lies on the right bank of the Seine, whereas all that is interesting in London lies on the left bank of the Thames. The left bank of the Seine possesses, however, buildings and streets of historical interest. On the other hand, there is scarcely on the left bank one good hotel: certainly not one that could put forward the slightest pretension to being fashionable.

Nor, except in the case of professional men connected with the hospitals or the schools, would anyone mixing in fashionable society care to give his address anywhere on the left bank. Jules Janin, one of the most distinguished writers of his time, and one of the most popular men in the great world of Paris from the reign of Louis Philippe until that of Napoleon III.

But Janin possessed a certain originality, and thought more of what suited himself than of what pleased others. On one occasion, having engaged to fight a duel, he failed to put in an appearance by reason of the inclemency of the weather and his disinclination to get out of bed at the early hour for which the meeting had been fixed.

Such a man would not be ashamed to live on the left bank if he happened to have found a place there which harmonised with his tastes. At the same time, no sort of comparison can be established between the transpontine districts of Paris and those of London. Even Jules Janin, had he been an Englishman, would have declined to live in the region of Blackfriars or the Waterloo Road.

Here, indeed, all that is most important in the artistic, financial, and fashionable life of the capital may be found within a small compass. All the best clubs, too, all the best book-shops and music-shops, are to be found on the most fashionable part of the boulevard, extending from the Boulevard des Italiens, past the Opera House, to the adjacent Church of the Madeleine: architecturally a repetition of the Bourse, as though commerce and religion demanded temples of the same character.

Meanwhile, the strangest as well as the most significant things have been witnessed inside the ancient metropolitan church of Paris. Among the curious objects deposited from time to time on the altar of Notre Dame may be mentioned a wand which Louis VII. When, next day, Louis, arriving at Paris, went, after his custom, to the cathedral in order to render thanks for his safe journey, he was astonished to find the gates of Notre Dame closed.

At this terrible announcement the king groaned, sighed, wept, and begged forgiveness, humbly protesting that but for the gloom of night and the spontaneous hospitality of the inhabitants—so courteous that a refusal on his part would have been most uncivil—he would never have touched that fatal supper. Louis XI. Before the discovery of printing, in , manuscript books at Paris, as elsewhere, were so rare and so dear that students had much trouble in procuring even those which were absolutely necessary for their instruction.

Accordingly, when Louis XI. Among the many legends told in connection with Notre Dame is a peculiarly fantastic one, according to which the funeral service of a canon named Raimond Diocre, famed for his sanctity, was being celebrated by St. Bruno, when, at a point where the clergy chanted the words: Responde mihi quantas habes iniquitates? Once more there was a panic and general flight.

Witness of this terrible scene, St. Bruno renounced the world, did penance, became a monk, and founded the Order of Les Chartreux. The incident has been depicted by Lesueur, who received a commission to record on canvas the principal events in the life of the saint. It is looked upon as certain by the historians of Paris that the Cathedral of Notre Dame stands on the site formerly occupied by a heathen temple.

But how and when the transformation took place is not known, though the period is marked more or less precisely by the date of the introduction of Christianity into France. Little confidence, however, is to be placed in those authors who declare that the Paris cathedral was founded in the middle of the third century by St. Denis, the first apostle of Christianity in France; for at the very time when St. Denis was preaching the Gospel to the Parisians the severest edicts were still in force against Christians.

It cannot, then, be supposed that the officials of the Roman Empire would have tolerated the erection of a Christian church. It can be shown, however, that under the episcopacy of Bishop Marcellus, about the year , there already existed a Christian church in the city of Paris, on the borders of the Seine and on the eastern point of the island, where a Roman temple had formerly stood. Towards the end of the sixth century the cathedral was composed of two edifices, close together, but quite distinct.

One of these was dedicated to the Virgin, the other to St. Stephen the Martyr. Gradually, however, the Church of our Lady was extended and developed until it touched and embraced the Church of St. The Church of St. Mary, as many called it, was the admiration of its time. Its vaulted roofs were supported by columns of marble, and Venantius Fortunatus, Bishop of Poitiers, declares that this was the first church which received the rays of the sun through glass windows.

More than once it is said to have been burnt during the incursions of the Normans. But this is a matter of mere tradition, and the destruction of the cathedral by fire, whether it ever occurred or not, is held in any case to have been only partial. Stephen St. Etienne , which had been left in its original state, without addition or renovation. The plan of the cathedral has, like that of other cathedrals, been changed from century to century; but in spite of innumerable modifications, the original plan asserts itself.

From the fourteenth to the seventeenth century the Church of Notre Dame was left nearly untouched. The outside statues were first threatened, but Chaumette saved them by dwelling upon their supposed astronomical and mythological importance. The cathedral at the same time lost its name. Temple of Reason it was now, until the re-establishment of public worship, to be called.

Then new mutilations were constantly perpetrated, until at last, in , the work of restoring the cathedral was placed in competent hands, when, thanks to the learning, the labour, and the taste of MM. Why describe the ancient monument, when it is so much simpler to represent through drawings and engravings its most characteristic features?

Some of the most interesting, most curious facts of its history may, however, be appropriately related. An attempt was made by a thief to steal from the altar of Notre Dame its candlesticks. After concealing himself in the roof, the man, aided by other members of his band, let down ropes, and, encircling the silver ornaments, drew them upwards to his hiding-place. In performing this exploit, however, he set fire to the hangings of the church, by which much damage was caused. The interior of Notre Dame has in different centuries been turned to the most diverse purposes.

Here at one time, in view of Church festivals, vendors of fruits and flowers held market. At other times religious mysteries, and even mundane plays, have been performed; while in the thirteenth century the Paris cathedral was the recognised asylum of all who suffered in mind or body. A particular part of the building was reserved for patients, who were attended by physicians in holy orders. It was provided by a special edict that this hospital within a church should be kept lighted at night by ten lamps.

All attempts, however, to keep order were in vain; and in consequence of the noise made by the invalids while religious service was going on, they were, one and all, excluded from the cathedral. During the troubles caused by the captivity of King John the citizens of Paris made a vow to offer every year to Our Lady a wax candle as long as the boundary-line of the city.

Every year the municipal body carried the winding taper, with much pomp, to the Church of Notre Dame, where it was received by the bishop and the canons in solemn assembly. The pious vow was kept for five hundred and fifty years, but ceased to be fulfilled at the time of the religious wars and of the League.

In Notre Dame, too, were suspended the principal flags taken from the enemy, though it was only during war time that they were thus exhibited. When peace returned, the flags were put carefully out of sight. Notre Dame, while honouring peace, was itself the scene of frequent disturbances, caused by quarrels between high religious functionaries on questions of precedence.

These disputes often occurred when the representatives of foreign Powers wished to take a higher position than in the opinion of their hosts was due to them. A number of the robbers had entered the church in the early morning, and had succeeded in climbing up and concealing themselves behind the tapestry of the roof. Their pockets were filled with stones, and at a pre-concerted signal, just as the priest began to read the first verse of the second Psalm in the service of Vespers, they shouted in a loud voice, threw their missiles among the congregation, and cried out that the roof was falling in.

A frightful panic ensued, during which the confederates of the thieves overhead helped themselves to watches, purses, and whatever valuables they could find on the persons of the terrified worshippers. It was at Notre Dame, on the 10th of November, , that the Feast of Reason was celebrated, the Goddess of Reason being impersonated by a well-known actress, the beautiful Mlle.

In , under the reign of Henry IV. The popularity of sorcery in Paris towards the end of the sixteenth century is easily accounted for by the fact that kings, queens, and nobles habitually consulted astrologers. Catherine de Medicis was one of the chief believers in all kinds of superstitious practices; and a column used to be shown in the flower-market from which she observed at night the course of the stars. This credulous and cruel queen wore round her waist a skin of vellum, or, as some maintained, the skin of a child, inscribed with figures, letters, and other characters in different colours, as well as a talisman, prepared for her by the astrologer Regnier, an engraving of which may be found in the Journal of Henry III.

Magic was employed not only for self-preservation, but with the most murderous intentions. When it was used to destroy an enemy, his effigy was prepared in wax; and the thrusts and stabs inflicted upon the figure were supposed to be felt by the original. But Cosmo Ruggieri was condemned, all the same, to the galleys; though his sentence—thanks, no doubt, to the personal influence of Catherine de Medicis—was never executed.

They prepared at the same time images of wax, which they placed on many of the altars of Paris, and then celebrated forty masses during forty hours. Thirteen years later, under the reign of Henry IV. Marie de Medicis employed, even whilst in exile, a magician named Fabroni, much hated by Richelieu, for whom Fabroni had predicted a speedy death.

It was in front of Notre Dame that by order of the princes, dukes, peers, and marshals of France, assembled in the Grand Chamber of Parliament, Damiens was condemned to do penance before being tortured and torn to pieces. He was to be tormented, by methods no matter how barbarous, until he revealed his accomplices, and was also required to make the amende honorable before the principal door of Notre Dame.

Finally, his goods were to be confiscated, the house where he was born pulled down, and his name stigmatised as infamous, and for ever forbidden thenceforth, under the severest penalties, to be borne by any French subject. Damiens had been educated far above his rank. His moral character, however, was peculiarly bad. His changeableness of disposition was noticed during his imprisonment at Versailles.

Sometimes he seemed thoroughly composed, as though he had suffered nothing and had nothing to suffer; at other times he burst into sudden and vehement passions, and attempted to kill himself against the walls of his dungeon or with the chains on his feet. As in one of his furious fits he had tried to bite off his tongue, his teeth were all drawn, in accordance with an official order. His guards remained at his side night and day, taking note of the cries and exclamations which escaped him in the midst of his sufferings.

But Damiens had nothing to confess, and on the 28th of January he was carried, with his flesh lacerated and charred by fire, his bones broken, to the place of execution. Then he was torn with pincers in the arms and legs, the thighs and the breast, and into his wounds were poured red hot lead and boiling oil, with pitch, wax, and sulphur melted and mixed. The sufferer endured these tortures with surprising energy.

The end of the hideous tragedy was the dismemberment. The four traditional horses were not enough. Two more were added, and still the operation did not advance. The torture of Damiens lasted many hours, and it was not till midnight, when both his legs and one of his arms had been torn off, that his remaining arm was dragged from the socket. The life of the poor wretch could scarcely have lasted so long as did the execution of the sentence passed upon him.

A report of the trial was published by the Registrar of the Parliament; but the original record being destroyed, it is impossible to test the authenticity of this report. Ivan the Terrible, when his digestion was out of order, and he felt unequal to the effort of breakfasting, used to revive his jaded appetite by visiting the prisons and seeing criminals tortured.

On the day of the execution, according to Mr. Wraxall tells the story somewhat differently. He was accused of attending all executions, disguised sometimes, to elude notice, in female attire. Among the minor celebrations of which the interior of Notre Dame has been the scene may be mentioned a mass said some twenty years before the Revolution for the broken arm of the famous dancer, Madeleine Guimard.

Then it was that the services of the Church were invoked on behalf of the popular ballerina. The interesting and graceful, though far from beautiful, Madeleine, was justly esteemed by the clergy; for during the severe winter of she had given to every destitute family in her neighbourhood enough to live on for a year, at the same time paying personal visits to each of them.

Peter when it knocks at the gate of Paradise. The Paris Cathedral has, strangely enough, been the scene, both in ancient and modern times, of dramatic performances. Soon afterwards, music, history, and religion were once more to be intermingled. This was in August, The most imposing ceremony ever witnessed within the walls of Notre Dame was, as before said, the Coronation of Napoleon Bonaparte, at the hands of the Pope, on Sunday, the 2nd December, He was accompanied by a numerous body of clergy, gorgeously attired and resplendently ornamented, whilst his escort consisted of detachments of the Imperial Guard.

A richly decorated portico had been erected all around the Place Notre Dame to receive on their descent from the royal carriages the sovereigns and princes who were to proceed to the ancient basilica. Already, when the Pope entered the church, there were assembled within it the deputies of the towns, the representatives of the magistracy and the army, the sixty bishops, with their clergy, the Senate, the Legislative Body, the Council of State, the Princes of Nassau, Hesse, and Baden, the Arch-Chancellor of the Germanic Empire, and the ministers of the different European Powers.

The great door of Notre Dame had been closed, because the back of the Imperial throne was placed against it. The church, therefore, was entered by the side doors, situated at the two extremities of the transept. When the Pope, preceded by the cross and by the insignia of his office, appeared, the whole assembly rose from their seats, and a body of five hundred instrumentalists and vocalists gave forth with sublime effect the sacred chant, Tu es Petrus.

The Pope walked slowly towards the altar, before which he knelt, and then took his place on a throne that had been prepared for him to the right of the altar. The sixty prelates of the French Church presented themselves in succession to salute him, and the arrival of the Imperial family was now awaited. The cathedral had been magnificently adorned.

Hangings of velvet, sprinkled with golden bees, descended from roof to pavement. At the foot of the altar stood two plain arm-chairs which the Emperor and Empress were to occupy before the ceremony of crowning. The Emperor did not arrive until considerably after the hour appointed, and the position of the Pope was a painful one during this long delay, which was due to the excessive precautions taken to prevent the two processions from getting mixed.

The Emperor set out from the Tuileries in a carriage which seemed entirely made of glass, and which was surmounted by gilt genii bearing a crown. He was attired in a costume designed expressly for the occasion, in the style of the sixteenth century. He wore a plumed hat and a short mantle. He was not to assume the Imperial robes until he had entered the cathedral. Escorted by his marshals on horseback, he advanced slowly along the Rue St. On reaching the portico, already spoken of, Napoleon alighted from his carriage and walked towards the cathedral.

Beside him was borne the grand crown, in the form of a tiara, modelled after that of Charlemagne. Having entered the church to the sound of solemn music, he knelt, and then passed on to the chair which he was to occupy before taking possession of the throne.

The ceremony then began. The sceptre, the sword, and the Imperial robe had been placed on the altar. The Pope anointed the Emperor on the forehead, the arms, and the hands; then blessed the sword, with which he girded him, and the sceptre, which he placed in his hand; and finally proposed to take up the crown. Napoleon, however, saved him all possible trouble in the matter by crowning himself.

Napoleon, taking the crown of the Empress, now approached Josephine, and as she knelt before him, placed it with visible tenderness upon her head, whereupon she burst into tears. He next proceeded towards the grand throne, and, as he ascended it, was followed by his brothers, bearing the train of his robe. Then the Pope, according to custom, advanced to the foot of the throne to bless the new sovereign, and to chant the very words which greeted Charlemagne in the basilica of St.

The coronation of Napoleon has been made the subject of a masterpiece by David, whose work may be seen, and with interest studied, in the galleries of Versailles. The moment chosen by the painter is that at which the Emperor, after crowning himself with his own hands, is about to place the crown on the head of Josephine, in presence of the Pope, the cardinals, the prelates, the princes, the princesses, and the great dignitaries of the Empire.

There are no less than figures in this composition, and the portraits, conscientiously painted, are, for the most part, very like. The two principal figures occupy the centre of the picture. Napoleon is standing up on one of the steps of the altar, clad in a long tunic of white satin and a heavy cloak of crimson velvet sprinkled with golden bees. His hands are raised in the air, holding the crown which he is about to place on the head of the Empress. Josephine is kneeling on a cushion of violet velvet, attired in a white dress, above which she wears a crimson cloak sprinkled with bees, held up by Mme.

Behind the Emperor is the Pope, seated in an arm-chair and holding up his right hand in sign of blessing. David had originally represented Pius VII. Napoleon, however, insisted on the painter giving him the attitude just described. His Napoleon is radiant with health, strength, and genius.

The face of Josephine beams with conjugal tenderness and exquisite grace. The group formed by the Pope and the clergy is exceedingly fine. The execution of this picture occupied David four years. You have exactly seized my idea. You have made me a French knight. I am obliged to you for transmitting to future ages the proof of an affection I wished to give to her who shares with me the responsibilities of government.

When the picture was exhibited a friendly critic pointed out to the painter that he had made the Empress younger and prettier than she really was. ONE of the oldest and most interesting churches in Paris is that of St. Still, at the present time, in a perfect state of preservation, it was built about the year ; and just one thousand years afterwards, in , the signal for the massacre of St. Philip II. Catherine de Medicis and her son Charles IX. Before speaking of the principal incidents of this ghastly day, a glance is necessary at the events which preceded it.

Charles IX. But the dominating figure of the assembly was the too famous Duke of Alva, worthy confidant and adviser of Philip II. But so little sincerity was there in the compact of peace, that just after the assembly had broken up Coligny was apprised that a plot had been formed for his assassination.

He complained to the king, and was now more than ever on his guard. The whole of the Protestant party became filled with mistrust; and observing this, Catherine de Medicis determined to strike her blow at once. It was difficult, of course, to raise troops without alarming the Huguenots. But it so chanced that an army sent by the King of Spain to the Low Countries was then marching along the French frontiers.

As if apprehensive for the safety of her dominions, Catherine raised 6, Swiss troops, and after the Spaniards had passed towards their destination, marched them to the centre of the kingdom. The design of the Protestants was to drive away the Guises, and place the king and queen at the head of their own party.

The attempt, however, failed through the firm attitude of the Swiss troops, who repulsed the attack of Andelot and La Rochefoucauld, and brought the king from Meaux to Paris surrounded by a strong battalion. Tuez, Mordieu! The result of this engagement was a temporary peace, by which certain privileges were granted to the Protestants: not to be enjoyed, but simply to inspire a false confidence. It was not so easy to deceive Admiral Coligny, who, observing that the Guises had lost nothing of the influence they exercised over the king and queen, resolved to remain still upon his guard.

Their suspicions were confirmed by the sudden death of the Queen of Navarre, which was attributed to poison. Vainly, however, did they attempt to awaken the brave old admiral to his danger. The enemies of the Protestants were meanwhile preparing their massacre; and in the first place the death of Coligny was resolved upon. When Richard III. A gentleman of this sort and it was precisely from such material during the Renaissance that murderers were formed presented himself in La Brie, the favourite country of witchery and bedevilment.

Without showing much emotion, Coligny pointed to the house from which the shots had proceeded the arquebus was loaded with several bullets , and tried to get the assassin arrested; but he had already fled. Then, leaning on his servants, he finished the journey to his own house on foot. The king was playing at tennis when the news of the infamous act was brought to him. It was evident, he added, that a crime of this kind was a threat against the life of the king himself, and that no one would henceforth be safe if it were left unavenged.

The king, profanely as he spoke, was sincere; nor had the remotest thought of a massacre yet entered his head. The very day of the attack on Coligny he paid a visit of sympathy to the wounded admiral, accompanied by his mother, the Duke of Anjou, and a brilliant suite. He called him the bravest general in the kingdom, and assured him that his assailant should be terribly punished, and the edict in favour of Protestants in France absolutely obeyed.

But as they were returning to the Louvre from their visit to the admiral she succeeded in frightening her royal son by hinting at the dark and foul projects which she attributed to the admiral. So enraged was the king that she could now fearlessly own to him that everything had taken place by her orders and those of the Dukes of Anjou and Guise. The too credulous Charles vowed that in face of such nefarious plots on the part of the Protestants, Coligny should die, and the Huguenots be put wholesale to the sword, so that not one should survive to reproach him with the act.

The massacre being thus decided upon, it now only remained to put the infamous project into execution. The ferocious impatience of the Duke of Guise, who had undertaken the murder of Coligny, did not allow him to await the signal agreed upon for the massacre.

Besme advanced towards him. Sarlaboux and Besme seized the body and threw it into the court-yard. By order of the King! This crime had scarcely been consummated when the great bell of St. The butchery was universal and indiscriminate, without distinction of age or sex.

The air resounded with the yells of the assassins and the groans of their victims. When daylight broke upon the hideous picture, bodies bathed in gore were everywhere to be seen. Dead and dying were collected, and thrown promiscuously into the Seine. Within the precincts of the palace, the royal guards, drawn up in two lines, killed with battle-axes unhappy wretches who were brought to them unarmed and thrust beneath their very weapons.

Some fell without a murmur; others protested with their last breath against the treachery of the king, who had sworn to defend them. But he at last let him go, and Marsillac was stabbed as he went out. But they were followed by others less scrupulous, who at once put the young man to death. An advocate named Taverny, assisted by one servant, resisted at his house a siege which lasted nine hours; though, after exhausting every means of defence, he was at last slain.

Several noblemen attached to the King of Navarre were assassinated in his abode. A few days before the massacre Caumont de la Force had bought some horses of a dealer, who, chancing to be in the immediate neighbourhood when Admiral de Coligny was assassinated, hastened to inform his customer, well known as one of the Protestant leaders, of what had taken place.

This nobleman and his two sons lived in the Faubourg St. The horse-dealer, therefore, swam across the Seine to warn La Force, who, however, had already effected his escape. But as his children were not following him, he returned to save them, and had scarcely set foot in his house when the assassins were upon him. Their leader, a man named Martin, entered his room, disarmed both father and sons, and told them they must die.

La Force offered the would-be murderers a ransom of 2, crowns, payable in two days. The chief accepted, and told La Force and his children to place in their hats paper crosses, and to turn back their right sleeves to the shoulder: such being the signs of immunity among the slaughterers.

Thus prepared, Martin conveyed them to his house in the Rue des Petits Champs, and made La Force swear that neither he nor his children would leave the place until the 2, crowns were paid. For additional security, he placed some Swiss soldiers on guard, when one of them, touched with compassion, offered to let the prisoners escape.

La Force, however, refused, preferring, he said, to die rather than fail in his word. On this pretext the emissary conducted both father and sons from the house without their caps: with nothing, that is to say, to distinguish them from the victims of assassination. They were at once set upon. Seeing that the stranger had taken pity on him, young La Force whispered that he was not dead. The massacre lasted in Paris with diminishing fury for a whole month. It was enacted, moreover, in nearly all the large towns; though in some few the governors refused to execute the orders transmitted to them.

At Lyons 4, were killed. The explanation of the ingenious paradox is, after all, simple enough. The executioner kills in cold blood, without danger to himself; the soldier risks his life in the performance of his duty. The number of Huguenots massacred throughout France was estimated at 60, Though the murders were generally due to fanaticism, many persons were put to death for purely private reasons. Heirs killed those from whom they expected to inherit, lovers their rivals, candidates for public offices those whom they wished to replace.

On the third day of the massacre Charles IX. Not many years after the massacre of St. Bartholomew, the Church of St. The king led the bride, followed by the queen, the princesses, and other ladies in such superb attire that no one recollects to have seen anything like it in France so rich and so sumptuous.

The dresses of the king and of the bridegroom were the same, and were so covered with embroidery, pearls, and precious stones, that it was impossible to estimate their value. Such an accoutrement had, for instance, cost ten thousand crowns in the making; and at the seventeen feasts which were now from day to day given by the king to the princes and lords related to the bride, and by other great persons of the Court, the guests appeared each time in some new costume, gorgeous with embroidery, gold, silver, and diamonds.

The expense was so great, what with tournaments, masquerades, presents, devices, music, and liveries, that it was said the king would not be quit for twelve hundred thousand crowns. On Tuesday, October 16th, the Cardinal de Bourbon gave his feast in the palace attached to his abbey, St.

In front, concealed in the belly of the said monsters, were a number of skilled musicians, with trumpets, clarions, cornets, violins, and hautboys, besides even some firework-makers, who, at dusk, were to afford pastime not only to the king, but to fifty thousand persons on the banks. Among other entertainments, his Eminence gave that of an artificial garden, luxuriant with growing flowers and fruits, as if it had been May or August.

The queen and the princesses, who represented the Naiads and the Nereids, terminated the ballet by a distribution of presents to the princes and nobles, who, in the shape of Tritons, had danced with them. For each Triton there was a gold medal with a suitable inscription; and the composer, Baltazarini—or Beaujoyeux, as he was now called—received flattering compliments at the end of the representation from the whole Court.

On Tuesday, the 17th, there were conflicts with the pike, the sword, and the butt end of the lance, on foot and on horseback. On Thursday, the 19th, took place the Ballet of the Horses, in which Spanish steeds, race-horses, and others met in hostile fashion, retired, and turned round to the sound of trumpets and clarions, having been trained to it five months beforehand.

There were also fireworks, which sparkled and burst, to the fright and joy of everyone, and without injury to any. It was in the Church of St. I am ignorant of the reasons on which this judgment is based. All I know is that discord and hatred exist between the Pope and the Emperor, and that they are accustomed to overwhelm each other with insults. Therefore I excommunicate, as far as lies in my power, the oppressor, and I absolve the one who is suffering a persecution so pernicious to the Christian religion.

The priest, as might have been expected, was rewarded by the Emperor and punished by the Pope. Nearly two centuries later, in , the celebrated actress and singer, Sophie Arnould, came into the world in the very room in which Admiral de Coligny was assassinated. Sophie Arnould, of whose operatic career mention is made elsewhere, was the only French actress of whom Garrick, in narrating his experiences of Parisian theatrical life, could speak with enthusiasm.

It was, however, sound and well balanced, so that, with a good enunciation, and without any noticeable effort, not a word of what I sang was lost even in the most spacious buildings. I have a graceful frame, and my movements are easy. I possess a well-formed leg and a pretty foot, with hands and arms like a model, eyes well set and an open countenance, lively and attractive. Her physiognomy represents every kind of grief, and while depicting horror her countenance does not lose one feature of its beauty.

PARIS in contained, according to the census of that year, 2,, inhabitants, of whom 1,, or So much more important indeed by the number of its population as well as by its manifestations of life in every form is the right bank than the left, that a man might live all his life in the former division of Paris and, without ever having crossed the Seine, be held to know the French capital thoroughly.

One may indeed be a thorough Parisian without ever having quitted the Boulevards. The Pont-Neuf is, in spite of its name, the oldest bridge in Paris; and it is almost the only one which retains without alteration its original form. From time to time it has been partially repaired, but the lines on which it was originally constructed were never changed.

The idea of connecting the left bank with the island and the island with the right bank had been entertained by King Henri II. Henri III. But this he did only in a theoretical way; for three years after his death, in , the chief builder of the bridge, Guillaume Marchand, was still unpaid.

Three arches of the principal arm had yet to be reared, and it was only in that the king was able to perform the ceremony of crossing the bridge from left bank to right; part of the journey even then having to be made on a temporary plank, so insecurely fixed that it was by a mere piece of royal luck that the venturesome monarch did not go over into the Seine. The builder of the Pont-Neuf, Guillaume Marchand, was also its architect: so, at least, asserts his epitaph in the Church of St.

Germain and the Pont-Neuf of Paris. What is called the Pont-Neuf consists really of two bridges: one connecting the left bank with the island, the other stretching from the opposite side of the island shore to the right bank. According to its original plan, the Pont-Neuf, like all the old Paris bridges, was to support a number of houses for which cellars had been constructed beforehand among the piles on which the bridge rested.

Henri IV. Many years afterwards, however, in the reign of Louis XV. These shops and stalls were maintained until the first days of the Second Empire, when they disappeared. The statue stands on the promontory of the island between the two spans of the structure; and from this point a magnificent view may be obtained of the course of the Seine above and below bridge. The original statue was the work of Jean de Bologne, and of his pupil, Pierre Tacca. It was unveiled on August 23rd, , at which time the corners of the pedestal were adorned by four slaves, since removed, but still preserved in the museum of the Louvre.

He was known to be guilty of all sorts of abuses, and was suspected of having been privy to some of the attempts made upon the life of Henri IV. According to a legend of the period, his heart, after he had been slain, was cut out, roasted, and eaten! Such faults as undoubtedly belonged to him seem to have had no effect but to increase his popularity; perhaps because, in a degree, they belonged also to the great mass of his subjects.

This doubtful husband, good friend, and excellent ruler, beloved with warmth by his subjects, was nevertheless made the object of numerous attempts at assassination, the last of which proved fatal. His would-be murderers were for the most part religious fanatics—as dangerous in that day as the fanatics of revolution in ours; and to this class belonged Ravaillac, at whose hands Henri was destined to perish.

This profession he continued for several years, but to such small advantage that he finally quitted it, and gained his living by teaching. At this time his father and mother lived apart, and were so indigent that both subsisted chiefly on alms. Ravaillac, now thirty years old, and unmarried, lodged with his mother, and, becoming insolvent, was thrown into prison for debt.

He was naturally of a gloomy disposition, and while under the depression of trouble was subject to the strangest hallucinations. In prison he often believed himself surrounded with fire, sulphur, and incense; and such fancies continued after he was released. He asserted that on the Saturday night after Christmas, , having made his meditations, as he was wont, in bed, with his hands clasped and his feet crossed, he felt his mouth and face covered by some invisible agent, and was at the same time urged by an irresistible impulse to sing the Psalms of David.

Arrived at Paris, he went frequently to the Louvre, and in vain begged many persons to introduce him to his Majesty. One of those applied to was Father Daubigny, a Jesuit, whom he informed not only of his desire to speak to the king, but of his wish to join the famous Order. Some days later he happened to meet the king driving in a coach near St. After this repulse, despairing of being able to influence his Majesty by admonition, he determined to kill him.

He continued in a state of intense anxiety, sometimes considering his project of assassination as praiseworthy, sometimes as unlawful. Nor did the confessor inquire as to the details of the crime. Still restless and disturbed, Ravaillac went back to Paris, and on entering the city, found his desire to kill the king intensified.

He took lodgings close to the Louvre: but not liking his rooms, went to an inn in the neighbourhood to see if accommodation could be had there. The inn was full; but whilst Ravaillac conversed with the landlord, his eye happened to be attracted by a knife, sharp-pointed and double-edged, that lay on the table; and it occurred to him that here was a fit instrument for his purpose.

He accordingly took occasion to convey it away under his doublet, and having had a new handle made for it, carried it about in his pocket. But he faltered in his resolution, and abandoning it once more, set out on his way home. As he went along he somehow broke the point of his knife.

At an inn where he stopped for refreshment he heard some soldiers talking about a design on the part of the king to make war against the Pope, and to transfer the Holy See to Paris. On this, his determination returned strong upon him and going out of the inn, he gave his knife a fresh point by rubbing it against a stone, and then turned his face towards Paris. Arrived at the capital a third time, he felt an inclination to make a full confession of his design to a priest; and would have done so had he not been aware that the Church is obliged to divulge any secrets which concern the State.

Henceforth he never once relinquished his purpose. But he still felt such doubts as to whether it were not sinful that he would no longer receive the Sacrament, lest, harbouring his project all the while, he should unworthily eat. Without hope of gaining admission to the king in his palace, he now waited for him with unwearied assiduity at the gates. At last, on the 17th of May, , he saw him come out in a coach, and followed him for some distance, until the vehicle was stopped by two carts, which happened to get in the way.

Here, as the king was leaning his head to speak to M. The king cried out that he was slain, and Ravaillac was seized by a retired soldier of the guard. When searched, he was found to have upon him a paper painted with the arms of France, and with a lion on each side, one holding a key, the other a sword.

Ravaillac was first examined by the President of the Parliament and several commissioners as to his motives for committing the crime, and as to whether he had accomplices. During the interrogation he often wept, and said that though at the time he believed the assassination to be a meritorious action, he now felt convinced that this was a delusion into which he had been suffered to fall as a punishment for his sins. He expressed the deepest contrition for his offence, and implored the Almighty to give him grace to continue till death in firm faith, lively hope, and perfect charity.

He denied that he had any confederate, and on being requested to say at whose instigation he did the deed, replied indignantly that it originated entirely with himself, and that for no reward would he have slain his king.

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Oftentimes, Resistenza create collections of their typefaces to work in a set or family, building on a brand that can work throughout a piece. Creating a library of brush scripts and calligraphic typefaces in addition to unique illustrations, sketches, icons and more, the two complement each other when coming to together for a particular client.

With a deep passion for bringing type to life, beginning traditionally with pen and paper, and eventually implementing digitisation, the duo express the distinct features of their typefaces through the various influential cities they work and live in Berlin, Madrid, Torino and Valencia. Visit foundry page. You may encounter slight variations in the name of this font, depending on where you use it.

Fonts in the Adobe Fonts library include support for many different languages, OpenType features, and typographic styles. Learn more about language support. Learn more about OpenType features. Click here to install for non-Adobe apps. Learn more. Activate font Deactivate font. Install Click here to install for non-Adobe apps. From Resistenza. All Fonts Active.

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