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tion, he was admitted to deacon's orders in London, on the 21st of December, 1781, by the Bishop of Norwich; who ordained him a priest in the August of the following year. Being licensed as curate to the rector of Aldborough, he took leave of his patron and London friends, and set off once more for his native place. To himself, and to those who knew him, his return to Aldborough must have been an interesting event. His previous life had been rambling, unsettled, and unsatisfactory-half poet half surgeon -piling up butter casks for his father on the quay at Slaughden, or sauntering half-crazed, with an unsatisfied heart, by the river or shore at Aldborough. The tide of fortune had turned in his favour now, and for this he was chiefly indebted to his own perseverance. He was a young poet, a young clergyman, smiled on by the great, fresh from the friendly grasp of the first orators of that or perhaps of any other age, Burke and Fox; and who shall blame him if he carried his head a little high, or if he planted his foot on his native sands with a freer and firmer tread. The proverb, The prophet is not without honour save in his own country,' was partially realized in the experience of the subject of this sketch. Old stories and old failures were raked up; and whether they had been so or not, it takes a larger measure of moral greatness than falls to the lot of most men to feel quite easy and happy in circumstances such as those of the curate of Aldborough. Burke, whose generosity was not a thing of fits and starts, obtained for him the appointment of domestic chaplain to the Duke of Rutland, and to Belvoir Castle he went in this character. While residing here, he completed and published his poem of The Village,' which placed him, in the estimation of those who could judge, on a level with Goldsmith and his 'Deserted Village.' If the one poem be inferior to the other in the fineness of the imagination which created it, and in the delicacy of ear which tuned its wonderful melody, the other is fully a match for it in originality and moral power, and truthfulness to nature, to

'Village life, and every care that reigns

O'er youthful peasants, and declining swains;
What labour yields, and what, that labour past,
Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last?

What form the real picture of the poor,' &c.

In the month of December, 1783, Crabbe was married to Miss Elmy, to whom he had been long and devotedly attached. They began their married life at Belvoir Castle, apartments having been allotted for their use by its noble and generous owner. Here they remained for about a year and a half, when Crabbe accepted the curacy of Stathern, and went to live in the parsonage attached to that office. While at Belvoir Castle, one child was born to him, who survived its birth only a few hours. In his new abode his namesake and biographer was born, also his second son John, and a daughter who died in infancy. The four years he spent at Stathern the poet always spoke of as among the happiest of his life. Rambling in the woods of Belvoir, cultivating the garden attached to the parsonage, studying natural history, visiting the dwellings of the poor in the village and neighbourhood, and making himself useful to them both as pastor and physician, we can easily understand that, with tastes such as those he possessed, he felt far happier here than when mingling with the great and the gay. An incident which occurred about this time is told us by his son, and it is one which testifies to the kindness and gentleness of his disposition. 'I may also add,' says his son, when describing his mode of life at Stathern, that in accordance with the usual habits of the clergy then resident in the vale of Belvoir, he made some efforts to become a sportsman; but he wanted precision of eye and hand to use the gun with success. As to coursing, the cry of the first hare he saw killed struck him as so like the wail of an infant, that he turned heart-sick from the spot: and, in a word, although Mr Crabbe did, for a season, make his appearance in a garb which none that knew him in his latter days could ever have suspected him of assuming, the velveteen jacket and all its appurtenances were soon

laid aside for ever.' The poetic temperament and the rough sports of the field do not exactly harmonize. The reader will recall the lines of Scotland's favourite poet, when he saw the wounded hare limping past him. Two years after his marriage, Crabbe published the Newspaper,' a poem akin in character, and, by competent judges, thought equally meritorious with the Library.' His career as a poet had been eminently successful: it was so indeed far beyond his hopes. Critics of the highest name, and friends well able to judge, encouraged him to persevere, and devote himself with still more ardour to the service of the Muses. From the publication of the poem we have just mentioned, in 1785, however, he gave nothing of consequence to the world till twenty-two years afterwards, when his Parish Register' appeared. During this interval he had lost his friend and kind patron the Duke of Rutland, who died while yet in the vigour of manhood, leaving behind him a young and beautiful widow and six children. To the influence of the widowed duchess with Lord Thurlow, Crabbe owed his promotion to the rectorship of Muston, in Leicestershire, and the adjoining parish of Allington, in the county of Lincoln. This appointment allowed him the choice of several residences, of which he did not fail to avail himself, which leads us to infer that he rather liked a change of place and scene. It was while residing at Muston, in 1807, that 'The Parish Register,' and other minor poems appeared. This volume at once elevated him to a place beside the first poets of his age and nation. Congratulations from persons of the highest distinction, and of the highest authority in the ¦ world of letters, poured in upon him from all quarters. Among these it may be enough to mention Earl Grey, Lord Holland, Mr Canning, and Sir Walter Scott. The most influential reviews were warm in its praises, and very soon after its publication the whole of the first edition was sold off. The next poem he gave to the public was that entitled The Borough,' which has perhaps higher excellencies and deeper blemishes than any other of his productions. In 1812, his Tales in verse appeared; they were dedicated to the Duchess-Dowager of Rutland, and they added in no small degree to his poetical celebrity.

Crabbe was not without his domestic sorrows. He had already laid in the grave more than one of his household. And in the autumn of the year following that when his tales were published, his wife, whose health had long been in a drooping state, and whose bodily infirmities had at times impaired her mental vigour, was taken from him. Soon after this bereavement, which he bore with that dignified composure which became a great and Christian spirit, he was presented by the Duke of Rutland to the rectorship of Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, of which his Grace had the alternate presentation. This change contributed in many ways to his comfort and happiness. Though he had now seen threescore summers, soon after he came to Trowbridge his health so much revived that he felt as if he had got a new lease of existence, or as if, to quote the sacred phrase, he had renewed his youth.' His partiality for the society of females, a characteristic of every great poet we can remember, was always strong. He loved,' says his son, the very fail-' ings of the female mind. Men in general appeared to him too stern, reserved, unyielding, and worldly; and he ever found relief in the gentleness, the tenderness, the unselfishness of woman.' With these feelings, we are not surprised to be told that Crabbe, though now advancing to the threescore and ten, once more felt the power of the softer passion, and even entertained the idea of marrying a second time. One of his sons, however, about this time took to himself a wife, became his curate at Trowbridge, and lived beneath the same roof with him. This was for the good old man, we may believe, a most fortunate arrangement. It released him in a great measure from his professional cares and duties; it dispelled the dreariness of his home, and prevented the realization of an idea, which, had it been realized, could scarcely (to say the least of it) have increased his happiness. No man

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knew better than himself, and in his 'Parish Register' | look and manners struck one more than it might have he has vividly pourtrayed, the perils of being unequally yoked. Still, the ardour of the passion which he cherished about this time for some fair friend is a curious and not unpleasing trait in the history of his mind. It was beautifully said of Rowland Hill, that he had a 'head of snow and a heart of fire.' When Robert Hall was told by a friend that his animation increased with his years, he replied, 'Indeed, then I am like touchwood: the more decayed, the easier fired.' On some such principles, we suppose, are we to account for Crabbe's susceptibility of the softer passion. In the year succeeding that to which this part of the narrative refers, he had the satisfaction of seeing his eldest son married and settled at Pucklechurch, which was only about twenty miles distant from Trowbridge. At Pucklechurch, the venerable poet was a frequent guest, and, we need not add, a welcome one.

We pass over his visits to the Great Metropolis,' of which he kept a diary. Here he was admitted into the highest and most polished circles. Statesmen of all shades of politics, poets of the first celebrity, literary men of every class, some of the first nobility in the land, felt they were honouring themselves in doing honour to him, who, when he first set foot in the metropolis, was but a poor and needy adventurer. It was during one of his visits to London, and three years after he had published his Tales of the Hall,' that he met for the first time with Sir Walter Scott. The latter would not part with him till he had promised to visit him the next autumn in Scotland. This promise Crabbe fulfilled, but it was for both poets a rather unfortunate coincidence, that George the Fourth came to Scotland exactly at the same time. Our readers are aware of the keen and active interest which Sir Walter took in all the arrangements connected with the reception and entertainment of his Majesty. This not only prevented Crabbe from seeing Sir Walter at Abbotsford, where he was always seen to the best advantage, but it allowed the two poets little of each other's unrestricted society. Mr Lockhart, however, kindly acted as our poet's cicerone among the sights and scenes of Edinburgh, and in a letter addressed to his biographer, which we take leave to transfer to our columns, he has recorded the impressions which the subject of the present sketch made on his own mind and those of others with whom he was brought into contact. The letter is as follows:

'London, Dec. 26th, 1833.

'DEAR SIR,-I am sorry to tell you that Sir Walter Scott kept no diary during the time of your father's visit to Scotland, otherwise it would have given me pleasure to make extracts for the use of your memoirs. For myself, although it is true that, in consequence of Sir Walter's being constantly consulted about the details of every procession and festival of that busy fortnight, the pleasing task of showing to Mr Crabbe the usual lions of Edinburgh fell principally to my share, I regret to say that my memory does not supply me with many traces of his conversation. The general impression, however, that he left on my mind was strong, and, I think, indelible: while all the mummeries and carousals of an interval, in which Edinburgh looked very unlike herself, have faded into a vague and dreamlike indistinctness, the image of your father, then first seen, but long before admired and revered in his works, remains as fresh as if the years that have now passed were but so many days-his noble forehead, his bright beaming eye, without anything of old age about it-though he was then, I presume, above seventy -his sweet, and, I would say, innocent smile, and the calm mellow tones of his voice-all are reproduced the moment I open any page of his poetry and how much better have I understood and enjoyed his poetry, since I was able thus to connect with it the living presence of the

man!

'The literary persons in company with whom I saw him the most frequently were Sir Walter and Henry Mackenzie; and between two such thorough men of the world as they were, perhaps his apparent simplicity of

done under different circumstances; but all three harmonized admirably together-Mr Crabbe's avowed ignorance about Gaels, and clans, and tartans, and every thing that was at the moment uppermost in Sir Walter's thoughts, furnishing him with a welcome apology for dilating on such topics with enthusiastic minutenesswhile your father's countenance spoke the quiet delight he felt in opening his imagination to what was really a new world-and the venerable Man of Feeling,' though a fiery Highlander himself at bottom, had the satisfaction of lying by and listening until some opportunity offered itself of hooking in, between the links, perhaps, of some grand chain of poetical imagery, some small comic or sarcastic trait, which Sir Walter caught up, played with, and, with that art so peculiarly his own, forced into the service of the very impression it seemed meant to disturb. One evening, at Mr Mackenzie's own house, I particularly remember, among the noctes cœnæque Deúm.

'Mr Crabbe had, I presume, read very little about Scotland before that excursion. It appeared to me that he confounded the Inchcolm of the Frith of Forth with the Icolmkill of the Hebrides; but John Kemble, I have heard, did the same. I believe he really never had known, until then, that a language radically distinct from the English, was still actually spoken within the island. And this recalls a scene of high merriment which occurred the very morning after his arrival. When he came down into the breakfast parlour, Sir Walter had not yet appeared there; and Mr Crabbe had before him two or three portly personages all in the full Highland garb. These gentlemen, arrayed in a costume so novel, were talking in a language which he did not understand; so he never doubted that they were foreigners. The Celts, on their part, conceived Mr Crabbe, dressed as he was in rather an old-fashioned style of clerical propriety, with buckles in his shoes for instance, to be some learned abbé, who had come on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Waverley; and the result was, that when, a little afterwards, Sir Walter and his family entered the room, they found your father and these worthy lairds, hammering away, with pain and labour, to make themselves mutually understood, in most execrable French. Great was the relief, and potent the laughter, when the host interrupted their colloquy with his plain English Good-morning.'

It surprised me, on taking Mr Crabbe to see the house of Allan Ramsay, on the Castle Hill, to find that he had never heard of Allan's name; or, at all events, was unacquainted with his works. The same evening, however, he perused The Gentle Shepherd,' and he told me next morning, that he had been pleased with it, but added, 'there is a long step between Ramsay and Burns.' He then made Sir Walter read and interpret some of old Dunbar to him; and said, 'I see that the Ayrshire bard had one giant before him.'

'Mr Crabbe seemed to admire, like other people, the grand natural scenery about Edinburgh; but when I walked with him to the Salisbury Crags, where the superb view had then a lively foreground of tents and batteries, he appeared to be more interested with the stratification of the rocks about us, than with any other feature in the landscape. As to the city itself, he said he soon got wearied of the New Town, but could amuse himself for ever in the Old one. He was more than once detected rambling after nightfall by himself, among some of the obscurest wynds and closes; and Sir Walter, fearing that, at a time of such confusion, he might get into some scene of trouble, took the precaution of desiring a friendly caddie (see Humphrey Clinker), from the corner of Castle Street, to follow him the next time he went out alone in the evening.

'Mr Crabbe repeated his visits several times to the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, and expressed great admiration of the manner in which the patients were treated. He also examined pretty minutely the interior of the Bedlam. I went with him both to the Castle and Queen Mary's apartment in Holyrood House; but he did not ap

pear to care much about either. I remember, however, that when the old dame who showed us Darnley's armour and boots complained of the impudence, as she called it, of a preceding visiter, who had discovered these articles to be relics of a much later age, your father warmly entered into her feelings; and said, as we came away, 'this pedantic puppyism was inhumane.

The first Sunday he was in Edinburgh, my wife and her sister carried him to hear service in St George's church, where the most popular of the Presbyterian clergy, the late Dr Andrew Thomson, then officiated. But he was little gratified either with the aspect of the church, which is large without grandeur, or the style of the ceremonial, which he said was bald and bad, or the eloquence of the sermon, which, however, might not be preached by Dr Thomson himself. Next Sunday he went to the Episcopalian chapel, where Sir Walter Scott's family were in the habit of attending. He said, however, in walking along the streets that day, 'This unusual decorum says not a little for the Scotch system; the silence of these well-dressed crowds is really grand.' King George the Fourth made the same remark.

'Mr Crabbe entered so far into the feelings of his host, and of the occasion, as to write a set of verses on the royal visit to Edinburgh; they were printed along with many others, but I have no copy of the collection. (Mr Murray can easily get one from Edinburgh, in case you wish to include those stanzas in your edition of his poetical works.) He also attended one of the king's levees at Holyrood, where his majesty appeared at once to recognise his person, and received him with attention.

All my friends who had formed acquaintance with Mr Crabbe on this occasion appeared ever afterwards to remember him with the same feeling of affectionate respect. Sir Walter Scott and his family parted with him most reluctantly. He had been quite domesticated under their roof, and treated the young people very much as if they had been his own. His unsophisticated, simple, and kind address, put every body at ease with him; and, indeed, one would have been too apt to forget what lurked beneath that good-humoured, unpretending aspect, but that every now and then he uttered some brief pithy remark which showed how narrowly he had been scrutinizing into whatever might be said or done before him, and called us to remember, with some awe, that we were in the presence of the author of The Borough.'

I recollect that he used to have a lamp and writing materials placed by his bedside every night; and when Lady Scott told him she wondered the day was not enough for his authorship, he answered, 'Dear Lady, I should have lost many a good hit, had I not set down, at once, things that occurred to me in my dreams.'

'I never could help regretting very strongly that Mr Crabbe did not find Sir Walter at Abbotsford, as he had expected to do. The fortnight he passed in Edinburgh was one scene of noise, glare, and bustle-reviews, levees, banquets, and balls-and no person could either see or hear so much of him as might, under other circumstances, have been looked for. Sir Walter himself, I think, took only one walk with Mr Crabbe: it was to the ruins of St Anthony's Chapel, at the foot of Arthur's Seat, which your father wished to see, as connected with part of the Heart of Mid-Lothian. I had the pleasure to accompany them on this occasion; and it was the only one on which I heard your father enter into any details of his own personal history. He told us, that during many months when he was toiling in early life in London, he hardly ever tasted butcher's meat, except on a Sunday, when he dined usually with a tradesman's family, and thought their leg of mutton, baked in the pan, the perfection of luxury. The tears stood in his eyes while he talked of Burke's kindness to him in his distress; and I remember he said, The night after I delivered my letter at his door, I was in such a state of agitation, that I walked Westminster Bridge, backwards and forwards, until day

* We can scarcely suppose so.

light.' Believe me, dear Sir, your very_faithful servant, 'J. G. LOCKHART.'

We have little now to add to the poet's history. We are drawing near to the valley of the shadow of death." Very soon after his return from the north his health began to sink. His affections, we feel pleased to add, were raised above the present scene; his heart was not ignobly wedded to earth; the plaudits of the world, which scarcely a breath of censure had marred, had not seduced him. spoke of a professor of gastronomy bringing his art to "God forbid,' said he with emphasis, in reply to one who such a pitch of perfection that people would be kept living for ever. His kind-heartedness, his disposition to make all around him as happy as possible, never forsook him. Age and increasing infirmities froze not the genial current of his soul.' The following postscript from a letter written to his son John, at Hastings, to which place he had gone in the hope of being benefited by the seabreeze, will not be read without tears of admiration:'P. S.-You know my poor. Oram had a shilling on Sunday; but Smith, the bed-ridden woman, Martin, and Gregory the lame man, you will give to as I would; nay, I must give somewhat more than usual; and if you meet with my other poor people, think of my accident, and give a few additional shillings for me, and I must also find some who want where I am, for my danger was great, and I must be thankful in every way I can.'

The closing scene at length came. He suffered much bodily pain: but his mind was resigned and tranquil. Casting his eyes upon a bible that lay before him, his face lighted up with a vivid expression of joy, he exclaimed,

"That blessed book!' The incident will remind the reader of another which occurred at the close of Sir Walter Scott's life, when the latter asked Mr Lockhart for a book, and Mr Lockhart replied, What book P'—' Need you ask?' said the dying poet: there is but one book! there is but one book!

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The death of Crabbe produced a deep sensation in the town and neighbourhood of Trowbridge. Many were the tributes of respect paid on the occasion. Perhaps, however, there was none more touching than the remark made by a little girl on the day of his burial:- Poor Mr Crabbe,' said she, while the tear glistened in her eye; 'poor Mr Crabbe will never go up in pulpit any more, with his white head!'

SKETCHES OF PARIS AND THE PARISIANS.

PART I.

SOUVENIRS OF THE CITE.

No modern city has been the scene of so many remarkable events as Paris: war, splendour, profligacy, revolution, and massacres, have all given birth to events there which history will ever record. Its inhabitants, too, are equally remarkable; and the influence of their literature and manners has extended itself over Europe. Paris, more than any other capital, guides, and consequently expresses, the customs and feelings of the nation at large; and we therefore trust that some short sketches of its condition, history, and inhabitants, will not prove unacceptable to our readers. We shall commence our sketch of Paris with a description of the oldest part of it-the cité; introducing, as we go along, some of the more striking events or anecdotes connected with its history.

The term 'cité' is applied to the little island upon which stands the central and most ancient part of Paris. During the Roman sway in northern Gaul, this island in the winding river'-as they called the Seine-bore the name of Lutetia, and became a military post of considerable importance. Though no traces now remain of any of the architectural efforts of the Italian conquerors, the hand of Imperial Rome has left one mark behind, which will most probably last as long as Parts is a city. This is the straight line running nearly north and south, which indicates the old Roman road, and coincides with the Rue St

Jacques, on the southern bank of the Seine-with the Rue de la Juiverie in the island of the cité-and with the Rue St Martin in the northern division of Paris. This line may instantly be observed upon a map of the city; and it is so straight, that whoever stands in the Rue St Jacques, opposite the Pantheon, and looks northward, may carry his eye right athwart Paris, up a long narrow street, for the space of nearly three miles, till it reaches the high ground in the neighbourhood of La Villette. As the ravages of the Normans checked the spreading of habitations on either bank of the river, Paris was for long confined to the narrow limits of the original island. The space was uncommonly small for the population, and every inch of the island was occupied; defences ran round its shores, to protect them from hostile descent; while within, the streets were narrow and tortuous, and the inhabitants kept adding to the height of their houses, since they could not expand them in width and depth. It was not till after the settlement and conversion of the fierce Northmen, that the Parisians came out of their stronghold, and spread themselves luxuriously over both banks of the Seine.

The principal street in the cité was the old Roman thoroughfare athwart the fair Lutetia-the Rue de la Juiverie; so termed from the Jews that were established there, and who had also schools of their own and a synagogue within the island. In 1183, however, Philip Augustus sent them all to the right about. He coveted their wealth, and resorted to persecution and torture to wring it from them. One of the most popular of the charges brought against the unhappy Jews, was, that they kidnapped and annually sacrificed Christian children. The body of one boy, who was said to have been thus killed, was brought to Paris: his supposed murderers were cruelly put to death by torture, and their victim was canonized. To such celebrity did this saint afterwards attain, that when the English evacuated Paris, they are said to have made off with the whole of the sanctified body but the head-which head, of course, was ever after highly revered, and carefully kept from damage. From the time of their persecution by Philip Augustus, the Jews lost their former influence in Paris, and were regarded as a degraded sect, to be scoffed at and ill-treated by all who chose. They never more dwelt in the cité; they were never allowed to appear in public without a yellow mark on the breast, and a horned cap on the head; they were forbidden to bathe in the Seine; and whenever the public executioner did them the honour to suspend some of their community from the gibbet of Montfauçon, they were always hung up between two dogs.In the Rue d'Enfer is an obscure and smoky house, adjoining the residence of the canons of Notre Dame, and over the gateway is an inscription declaring that it was once the abode of the Canon Fulbert, the old

The streets in the cité never recovered from the pres-
sure they were thus subjected to in the first stages of
their existence, when the population was squeezed up in
a space not a quarter big enough for its size; so that few
of the streets were calculated for vehicles of any descrip-
tion, and in some, two horses with their riders could
hardly pass abreast; while the houses hung over in stages,
the opposite gables of the upper ones almost touching each
other. Light and fresh air, of course, were by no means
placed in the first rank of the necessaries of life; and as
for cleaning the streets, that was nearly out of the ques-uncle of Heloise, and that it was here that Abelard lodged
tion. A perfect hotbed for all kinds of plagues it must
have been. In old times it was usual for the swine be-
longing to the inhabitants to make the streets their prin-
cipal resort; but in consequence of Philip, the eldest son
of Louis le Gros, having been killed by a fall from his
horse, owing to one of these animals getting under its
feet, near the church of St Gervais, all such intruders
were forbidden to appear in the public ways, with the
exception of those belonging to the monks of the Abbey
of St Antoine, who, to the number of a dozen, were per-
mitted still to perambulate their ancient haunts, provided
each of them carried a bell hanging from its neck. But this
useful regulation soon fell into neglect.-Philip II., sur-
named the August, began to pave the streets in 1185.
He was standing one day, we are told, at the window of
his palace in the cité, when some carts having driven up
to carry away the mire and filth with which the street
was covered, he was so much disgusted with the stench
and offensive appearance of every thing around that he
determined to put an end to such a deplorable state of
inconvenience and uncleanliness, and forthwith gave orders
to the provost to have the principal streets paved at the
expense of the burgesses. But even this proved only a
very slight amelioration; and, for a considerable time
after, the streets continued in a most offensive and un-
healthy state. So late as the time of Louis XIV., it is
mentioned that the Sieur Courtois, a physician who dwelt
in the Rue des Marmouzets, had his principal sitting-room
looking out to this street; and he used to observe that
every morning a pair of large brass dogs, which he used
for supporting the flaming logs of wood in his fireplace,
were covered with a tolerably thick coating of verdegris,
occasioned by the deleterious vapours which rose from the
street below. No gentleman, in those days, ever thought
of going into the streets unless stoutly booted-and a boot
of the time of the Grand Monarque' was a foot-and-leg
preserver of a very formidable description: and as for the
women, it is very likely that the high-heeled shoes, which
came into fashion about this time, were originally a femi-
nine device for the preservation of dry pettitoes. During
Louis XIV.'s reign, however, a great improvement took
place: the streets were attempted to be cleaned, over-
hanging gable-topped houses were proscribed, and every
one set up a court front to his habitation.

and loved, and wooed and won. Not a stone, perhaps, of
the original edifice remains above ground; but under
ground, far down below the lowest soil of the city, is a
large and strongly-vaulted cellar, which is pointed out as
the actual spot in which the canon's vengeance was per-
petrated.- -In the Rue des Marmouzets there once lived,
in adjoining houses, a barber and a pastry-cook, whose
intimacy was not less a subject of general remark, than
the rapid increase of their fortunes was of envy. The
barber shaved all the gallants in town, and every body
flocked to the pastry-cook's for his meat-pies. At last a
rumour spread that several persons who had been seen
going into the barber's shop had never been heard of
afterwards. The idea of murder was speedily caught up
and improved on: it was said that after the barber had
cut the throats of his victims, he handed over their bodies
to the pastry-cook, who forthwith converted them into
mince-meat, and therewith stuffed his pies. The story
was too horrible not to be exactly suited to popularity:
the barber and pastry-cook were torn from their houses
by the infuriated multitude-were condemned to death
at the king's justiciary-were swinging as dead corpses at
Montfaucon the same day--and within twenty-four hours
their houses were level with the ground. The Rue des
Marmouzets still remains, but it is much altered.
part of Paris is a notorious rendezvous of thieves; and
here the police, whose headquarters in the prefect's resi-
dence are not three hundred yards off, find their prey
ready to their hands.

This

The Hôtel de la Reine was built by Catherine de Medicis; John Bullant was the architect whom she employed in its erection, but much of the plan was said to be her own. A great part of the edifice was formed out of the monastery and another house which previously occupied its site. One erection, however, which was the work of Bullant, was a fluted doric tower, ninety-five feet in height, and having a winding staircase within it, which Catherine ordered to be built to serve her for a station from which to read the mysterious book of the stars. An Italian astrologer, named Côme de Ruggeri, is particularly mentioned as having been wont to accompany her to the top of this observatory, and there to assist her in her vain endeavours to penetrate into the night of the future. This watch-tower is still standing in the outer wall of the

Halle aux Blés, and it is the only part of the Hôtel de la Reine which remains. A fountain now issues from its pedestal, and an ingeniously constructed sundial has been placed on the shaft. It is a fit emblem,' says a writer who mentions it,' of the changed spirit of the times, that what in one age was dedicated by a bold and ambitious spirit to the high but visionary aim of communing with the stars, should in ours be made to serve the humbler but more useful purpose of showing the passing hour to those who labour in the peaceful duties of commerce.'

At the south-eastern corner of the island stood the Archbishop's palace—in great part a recently erected edifice, and till the revolution of 1830 distinguished for the splendour of its internal decorations. In 1625, the palace was the scene of a solemn festivity, in which England was deeply interested. In the autumn of the previous year, after the Prince of Wales, subsequently Charles I., and the gay Duke of Buckingham, had visited the court of France to solicit the hand of the fair Henrietta Maria, sister of Louis XIII., the Earls of Carlisle and Holland were sent over as ambassadors-extraordinary to negotiate the treaty of marriage in due form. Thursday, the 8th day of May, 1625, was the day fixed for the betrothal of the young princess. Henrietta Maria was then sixteen, and had already shown the amiable vivacity of her mind no less than the expressive beauty of her person. The nobleman destined to receive the hand of the princess by proxy, was one of the most accomplished and the most illustrious of the French court-Claude de Lorraine, Duke of Chevreuse, alike distinguished for his fine appearance and his military achievements; his dress, also, was superbin fact the Duke was the Esterhazy of those days. We cannot follow the cotemporary chronicle in its minute account of this imposing ceremony; suffice it to say, that while it lasted, Paris resounded with feux-de-joie, and all was mirth and festivity.-Unfortunate Henrietta Maria! She was not appreciated by her consort; she was misrepresented and calumniated in England; was driven from her palace and her throne; and in a few years after the king's death, was again residing at the Louvre, but in such a state of want, that neither herself nor her attendants had money enough to procure suitable clothing or food. This extremity lasted, it is true, only for a short time; but her life was never a happy one from the time of her first leaving France. Her only consolation was the affection of her children, by whom, the moment it became in their power, she was placed in a condition of suitable wealth and dignity. She died at Colombes, near Argenteuil, on the 10th of September, 1669.

In contrast to the preceding courtly ceremony, we may narrate a melancholy tragedy, of which the Archbishop's palace was the scene, early in the same century. The curate of St Mederic was at that time the worthy Pierre Décorieux: he was thirty-six years of age, tall, and of a noble appearance; he was of a retired disposition, but of unbounded benevolence, and universally beloved by his parishioners. One evening, as he was about to retire from his confessional stall in the church, a young lady of his parish, the daughter of the Comte d'Estral, entered, and throwing herself on her knees, besought him to pity and assist her. Her father, she said, insisted on her marrying the Chevalier de Verhais; the marriage was to take place in three days, and rather than do this, she had determined to kill herself; and she now besought the curate, who had attended her mother in her last moments, to give her his benediction before she carried her resolution into effect. The worthy father remonstrated but in vain. At last he thought of an expedient; and, leaving the church together, he conducted her to the house of his old nurse, in a narrow by-lane near the Bastile. The disappearance of the young lady soon made an immense noise in the capital; an active inquiry was set on foot; and two scholars of the university declared they had seen her with the Abbé in the Rue St Antoine, about ten at night. The Abbé was arrested, and examined before the official of the Archbishop; he denied nothing, he explained his conduct, but solemnly refused

to reveal the place of her retreat. All means to extort this secret from him were found to be useless, and he was condemned to perpetual imprisonment. The place of his incarceration was a tower attached to the Archbishop's palace; and here he remained four years, quietly occupying himself with his books, and amusing himself by writ ing a history of the diocese of Paris, which still exists in manuscript. During this time, the Comte d'Estral died; and the Abbé Décorieux became forgotten; he was visited by no one, except an old woman and a young clerk, who called upon him frequently. One evening, and for the first time, the young clerk visited him alone in his cell, and after obtaining permission to stay behind when the jailors came to lock up the cells, he persuaded the Abbé to attempt to escape with him by means of a rope-ladder which he had brought concealed under his dress. The Abbé consented.Just as eleven o'clock struck by the bell of Nôtre Dame, a heavy sound, as of something falling, was heard in the court of the palace, and then a piercing shriek. The guardians of the prison rushed to the spot, and found the mutilated bodies of the Abbé and the young clerk: the rope-ladder had broken; they had fallen from a considerable height; the Abbé was quite dead, but the clerk was still alive. The latter turned his head slowly round, and said, 'God be blessed for having allowed me, before calling me to his presence, to give testimony before men: the Abbé Décorieux has never ceased to be perfectly virtuous and pure. May God forgive me! and grant that I may not survive him!' Here his lips grew white, his eyes closed, and he expired. -One of the guardians, thinking that he had only fainted, unbuttoned his dress to give him air-when he found that it was a female !-it was Mademoiselle d'Estral. On the 29th of July, 1830, during the three glorious days,' the Archbishop's palace was sacked by the populace, who on this occasion displayed a love of destruction which, to their honour be it recorded, was very unusual with them, even during all the excitement of the conflict. They were incited to this partly by a report unfavourable to the neutrality of the reverend inmates: but it was owing, perhaps, as much to their hatred of the Jesuits, who had made the king their tool, and the belief that the Archbishop belonged to that intriguing sect; for, in advancing to attack the palace, the gaminz who headed the attack chanted as they marched

C'est l'Archeveque de Paris,

Qui est un Jesuit comme Charles Dix.'

Of the most common accounts, one says that a report had been spread that a number of priests who had taken refuge there had fired from the windows upon the people. Another statement is, that the people repaired to the palace to obtain what refreshment they could find after their morning's exertions. For some time after their entry they committed no excesses; but in penetrating into a retired chamber they were astonished, we are told, by the discovery of a barrel of gunpowder-some say two,

and some hundred poniards, which appeared to have been recently sharpened. There is little doubt that the story was groundless, but it was enough for the populace. Indiscriminate destruction forthwith commenced. Papers, books, furniture, ornaments, every thing, were scattered about, torn to pieces, or flung wholesale from the windows into the Seine. The people, we are assured, committed no outrage on any of the sacred emblems which they found in the oratory or elsewhere; to a large and richly-ornamented crucifix in one of the rooms they presented arms, and afterwards conveyed it carefully to the Hôtel Dieu.

The quays which now surround the island of the cité are in general well-built, airy, and cheerful. At the western extremity of the isle is the spacious thoroughfare of the Pont Neuf, which is constantly crowded by loungers and the stream of passengers crossing the river. In the interior is the Palais of Justice, with that most beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture, the celebrated Sainte Chapelle, on the one side, and the prison of the Conciergerie on the other. The Palace of Justice was the original city residence of the French kings; and some parts of it-for

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