degrees of disbelief; one must be Romanist, and, in modern days, Ultramontane to the last degree, to deserve the name of Catholic at all; in that we do not wonder that in those days, Jeffry Vallée, Postel, Doletus, Calvin, and Beza were alike thought deserving of the scaffold or the stake. Such is the fact the doctrine of De Saintés, in his "Methodus contra Sectas," a logical and historical treatise justifying intolerance. The very sight of a heretic drives him mad; he speaks with horror of the impure and infernal work of Calvin, who had the presumption to dedicate his "Christian Institution" to Francis I., and of the audacity of those Huguenotimists who ventured to Poissy to publish and maintain their impious opinions. Beza, who found De Saintés one of the rudest adversaries at Poissy, published one of those retorts which there is no refuting, though the adversary may reply. That reply was ventured on by De Saintés, in Latin, but it was a mere tissue of classical abuse. In his eyes Beza was a prodigy of eloquence, a second beast of the Apocalypse, a crocodile that weeps to slay, a roaring and devouring lion. Lingua sua leonina et dicendi vehementia rugit, et circuit, et conquirit quo jure, quâve injuria illum affligat perdat, et assumat. De Saintés also ventures on coarse insinuations against Beza, on the score of morality, quoting against him some light Latin verses published in his "Juvenilia," when he was only twenty years of age. This was an unjustifiable proceeding, the very man who brought the charge and all others disbelieving it. It may safely be averred of this and of all like cases, that the man who has most sported with amatory matters in verse, is the least likely to have been a transgressor of the bienséances in fact. But the coarseness of the accuser went further and made Beza the spiritual paramour of Calvin-praeposterus adulter. These things are shocking to read, and are only quoted to show how far good manners and common decency were sacrificed to ecclesiastical preferences by the zealots of other days. Apart from his coarseness, De Saintés wrote well-the example of the Reformers was infectious, for they were scholars as well as divines. But De Saintés was unfortunate

VOL. LXXI.-NO. CCCCXXI.

dying in prison, the victim of the hatreds he awakened. Mixed up with the excesses of the League, and an apologist of James Clement, the assassin, when the monarchical reaction arrived he was constrained to resign his bishopric of Evreux, to that Dr. Perron, the son of a heretic, whose moderation won more adherents to the Church of Rome than all the fiery zeal of his predecessor.

The Cardinal of Lorraine was a man of talent, and an indefatigable polemic, but moral weight was wanting. The worldly and dissipated life of the Cardinal and his intrigues and political adventures marred the effect of his eloquence. He was neither a Bernard nor a Bossuet. Besides his influence was nullified by the fact that the Cardinals Du Bellay and De Chatillon and a number of the bishops like George Spifame and John De Montluc did not conceal their sympathy with the new opinions. Thus the wisest and trustiest sons of the Church were against her, while her defences rested in insufficient or unworthy hands-unfrocked monks like Cathelan, needy scribblers, like Artus Désiré, religious adventurers like Baudouin and Villegagnon. These were but raw recruits, opposed to the thundering legion of Geneva, that filled the world with their preachings and their books. Cathelan opened the engagement with an answer to Beza's "Passavant Papale with his "Passavant Parisien;" the resemblance between the two brochures being confined to the titlefor the one is sparkling, spiritual, lively; the other flat, gross, and ridiculous, unworthy the name of pasquinade. It is a mere scandalous chronicle of the supposed life of the Reformers in Geneva-the imaginary facts gleaned by Cathelan during a short residence amongst them, a sojourn soon curtailed by his own improprieties. Had he possessed sufficient ability, he might have drawn an amusing picture of the rivalries, pettinesses, and ambitions of the evangelical leaders which would have created a laugh against them as hearty as that which greeted their supper of Lizet; but he only broached absurdities or slanders, either alike damaging to his cause. Calvin, the dry and rigid Calvin! whom even Bossuet calls a man of sad disposition and solemn

2

style is metamorphosed into a bon vivant and a man of bonnes fortunes with the ladies. He is grand satrap of Geneva, and the greatest paillard alive. His first exploit is to marry off his hands his female attendant, who needed in law a visible father for her coming baby, and a spouse to hide her unconnubial maternity. His next adventure is with a kitchenwench. A great admirer of masquerades, our satrap may be seen now attending one in the disguise of a postillion, with glazed hat and big boots-now as a gentleman of rank in a chariot and six, mingling soft declarations with sermons, stealing the souls and the wives of his neighbours; for this Calvin, you must understand, is a regular devil incarnate, as all must allow. Viret is drawn with the same scandalous pencil-illborn, ill-bred, a braggart and a coward to boot; a cunning sharper who married widows to plunder them, and has liaisons with their chambermaids. He has a weakness also for purses and legacies when they drop in his way. Beza is a trimmer siding now with Luther, now with Calvin; as he once was wont to caress now his Camilla, now his Audebert. His honesty was on a par with Viret's, as witness the silver spoon stolen from a German hotel on his travels, and the precious reliquaries he abstracted when he resigned his Priory of Longjumeau. By these, their chiefs, he would have their following judged a tag rag and bobtail regiment that would disgrace Coventry. All that this defamer touches he blackens, not even sparing the ladies. Those of Lausanne and Geneva are as disreputable as the worst of the men, and as bad as female badness can be. The fair Margaret defamed by name, the beautiful Madeleine, the wife of the bell-ringer, the washer-woman, and the sister of Calvin surprised in adultery, with a citizen whose head therefor he caused to be brutally chopped off. Added to these gross slanders are reflections upon the money matters of Reformers, their preachings in their hog-stye churches, the diffusion of their works in France, and their incessant labour with the printing-press to infectall Europe with their venomous doctrine. All this the knave knew to be lies of his own or others invention; but the work itself is

curious as one of the first of a school of reckless calumny that has followed the same policy for two hundred years, assured that where much mud was pelted some would stick. Bolsec the recreant (and many besides) too faithfully copied his vile example when he gave to the world his lying romances of the lives of Calvin and Beza.

Another combatant on the same side-when we speak thus of these unprincipled men, we mean to designate them as unworthy even of the cause they defended, which they damaged rather than served-was Artus Désiré, the starveling, who neither did his own fortunes nor the cause he advocated any good by his writings or his life. His cacoëthes scribendi was only equalled by his gift of invective. Half priest, half layman, theologian, libeller, versemaker, in the confidence of the Guises and the King of Spain at the same time, a runaway from convent and from prison, his antecedents were not respectable, and his achievements were of little avail to himself or to any one else. As a Norman, he was a fellow-countryman of Vauquelin and Malherbe, but the natal soil was all the duo had in common with him. He fought with his pen, as others with their sword, and gained sundry cuffs in his errant warfare. No one, not even Lizet, got so severely handled by the Huguenots, and the Catholics did not care to defend such a champion. Father Niceron said he had neither education nor capacity, and yet he discoloured much paper with his pen on the side of the old orthodoxy, marked with an indelible strain of vulgarity. The titles of his works are queer, if not quaint. "The Looking-glass of the Free Blacks," "Le Miroir des Francs Taupins, autrement dits anti-Chretiens Lutheriens;" "The Monkey Tricks of the Huguenots," "La Singeres des Huguenots, marmottes et guenons de la nouvelle dérision Theodobezienne;" "The Conscientious Loyalty of the Tavern Bucks," ""La Loyauté Consciencieuse des Taverniers," "The Review of Post Horses," "La revue des Chevaux de Louage," "The Disputes of Guillot, the Hog-driver, and the Shepherdess of Saint Denis," "Les Disputes de Guillot, porcher, et de la bergere de Saint Denis en France, con

tre John Calvin, prédicant de Geneve." The style of these pieces is as absurd as their titles, a mish-mash of incongruous stuffs-a jumble of all tones and tongues, grossest buffooneries and pious exhortations-the language of the schools and of the fish market blended together in an unsightly mass. In "Guillot, the hogdriver," the hero comes to fisticuffs with Calvin in the derision [religion] Theodobezienne. The Huguenots, are transformed into rats and apes. In the "Taverniers "the vintners strive with the gospellers who shall best adulterate-the one their wine, the others their gospel. Désiré composed also a counter-poison to the fifty songs [psalms] of Marot, a wretched and impious parody. The grand chronicles of Passe-partout, with the origin of John Covin, falsely called Calvin, and the Battle of the faithful Papist, a Roman pilgrim, against the apostate anti-Papist, together with a description of the city of God besieged by heretics, 1552.

Before Désiré composed this, his capital work, he travelled to Geneva in order that he might the more faithfully portray the detestable life of these abandoned heretics. Had he but endeavoured to steal at the same time some of the wit of Beza, and the style of Calvin he had gained none the less by his journey. As it is, his poem is as dull and long as Blackmore's" Arthur," or as the "Tourna

ment of Anté-Christ," by Huon de Méry, to which the French critic compares it. It extends to six thousand lines-a tedious argument, an untrue history, a dispiriting warsong. Fancy a doctor of Sorbonne taking the lyre of Homer or of Tyrtaeus with the genius and the poetry left out, and that is Désiré's production—a theological abortion and sectarian craze. Our Nat. Lee never conceived anything so absurd ; the coach fly flutters around the bar of the chariot, and alights on the conductor's nose, and sings

"Et vous, Saint Pere, allez devant
Ainsi que fit le bon Urie,
Et debandez l'artillerie
Et vous, cardinaux, en bataille
Manifestez vos grandes vertus-
Vous êtes de rouge vêtus.

Sus, sus, à la guerre, à la guerre !" The minstrel gained little credit and no cash by his performance; he pined with envy as he saw benefice after benefice given away to gallant prelates and courtier priests, lazy and sceptical, while their champions starved on wretched poetry and hungry polemics. At last he died, ill-clad, ill-fed, ill-requited, like a dog in a ditch, his very name forgotten long ago, like his productions, save the plodding muse of chronology records it in her less public annals, and the curious bibliographer disinters it "to point a moral, or adorn a tale."

2*

SWEET Anne Page was exceedingly dissatisfied with what she had done. She was a timorous creature, and had written to Humphrey in a fright, and now was in a fright as to the result. Anne was a parasitic plant-a clinging creature, unable to stand alone. Her heart was a treasure of sweetness, which she was glad to bestow on anyone who seemed to deserve it. Humphrey Morfill had accurately estimated her receptive and reflective character. With Stephen, she was thoughtful and dreamy; with Humphrey she was gay and vivacious; and at both times she was happy. But now her letter had filled her with remorse and terror. She thought of Stephen, whom her father had deemed worthy to wed her. With a pang of regret she thought of Humphrey, to whom she had offered herself in sudden fear, with utter dismay. What should she do? Of whom should she ask counsel? If Claudia had not left Kingsleat, I believe Anne would have thrown herself at her feet and confessed everything, for she had faith in her cousin, while she feared her; but for her uncle Walter and Winifred she had only fear, no faith.

She sat in the schoolroom at the Rectory, thinking of these things, in her hand some dreary volume of lessons, which she was supposed to be learning. Not a word was visible to her troubled eyes. Stiff Miss Marsden sat opposite her, doing some ridiculous feminine work. The forenoon was a bright one, softening towards spring; and poor little childish Anne, if there had been anybody to love and guide her, would have been as good and as happy a girl as you would wish to see on a spring morning. Immured in a schoolroom, tortured with long lessons, threatened with a marriage to some one she had never seen, she was thoroughly miserable. Anne always dreaded people she did not know, and always loved people whom she knew ever so little, if they would let her. If the Raphael

Branscombe who terrified her could have entered at this moment he might easily have won her from both her boyish wooers.

Are you ready with your lesson, my dear ?" asked the governess, in the chill voice of the species.

Anne started, conscious of her haughtiness. She did not even know what book was in her hand. It turned out to be a work by the ingenious M. Le Page, with this sort of thing in it "Joséphine, je viens d'invite, M. L. à déjeuner, qu'as ta à nous donner? Dujambon, des côtelettes, du fromage et de la crême avec le café. Il y a en bas des œufs tout frais, on peut ajouter une omelette." Breaking down over "jambon, "Anne burst into tears.

"You are not well, my dear, I am afraid," said the governess. "Have you a headache? Would you like to go and lie down?"

Anne assented to the proposition, glad to obtain solitude. When she reached her own room she locked the door, and sat down and tried to think; but she was in no state to decide what she ought to do. Always trustful and irresolute, she was at this moment pliant as a reed. She could. come to no decision. There was no one she could ask. She could only moan, and sob, and wish sometimes for Stephen, sometimes for Humphrey, sometimes even for Claudia-and often, ah, how often, poor child, for her lost father.

There came a tap at the door.

"They can't let me alone," she murmured fretfully. "I shall have to take some gruel, or some senna, or something. I am very wretched.

She opened the door, and there entered-not as she expected, her cousin or the governess-but the parlourmaid, Rebecca. She was a wonderfully smart young person, with a flyaway air, and a taste for cherry-coloured ribbons. Humphrey, guessing that the wearer of such finery was corruptible, had made her

"You've been crying, Miss," said Becky, familiarly. "I wouldn't, if I were you. There's nobody dare put upon you, now Miss Claudia is gone. You're a better lady than any of 'em."

This well-meant speech was made in consequence of Humphrey's orders to Becky to advise Miss Page to keep up her spirits; but as she went down stairs the flighty cameriste said to herself,

"Silly little chit! What does she want crying there like a baby? I'm sure I don't wonder at Miss Claudia's whipping her. I wonder what Mr. Humphrey can see in her-but there, she's got inoney."

And Becky tossed her cherrycoloured cap-ribbons, and thought, if she had money, how the young men would all be after her. And byand-by she managed to slip out and convey the affirmative monosyllable to Morfill, who was lying perdu at a public-house near the Rectory, and who gave Becky a sovereign and certain directions to which she promised attention.

Humphrey, as we have said, had gone straight to Idlechester, and to Stephen's rooms. He found his old friend in a dreamy, melancholy mood.

"Well, old boy," he said, "you seem dull in these queer rooms of yours. Do you stay here all day? Why don't you wake up a little ?" "OI go out often enough," replied Stephen. "But I am rather dull, I confess."

"No wonder. And it's entirely your own fault; your money makes you independent. Why not go to college? you'll be jolly enough there."

"I don't want to be jolly," said Stephen. "But what brings you here in the middle of term? Anything the matter?"

"Well," said Humphrey, hesitatingly, "the fact is this. I want you to do me, if you can, a great favour. I want to borrow two hundred pounds for about three months. And you must trust to my honour; I cannot tell you what I want it for-only there's a lady in the case."

"You can have it to-morrow morning as soon as the bank opens," said Stephen. "And now, what shall we do this evening?"

"I'm going to stay here," said Morfill, "and what's more, I mean to sleep on your sofa, if you'll let me. I don't wish it generally known that I am not at Cambridge. And, by the way, if you are going out at all, stroll down to the Half Moon, and hear if anybody talks about me. I got off the coach half a mile from town, and don't think I was recognized." phen did as he was told, and found that Humphrey had not quite succeeded in maintaining his incognito.

Ste

"Why, there's an old friend of yours in town, Mr. Stephen," said Jack Winslow. "How is it he's not with you?"

"I have no friends, Miss Winslow, old or new," said Stephen, solemnly.

"O don't talk such stuff! But you can't mean to say you haven't seen Mr. Morfill?"

"My dear Jack, I regret to find that you are losing your sanity. Is it incipient D. F., and must I warn that respectable old gentleman whom you condescend to acknowledge as papa that it is time you were sent to the County Lunatic Asylum? Your head should be shaved, and you should be put in a straight waistcoat."

"What nonseuse you are talking! I tell you Mr. Morfill came in by this evening's coach, and I want to know what he is come for."

"I should think you did. So should I if I thought he was here. Is it likely he'd leave Cambridge in the middle of term?"

"I don't know what's likely," said Jack. "I only know Harry Tipper says he saw him."

"Did you ever know Harry drive that last stage sober? Says he saw him! Saw old Vosper the butcher,