Friar Gui made no answer.

“Up, up!—thou eternal sleeper, and do penance
for thy negligence. The prior calls for
thee at his cell!” continued the monk, growing
angry, and shaking the sacristan by the shoulder.

But still no answer.

“Then by Saint Anthony I'll wake thee!
So, so! Sir Gui!”—

And saying this he dealt the sacristan a heavy
box on the ear. The body bent slowly forward
from its erect position, and giving a
headlong plunge, sank with a heavy splash
into the basin of the fountain. The monk
waited a few moments in expectation of seeing
Friar Gui rise dripping from his cold
bath, but he waited in vain;—for he lay
motionless at the bottom of the basin—his eyes
open, and his ghastly face distorted by the
ripples of the water. With a beating heart the
monk stooped down and grasping the skirt of
the sacristan's habit, at length succeeded in
drawing him from the water. All efforts,
however, to resuscitate him were unavailing.
The monk was filled with terror, not doubting

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

that the Friar had died untimely by his hand;
and as the animosity between them was no
secret in the convent, he feared that, when the
deed was known, he should be accused of wilful
murder. He therefore looked round for an
expedient to relieve himself of the dead body;
and the well-known character of the sacristan
soon suggested one. He determined to carry
the body to the house of the most noted beauty
of Rouen, and leave it on the door stop so
that all suspicion of the murder might fall
upon the shoulders of some jealous husband.
The beauty of Martin Franc's wife had penetrated
even the thick walls of the convent, and
there was not a friar in the whole Abbey of
Saint Anthony who had not done penance for
his truant imagination.—Accordingly the dead
body of Friar Gui was laid upon the monk's
brawny shoulders,—carried back to the house
of Martin Franc, and placed in an erect
position against the door. The monk knocked
loud and long; and then gliding through a bylane,
stole back to the convent.

A troubled conscience would not suffer
Martin Franc and his wife to close their eyes;

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

but they lay awake lamenting the doleful
events of the night. The knock at the door
sounded like a death-knell in their ears. It still
continued at intervals, rap—rap—rap!—with a
dull, low sound,—as if something heavy were
swinging against the pannel; for the wind had
risen during the night and every angry gust
that swept down the alley, swung the arms of
the lifeless sacristan against the door. At
length Martin Franc mustered courage enough
to dress himself and to go down, whilst his wife
followed him with a lamp in her hand; but no
sooner had he lifted the latch, than the ponderous
body of Friar Gui fell stark and heavy into
his arms.

“Jesu Maria!” exclaimed Marguerite,
crossing herself;—“here is the monk again!”

“Yes, and dripping wet, as if he had just
been dragged out of the river!”

“O we are betrayed—betrayed!” exclaimed
Marguerite in agony.

“Then the devil himself has betrayed us;”
replied Martin Franc, disengaging himself from
the embrace of the sacristan; “for I met not a
living being; the whole city was as silent as
the grave.”

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

“Holy Saint Martin defend us!” continued
his terrified wife. “Here, take this scapulary
to guard you from the evil one;—and
lose no time. You must throw the body into
the river; or we are lost! Holy Virgin!
How bright the moon shines!”

Saying this she threw round his neck a scapulary—
with the figure of a cross on one end
and an image of the Virgin on the other, and
Martin Franc again took the dead Friar upon
his shoulders and with fearful misgivings departed
on his dismal errand. He kept as
much as possible in the shadow of the houses,
and had nearly reached the quay, when suddenly,
he thought he heard footsteps behind
him.—He stopped to listen; it was no mistake—
they came along the pavement, tramp!—
tramp! and every step grew louder and
nearer. Martin Franc tried to quicken his
pace;—but in vain;—his knees smote together,
and he staggered against the wall. His hand
relaxed its grasp; and the monk slid from his
back, and stood ghastly and straight beside
him, supported by chance against the shoulder
of his bearer. At that moment, a man

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

came round the corner, tottering beneath
the weight of a huge sack. As his head
was bent downwards, he did not perceive
Martin Franc, till he was close upon him;
and when, on looking up, he saw two figures
standing motionless in the shadow of
the wall, he thought himself waylaid, and,
without waiting to be assaulted, dropped the
sack from his shoulders, and ran off at full
speed. The sack fell heavily on the pavement,
and directly at the feet of Martin Franc. In
the fall the string was broken; and out came
the bloody head—not of a dead monk, as it
first seemed to the excited imagination of
Martin Franc,—but of a dead hog!—When
the terror and surprise caused by this singular
event had a little subsided, an idea came into
the mind of Martin Franc, very similar to what
would have come into the mind of almost any
person in similar circumstances. He took the
hog out of the sack and putting the body of the
monk into its place, secured it well with the
remnants of the broken string; and then hurried
homeward with the hog upon his shoulders.

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

He was hardly out of sight, when the man
of the sack returned, accompanied by two
others. They were surprised to find the sack
still lying on the ground, with no one near it,
and began to jeer the former bearer, telling
him he had been frightened at his own shadow
on the wall. Then one of them took the sack
upon his shoulders, without the least suspicion
of the change that had been made in its contents,
and all three disappeared.

Now it happened that the city of Rouen
was at that time infested by three street robbers,
who walked in darkness like the pestilence, and
always carried the plunder of their midnight marauding
to the Tête-de-Bœuf, a little tavern in
one of the darkest and narrowest lanes of the city.
The host of the Tête-de-Bœuf was privy to all
their schemes, and had an equal share in the
profits of their nightly excursions. He gave a
helping hand, too, by the length of his bills,
and by plundering the pockets of any chance
traveller, that was luckless enough to sleep under
his roof.

On the night of the disastrous adventure of
Friar Gui, this little marauding party had been

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

prowling about the city until a late hour,
without finding any thing to reward their labors.
At length, however, they chanced to
spy a hog, hanging under a shed in a butcher's
yard in readiness for the next day's market;
and as they were not very fastidious in
selecting their plunder, but on the contrary
rather addicted to taking whatever they could
lay their hands on, the hog was straightway
purloined, thrust into a large sack, and sent to
the Tête-de-Bœuf on the shoulders of one of the
party, whilst the other two continued their nocturnal
excursion. It was this person, who had
been so terrified at the appearance of Martin
Franc and the dead monk; and as this encounter
had interrupted any further operations of
the party—the dawn of day being now near
at hand,—they all repaired to their gloomy
den in the Tête-de-Bœuf. The host was impatiently
waiting their return; and, asking
what plunder they had brought with them, proceeded
without delay to remove it from the
sack. The first thing that presented itself, on
untying the string, was the monk's hood.

“The devil take the devil!” cried the host,

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

as he opened the neck of the sack, “What's
this?—Your hog has got a cowl!”

“The poor devil has become disgusted
with the world, and turned monk!” said he,
who held the light, a little surprised at seeing
the head covered with a coarse gray cloth.

“Sure enough he has,” exclaimed another,
starting back in dismay, as the shaven crown
and ghastly face of the Friar appeared. “Holy
Saint Benedict be with us!—It is a monk,
stark dead!”

“A dead monk, indeed!” said a third,
with an incredulous shake of the head, “How
could a dead monk get into this sack?”—No,
no: there is some diablerie in this. I have
heard it said, that Satan can take any shape
he pleases; and you may rely upon it, this is
Satan himself, who has taken the shape of
a monk to get us all hanged.”

“Then we had better kill the devil than
have the devil kill us!”—replied the host,
crossing himself. “And the sooner we do it,
the better; for it is now near day-light, and
people will soon be passing in the street.”

“So say I;” rejoined the man of magic;

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

“and my advice is to take him to the butcher's
yard, and hang him up in the place where we
found the hog.”

This proposition so pleased the others, that
it was executed without delay. They carried
the Friar to the butcher's house, and passing a
strong cord round his neck, suspended him to
a beam in the shed, and there left him.

When the night was at length passed, and
daylight began to peep into the eastern windows
of the city, the butcher arose, and prepared
himself for market. He was casting up
in his mind, what the hog would bring at his
stall, when looking upward—lo! in its place
he recognized the dead body of Friar Gui.

“By Saint Dennis!” quoth the butcher,
“I always feared that this Friar would not die
quietly in his cell; but I never thought I
should find him hanging under my own roof.—
This must not be; it will be said, that I murdered
him, and I shall pay for it with my life.
I must contrive some way to get rid of him.”

So saying he called his man, and showing
him what had been done, asked him how he
should dispose of the body, so that he might

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

not be accused of murder. The man, who was
of a ready wit, reflected a moment, and then
answered;

“This is indeed a difficult matter; but
there is no evil without its remedy.—We will
place the friar on horseback—”

“What!—a dead man on horseback?—
impossible!” interrupted the butcher. “Who
ever heard of a dead man on horseback!”

“Hear me out, and then judge. We must
place the body on horseback, as well as we
may, and bind it fast with cords, and then set
the horse loose in the street, and pursue after
him crying out, that the monk has stolen the
horse. Thus all who meet him will strike him
with their staves, as he passes, and it will be
thought that he came to his death in that way.”

Though this seemed to the butcher rather
a mad project, yet, as no better one offered
itself, at the moment, and there was no time
for reflection, mad as the project was, they
determined to put it into execution. Accordingly
the butcher's horse was brought out, and
the Friar was bound upon his back, and with
much difficulty fixed in an upright position.

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

The butcher then gave the horse a blow upon
the crupper with his staff, which set him into a
smart gallop down the street, and he and his
man joined in pursuit crying;

“Stop thief!—Stop thief!—The friar has
stolen my horse!”

As it was now sunrise the streets were full
of people, peasants driving their goods to market,
and citizens going to their daily avocations.
When they saw the Friar dashing at full speed
down the street, they joined in the cry of “Stop
thief!—Stop that horse!” and many, who endeavored
to seize the bridle as the Friar passed
them at full speed, were thrown upon the pavement,
and trampled under foot. Others joined
in the halloo! and the pursuit; but this only
served to quicken the gallop of the frightened
steed, who dashed down one street and up
another like the wind, with two or three
mounted citizens clattering in full cry at his
heels. At length they reached the market
place.—The people scattered right and
left in dismay—and the steed and rider
dashed onward, overthrowing in their course
men and women, and stalls, and piles of

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

merchandise, and sweeping away like a
whirlwind. Tramp—tramp—tramp! they clattered
on; they had distanced all pursuit. They
reached the quay; the wide pavement was
cleared at a bound—one more wild leap—and
splash!—both horse and rider sank into the
rapid current of the river—swept down the
stream—and were seen no more!

THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL.

Il n'est tel plaisir
Que d'estre à gésir
Parmy les beaux champs,
L'herbe verd choisir,
Et prendre bon temps.
Martial d'Auvergne.

[figure description] Blank Leaf.[end figure description]

Oyez-vous
Ce bruit tant doux
Décliquer de la gorgette
Du geai mignot,
Du linot
Et de la frisque allouette?
Bonaventure Desperriers.

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

The sultry heat of summer always brings
with it, to the idler and the man of leisure, a
longing for the leafy shade and the green luxuriance
of the country. It is pleasant to interchange
the din of the city,—the movement of
the crowd,—and the gossip of society, with the
silence of the hamlet,—the quiet seclusion of
the grove, and the gossip of a woodland brook.
As is sung in the old ballad of Robin Hood,

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

In somer when the shawes be sheyn,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste,
To here the foulys song.
To se the dere draw to the dale
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the leves grene,
Vnder the grene wode tre.

It was a feeling of this kind, that prompted
me during my residence in the north of France
to pass one of the summer months at Auteuil—
the pleasantest of the many little villages
that lie in the immediate vicinity of the metropolis.
It is situated on the outskirts of the
Bois de Boulogne—a wood of some extent, in
whose green alleys the dusty cit enjoys the luxury
of an evening drive, and gentlemen meet in
the morning to give each other satisfaction in
the usual way. A cross road, skirted with
green hedge-rows, and overshadowed by tall
poplars, leads you from the noisy highway of
St. Cloud and Versailles to the still retirement
of this suburban hamlet. On either side, the
eye discovers old chateaux amid the trees, and
green parks, whose pleasant shades recall a
thousand images of La Fontaine, Racine, and
Molière; and on an eminence overlooking the

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

windings of the Seine, and giving a beautiful
though distant view of the domes and gardens
of Paris, rises the village of Passy, long the
residence of our countrymen Franklin and
Count Rumford.

I took up my abode at a Maison de Santé;
not that I was a valetudinarian,—but because
I there found some one to whom I could whisper,
`How sweet is solitude!' Behind the
house was a garden filled with fruit trees of
various kinds, and adorned with gravel walks,
and green arbors, furnished with tables and
rustic seats, for the repose of the invalid and
the sleep of the indolent. Here the inmates of
the rural hospital met on common ground, to
breathe the invigorating air of morning, and
while away the lazy noon or vacant evening
with tales of the sick chamber.

The establishment was kept by Dr. Dent-de-lion,
a dried up little fellow, with red hair,
a sandy complexion, and the physiognomy and
gestures of a monkey. His character corresponded
to his outward lineaments; for he had
all a monkey's busy and curious impertinence.
Nevertheless, such as he was, the village

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

Æsculapius strutted forth the little great man of
Auteuil. The peasants looked up to him as
to an oracle,—he contrived to be at the head
of every thing, and laid claim to the credit
of all public improvements in the village:—in
fine he was a great man on a small scale.

It was within the dingy walls of this little
potentate's imperial palace, that I chose my
country residence. I had a chamber in the
second story, with a solitary window, which
looked upon the street, and gave me a peep
into a neighbor's garden. This I esteemed
a great privilege; for, as a stranger, I desired
to see all that was passing out of doors,
and the sight of green trees, though growing
on another man's ground, is always a blessing.
Within doors,—had I been disposed to quarrel
with my household gods,—I might have taken
some objection to my neighborhood; for on
one side of me was a consumptive patient,
whose grave-yard cough drove me from my
chamber by day,—and on the other, an English
Colonel, whose incoherent ravings, in the delirium
of a high and obstinate fever, often broke
my slumbers by night. But I found ample

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

amends for these inconveniences in the society
of those, who were so little indisposed as hardly
to know what ailed them, and those, who in
health themselves, had accompanied a friend or
relative to the shades of the country in pursuit
of it. To these I am indebted for much courtesy;
and particularly to one, who, if these
pages should ever meet her eye, will not, I
hope, be unwilling to accept this slight memorial
of a former friendship.

It was, however, to the Bois de Boulogne,
that I looked for my principal recreation.
There I took my solitary walk, morning and
evening; or, mounted on a little mouse-colored
donkey, paced demurely along the woodland
pathway. I had a favorite seat beneath the
shadow of a venerable oak, one of the few
hoary patriarchs of the wood, which had survived
the bivouacs of the Allied Armies. It
stood upon the brink of a little glassy pool,
whose tranquil bosom was the image of a quiet
and secluded life, and stretched its parental
arms over a rustic bench, that had been constructed
beneath it, for the accommodation of
the foot-traveller, or, perchance, some idle

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

dreamer like myself. It seemed to look round
with a lordly air upon its old hereditary domain,
whose stillness was no longer broken by
the tap of the martial drum, nor the discordant
clang of arms; and, as the breeze whispered
among its branches, it seemed to be holding
friendly colloquies with a few of its venerable
cotemporaries, who stooped from the opposite
bank of the pool, nodding gravely now and
then, and ogling themselves with a sigh in the
mirror below.

In this quiet haunt of rural repose, I used
to sit at noon,—hear the birds sing, and “possess
myself in much quietness.” Just at my
feet lay the little silver pool, with the sky and
the woods painted in its mimic vault, and occasionally
the image of a bird, or the soft watery
outline of a cloud, floating silently through its
sunny hollows. The water-lily spread its broad
green leaves on the surface, and rocked to
sleep a little world of insect life in its golden
cradle. Sometimes a wandering leaf came
floating and wavering downward, and settled
on the water; then a vagabond insect would
break the smooth surface into a thousand

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

ripples, or a green-coated frog slide from the
bank, and plump!—dive headlong to the bottom.

I entered, too, with some enthusiasm into
all the rural sports and merrimakes of the village.
The holidays were so many little eras
of mirth and good feeling; for the French
have that happy and sunshine temperament—
that merry-go-mad character,—which makes
all their social meetings scenes of enjoyment
and hilarity. I made it a point never to miss
any of the Fêtes Champêtres, or rural dances,
at the wood of Boulogne; though I confess it
sometimes gave me a momentary uneasiness to
see my rustic throne beneath the oak usurped
by a noisy group of girls, the silence and decorum
of my imaginary realm broken by music
and laughter, and, in a word, my whole kingdom
turned topsyturvy, with romping, fiddling,
and dancing. But I am naturally, and from
principle too, a lover of all those innocent
amusements, which cheer the laborer's toil,
and, as it were, put their shoulders to the wheel
of life, and help the poor man along with his
load of cares. Hence I saw with no small

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

delight the rustic swain astride the wooden horse
of the carrousel, and the village maiden whirling
round and round in its dizzy car; or took
my stand on a rising ground that overlooked
the dance, an idle spectator in a busy throng.
It was just where the village touched the outward
border of the wood. There a little area
had been levelled beneath the trees, surrounded
by a painted rail, with a row of benches
inside. The music was placed in a slight
balcony, built around the trunk of a large tree
in the centre, and the lamps, hanging from the
branches above, gave a gay, fantastic and fairy
look to the scene. How often in such moments
did I recall the lines of Goldsmith, describing
those “kinder skies,” beneath which
“France displays her bright domain,” and feel
how true and masterly the sketch—


Alike all ages; dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
Has frisked beneath the burden of three-score.

Nor must I forget to mention the Fête Patronale,—
a kind of annual fair, which is held
at mid-summer in honor of the patron saint of

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

Auteuil. Then the principal street of the village
is filled with booths of every description;
strolling players, and rope-dancers, and jugglers,
and giants, and dwarfs, and wild beasts,
and all kinds of wonderful shows excite the
gaping curiosity of the throng, and in dust,
crowds, and confusion the village rivals the capital
itself. Then the goodly dames of Passy
descend into the village of Auteuil;—then the
brewers of Billancourt, and the tanners of
Sèvres dance lustily under the greenwood tree;—
and then, too, the sturdy fish-mongers of
Brétigny and Saint-Yon regale their fat wives
with an airing in a swing, and their customers
with eels and craw-fish;—or as is more poetically
set forth in an old Christmas Carol,


Vous eussiez vu venir tous ceux de Saint-Yon,
Et ceux de Brétigny apportant du poisson,
Les barbeaux et gardons, anguilles et carpettes
Etoient à bon marché
Croyez,
A cette journée-là,
La, la,
Et aussi les perchettes.

I found another source of amusement in
observing the various personages that daily
passed and repassed beneath my window. The

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

character, which most of all arrested my attention,
was a poor blind fiddler, whom I first saw
chaunting a doleful ballad at the door of a small
tavern near the gate of the village. He
wore a brown coat out at elbows, the fragment
of a velvet waistcoat, and a pair of tight
nankeens, so short as hardly to reach below
his calves. A little foraging cap, that had
long since seen its best days, set off an open,
good-humored countenance, bronzed by sun
and wind. He was led about by a brisk middle
aged woman, in straw hat and wooden shoes;
and a little bare-footed boy, with clear blue
eyes and flaxen hair, held a tattered hat in his
hand, in which he collected eleemosynary sous.
The old fellow had a favorite song, which he
used to sing with great glee to a merry, joyous
air, the burden of which ran “chantons
l'amour et le plaisir!”—let us sing of love
and pleasure. I often thought it would have
been a good lesson for the crabbed and discontented
rich man, to have heard this remnant of
humanity,—poor, blind, and in rags, and dependent
upon casual charity for his daily bread,
singing, in so cheerful a voice, the charms of

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

existence, and, as it were, fiddling life away
to a merry tune.

I was one morning called to my window by
the sound of rustic music. I looked out, and
beheld a procession of villagers advancing
along the road, attired in gay dresses, and
marching merrily on in the direction of the
church. I soon perceived that it was a marriage
festival. The procession was led by
a long orang-outang of a man, in a straw hat
and white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asthmatic
clarionet, from which he contrived to
blow unearthly sounds, ever and anon squeaking
off at right angles from his tune, and winding
up with a grand flourish on the guttural
notes. Behind him, led by his little boy,
came the blind fiddler, his honest features
glowing with all the hilarity of a rustic bridal,
and, as he stumbled along, sawing away
upon his fiddle till he made all crack again.
Then came the happy bridegroom, dressed in
his Sunday suit of blue, with a large nosegay
in his button-hole, and close beside him his
blushing bride, with downcast eyes, clad in
a white robe and slippers, and wearing a

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

wreath of white roses in her hair. The friends
and relatives brought up the procession; and
a troop of village urchins came shouting along
in the rear, scrambling among themselves for
the largess of sous and sugar-plums, that now
and then issued in large handfuls from the
pockets of a lean man in black, who seemed to
officiate as master of ceremonies on the occasion.
I gazed on the procession till it was out
of sight; and when the last wheeze of the clarionet
died upon my ear, I could not help thinking
how happy were they, who were thus to
dwell together in the peaceful bosom of their
native village, far from the gilded misery and
the pestilential vices of the town.

On the evening of the same day, I was sitting
by the window, enjoying the freshness of
the air, and the beauty and stillness of the
hour, when I heard the distant and solemn
hymn of the Catholic burial service, at first so
faintly and indistinct that it seemed an illusion.
It rose mournfully on the hush of evening,—
died gradually away,—then ceased. Then it
rose again, nearer and more distinct, and soon
after a funeral procession appeared, and passed

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

directly beneath my window. It was led by a
priest, bearing the banner of the church, and
followed by two boys, holding long flambeaux
in their hands. Next came a double file of
priests in white surplices, with a missal in one
hand and a lighted wax taper in the other,
chaunting the funeral dirge at intervals,—now
pausing, and then again taking up the mournful
burden of their lamentation, accompanied
by others, who played upon a rude kind of
horn, with a dismal and wailing sound. Then
followed various symbols of the church, and
the bier, borne on the shoulders of four men.
The coffin was covered with a black velvet pall,
and a chaplet of white flowers lay upon it, indicating
that the deceased was unmarried. A
few of the villagers came behind, clad in
mourning robes, and bearing lighted tapers.
The procession passed slowly along the same
street, that in the morning had been thronged
by the gay bridal company. A melancholy
train of thought forced itself home upon my
mind. The joys and sorrows of this world are
so strikingly mingled! Our mirth and grief
are brought so mournfully in contact! We

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

laugh while others weep,—and others rejoice
when we are sad! The light heart and the
heavy walk side by side, and go about together!
Beneath the same roof are spread the
wedding feast and the funeral pall! The bridal
song mingles with the burial hymn! One goes
to the marriage bed; another to the grave;
and all is mutable, uncertain and transitory!

It is with sensations of pure delight, that I
recur to the brief period of my existence, which
was passed in the peaceful shades of Auteuil.
There is one kind of wisdom, which we learn
from the world, and another kind, which can
be acquired in solitude only. In cities we
study those around us; but in the retirement of
the country we learn to know ourselves. The
voice within us is more distinctly audible in
the stillness of the place; and the gentler affections
of our nature spring up more freshly in
its tranquillity and sunshine,—nurtured by the
healthy principle, which we inhale with the
pure air, and invigorated by the genial influences,
which descend into the heart from the
quiet of the sylvan solitude around, and the
soft serenity of the sky above.

JACQUELINE.

When thou shalt see the body put on death's sad and ashy countenance,
in the dead age of night, when silent darkness does encompass the
dim light of thy glimmering taper, and thou hearest a solemn bell tolled
to tell the world of it, which now, as it were, with this sound is struck
into dumb attention, tell me if thou canst then find a thought of thine
devoting thee to pleasure and the fugitive toys of life.

[figure description] Blank Leaf.[end figure description]

Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Shakspeare.

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

“Dear mother,—is it not the bell I
hear?”

“Yes, my child; the bell for morning
prayers. It is Sunday to-day.”

“I had forgotten it. But now all days are
alike to me. Hark! it sounds again—louder—
louder. Open the window, for I love the sound.
There; the sunshine and the fresh morning air
revive me. And the church bell—oh mother,—
it reminds me of the holy sabbath mornings
by the Loire—so calm, so hushed, so beautiful!
Now give me my prayer-book, and draw the
curtain back that I may see the green trees

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

and the church spire. I feel better to-day,
dear mother.”

It was a bright, cloudless morning in August.
The dew still glistened on the trees;
and a slight breeze wafted to the sick-chamber
of Jacqueline the song of the birds, the
rustle of the leaves, and the solemn chime of
the church-bells. She had been raised up in
bed, and reclining upon the pillow, was gazing
wistfully upon the quiet scene without.
Her mother gave her the prayer-book and then
turned away to hide a tear that stole down her
cheek.

At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline
crossed herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that
hung around her neck, and opened the silver
clasps of her missal. For a time she seemed
wholly absorbed in her devotions. Her lips
moved,—but no sound was audible. At intervals
the solemn voice of the priest was heard
at a distance, and then the confused responses
of the congregation, dying away in inarticulate
murmurs. Ere long the thrilling chaunt of
the Catholic service broke upon the ear. At
first it was low, solemn, and indistinct;—then

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

it became more earnest and entreating, as if
interceding, and imploring pardon for sin;—
and then arose louder and louder, full, harmonious,
majestic, as it wafted the song of praise
to heaven,—and suddenly ceased. Then the
sweet tones of the organ were heard,—trembling,
thrilling, and rising higher and higher,
and filling the whole air with their rich melodious
music. What exquisite accords!—what
noble harmonies!—What touching pathos!—
The soul of the sick girl seemed to kindle into
more ardent devotion, and to be wrapt away to
heaven in the full harmonious chorus, as it
swelled onward, doubling and redoubling, and
rolling upward in a full burst of rapturous devotion!
—Then all was hushed again. Once
more the low sound of the bell smote the air,
and announced the elevation of the host. The
invalid seemed entranced in prayer. Her book
had fallen beside her,—her hands were clasped,—
her eyes closed,—her soul retired within its
secret chambers. Then a more triumphant
peal of bells arose. The tears gushed from
her closed and swollen lids; her cheek was
flushed; she opened her dark eyes and fixed

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

them with an expression of deep adoration and
penitence upon an image of the Savior on the
cross, which hung at the foot of her bed, and
her lips again moved in prayer. Her countenance
expressed the deepest resignation. She
seemed to ask only that she might die in peace,
and go to the bosom of her Redeemer.

The mother was kneeling by the window,
with her face concealed in the folds of the curtain.
She arose, and, going to the bed-side
of her child, threw her arms around her, and
burst into tears.

“My dear mother, I shall not live long—I
feel it here. This piercing pain—at times it
seizes me, and I cannot—cannot breathe.”

“My child, you will be better soon.”

“Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All
tears and pain and sorrow will be over. The
hymn of adoration and entreaty I have just
heard, I shall never hear again on earth. Next
sabbath, mother, kneel again by that window
as to-day. I shall not be here, upon this bed
of pain and sickness, but when you hear the
solemn hymn of worship and the beseeching
tones that wing the spirit up to God,

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

think, mother, that I am there,—with my
sweet sister who has gone before us,—kneeling
at our Savior's feet, and happy—oh, how happy!”

The afflicted mother made no reply,—her
heart was too full to speak.

“You remember, mother, how calmly Amie
died. Poor child, she was so young and beautiful!
—I always pray, that I may die as she
did. I do not fear death as I did before she
was taken from us. But oh—this pain—this
cruel pain—it seems to draw my mind back
from heaven. When it leaves me I shall die
in peace.”

“My poor child!—God's holy will be
done!”

The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber.
The excitement was over, and exhausted nature
sought relief in sleep.

The persons, between whom this scene
passed, were a widow and her sick daughter,
from the neighborhood of Tours. They had
left the banks of the Loire to consult the more
experienced physicians of the metropolis, and
had been directed to the Maison de Santé at

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

Auteuil for the benefit of the pure air. But all
in vain. The health of the suffering, but uncomplaining
patient grew worse and worse, and it
soon became evident that the closing scene was
drawing near.

Of this Jacqueline herself seemed conscious;
and toward evening she expressed a wish to receive
the last sacraments of the church. A
priest was sent for: and ere long the tinkling of
a little bell in the street announced his approach.
He bore in his hand a silver vase containing
the consecrated wafer, and a small vessel filled
with the holy oil of the extreme unction hung
from his neck. Before him walked a boy
carrying a little bell, whose sound announced
the passing of these symbols of the Catholic
faith. In the rear, a few of the villagers, bearing
lighted wax tapers, formed a short and melancholy
procession. They soon entered the
sick chamber, and the glimmer of the tapers
mingled with the red light of the setting sun,
that shot his farewell rays through the open
window. The vessel of oil and the vase containing
the consecrated wafers were placed
upon the table in front of a crucifix, that hung

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

upon the wall, and all present excepting the
priest, threw themselves upon their knees. The
priest then approached the bed of the dying
girl, and said in a slow and solemn tone;

“The King of kings and Lord of lords has
passed thy threshold. Is thy spirit ready to
receive him?”—

“It is, father.”

“Hast thou confessed thy sins?”

“Holy father, no.”

“Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may
be forgiven, and thy name recorded in the book
of life.”

And turning to the kneeling crowd around,
he waved his hand for them to retire, and was
left alone with the sick girl. He seated himself
beside her pillow, and the subdued whisper
of the confession mingled with the murmur of
the evening air, which lifted the heavy folds of
the curtains and stole in upon the holy scene.
Poor Jacqueline had few sins to confess,—a
secret thought or two towards the pleasures
and delights of the world,—a wish to live, unuttered,
but which to the eye of her self-accusing
spirit seemed to resist the wise providence

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

of God;—no more. The confession of a meek
and lowly heart is soon made. The door was
again opened;—the attendants entered, and
knelt around the bed, and the priest proceeded;

“And now prepare thyself to receive with
contrite heart the body of our blessed Lord
and Redeemer.—Dost thou believe that our
Lord Jesus Christ was conceived by the Holy
Spirit, and born of the Virgin Mary?”

“I believe.”

And all present joined in the solemn response—

“I believe.”

“Dost thou believe that the Father is God,
that the Son is God, and that the Holy Spirit
is God,—three persons and one God?”

“I believe.”

“Dost thou believe that the Son is seated
on the right hand of the Majesty on high,
whence he shall come to judge the quick and
the dead?”

“I believe.”

“Dost thou believe that by the holy sacraments
of the church thy sins are forgiven thee,
and that thus thou art made worthy of eternal
life?”

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

“I believe.”

“Dost thou pardon, with all thy heart, all who
have offended thee in thought, word or deed?”

“I pardon them.”

“And dost thou ask pardon of God and thy
neighbor for all offences thou hast committed
against them, either in thought, word, or deed?”

“I do!”

“Then repeat after me; O Lord Jesus, I
am not worthy, nor do I merit, that thy divine
Majesty should enter this poor tenement of
clay; but according to thy holy promises be
my sins forgiven, and my soul washed white
from all transgression.”

Then taking a consecrated wafer from the
vase, he placed it between the lips of the dying
girl, and while the assistant sounded the
little silver bell, said;

“Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat
animam tuam in vitam eternam.”

And the kneeling crowd smote their breasts
and responded in one solemn voice;

“Amen!”

The priest then took from the silver box on
the table a little golden rod, and dipping it in

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

holy oil, anointed the invalid upon the hands,
feet and breast in the form of the cross. When
these ceremonies were completed, the priest
and his attendants retired, leaving the mother
alone with her dying child, who, from the exhaustion
caused by the preceding scene, sank
into a death-like sleep.

The long twilight of the summer evening
stole on; the shadows deepened without, and
the night-lamp glimmered feebly in the sick
chamber; but still she slept. She was lying
with her hands clasped upon her breast,—her
pallid cheek resting upon the pillow, and her
bloodless lips apart, but motionless and silent
as the sleep of death. Not a breath interrupted
the silence of her slumber. Not a movement
of the heavy and sunken eye-lid-not a trembling
of the lip—not a shadow on the marble
brow told when the spirit took its flight. It
passed to a better world than this.

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