BY REV. JOHN

S: C. ABBOTT.

THREE days after the marriage of Henry and Marguerite, while all Paris was alive with ostentatious festivities, the Admiral Coligni, a nobleman of great distinction in the Protestant ranks, and the most prominent counsellor and friend of Henry of Navarre, apprehensive from undefined whisperings and mysterious movements that some dark plot was in progress, obtained permission to leave Paris. As, with his retinue, he was returning from the royal palace to his apartments, in preparation for his departure, a musket was discharged at him, from a dwelling on the corner of a street, and the Admiral fell from his horse, pierced by two balls, severely, but not mortally wounded. The attendants of the Admiral rushed into the house. The assassin, however, escaped through a back window, and mounting a fleet horse, stationed there, and which was subsequently proved to have belonged to one of the brothers of the king, avoided arrest. It was however clearly established that the assassin was in connivance with some of the most prominent Catholics of the realm.

The

The King of France and his mother vied with each other in voluble and noisy declarations of their utter abhorrence of the deed. But all the blasphemous oaths of Charles, and all the vociferous asseverations of Catharine, did but strengthen the conviction of the Protestants that they both were implicated in this plot of assassination. Henry, alarmed in view of this treachery, and overwhelmed with indignation and sorrow, hastened to the bedside of his wounded friend. Protestants, unarmed and helpless in the city of Paris, and panic-stricken by these indications of relentless perfidy, immediately made preparations to escape from the city. Even Henry, bewildered by the rumors of plots and perils which were continually borne to his ear, demanded permission to leave the metropolis, and to retire to his own dominions. Charles and Catharine were unwearied in their endeavors to allay this excitement and soothe these alarms. They became renewedly clamorous in their expressions of grief and indignation in view of the assault upon the Admiral. Charles placed a strong guard around

the house where the wounded nobleman lay, ostensibly for the purpose of protecting him from any popular outbreak, but in reality, as it subsequently appeared, to guard against his escape through the intervention of his friends. He also most perfidiously urged the Protestants in the city to occupy quarters near each other, that, in case of trouble, they might more easily be protected by him, and might more effectually aid one another. His real object however was, to gather them together for the approaching slaughter. The Protestants were in the deepest perplexity. They were not sure but that all their apprehensions were groundless. And they knew not but that in the next hour, some fearful battery would be unmasked for their destruction. They were unarmed, unorganized, and unable to make any preparation to meet an unknown danger. The king's protestations of good faith and kindness were unceasing, and his complaisance and polite attentions unremitted. Catharine, whose depraved, yet imperious spirit, was guid. ing, with such consummate duplicity, all this enginery of intrigue, hourly administered the stimulus of her own stern will, to sustain the faltering purpose of her equally depraved but fickle-minded and imbecile boy.

It was on Friday the 22d of August, that the bullets of the assassin wounded Coligni. The next day Henry call ed, with his bride, to visit his friend. Marguerite had but few sympathies with the chamber of suffering, and after a few cold and common-place phrases of condolence with her husband's bosom friend, she hastened away, leaving Henry to perform alone the offices of friendly sympathy. While the young King of Navarre was thus sitting at the bedside of the Admiral, recounting the assurances of faith and honor given him by Catharine and her son, the question was under discussion, at the palace, by this very Catharine and Charles, whether Henry, the husband of the daughter of the one and the sister of the other, should be included with the rest of the Protestants in the approaching massacre. Charles manifested some reluctance to take the life of his early playmate and friend, his bro

ther-in-law and his invited guest. It was, after much deliberation, decided to protect him from the general slaughter to which his friends were destined. Arrangements were then vigorously adopted to carry into execution one of the most sanguinary and inhuman massacres the world has ever witnessed.

The king sent for some leading officers of his troops, and commanded them immediately, but secretly, to arm the Roman Catholic citizens, and assemble them at midnight in front of the Hotel de Ville. Each man was to wear a white cross upon his hat and a white linen badge upon his left arm, that the assassins might recognize each other. In the darkest hour of the night, when all the sentinels of vigilance and the powers of resistance should be most effectually enchained by sleep, the alarm-bell from the tower of the Palace of Justice was to toll the signal for the indiscriminate massacre of the Protestants. Men, women, and children, were alike to fall before the dagger of assassination. With a few individual exceptions, none were to be left to avenge the deed. The soldiers were to commence this drama of blood, and all faithful Catholics were enjoined immediately to aid in the extermination of the enemies of the Church of Rome. Thus would God be glorified, and his kingdom promoted. The spirit of the age was in harmony with the act, and it cannot be doubted that there were those who had been so instructed by their spiritual guides, that they conscientiously thought that by this sanguinary sacrifice they were doing God service. The conspiracy extended throughout all the provinces of France. Beacons were to flash the tidings from mountain to mountain. The peal of alarm was to ring along from steeple to steeple, from city to hamlet, from valley to hillside, till the whole Catholic population should be aroused to obliterate every vestige of Protestantism from the land. While Catharine and Charles were plotting this deed of infamy, even to the very last moment they maintained with the Protestants the appearance of friendship. They lavished caresses upon their generals and their nobles. By invitations and flattery they lured as many as possible to Paris. They entertained their doomed guests with sumptuous feasts and gorgeous festivals. Several of the Huguenot nobles slept in the palace of Charles on the very night of the massacre, entirely unconscious of danger, and amused by the pleasantries in which the king, that evening, seemed especially to indulge.

The lodgings of Henry of Navarre were in the Louvre. It had been decided to spare his life, as it was hoped that he would unite with the

153

Catholic party when he should see the Protestant cause hopelessly ruined, and when it would be so manifestly for his interest to identify himself with those who held the reins of power. Many of the friends of Henry, of exalted rank, lodged also in the Louvre, in chambers contiguous to those which were occupied by their sovereign. The Duchess of Lorraine, the eldest sister of Marguerite, the young bride of Henry, aware of the carnage which the night was to witness, was apprehensive that the Protestants, as soon as they should awake to the treachery which surrounded them, would rush to the chamber of the king, for his protection, and would wreak their vengeance upon his Catholic spouse. When the hour for retiring arrived, she most earnestly entreated her sister not to share the same apartment with her husband, importuning her, even with tears, to occupy for the night some other portion of the palace. Catharine sharply reproved the Duchess of Lorraine for her imprudent remonstrance, and commanded the Queen of Navarre to withdraw. She departed to the nuptial chamber, wondering what could be the cause of the solicitude manifested by her sister. When she entered her husband's room, she found thirty or forty Huguenots assembled there, alarmed by mysterious rumors, which were floating from ear to ear, and by signs of agitation and secrecy, and strange preparation, which everywhere met the eye. No one knew what danger was impending; no one could imagine from what direction the threatened blow was to come. But that some very extraordinary event was about to transpire, was apparent to all. They did not venture to close their eyes in sleep, but all sat together as the hours of the night lingered slowly along, anxiously awaiting the developments with which the moments seemed to be fraught.

In the mean time, aided by the gloom of a starless night, in every street of Paris preparations were going on for the enormous perpetration. Soldiers were assembling in different places of rendezvous. Guards were stationed at important points, that their victims might not escape. Armed citizens began to emerge through the darkness from their dwellings, with daggers and loaded muskets, and to gather in military array around the Hotel de Ville. A regiment of guards were stationed at the portals of the royal palace to protect Charles and Catharine from any possibility of danger. Agitation and alarm pervaded the vast metropolis. The Catholics were rejoicing that the hour of vengeance had arrived. The Protestants, in consternation, unarmed and defenseless, witnesse se fearful bodings of un

154

known violence, and yet were unconscious of the magnitude of their peril, and knew not from what direction to expect the impending blow. At an appointed hour the tocsin was to sound from the church steeples, the signal for the merciless and indiscriminate massacre of the Protestants, all over the realm, of every age and sex. The king himself stood at his window with his loaded musket, anxiously yet tremblingly awaiting the signal, and prepared from the security of his palace to amuse himself in shooting down the flying Huguenots. The few rays of the lamps which glim

mered in the court-yard, would aid him in his aim. Catharine stood by the side of her son to nerve his feeble soul and sustain his wavering resolution. Such was the posture of affairs at midnight, in the metropolis of France, on the 23d of June, 1572. The morning light of St. Bartholomew's day had not yet dawned. The scenes which the ensuing day witnessed, have made it memorable for ages; and through all coming time, the recital of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew will cause the ear to tingle. This narrative we reserve for our next number.

WE lately spent some time in the perusal of the Essays of Elia. We sought a high intellectual gratification, and most perfectly would we have obtained it, had their religious character been other than it is. But amidst the quaint felicities and felicitous quaintnesses of the style, and those delicate word-paintings, whose beauties are not all to be perceived without some fixed attention, and some pleasant, quiet, reflective musing, we were ever and anon grieved at the painful occurrence of some unprofitable quotation of Scripture, or some misuse of a Scripture expression, or some light, unbecoming reference to something sacred, as if the author had read the Bible very carefully, not for the sake of any good that it might do him, but to obtain a peculiar garnish for his style, and by a familiar tampering with holiest things, to impart a peculiar zest and piquancy to his thoughts. Our enjoyment was marred by this, and we envy not the reader whose enjoyment it does not mar. We found besides, in these essays, a very frequent utterance of sentiments to which no one can subscribe who really cares for the Bible as the Word of God. We cannot express the feeling of sadness awakened by the perusal of many of the reflections on subjects the most affecting to poor mortal creatures. And then, we were introduced into scenes of quiet happiness far more attractive than the world's gaiety. But erelong we were compelled the word is used advisedly, for it describes the case-we were compelled to esti mate the quality of that happiness, and to pro

nounce it evanescent, delusive, utterly destitute of the one thing needful.

We never stood amongst the ruins of Pompeii, nor entered the house of Sallust or of Pansa, but we have often imagined ourselves admitted to behold the serenest and most peaceful hours of heathen families, and have attempted to realize the descriptions of domestic or of social enjoyment, which we found in the writings of classic antiquity. And melancholy thoughts have always arisen, such as we could well suppose to crowd into the mind of a wanderer in the desolate streets of the City of the Dead. But it is still more sad to contemplate the ungodly families of our own time and land, endeavoring to make themselves happy without God. And the less that there is of gaiety, and din, and dissipation, the more of quietness and a certain sort of serenity that seems emulously to simulate a heavenly peace, the more impressively melancholy does the scene become.

Such have been our feelings in reading the works of Charles Lamb, and we dwell upon the half-accidental illustration, because, with certain qualifications, the same remarks may be applied to the works of many other authors. In the Essays of Elia, the evil is certainly more notable than in many other cases in which it is not less real; perhaps it is aggravated by their meditative character. Alas! that the poison should be mingled in so pleasant a cup, and that such a mind should have been employed, although unintentionally, in promoting irreligion and profan

ity. What admirable contributions might have been made to our literature by such rare endowments really devoted to the service of God! How good it were to be led along in such calm meditation on things within us and on things around, things past, and present, and to come, things earthly and things heavenly, if the mind which led us were evidently Christian! But how painful is this continual occurrence of some observation or sentiment, reminding us of all the mortality and all the misery of earth, whilst earth seems as if it were utterly cut off from heaven! Might not scenes of fairer happiness be presented, over which no cloud so dark should cast its gloom? Or rather, through the clouds which rise from and encircle earth, might we not be permitted to discern a joyful radiance poured in from above? But oh, how vain are these mere earthly fires, with their poor mockery of warmth and light! How much is it to be regretted that in so many works of genius the reader is directed to these and to no better than these for all his joy! And the lessons of genius are conveyed with an enchanting power which renders their falsehood a thousand-fold more dangerous.

We are far from wishing to restrict the range of literature. It is with literature as with conversation, which cannot be confined to mere religious subjects, but still may be in perfect harmony with religion—must not, every day, be kept within Sabbath limits, but yet ought to be always in accordance with those principles and feelings which require that the Sabbath be kept holy. From the greater prevalence of true religion would doubtless result a greater amount of conversation on religious subjects, and of such books as in general are distinctively called religious. But this would not be all. Conversation upon all other subjects would require a more religious tone; there would be a judicious and natural, an inoffensive intermingling of religion with all other themes, and everything which could not bear such fellowship would be most advantageously excluded. A corresponding improvement would take place in literature, and the very change from which it resulted would again be greatly promoted. This improvement we exceedingly desire, for we look to general literature as, even more than what is called religious literature, indicating and affecting the general state of society. || We long for more and better opportunities of Christian conversation-for hours, and evenings, and happy days of conversation such as may

155

really "minister that godly edifying which is in faith;"--we long to listen to the flow of Christian fervor pouring forth, as from depths newly fathomed, a fresh abundance of Christian thought; we long to participate in intercourse elevating ourselves to think as we might never otherwise have been able to think, whilst conversation, turning to all subjects really deserving of attention, and accommodating itself to all various moods of mind, shall still maintain its Christian character and tone, without affectation, without constraint. And, in like manner, we desire not only to see good religious books multiplied, till the very aspect of our literature be changed by them, as the face of the ocean by the multitude of rain-drops when the shower begins to fall, but also to see all genius consecrated to the service of Christ, and works not professedly religious in their character, yet really religious by their perfect harmony with religious principle and their adaptation to the ordinary feelings of a sanctified heart. We long to be free from the necessity of exploring the utmost limits of good morality with scrutinizing niceness, in order to appreciate the moral character of what we read, and ere we can tell whether to approve or to condemn. We wish to see minds of the highest order practically acknowledging their responsibility to the Great Giver of all gifts. We lament the unbaptized condition of our literature, and we long to see it baptized at last with a truly Christian baptism.

Genius, we fear, has been more frequently misemployed than talent of any other kind; we know no reason why the efforts of genius should not be directed to the promotion of truth, virtue, and holiness. Instances are not wanting to illustrate the possibility; nor has genius ever appeared to greater advantage than when thus consecrated to the service of the sanctuary. Such instances, indeed, are lamentably few; talent of every other kind, and learning, and science, and philosophy, have been more frequently seen in conjunction with true piety, than that most exquisite gift, genius. In these days religion has enjoyed the benefit of great acquirements presented in free-will offering upon her altar; but genius is still too generally reserved for the mere worship of nature, or devoted to a miserable idolatry of itself, or prostituted to the service of unhallowed passions, to which it is perhaps made an excuse for yielding, and which it is basely employed to stimulate in those whose aberrations from virtue must lack even that excuse,

How frequent, how surprising, how true, that we "know not what a day may bring forth!" In the affairs of common life and of private individuals, how different, often, are the realities of the present from the expectations that were indulged in the past! The pleasure that was in anticipation has been turned into sorrow. The riches that were confidently expected, have vanished. The wealth, honor, and power which had long been enjoyed, by one reverse rotation in the

wheel of Providence have all fallen into the dust. Or, on the other hand, he who was yesterday pining in want, is to-day in affluence. He who, but a short time since, was unhonored, untitled, and unknown, is now holding the sceptre of an empire. For changes come over nations as surely, and sometimes as suddenly, as they overtake individuals. He who goes to sleep a king, not thinking but that he shall wear his crown for many years, and then leave it to his son, awakes sceptreless and almost friendless, to become a fugitive in the earth. The nation that in former years was mistress of the world, is now in the feeblest vassalage, or has ceased to be. The people who a century since were no people, are now famed the world wide, and second to no nation on earth. Institutions whose deep-settled foundations were considered immovable, and which had been revered for centuries, have, by a single blow of revolutionary power, been scattered to the winds, and the place where they were is no longer known. Opinions and doctrines which have been honored by the sages of many generations, are exploded and contemned. Axioms in science are found to be no axioms. Almost the only fixed law which men acknowledge, is mutation.

The most changeable of all things are men themselves. There is loveliness in an infant; it is soon changed into loveliness and interest in the animated countenance of youth. That passes,

and we have the more staid, matured, and thoughtful face of manhood. But it is gone, and there are the wrinkles and imbecilities of old age. Poets love to sing the praises of female beauty. Why do they not tell us that it fades like the flower?-passes away like a wreath of morning mist. Men boast of their consistency; yet scarce an hour passes in which their conduct does not contradict their professed principles, and not a year goes away in which a change is not manifest in their professions. He who does not change, is neither a wise nor good man. The truly great and good are constantly discovering their own errors in judgment and conduct, and are profiting from their discoveries. It is for the ignorant, prejudiced, obstinate, and self-conceited, to boast of their infallibility, and that they never change their opinions. It is for the slothful, and unbelieving, and self-righteous to be satisfied to remain as they are, having no desires for amendment, because they conceive that they have no need.

Yes, the world fadeth, and all its glory passeth away. And it is best that it should be so. Let us remember it, and let us profit from the reflection. Let us not have the folly to set our hearts on it. We fade; we pass away. Remembering it, let us be earnest in looking for things which are unfading and imperishable, and preparing for an estate which will be unchanging and eternal. There is One who does not change; it is not desirable that he should. He is perfect. Well is it for mankind that with him there is "neither variableness, nor shadow of turning." "I am the Lord, I change not; therefore, ye sons of Jacob are not consumed." Yes, praise his holy name. "For his mercy endureth for ever." "The world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God, abideth for ever."