eye, he was able, as it were, to see her speak, and nothing can be more touching, or more tenderly beautiful, than the words she seemed to utter. Let us add that those words lose nothing by passing into. the exquisite English in which M. de Lasteyrie has translated them. We may be unduly proud of our language, but certainly we imagine that these words, as rendered by M. de Lasteyrie, are even more touching than the original French. The narrative goes on:

"I heard it said near me, 'Look at that young one, how anxious she seems! see how she is speaking to the other one!' For my part, I felt as if I heard all they were saying. Mama, he is not there. Look again. Nothing escapes me; I assure you, mama, he is not there.

They had evidently forgotten that I had sent them word that it would be impossible for me to gain admittance into the prison yard. The first cart stopped before me during at least a quarter of an hour. It moved on; the second followed. I approached the ladies; they did not see me. I went again into the Palais de Justice,' and then a long way round, and stood at the entrance of the Pont-auChange,' in a prominent place. Mme. de Noailles cast her eyes around her; she passed, and did not see me. I followed the carts over the bridge, and thus kept near the ladies, though separated from them by the crowd. Mme. de Noailles, still looking for me, did not perceive me. Mme. d'Ayen's anxiety became visible on her countenance. Her daughter watched the crowd with increasing attention, but in vain. I felt tempted to turn back. Have I not done all that I could? I inwardly exclaimed. Everywhere the crowd will be greater; it is useless to go any further. I was on the point of giving up the attempt. Suddenly the sky became overclouded, thunder was heard in the distance; I made a fresh effort. A short cut brought me before the arrival of the carts to the Rue Saint-Antoine, nearly opposite the too famous 'Force.' At that moment the storm broke forth. The wind blew violently; flashes of lightning and claps of thunder followed in rapid succession; the rain poured down in torrents. I took shelter at a shopdoor. The spot is always present to my memory, and I have never passed by it since without emotion. In one moment the street was cleared: the crowd

had taken refuge in the shops and gateways. There was less order in the procession, both the escort and the carts having quickened their pace. They were close to the Petit Saint-Antoine,' and I was still undecided. The first cart passed. By a precipitate and involuntary movement I quitted the shop-door, rushed towards the second cart, and found myself close to the ladies. Mme. de Noailles perceived me, and, smiling, seemed to say: There you are at last! How happy we are to see you! How we have looked for you! Mama, there he is! Mme. d'Ayen appeared to revive. As for myself, all irresolution vanished from my mind. By the grace of God I felt possessed of extraordinary courage. Soaked with rain and perspiration, I continued to walk by them. On the steps of the church of Saint Louis I met a friend who, filled with respect and attachment for the ladies, was endeavoring to give them the same assistance. His countenance, his attitude, showed what he felt. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and, shuddering, said, 'Good evening, my dear friend.'

"The storm was at its height. The wind blew tempestuously, and greatly annoyed the ladies in the first cart, more especially the Maréchale de Noailles. With her hands tied behind her, with no support for her back, she tottered on the wretched plank upon which she was placed. Her large cap fell back and exposed to view some grey hairs. Immediately, a number of people, who were gathered there notwithstanding the rain, having recognised her, she became the sole object of their attention. They added by their insults to the sufferings she was enduring so patiently. "There she is, that Maréchale who used to go about with so many attendants, driving in such fine coaches: there she is in the cart, just like the others!' The shouts continued, the sky became darker, the rain fell heavier still. We were close to the carrefour, preceding the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I went forward, examined the spot, and said to myself, This is the place for granting them what they so much long for.

"The cart was going slower. I turned towards the ladies, and made a sign which Mme. de Noailles understood perfectly. Mama, M. Carrichon is going to give us ab solution, she evidently whispered. They piously bowed their heads with a look of

repentance, contrition, and hope. Then I lifted up my hand, and, without uncovering my head, pronounced the form of absolution, and the words which follow it, very distinctly, and with supernatural attention. Never shall I forget the expression of their faces. From that moment the storm abated, the rain diminished, and seemed only to have fallen for the furtherance of our wishes. I offered up my thanks to God, and so did, I am sure, these pious women. Their exterior appearance spoke contentment, security, and joy."

Here, then, was absolution not preceded by any confession which can be called "auricular," and given, besides, by the priest whilst standing disguised in a crowd; but we believe it is not doubted in the Roman Catholic Church that the deviation from the usual practice had a sound warrant in the necessity of the case, and that the absolution was valid. The narrative goes on:

"As we advanced through the Faubourg,' the rain having ceased, a curious multitude again lined the two sides of the street, insulting the ladies in the first cart, Lut above all the Maréchale. Nothing was said to the others. I sometimes walked by the side of the carts, and sometimes preceded them.

I

"At last we reached the fatal spot. cannot describe what I felt. What a moment! What a separation! What an affliction for the children, husbands, sisters, relations, and friends who are to survive those beloved ones in this valley of tears! There they are before me full of health, and in one moment I shall see them no more. What anguish! yet not without deep consolation at beholding them so resigned.

"We came in sight of the scaffold. The carts stopped, and were immediately surrounded by the soldiers. A ring of numerous spectators was soon formed, most of whom were laughing and amusing themselves at the horrible sight. It was dreadIul to be amongst them!

"While the executioner and his two as sistants were helping the prisoners out of the first cart, Mme. de Noailles's eyes sought for me in the crowd. She caught sight of me. What a wonderful expression there was in those looks! Sometimes raised towards heaven, sometimes lowered towards earth; her eyes, so animated, so gentle, so expressive, so heavenly, were of ten fixed on me in a manner which would

have attracted notice if those around me had had time for observation. I pulled my hat over my eyes without taking them off her. I felt as if I could hear her say, Our sacrifice is accomplished! We have the firm and comforting hope that a merciful God is calling us to Him. How many dear to us we leave behind! but we shall forget no one. Farewell to them, and thanks to you! Jesus Christ, who died for us, is our strength. May we die in Him! Farewell. May we all meet again in heaven!

"It is impossible to give an idea of the animation and fervor of those signs, the eloquence of which was so touching that the bystanders exclaimed: Oh! that young woman, how happy she seems, how she looks up to heaven, how she is praying! But what is the use of it all?' And then, on second thoughts: Oh! the rascals, the bigots!'

I

"The mother and daughter took a last farewell of each other and descended from the cart. As for me, the outer world disappeared for a moment. At once brokenhearted and comforted, I could only return thanks to God for not having waited for this moment to give them absolution; or, which would have been still worse, delayed it till they had ascended the scaffold. We could not have joined in prayer while I gave, and they received, this great blessing; as we had been enabled to do in the most favorable circumstance possible at such a time. I left the spot where I was standing, and went over to the other side, while the victims were getting out. found myself opposite the wooden steps which led to the scaffold. An old man, tall and straight, with white hair and a good-natured countenance, was leaning against it. I was told he was a fermiergénéral. Near him stood a very edifying lady, whom I did not know. Then came the Maréchale de Noailles, exactly opposite me, dressed in black, for she was still in mourning for her husband. She was sitting on a block of wood or stone which happened to be there, her large eyes fixed with a vacant look. I had not omitted to do for her what I had done for so many, and in particular for the Maréchal and Maréchale de Mouchy. All the others were drawn up in two lines, looking towards the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. From where I stood I could only perceive Mme. d'Ayen, whose attitude and countenance expressed the most sublime, unaffected, and devout resignation.

She seemed only occupied with the sacrifice she was about to make to God, through the merits of the Saviour, His divine Son. She looked as she was wont to do when she had the happiness of approaching the altar for holy communion. I shall never forget the impression she made on me at that moment. It is often in my thoughts. God grant that I may profit by it!

"The Maréchale de Noailles was the third person who ascended the scaffold. The upper part of her dress had to be cut away in order to uncover her throat. I was impatient to leave the place, but yet I wished to drink the cup of bitterness to the dregs, and to keep my promise, as God was giving me strength to do so, even in the midst of all my shuddering horror. Six ladies followed. Mme. d'Ayen was the tenth. How happy she seemed to die before her daughter! The executioner tore off her cap. As it was fastened by a pin which he had forgotten to remove, he pulled her hair violently, and the pain he caused was visible on her countenance.

"The mother disappeared, the daughter took her place. What a sight to behold that young creature, all in white, looking still younger than she really was, like a gentle lamb going to the slaughter! I fancied I was witnessing the martyrdom of one of the young virgins or holy women whom we read of in the history of the Church. What

had happened to the mother also happened to her: the same pain in the removal of her cap, then the same composure and the same death. Oh! the abundant crimson stream that gushed from the head and neck! How happy she is now! I thought as her body was thrown into the frightful coffin.

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May Almighty God in His mercy bestow on the members of that family all the blessings which I ask, and entreat them to ask for mine! May we all be saved with those who have gone before us to that happy dwelling where revolutions are unknown

to that abode which, according to the words of Saint Augustine, has Truth for its King, Charity for its law, and will endure for Eternity."

The moral we draw is, that neither men nor women should be brought by priests or deacons into that state of mind which fits them to be trampled upon without resistance. Charlotte Corday was the superb exception; but in general, both by nature and habit, the Frenchman has always been but too well inclined to meet the approaches of tyranny with a shrug and "que voulez-vous ?" and it seems perverse in the extreme to aggravate this baneful weakness by applying to those who were only "victims," the grand appellation of" martyrs,' and confusing the idea of submission to Heaven with that of submission to scoundrels. [From Blackwood's Magazine.

SPINOSA says somewhere that our passions all imply confusion of thought; and of course he proves this with all the parade of geometrical method which is so satisfying to some and so tedious to others. But everybody can verify the aphorism for himself by observing that he becomes calm as soon as he can attend to what it is that has disturbed him. And this suggests that passion and art must be enemies, so far as passion is a temptation, and so far as art is perfect; for certainly everyone would agree that it is a perfection of art to present, and therefore to conceive, its subject as clearly and as adequately as may be. The subject of the Epithalamium of Mallius, or of the Vigil of Venus, is full in one sense of danger to morality, but the langer is that our feeling for the subject should be too strong for the poetry

which inspired it, that we should abandon ourselves to a blind glow of pleasurable emotion and lose sight of the vivid train of clear, articulate images which set our hearts on fire at first. And there is another safeguard to morality; perfect art must be more than adequate, it must be satisfactory; it is condemned by its own standard till it can produce a type which can be contemplated upon all sides and throughout all time. The situation of Maggie Tulliver in the boat with her cousin's betrothed, has many elements of artistic beauty; it is romantic, intense, and elevated; but it is not satisfactory ideally because it is not satisfactory morally: like Maggie, we cannot forget the beginning, we cannot but look forward to the end. It is well that the dream should be broken; though the voyage on the flood

to Tom and to death has less charm, it has more peace; the imagination can dwell upon it. The new pagan treatment of the Tannhäuser legend seems capable of a more musical intensity than the traditional Christian treatment, yet it can hardly be doubted that Heine was right on purely artistic grounds in giving up this intensity, and following his own temper, and turning all to irony. Mr. Swinburne has to undertake the impossible task of reconciling us to the thought of a Hell, too intensely realized to be poetical; the knight has to promise that he will remember and rejoice in Venus there-we could not have believed it of a saint. Perfect art does not deal in paradoxes. This carries us a step further. In order that art may be adequate and satisfactory it must be sane and rational, it must be the expression not of revolt but of harmony, it must assume and reflect an ideal order in the world. The impulse of revolt is strong both in Byron and Shelley, and they are among the greatest of poets, but the law holds good in them. The grandest canto of Childe Harold is the last, where despair and disdain are passing into a calm that at least is half-resigned. Shelley's anguish for himself and for mankind goes off incessantly into mere shrieking whenever it takes the form of a revolt against the tyranny of kings and priests, it becomes musical again when it blends with the mute sorrow of "the World's Wanderers," and becomes a voice in the universal chorus of the whole creation that groaneth and travaileth in pain together. It is not required of art to be cheerful, neither is it required of morality as such. Marcus Aurelius and George Eliot present "altruism" under a form that makes the Epicurean burden-" Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die"-glad tidings of great joy to flesh and blood. But though George Eliot's fascination is painful, it is complete, there is nothing to disgust and emancipate us; for her art rests upon the acknowledgment of an order to which all must be subject whether they will or no, though the order exists for other ends than the happiness, or even the perfection, of the creatures under it. We need not inquire whether such a morality is enough for life, but, in its obedience, art finds perfect freedom. Or rather, absolute art is not subject to absolute morality, but both are expressions of one ideal order which

must always be conceived as holy, just, and good, though it is not always conceived as giving life and peace.

The art which is always claiming to be emancipated from morality is not the absolute art; perhaps the morality which it rebels against is hardly the absolute morality. The practical question has to be discussed on a lower level, but it is not to be dismissed as though the art which comes into conflict with morality were spurious because it is not the highest. True, the perfections of art are its safeguards, but art may be so much without being perfect. Its perfection exists rather for itself than for us, though we rejoice in it afar off; what we need is that it should be stimulating, and this too is what the artist needs, for he too is of the same clay as we. Like us, he desires fresher emotions than the ordinary round of life supplies, though this too has a satisfaction of its own for those who cherish its affections. And the craving which is occasional with us is habitual with him. He refuses the false gratification that might be found for it if he would make virtue always culminate in some kind of Lord Mayor's Show; life loses such flavor as it has in the attempt to make it just a little better, and a little easier, and a little prettier. If the artist will not idealize ordinary life by falsifying it, and cannot idealize it in the light of the higher law, or sustain himself upon the level of ideal action, it remains for him to go beyond the world since he cannot rise above it. He tries to escape from the hackneyed routine of domestic duties and felicities into an unsatisfactory fairy-land of extreme passions, of untried desires, of unfettered impulses, working themselves out within the exciting complexities of abnormal situations. Since he cannot have the true ideal, and will not put up with the false, he demands the whole range of the real, and chooses to be always gleaning on the outskirts of possibility. The lust of the flesh and the lust of the eye and the pride of life are not really ideal, but they have their ideal moments (or they could not tempt us), and there comes a time when art finds it hard to part with one of these. The only justification that has yet been put forward for the persistent attempt to pluck the "flowers of evil" is that the artist shares the general dislike to their fruit, and that, whether he plucks or no, the world is sure