to her own feelings, Jeanne always did it honourably and well. And now we find her, like a true mother, repairing to Paris, to make the necessary purchases and preparations for her son's establishment. It was on this occasion that she procured those articles from Catherine's favourite perfumer to which such importance was attached after her death, by those who suspected that it might have been hastened by poison.

Whatever the immediate instrumentality might be,and there was clearly discovered to have been sufficient natural cause in the malady which had for some time preyed upon the queen's health,-it is impossible not to recognise a dispensation of mercy in the event by which her tried and suffering spirit was so soon released from all its earthly cares. Could Jeanne have opened her eyes to behold, only for one moment, the scenes which were to follow in those very streets which she was traversing for purposes of affection, and objects of maternal care, she would have blessed the welcome agony which issued in her escape from so much grief and horror. All her past sufferings would at that moment have sunk into utter insignificance in comparison with that which was already preparing preparing, but not for her.

A sudden attack of pulmonary disease, attended with unusual pain, arrested all further efforts on the part of Jeanne. Her daughter had previously been seized with alarming illness; and in attending upon her, the queen first experienced those monitions of her own speedy dissolution, which she accepted in a spirit at once resigned and grateful. Death came to her in an unusually painful form, occasioned by a large

abscess on the lungs; and her sufferings were excruciating. But, as her biographer remarks, "though they drew tears from her attendants, they never extracted a murmur or complaint from her own lips. Her patience and resignation in this solemn moment seemed as a sublime example to those around, and afforded evidence of the self-denial of her past life."

The same writer states that "from the second day of her illness, the queen distinctly intimated her conviction of the hopelessness of her recovery. She desired that her chaplains might visit her for the better settlement of her conscience. I know,' exclaimed the dying queen, that the prayers of the righteous avail much. I submit myself to the holy will of God, taking all evils from Him, as inflicted by a loving Father. I have never feared death; still less dare I murmur at the dispensations of Providence, though He afflicts me with these most grievous pains. Nevertheless, I grieve deeply to leave the children whom God has given me, in their tender age, exposed to so many dangers and so much adversity: but in God's providence I confide.' Then addressing the attendants, who were weeping bitterly, she exclaimed, 'Ought you to weep for me? You have all witnessed the miserable wretchedness of my past life. Ought you to weep, when at length God takes pity upon me, and calls me to the enjoyment of a blessed existence, for which I have unceasingly prayed ?" "

Even when it became evident that death was at hand, the mind of the queen still preserved all its powers; and she made a gesture to her chaplains to continue their intercessions on her behalf to God.

A faint smile was observed to pass over her countenance, when one of them commenced the psalm, " In te, Domine, speravi ;" and throughout the remaining hours of her existence she continued to sink gradually and peacefully to her rest.

She

It was observed by those who attended upon the queen, that she never, in this her last illness, alluded to the marriage of her son. Perhaps that heavy burden had even then been laid, where she laid all her other sorrows, at the feet of her Redeemer. had remembered him, however, as well as others, with all care and forethought in her bequests; and with that, her earthly work was done. On the morning of June 9th, 1572, this heroic Christian breathed her last, her age at that time not exceeding forty-four years.

The Massacre of St. Bartholomew was perpetrated on the 28th of August following.

VIII.

BRIEF NOTICES.

If there is really, as some persons assert, a certain kind of fascination in dwelling upon scenes of horror, it would have been scarcely out of place to prolong the painful interest always awakened by recalling the details of that great gathering of the Huguenot leaders in Paris which followed almost immediately upon the death of Jeanne d'Albret, by turning our attention to one of our English nobility who was then present amidst the gayest scenes of that splendid city, little dreaming of the fatal, but still invisible pall, under which so many gallant hearts were just then beating, -so many lovely and brilliant forms passing gracefully and unconsciously on towards their doom.

Sir Philip Sidney, the flower of English chivalry, the statesman, soldier, scholar, and poet, was then in the commencement of his continental travels, enjoying his first view of the fashionable world of France. While sharing in all those festivities which were pursued with unwonted ardour, as a cloak to the hideous designs they were intended to conceal, he was weighing in his own mind, as was natural for one so highly and variously gifted, the comparative attractions of all those different channels through which glory must have appeared to him so easy to attain; and with

the ardour of unpractised youth, was drawing fast towards the conclusion that the soldier's life of resolute and constant action was that in which above all others he should prefer to seek distinction.

From the classic shades of his native Penshurst, he had come to tread that terrible arena, in which the noblest valour was so soon to sink in powerless conflict beneath the assassins' hand; and above most men fancy would paint Sir Philip Sidney at this period of his youth as bringing with him from his privileged and happy home all those associations which impart stability as well as grace to the highest type of English character. Would that it were possible to trace how in this accomplished scholar, warrior, and gentleman, maternal influence had contributed towards the formation of one of the most perfect and well-balanced characters which the world has ever known.

That such a character should have been rendered so complete, independently of female influence, is not easy to believe. That his mother, the daughter of John Dudley, Earl of Northumberland, "was by nature a woman of large and ingenious spirit," is, however, the chief substance of all that we are now permitted to know respecting her, and that in her society he passed the whole of his home-life up to his eighteenth year. His accomplished sister too,

"Pembroke's mother," must have had no small share in imparting at once a noble and a graceful turn to his illustrious character. For her especial pleasure his Arcadia was written; and though as a poem it possesses little interest at the present day, yet as