Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 68, No 420, October 1850

It was in 1565 that the consideration of the formidable results obtained by the close union of the Protestants, numerically weak, suggested to the Cardinal de Lorraine, and a number of Catholic nobleman, the idea of a counter-association on a grand scale, (the germ of this dated from some years previously), to be composed of prelates, gentlemen, magistrates, and of burgesses and other members of the third estate, for the purpose of acting with promptitude and independence, without awaiting the orders or the uncertain and tardy succours of Government. This was the association known in history as the League. At the end of the following year the young Duke of Guise, who had been campaigning with the Emperor Maximilian against the Turks, returned to France, just in time to see the curtain lifted for the bloody drama of a new civil war. Already Huguenots and Catholics were in mutual observation of each other. The former first assumed the offensive. Alarmed by movements of troops, fresh levies, and other menacing indications, they laid a plan to carry off Charles IX. then at his hunting-seat of Monceaux, near Meaux. Once in their hands, they calculated on making the young King the nominal chief of their party. But the plot was betrayed, and recoiled upon its advisers by exciting against them the implacable hatred of its object. "With even more oaths than were necessary," says an old writer, the King exhaled his wrath, and vowed vengeance against the Huguenots, from whom, however, he was for the moment compelled to fly. Escorted by six thousand Swiss, and by such other troops as could hastily be assembled, he took the road to Paris, hard pressed for seven hours by Condé and the Admiral. But the Protestant squadrons were unable to break the stern array of the Swiss; on the second day d'Aumale, with several hundred well-armed gentlemen, came out from Paris to swell the royal escort; and Charles entered his capital in safety, furious at the rebels, and well-disposed to proceed against them to any extremities the Guises might suggest. The anger of this family was greatly roused by a trap laid, two days later, for the Cardinal of Lorraine, who only escaped by quitting his carriage and mounting a fleet horse, (some say that he had even to run a long way on foot,) with loss of his plate and equipage.

Shut up in Paris, Charles IX. beheld the Huguenots almost at its gates, intercepting supplies and burning the flour-mills. At last, d'Andelot and Montgomery having marched towards Poissy, to oppose the passage of a Spanish auxiliary corps, Condé and Coligny, with fifteen hundred horse and eighteen hundred indifferently equipped infantry, without artillery,30 were attacked by the Constable at the head of twelve thousand infantry, three thousand horse, and fourteen guns. There ensued the brief but glorious battle of St Denis, in which Montmorency was slain, and the Protestants, opposed to five times their numbers, held victory in their grasp, when d'Aumale, seeing them disordered by success, moved up with a body of picked men, whom he had kept in reserve, (as his brother Francis had done at the battle of Dreux,) rallied the fugitives, saved the Swiss from total defeat, rescued the body of the Constable, and compelled Condé to retreat. The laurels of the day, however, were unquestionably for the Huguenots, notwithstanding that they abandoned the field; and the next day they again offered battle to the royal army, but it was not accepted. Then Condé, short of provisions and weakened by the action, retired towards Lorraine, and effected his junction with an auxiliary corps of twelve thousand men which came to him from Germany. There ensued a short and hollow peace, which were better named an imperfectly-observed truce, and which did not preclude persecution of the Protestants; and then war again broke out, with the Duke of Anjou, (afterwards Henry III.) at the head of the royal armies. The first action of this, the third civil war, took place in the Perigord, and is known as the combat of Mouvans – the name of one of the leaders who was killed. He and another Huguenot gentleman were bringing up several thousand men to join the Prince of Condé, when they were attacked, and routed with great loss, by twelve hundred cavalry under the Duke of Montpensier. In this affair the young Duke of Guise greatly distinguished himself, by an impetuous and opportune charge on the main body of the enemy's infantry. Next came the fatal battle of Jarnac – fatal, that is to say, to the Protestants, who lost in it, or rather after it, by a felon-shot, their gallant leader Condé. Against overwhelming numbers, his right arm broken by a fall, wounded in the leg by the kick of a horse, dismounted and unable to stand, that heroic prince, one knee upon the ground, still obstinately defended himself. "The Catholics who surrounded him, respecting so much courage, ceased to attack, and urged him to give up his sword. He had already consented to do so,31 his quality of prisoner ought to have protected him, when Montesquiou, captain of the Swiss guard of the Duke of Anjou, came up – with secret orders, it is supposed – and sent a pistol-ball through his head. Thus undisguised did the fury and hatred engendered by civil discord then exhibit themselves. At the close of this same fight, and at no great distance from the spot where Condé perished, Robert Stuart was also made prisoner; and Honorat de Savoie, Count de Villars, obtained permission, by dint of entreaty, to kill him with his own hand, in expiation of the blow by which this Scot was accused of having mortally wounded the Constable of Montmorency at the battle of St Denis. But even such barbarity as this did not suffice, and to it were added cowardly outrages and ignoble jests. The dead body of Condé was derisively placed upon an ass, and followed the Duke of Anjou upon his triumphant entrance into Jarnac, and was there laid upon a stone, at the door of the quarters of the King's brother; whilst religious fury scrupled not to justify by sarcasm the indignity of such acts."32

Greatly discouraged by the reverse of Jarnac, and by the loss of their leader, the Protestant party presently had their hopes revived by promised succours from Elizabeth of England, and from various German princes. Coligny – now the real head of the party, whose titulary chiefs were Henry of Béarn and his young cousin Condé – was joined by twelve thousand Germans, under Duke Wolfgang of Zweibrucken. On the other hand, the Catholic army was weakened by sickness and desertions, by the want of discipline amongst the Swiss troops and German reiters, chiefly composing it, and by discord between its generals. The Guises were displeased at being commanded by the Duke of Anjou, who, in spite of his extreme youth, had displayed valour, decision, and military talents, whose promise was not fulfilled by his ignoble reign as Henry III.

The siege of Poitiers cost the Protestant army much time and many men. After the most vigorous efforts for its capture, Coligny retired from before the town – which had been admirably defended, and owed its safety less to a diversion made by the Duke of Anjou, (who menaced Chatellerault) than to the great valour and activity of the Duke of Guise, recalling, on a smaller scale, the glorious defence of Metz by his father. Five breaches had been made in the walls, but the most determined assaults were steadily and successfully repulsed. Of the garrison, one-third perished, and the loss of the besiegers was very heavy. On the 9th September, Guise and his brother Mayenne left the town, at the head of fifteen hundred horse, and, after making a report of their triumph to the Duke of Anjou, proceeded to Tours, where Charles IX. received them with many caresses and flattering words. Four days later, the Parliament of Paris proclaimed the ex-Admiral Coligny a traitor, condemned him to death, and offered fifty thousand gold crowns to whomsoever should deliver him up alive. A few days afterwards the same sum was offered for his head; and the Guises had the proclamation translated into seven languages, and circulated throughout Europe. Then came the bloody battle of Moncontour, where eighteen thousand men under Coligny were beaten, with very heavy loss, by the Duke of Anjou's army of twenty-five thousand. It began with a long cannonade, quickly succeeded by a combat at close quarters, in which even the generals-in-chief were personally engaged. "The Duke of Anjou had his horse killed under him, but was rescued by d'Aumale; Coligny was wounded in the face, and lost four teeth; Guise was badly hurt by a ball in the foot: Mayenne distinguished himself at his brother's side." After an hour's deadly struggle, the Huguenots were beaten at all points. There was a terrible massacre of them; three thousand prisoners were made, and five hundred German horse passed over to the conquerors. This was a grievous blow for the Protestant party. Coligny, however, and the princes, shut themselves up in La Rochelle, and had leisure to look around them and organise their remaining forces, whilst the Duke of Anjou wasted his time in the siege of some unimportant places, and the Duke of Guise was laid up with his wound, which was long of healing. The state of the kingdom of France, exhausted by these repeated wars, was deplorable. Coligny, bold and active, made long marches southwards, collecting reinforcements and supplies, and finally reaching Burgundy, and getting the advantage in an encounter with the King's army, under Marshal de Cossé, at Arnay le Duc. In short, he had the road open to Paris. These considerations made Charles IX. anxious for peace; which, after some negotiation, was concluded at St Germain-en-Laye, in August 1570, on terms so favourable to the Huguenots – who, says Montluc, in his Commentaries, always had the best of it when it came to those diables d'escritures– that Pope Pius V. wrote to the Cardinal de Lorraine to express his violent disapproval.

As had more than once already been the case, the return of peace was quickly followed by the marked diminution of the influence of the house of Guise. The Duke of Anjou cherished an instinctive hatred and jealousy of Henry of Lorraine; whilst the Cardinal had incurred the displeasure of the Queen-mother, who, as well as Charles IX., had previously been greatly angered by the presumption of the Duke of Guise in aspiring to the hand of her daughter Margaret. At one time, so furiously chafed was the King's naturally violent temper by the pretensions of the Guise party – against whom his brother Anjou lost no opportunity of irritating him – that he actually resolved on the immediate death of the young Duke of Guise, who only escaped through the timidity and indecision of Henry of Angoulême, the King's bastard brother – commissioned to make an end of him at a hunting party – and through warnings given him, it is said, by Margaret herself. The Montmorencys, cousins of the Colignys, seemed to have succeeded to the influence the Guises had lost: the Marshal and his brother d'Anville governed the Queen-mother; and so fierce was the animosity between the rival families, that Guise and Méru, brother of Marshal Montmorency, openly quarrelled in the King's Chamber, and, on leaving the palace, exchanged a challenge, whose consequences persons sent expressly by Charles IX. had great difficulty in averting. In short, during the year 1571, "no more was heard of the Cardinal of Lorraine than if he had been dead; nor was anything known about the Guises, except that they had celebrated at Joinville the birth of a son to the Duke," who had married, in the previous year, Catherine of Cleves, widow of the Prince de Portien.

The apparent favour of the Admiral de Coligny, the return to Paris of the Guises, the seeming fusion of the two great parties that had so long distracted France, were preludes to the massacre of St Bartholomew. In narrating the strange and important events that crowded the year 1572, M. de Bouillé lays bare the vile qualities of Charles IX., his cold-blooded cruelty, his odious treachery, and the powers of profound dissimulation he had inherited from his mother. One anecdote, extracted from Fornier's MS. History of the House of Guise, is extremely characteristic. The King, whilst loading Coligny with marks of confidence and favour, hinted darkly to the Guises the existence of some sinister plot, urging them to take patience, because, as he said to the Duke d'Aumale, bientôt il verroit quelque bon jeu. It happened one day that "the King was alone in his chamber with Henry of Lorraine, both gaily disposed; the latter had seized a headless pike, used to shut the upper shutters of the window, and was amusing Charles IX. by the extraordinary dexterity with which he wielded this weapon, when Coligny unexpectedly entered. The King felt that the abrupt interruption of their play, on his appearance, might excite the Admiral's suspicions. Suddenly, therefore, he feigned violent displeasure; accused the Duke of having insolently waved the pole close to his face, and, seizing a boar-spear that stood by his bed, pursued Guise, who, as if the better to escape, ran, it is said, into the apartments of Margaret de Valois. Charles snatched the Admiral's sword to pursue the fugitive; and Coligny, deceived by this well-acted anger, interceded to obtain the pardon of the heedless young Prince of Lorraine."

There is no particular novelty in M. de Bouillé's account of the massacre of St Bartholomew. We cannot compliment him on the guarded manner in which he condemns his hero for his participation in that monster murder – an episode that would have sufficed to brand with eternal infamy a far greater and better man than Henry of Lorraine. Compelled to admit that the whole direction and combination of the massacre was intrusted to, and joyfully undertaken by, the Duke of Guise – that he was privy to and approving of Maurevel's previous attempt to assassinate Coligny, and that he afterwards stood under the Admiral's window whilst the Wurtemburger Besme, and others of his creatures, stabbed the wounded Protestant as he rose defenceless from his couch – M. de Bouillé informs us that, on quitting the place of his enemy's murder, whilst the most barbarous scenes were on all sides enacting – the consequence of the completeness and skill of his own preparations – Guise was seized with compassion, and had "the good thought to save many innocent victims, women, children, and even men," by sheltering them in his hotel. On the other hand, "those whom the Prince considered as factious, or as adherents of such – in a word, his political adversaries rather than heretics – found little pity at his hands." And he was proceeding "to carry death into the faubourg St Germain, and to seek there Montgomery, the Vidame de Chartres, and a hundred Protestant gentlemen whom prudence had prevented from lodging near the Admiral." The compassionate intentions of Guise towards these five score Huguenots and "political adversaries," could be so little doubtful, that it was certainly most fortunate for them that a friend swam the Seine and gave them warning, whilst a mistake about keys delayed the Duke's passage through the gate of Bussy. They escaped, pursued to some distance from Paris by Guise and his escort. On his return, the massacre was at its height. "Less pitiless than any of the other Catholic chiefs, he had opened in his own dwelling an asylum to more than a hundred Protestant gentlemen, of whom he thought he should be able afterwards to make partisans." His compassion, then, had not the merit of disinterestedness. Similar selfish considerations induced others of the assassins to rescue others of the doomed. It will be remembered, that Ambrose Paré found shelter and protection in the palace, from whose windows Charles IX., arquebuse in hand, is said to have amused himself by picking off the wretched Protestants, as they scudded through the streets with the blood-hounds at their heels. But all the skill of the Huguenot leech was insufficient, a few months later, to preserve that perfidious and cruel monarch from a death whose strange and horrible character was considered by many to be a token of God's displeasure at the oceans of blood he had so inhumanly caused to flow. Charles IX. was preceded and followed to the grave, at short intervals, by an active sharer in the massacre, the Duke of Aumale, and by one of its most vehement instigators and approvers, Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine, both uncles of the Duke, and notable members of the house of Guise. The change of religion of Henry of Navarre and of the young Prince of Condé, the siege of Rochelle, the conclusion of peace with the Protestants, and the accession of Henry III. to the throne of France, are the other important events that bring us to the end of the second volume of M. de Bouillé's interesting history.

A WILD-FLOWER GARLAND. BY DELTA

THE DAISY

IThe Daisy blossoms on the rocks,Amid the purple heath;It blossoms on the river's banks,That thrids the glens beneath:The eagle, at his pride of place,Beholds it by his nest;And, in the mead, it cushions softThe lark's descending breast.IIBefore the cuckoo, earliest springIts silver circlet knows,When greening buds begin to swell,And zephyr melts the snows;And, when December's breezes howlAlong the moorlands bare,And only blooms the Christmas rose,The Daisy still is there!IIISamaritan of flowers! to itAll races are alike,The Switzer on his glacier height, —The Dutchman by his dyke, —The seal-skin vested Esquimaux,Begirt with icy seas, —And, underneath his burning noon,The parasol'd Chinese.IVThe emigrant on distant shore,Mid scenes and faces strange,Beholds it flowering in the sward,Where'er his footsteps range;And when his yearning, home-sick heartWould bow to its despair,It reads his eye a lesson sage —That God is everywhere!VStars are the Daisies that begemThe blue fields of the sky,Beheld by all, and everywhere,Bright prototypes on high: —Bloom on, then, unpretending flowers!And to the waverer beAn emblem of St Paul's content,St Stephen's constancy.

THE WHITE ROSE

IRose of the desert! thou art to meAn emblem of stainless purity, —Of those who, keeping their garments white,Walk on through life with steps aright.IIThy fragrance breathes of the fields above,Whose soil and air are faith and love;And where, by the murmur of silver springs,The Cherubim fold their snow-white wings; —IIIWhere those who were severed re-meet in joy,Which death can never more destroy;Where scenes without, and where souls within,Are blanched from taint and touch of sin; —IVWhere speech is music, and breath is balm;And broods an everlasting calm;And flowers wither not, as in worlds like this;And hope is swallowed in perfect bliss; —VWhere all is peaceful, for all is pure;And all is lovely; and all endure;And day is endless, and ever bright;And no more sea is, and no more night; —VIWhere round the throne, in hues like thine,The raiments of the ransom'd shine;And o'er each brow a halo glowsOf glory, like the pure White Rose!

THE SWEET BRIAR

IThe Sweet Briar flowering,With boughs embowering,Beside the willow-tufted stream,In its soft, red bloom,And its wild perfume,Brings back the past like a sunny dream!IIMethinks, in childhood,Beside the wildwoodI lie, and listen the blackbird's song,Mid the evening calm,As the Sweet Briar's balmOn the gentle west wind breathes along —IIITo speak of meadows,And palm-tree shadows,And bee-hive cones, and a thymy hill,And greenwood mazes,And greensward daisies,And a foamy stream, and a clacking mill.IVStill the heart rejoices,At the happy voicesOf children, singing amid their play;While swallows twittering,And waters glittering,Make earth an Eden at close of day.VIn sequestered places,Departed faces,Return and smile as of yore they smiled;When, with trifles blest,Each buoyant breastHeld the trusting heart of a little child.VIThe future neverAgain can everThe perished gifts of the past restore,Nor, to thee or me,Can the wild flowers beWhat the Briar was then – oh never more!

THE WALL-FLOWER

IThe Wall-flower – the Wall-flower,How beautiful it blooms!It gleams above the ruined tower,Like sunlight over tombs;It sheds a halo of reposeAround the wrecks of time.To beauty give the flaunting rose,The Wall-flower is sublime.IIFlower of the solitary place!Gray ruin's golden crown,That lendest melancholy graceTo haunts of old renown;Thou mantlest o'er the battlement,By strife or storm decayed;And fillest up each envious rentTime's canker-tooth hath made.IIIThy roots outspread the ramparts o'er,Where, in war's stormy day,Percy or Douglas ranged of yoreTheir ranks in grim array;The clangour of the field is fled,The beacon on the hillNo more through midnight blazes red,But thou art blooming still!IVWhither hath fled the choral bandThat filled the Abbey's nave?Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees standO'er many a level grave.In the belfry's crevices, the doveHer young brood nurseth well,While thou, lone flower! dost shed aboveA sweet decaying smell.VIn the season of the tulip-cupWhen blossoms clothe the trees,How sweet to throw the lattice up,And scent thee on the breeze;The butterfly is then abroad,The bee is on the wing,And on the hawthorn by the roadThe linnets sit and sing.VISweet Wall-flower – sweet Wall-flower!Thou conjurest up to me,Full many a soft and sunny hourOf boyhood's thoughtless glee;When joy from out the daisies grew,In woodland pastures green,And summer skies were far more blue,Than since they e'er have been.VIINow autumn's pensive voice is heardAmid the yellow bowers,The robin is the regal bird,And thou the queen of flowers!He sings on the laburnum trees,Amid the twilight dim,And Araby ne'er gave the breezeSuch scents, as thou to him.VIIIRich is the pink, the lily gay,The rose is summer's guest;Bland are thy charms when these decay,Of flowers – first, last, and best!There may be gaudier on the bower,And statelier on the tree,But Wall-flower – loved Wall-flower,Thou art the flower for me!

THE MASQUERADE OF FREEDOM

IWhen Freedom first appeared beneath,Right simple was the garb she wore:Her brows were circled with a wreathSuch as the Grecian victors bore:Her vesture all of spotless white,Her aspect stately and serene;And so she moved in all men's sightAs lovely as a Maiden Queen.IIAnd queenlike, long she ruled the throng,As ancient records truly tell;Their strength she took not from the strong,But taught them how to use it well.Her presence graced the peasant's floorAs freely as the noble's hall:And aye the humbler was the door,The still more welcome was her call.IIIBut simple manners rarely rangeBeyond the simpler ages' ken:And e'en the Virtues sometimes changeTheir vesture and their looks, like men.Pride, noble once, grows close and vain,And Honour stoops to vulgar things,And old Obedience slacks the rein,And murmurs at the rule of kings.IVSo Freedom, like her sisters too,Has felt the impulse of the time,Has changed her garments' blameless hue,And donn'd the colours dear to crimeFirst in a Phrygian cap she stalked,And bore within her grasp the spear;And ever, when abroad she walk'd,Men knew Revenge was following near.VShe moves again – The death-drums roll,The frantic mobs their chorus raise,The thunder of the Carmagnole —The war-chant of the Marseillaise'Red run the streets with blameless blood —The guillotine comes clanking down —And Freedom, in her drunken mood,Can witness all without a frown.VITimes change again: and Freedom now,Though scarcely yet less wild and frantic,Appears, before men's eyes below,In guises more intensely antic.No single kind of garb she wears,As o'er the earth she goes crusading;But shifts her habit and her airsLike Joe Grimaldi masquerading.VIIThrough Paris you may see her tread,The cynosure of all beholders;A bonnet rouge upon her head,A ragged blouse upon her shoulders.More decent now than once she was,Though equally opposed to riches,She still upholds the good old cause,Yet condescends to wear the breeches.VIIIThe Huns behold her as of yore,With grisly beard and monstrous swagger;The swart Italian bows beforeThe Goddess with the mask and dagger.The German, as his patriot thirstWith beer Bavarian he assuages,Surveys her image, as at first'Twas pictured in the Middle Ages.IXHer glorious form appears to himIn all its pristine pomp and glitter,Equipped complete from head to heel,In semblance of a stalwart Ritter.With doublet slash, and fierce moustache,And wrinkled boots of russet leather,And hose and belt, with hat of feltSurmounted by a capon's feather.XMysterious as Egyptian Sphinx,A perfect riddle – who can solve her?One while she comes with blazing links,The next, she's armed with a revolver.Across the main, whene'er the shoeUpon her radiant instep pinches,To-day, she'll tar and feather you;To-morrow, and she merely Lynches.XIWhile thus abroad, in varied guise,We see the fair enchantress flitting,She deigns to greet in other wiseHer latest satellites in Britain.Sometimes, in black dissenting cloth,She figures like an undertaker;And sometimes plunges, nothing loath,Into the garments of a Quaker.XIIYou'll find her recommending pikesAt many a crowded Chartist meeting,Where gentlemen, like William Sykes,To exiled patriots vote their greeting.You'll find her also with her friends,Engaged upon a bloody errand,When, stead of arguments, she sendsHer bludgeoneers to silence Ferrand.XIIIYou'll find her too, at different dates,With men of peace on platforms many,Denouncing loans to foreign statesWhereof they could not raise a penny.In short, to end the catalogue,There's hardly any son of EdomWho, in his character of rogue,Won't tell you that he worships Freedom.XIVYet hold – one sample more – the last,Ere of this theme we make a clearance;One little month is barely pastSince London saw her grand appearance,In one of those enormous hats,Short leggings and peculiar jerkins,Which men assume who tend the vatsOf Barclay and his partner Perkins.XVTo that great factory of beer,Unconscious wholly of his danger,Nor dreaming that a foe was near,There came, one day, an aged stranger.He was a soldier, and had foughtIn other lands 'gainst revolution;And done his utmost – so he thought —To save his country's constitution.XVIBut saving states, like other thingsIs not in highest vogue at present;And those who stand by laws and kingsMust look for recompense unpleasant.Fair Freedom, brooding o'er the drinkThat makes the Briton strong and hearty,Began to sneeze upon the brinkAs though she scented Bonaparte.XVII"Ah, ha!" she cried, and cried again —At every word her voice grew louder —"I smell an Austrian or a Dane,I smell a minion of gunpowder!Some servant of a kingly raceMy independent nostril vexes!Say – shall he dare to show his face,Within this hall of triple X's?XVIII"'Tis true – he is unarmed, alone,A stranger, weak, and old, and hoary —Yet – on, my children! heave the stone!The less the risk, the more the glory!"She ceased: and round the startled man,As round the Indian crowds the cayman,From vat, and vault, and desk, and van,Thronged brewer, maltster, clerk, and drayman.XIX"A precious lark!" the foremost cried;"Come – twig him, Tom! come – pin him, Roger!""Who is it?" Then a sage replied —"He's some infernal foreign sodger!He looks as how he'd scored ere nowSome shoulders black and blue with lashesSo pitch him here into the beer —And, lads – we'll pull off his moustaches!"XXThey did – what brutal natures scorn.What savages would shrink to do —What none but basest cowards born,And the most abject and most few,Would offer to an old man's head!O shame – O shame to Englishmen!If the old spirit be not dead,'Tis time it showed itself again!XXIWhat! in this land which shelter gaveTo all, whatever their degree,Or were they faint, or were they brave,Or were they slaves, or were they free —In this Asylum of the Earth —The noblest name it ever won —Shall deeds like these pollute our hearth,Shall open shame like this be done?XXIIO most ignoble end of allOur boasted order and renown!The robber in the tribune's hall —The maltster in the Judge's gown!The hospitable roof profaned;Old age by ruffian force opprest,And English hands most vilely stainedWith blood of an unconscious guest!XXIIIO Freedom! if thou wouldst maintainThy empire on the British shore,Wash from thy robes that coward stain,Resume thy ancient garb once more.In virgin whiteness walk abroad,Maintain thy might from sea to sea,And, as the dearest gift of God,So men shall live and die for thee!