shortcomings. Now, for the truthful delineation of such a character, a vigorous pen was required, and this pen Fléchier did not possess; his eloquence was rather of the imagination than of the heart; and besides this, there was another bar to the achievement of complete success :-though really a good man and a sincere Christian, Fléchier's natural disposition of character was so completely dissimilar to that of the Duke, that rightly to conceive and portray it was a task entirely above his powers. There are passages, however, in this funeral oration not unworthy of its subject. Fléchier had been the friend of the Duke of Montansier: "Fear not," he says, "that friendship or gratitude will influence me; you know that hitherto flattery has never found a place in my discourses; could I then venture here, where frankness and candor themselves form the subject of our laudation, to dare to employ fiction and falsehood? No! This tomb would open; this lifeless form would rise from its grave and rebuke my lying lips. of Madame de Sévigné, evidently noted down in her own delightful style, just as they rose in her mind, and without the slightest straining after effect, more completely present the soldier to our view, and more feelingly recall his loss, than the most studied efforts of rhetoric. There are certain sentences which in reality say more than twenty pages, and some simple facts which rise above all oratorical art; for instance, the saying of St. Hilaire to his son :-"It is not for me that you must weep, but for this great man;" and the anecdote of the farmer of Champagne, who came to demand the cancelling of his lease, because, now that Turenne was dead, he imagined that no one could any longer either sow or reap in security. Slight and apparently insignificant traits of character also frequently portray the man more completely than the most elaborate rhetorical displays. Take, for instance, Turenne's own dispatch after a victory, which, for laconic terseness, may vie with some of the epistolary effusions of Wellington himself: The enemy attacked us thisWhy,' it would say, ' do you lie for me who morning; we beat them. God be praised. I had some trouble. Good-night,-I am going to bed." And again, his act of humanity towards a soldier whom he found at the foot of a tree expiring with fatigue and exhaustion, and to whom he gave up his horse while he himself followed on foot. It is almost to be regretted that the dignity of the funeral oration does not permit the employment of these traits of character, so touching in their simplicity, and which frequently place the hero in the position of the orator. Fifteen years after the funeral oration of Turenne, Fléchier treated another subject, as beautiful, perhaps, as the former, though in an entirely different style; we allude to the eulogium of the famous Duke of Montansier, the preceptor of the great Dauphin. If an orator, like a painter, requires a characteristic physiognomy in his model, we may safely affirm that he never had a more marked and prominent one than this. Every reader acquainted with the memoirs of the time must have admired this rigid virtue in the midst of a corrupt court, this inflexible heart, incapable alike of disguise or weakness, this unswerving honesty, which spurned the gifts of fortune when the possession of these gifts required a sacrifice of principle, this steadfast attachment to truth, and all those iron rules of conduct which good men term simply virtue, but which are branded as misanthropy by the weak and degraded, in order that they may not have to blush for their own never lied for mortal? Leave me to repose in the bosom of truth, and come not here to disturb my peace by that flattery which has ever been my detestation.'" And elsewhere, after having spoken of the advice which had been offered to the Duke upon the method of conducting himself at court, the orator adds: "This advice appeared to him base. He had borne his incense painfully to the altars of for tune, and had returned overwhelmed with the burden of his own thoughts. This continued commerce of falsehoods, this universal hypocrisy, by means of which men strive either to hide real defects or to display false virtues; those mysteri ing ambitious designs, or of supporting credit; all ous airs, assumed for the purpose either of mask this spirit of imposture and dissimulation was abhorrent to his virtuous mind. Not being yet in a position to raise his voice aloud against these crying evils, he made known to his friends that he His speech to the great Dauphin, after the completion of the latter's education, is eminently cha racteristic of the man:-"Monseigneur, if you are an honest man, you will love me; if you are not so, you will hate me, and I shall be comforted." His famous letter to this prince cannot be too frequently quoted:-"Monseigneur, I do not felicitate you upon the taking of Philipsburg; you had a good army, good cannon, and Vauban. Nor do I compliment you upon your bravery; it is a virtue hereditary in your family. But I rejoice because you have shown yourself liberal, generous, and humane, bringing forward the services of others, and forgetting your own; it is for the display of these good qualities that I offer you my heartfelt con gratulations." was going to the army to pay his court there-tacle of grandeur, against the homage of serthat it would cost him less to expose his life than vitors and the flattery of courtiers. It is to dissemble his feelings, and that he would never astonishing that such a man as Fléchier purchase either favors or fortune at the expense could have passed so lightly over a subject of his integrity and peace of mind." so pregnant as it is with moral lessons of the highest order; and when we consider that the man he had so depicted as giving these lessons was the Duke of Montansier, our astonishment increases; for what might not have been the moral precepts reaped from the instructions of a governor who valued and respected the truth above all the princes in the universe; who, in its holy cause, would have braved the hatred of the world, and who, in the performance of his duty, never let so much as a thought glance into his heart that the youth who was to-day his pupil might to-morrow be his master? We could quote many other passages of great beauty from this celebrated oration; but the discourse is on the whole below its subject. We discover in its composition more cleverness than power. We might have expected, at least, to find in it some eloquent ideas upon the education of a dauphin; upon the necessity of carefully forming a mind upon which the happiness and glory of a nation might one day depend; upon the art of carefully nourishing the growth of good qualities, while eradicating the tares that are flourishing in their company; of inspiring sensibility without weakness, justice without harshness, elevation of mind without pride; upon the art of creating a moral code for the guidance of a youthful prince, and of teaching him how to blush; of engraving on his heart these three words-God, the Universe, and Posterity-in order that these words may serve him as a bridle in after life, when earthly power and dominion is in his hands; upon the art of spanning that gulf fixed by the world between him and other men; of pointing out to him, by the side of the inequality of power, the humiliating equality of sin, that universal leveller; of instructing him by his errors, his needs, his sorrows even; of making him feel, and know, and love his Saviour, that Creator who, by his Spirit, is seeking to lower him from his earthly pinnacle of grandeur, and to draw him more. closely to his fellow-creatures and to Himself, whilst pride is striving with every nerve to puff him up with the pomps and vanities of the world; upon the art of rendering him compassionate and tender-hearted amid all that quenches pity; of accustoming him ever to ally together the idea of that luxury which flaunts openly in the face of day with the idea of that misery which keeps aloof and hides its rags in silence and solitude; finally, upon the still more difficult art of fortifying all these lessons against the habitual spec In the foregoing pages we have briefly enumerated what we consider as shortcomings in the writings of Fléchier, while bestowing at the same time a full meed of praise where praise was justly due; in summing up our estimate of his merits and defects as a pulpit orator, we may add that he may be justly considered as one of the purest and most correct writers of the French language of his time. If, however, in our appreciation of authors, we were only to require of them learned, scholarly, and harmonious phrases, in conformity with the genius of the language in which they write, then would Fléchier merit a position in the very front rank; but depth of thought, impetuous flow of passion, fervid eloquencesuch are the qualities which above all and before all things contribute to raise their possessors to a conspicuous position in the republic of letters. Excellence of form ist not, nor ever can be, any thing more than a guaranty of the solidity and goodness of the superstructure. We require that the waters of a river shall flow in a limpid stream, but it is urgent, either that these waters leave gold and diamonds in their onward progress, or else certain fertilizing principles which may enrich the neighboring lands; then are they blessed in our eyes, and we regard them as the sources of life. From Chambers's Journal. WIFE OF THE GREAT CONDE. THERE are few to whom the name and merits of the great Condé are unknown, and who have not heard of the great deeds performed by the victor of Rocroy at the early age of twenty-one; but there may be some who have heard little of Clémence de Maillé, his wife, save that she was the niece of Cardinal Richelieu: her virtues, her sufferings, her heroism, are unrecorded in the histories which give so pompous an account of her husband's deeds of arms. There was a magnificent ball given in the palace of Cardinal Richelieu on the night of the 7th of February, 1641. The whole of a noble suite of rooms, extending round three sides of the courtyard, were brilliantly lighted up, and thrown open for the reception of the most noble and distinguished persons in Paris. There was every where the sweetest music swelling through the lofty rooms, and graceful bands of dancers keeping time to its strains: there were light girlish figures, and stately matronly ones; young men dressed in all the foppery of the period, whispering soft nothings to the young and beautiful; and grave politicians on the watch to observe whom the King spoke to, and Richelieu smiled on. There was Anne of Austria, and her enfeebled husband, Louis XIII., the beautiful Geneviève de Bourbon, afterwards Duchesse de Longueville, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, the swarthy Italian Mazarin, and many others distinguished in the annals of their period. But why happens it that so gay and brilliant a company is this night assembled in the halls of the Cardinal de Richelieu? Do you see that young girl, apparently not more than thirteen years of age, sitting near the Queen ?—she is rather pale, though extremely fair, with large, thoughtful blue eyes, and rich brown hair. That is Clairé Clémence de Maillé, niece of Richelieu and do you see standing near the farther entrance of the room that haughtylooking young man, with piercing eyes, aquiline nose, and severe mouth? He is Louis, Duc d'Enghien, afterwards Prince de Condé; and the magnificent fête is to cele | brate the betrothal of the first Prince of the Blood with the niece of the parvenu minister. Ill-omened engagement! From time to time the Duke throws a satirical, disdainful glance at the poor little bride, and then turns away to talk with the distinguished-looking group near him. Clémence, who has sat tolerably composed and undisturbed all the evening, is now engaged in conversation with the Queen and a splendidly-attired cavalier, who is standing with his plumed hat in his hand before them. He is saying: "Now, Mademoiselle, that her Majesty has condescended to urge my request, may I hope no longer to sue in vain for the honor of being your partner in the next courante?" The color came and went in the cheeks of the child-for such, in spite of her engage ment, she must be termed and she hurriedly said: "she hoped the Queen and Monsieur de St. Valaye would excuse her-she had danced so little." "Then it is time you should begin, chere petite," replied the Queen: "you must no longer be considered as a child. I much wish to have the pleasure of seeing you dance this courante with Monsieur de St. Valaye before I retire." The tear which was just sparkling in Clémence's eye must, I fear, have proclaimed her a child still, when a voice behind settled the matter for her, and made her swallow her tears with the best grace she might, by saying: "My niece will have much pleasure in dancing with you, Monsieur;" and then turning to the Queen, Richelieu excused her bashfulness on account of her secluded education. Clémence did not dream of disobeying her uncle; she rose from her seat, and M. de St. Valaye, touching the tips of the little fingers with his, led her to her place in the dance. Diamonds glittered, and rich silks rustled as she moved along, and began to dance, timidly indeed, but not ungracefully; and the Queen was in the act of expressing her admiration, in answer to some remark of Richelieu's, when, alas for poor Clémence! in the very act of performing a deep reverence, she stumbled and fell; the cause of her disaster displayed itself at the same time in the shape of so enormously high-heeled a pair of shoes, that it was a marvel the poor child could even walk in them: they had been given her to increase her height. No motives of kindness or good-breeding could restrain the laughter of the spectators; as M. de St. Valaye raised her, the tears which had been for some time lurking near, burst forth, for she had hurt herself much, falling on the hard parquet floor; but her ear caught the sound of one mocking laugh high above the rest, and looking towards the place where the Duc d'Enghien stood, she saw the sharp glance of contempt and dislike he threw at her. The poor girl shuddered, and put her hands on her eyes. Then, recovering herself with a strong effort, she turned to her partner, gently apologized for her awkwardness, and insisted on finishing the dance, which she did with much grace and selfpossession. But the praises which Anne of Austria bestowed on her when she returned to her seat were unheard. That mocking laugh and that deadly look were present to her imagination, haunting her, like a frightful vision of impending evil, for many a long day. It was two years after the marriage of the youthful Clémence and her reluctant bridegroom, that a large family-party was assembled in the Hotel de Condé, to greet the return of the victorious Duc d'Enghien from the successful campaign of Rocroy. Clémence was there, but sitting unnoticed in one of the deep window recesses, for her powerful uncle was dead, and the proud family of Condé had no longer an inducement to treat with any distinction his orphan niece. She was taller than when we saw her last, even when she had the aid of her high-heeled shoes, though still rather under the middle height; and her sweet intellectual countenance was animated by a more tender expression than ever, as she gazed on her child, an infant of three months old, who was lying on her lap. Her fair young cheek was tinged with a flush of excitement: she was waiting the moment when she should place her child in the arms of his father, and be able to read in his eyes the hope that for its sake he would give her the love she had so long sought in vain. She had borne with patience his cold indifference before he left her; she was still so much a child as hardly to know or value her rights of affection; but the birth of the little Henri had opened to her thoughts and feelings she had not before experienced. She had learned, with a heart throbbing with pride, of her husband's victories and his glory; and she now hoped to gain the affection of the hero, and to be able to offer in words the sympathy her heart felt so deeply. She longed to be to him all that he was to her, forgetting, in her inexperience, poor child, that the love which is the sole object of a woman's life makes but a very small part of the hopes and cares that throng the busy brain of a man. A distant buzza was heard in the streets, then the sound of wheels and horses' feet; and accompanied by his father and brother, and greeted by the enthusiastic shouts of the populace, the young Duc d'Enghein rode proudly into the courtyard, and in a few moments entered the saloon. One by one, he greeted his assembled relations; and last of all, Clémence, having placed her child in his nurse's arms, came forward alone with her dark-blue eyes gleaming through tears of joy, and endeavored to take his hand and put it to her lips. He drew it almost roughly away; and turning to his infant son, caressed him, and spoke of him. with evident pleasure to his mother and sister. Still, not a word to his poor wife the whole of that long evening, not even a kindly glance. "It was my fault," thought Clémence ; "it was so silly in me to cry; he must have thought me a baby still. I will try and speak to him." So she waited till the guests were gone, and then coming up to him, as he stood leaning against the lofty chimney-piece, she said: Louis, I am the only one who has not congratulated you in words on your triumphant return; but, believe me, no one has felt it more than I. Every time I heard you were going to attack the enemy, how my heart trembled with anxiety-how earnestly I entreated God to preserve you unharmed; and then, when I was told of your triumphs, I was so happy, I felt so proud in being the wife of" "It must be a novel sensation, I should imagine," interrupted the Duc d'Enghien, "for a bourgeoise to have any thing to be proud of; but it may diminish in some degree your triumph, Madame, to know, that had it in the least depended on me, you would never have had the smallest share in the dignities of the house of Condé-honors which have remained until now unsullied by a degrading alliance." share the same fate, and unite in bringing up your son in the fear of God and the service of his king." But it was not so to be: the aged mother of Condé died of grief and anxiety long before her son was released from the dreary prison so fatal to his race; and Clémence and her son were compelled to fly from Chantilly in disguise almost immediately after, leaving her English maid-of-honor, Miss Gerbier, and the gardener's son, to personate her and the young duke. She retired to Montiond, in Berri, where, with the utmost skill and secre "I have no intention, Madame, of neglecting my son on account of his mother's defects. Have you any further commands for me? if not, I am wearied, and will retire;" and with a profound bow, the Duke left the apart-cy, she succeeded in levying a considerable ment. An interval of seven years elapsed before the scenes took place we are now about to sketch. The wars of the Fronde have commenced; the Duc d'Enghien, now become Prince de Condé by his father's death, at first the idol of the court, and general of the royal armies, has gradually lost favor; been accused of combining with the Frondeurs, and through the artifices of Mazarin been sent to the castle of Vincennes, together with his brother the Prince de Conti, and his brother-in-law, the Duc de Longueville. The Princess-dowager, Madame de Longueville, and Clémence, were holding a melancholy council at the Château de Chantilly, not only respecting the best means of restoring the princes to liberty, but of providing for their own safety-for a regiment of guards had been sent towards Chantilly from Soissons, and a lettre-de-cachet was daily expected. Lenêt, the faithful adviser of the unfortunate princesses, proposed taking the young duke beyond the Loire, and endeavoring to raise there a party in his father's favor. Some urged submission, some resistancenone asked the opinion of Clémence, who was still treated by all as a child, when her sweet clear voice was suddenly heard in a pause of the debate. "I am not," she said, "either of an age or of an experience that should entitle me to give my advice: I have no other wish than to pay all deference to that of my mother-in-law; but I entreat her most humbly that whatever may happen, I may not be separated from my son--my only remaining hope. I will follow him every where with joy, whatever dangers I may have to encounter; and I am ready to expose myself to any thing for the service of the prince, my husband." Tears filled the eyes of the proud daughter of Montmorency at the noble words of the despised Clémence. "Since we both," said she, "have but one object, we will both force, and in exciting the neighboring gentry to her cause. When at length obliged to leave Montiond, she went to Bordeaux, reaching it after incredible danger and fa tigue-all which were supported with the most unflinching heroism. The populace there received her with enthusiasm, shouting as she and her son passed down the street: "Vive le roi, et les princes, et à bas Mazarin!" The parliament of Bordeaux were not equally enthusiastic; but they passed a decree, permitting her residence in the town. To defray the expenses of the war, Clémence pawned her jewels; but as this was still insufficient, Spain was applied to for help; and Don Joseph Ouzorio was sent with three frigates, some bullion, and more promises. The arrival of the Spaniards irritated extremely the magistrates of Bordeaux, who passed a decree expressive of their disapprobation. The populace, excited secretly by the Duc de Bouillon, a misjudging adherent of the princess, rose against the parliament, and nearly massacred the members. The Ducs de Bouillon and de Rochefoucauld refused to aid in restoring order; but Clémence never shrank from a duty which lay before her, and, attended only by a single equerry, she went to the palais, where all was confusion, every one, including the president, speaking at once. She had a great talent for public speaking, and there was none there but felt the charm of her manner, when, falling on one knee, she implored them not to abandon her cause. "I demand justice from the King, in your persons, against the violence of Cardinal Mazarin, and place myself and my son in your hands; he is the only one of his house now at liberty: his father is in irons. Have compassion on the most unfortunate and the most unjustly persecuted family in France." Still, they would come to no decision. Then the princess offered to go out, and en |