of France. Though ill, Lacordaire started to keep his engagement: but he was so worn out when he arrived at Montpellier, that he was obliged to return home. It was the first time, he complained, that his body had refused to do what he wished. In the summer he was sent to some baths at Rennes les Bains, where his friend, the Abbé Henri Perreyve, joined him: but he could not bear the kind of life that he had to lead at the baths, and came away after three weeks' trial. In September, he chose a Vicar to assist him as Provincial, but he was himself one of those men who can never let others do work for which they are themselves responsible. He laboured on as before. At the beginning of 1861 he had again to go to Paris-it was for the last time-to take his seat in the Academy, and pronounced his graceful answer to the graceful speech with which M. Guizot, according to the custom of that famous body, was deputed to welcome him on his admission. Feeble as he was on his return, he gave up hearing the confessions of his pupils, but he did not abandon his usual sermons to them. This last year he preached upon Duty. He paid a last visit to St. Maximin after Easter. The summer of 1861 found him growing still weaker: he was persuaded, much against his will, to try the effect of a change of air and diet at Becquigny, where he remained for six weeks, and for a time seemed to regain strength. At last a friendly and merciful doctor in ParisM. Rayer-prescribed for him a course of Vichy waters at home, and he returned once more to his beloved Sorèze. But his malady gained ground daily, he was obliged at last to remain entirely in bed, and at the end of August, finally resigned his Provincialate. As he lingered on, friends came from all parts to take leave of him, and it is to the visit thus paid him by M. de Montalembert that we owe the Memoirs dictated by Lacordaire on his death-bed at the suggestion of so old and highly-valued a friend. It was a last and a heroic effort. Lacordaire faded away almost insensibly. The Holy Father, who more than once sent him his Apostolical Blessing, told Père Jandel, the General of the Order, that he regarded this long illness, during which he was never deprived in any degree of his mental power, as a special favour of Heaven, preparing him more perfectly through so much suffering to appear in the presence of God. At the end of October, a crisis came on, but he put off receiving the last Sacraments when they were offered him, saying that he would tell his brethren when it was time. A week later, he received the holy Viaticum, but he lingered on and on till the feast of Our Lady's Presentation. The day before he was thought to be in his agony, and the last prayers were said: but though he spoke no more, life was still there. A novena of prayer had been made for him through all the Province before the

Feast and at last, when the night was far advanced, he died so quietly as that those present were not aware that he was gone till some moments afterwards.

We do not even yet possess all that remains of Father Lacordaire, nor have we yet heard all that can be said about him. His life was to have been written by his friend and pupil Henri Perreyve, but he too has been already withdrawn from us, before he had reached his prime. It is understood that one of the few old surviving friends of Father Lacordaire, M. Foisset, has undertaken the task. Madame Swetchine, who died but a short time before him, used to say that his letters alone revealed what a man he was. Many of these letters have been published, and they fully support the judgment passed on them by his devoted and most valued friend. It is perhaps hardly to be expected that his whole correspondence should immediately be given to the world: but Catholic France will certainly not be slow to collect all possible materials for a fitting tribute to the memory of one of the greatest of the many noble champions of truth and religion whose names will shine like stars in the annals of her renovated Church.

J Stormy Life;

OR

QUEEN MARGARET'S JOURNAL.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE MAIDS OF HONOUR AGAIN.

I REMEMBER that one day at Sheen, being sad because no tidings reached me from Jeanne, and only uncertain reports of Monseigneur Gille's lengthened imprisonment and the ill usage he endured, I went into the garden and sat there on the grass in the shade with some of the Queen's maids. At first the merriment of these damsels sounded harshly in my ill-disposed ears, so I leant my head against a tree and feigned to be asleep. Whilst they were gayly devising, my thoughts were far away, picturing to myself a dungeon in France and a fair comely face grown wan with long captivity. Yet I noted their speeches, which, from the well-known sound of each one's voice, I easily distinguished. Albeit in no cheerful mood, their joylity little by little infected me with mirth. The buzzing tongues, light prattle, and gleesome bursts of laughter matched the music of the birds in that pretty grove. Partly from a natural heavy humour, and a pensive melancholy which early sorrows have engendered, I am not prone to merriment; but when others are gay around me, it lightens my heart; and this contagion is wholesome, for over-gravity breeds moroseness, and ill becomes youth.

Since I began to write, four years ago, many changes have come to pass in this young circle. One hath died, some have married, and new damsels fill their places. Ten little maidens of noble families, not yet twelve years of age, have also been taken into the Queen's household for nurture and instruction; but they do not company with the maids of honour. Only the Lady Margaret Beaufort, because the Queen shows her especial favour, is often to be seen in her majesty's private chambers. I thought that time, when we were sitting under the lime-tree at Sheen, that some of those to whose discourse I then lent a lazy ear would perchance one day play a part on life's stage; that the dawning loveliness of one would expand into beauty, entangling many in its meshes; the sprouting wit of another set the world gaping with wonder; a third leave behind her at her death an admirable odour of sanctity; a fourth become perhaps an outcast or a heretic-which God defend ! Life in its outset resembles a roll of parchment, which little by little unfolds its pages; and, to turn a grave thought into a merry one, I

will relate what the Duchess of Bedford said to Lord Bonville when he boasted he was made of the stuff which heroes are fashioned of: "O, good my lord," her grace replied; "let us see one ell of that stuff, I pray you, that we may judge of the rest."

Little Margaret Beaufort's voice first struck on mine ear. I heard her say, "What flower do you love best, Mrs. Katherine Strange?" (This was one of the new maids of honour.) "The rose," that damsel replied.

"And you, Isminia Scales?

"Why, Peg, methinks I like the sweet-william most."

Then some one near me whispered to another, ""Tis pity there is no blossom called the sweet-henry." A laugh ensued; for it was well known this lady was like to wed Henry Bouchier, Lord Essex's second son, and was not a little fond of him.

Then in an aggrieved voice Mistress Isminia said, "Methinks persons which live in glass houses should not throw stones."

"Peradventure," said another, "Mistress Katherine thinketh the rose which she prefers, if called by any other name would smell as sweet, and that an ill-sounding name is no disadvantage to a comely gentleman."

Then all laughed; for it had been bruited at court that Mistress Katherine had tormented the Queen to write for her a letter to Mr. Nicholas Strange, her father, to press him forthwith to consent to the fulfilment of her contract with Robert Bugdon; and I knew this to be true, for I had copied it myself; and methought her majesty was very peremptory with that gentleman, for she charged him, desired, prayed him, and on God's behalf exhorted and required him, to incline to the accomplishment of that marriage without delay or impediment.

Pretty Mistress Katherine waxed very red, and said one name was as good as another, but for her part she would as lief not marry a man called Bouchier, for in French that meant butcher.

Johanna Dacre then said that she liked no flower so well as a

pansy.

"You should call it 'heart's-ease,' Joan," cried Gwendoline Talbot, Lord Lisle's daughter; "'tis a more comfortable name." 'Nay, I see not that," quoth Johanna.

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"O yes," rejoined the other, "for in French a pansy is a pensée, and that means thought; and thought, mesdames, is troublesome, and often robs folks of their rest."

"Come!" exclaimed some one,-Mary Beaumont I think,"there is a lady there which is a great thinker, and yet is not robbed of her sleep."

"Who said that?" I asked, opening mine eyes. They all laughed, and cried I should guess; but I would not-I was too sleepy. So after a pause one said,

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O, Maud Everingham! I ween you have had a letter this morn from Isabel Woodville."

"I pray you call her Elisabeth," said another.

"Nay, call her Bessy," little Margaret Beaufort cried. "Pretty

winsome Bessy! but, mesdames, as the Queen says when she speaks to you, I am greatly displeased that none of you have chosen her majesty's flower and mine-the white and pink daisy; is it not a very fair one?"

"We all wear the daisy in our hearts," Lady Gwendoline Talbot said. "But now, Maud," she added, "prithee, let us hear Bell or Bessy's letter. 'Tis a pity she was not called Jacquetta, like her mother; but when this was proposed, I have heard, her grace exclaimed, Forsooth, no! These English would call her Jacket, which would be an unseemly name.'"

"Now, now, let Maud read," cried several voices; but Maud refused to read or show the letter, to the no small vexation of those damsels; for methinks such as live at court have a greater craving for any kind of news or reports touching the concerns of others than any other persons in the world. Howsoever, when they had dispersed, which happened soon, when they found Maud was resolved not to yield to their entreaties, she took the missive from her bosom and gave it into my hands, desiring my counsel thereon. As it seemeth to me a notable thing that two personages of great merit and nobility should address a young lady touching the suit of a private gentleman, I transcribe Mistress Woodville's epistle.

"Well-beloveD MAUD,—I thank you for your gentle letter, full tenderly written to me some time ago; and I doubt not you marvel that I have so long delayed to reply thereunto. I cry you mercy, sweet Maud, for this my slothful behaviour. Verily, I am a more hearty lover than a ready writer, and I have had to pen two letters this week; and to whom you would never guess-no, not if you exercised your wit from this time to doomsday. What think you, mistress? Should it not be a wonderful thing if the Duke of York and the great young Earl of Warwick should demean themselves to write with their own hands to simple Elisabeth Woodville, though indeed she hath a very noble princess for her mother! But methinks they might have employed their pens to a better purpose than to try to persuade a poor maiden to wed a landless knight, albeit a very excellent gentleman-I mean that long-patient, silent wooer you wot of, Sir Hugh John, who never could find courage to speak for himself. And so nothing will serve this humble man but that the Duke of York, forsooth, must turn suitor in his behalf; for, saith his grace, he is credibly informed that his well-beloved knight Sir Hugh John, for the great womanhood and gentleness approved in my person, hath wholly given unto me his heart. Howbeit, he adds, my disposition towards him is yet unknown. But he doth heartily pray me to be well willed to the performing of this his desire, and I shall therein do him pleasure; and further, also, he doubts not my great weal and worship in time to come.' Great weal, in sooth, it should prove to live in Wales and be a poor man's wife! I had as lief be a nun. Howsoever, the Duke adds, that if I fulfil his intent in this matter, he will be to him and me such lord as shall be to both our great advantage. This caused me to reflect a little, for