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ately placed under the care of the best teachers, and being a very bright and intelligent boy, and mingling with the best society of the court, he became a special favorite of the King of Navarre, who was but a few years his senior, being then but seventeen years of age. The father of Maximilian, suspecting trouble, had warned the King of Navarre of danger, and had retired from Paris; but not apprehending treachery so sanguinary, had left his son behind him. Maximilian was asleep in his collegiate apartment when, three hours after midnight, he was aroused by the ringing of the alarm-bells and the confused cries of the populace. His tutor and his valet de chambre, immediately went out to ascertain the cause of the tumult. They had hardly reached the door when they were shot down. Maximilian, in great bewilderment respecting the cause of the dreadful clamor, was dressing himself, when his landlord came in, pale and agitated, and informed him of the massacre which was going on, and that he had saved his own life by abjuring Protestantism, and espousing the Catholic faith, and begged Maximilian to do the same. young man did not see fit to follow this advice, but resolved to attempt, in the darkness and confusion of the night, to gain the College of Burgundy, where he had studied, and where he hoped to find protection. The great distance of the college from the house in which he then was, rendered the attempt extremely dangerous. Having disguised himself in a clerical dress, he took a large prayer-book under his arm, and tremblingly issued forth into the streets. The sight which met his eye, in the gloom of that awful night, was enough to appal the stoutest heart. The murderers, frantic with excitement and intoxication, were uttering wild outcries and pursuing in every direction these terrified victims. Women and children, in their night clothes, having just sprung in terror from their beds, were fleeing, covered with wounds and uttering fearful shrieks, from their pursuers. Corpses of the young and of the old, of male and female, were strewn along the streets, and the pavements were slippery with blood. Loud and dreadful outcries were heard from the dwellings, as the work of midnight assassination proceeded, and struggles of desperate violence were witnessed as the murderers attempted to throw their bleeding and dying victims from the high windows of chambers and attics upon the pavement below.

The outcries of the pursuers and the pursued, the shrieks of the wounded as blow after blow fell upon them-the incessant reports of muskets and pistols, combined to create a scene of terror such as human eyes have seldom witnessed. In the midst of ten thousand perils, the young man crept along, protected by his priestly garb, and frequently seeing his fellow-Christians shot and stabbed at his very side. Suddenly, in turning a corner, he fell into the midst of a band of the body-guard of the king, whose hands were dripping with blood. They seized him with great roughness, when seeing the prayer-book which was in his hand, they considered it a safe passport, and permitted him to continue on his way, uninjured. Twice again he encountered similar peril, as he was seized by bands of bloody men, and each time he was extricated in the same way.

At length he arrived at the College of Burgundy. And now his danger was increased tenfold. It was a Catholic college. The porter at the gate absolutely refused him admittance. The murderers began to multiply in the streets around him, and to assail him with fierce and threatening questions. Maximilian, at length, by inquiring for La Faye, the President of the College, and by placing a bribe in the hands of a porter, sncceeded in obtaining admission. La Faye was a humane man, and strongly attached to his Protestant pupil. Maximilian entered the apartment of the President, and found there two Catholic priests. The priests, as soon as they saw him, insisted upon cutting him down, declaring that the king had commanded that not even infants at the breast should be spared. The good old man, however, resolved, if possible, to save his young friend, and, conducting him privately to a secure chamber, locked him up. Here he remained three days in the deepest suspense, apprehensive every hour that the assassins would break in upon him. A faithful servant of the President brought him his food, but could tell him of nothing but deeds of treachery and blood. At the end of three days the poor boy, who afterwards attained great celebrity as the Duke of Sully, the minister and bosom friend of Henry, was released and protected, though the massacre continued through the provinces of France for more than a week, and it is estimated that not less than eighty thousand Protestants were the victims of this awful butchery.

BY ANNIE

APS WOOD.

READER, these Confessions are not mine; I cannot even understand the mingled emotions they depict. I can now scarce believe that the uneventful life of my poor friend afforded such scope for suffering, that so much grief was concealed by that serene countenance. Even now she is before me, small in figure, elegant in dress, but with no conventional mark of the old maid about her-no preciseness, no censoriousness, no peculiar love of animals. Thank heaven! women have now so many resources, that they can be amiable and gentle without the aid of the magic ring. Miss Smith had really nothing but ill-health to distinguish her from the many Miss Smiths who glide through life on a small income. She loved children dearly, from the darling of the nursery to the sturdy brat paddling in the gutter.

I was her constant guest, her favored companion. She was fond of reading, and to her do I owe my introduction to many silent, though dear friends. Our studies took a vast range: we entered the world of fiction; and with her I first mourned for Fergus Mac Ivor, and first wept for Amy Robsart. She delighted in poetry, in Mary Mitford's healthy works, in Miss Austin's highlyfinished portraits; in the practical writers of our day; but she shook her head at more sentimental creations. I, of course, was enraptured with L. E. L.'s inspired warblings, and those of her many gifted followers; but Miss Smith restrained my appetite. "Dear Annie," she said, "this is false; it is beautiful, but it is dangerous. Why should these writers, now in the very spring of their existence, declare their conviction in the worthlessness of life? It is ungrateful to the Being who has placed them here with so many flowers round their path. Hope is but Faith modified; a Christian must hope in the deepest trials. Again, dear, I dislike these descriptions of Love: why is that alone to be the all-absorbing passion? Have we not other feelings? Yet here we are taught to cast off all ties, and yield ourselves up to Love alone. The true love, Annie, that binds woman to man's side, that fits her to be his friend, his counsellor, his servant, but not his slave, is a holy passion. Could the ancients have imagined such

a feeling, they would not have typified it as a mischievous boy: it is more like Vesta's undying flame-it purifies, it ascends. Love based on reason may flood a woman's heart, and not destroy it. Like the waters of the Nile, it overwhelms but to fertilize; such love may be crossed, be unhappy, but it still brings comfort. How different in these works! Here it is a blasting, searing passion. These imagined wailings have done much evil. We laugh at the young men who shape themselves in Byron's misanthropical leavings: I can only sigh over the girls who brush their hair out of curl, and moan over fancied miseries. Then, when love comes, if he enter a really loving heart, he is a fearful, an overpowering guest; the purest of passions becomes a curse. Take these papers, Annie; read them; and when I die, as soon I must, make them public. My fate may warn others from the rocks where my happiness was wrecked: a false sentiment, and an ill-regulated imagination."

Some years elapsed ere I felt myself enabled to comply with her request; while her memory was yet fresh I could not bear to expose her inmost feelings to a stranger's gaze; and even now I shrink from the task as I should had she bid me yield her body to the surgeon's knife. But I feel that a diseased mind is worse than a paintorn frame; and some fair victim, who nurses passion till health, hope, and energy sink beneath its pressure, may here find an analogous case, and, warned by example, shake off the vampire which sucks away her life-blood as she succumbs to his deadly, though soothing influence.

My life! what has that been!-a dream; and dare I look back o'er misspent days and wasted hours, and dare I recall years of idolatry and devotion given, not to the Creator, but to the created? My life! 'tis a sad retrospective; my future! in this world I have none. My days are numbered; this ceaseless gnawing pain tells me my night is approaching. Dear Annie, my kind, gentle friend, for your sake I will nerve myself. You are already too prone to romantic reading; let me show you the danger of morbid sensibility.

had taken care to repeat to me, had wounded me most acutely; and I was determined to show my little world, not only that I had not loved in vain, but that I could be loved; so I lost no opportunity of attracting the new arrival, and soon brought him to my feet. His family and mine were alike pleased, and our engagement was made public. But this fictitious love could not displace Frederick: even when listening to Henry's vows, and forcing myself to return them with simulated warmth, my mind dwelt on Frederick. Henry was kind, affectionate, clever, and gentleman-like; but he wanted heart, he wanted faith. Our protestations were hollow; I was an impostor, he loved but a shadow; his mind was not attuned to mine. I was his superior in intellect, and he felt it; I felt it too. Veneration is essential to woman's love; the feeling is poor and evanescent unless we can look upwards. A woman of high endowments may love a fool, but he will possess some real or fancied quality which she respects—a glamour is cast over her. Titania loved the Athenian clown, she was blind to his deformity; but when her eyes were opened, see how she recoiled from the monster, she had caressed. "Tis an allegory of woman's heart; our strong affections throw a veil over the loved one's defects; we endow him with numerous virtues, look up to and worship him. It was not so with me; I was awake to Henry's faults; I did not respect, I could not love him; and yet I was ready to swear obedience to him, to go through life with him, and hope for a more fervent attachment. Oh, the misery of that struggle! the cold, chilling feeling I endured; my whole aim now, to hide, to quell a fostered passion, to simulate another love! Now that my faith was plighted to another, Frederick's immeasurable superiority was more fully developed; accident daily discovered good actions and noble sacrifices, which more firmly riveted my old, self-imposed chains. Yet I would not discard Henry. I had accepted him from vanity certainly; I now suffered his af

fection from a sense of duty.

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surely I loved him? I did not; but I could not, would not lose my lover; even then I was not entirely self-deceived. Again he drank and played, again I aided him to the extent of my power: he left, a disgraced and ruined man. He saw his folly, deplored his infatuation, and returned to that fatal cup. He wrote to me frequently. I was proud of my constancy; I had but him to love, and would not forsake him. I considered the mother who so fondly sheltered me -who wept, felt, trembled with and for me-as nothing, because I had made love a domineering god. I worshipped an idol in Henry; to Frederick I bowed before my own creation. I threw away my many comforts to cling to one whom I knew was but a broken reed.

Luckily for me, I could not part with any portion of my little capital without the consent of my trustees. But my income was at my own disposal; and I ruthlessly curtailed my mother of many comforts, that I might squander my means on a man whom I despised. She never reproached me when I told her Henry had received my last penny; but on hearing fresh proofs of his worthlessness, she forbade our correspondence it was useless. I degraded myself still more; I made a confidant of a servant; he wrote to me clandestinely-how I loathed myself!-I sickened at the secret which oppressed me; I could not meet my mother's eye; I blushed before my servant. I was no longer a free agent; my very words must be weighed. How often did I find myself on the point of inadvertently betraying all; how did I regret the frank, unreserved communion that had for so many years subsisted between my mother and myself! Had she not trusted so entirely in me she must have discovered my faults. Oh! how my heart smote me when she noticed my failing health, and sympathized so fully in my troubles! I could not confide in her; vanity forbade it. I could not resign Henry. His letters, the poetry, the romance of my misery were now almost essential to me; and yet I loved and dreaded my mother more than ever.

Letter succeeded letter from Henry. Though so criminal, his was an open character. He did not make a systematic harvest of his affection. He told his troubles to me, because that relieved him; but he neither exaggerated nor told all. At last I casually heard that he was in a state of painful destitution; his friends had cast him off; he had no resource; and, in real life, a penniless and unknown straggler has but little chance of finding permission to work. I speak of the higher poor; those who toil in offices, and

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While the laborer may find a market for his brawny limbs and well-trained sinews; while the artisan and mechanic will find a work-room, however comfortless; a master, however harsh; a pittance, may be, but still the means of escaping starvation; the rank above can seldom gain that employment on which life itself depends, without most powerful recommendations; and Henry was friendless. His wardrobe had disappeared piecemeal; he was starving. I wrote an appeal to his family; but, fearing their assistance might come too late, I decided upon doing something myself. He had exhausted my purse; I dared not apply to my mother; I blush now, when I reflect on the steps I took. I pledged the few ornaments I could part with, without exciting observation. I dared not again to have recourse to my maid; I carried them myself. May you never know the humiliation I then experienced!

Recent writers have so familiarized us with scenes of this sort, that girls more tenderly nurtured than I had been, would know how to proceed; but I was utterly at a loss. After wandering about the back streets of the neighboring city for some time, I darted into a handsome-looking pawn-shop, and made known my wants. "Not here, miss," said the man, scarce concealing a smile; "we only sell; I must trouble you to go round the corner." I followed his direction instinctively, and turned down a by-way, the back street of a back street. I met Frederick; he stopped and talked most cordially; he fancied I was bound on some charitable errand, and complimented me on braving the dirt and discomfort that surround poverty in towns. I sauntered on; he was still by my side. How I escaped from him I know not; but I now entered the fatal gate that ever stands invitingly open; I was too agitated to notice a number of small closets that lined the passage, but rushing on, found myself before a neat door with knocker and bell. Mechanically I raised the former, and my peal was answered by a smart servant-girl. She stared; again I whispered my demand, beginning to produce my deposit. The girl rudely showed me the entrances I had passed, and muttering-" Such impudence! pretty creatures! a double-knock, too!" slammed the door in my face. This time I went right, and found myself in a little den, which enabled me to make my business known without being visible to any but the shopman; as he turned to speak to me, the door was halfopened, and to my horror I heard Frederick's voice whisper-" Bolt the door, Mary, or you may have an insulting visitor." He had tracked

me, but it was too late to recede. I transacted my affair, when a new difficulty arose; my name and address were asked. The man could not avoid perceiving my hesitation. "Ah, you're not used to these things yet, I see; rather green, my dear. You'll know better by-and-by; it's a matter of form. Mary Smith, you said? A very good name for the thing; what address?" I went through all these degrading forms as in a dream, but to this hour I am haunted by the sound of a piano in a room over the shop; the musician was tormenting a favorite song which I had often played to both Henry and Frederick. I have never touched it since.

On leaving this place, a new humiliation awaited me. Frederick was at the door; he took my arm, rather than offered his, and led me on. I was weeping bitterly. "Your mother," he said; "but I need not ask-she is no party to this. Oh! Mary, beware! you are misled by false generosity. I press no questions on you; I have no right to interfere in your private actions; but as your friend, your kinsman, your minister, I have authority to warn you. You are depriving your mother of her right, your confidence ; you are wasting your money on one totally unworthy of your sacrifice, since he will make n sacrifice in return; the gold lavished on his vices is so much stolen from the deserving poor who might profit by it. Think of the incalculable good your income might confer if properly directed; think of vices pampered by it at present." "Henry is starving;" I wept. "Then, Mary, give this money to your mother, let her assist him; oh, do not degrade yourself. You have tried him, you clung to him when all cast him off; you have proved the depth of your attachment, and of his unworthiness; punish him now in mercy; then, if he repent, receive the prodigal; kill the fatted calf; but do not, do not, still administer openly to the cravings of a hardened sinner. Your recent visit proves how he has drained your resources. Your mother's income is but small; do not contemplate burdening her with your support. Can you calmly retrench her comforts, and sacrifice her to this friend? You have known and loved him for months only; your mother had been your benefactress from the hour of your birth, and yet you would make her suffer rather than forego the luxury of giving-this is selfishness, Mary."

Much more he said; and when I was calmer I promised not to renew my correspondence with Henry till he was a worthier man, on two conditions: that my mother should never hear of this occurrence, and that Frederick would not only immediately forward the money I had