the other confederates, to the place where it lay; but scarcely had he stepped on board, when strong and active rowers, who had been selected and instructed for the purpose, sprang to their benches and rowed against the stream to Cologne, with a rapidity which prevented the possibility of successful pursuit. The king was, for a few moments, lulled by the false excuses of the confederates, and imagined that the scheme was a matter of sport; but soon perceiving that they were earnest in the purpose of carrying him away, he imagined that they intended his destruction, and, as his only chance of escape, he leaped into the Rhine, and disappeared for a moment beneath its waters. The intrepid Count Ecbert, however, plunged in after him, and soon brought him back to the vessel. And now, soothed by the solemn assurances of his captors that no mischief was intended him, and aware of the inutility of any further attempt to escape, Henry submitted silently to his fate, and was borne with all speed to Cologne, while the cries and execrations of the indignant people resounded along the shore.' -Vol. i. p. 227.

By this flagitious outrage the traitor bishops brought the young prince under their toils. Agnes, it would appear, soon withdrew from the world; and the men who had made their prince captive directed the affairs of state at their pleasure. The church had now acquired the guardianship, and was free to order the education, of the future monarch. It had been a topic of popular clamour against Agnes, that she was not wise in her choice of preceptors for the young prince. All such errors, it was pretended, would be rectified, when the cares of education were undertaken by prelates of the church.

The pre

tence, as may be supposed, was hollow. The perfidy by which these refractory bishops accomplished their object of separating the prince from his natural guardian was not baser than the use they made of their advantage. They did not desire that their young captive should be well instructed. Had they desired it, their own evil habits and example would have defeated their design.

"The confederate princes," writes Mr. Bowden, "who had snatched the young Henry from the hands of his mother, had made it a charge against her, that she was neglecting to prepare her son, by a suitable education, for the high sta

tion which he was destined to fill. But, just or otherwise as this accusation, considered in itself, may have been, they soon showed that, in their mouths, it was but a pretence, a specious grievance, brought forward to screen the selfish motives which, in reality, governed their proceeding. The ambitious feudalines of the crown were, in truth, by no means anxious to hasten the period of Henry's fitness to take upon himself the charge of the empire, and preferred a course which promised them a longer career of unrestrained and licentious power. They excluded Henry from all participation in the business of the state; they surrounded him with their creatures and dependents, and permitted no other person to approach him without their special permission; they encouraged him in an unrestrained indulgence in field sports, in the pursuit of all youthful pastimes and pleasures; and they neglected not only the inculcation of the elements of necessary knowledge, but also that which is of much greater importance, that moral culture of the mind and principles, which is, in truth, the one great business of education.

"How much of the misfortune and misery of Henry's future life may we not trace to the unprincipled conduct of his guardians? Nay, how large a portion of the misery of many succeeding generations may we not ascribe to those to whom it was owing, that the head of the imperial house, at this critical period of the world's history, grew up to man's estate with a mind un cultivated, with passions uncontrolled, and with faculties unstrengthened by. discipline to cope with or to master the difficulties which he was doomed to encounter.

"But, had the prelates by whom Henry was more especially surrounded, shown much more anxiety than they did for the instruction and moral improvement of their illustrious pupil, their own manners were such as could by no means inspire him with that reverence towards his instructors, without which the principal part of the work of education must ever be attempted in vain. Their rapacity exhibited itself in the shameless way in which they, as if in emulation of each other, extorted from the crown the grant of lands, manors, farms, and forests, to the manifest diminution of the royal dignity, as well as in the unjust annexation of the property of religious communities which were unable to resist them, to the territory of their sees. Nor in pride, or in the fierceness with which they resisted all real or imagined insultsinconsistent as such qualities are with the sacerdotal character-were the spi

ritual fathers of Germany a whit inferior to the imperious secular nobles with whom they associated. At the commencement of vespers, before the king and court at Goslar, at the solemn season of Christmas, 1062, a dispute arose between the servants of the bishop of Hildesheim and those of the abbot of Fulda, with regard to the position of the seats of their respective masters. The abbot, by ancient usage, was entitled to sit next to the metropolitan; but the bishop, indignant that any should take this place within his own diocese in preference to himself, -had commanded his domestics to place the chairs accordingly. The dispute soon led to blows, and, but for the interference of Otho of Bavaria, would have terminated in bloodshed. This noble asserted the rights of the abbot, and the bishop was consequently foiled. He looked forward, however, to a renewal of the contest under more favourable auspices; and at the feast of Pentecost following, previously to the entrance of the king and the prelates into the church, he secreted behind the high altar, Count Ecbert and some wellarmed soldiers. As the contending prelates proceeded to their seats, the affray between the servants began again; when the count, suddenly springing from his ambush, rushed with his followers upon the astonished men of Fulda, and drove them, with blows and menaces, from the church. But they, too, had made preparations for a violent struggle, and had friends and arms at hand. In a body they rushed once more into the sacred building, and engaged their enemies with swords in the midst of the choir, confusedly mingling with the choristers. Fiercely was the combat waged throughout the church,' says Lambert of Archefferburgh, 'resounded, instead of hymns and spiritual songs, the shouts of the combatants, and the screams of the dying; ill-omened victims were slaughtered upon the altar of God; while through the building ran rivers of blood, poured forth, not by the legal religion of other days, but by the mutual cruelty of enemies.' The bishop of Hildesheim, rushing to a pulpit or some other conspicuous position, exhorted his followers, according to the same writer, as with the sound of a trumpet, to perseverance in the fray; and encouraged them by his authority, and by the promise of absolution, to disregard the sanctity of the place. young monarch called in vain on his subjects to reverence the royal dignity; all ears were deaf to his vociferated commands and entreaties; and at length urged by those around him to consult his own safety, he escaped with difficulty from the thickening tumult, and

The

made his way to the palace. The men of Fulda, by the efforts of Count Ecbert, were at length repulsed, and the doors of the church closed against them; upon which, ranging themselves before the building, they prepared to assail their enemies again, as soon as they should issue from it; and there remained, until the approach of night induced them to retire."-Vol. i. p. 234.

Such was the education for which Henry IV. was indebted to the Church of Rome. Such was the manner in which that church fulfilled its promise to his dying father. It honoured or lauded that father's memory with a legend of the deliverance of his soul from demons--a legend which told of evil spirits assembled in throngs, although unseen, around him on the night of his decease-of the charges they brought against him as a usurper of power over the church, and of the majesty and might with which St. Lawrence, whose worship he had assiduously cultivated, scattered the hideous spectres, and (in those days such a city of refuge as purgatory had not had its place duly assigned to it in the geography of the spiritual world,) conducted the monarch's soul to heaven. His son was left in the custody of demons, and Rome effected no miracle in his favour, except that of not ruining him by the demoralizing instructions and more pernicious example to which he was abandoned.

When Hildebrand was elevated to the papacy, Henry, with whom he was soon to be committed in a long and calamitous struggle, had delivered himself from the control of his perfidious captors, was in the twenty-third or twenty-fourth year of his age, and had already given proofs, that, whatever the effects might have been of the education by which it was hoped to enslave him, he had come forth from it with a commanding spirit, with much vigour of body and mind, and with the military genius which signalised itself in his life of many vicissi tudes, by the gaining of sixty-six battles. Hildebrand, it is plain, had no peaceful prospect before him in the conflict which he foresaw must be sustained against such a man. Mr. Bowden's account of the manner of his elevation to the papacy is exceedingly graphic. It was truly an election by acclamation-people, priests, and cardinals, all uniting to overcome the

reluctance of the individual on whom their choice had fallen. But, inspiriting as such an attestation to the merit of an individual must have been, it did not relieve Hildebrand from a depressing sense of the duties for which he had become responsible.

"The event of his election, unexpected as, at the moment, it unquestionably was, seems to have overwhelmed for a while even his intrepid spirit. In letters written from the court, in which, exhausted in mind and body, he passed the following day, he speaks of it in terms of terror, and, using the poetical language of the Psalms, exclaims, ‘I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying; my throat is dried. Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me.' And he concludes by anxiously imploring the intercession of his friends with heaven, on his behalf; expressing a hope, that their prayers, though they had not sufficed to prevent his being called to that post of danger, might yet avail to defend him when placed there."—Vol. i. page 318.

Gregory's anxiety was not of the kind which could deprive him of presence of mind, or rather, his character was not such as to give fear the mastery over him. He saw plainly that

if he would enter into a conflict with Henry, he must choose a favourable time. He felt also, that to that monarch belonged, by usage and law, the right to confirm his election to the papacy. He felt, that in the career upon which he was about to enter, it might prove of fatal consequence to leave his title in any respect insecure ; accordingly, with the same forecasting sagacity as he protected the forms of free election in the instance of Leo IX, by requiring that the voice of the Roman church should ratify the emperor's appointment, he now takes care that the imperial constitutions shall not be violated, but goes through the form (he knew it was no more than a form) of having his election confirmed by Henry.

"Gregory received therefore the imperial envoy with courtesy and deference. God,' he said, 'was his witness that he had by no practices of his own wrought

his elevation to the exalted station, which he had been called upon to fill. The Romans by their unsolicited election had forced upon him, as though by violence, the burden of the ecclesiastical government. But my consecration,' he continued, I have hitherto refused, awaiting the approval, by the king and his princes, of the election; and I shall still refuse it, until that approval be certified to me by an accredited messenger.' Satisfied with this answer, Count Eberhard returned to Germany, and Henry felt that his only course was, to confirm the election. Gregory, then bishop of Vercelli and imperial chancellor of Italy, appeared accordingly as the sovereign's accreAnd dited representative at Rome. the pontiff elect, having been admitted to priest's orders during the week of Pentecost, was consecrated in that prelate's presence, on the festival of St. Peter and St. Paul, with all the rites and ceremonies from time immemorial observed on such occasions."—Vol. i. 316.

Gregory was the last pope who ever needed the confirmation of his title by an earthly sovereign.

In our next number we shall have to notice some incidents in the most memorable struggle of which human history bears a record-a struggle in which more blood was shed and fouler crimes committed, and more pernicious principles affirmed, than aggravated the horrors of any war to which human ambition has given rise-a struggle too in which, if lofty purposes could grace evil agencies, much would be found to merit high praise and honour. However we judge of the means she employed-means by which absence of physical strength was to be compensated the church of Rome cannot be denied the praise of having maintained her cause with rare discretion, and with indomitable energy. Out of it she came with victory-her independence secured her power enlarged-and (even where authority was denied) her influence sensibly felt. This power and influence, to a considerable extent, even at this day, she retains. How she acquired it, how it became a permanent possession, is a question of no ordinary interest. The history of the pontificate of Gregory VII. will throw much light upon it.

IN an old-fashioned and venerablelooking mansion, in one of the most deserted streets of Toulouse, sat a young man, of some eight-and-twenty or thirty years of age. His figure was tall, his eye quick, and his whole air bespoke the soldier, as well as the dark and up-curled moustache that graced his upper lip. Beside him, on the sofa, a fair and lovely girl was seated, whose hands he held firmly clasped within his own. Both were silent and motionless, and evinced, in their attitude of breathless and anxious watching, a state of thrilling expectancy.

Suddenly a slight noise was heard, and then more distinctly the wheels of a carriage at a distance. At

the sound they both started; and the young girl, suddenly disengaging her hands, rose and darted with one bound to the window, and looked out with a mingled expression of hope and joy, and even fear, upon her beautiful and girlish face.

In a moment after, the carriage, instead of approaching, seemed to take another direction, and all was again silent. The young girl, disappointed, returned to her seat, and, sighing deeply, said

"I was again wrong-this was not the carriage we wished for, Ferdinand: your mother will not come: she does not wish to see me."

He to whom those words were addressed smiled, and, kissing her forehead, while he endeavoured in vain to appear angry, said—

"Pauline, you are very silly."

There was a moment's silence, and then she said

"Well, Ferdinand, would you like me to tell you a secret? There are times I wish your mother would not come I am afraid of her, dear Ferdinand."

"Foolish child! have I not told you a hundred times of her goodness and indulgence?"

"Yes, for childish faults; but a marriage, Ferdinand, and a marriage without her consent."

VOL. XX.-No. 116.

"Hold your tongue, Pauline," interrupted quickly the young man: "when my mother has seen you, she will approve of my choice, I am sure.' "God grant it, Ferdinand. Your mother has such influence upon you, our whole happiness depends upon her opinion of me.

Saucy one, do you think I should love you less?"

"No, no! never speak of that; but, Ferdinand, read to me again your mother's last letter, sending her pardon, and promise, to come to us. I wish to hear it again, to be sure that it is quite true."

"If you wish it, Pauline, we will read it together."

So saying, M. de Livry opened his writing desk, and took out the precious letter; and, putting his arm round the neck of his young wife, began to read the following:

"Baden, 15th July, 1838. "MY DEAR FERDINAND-Both your letters, written in June, found me at Baden, where I have been obliged to come for my health, greatly impaired since the death of your father, and, shall I confess it? since I heard of your marriage.

"You speak of coming with your wife to ask my pardon. I am sure, my son, you are grieved at the sorrow you have caused me.-There are occasions, however, wherein the fault you have committed that of marrying a foreigner against the will of your familyhowever serious, would be excusable, particularly in the eyes of a mother."

On reaching this part of the letter, Monsieur and Madame de Livry stopped involuntarily and exchanged a look but how different the expression in that look! His was that of cold fear,

N

while hers was that of burning shame. After a moment, Ferdinand again began to read, and read alone

"Do not come to Paris. You will not find me there; but expect me at Toulouse the 10th of August, at the latest, with best love to all three. "Your affectionate mother,

"MARQUISE De Livry."

"And this is the 10th of August," said Ferdinand, "and my mother is always so punctual, I am sure she will be here soon."

Then seeing that Pauline remained silent, while her eyes were full of tears, he pressed her in his arms, and said— "Courage, my beloved. Remember my mother is ignorant of every thing; and very likely it is to that we owe her pardon; and do not forget that the Comtesse de Livry, innocent in the eyes of her husband, need not blush before any one.

"How generous you are, and how good," replied Pauline tenderly. "How can I ever prove my gratitude?"

"By loving me always."

At this instant the cracking of whips, and the roll of wheels, announced the arrival of the longexpected Marquise de Livry at the house of her ancestors, where her son had been residing some months.

At this critical moment, Ferdinand, who until now had not experienced the extreme nervousness of his wife, felt his heart beat violently, and was obliged to stop repeatedly on his way down stairs to meet his mother, from the excess of his agitation.

The moment the Marquise saw her son, she threw herself into his arms, and for some moments was so overpowered by her feelings, she could not speak. At last she said

"And Pauline, where is Pauline?" At this moment she perceived her daughter-in-law kneeling beside her, and trying to take one of her hands to kiss it. The Marquise lifted her up, affectionately saying

"Is this the way you receive your mother? Kiss me, my child."

Poor Pauline, overcome by so much kindness, threw herself into her arms, and wept upon her bosom.

In less than an hour after, the three persons who have just been introduced to our readers, were seated quietly in

a small drawing-room. The Marquise was placed between her son and daughter-in-law, keeping her eyes constantly fixed on the latter, whose beauty seemed more fascinating every moment. She overwhelmed her with questions, and did not give her time to answer one question, until she asked another.

"Pauline," said the old lady, "you are afraid of me-Ferdinand has told you that I am cross and proud. Naughty fellow! I am not astonished he has forgotten me: it is so long since he has seen me."

"Do not say a word, dear mother," said Ferdinand, hastily. "I know well that I have been sadly neglectful."

"Ah!" replied his young wife, that was the very reason of my confusion when I saw you-knowing that I was the cause of this long separation."

"Fear of your mother, my child! But to begin. My son, tell me how many days have you been with me since you left the army, and that was some years ago. They are easily reckoned. A month in 1834, fifteen days in 1835, and then you never could get away quick enough. I now know the reason; but to hide your marriage from me.'

As she said this, Ferdinand exchanged a rapid glance with Pauline, in which a close observer might have detected ill-concealed embarrassment; but recovering himself quickly, he replied with firmness

"How could I tell you, my dear mother, without letting my father know too? and you know how strict he was always with me; and also his political prejudices were so strong, I could not venture to tell him that I, his only son, had married the daughter of an officer, in the service of one whom he called usurper."

"You seem to have forgotten, my son, that right or wrong, I always agreed in my husband's opinions; and people do not change at my age."

"I do not forget, my dear mother; but you are a woman, and I know that the heart of a woman is all that is kind."

"Very well said, indeed; but still I must teaze you, for I am not half satisfied yet; and now that we are all together, you will both of you tell me all the particulars of this event; for from your letters, I could learn nothing but that you were married."