of the bell of St. Germain d'Auxervis should be | When I recovered, I went into the small room the signal for commencing the slaughter.

Henry of Anjou published a brief narrative, intended to be a kind of apology for his share in this atrocity, some time after his elevation to the throne of Poland. He alone has described the conduct of the unhappy king in the early part of this awful morning :

where my sister lay. Whilst I was there, M. de Messans, first gentleman in waiting to the king, my to beg that I would save their lives. I went and husband, and Annagnac, his valet de chambre, came threw myself on my knees before my mother and brother, and at length obtained my request.

Henry of Navarre was saved from death by the personal friendship of Charles, for Catherine was bent on his destruction. Margaret, however, informs us that he was exposed to much danger, from the capricious and uncertain temper of the king, and that she had a much larger share in en

erally believed. She could not, however, save him from the mortification of accompanying the queen and her sons to see the mutilated body of the abbot suspended from the gibbet, at Montfau

con.

After having slept for about two hours (he says) the king and the queen, my mother, went with me into the porter's lodge, near the tennis-court at the Louvre, where we found a room looking into the courts, whence we could see the commencement of the massacre. We had not been there long, deliber-suring her husband's safety than the world genating on the possible and probable consequences of so fearful an enterprise, which we seemed to have adopted hastily and without sufficient consideration, when we heard a pistol-shot, without being able to tell whence the sound came, or whether anybody was hurt. This event greatly alarmed us all three; it suggested such apprehensions of the fearful disturbances which were about to commence that we sent a gentleman to M. de Guise, to command him to return to his lodgings, and attempt nothing against the admiral. These orders would have stopped the entire affair, because it had been determined that nothing should be done elsewhere until the admiral was slain. The gentleman soon returned with the information that the countermand had come too late, for that the admiral was already dead, and that the executions had been commenced in various parts of the city. We, therefore, returned to our first resolution, and allowed matters to take their course.

We need not describe the horrors of this awful morning; they have been too often repeated by historians. Lestoile, however, mentions two aneodotes which must not be omitted :—

A wretch called Thomas, commonly nicknamed the Forger, killed in his own house a councillor of parliament and canon of Notre Dame, though he was a good Catholic, as his testament proved after his death. The murderer, sanctioned by the king and the nobles-a matter horrible to relate-boasted publicly of the number of Huguenots that were his victims, declaring that he had killed eighty in one day. The miscreant sat down to table, having his hands and arms smeared with gore, saying that

Turn we now to another part of the palacethe chamber in which the Queen of Navarre re-the taste gave him pleasure, because it was heretic posed. Margaret's own description of the horrors which she witnessed needs no comment:

blood. I could scarce have believed such an atrocity had I not myself seen it and heard the wretch's avowal from his own mouth.

was awful; his whole family afforded a terrible example of divine vengeance, for he died on a dunghill, his two sons were broken on the wheel, and his wife breathed her last in an hospital.

An hour after dawn, (she says,) as I lay asleep, The Italian, Renè, was one of the most sanguia man thundered at my door, shouting "Navarre! nary of the St. Bartholomew butchers. He was a Navarre !" My nurse, supposing that it was my man compounded of all sorts of cruelty and wickedhusband, who had gone out a few minutes previous-ness, who used to go round the prisons for the mere ly, ran and opened the door. It was a gentleman, pleasure of stabbing Huguenots, and who lived on named Legan, bleeding from two severe wounds, assassinations, robbery, and poisons. On the mornand pursued by four soldiers of the guard, who fol- ing of the massacre, he invited a Huguenot jeweller lowed him into my apartments. He flung himself to his house, under pretence of affording him shelon my bed for safety; I threw myself out at the ter, and then cut his throat, after having stripped side of the bed, and he followed, grasping me con-him of all his property. But the end of this man vulsively. I did not know the man; I could not tell whether he came to insult me or not, or whether the soldiers were attacking him or me. We both struggled, shouted out for aid and mercy, and were equally frightened. At length Heaven sent M. de Nançay, the captain of the guard, to my relief; who, though he pitied me, could not help laughing at my situation. He rebuked the soldiers for their indiscretion, and granted me the life of the poor man, whom I kept concealed in my closet until the danger was over. Having changed my night-dress, which was dabbled with blood, I heard from M. de Nançay what was passing. He assured me that ry III. had to defend himself during the greater my husband was safe in the king's apartment, and part of his reign against the Catholic league, and would receive no injury. Throwing a loose cloak at last became the victim of a Jesuit assassin. over me, he led me to the room of my sister of Lor-Catherine, baffled in all her intrigues, and abanraine, which I reached more dead than alive. As doned by the favorite son for whom she had comI passed through the ante-chamber, the doors of mitted so many atrocious crimes, went down in which were open, a gentleman named Bourse, flysorrow to the grave. The Duke of Guise was ing from the soldiers, was stabbed with a pike, not more than three paces from the spot on which I murdered by Henry, his associate in the murder stood. I fell fainting into the arms of M. de Nan- of the admiral; and Henry of Navarre, whose çay, believing that one blow had pierced us both, destruction had been the chief object of the con

The massacre proved to be, not only the greatest of crimes, but the most perplexing of blunders. Civil war was renewed throughout the kingdom; in the agonies of painful disease Charles had his sufferings embittered by remorse of conscience, and died in all the desperate darkness of despair. Hen

after my arrival, and it was curious to observe, as time passed, the uneasiness which was expressed even by the nearest and dearest, (the children of his brother,) lest his repose, however salutary, should last beyond the hour fixed by the king to visit the dying man.

It was with some difficulty that he was roused, and made to comprehend the event that awaited him. He was lifted to receive this great honor, as it was deemed, from his reclining posture, and placed upright on the edge of the bed, when, punc tual as the hand upon the dial, his majesty entered the apartment, followed by his sister, Madame Adelaide.

had steered him successfully through rock and breaker, and now was pushing off alone into hidden depths to be seen no more. But no, there was only the impatience, ill-concealed, of one to whom the scene was painful. That it was painful who can doubt? There was, too, an evident self-applause in the performance of a disagreeable duty; but not the slightest expression of friendship and attachment, such as I had presumed in some sort bound these great personages together. A friend of mine, a man of sense and discernment, to whom I made this observation, replied, "It is plain that the king has no fear to see him die; but wait a while, and we shall see that he will have reason to regret that he should be dead."

It was a kind of relief, during this constrained interview, to perceive the anxious feminine flurry of Madame Adelaide. She seemed to suffer much uneasiness lest the coldness of her royal brother should be noticed, and endeavored, by a kindly display of busy politeness, to make amends, as it were, for what was wanting elsewhere.

It was an historical picture, a study for a painter, to observe these two men seated side by side. It was startling to turn from the broad forehead, the calm, stoical countenance, with the long gray locks on both sides of it, giving a strange majesty to death, to the full figure of the king's person, surmounted by a well-arranged wig, and the whole ensemble peu bourgeois. At this early hour of the morning he was attired, according to custom, with I should not have dwelt thus minutely upon the the utmost precision. Despite the old faded dress- details of this occasion, had it not been viewed in ing-gown of the one, and the elaborate costume of another light by many. Astonishment and admithe other, the veriest barbarian could have told ration have been expressed at this remarkable act which was "the last of the nobles," and which of condescension on the part of Louis Philippe, as the "first citizen" of the empire. His majesty though royalty were exempt from the debt of manwas the first to break silence, as in etiquette boundly and honorable gratitude. Not one of the sovto do. It would be difficult to define the expres-ereigns under whom he had served but would have sion which passed across his features as he con- hurried to the death-bed of this, their great countemplated what might be called the setting of his sellor. guiding star.

"I am sorry, prince, to see you suffering so much," said the king, in a low, tremulous voice, rendered almost inaudible by extreme emotion.

Sire, you have come to witness the sufferings of a dying man, and those who love him can have but one wish that of seeing them shortly at an end"-was the reply. This was uttered in a strong voice, which age had not weakened, nor the approach of death subdued. The effect of the speech, brief as it was, was indescribable, for it was expressed in a tone of reproach, which those who heard it will not soon forget. The royal visit, like all royal visits, of mere form, was of short duration. It was evident that Louis Philippe felt it to be an irksome occasion, and that he was at a loss to acquit himself satisfactorily. After a few words of consolation, he rose to take his leave, visibly pleased that the self-imposed task was at an end. Here the prince, with his usual tact, came to his relief; slightly rising, and introducing to his notice those by whom he was surrounded-his physician, his secretary, and his principal valet. A reminiscence of the old courtier seemed to come across him, for with his parting salutation he could not forbear a compliment. Sire, our house has received, this day, an honor which my successors will remember with pride and gratitude."

Shortly after the departure of the king, symptoms of dissolution became apparent. The whole family immediately gathered round the bed. The Duke de P. was then among the number. Solemn as was the moment, I could not divest myself of a satirical observation I remembered to have been made by the prince upon this personage. long before, the former had received a ceremonious visit from the duke, and after his formal leave-taking, he remarked, "One would think, by the duke's melancholy visage, he had been sent by an undertaker to take orders for a funeral."

Not

Towards the middle of the day, the prince still breathing, I withdrew for a moment from the close air of his chamber and passed into his drawingroom. Verily I was astounded at the scene I there encountered. Never shall I forget the transition from the silent room, the bed of suffering, to that crowded saloon. There" troops of friends," and all the elect, so regarded, of Parisian society, were congregated. There was a knot of busy politicians, with ribbons at their button-holes, gathered about the fire; their animated conversation, conducted in a low tone, filled the apartment with its unceasing murmur. I observed a few of the diplomatist's oldest friends, who had come hither from sincere concern for him, who took no part in conversation. In one corner was seated a coterie of ladies discussI must confess I was grievously disappointed in ing topics entirely foreign to the time and place. the anticipations I had formed of this visit. I had Sometimes a low burst of light laughter would looked upon it as the grateful farewell of the safe-issue from among them, in spite of the reprimandJy-landed voyager to the wise and skilful pilot who ing "hush" which issued from another quarter of

the room.

On the sofa, near the window, reclined | were to be interred in one common tomb, together with the little Yolande, an infant daughter of the Duke de V. The bodies were accordingly removed at midnight from the Church of the Assumption, upon a hearse resembling an ammunition wagon. We arrived at Valençay on the third day after our departure from Paris; and it was about ten o'clock at night that the worn and dust-covered hearse was descried wending its way up the long chestnut avenue leading to the chateau. Every honor which had been paid to the lord of the mansion during his life was now rendered with scrupulous exactness to his lifeless form.

the young and beautiful Duchess de V. with a bevy of young beaux, all sitting around her on the cushions of the divan.

All this carried me back to the days of Louis Quatorze, and the death-bed of Cardinal Mazarin. There was the same indifference, the same weariness of expectation. Some were gathered there from respect to the family, some from curiosity, some from mere idleness, and a few from real friendship. These last alone seemed to remember that a mighty spirit was passing from the earth, and that they were there assembled during a mortal struggle. Presently, silence fell upon all, for a door which led to the prince's room opened, and one of the servants entering, with a most portentous countenance, went up to Dr. C., who had accompanied me to the salon, and whispered a few words in his ear. They were instinctively comprehended. The physician proceeded directly to the prince, and all who were present crowded after him. M. Talleyrand was seated on the bedside, reclining upon his secretary. He looked round, and appeared to take cognizance of all present. His face was lit up by an expression which seemed to say, "I yield to the last enemy; not conquered, but surrendering willingly." By many present he was regarded with veneration and gratitude-by all with the involuntary homage which true greatness ever commands. The aged friend of his maturity, the fair young idol of his age, knelt down together near him, and if the words of comfort whispered by the priest did not reach his failing sense, it was because their sound was stifled by the irrepressible sobs of those he loved.

The wide gates were thrown open to admit the sombre vehicle, which entered the court as the stately carriage of other days. The whole of the family, the heir of the domain, the Duke de Valençay, in advance of the rest, were assembled on the person. The prince's nephew himself took his seat in front of the hearse; to conduct it into the town; the array of servants, and huntsmen, and foresters, all following on foot, and bearing torches, to the church wherein the body was deposited, previous to the final ceremony.

Early the next morning all was astir in the burgh. Not a window but was crowded with spectators, and the footway was choked with peasants from the neighboring country, all dressed in their gayest attire. The national guard of the town was afoot from the earliest hour in the morning; and altogether so animated was the aspect of the place, a stranger would have presumed it were a feast day, and not a funeral. The corpse of the duke had been brought without parade from St. Germain, attended only by his physician. His Ere nightfall the chamber, which had been coffin had none of the usual trappings affixed to it, crowded to excess, was emptied, and the report but the difference was soon hidden from invidious had flown from it, in every direction, that Talley- comparison; one pall covered the plain planks and rand was dead. The servants of the tomb did the rich velvet. A long stream of melody arose their office, and when I entered it in the evening, to heaven, one prayer for the repose of the brothers; I found there only a faithful servant, and a hired alike for him who died in wealth and honor, whose priest; the latter murmuring prayers for the repose intellect, powerful to the last, had exerted a vast of the parted soul. The deepest solemnity perva- sway over men's minds for more than half a cended the household; and while the body remained tury, and for him who had closed his eyes in soliin the hotel it was duly visited by the servants.tude and neglect, while his mind had sunk almost The interment did not take place until the follow- to fatuity. ing week, when the corpse was conveyed to the Church of the Assumption, and thence removed to the family vault at Valençay. I myself, in the mean time, saw the cook, and all his retinue of helpers, in snow-white garments, daily proceed to the chamber of death, kneel around the bed, and each breathe a short prayer, then, after sprinkling the corpse with holy water, quit the room in the same order in which they had entered it. There was something very affecting in this expression of piety and humble attachment.

Both were transported to the chapel of St. Andre, founded by the prince himself, and wherein he had placed the family vault. His body was the first to descend, amid the firing of muskets, and other noisy demonstrations; then, in unbroken silence, slid down the iron grating, the coffin of the duke; and last of all, that of the child Yolande. It was covered with white velvet, edged with silver, and seemed rather the casket of a lady's toilet than a receptacle of decay. The vault was closed, and all was over. Each one present had conI resolved to accompany the corpse to Valençay. tributed to pay the last tribute to a great man. In my long intercourse with the departed, he had We returned to the chateau. The new master been all kindness to me, and I wished to pay my had provided liberally for refection of all who had last duty to him. He was the last of his genera-attended the funeral. tion. Not long before the death of the prince, It was then we began to look around, and to his amiable, simple-hearted brother, the Duke de feel some curiosity to knowń who had shared with Talleyrand, had paid the debt of nature. They us in rendering the last homage to one, who was

truly entitled to the gratitude of the whole nation. | October last, when the thickening of events in We gazed right and left; but few were to be seen, France evidently agitated his mind in some degree. and those few had served him faithfully and well The recent publication in a Buffalo paper, which, I -the grateful domestic, the humble friend. presume, was not made without his cognizance, But removes the necessity for further reserve. of all the great ones of the earth, whom he had served, many of whom owed to him their greatness and their honors, there was not ONE!

From the N. Y. Evening Post
THE LAST BOURBON.

THOSE who have read the history of the early
days of the French Revolution will remember that
there was no satisfactory account of the disappear-
ance of the young dauphin, the son and heir of
Louis XVI. He was imprisoned for a long time;
one account reported that he died in prison, and
another that he was apprenticed to a shoemaker,
whose neglect and harsh treatment soon brought
him to the grave.
Several pretenders have ap-
peared in Europe at different times. At this
critical period, a new claimant appears in the wilds
of the Northwest. The person is the Rev. Elea-
zur Williams, of Green Bay, a clergyman of the
Protestant Episcopal church, and chief of the
Oneida Indians of the west.

Mr. Williams is, I think, a man who' fears God and means to do right to his fellow-men-a man of gentlemanly deportment, good acquaintance with mankind, sound judgment, and great benevolence —a man quite incapable of lending himself to any scheme of imposture or reckless adventure. He will shrink from no duty which the providence of God may cast upon him; and will discharge every trust he may receive with singular fidelity and disinterested integrity. Nothing but a consciousness of duty performed or trials endured as becomes a Christian, can compensate him for the breaking up of the peace which he had just secured for himself when this disclosure came upon him.

His personal appearance, the Bourbon head and figure, will be taken by many as a corroborative circumstance. Others will not unreasonably conjecture, that the accidental resemblance has given occasion to the story. There is one historic difficulty, of no slight importance, to wit, Mr. Williams' entire want of recollection of any of the scenes through which the young dauphin passed during those eventful years, in the palace and the prison. Some rational explanation, sustained by proof, should be given on this point.

J. L.

From the Dublin University Magazine. THE CLOSING YEARS OF DEAN SWIFT'S LIFE.* THIS is a volume of no ordinary interest. To the medical inquirer it gives such details as can be now recovered of cerebral disease, extending over a period of fifty-five years—the particular symptoms described by the sufferer himself-for the most part, in confidential letters to intimate friends

Mr. Williams has been made to believe that an old Frenchman, who died a few years ago in Louisiana, made disclosures at the time of his decease to the effect that he had been entrusted with the person of the young dauphin for effectual concealment, and that he had brought him to America, took him far into the interior, and procured his adoption by an Indian chief, in Canada, who would pass him for his own son. Mr. Williams has always been regarded as a descendant of the daughter of Rev. John Williams, of Deerfield-was educated at Dartmouth College, has always been received by the Williams' as their kinsman, was that sufferer the most accurate observer of whatpatronized by the late Rev. Solomon Williams, of Northampton, Sheriff Williams, of Wethersfield, Dr. Nathan Williams, of Tolland, Rev. R. S. Storrs, of Mr. Stebbins, of West Haven, &c. Without finishing his education, he returned among the Indians of Canada, and finally joined the Oneida tribe in this state, where he received orders from Bishop Hobart.

Since the removal of a section of the Oneidas to Green Bay, Mr. Williams has devoted himself chiefly to secular pursuits, has a large farm, &c. He was active and successful in procuring for his people the rights of citizenship in the territory of Wisconsin. The writer of this was happy to render him some little service in facilitating his residence at Washington, while in pursuit of this object.

The intimation that he was the lost dauphin of France, was communicated to him before the revolution of February. In fact, his letter to ine on this subject was written before he had heard of that event. I caused an intimation of these statements to be published in the Boston Chronotype, nearly a year ago, but without naming the party. The announcement did not then produce the sensation

ever came within his reach, of any man gifted with the same degree of genius that has ever used the English language as a medium of communication, and the man of all others who has, on most subjects, expressed himself with such distinctness, that we do not remember, in any case, a doubt as to the precise meaning of a sentence in his works, although those works are on subjects which actuate and influence the passions, and although he has often written in a dictatorial tone of authority, which of itself provokes resistance, and therefore forces readers into something more than the unquestioning indolence in which we are satisfied to look over most books. Mr. Wilde has given us Swift's own account of Swift's distemper. But the interest of this volume is not to the medical inquirer alone. The relation of intimate friendship in which Swift and Stella lived for some fiveand-twenty years, and the mystery thrown over it by a number of idle guesses which have found their way into the biographies of Swift, have led Mr. Wilde to other inquiries, in themselves not unamusing. He has brought together, from ob

"The Closing Years of Dean Swift's Life; with an Appendix, containing several of his Poems hitherto unpublished, and some remarks on Stella." By W. R. Wilde, M. R. I. A., F. R. C. S. 8vo. Dublin: Hodges & Smith, Grafton street. 1849.