Chapter IV: Part 4

Information worthy of being relied on was obtained, that the greater part of the troops had been removed from our front for some remote operations, and that there now remained a force inferior to our own. But this was the flower of the Carlist army. Stout Chapelchuris--the "white caps" of Guipuzcoa, hardy shepherds from the hills of Alava, with the Requetè--the fiercest soldiers of Navarre. Their watch-fires blazed each night on the rugged slopes of the Pyrenees; and as the morning sun lighted the deep gorges of the mountains, from every hamlet and shady valley along the line arose their stirring shout, "For God, and for the King." All day long, in sunshine or in storm, they laboured at their intrenchments. The musket was laid carefully aside, and the pick-axe supplied its place. They dug, and delved, and toiled, fencing round each Biscayan cottage as if it were a holy place. Every gentle slope on the projecting spurs of the great mountains was cut and carved into breastworks and parapets; every ivied wall of their rich orchards was pierced with loopholes, every village church turned into a citadel. Men worked, women aided, children tried to aid. The hated Christinos, and the still more hated English were before them; behind them lay their own loved and lovely land. And still, as they toiled, when betimes the wearied arm ached and the faithful spirit drooped, a shout would roll along the valleys and echo among the hills that nerved them with fresh strength, and cheered them with a firmer hope--"For God, and for the King."

Late on the afternoon of the 9th of March, aides-de-camp were sent to all parts of the lines with strict orders that no one should, on any account, be allowed to pass out. An hour after nightfall, the whole army was put in motion, the main part filed on to the glacis of the fortress of San Sebastian, battalion after battalion formed in close column, piled their arms, and lay down in their ranks, preserving a profound silence: the artillery horses were harnessed, and remained in readiness within the city walls. By about two o'clock in the morning, each corps had taken up its place. About eight thousand men were assembled on the space of a few acres; scarcely a sound was heard, not a creature moved through the streets of the town, not a solitary lamp made "visible" the darkness of the night. The sentries paced their round upon the walls as at other times, and their measured tread was distinct and clear in the noiseless air. And yet, though I saw nothing and heard nothing of them, I _felt_ the crowded thousands round me; there was a heaviness and oppression in the atmosphere like the threat of a coming storm, and the ground seemed slightly to tremble, or rather throb, as if in sympathy with the hearts that beat above in hope or fear.

But among the dwellings within the city, there was anxious hurrying from room to room, and from hundreds of windows straining eyes strove against the thick darkness of the night:--wives, mothers, sisters, and those who, though they bore none of those hallowed names, yet loved most tenderly some one in the assembled host about to brave the chance of life or death. Dolòres and Pepìta were alone in their large gloomy house; their father was on the walls with his company of the national guard. The convalescent was with his regiment on the glacis; I was there too, attached for the time to the same corps, and the odious captain of carbineers was also at the muster. And where was Pepìta's play-fellow? They had not seen him since the night of the ill-fated entertainment. The second light infantry were drawn up close to the ramparts; of course, the brave boy is there too. "Ay de mi!" said the younger girl to Dolòres, "that I should not see the dear child before the battle." "It can't be helped," answered her sister, "and it is now full time to go to rest; we are alone in the house too, and midnight has struck long since." But Pepìta would not be persuaded; she seated herself in her father's great chair, and bade Dolòres goodnight. The elder sister, seeing her determination, kissed her and went her way. After a little time, the young girl began to yield to fatigue; she cried heartily with anxiety for her dear child, but at length overcome by drowsiness, laid her soft round arm upon the table close by, her head then drooped gently till resting upon it, and she fell sound asleep; while her long black hair, broken loose from its bands, flowed in rich profusion over her graceful neck. She dreamed of her boy lover, for a fond sweet smile played upon her parted lips.

Now a little scene passes that it saddens me to recall to memory. The boy lover has contrived to get away from his regiment unobserved, and has reached the well-known door; it is only closed, not locked. He opens it very gently, and walks with noiseless footsteps into the room, so noiseless that the sleeper is not awakened, kneels down beside her, and for many minutes gazes on her lovely face in silent happiness. But time flies fast. He rises, takes gently in his hand one of her long locks, cuts it off, and puts it in his bosom; then bends over her, presses his lips softly to hers for a moment, and hastens away. And yet that night she only dreamed that he had bidden her farewell.

The cadet had not long rejoined his regiment, where I had sought him, when our conversation was interrupted by a loud trumpet-blast--the sound for the advance.--Ere it had ceased to echo, a broad blue flame shot up into the dark sky from the roof of a house in the centre of the city, illumining the sea and land around with a dismal and sinister light. For an instant, thousands of startled upturned faces shone livid in the sudden gleam, then vanished into darkness deeper than before. But soon, on a neighbouring hill beyond the lines, another flame bursts forth; again from a high peak of the Pyrenees; and again and again, further and further away to the mountains of Navarre, the traitor signal fire flashed forth the notice of our march,--and from that hour every city and town, village and hamlet of the north sent forth its armed men to crush us in defeat.

A few battalions went on in front, the artillery followed, next came the main body of the army. We crossed the little river Urumea over the wooden bridge close to the town, followed the road towards Passages for some distance, and then turned into the hilly lands to the south-east of San Sebastian. The heads of columns took positions on or near Alza heights, forming by regiments as they came up, still under cover of the darkness. But though the march was conducted with great order and silence, the heavy rumbling of the guns over the stony roads, and the measured tramp of thousands of armed men were plainly heard for many miles around. By dawn of day the army was in order of battle, with the artillery in position commanding the Ametza hill, where a small Carlist force was intrenched.

Between these opposing forces was a hatred far deadlier than the usual animosity of war. The Christinos and Carlists thirsted for each other's blood, with all the fierce ardour of civil strife, animated by the memory of years of mutual insult, cruelty, and wrong. Brother against brother--father against son--best friend turned to bitterest foe--priests against their flocks--kindred against kindred. "For God and for the King,"--"For Liberty and Spain." But to our foes, we of the British Legion were the most odious of all; strangers, mercenaries, heretics, scoffers, polluters of their sacred soil; so did they term us. For us there was no quarter; in the heat of battle, or by cold judicial form, it was all the same: to fall into their hands was certainly a tortured death. Their king had issued the bloody mandate; they were its ready executioners. At different times, and under different circumstances, many of our men had fallen alive into their hands, but the doom of these unfortunates was always the same. About a week since, five Scottish soldiers, while cutting wood, unarmed, in a grove close by our lines, were suddenly seized, bound, and carried away to Hernani, the nearest town; they were tied to stakes in the great square, and shot to death, slowly, with many wounds, commencing at the feet, and gradually rising higher, till a kind bullet struck some vital spot. One of these victims was a brawny giant with a huge black bushy beard; I recollect him well, it was said he had been the Glasgow hangman. Our men swore frightful vengeance; a black flag--unsanctioned by the authorities--waved over Alza fort; and as orders were given by the generals for the safety of the enemies who might be taken, it was agreed among the soldiers that there should be _no prisoners_.

Some shots from the English artillery on Alza heights began the battle; as the smoke curled up in white wreaths through the pure morning air, the deadly missiles fell lazily into the Carlist breastworks, and burst with destructive accuracy. At the same time, the Irish brigade of the Legion crossed the valley between us and the enemy at a rapid pace--for a time hidden in the mists of the low grounds--but as they neared the hostile parapets they re-appeared, ascending the sloping hill, then their pace increased to a run, and at last they broke, and rushed like a flock of wolves upon the foe. The Carlists waited till the assailants were close at hand, fired one sharp rattling volley into their leading files, and, abandoning the position, fled rapidly down the opposite side of the hill. An English brigade, consisting of the rifles and two London regiments, had at the same time attacked the intrenchments on our right, threatening to cut off a retreat should an effort be made to hold them against the front attack. My duties lay with this portion of the army.

Some time was now passed in pushing our line forward to the new position we had so cheaply gained. The English brigade skirmished against feeble detachments of the Carlists in the hollow to our right, by the banks of the Urumea. In front of the Ametza heights, lay a lovely valley ornamented with picturesque cottages and orchards; to the left there projected into the low grounds a wide elevated platform from the stony hill of San Gerònimo; beyond this stony hill was the main road to France, the object of our expedition. Some Spanish battalions were pushed across the low grounds to our left front, and briskly attacked the platform; they made, but slow progress, for the Carlists fought stoutly for every foot of ground. Soon, however, the lumbering guns followed, and opened their murderous fire; fresh troops pushed on till the platform was gained, and the defenders retired slowly up the stony hill. But here there was a check. Protected by their parapets, and aided by the difficulties of the rocky slope, the Carlists held their ground, determined, come what might, to cover the great French road. Battalion after battalion of the Christinos, charged this height in vain. The regiment of the Princessa, more than two thousand strong, the pride of the sunny south, was beaten back three times, and left its best and bravest dead among the rugged rocks.

Among the inhabitants of these Biscayan provinces, some few had joined the constitutional cause. Perhaps their motives for so doing may not have been purely political, or altogether abstract ideas about liberal governments. However, they formed themselves into a free corps about one thousand strong, and from their fierce courage, hardihood, and knowledge of the country, they were more useful to their friends, and dangerous to their enemies, than any troops in the Queen's army. The fact was, that a great proportion of them were deserters, malefactors escaped from justice, or desperate, villains from other European nations. They wore red jackets like the Legion, with waist-belts containing their bayonet and ammunition, a blanket twisted like a rope, passing round over the left shoulder and under the right arm, was their only additional burthen, and a red flat cap or Boyna completed their equipment; this last was called in the Basque tongue Chapelgorri, and from it the corps derived its name. They chose their own officers, owned but little obedience even to the generals, claimed the right of leading the advance, gave or took no quarter, and plundered unmercifully upon all occasions. These peculiar regulations, though rendering them terrible in war, were attended with certain inconveniences to the members of the corps. They were hunted like wild beasts by their enemies, often condemned and shot for mutiny by their own leaders, and stabbed in midnight by brawls by one another. The result of all this was that on the morning of the 10th of March, only three hundred and eighty Chapelgorris remained alive, to march under their chief "El Pastor."

At break of day, these fierce freebooters had started off on their own account from our far left, and made a dash at a place called Renteria, some distance within the Carlist country. Their attack was unexpected, and after a few random shots, the village was abandoned to them. In this poor place, there was very little plunder to be found, but they took what they could, and destroyed the rest; they chanced, however, upon some gold and silver communion plate in the churches; this they put upon a mule's back, and with laudable precaution sent to the rear; then having done as much with fire and steel as their limited time would permit, they plunged into the deep woody ravines lying between them and the hill of San Gerònimo, and with desperate daring made straight for the scene of strife, through this difficult and hostile country.

Just as the regiment, of the Princessa was driven back from their last fierce struggle among the rocks on the hill side, the Chapelgorris, to the great surprise of both friends and foes, emerged from a shady hollow, and shouting like fiends, charged suddenly upon the rear of the Carlists. For a little, they carried all before them, and at one time had actually cleared the parapets that had been so long and bravely defended; but, seeing the weakness of their assailants, and that the attack was unsupported, the Carlists soon rallied, and with a force of ten to one charged down the bloodstained hill. The Chapelgorris held their vantage ground for many minutes, fighting desperately hand to hand with bayonet thrust, and even with the deadly stab of their long knives; but at length some squadrons of Lancers made their way through the rough stones, and piked them without mercy. About half their number, mostly wounded, made their way back into the Christino lines, and having lighted fires, proceeded with perfect unconcern to cook their dinners.

As I said before, the Christino troops held the broad elevated platform at the foot of the Stony Hill. To the right, between this high ground and the river Urumea, the English brigade of the Legion held the valley. At the extreme advance, by the bank of the stream, on a rising ground, there stood a small cottage, surrounded by a low stone wall, enclosing the little orchard; a handful of men of a London regiment, commanded by my late patient, were thrown into it, with orders to defend it as long as possible, and then to make good their retreat, should they see that the army found it necessary to retire. I was sent with this small detachment to assist the wounded. Our position was completely isolated from all communication with the main body, but to the left rear our flank was protected by a thickly wooded conical hill, held by half a battalion of the second Spanish light infantry; to the left rear of that again, was the broad platform, where our main force lay; from this elevation a threatening row of guns looked out upon the conical hill, extending their protection over its defenders. As long as this connecting position between us and the platform was held, we were safe, for the Urumea covered our right flank but the force appointed for this duty was under the command of the sullen and treacherous captain of carbineers. During the early part of the day, while the strife was raging upon the hill of San Gerònimo, we were in comparative quiet, only intent upon holding our ground, while, with the exception of a few daring skirmishers, every now and then rebuked by the artillery on the platform, the enemy offered us no annoyance.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, when all our repeated attacks upon the Stony Hill on the left had plainly failed, and it became evident that some other means must be found of forcing our way to the great French road, our chiefs began to withdraw their troops from the extreme left, narrowing their front preparatory to returning within the lines for the night. These movements released the stout defenders of San Gerònimo, and flushed with their success, but unwearied by their labours, they passed rapidly along the slope of the valleys in front of the platform from left to right; sheltered from the fire of our artillery by the shade of the thick woods, they formed their columns for a desperate attack upon our extreme right--the cottage where I was, and the conical hill, upon the possession of which our safety depended. While these new dispositions were being made, the firing almost ceased along the whole line. We guessed pretty well what was coming, and prepared as best we might for the approaching storm.

Presently thousands of bayonets glittered in the bright sun-light among the trees in our front; the heads of three heavy columns issued from the wood and pushed across the valley against our positions. The main force assailed the platform, but could make no head against the fire of the artillery, and the masses of troops defending it; another body of some strength rushed up to our cottage stronghold, swarmed round it, and poured a deafening roar of musketry upon the doors and windows; we were instantly driven from the orchard to the shelter of the dwelling, but there we held our own, and the stout Londoners dealt death among the foe. Several men had been killed, and some badly wounded, while retreating from the orchard into the cottage, so my hands were full. I did my utmost, but could not keep pace with the work of destruction. The fire waxed heavier; the Carlists, though suffering severely, pressed closer and closer round us, animated with the hope that we might fall into their hands; but the conical hill is not yet assailed, and till it is lost our retreat is safe. The third attacking column has disappeared in a ravine to our left. Where will that storm burst? See, there they are! now they rise up from the deep hollow--the glittering bayonets and the terrible "white caps;" and now with a fierce shout, louder than the roar of the battle, they dash against the conical hill. We see no more; the thick woods conceal alike our friends and foes.

My late patient, the commander of our little garrison, had been already wounded in the head, but refused my aid with horrid oaths. A torn handkerchief was wrapped round his temples, his face and long grizzled beard were stained with blood, begrimed with smoke and dust; he had seized the musquet and ammunition of a fallen soldier, and fearless of the deadly hail of bullets, stood upright before a window firing with quick precision, then rapidly reloading. Nevertheless, every now and then, he cast an anxious look beyond, to see how fared the strife upon the all-important hill.

And now the roar of musketry is heard among the trees, and a thick cloud of smoke hangs over the scene of the struggle, concealing the fortunes of the fight. But see! From the back of the hill furthest from the enemy, a tall man, in the uniform of an officer, hastens stealthily away; he crosses towards the river close to the cottage; though hidden by a bank from the Carlists, we see him plainly from the upper windows; his object is probably to escape unobserved down by the stream into the lines. He has thrown away his sword, his eyes are bloodshot, his face pale with deadly fear, and wild with terror. We look again: eternal infamy! it is the captain of carbineers. Immediately after this, the defenders of the hill, deserted by their leader and pressed by the superior force of the Carlists, gave ground, broke, and fled the valley. "That accursed coward has betrayed us," shouted our commander, fiercely. "But he shall not escape us, by ----." As he spoke he aimed at the fugitive and pulled the trigger, but before he finished the sentence, I heard a dull, heavy splash, as of a weight falling upon water; the musket dropped from his grasp, he threw his long sinewy arms up over his head, and fell back without a groan. A bullet had gone through his brain; meanwhile the object of his wrath ran rapidly past and gained the sheltering underwood by the stream in safety.

Our soldiers, instead of being daunted by the loss of their commander, were inspired with the energy of despair. They knew they might not hope for mercy from their fierce assailants, and determined to struggle to the last. All retreat was cut off, but as long as their ammunition lasted they could keep at bay. This, however, began soon to fail. They rifled the pouches of their dead comrades, and still, though almost against hope, bravely held on the fight.

The Carlists upon the conical hill were now exposed to the fire from the guns of the platform, and though in a great degree sheltered by the trees, they suffered severely. The Christino forces were, however, being gradually withdrawn from the field of battle, and the chances of our perilous situation being observed by our friends, became momentarily less; a vigorous rush upon the conical hill to gain possession of it, even for a few minutes, might enable us to extricate ourselves, but in the roar and confusion of the battle our little band was forgotten by the Spanish force, left to cover the withdrawal of the army--forgotten by all but one,--the gallant young cadet, my generous friend. He knew that I was in the beleaguered cottage, disgracefully left to its fate by a portion of his own regiment; he saw that we still held out,--that there was hope that we might yet be saved. He hastened to the commanding officer of his corps, told of our perilous situation, and pointed out the means of extricating us. The orders were, that this regiment,--the second light infantry, should check the Carlist advance, till the main body of the Christinos had fallen back upon the positions taken in the morning. The generous boy who had gained a hearing by his gallant conduct through the day, urged his cause so earnestly, that at last it won attention; he pointed out how the recovery of the conical hill would effectually secure the retirement of the troops from annoyance, and that they would have the glory of saving the detachment of the Legion from destruction. The colonel, a gallant old soldier, himself an Englishman by birth, leant no unwilling ear, and the regiment received the order to advance.

Meanwhile, we saw with bitter sorrow battalion after battalion withdrawing from the platform, and the Carlist reserves advancing down the valley in our front to press on the retiring army. But when we had almost ceased to hope, a dark green column emerged from the woods in our rear by the water side, and in serried ranks, with steady step, marched straight upon the fatal hill. It dashes aside the opposing crowds of white-capped skirmishers like foam from a ship's prow; it gains the slope and nears the wooded brow, still, with unfaltering courage, pressing on, though men are struck down at every step. They are now close at hand; we feel their aid; our assailants slacken their fire, and give way; the path is nearly clear: when the hill is won we are saved. We can now plainly distinguish our deliverers--the Second Light Infantry, and in front of the leading rank the gallant cadet toils up the bloody hill. A crashing volley staggers the advancing files; but the youth cheers them on--one effort more. Hurrah, brave boy! hurrah for the honour of Castile! They follow him again; the brow is gained, they plunge into the wood; another rattle of musketry, and the Carlists are driven from the hill.

We seized the golden opportunity, and bearing with us those of the wounded who survived, made good our retreat. The few still capable of any exertion joined our brave deliverers, and retired slowly with them, but the Carlists pressed upon us no more that night.

The evening was falling fast, and the long shadows of the mountains covered the field of blood, when I sat down at the advanced post of our lines to await the returning column and meet the gallant boy, our deliverer from the merciless enemy. They marched slowly up along the road; for many wounded men, borne on stretchers, or supported by their companions, encumbered their movements. Then, as company after company filed past, I looked with anxious straining eyes for my dear young friend. But he came not. Even in the pride of their brave deed the soldiers seemed dull and sorrowful without his airy step and gallant bearing to cheer them on. Last in the ranks came a tall bearded grenadier, carrying something in his arms--something very light, but borne with tender care. It was the young cadet. His eyes were closed; his face wore a smile of ineffable sweetness, but was white as marble, and, like the smile on the features of a marble statue, there may be never again a change; for the fair child was dead.

The Captain of the ship had joined our group some time before, and listened attentively to the latter part of the story. When it came to this point, he cried out somewhat impatiently, "Hillo, Doctor! if you have nothing pleasanter to tell us, the sooner we turn in the better."

FLECHIER'S CHRONICLE OF CLERMONT ASSIZES.[23]

MANY of our readers, unacquainted with his writings, will remember the name of the gentle prelate and renowned rhetorician who delivered the funeral oration of the great TURENNE, accomplishing the mournful but glorious task with such eloquence and grace that the composition constitutes his chief claim to the admiration of posterity. We should say, perhaps, that it _did_ constitute his principal hold upon the world's memory, previously to the year 1844, date of exhumation of a work likely to command readers longer than his _Oraisons Funébres_, or, than any other portion of the ten serious volumes published under the incorrect title of _œuvres Completes_. We can imagine the astonishment of an erudite book-worm, suddenly encountering, when winding his way through dusty folios and antique black letter, a sprightly and gallant narrative, sparkling with graceful sallies and with anecdotes and allusions _à la_ Grammont; and finding himself compelled, by evidence internal and collateral, to accept the mundane manuscript as the work of a grave and pious father of the church. A courtly chronicle, in tone fringing on the frivolous, and often more remarkable for piquancy of subject than for strict propriety of tone, suddenly dragged from the cobwebbed obscurity of an ancient escritoire and put abroad as the production of a South, a Tillotson, or a Blair, would astound the public, and find many to doubt its authenticity. In bringing forward the earliest work of the amiable bishop of Nismes, the librarian of the town of Clermont had no such scepticism to contend against. Moreover, he had arguments and proofs at hand sufficient to confound and convince the most incredulous. True, there was vast difference in tone and subject between the literary pastime of the Abbé, and the results of the grave studies and oratorical talents of the reverend churchman and renowned preacher; but affinities of style were detectible by the skilful, and, in addition to this, there had crept out, at sundry periods of the present century, certain letters of Fléchier[24]--letters not to be found in the so-called "complete editions" of his works--whose strain of graceful levity and exaggerated gallantry indicated a talent distinct from that to which he owes a fame now daily diminishing; and prepared the few whose notice they attracted for a transition from grave didactics and inflated declamation to lively _badinage_ and debonair narrative. The masses knew little about the matter, and cared less. Latin verses, complimentary discourses, and funeral orations, dating from a century and a half back, and relating to persons and events great and brilliant, it is true, but now seen dim and distant through the long vista of years, are not the class of literature to compel much attention in this practical and progressive age. As a constructor of French prose, Fléchier is unquestionably entitled to honourable mention. If his claims to originality of genius were small, he at least was an elegant rhetorician and a delicate and polished writer, to whom the French language is under obligations. As a man of letters, he formed an important link between the school of Louis XIII. and that of the _Grand Monarque_; he was one of the first to appreciate grace of diction, and to attempt the elevation and correction of a spurious style. His florid eloquence, however, not unfrequently wearies by its stilted pomposity, and, save by a few scholars and literati, his works are rather respected than liked, more often praised than read. He wrote for the century, not for all time. And his books, if still occasionally referred to, each day drew nearer to oblivion, when the publication of the _Mémoires sur les Grands-Jours tenus à Clermont_ came opportunely to refresh his fading bays. The lease of celebrity secured by ten studied and ponderous tomes, exhaling strong odour of midnight oil, had nearly expired, when it was renewed by a single volume, written with flowing pen and careless grace, but overlooked and underrated for nearly two centuries.

Although scarcely essential to a just appreciation of the book before us, we shall cursorily sketch the career of Esprit Fléchier, esteemed one of the ablest of French pulpit orators,--one of the most kind-hearted and virtuous of French prelates. Born in 1632, in the county of Avignon, he early assumed the sacerdotal garb, and obtained occupation as teacher of rhetoric. At the age of eight-and-twenty, business resulting from the death of a relation having taken him to Paris, he conceived an affection for that capital and remained there. Having no fortune of his own, he was fain to earn a modest subsistence by teaching the catechism to parish children. Already, when professing rhetoric at Narbonne, he had given indication of the oratorical talents that were subsequently to procure him the highest dignities of the church, the favour of a great king, and the enthusiastic admiration of a Sévigné. At Paris he busied himself with the composition of Latin verses, for which he had a remarkable talent, and celebrated in graceful hexameters the successes and virtues of ministers, princes, and kings. The peace concluded with Spain by Mazarine, the future prospects of the dauphin of France, the splendid tournament held by the youthful Louis, in turn afforded subjects for the display of his elegant Latinity. Fléchier had the true instinct of the courtier, exempt from fawning sycophancy, and tempered by the dignity of his sacred profession. And when he condescended to flatter, it was with delicacy and adroitness. Ambitious of the patronage of the Duke of Montausier, he knew how to obtain it by a judicious independence of tone and deportment, more pleasing to that nobleman than the most insinuating flattery. A constant guest in the Salon Rambouillet, he made good his place amongst the wits frequenting it, and when its presiding genius expired, it fell to him to speak its funeral oration. This was the commencement of his fame. From the hour of that brilliant harangue, his progress was rapid to the pinnacle of royal favour and priestly dignity. Unanimously elected member of the academy, he became almoner to the dauphiness, and was long the favourite court preacher, petted by the king and by Madame de Maintenon. His nomination as bishop was delayed longer than the high favour he enjoyed seemed to justify. At last, in 1685, he received his appointment to the see of Lavaur. The words with which Louis XIV. accompanied it, were characteristic of the selfish and smooth-spoken sovereign. "Be not surprised at my tardiness in rewarding your great merits: I could not sooner resolve to resign the pleasure of hearing you." His promotion to the bishopric of Nismes followed two years later, and there he founded the academy, and abode in the constant practice of all Christian virtues, until his death, which occurred in 1710, five years sooner than that of his royal patron and admirer. This provincial residence could hardly have been a matter of inclination to one who had so long basked in the warm sunshine of court favour. But the self-imposed duty was well and cheerfully performed. And we find the mild and unambitious churchman deprecating the benefits showered on him by the king. "It is a great proof your goodness," he wrote to Louis, when appointed to the rich and important see of Nismes, "that you leave me nothing to ask but a diminution of your favours." Strict in his own religious tenets, he was tolerant of those of others, and more than once, during the cruel persecutions of the Huguenots, his sacerdotal mantle was extended to shield the unhappy fanatics from the raging sabres of their pitiless foes. "He died," says St Simon, "distinguished for his learning, his works, his morals, and for a truly episcopal life. Although very old, he was much regretted and mourned throughout all Languedoc."

It is pleasing to trace so virtuous a career, its just reward and peaceful termination; otherwise we might have been contented to refer to the period when Fléchier was tutor to the son of M. Lefevre de Caumartin, one of the king's council, master of requests, and bearer of the royal seals at the tribunal of the Grands-Jours. The future bishop had been at Paris about two years, when he accepted this tutorship. Four years more elapsed; he was in priest's orders, and already had some reputation as a preacher, when he accompanied M. de Caumartin to Clermont. It was in 1665, and Louis XIV. had convoked the exceptional court occasionally held in the distant provinces of France, and known as the Grands-Jours. "This word," says M. Gonod, in his introduction to Fléchier's volume, "which excited, scarcely two centuries ago, such great expectations, so many hopes and fears, is almost unknown at the present day; and one meets with many persons, otherwise well informed, who inquire 'what the Grands-Jours were?' They were extraordinary assizes, held by judges chosen and deputed by the king. These judges, selected from the parliament, were sent with very extensive powers, to decide all criminal and civil cases that might be brought before them, and their decisions were without appeal. They inherited the duties of those commissioners, called _missi dominici_, whom our kings of the first and second dynasties sent into the provinces to take information of the conduct of dukes and counts, and to reform the abuses that crept into the administration of justice and of the finances. The rare occurrence of these assizes, and the pomp of the judges, contributed to render them imposing and solemn, and obtained for them from the people the name of Grands-Jours. They were held but seven times in Auvergne," (the dates follow, commencing 1454;) "and of those seven sittings, the most remarkable for duration, for the number and importance of the trials, for the quality of the persons figuring in them, and for their result, are, without the slightest question, those of 1665-6. They lasted more than four months, from the 26th September to the 30th January. More than twelve thousand complaints were brought before them, and a multitude of cases, both civil and criminal, were decided. And, amongst the latter, whom do we see upon the bench of the accused? The most considerable persons, by birth, rank, and fortune, of Auvergne and the circumjacent provinces, judges, and even priests!" Here we find the true reason why Fléchier's interesting memoirs of this important session have so long remained unprinted, almost unknown. It were idle to assert that want of merit caused them to be omitted, or at best passed over with a cursory notice, by collectors and commentators of Fléchier's writings. We have already intimated, and shall presently prove, that, both as a literary composition, and as a chronicle of the manners of the times, this long-neglected volume is of great merit and interest. And had these been less, this was still hardly a reason for grudging the honours and advantages of type to a single volume of no very great length, at the cost of the integrity of its author's works. If not included in any of the partial editions of the bishop's writings, or printed with his posthumous works at Paris in 1712, a nook might surely have been reserved for it in the Abbé Ducreux's complete edition, or in the less estimable one of Fabre de Narbonne. But no--such favour was not afforded. M. Fabre dismisses it with a curt and flippant notice, and Ducreux confines himself to a careless abstract, inserted in the tenth volume of his edition, as a sort of sop to certain persons who, having obtained access to the manuscript, were sufficiently judicious to hold it in high estimation. The Abbé alleged as his reason, that he thought little of the style, which he considered strange and negligent. We will not do him the unkindness to accept this as his real opinion. His true motive, we cannot doubt, was more akin to that loosely hinted at by M. Fabre, who, as recently as the year 1828, intimates that there might be some "imprudence" in raking up these old stories. In 1782 M. Ducreux may have been justified in apprehending detriment to his interests, and perhaps even danger to his personal liberty, as the possible consequence of his giving too great publicity to the chronicles of the Grands-Jours. The Bastille and _Lettres-de-Cachet_ were not then the mere empty sounds they were rendered, seven years later, by the acts of a furious mob and a National Convention. There was still "snug lying" in the fortress of the Porte St Antoine, for impertinent scribes as for suspected conspirators. We cannot doubt that, by the affected disparagement of Fléchier's book, the Abbé Ducreux sought to veil his own timid or reasonable apprehensions, feigning, like the fox in the fable, to despise what he was unable (or dared not) to make use of. "This narrative," says M. Gonod, speaking of the _Mémoires_, "in which the manners and morals of the nobility and clergy of the period are sometimes painted in such black colours, could not, as will be seen on perusal, be brought to light in the time of its author. More than a century later, the Abbé Ducreux did not deem it advisable to print it in a complete form. 'What interest,' he says, 'could the reader find in the recital of those old stories, some of revolting atrocity, others studiously malicious, and of depravity calculated only to shock susceptible imaginations and generous hearts? The history of crime is already too vast and too well known; it is that of virtue, and of actions honourable to humanity, that we should endeavour to preserve and disseminate.' Admitting this principle, M. Gonod very justly remarks, "the first thing to do would be to pass a spunge over history; and the virtuous Abbé forgot that nothing is more adapted to inspire horror of crime than the contemplation of its hideous face, and of the penalties that follow in its train. On the other hand"--and here we have the true reason--"the Abbé Ducreux feared to retrace these facts at a time when the descendants of the men most compromised in those terrible trials held the first places in the church, the magistracy, and the army: it would have been wounding them, he says, without utility to the public." Nearly sixty years later, M. Fabre de Narbonne allows himself to be fettered by similar unwillingness to offend the posterity of the noble and reverend criminals of 1666; for thus only can be explained his intimation of the possible imprudence of reviving those judicial records. In 1844, the librarian of Clermont writes thus: "This reason"--he refers to that alleged by Ducreux--"which I respect and approve, is extinct for us. Of all those families, two only, I think, are still in existence; and I believe that the present representatives of those once odious names are personally known in too honourable a manner to have to dread from Fléchier's narrative any lesion to their honour. I must add, moreover, that with respect to one, every thing has been long since published by Legrand d'Aussy, Taillandier;[25] and that the other has received communication from me of all relating to his family, and sees no objection to its publication." From this paragraph it is manifest, that M. Gonod was not quite at his ease as to the effect of his publication. He _thinks_ one thing, _believes_ another, assumes altogether a doubting and deprecatory tone, defending himself before attack. The worthy bibliophilist and editor was evidently in some slight trepidation as to the reception of his literary foster-child by the descendants of the dissolute and tyrannical nobility arraigned before the tribunal of the Grands-Jours. His apprehensions were not unfounded. It is certainly difficult to understand what could be risked and who offended by the resuscitation--after one hundred and eighty years, and when French institutions and society had been so completely turned upside down by successive revolutions--of these antiquated details of feudal oppression, priestly immorality, and magisterial corruption. It argues singular tenuity of epidermis on the part of French _gentilâtres_ of the nineteenth century, that they cannot bear to hear how their great grandfather, seven or eight times removed, oppressed his vassals by enforcing odious privileges, hung up his lady's page by the heels till death ensued, poisoned his wife, or confined a serf[26] in a damp closet where he could neither sit nor stand, and where his face lost its form and his garments acquired a coat of mildew. Why the disclosure of these crimes--atrocious though they are, and characteristic of a barbarous state of society--should disturb the repose or cloud the countenances of the far-removed posterity of the feudal tyrants who committed them, is no easy question to answer. Are these susceptible descendants apprehensive lest the crimes of the French aristocracy, two hundred years ago, should acquire a peculiarly swart hue, in the eyes of existing generations, by contrast with the immaculate purity of corresponding classes in the nineteenth century? The misdeeds of a Senegas and a Montvallat, extenuated by the circumstances of the times, by a ruder state of society and greater laxity of morals, might well be forgotten in the infamy of a Praslin and a Teste. Whatever the reason, however, the fact is that the publication of the Grands-Jours was viewed with displeasure by various Auvergnat families. The edition consisted, we believe, of seven or eight hundred copies, of which the public bought a portion, and the remainder were purchased and destroyed by those whom the contents of the volume offended. The book is now unobtainable; and there appears little probability of a reprint in France. Under these circumstances, it is surprising that the Brussels publishers--whom no trashy French novel can escape--have not laid their piratical claws upon a book of such attractive interest.

Written during the four months that Fléchier passed at Clermont as one of the household of M. de Caumartin, the _Mémoires_ are intended less as an historical record of the assizes than as a general diary of all the amiable Abbé saw, heard, and collected during his stay in Auvergne. Their nature scarcely admitting publication during the author's lifetime, we must consider their composition to have been a pastime, a manner of dispelling the tedium of long mornings in a provincial town. "Assuredly," a clever French critic has said, "no author ever wrote for himself alone; in literature, as on the stage, monologues are purely conventional; in reality, one speaks to the public, without seeming so to do." If ever there was an exception to this rule, it was in the case of Fléchier. During the Grands-Jours, Clermont, crowded with functionaries and their families, with plaintiffs, defendants, and witnesses, from every part of the extensive district[27] over which the court had jurisdiction, was a grand focus of gossip and scandal; and by this, Fléchier, as one of the household of so important a person as M. de Caumartin, was in the best possible position to benefit. It is by no means improbable, that a desire to retain the many pungent anecdotes that reached his ear, and also the more important and striking of the proceedings before the court, stimulated him to indite the four hundred and fourteen folio pages of manuscript now printed, with introduction, notes, and appendix, in an octavo volume of four hundred and sixty. He may have anticipated lively gratification in refreshing his memory, at some later and more tranquil period of his life, by a reference to the annals of those gay and bustling days. He may have had in view the delectation of the witty Parisian _coteries_ by whom he was already held in high and well-merited esteem. And the modest preceptor, foreseeing not, at that early period of his career, the eminence he was destined to attain, may have indulged in pleasing visions of posthumous fame, founded on this graceful volume of memoirs. What we cannot suppose him to have contemplated, was its immediate publication; and to this we must attribute the capricious disorder, the frequent transitions, the sprightly _naiveté_ and piquant negligence of a book written (as so few are written) for the author's private gratification, or at most for that of a limited circle of friends. With regard to the intrinsic merit of the work, we can hardly do better than quote M. Gonod. "Independently," says that gentleman, "of the curious facts it reveals, of the manners (still too little known) which it retraces, it will be for the intelligent reader one of the most precious literary monuments of the age of Louis XIV. It was composed ten years after Pascal's 'Provinciales,' when Corneille had already produced his masterpieces, at the moment that Molière brought out his 'Misanthrope,' when Racine prepared his 'Plaideurs,' and his 'Britannicus,' and Boileau published his first satires. These memoirs add a new gem to Fléchier's literary crown, by displaying qualities not to be traced in his previously-published works. Here one does not find that scientific formality of style which procured him the name of a skilful artisan of words; but the author, still young, and writing, as we may say, in play, or to exercise his easy pen, lets the latter run on at random, whence often arises a certain _laisser-aller_, an apparent negligence, of which Legrand d'Aussy, who criticises it, felt neither the charm nor the value. Had he found declamation against reigning abuses, against the nobility, or against what he called superstition, he would have admired it. But the scholarly harmony of the style, the vein of subtle and delicate wit pervading the work, have completely escaped him. Let others having more right to be severe than the author of the 'Voyage en Auvergne,' point out occasional prolixity, romantic adventures, digressions, a superabundance of antitheses; let them even blame the coolness with which Fléchier--in times when such circumspection was necessary--relates horrible facts. I leave them to play this easy part, and prefer receding with the author to a period whose private and intimate customs are little known to me, observing with him the follies, and listening to the gossip of the day, laughing with him, enjoying his gaiety, and, at the same time, acquiring knowledge." Then come a few words of compliment and gratitude to the enlightened minister (M. Villemain) who encouraged the publication of the _Mémoires_. In the main we agree with M. Gonod, and are much more disposed to give ourselves up to the charm--scarcely admitting exact definition--which we find in Fléchier's work, and to cull the flowers of instruction and amusement so liberally scattered through his pages, than to sit down with the dogged brow of a hypercritic to pick out errors and carp at deficiencies. The kind-hearted Abbé, by his decorous gaiety, inoffensive satire, and occasional tinge of tender melancholy, surely deserves this much forbearance. Nor can we, considering the unassuming nature of his work and the circumstances under which it was written, allow ourselves to be angry with him for the abrupt flights and transitions by which he so frequently passes from the annals of crime to the recital of follies, from the lady's bower to the ensanguined scaffold, from the dark details of feudal oppression to the trivial tattle of the town; careless in some instances to terminate history or anecdote, to dispel the doubts and gratify the curiosity of the reader. Whilst recognising the historical importance and interest of a grave and minute account of the sessions of the Grands-Jours, we do not quarrel with our Abbé for not having transmitted it to us, but accept his heterogeneous tragi-comic volume as a graphic and amusing sketch of the vices, follies, and tone of French society in the twenty-third year of the reign of Louis, surnamed the Great.