for courteous and noble behaviour presents itself to those who will profit by it. But unhappy is he, and unhappy for the whole of life, that engages in a profession so dangerous to youth, without having the strength, or the inclination, to resist the influence of bad example. If he yields to the impulse of every degrading vice, how will he be able to instruct, or to fortify himself in those principles of conduct which wisdom dictates as well to the private man as to the prince? Virtue ought to resolve itself into habits, that no good action should be matter of effort, and that if reduced to the alternative of saving all by a crime, or of losing all by acting honourably, his part should be at once taken, and his heart know no struggle between his duty and his inclination."*

A man whose mind is imbued with principles such as these is well calculated to sustain any part in which he may be called upon to act. Sully, who had been thus compelled to turn his attention to the art of war, soon found ample exercise for the display of his military talents. France was at this time ravaged by three or four armies, and over-run by a brutal soldiery, to whom all property was lawful prize. Parties both in church and state were struggling with ferocious violence and with doubtful success. Every quarter of the kingdom was embroiled with intestine divisions, and lay open to all the excesses which follow in the train of treason and anarchy. Sully distinguished himself by his prudence and bravery in various encounters under the young King of Navarre, and in the year 1580, he was rewarded-for some signal service which he had performed-by the post of counsellor of Navarre, and chamberlain in ordinary, with a salary of two thousand livres-about 1004. sterling-the highest income annexed to any appointment at that time; and he was then only in his nineteenth year.

Three years afterwards, the young King of Navarre having much at heart to disconcert the measures of the League, Sully was charged to repair to the court of France, in order that-residing on the spot-he might make himself acquainted with whatever was going on, and by his information from time to

time, be enabled to countermine its projects.

The prudence, sagacity, and address by which Sully was distinguished, admirably qualified him for this secret mission. He was much in favour wich persons of leading influence in both sects. His religious tenets were known, but his heresy was forgiven in favour of his free and tolerant spirit. Wherever he found acts of virtue and beneficence, he never felt inclined to arraign the creed of their author. To be a Catholic was with him no ground of offence. He fought, it is true, by the side of a Protestant prince; but he warred as a soldier against political oppression, and not, as a polemic, against freedom of opinion.

The league-whose movements he was now entrusted to watch-was a conspiracy entered into about this period, against Henry III., who had succeeded to the throne on the death of his brother, Charles IX. It was necessary to cover the designs of the confederates with the veil of sanctity, and for this purpose a name goes a great way. It was, therefore, termed, preeminently, "La sainte Ligue." It was to be presumed that the object of this Holy Alliance must of course be wise and just, and good. But, unhappily, there is no end of the deception that may be practised under a fair exterior. In reality, it was thus baptized at the font of Despotism, and was founded on principles the most selfish, the most adverse to the welfare of the people, and the most subversive of the ends of justice. It had, in fact, no other object at bottom than to concentrate and to fortify the power of the members that composed it. It was enough, however, that the epithet holy was inscribed upon their banners, and, for the present, it was the task of Sully to watch over and give warning of the treachery that was practising under it.

The Duke of Guise, who aspired to the throne, first projected this league in Paris. He sent a circular among the Parisians whom he had gained over by bribery, containing a scheme for an association to defend religion, the king, and the liberty of the state. Its secret and real purpose, however, being to

oppress the king and the state through the aid and by the influence of the church. The circular was despatched, and subscriptions obtained to it, throughout the chief provinces of the kingdom. The king became alarmed at the body of adherents that were trooping round the projector of this scheme of power, and fearing that he might become its victim, he was himself weak enough to sign the league, and thus to bestow upon it the high sanction of his royal name and authority. He hoped by this step to prevent the Duke of Guise from being chosen as chief of the Catholic party, whereas it placed him in a position full of difficulties, without opening to him even the least correspondent advantage. By thus enrolling himself as a member of this saintly alliance, he mixed himself with a faction that he could neither guide nor govern. This was the natural consequence of that position in which, as a sovereign, he had so unguardedly placed himself. Had he stood aloof to watch its progress he would have done wisely; but reflection came too late. He had put it out of his power to profit by the teachings of experience. His error was irretrievable, and was fraught with consequences fatal to all the future prosperity of his reign. The Catholic leaguers, and the Protestant counter-leaguers, desolated the finest provinces of his kingdom, and brought back all the horrors of civil war.

A circumstance occurred about this time which redounds greatly to the credit of the young King of Navarre. The queen-mother, whose element was intrigue, had not only contrived to embroil the king, her son, with his younger brother, the Duke d'Alençon, but had, likewise, inspired the latter with a strong feeling of hatred against the King of Navarre. During the time that this discord was at its height, the French monarch was taken suddenly ill, and was seized with such an agonizing pain in his ear, that he conceived himself to have been poisoned; and, from the alienation that had been produced between them, his suspicion fell upon his brother, the Duke d'Alençon.*

Impressed with this belief, and imagining that he had not long to live, he sent for the King of Navarre, and telling him that he felt his end drawing nigh, urged him, as soon as he should be dead, to cause Monsieur, the Duke d'Alençon, to be despatched. He assured him, that unless he had recourse to this means of prevention, he would himself perish by the duke's hand. The king's courtiers enforced the wish, and confirmed the suggestion of their royal master; but Henry, who recoiled with horror from the proposition, endeavoured to soften the king's resentment against his brother, and remonstrated with him as well on the dreadful consequences of such an act, as on the absence of all just grounds of suspicion that he had at all contributed to the crisis under which his majesty was then suffering. The exasperated monarch, far from being appeased by this reasoning, urged its consummation without delay, fearful of its failure if deferred till he should be no more; but the decided language in which Henry rejected all thoughts of such a deed, left no hope that he could be prevailed upon to attempt it.

It may seem at first view, that to abstain from the guilt of murder was not an effort which called for any great commendation; and, certainly, under ordinary circumstances it would not deserve to be considered as any meritorious exercise of forbearance. But, in the present instance, we must bear in mind the peculiar situation in which the King of Navarre stood, If Henry III. and his brother, the Duke d'Alençon were removed at this juncture, the throne of France would devolve to him as next in succession. The former was, as it was supposed, on the point of death, and to effect the removal of the latter, it remained only that he should yield to the solicitations of the reigning king, and of the chief officers and favourites of the court who, backed by a strong party of his own, were completely at his devotion, while the king's brother was a prince of but little influence, against whom there was a very general hatred, and who was supported only

by a single adherent, the brave Bussy d'Amboise. At the period we are treating of, when ambition was not very choice in its motives, nor very scrupulous in its means, few princes would have missed so inviting an opportunity. Henry, on the contrary, considered himself as degraded by being supposed capable of availing himself of it. "My ambition," he indignantly replied, "would be rather to rule myself by the dictates of conscience and of honour, than to acquire a crown by such cowardly means. Diadems, acquired by such means, instead of being symbols of glory to those who wear them, are no better than the ensigns of infamy obtained by bandits and thieves."* Such sentiments were by no familiar to the monarchs of that age. Henry III., however, who had despaired of life, gradually recovered; he found, after a time, that he had wrongfully accused his brother; but, nevertheless, so strong was his aversion towards him for having joined the Protestants, that he did not the less wish that his advice had been followed. Being again restored to health, he was beset afresh by the factionaries of the league, while Sully, who was on the spot, did not fail to develop from time to time the aspiring views of its leaders, and to advise his royal master, in secret, as to the measures best fitted to counteract them.

means

The French court was, at this time, the most brilliant, the most dissipated, and the most voluptuous in Europe. The nature of Sully's embassy necessarily threw him into the midst of its attractions, and no sooner had he entered the Hall of Spells, than he was brought to own the power of the enchantress. Love smote him; but the wound though deep was not lasting. The throbbings of his heart appear to have left him the full use of his understanding, and by the aid of reflection, and of La Fond, his valet-dechambre, he was speedily recovered, and began to breathe his eloquence into another ear. But we will take the affair from his own faithful and amusing registry of it." Engaged in this new kind of life, which obliged me, from the very nature of the occupation with

which I was charged, to frequent the court, and to mix in the most brilliant circles of Paris, to share their pleasures, their amusements, and their idleness, and being in the prime and vigour of life, no one will be surprised that I should pay to Love the accustomed tribute. I became desperately enamoured of the daughter of the President de Saint-Mesmin, one of the most beautiful ladies in France. At the outset I gave myself up to a passion of which the first emotions are always so delicious, and when afterwards I wished to combat it by reflecting on the unsuitableness of the alliance, I found that this consideration availed nothing when opposed to the regard which all the family entertained for me-to the friendship of the respectable father-and, more than all, to the charms of a mistress who well deserved to be loved. I should have found it next to impossible to have broken the chain by my own unassisted efforts; but La Fond proposed to me, by way of interlude, to visit Mademoiselle de Courtenay, to whom he was desirous I should turn my attention, as a person in all respects more suitable for me.

"Being one day at Nogent-surSeine, I put up at an inn in that town, having with me this same La Fond and a few other persons. It happened, singularly enough, that chance had conducted Mademoiselle Saint Mesmin and Mademoiselle de Courtenay to the same place. This circumstance I learnt the moment I alighted. This was a most delicate conjuncture, and I judged that it would be impossible to extricate myself without breaking for ever with the younger lady of the two which I should refuse to address the first and pay my first attentions to. There is no artifice, no management by which, in a juncture like this, you can content two women at the same time. Mademoiselle de Saint-Mesmin's youngest sister, coming down stairs at this moment, found me in a revery, like a man who is seeking to reconcile love and reason. She perceived it, and my embarrassment giving ample scope to her vivacity, she was about to draw me to her sister's feet, when La Fond approaching, whispered in my ear-Turn to the right, Monsieur; you will find there