carefully bought up by the Duke of Chatillon, his Governor, and Boyer, Bishop of Mirepoix. He was deeply devout and conscientious, and by no means wanting in spirit or intelligence; but his father had been jealous of him ever since he came to man's estate, and repressed him by every possible means. While Madame de Pompadour hated him as much as her easy good nature could hate any one.

He was almost a boy when he was married to the Spanish Infanta, and had by no means shaken off the first grief for her loss, when in scarcely a year's time he was compelled to marry Marie Josephe of Saxony, the daughter of Augustus II., King of Poland and Elector of Saxony, half-brother thus to the great Marshal Maurice.

It was bitter grief to the poor Prince, and the first time the pair were alone together, the associations of the past so overcame him that he could not restrain a flood of sobs and tears; but his bride showed herself neither vexed nor mortified. 'Weep freely, sir,' she said; I only see how much I may hope to be loved.'

As she was the daughter of the King of Poland, who had dispossessed the father of the Queen, it was feared that there might be awkwardness between them, but the tact of the bride prepared for this, and when the Queen desired to look at the miniature on her bracelet, it proved to be the portrait, not of the actual, but the former King of Poland, and tender words passed between the mother and daughter-in-law, who were thenceforth warmly attached to one another. The Dauphin and his wife lived in the most perfect concord and affection, and were deeply religious and conscientious, chiefly under Jesuit influence. They made an almost sacred oasis in the desert of evil in the Court, and while the Dauphin and his wife sat peacefully with the Queen, the King was amused with all the devices that could tempt the taste which became more and more degraded.

The Princesses proved to have been left almost uneducated, and it was their brother who had actually taught them all that they knew. In the morning the King used to go down by a private stair to the apartment of his eldest daughter, Madame Adelaide, generally drinking with her the coffee that he liked to make with his own hands. When she heard him coming, Madame Adelaide rang a bell, which summoned the next sister, Madame Victoire, who, on her side, rang for Madame Sophie,

and lastly poor little Madame Louise, who was very small and somewhat deformed, had to make what speed she could along the huge length of the great apartments to receive her father's kiss before he went out hunting. The sisters generally sat together, working tapestry, with a lady to read to them; but at six o'clock there was a ceremony called 'le débotter du roi. Each Princess put on, over her deshabille, a monstrous hoop covered by a rich embroidered skirt of brocade, a long train, and a mantle up to the neck, then sailed off, attended by pages, equerries, chevaliers d'honneur, and flambeaux, to the King's apartments, where he gave each a kiss on the forehead, after which they all went back, untied their finery, and sat down to their work in a quarter of an hour's space.

The Duke of Orleans had always been a devout man, and he resigned all his estates to his son, only retaining a yearly income, which he spent in charity, boarding himself with a single servant with the fathers of St. Geneviève, noted Jansenists, and studying Greek, Hebrew, Chaldean, and Syriac, in order to a better understanding of Holy Scripture. He founded a professorship of Hebrew at the Sorbonne, in order, as he said, that the heretics might not be the only students of the Bible in the original languages. He was an intense admirer of St. Thomas Aquinas, but such was the enmity of the Jesuits to the Jansenists that the Curé of St. Etienne refused to come to administer to him the last Sacraments; but as he was in full communion with the Church, he received them from his own Almoner, and forbade any proceedings against the curate. He died in 1752 and was succeeded by his son, whose home was made wretched by the misconduct of his wife, a daughter of the house of Bourbon Conti, now thoroughly corrupt.

That same year, the Dauphin had the small-pox, and was so admirably attended by his wife that one of the doctors said to her, 'You are the best nurse I ever saw in my life; pray tell me your name, my dear.'

A few months previously had died the heir of England, Frederick, Prince of Wales, on the 20th of March, 1751. He was a man whom few had loved or respected, though how far his faults were owing to his education and the unkindness of his parents, cannot be known. His wife Augusta, a wise and good woman, loved him dearly. She attended him to the last through his attack of pleurisy, would not for two hours believe that he was dead, and after being persuaded to lie down for two hours, rose

again to look over his papers and burn what might do harm to his memory.

She had eight children, the youngest born two months later. The eldest son, George, was only twelve years old. She brought her family up admirably, and avoided all party spirit, won the esteem and affection of the King, and truly this quiet undemonstrative woman is one to whom England owes much in the higher, purer tone which began in her household.

PRO AVIBUS.

[In the Sunday Magazine' Mr. Waugh says that humming-birds are skinned alive, that their plumage may be the more brilliant for the wear of women of fashion.]

GLAD in their love-time, full of dear delight

In wee, soft nestlings and all cradle-joys,

Round murmuring boughs leaf-shadowed, free from noise And walk of men, flashed gleams of colour bright. A ray of splendour, in the infinite height

Of sapphire seas of air, they swam; nor knew The eyes of greed had marked their flashing hue, And ruthless Fashion claimed them as her right.

While yet they live and quiver with the pain,
The feathered glory of their skins is torn
From bleeding forms. Women know best to be
Loving and merciful. Can they disdain

The birds' sad plaint! They dream not that to adorn
Themselves God's darlings die in agony.

HAROLD PILKINGTON TURNER.

IN AN ORCHARD.

BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

SPRING-TIME.

It was only May, but there was everywhere the warmth of July; the elms not being in full leafage, afforded less shade along the road to temper this heat than there would be later in the year; white and yellow butterflies seemed to enjoy it, and Charlot Marie stopped at the cemetery gate, and watched them hovering over the honeysuckle blossoms, while he wiped his forehead with a smart silk handkerchief. Charlot was a tall, burly, fair-haired fellow, who looked like a man, though he was only nineteen; he had a plentiful crop of downy beard and moustaches, and large, rather prominent blue eyes, half veiled by singularly drooping eyelids; he looked sweet-natured and placid, and yet there was a wistful expression in his eyes.

Charlot had had a tiring walk up the steep hill on which stands the cemetery of Côme, but he had not come to see that; he gave another glance at the butterflies, and then bending forward again, he went on climbing the hill till he was past the tall row of elms that bordered the cemetery and divided it from an apple orchard. He had only left Paris two days before, and this was his first sight of the orchard in its lovely spring array; at first his eyes were literally dazzled by the delicate wealth of pink and white blossoms, shadowed here and there by tenderest grey, showing now and again a bit of gnarled, rough barked branch painted with green and gold and silver, as if it had tried to disguise its ancient aspect, because of the youthful loveliness in which it found itself enveloped.

The orchard was on the left, and was divided from the road by a green bank; the thick grass below the trees looked invitingly fresh and cool to tired feet which had been plodding up the dusty road. Above this tender green the old trees bore their rosy cloud of blossom, and over this, seen through the close growing elms aforesaid, was the wide blue sea; a few white houses and the Church tower making the advanced guard to the little town of Côme which lay hidden below in the valley.

Charlot sighed with pleasure as he stood looking at the sea; it was worth while, he told himself, to be all those months away in Paris, where, ever since he left college, he had been studying medicine, because it made him appreciate the beauty of Come when he came back to it. For a moment he wished he had been less ambitious, perhaps he could have found a position in his native place, though he had no taste for his father's business; but it was too late now, he thought, besides, he had made up his mind to be a doctor, and certainly there was no possibility of being a doctor in Côme.

The young fellow's white jean coat and trousers suited well with the scene as he took off his straw hat, and stood leaning against one of the old grey apple trunks, with an expectant look in his eyes, turned towards the road. Everything was still, for the white and rosy petals fell without sound on the grass; once or twice there came from some taller grass within the cemetery, through the thick hedge at the foot of the elm-trees, the metallic chirp of a grasshopper, but it was too far off to disturb the silence of the place.

Presently there came up the hill a far-off sweet sound of singing, singing in a high treble voice that might belong either to a boy or to a woman. As the sounds came nearer, all trace of sadness vanished from Charlot's blue eyes, he looked both glad and eager; then he gave a hasty glance round him in search of an apple-trunk large enough for a hiding-place.

The singer was now so near that the words of her refrain sounded distinctly

'Miraton-ton-ton, Mirataine-e.'

Charlot climbed quickly up the trunk of a large apple-tree near him, to the disfigurement of his white jean apparel, causing a plenteous shower of rose-tinted petals to fall slowly on the yellow grass below, for its fresh green was thickly pied with dandelion flowers.

VOL. 85 (V.-NEW SERIES).

31

NO. 506.