of the beau-père and trousseau, but also it gives an excellent opportunity of sending round the begging-bag for the good of the church. Joy or sorrow are wont to open the heart, and consequently births, deaths, and marriages, are quite as interesting to the priests as to the most fashionable lady of idle town life who reads the papers for nothing else.

The higher the rank of a Parisian virgin the less chance she has of saying a word for herself on the subject of marriage. Were it a match against time, a steeple-chase, or sweepstakes, it would be deemed as ridiculous to consult the dumb brute as to question the high-bred demoiselle whose match was decided on.

There is in Paris a huge convent, which, with its farm, its dairy, and dependences, forms a world within itself; its name is Sacré-cœur. Here it is that all the high-born of the land are educated. They may call it "convent," or "boarding-school," or what they will, but it is, in fact, neither more nor less than the marriage Tattersall's of Paris, where all the great matches are made. There is a jockey-club of priests (forbidden to marry) of nuns (vowed to virginity) of a Lady Abbess and Lord Bishop, of superiors, directors, mammas, and relative feminine, who lay their heads together, and form a quorum to pronounce the fiat of matrimony upon-alas! but too-too often, the resistless victim to their holy consultations.

Sacré-cœur is a sad misnomer, for within its walls a less sacred, or more worldly traffic in marriage there cannot exist; and, as to heart, it never enters into the bargain. Sacré-cœur is, in plain English, the school for marriage,-sometimes, too, the school for scandal! Be the fault or poison where it may, the fact is notorious, that few of the marriages contracted there have either a happy or a holy ending, the ladies, nearly one and all, contrive to deviate from the straight and loyal path of married life; nay, more than this, wanting in

"That wild sweet briary fence,"

which Tommy Moore tells us is the safeguard of Erin, elopements have come to pass in spite of guardian dogs, high walls, locks, bolts, and bars, with surveillance of watchful eyes. In defiance of all these, Love has more than once found that

"The garden's so carelessly kept, after all."

He could carry his point to the horror and scandal of abbess, nuns, and bachelor priesthood. Not many years since a Spanish Princess, of the blood-royal, escaped by the aid of a Pole-and her case was by no means the first on record.

To return to our pretty moutons; not long ago, amidst the herd of beauty rearing for the course of marriage, was one of the sweetest fillies that ever stepped the tapis vert of Versailles, or trod upon Mother Earth. Her name was Julie St. Germain; she was heir to considerable fortune, her family was good, if not of the highest nobility. She was gentle, amiable, and beloved by all around her. If neither strictly handsome, nor positively pretty, she had a something which bordered so largely on the two, her charms were indisputable, though it might be hard to describe them. Of that beauty which the French and English agree in ascribing to a small gentleman in black, she had undoubted claims. Julie de St. Germain was yet young in her teens, and the first of spring never looked upon a bud of sweeter promise.

Family interests, and matters of the earth, earthy, rendered it advisable that this gentle gazelle of the convent should be matched for life; it was, therefore, decided to fill up the most fearful page in the life of woman, without appeal to the party chiefly concerned, without consulting her will, her wishes, her esteem, or affections.

There was, forthwith, a spring-meeting of the conventual Jockey-club, each party assembled rich in manœuvres worthy of the turf; for the betting-room of Tattersall never witnessed more cunning and intrigue than is found in that convent of Sacré-cœur. To suit a purpose, or win a match, many a man's fair fame is poisoned behind his back; rugged colts with no boast but pedigree; age cradled in gold, and borne by the crutch; disease, deformity, it matters not what, all in their turn are matched with youth, innocence, and beauty, if thus it please the mighty match-makers of the holy convent.

To discuss poor Julie's destiny there was a full meeting; the stakes were proposed, the odds given and taken, the course to be run disputed and determined, the priests (or black-legs) were busy with their oily tongues; the nuns (or trainers) piously nodded assent, or shook down abuse as it suited their vows: at length the books were made up, and the how, where, and when the match was to come off was definitely fixed. With a splendid trousseau, as the saddle to be worn on her back; with lace and silk for her clothing, Camille and Palmyre for her dressers; with a curb-chain of diamonds, and a bridle of gold, poor Julie was to be led forth amidst heedless and heartless groups to run her course for life!

"

"The course of true love," says the proverb, "never runs smooth;' this is sometimes the case where there is no love in the matter. The Marquis de was the man fixed upon as the husband of Julie. He was many years her senior; bankrupt in fortune, and not over rich in reputation, of course he did not care one rush for the woman he was about to make his wife. He was un homme blasé, and his marriage was un mariage de convenance!

Whether it were the force of example, or effect of early education, or the desire to bound from the trammels of a convent, we know not, but the fact is, the gentle Julie offered no resistance, and she quietly bowed to the decree of becoming Madame la Marquise de

A few weeks sufficed to prepare the trousseau, and never was this sine quá non of a French marriage more ravissant and complete. Were we but learned in laces, we could make many a fair bosom sigh with envy, as we told of the cost and beauty of handkerchiefs, and how the coronet and initials entrelacés were worked in letters more costly than gold. We will not attempt it, for even French superlatives would be at fault; enough to say it was perfection perfected. The day, the hour, all was fixed and arranged, and the mayor of the arrondissement was duly apprised of the coming event.

The morning of that momentous day did not promise much of the happiness said to smile on brides with a cloudless sky. The sun, though not eclipsed, was totally invisible. Dark masses of heavy clouds hung like a pall before his bright face, and instead of dancing rays which gladden earth, torrents of cold continued rain fell like a shower-bath doomed for a giant.

To any one who has known Paris in wet weather it were needless to say that it becomes the very dirtiest of cities. However, wet or dry, clean or dirty, the match was to come off, so all things progressed

as if Heaven had been clothed in the brightest of smiles. In fact, as the hour for starting arrived, there was a change for the better, the shower-bath had discharged its given quantity, and, in homely language, it was only-wet under foot.

Alas! alas! that the wet of Parisian streets should be so redolent of mud! that the pavement and stones should be more greasy than Fleetstreet! more slippery than ice! but so it is. The carriage was at the door, and the bridegroom in waiting, the Marquis was standing by the side of the gentle Julie, looking on his intended wife for the third, or, at most, the sixth time in his life, knowing her as well, and caring for her as much as the man in the moon heeds a daughter of Eve. What of that? the match is to come off, so, with the politeness of the old school, he takes the hand of the fair Julie and leads her to the carriage.

It might have been that poor Julie trembled at the destiny she was about to fulfil; it might have been the grease of the pavement, or the fault of the carriage step, or one or both, or the three united-the sad truth is, that Julie, in attempting to enter the carriage, made a false step, her tiny foot splashed in the gutter, and in so doing, covered the bridegroom's peerless dress with the blackest of muddy water.

"Mon Dieu! comme elle est bête!" muttered the bespattered man, as his lips turned white with rage, and his teeth ground down the resentment he longed, yet dared not, to utter. It was but a moment -a heartless smile, a bow, a something said, soon followed, but it was too late. The inward man had peeped out, Julie had seen it, and her determination was taken.

Once more the Marquis offered the hand which had been splashed away; without uttering a word Julie accepted the proffered assistance with a slight, but very slight, bend of her graceful neck. The second attempt was successful, and without further accident she took her seat in the carriage. There she sat in deep unbroken silence; not a word was spoken as the dashing equipage hurried to the Mairie; in silence she ascended the stairs and stood before the mayor himself. If her cheeks were pale as the budding leaves of the "white, white rose," her air and carriage were not wanting in dignity; if her rounded lips were closed like coral on the ivory beneath, there was a something there which in silence spoke-decision.

It is an old adage which says, "silence gives consent;" and so it seemed in this case. At all events nothing was done to interrupt the ceremony, all things progressed in proper routine, the usual formalities continued without let or hindrance until the mayor addressed Mlle. Julie and asked, "Will you take this man to be your husband?"

"Pas si bête!" was the ready and laconic answer of the gentle Julie, as she revenged the insult offered by one look of indignant contempt. The next moment she turned proudly from the side of the Marquis and left him to his fate.

That fate was not the most enviable upon earth. The clever and spirited retort of the gentle Julie flew like lightning through the salons of Paris. In the clubs, the streets, the drives, and walks, ever and everywhere, pas si bête was quoted in the ear of the deserted Marquis. The laugh was so completely against him. He was, if I may use such free translation of a word untranslatable, he was so universally baited, that he was only too happy to make his escape, and leave the fair Julie to rejoice for once in the mud of dear dirty

Paris.

135

A VISIT TO THE CASTLE OF WARTBURG.

THE "PATMOS" OF LUTHER.

BY H. J. WHITLING.

"Civitas illa adversus reges rebellat, et seditiones et prælia concitantur in ea!"

IN the leafy month of May, I was on my way from Leipzig to Francfort. Between these two points the traveller reaches Eisenach with its old Castle of Wartburg, which from time immemorial has been regarded as the Thuringian pearl. It is full of storied and poetical associations, and then possessed a deeper interest from the circumstance of the severely-tried and noble-hearted Helen, Duchess of Orleans, having taken up her abode there, with the view of seeking in the tranquil valleys of Thuringia that external peace which was so cruelly denied and so terribly disturbed at Paris. The spot was worth a pilgrimage, and I determined to alight and pass a few hours in its interesting vicinity.

It was early morning. How beautiful Eisenach looked in the splendour of the opening day! Already the sun-illumined pinnacles of the ancient castle glittered through the misty vapours which floated over the grey mountain tops. Twilight still lay on the valleys, while the summits of the hills became brighter and brighter and their outlines more defined, till at length the dawn, victorious over the darkness, chased away the shadows and scattered her roses over the wide expanse of heaven. The sun soon rolled gloriously above the horizon. Like sparkling diamonds of the purest water, glanced and glittered the dew-drops on the many-tinted foliage of the trees and clearer green of the fields and meadows, and loud-throated singing birds raised in full choir the cheerful and many-voiced song of a springday jubilee.

Thus the Eilwagen entered Eisenach, and the merry sound of the postilion's horn disturbed the sweet morning dream of many a slumberer. More than one night-capped face might now and then be seen peering with half-opened eyes at the lumbering vehicle as it rattled along the lifeless streets on its way to the Ranten-kranz. Every one who enters such a town shortly after daybreak has, no doubt, felt its extreme apparent loneliness. Houses and shops are all closed and dead-looking, an air of cold and solitary desolation reigns over all,— the thoroughfares are void and dull,-even the market-place gives no sign of life; and though all appears in the bright sunshine adapted to active industry, it is as if one traversed a city of the dead; for, beside his fellow-passengers and the royal postmaster's horses, the traveller meets no living thing. On alighting at the inn I washed and breakfasted off delicious coffee and a battalion of eggs, flanked by a smoked goose-breast, and wandered about the town. It is the capital of the Thuringenwald, and is cheerful-looking, clean, industrious, and therefore thriving. My curiosity having been gratified, and a visit paid to the house where Sebastian Bach first saw the light, I prepared to visit the old Castle of Wartburg.

The Castle is perched on the mountain at whose base lies the town, and is reached in about three-quarters of an hour by a gradually ascend

ing pathway. Tastefully-arranged plantations, shrubs, flowers, and welldisposed forest trees lend their shadow, and ornament the approaches. The prospect widens and improves at every step, and embraces extensive views of varied and attractive beauty. The Wartburg is the (now vacant) state-prison of Weimar, and within its walls is a small garrison of invalids; but a more agreeable and less troublesome appointment than commandant of the Wartburg it is difficult to conceive. An oldfashioned iron cannon grins upon the visitor its uncouth welcome. A sentry in a simple but not tasteless uniform stood by, and learning from him that admission was at all times granted, I presented myself at the gateway and was soon within the walls.

The entrance is by no means imposing. A narrow portal, scarcely high enough to have admitted a rider with crested helmet and upraised lance, leads into the court-yard. In general the edifice is anything but considerable, and, externally, is neither distinguished by breadth, massiveness, nor architectural beauty of any kind. The principal building is long but narrow, only two stories high, and finishes with a somewhat deformed, sharp, and highly-pitched roof of tiles. Turrets and battlements totally fail; but at about thirty feet distance stands a single moderately lofty tower, whose plain-looking pinnacle is reached by an external staircase. The castle-yard, bounded on one side by a tolerably high breast-wall, is roomy, and afforded ample space for the encounters both of minstrel and knight, for which Wartburg has been so justly celebrated. It was here, in 1207, at the court of Herman, Landgrave of Thuringia, then the principal focus of attraction for the literature of his age, that the poetic battle or tournament of Wartburg took place, about which the German antiquaries have written so much.

In one of the buildings, near the entrance, is arranged a wirthshaus, the landlord of which offers to the wayfarer good though simple refreshment. Having recently done justice to an ample breakfast, I had no need of his kindly offices in this way, and therefore proceeded at once to view the principal guest-chamber. Its appearance is quite antique; lined with dark brown oaken wainscoting, carved and panelled; old fashioned niches, and deeply sunk leaden casements; and it stands now in pretty much the same condition as when its ironarmed masters halted for their latest stirrup-cup ere they set forth on their adventures of love or quarrel. The walls are adorned with a row of ancient portraits of the Saxon Electors, looking, for the most part, as grim, hard, and inflexible, as if rudely carved in coloured woods. Much character, however, is to be observed in several of them; amongst others, in that especially of Frederick the Valiant, 1490, in the lines of whose proud and determined features enough may be traced to justify the appellative he bore.

Amongst the curiosities of the Wartburg must be mentioned the small but well-filled ancient armoury. On a wooden charger, as large as life, is a figure of Frederick the Wise, the protector of Luther, in complete armour, as equipped for the tournay. The whole, as well the horse as the rider, is of black steel, entirely covered with ingeniously wrought devices, but somewhat strangely chosen. For instance, on the breastplate of the horse there is the figure of Adam being tempted by Eve, and the Goddess of Justice with Balance and Sword. Another figure is that of Kunz von Kaufungen, a robber knight of gigantic stature, who stole away two of the Saxon princes on the night of the 8th of July, 1455, and who afterwards died at Friberg under the sword of the headsman; the armour is quite sim