In short, Molière had to suffer the most dangerous vengeance of an ill-directed zeal.

men of all ranks in life, that of wishing to appear greater than they really are. His awkward attempts at imitating the manners of the class above him, with which he is desirous of identifying himself, are admirably contrasted with the cool easy assurance of the swindling nobleman, who feeds upon his vanity and laughs at his simple credulity. Perhaps the courtiers who were sparing in their applause might have been well enough contented with the ridicule thrown upon the aspiring citizen; but they could not be completely at ease under the keen satire directed against their own circle, by such a representation of one of its exclusive members. The voice of the public speedily prevailed against them. The plain good sense of Madame Jourdain, the ingenuous shrewdness of Nicole, the noble frankness of Cleonte, and the burlesque vanity of the different masters of arts and sciences, produced an irresistible effect, and confirmed the reputation of the piece.

Some dignified prelates of the Church, and among others the legate of the pope, after having heard it read fairly through, rendered it the justice which their less enlightened subordinates had refused; and the king gave a verbal permission to Molière to produce it before the public. It was received by the Parisian audience with loud and universal applause; yet, such was still the influence of the zealots who had from the first arrayed themselves against it, that, on the morrow, a fresh order from his majesty forbade the repetition. At the time Louis gave this order he was in the camp near Lisle; and thither the disappointed manager despatched two actors of his company, with a memorial representing the hardship of his case. In this document, after apologizing for his temerity in importuning so great a monarch in the midst of his conquests, he states that he had in vain endeavoured to appease his critics, by giving the play the title of the "Impostor," dressed the hero in the habiliments of a man of fashion, and retrenched with care what-his history. He had lately produced his "Malade ever he deemed capable of giving a shadow of pretence for blame to the originals whom he had satirized. "The cabal," he adds, "has been too strong for me;" and he threw himself upon his majesty's protection, with a dexterous compliment on the glories of his recent campaigns.

It was not, however, until the following year that permission was granted for restoring this piece to the stage. It re-appeared at Paris on the 5th of February 1669, and has ever been honoured with deserved applause.

6

The circumstances connected with the death of Molière form by no means the least curious portion of

Imaginaire," a piece in which he not only ridiculed the professors of medicine, but attacked the art itself. Though labouring under a severe attack of the chest, he sustained the character of "Monsieur Pourgon," the imaginary invalid, and excited peals of laughter at fancied illness, while he was suffering cruelly from that which was too real. During the concluding scene, in which "Monsieur Pourgon" is received as a member of the faculty, while pronouncing the word

Jure," the actor was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which he in vain endeavoured to disguise from the audience under an affected laugh. He was conveyed home, where his cough increased so much, that it was followed by a vomiting of blood which suffocated him.

He thus expired without an opportunity of receiving the sacrament, or even of making the formal renunciation of his profession, which was essential to entitle him to Christian burial. The king, deeply

That the king, in taking part against it, had been prevailed upon to act against his better judgment, appears by the following anecdote: "A few days after 'Le Tartuffe' had been prohibited, a piece was represented before the court, entitled Scaramouche Hermite,' which made free with the most sacred matters. I should like to know,' said Louis, why the men who are so much scandalized at Molière's play, say nothing against what we have just been listen-affected at the loss of this distinguished man, and ing to. The reason is,' replied the prince to whom the remark was made, 'that the Scaramouche only makes sport of heaven and religion, about which these gentlemen care nothing; but Molière's comedy shows off themselves, and that they can by no means endure."" "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme," by which Molière is almost as much distinguished as by "Le Tartuffe," again connects his name with that of his patron. The court received it with very little favour, and treated it as a piece of which the only merit was to excite a laugh; but Louis consoled the disappointed author, and declared that time would fully establish its just value. Such a prediction was highly creditable to the judgment which suggested it, and was speedily confirmed by the event.

The piece, though disgraced in some degree by the too farcical nature of its conclusion, abounds with admirable touches of nature. The character of Monsieur Jourdain is marked by an absurdity common to

willing to give, even after death, a fresh mark of the esteem in which he had always held him, used his personal influence with the archbishop of Paris to surmount the illiberal objection. The prelate, after a strict inquiry into the life of the deceased, gave permission for his interment in the church of Saint Joseph; but the mob, less tolerant in their ignorance, and probably excited by some of the inferior clergy, assembled in great numbers, and showed a disposition to prevent the progress of the corpse. Their barbarous intention was only prevented by the address of the widow, who caused money to be thrown among them, and thus purchased their forbearance.

The few facts thus thrown together are not without interest. The fame of Molière will live while the French language shall endure; and the monarch under whose auspices he ran his brilliant career derives credit from his appreciation of his genius, and the protection he afforded him.

"Ah! you know the author of the report, do you, . His next occupation was intensely uncongenial. my friend the prime minister?" exclaimed Mr. Calling for Mr. D'Aaroni at his club, the two sought D'Aaroni, in an under tone of voice, as that gentle- the gallant Colonel Flint, at his usual dining hour, at man retired in a very uneasy and hurried manner, "I" The United Service," where that individual was wonder if you have helped it on any where ?-not asserted it, but not denied it? I can't tell you how vastly friendly he has been during your absence with the Cliftons. What are you doing, Sumner? What is the matter?"

'No-nothing-nothing whatever," he replied, rapidly collecting himself; "My journey has knocked me up. I have not slept more than six or seven hours altogether for the last four nights. I shall leave you with the conscript fathers."

He returned to Hyde Park Gardens on foot; it gave him time to reflect and resolve.

surprised devouring his rations. The interview was as unsatisfactory as had been surmised. He stuck to his slander. His exasperation against Sumner on account of the half-choking he had undergone at his hands, had experienced not the smallest alleviation during the three weeks that had since clapsed. He all but foamed at the mouth, and at one part of the interview had raised his cane with the intention of making a "meeting" inevitable; when it was instantly taken from his hand by Mr. D'Aaroni; who, regardless of his impotent rage, detained it for a second or two, and then handed it to him, informing him in a perfectly courteous, but extremely decided manner, that if he renewed an attack of that sort he would take the liberty of handing him over to the guardianship of a policeman.

The two then left him to digest his dinner and an impending action for defamation.

As yet he had neither office, power, fame, nor influence. He was treading on the threshold of all. That was shrewdly enough perceived by the rising sun worshippers. The ill reports were not therefore suited for immediate active use, rather they were reserved as a useful stock in hand in case of failure.

His first call on the following morning was at Clifton House. The family were out of town! They were at Windlebourne Castle. This disappointment afflicted him in an altogether disproportionate manner, considering that he was going on the following day to within an easy ride of where the Cliftons were at present sojourning. He had now an hour or two on That evening Sumner took the oaths and his seat hand, and was sauntering leisurely down- Street, in the House. On retiring to rest for the night-the when sounds of solemn music fell upon his ear from last he was to spend in London for some time--he an adjoining church. Strange was the sensation they felt convinced that his few weeks' absence had been kindled within him. An impulse which admitted of by some means employed to his disadvantage. He no hesitation urged him on the instant to enter the had scarcely received one cordial greeting. He met sacred building. The garish light of day entered not with nothing but distant reserve-polished formality. here, but, melted into solemn twilight by the brightly Those even whom he had fancied were his friends painted glass through which it streamed, contributed its addressed him as though not only their friendship, but share to the devotion of the worshippers. The first-even their acquaintance was retained under protest. nay, the only sight that riveted his gaze on entering and until he re-emerged into the world, was a representation over the richly decorated altar in the central compartment of the cast window, of that event around which universal history, past, present, and to come, revolves,—a scene of abasement and suffering surpassing the powers of human comprehension. A congregation more devout than numerous were chanting the psalms of the day. The manner of the officiating minister was earnest; not less devout was the manner of the congregation. It was an earnestness only recognisable by its powerful effect on the feelings. A surpliced choir of boys led the chant, and, as their clear voices, joined by the deeper tones of the congregation, swelled upwards before the altar-throne, Harry Sumner was almost carried out of himself. There was a severe and stately sublimity in the music of the chant that bowed him down with awe. Most strange, most mighty, were the effects they produced within him; he was deeply humbled; he felt himself to be infinitely depressed beneath the meanest of those adoring worshippers. It was a scene which he could only gaze upon with admiring wonder. He did not feel privileged to join them. How mean seemed for the moment all the cares he had left outside the church; how sublime all that was transpiring within! This was the first time religion had ever come before him in a tangible shape, and he felt it to be a shape as glorious as it was suggestive.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"Her own price

Proclaims how she esteemed him and his virtue;
By her election may be truly read,
What kind of man he is."

Cymbeline, Act i. Sc. 1.

Ir was a bright warm May day when Harry Summer left the metropolis. He had much to engage his thoughts. The swift straight motion of the machine that was hurling him homeward left him to his reflections, wholly undistracted by external objects. His brother-in-law's manner, to the peculiarity of which Mr. D'Aaroni's commentary, spoken in his bitterest tone, had drawn his attention, became to him a subject of anxious speculation. He could imagine no possible motive Mr. Perigord should have for poisoning the minds of the Cliftons against him: besides, although he confessed he was not able to like or admire his relative, he did not believe him capable of an underhand proceeding. He could not doubt, however, but that all the injurious reports of which he had been the victim, to one of which-and therefore the

most dreaded he was unable to plead "not guilty," | sound of the approaching carriage, and then the wellmust have reached the ears of the Cliftons. He trusted known lifting of the gate-latch. The very shutting-to much to the character of both sister and brother. He of the gate she recognised; and then the dear foothad formed a most exalted estimate of both of them; steps through the avenue of early roses and clematis. and he laboured to convince himself that neither the "It is! it is!" she repeated; and gently disengaging one nor the other would be influenced by rumours, herself from her mother, she tripped joyously to meet however plausible. He could not, however, divest the welcome comer. How ardently she embraced him! himself of heart-harrowing misgivings. How repeatedly she saluted her brother's cheeks and forehead! She had not accents at command; she could only relieve her joy by gestures. Mrs. Sumner remained knitting upon her seat under the elm.

When he reached the last station, Bribeworth was still distant above twenty miles. He found his sister's carriage waiting for him; and, stepping into it, proceeded rapidly on his journey, which lay through a country full of varied and romantic scenery. Sumner could not, even then, be insensible to its beauties. He was a passionate lover of nature; merely to exist amidst green trees and green fields was happiness to him and it was with the keenest emotions of pleasure that he suffered his imagination to wander up the wood's deep shadows, or follow the rippling stream along its course; yet still one object was continually present to his mind: it was the interior of that church in which he had so recently been a spectator, not a worshipper.

:

"Where is my dear mother?" inquired her son, half suspecting that she was performing some frolic of concealment.

"There she sits!" said Lucy, pointing to the seat. Sumner immediately hurried to her, and throwing his arms round her neck, sought to atone in some degree for the cruel silence of the late few weeks by the heartiness of his embrace. Mrs. Sumner did not return his affection, but coldly offering him her cheek, remarked, in a dubious tone of voice,

"So! you have not quite and entirely cast off your old mother, Harry?"

"Oh, dear mamma! pray do not begin to scold now!" interposed Lucy.

"Did you judge of me by yourself, Harry; and suppose I did not care to hear whether you were alive or dead?”

"Oh, mamma! mamma! Do not, I beseech you!" supplicated Lucy.

"There is too much reason in it, Lucy," said her brother. "I will explain it all to you some day. I only implore you, dearest mother, to forgive me now." And, as he again embraced her as he spoke, the good lady felt a scalding drop upon her cheek-she knew not whence it fell.

Lucy was with her mother at the cottage when the carriage conveyed him thither. The sun had set when he arrived; the moon was high up in a cloudless heaven; gentle twilight breathed rest and peace. The distinctness with which particular sounds could be distinguished, which were all blended with multitudes of others in the confused tumult of day, added to, rather than diminished, the lulling influence of stili night-fall. From a distance of three miles could be clearly heard the roar of the ocean as it chafed upon a granite beach, each retiring billow drawing after it, with a hoarse rattling sound, miles of huge boulders. The baying of dogs, the shouts of children, echoed from the town hard by; and one other sound, which now arrested Sumner's attention in an unwonted manner, came thrilling through the still clear atmosphere from the church tower with a solemn, and, as it seemed to him, a supernatural sound. Nearer at hand, a bird here and there, fluttering as if restlessly from one branch or tree to another, a solitary chirp, as from a feathered dreamer, increased by contrast the deepening stillness of the evening hour. Even the fragrance of flowers, which appear to shrink from the tainted breath of day, steals abroad at eve. Nature seems to reserve her richest and most delicately scented incense for her hours of repose. And when Harry Sumner let himself in at the old garden gate, a burst of scent of richest fragrance from the well-garden." known bed of lilies of the valley was his first welcome to his most dear home.

Mrs. Sumner was seated under the old elm, knitting, as had been her wont for years. Lucy was sitting at her mother's side, encircling her waist with her arm. She was striving to distract and amuse the anxiety of expectation, which she well knew her mother was experiencing.

"There he is!" rang from her lips through the still evening air, in tones of silvery clearness, as she heard the

"Forgive you, my boy!" she exclaimed, and the contents of the letter she had received rushed across her memory. "Nay, what should I forgive? Come in, Harry, let us hear your adventures. Well, you are returned. God be praised!"

There was not much intermission in the conversation that evening. At ten o'clock Mrs. Sumner invariably retired to her closet for half an hour. She had scarcely left the room according to her never broken custom, before Sumner besought his sister to relieve his anxiety on a subject about which his heart was almost bursting for information.

"If you are not afraid of the night, Lucy, put on your shawl and bonnet, and walk with me in the

There, then, on that still May evening, as they had been wont to do in days long past, sauntered blissfully that brother and that sister. Sumner's arm was thrown around her as they walked, her light hand rested fondly on his shoulder. Above them were the moon and the stars-around them the breath of flowers-beneath them the velvet turf, glittering with the pale and moving lamps of the glow-worms.

"Her manner has perplexed me," said Lucy; "I feel so sure she loves you-yet, if she does, her self