Being dead, the Spanish chiefs appointed some gentlemen to carry him to a church, where solemn service was chanted over him for two days. His followers then carried his body into his native country of Dauphiné; the highest military honours being paid to his remains as they passed through the duchy of Savoy. We are told that in Dauphiné the mourning which took place at the announcement of his death exceeded the powers of description; and it was confidently said, that for a thousand years before there had not died a gentleman so lamented by all ranks and orders of the people. The body was escorted from church to church along the road by a numerous procession, and was at length interred in the monastery of Mynims, about half a league from Grenoble, amidst the tears and lamentations of the entire population of the neighbourhood; and so great and passionate was their grief, that 'all fêtes, dances, banquets, and other pastimes, ceased.' Good reason, thinks the chronicler, they had for their regret, 'for a heavier loss could not have happened to that country.?

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By way of conclusion, we will cite some sentences from the eulogy of Bayard's loyal serviteur, as rendered in Mr Kindersley's condensed translation of the good knight's memoirs. To enumerate the virtues of the good knight,' says he, 'would be superfluous. All things pass away but the love of God. Suffice it then to say, that he loved and feared God above all things; he never swore or blasphemed; and in all his affairs and necessities he ever had recourse to Him.. He loved his neighbour as himself, and never possessed a crown but it was at the service of the first who needed it. He was a great alms-giver, and gave his alms in secret; he succoured widows in distress; and during his life, had given in marriage a hundred poor orphan-girls, gentlefolks, and others. If a gentleman under his command was dismounted, he remounted him, and in a manner not to offend his delicacy, often exchanging a Spanish charger worth 200 or 300 crowns for a nag worth but six, and giving the gentleman to understand that the latter was just the horse to suit himself; so graciously did he confer his gifts. He was a sorry flatterer; and never swerved from speaking truth were it to the greatest of princes. He looked with contempt upon this world's wealth, and was at his death no richer than at his birth. In war, none excelled him; in conduct, he was a Fabius Maximus; in enterprise, a Coriolanus; and in courage and magnanimity, a second Hector. Dreadful to the enemy; gentle and courteous to his friends. Three qualities marked him for a perfect soldier: he was a greyhound in attack, a wild boar in defence, and a wolf in retreat. In short, it would take a good orator his life to recount his virtues.'

This, then, is the 'pleasant and refreshing history' of Bayard, the 'good knight without fear and without reproach,' as complete as we are able to relate it within the present limits. It is the history of a life of brave and magnanimous activity, under a

form now obsolete, but which is, nevertheless, in the spirit of it still true and beautiful. Courage, heroic daring, and self-devotion to ends extraneous to himself, are emphatically exemplified from the beginning to the end of his career. His story, likewise, affords us some interesting glimpses of the 'image and body' of a time which ordinary history has but indifferently represented. We see in it, in some sort, how a man of noble instincts was furthered, straightened, and circumstantially equipped for living and acting in a way that was then considered noble. Extrinsically a soldier of fortune, fighting and skirmishing for his pay, Bayard was yet intrinsically a man of chivalrous and lofty spirit; and in the wild element in which he acted and endured, he performed the work before him in a manner worthy of admiration. Loyal, faithful, and persevering in whatsoever he undertook; unflinching in danger, merciful in conquest, and of an unbounded liberality in the dispensation of what befell to him by favour and chance of fortune, his conduct and character are marked by all the qualities of greatness, beauty, and disinterestedness, which are the signs and credentials of the hero; and as such, the world has not inconsiderately accepted him, and deemed his memory deserving of a lasting preservation.

HERE never was a more charming, quaint, old-fashioned garden, or a more simple and excellent old-fashioned gentleman, the owner of it, than was to be found within the limits of Deepdean Vale. It was a spot where the devotee of bygones' might rhapsodise, and which the urbane and silver-haired squire delighted to expatiate on, for next to Dorothy, his only child, this old-fashioned gentleman dearly loved his old-fashioned garden, and, it must be confessed, both were delightful in their way.

Mr Cheyne himself, in point of universal benevolence, philanthropy, and unaffected courtesy, greatly resembled the No. 51.

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notable Sir Roger de Coverley; his politeness arose from real kindliness of heart, and his gentleness of demeanour from simplicity of character and real piety; although a constitutional tendency to inactivity, and a dislike to innovation and all 'new-fangled ways,' assisted to produce a certain apathetic repose, redeemed from slothfulness only by genuine good-nature. Mr Cheyne was a widower, and his young daughter had had the misfortune to lose her mother just when she was beginning to need most a mother's care and counsel. The squire had married late in life, Dorothy was the child of his old age, and the fair delicate girl so nearly resembled her deceased parent, that many a time and oft the tears coursed each other down the bereaved husband's furrowed cheeks, as he gazed on this sole treasure left to solace his declining years. The pleasant inheritance which had descended to Mr Cheyne from father to son in a long unbroken line, from various causes had been of late years much impoverished and diminished; though it still afforded an income amply sufficient for all the moderate wants of one who found in his garden, his devotions, and the perusal of Evelyn's works, a full source of quiet and healthful recreation, comfort, and enjoyment. The estate, indeed, was known to be much embarrassed; and it is probable that both Mr Cheyne and his fair daughter would have been suffered to vegetate in obscurity, unnoticed and uncourted by their more affluent neighbours, had not Dorothy's reputation as her maternal uncle's heiress secured for them a degree of attention which these primitive, contented, humble souls were far from desiring. Dorothy inherited from her parents an affectionate heart and a love of quiet, which had reconciled her to a life of seclusion, and inspired a dread of city crowds: indeed, her father's favourite quotation

'God the first garden made-and the first city, Cain,' she had learned to repeat with infinite gusto.

Deepdean, Mr Cheyne's dwelling, resembled more an enlarged rustic cottage than a substantial family mansion; yet it was substantial, and was capable of affording accommodation for a family, with a retinue of retainers more numerous than were to be found in the present proprietor's time. Grape-vines overspread it, roses and woodbine climbed to the eaves, or twisted knots of flowers round the casements; as to the material it was composed of, whether stone, brick, or wood, it was impossible to discern, there not being a single speck uncovered with festooning greenery. It was extremely irregular in form, huge chimneyed and gabled; and it stood in the midst of the smiling antique garden like a great summer-bower, always green, always fresh and sunny, even in mid-winter. But the Deepdean garden-the delicious quaint old garden-what words may describe or do justice to it? There were gray walls lined with apricots and plums, and straggling vines and luscious sun-burned peaches, with walks between close

laurel-hedges, and beds of flowers bordered round with miniature hedges of box; here were spiked-lavender, pinks, stocks, and clove-carnations; fruit-trees, trained espalier fashion, dropping their ripened burdens on the paths; and out-of-the-way odd corners, filled with every herb the hygieist desires. There were holly-bushes, clipped into extravagant shapes of nondescript creatures; patches of level emerald green-sward, turf softer than velvet, finer and richer; formal terraces, statues and fountains, old spreading chestnut-trees, bee-hives, sun-dials, and a pleasant fruit-bearing ravine, celebrated in the valley for its productiveness. The place had been laid out in obsolete taste by some old-fashioned proprietor long, long ago; and so it had been left, for the sake of association, or, it might be, idleness, or in the spirit of veneration for primitive perfection, which dwellers in secluded spots are prone to nurse. And none ever carried this veneration to a greater extent than did Mr Cheyne: he might have passed for an embodiment of the antique genius presiding over the solitary green vale of Deepdean, haunting the garden, and hiding in the green bowery dwelling. Nor was Dorothy an unapt illustration of one of those shadowy forms with which the ancients loved to people sylvan solitudes; and the slight pale girl, gliding at twilight hour among the fountains and flowers, or when the moon arose in solemn glory, bathing every object in mystic light, might have seemed a spiritual creation, till her merry laugh dispelled the illusion; for Dorothy was of the earth, earthy, with faults as plentiful as those of any of Eve's fair daughters, although her doting sire accounted her as near perfection as the old garden, and that could not by possibility be improved.

Tenderly and truly the young Dorothy returned all this lavish affection: she often felt it would be impossible for her to leave this fond father and this dear home; and this feeling was strangely dominant, accompanied by tell-tale blushes, whenever a certain youth, named Francis Capel-second son of a wealthy baronet, their nearest neighbour-came to Deepdean; and he came pretty often, too, being an ardent admirer of Evelyn, of the old garden, and of Dorothy-which last circumstance was viewed complacently by Mr Cheyne, as Francis was a fine, generous, good fellow, and a son-in-law after the squire's own heart. It seemed, indeed, as if the course of true love, in this particular case, was destined to run smooth: Sir John Capel viewing his son's attachment with approving eyes, for although Mr Cheyne's affairs were not in a flourishing condition, Dorothy was her Uncle Hardinge's presumed heiress, and Francis, as a second son, inherited only a few thousands in right of his deceased mother. The young folks had plenty of time before them they were both children yet, said Sir John Capel-and although there was no positive engagement between them, it seemed an understood thing that sweet Dolly Cheyne and gallant