pieces. These, so far as I have read them, are worse than such demonstrations of regret generally are. They tell us how Mars, that phoenix of warriors, is dead and nothing but dust and ashes, having been unable, under his harvest of laurels, to protect himself from the thunderbolt. Jupiter with the thunderbolt, of course, is Louis XIII., the King who loved to imitate the contortions of a dying soldier; and who, when his best favourite, Cinq Mars, was executed, regretted only that he was not at hand to witness his last grimace of agony. But the poets chirped their little elegies over the death of their old patron, and then looked about for a new one, finding, some of them, a protector in Richelieu himself.

The estates of the Duke being all confiscated, Chantilly, the noblest residence in France, until Fouquet erected Vaux, went to the Prince de Condé. The Duchess, his widow, spent the remainder of her long life in religious exercises. Gaston she forgave-what was the use of harbouring animosity towards a creature as incapable of regrets or shame as he was devoid of honour and courage? And when Richelieu died, she spent enormous sums in masses for his soul, the only way in which she could express her sense of his crime in compassing her husband's death. She founded a religious house, and endowed it herself expressly for the "daughters of those who had contributed to the death of M. de Montmorenci, in case they wished to quit the world." His death, indeed, was to her the one great crime of the century, a crime capable of blighting the lives even of the children of those who had taken part in it; a crime to be forgiven, indeed, but to be repented in life-long bitterness and tears, and never to be forgotten. As a matter of fact, there were three guilty persons-her husband himself, who by every law of the land had been a rebel, and therefore incurred the penalty of death; the King, whose crime was weakness and blind obedience; and the Cardinal, who desired vehemently the death of every sinner against himself. She never ceased to regret her brave and gallant husband; she never ceased to lament and reproach herself that she had given him no children; and continually praying by the mausoleum she erected to his memory at Moulins, she survived him for upwards of thirty years, having, ten years before her death, taken the veil.

The House of Montmorenci really fell with the head of Henry. It has lingered on, in the numerous branches-to enumerate which requires a volume-to our own days. Some members of the cadet lines have, from time to time, acquired considerable distinction, none of them arrived at real eminence. In 1868, of male descendants, from all the branches, survived only three-the Duke of Luxembourg, and two of the Beaumont-Luxembourg branch. All these were then advanced in age, and not one had a son. The ancient House, therefore, will probably be extinct before many years, and the grand old race become a family of the past.

The Widower's Wooing; or, Caught in a Trap.

A TRUE STORY IN TWO CHAPTERS.

BY MISS S. PORTMAN.

CHAPTER I.

THE owner of Wisbeach Park, in the county of Hertfordshire, was a merchant prince, Joseph Baimbridge by name, and at the time this story commences had been ten years a widower, and a much coveted matrimonial prize, in spite of his grown-up son, standing 6 ft. 2 in. in his stockings.

J. B., as our friend was familiarly termed, though the shrewdest man on 'Change, was, as regards women of all ages, as impressionable as wax. He looked at them through rose-coloured spectacles, and endowed them, even the plainest, with superlative attractions which no other human being had ever yet discovered. With such a character as this, J. B. was an easy prey to any husband-hunter who was looking out for the good things of this world, and was content to take him as he was. This is what he was: a little fat man, nearly as broad as he was long, going on for threescore years, and carrying them gaily enough. He was proud of his hair, and deluged it nightly with haircurling fluid; his little grey eyes twinkled with merriment, and "red as a rose was he." His face, being guiltless of whiskers, gave him a most juvenile appearance, though his person was of aldermanic proportions, and went to prove that "he did himself well" every day of the year.

Until very lately J. B., or Old Joe, had escaped all the man-traps set for him; he was like a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower, to use a poetical simile, and was wont to declare:

"How happy could I be with either,

Were t'other dear charmer away."

He was as slippery as an eel, and could never fix his wandering affections on one, and one only. It was so hard to choose, he averred, they were all so nice; such "pretty dears." This state of things could not last for ever; he suddenly fell a victim to the fascinations of Lady Blanche O'Grady.

This lovely creature was the eldest unmarried daughter of the Earl and Countess Tipperary. She began her campaign at seventeen, and was now in her "nineteenth" season. Her opportunities of marrying had been few and far between, and never according to her merits. Her

case was becoming desperate. She felt like "the last rose of summer.' All her companions were married and gone. She began to admit that she might hitherto have looked too high. Then she met Mr. Baimbridge, at her uncle's house, and his doom was sealed, as far as she was concerned. She was quick at discovering his weak point. At the end of the first week, he had kissed her hand and called her an angel; he was a demonstrative little man. The Lady Blanche was not offended. This angular, sandy-haired, sallow, decidedly plain "young" person, was playing her cards well. J. B. described her, to his absent son, as a golden-haired, stately girl, endowed with every bodily and mental perfection, and desperately in love with himself. "In fact, my dear boy," the letter went on to say, "there is no mistake about it this time. She's a regular out-and-outer; a stunner, and no mistake; and lots of blue blood about her, and that sort of thing. I mean business this time, Bertie, and should like to get married before Christmas. I hope you will be home by then, I am longing to introduce you to my beautiful Blanche. Your affectionate father, J. B."

It will be seen from this letter that Lady Blanche's victory was decisive. J. B. capitulated, after a very slight and becoming resistance. The Lady Blanche did not allow the grass to grow under her feet. She knew the fickle disposition of her lover, and his roving propensities. The Earl of Tipperary was written to at once, and in spite of the most straightforward letter from Joseph Baimbridge, Esq., declined to believe in his daughter's unprecedented good luck as to the wealth of her suitor. He hurried over to England, and the result of his investigations was more than satisfactory. The Earl's meeting with his daughter was highly congratulatory. He lavished every term of endearment upon her in the strongest of Irish brogues, and his reception of his son-in-law elect was most affectionate, if not overwhelming.

"My dear boy!" he exclaimed, with explosive cordiality; "sure it's meself that's pleased to welcome ye as a son. I'll be a rale fayther to ye, and never lave ye, depind upon me. And is it Joseph yer name is? Thin I'll call ye Joe, for short."

The old nobleman quite overlooked the fact that there was very little difference between his own age and that of his intended son-inlaw, but treated him like a very young man indeed.

J. B. was immensely flattered at this state of things. He allowed the Earl to take entire possession of him. He rode his horses, smoked his cigars, ate his dinners, and finally borrowed money of him.

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My dear Joe," the Earl would exclaim in his airiest manner, “I've been thinking a couple of hundred would be most convanient, jist to buy a little present for me daughters over in Ireland."

What could the lover do but hand over the money? But when the request had been repeated a third and a fourth time, on similar pre

texts, Old Joe began to say it was contrary to his principles to lend money.

"Right you are, my dear Joseph," said the Earl; "never depart from your principles; and stick to your own, and keep it in the family. And shure it's your fayther I am, or soon shall be, so it isn't lending you're after, but a bit of a gift."

This time again the Earl carried his point; but J. B. took the liberty of thinking to himself that he could, if permitted, have dispensed with his "father's" attentions, and ventured to whisper a hint to this effect in the ear of his lady-love, which was received with a torrent of tears, and a shower of reproaches. The following little scene took place in the back drawing-room of No. -, Park Street, where Lady Blanche was staying under the care of her uncle and aunt. Mr. Baimbridge had just arrived, and had made his customary present to his bride elect. To-day it was a thick gold band bracelet, studded with emeralds and diamonds, containing a photo.-a speaking likeness of himself. It may be remarked, en passant, that he had been photographed all over the town. There was not a photographer of any celebrity who had not handed down the ruddy features of J. B. to posterity. On this particular morning, Lady Blanche was more than usually gracious. Emboldened by the affection she showed him, J. B. ventured to press her to name the happy day; the thing she most desired, though she took good care not to show it, but rather to feign reluctance. After a due amount of persuasion, it was settled that the marriage should take place the first week in January. J. B. pleaded for an earlier date.

"To tell you the truth, my pretty," he said, "your father's a very good fellow, but I don't want a 'father,' somehow; I think we shall get on better without him when we are married; what do you say, ducky, shall we get the ceremony performed out of hand, and let the old gentleman return to Ireland ?"

At this closing remark the Lady Blanche started up from her lounging posture, and withdrew her fair, not to say bony, hand from the fat little one of her lover.

"How can you, Joseph ?" she said, in her shrillest tone. "You don't like poor, dear Papa, who meant to live with us always, as Ireland doesn't suit him ?" (the old Peer had been about forty years in making this discovery). "You want me to be married without settlements or trousseau, or proper engagement? You are so-so unkind. Oh! you don't love me! Oh! you don't-you don't-you don't!"

Here her sobs shook her lovely frame, rendered her mute, and humbled her lover.

"My dearest love," he began, endeavouring to regain possession of the coveted hand. "It musn't be angry with its poor dear Joseph. Does it think, for one moment, that its Joseph doesn't love it?

Doesn't it know that he does?—and won't it give its Joseph a little kiss? Won't it, Blanchey, pet? Look up, ducky, darling, and its father shall stay with it always. Its Joseph wouldn't be unkind for the world."

It must be admitted that the widower conducted his wooing in a style strictly his own, and in a peculiar fashion.

However, it was efficacious. Lady Blanche looked up, and allowed him to press her cheek with his lips, which performance he repeated with much gusto and apparent enjoyment. Harmony being thus restored, and the peace signed and sealed, Joseph Baimbridge, Esq., soon after took his leave.

Though late in the season, Lady Blanche expressed a wish to go to Ryde. The Earl, with unusual alacrity, furthered her wish-took the best house he could find vacant on the Esplanade; engaged a staff of servants, and even hired a yacht. Dear Joseph was invited to accompany them, and graciously allowed to defray the expenses, which amounted to something considerable. He stood it like a lamb, and a Briton. He even went out sailing with his fair enslaver, though his ruddy cheek lost its native hue, and turned ashen white, or rather blue. He clung to the sides of the vessel for support, and bent his head to conceal his woes, or to look for imaginary fish in the water.

He had often declared he would go through fire and water for her sake. The fire ordeal was yet to come. Having shown his devotion to his Blanche in this heroic manner once or twice, he cried off at the next sailing-party.

"Of course, darling Joseph, I won't ask you to come if it makes you feel ill," she said; "but what shall I do without you? Shall I stay with you, my love?"

"No, my sweetest, darling pet, it shan't give up its little sail, that it likes so much, to please its Joe, who loves it so; and wouldn't he be a naughty man if he didn't do everything his Blanchey wished? Go, ducky dear, and come back and tell its Joe all it has been doing with its little self." He gave her shoulder-not remarkable for its plumpness-an approving pat as he spoke, and stroked her silken tresses with admiring touch-borrowed plumes though they were from the house of Douglass & Co.,-but," Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

Lady Blanche O'Grady's friends-for she had several at Rydewondered why she did not marry her funny little rolley-polley man at once, lest he should think twice of his bargain. He was enormously rich, what could she be waiting for? She gave them good and sufficient reasons for her delay: The settlements would take a long time preparing, she said; the trousseau would be a very costly one; her mamma and sisters were coming over as soon as they could, and