the denial of this design, the attempt to make the Bible a book which set at nought and contradicted the thoughts of the other nations, the reason why young men here, as well as in Germany, are becoming impatient of it, indifferent to it? He hoped he might do something for England as well as Germany, if he could show, as he expressed it with archaical quaintness, but with a profound meaning, that "God would enlarge Japheth that he might dwell in the tents of Shem." But, chiefly, he desired to bring his own people, learned and unlearned, to receive the Bible in what he took to be its simple sense. And he hoped that hymns and liturgies might attune their spirits to the adoration of Him whose operations they have traced in the lives of men, in the movements of nations. He may only have had a glimpse of this unity; he may have died, with the song of confidence and hope on his lips, to know the full meaning of the way in which English or Germans may be brought to the consciousness of it. But I have not been able to suppress my delight at a discovery, which I scarcely anticipated, that a biography, which faithfully exhibits the different directions in which Bunsen's mind travelled, should bring out as faithfully the secret of its unity, or should so confirm and illustrate the evidence coming from his latest work. I speak of delight-but it is a delight mixed with awe. For I feel, as I said at the beginning of this article, that the movements of our time, which might seem to make his life obsolete, have brought the question which was working in his heart from his earliest years, and which came fully before him in his latest, more and more directly upon us that every form of philosophy, and every negation of philosophy; every form of religion, and negation of religion; every physical inquiry, every inquiry into the life of nations, of races of mankind, is compelling us to face it. None are doing more by their positive facts, by their worship of humanity, to force it upon us than those who say that theology died ages ago, and needs only

a burial. That burial may be the step to a resurrection such as none of us dream of. But, in the meantime, we clergymen plunge into all petty controversies, spend our passions and energies in them, and have only hard words for a layman who said to us on earth, who says to us from the tomb, "A God, or no God; that is the question."

I must add one word. It is always proclaimed as the great charm of a biography that the writer is forgotten in the subject. There are some cases in which such a result is impossible. No one can forget what the author of this memoir was to him who is portrayed in it; how different a man he would have been, how much less capable of thinking as well as acting, if he had not found one person to understand him whoever else misunderstood him, one sharer of all troubles and all joys. The domestic part of this life is so substantive a part of it, such a golden thread between all the parts of it, that if that is overlooked the whole will be unintelligible. It is not obtruded upon us; it is kept back with graceful reserve, but if we had been told less we should have a right to complain that the key to the politics, the science, the theology, the whole man had been withholden. Lucy Hutchinson has taught Episcopalians and Royalists to reverence and love her husband, who was an Anabaptist and a Republican; Baroness Bunsen will teach many to revere and love the man whom they have been wont to call a rationalist and a mystic. Religious and political bitterness may withstand many arguments and exposures, but the evidence of a life like this will be too mighty for it. No man could have supplied that evidence, not even a man as wise and generous as Bunsen himself. There is some gift which cultivated women possess of seeing into the hearts of those whom they care for, which has certainly not been bestowed in any like measure upon us. May they have every part of our education which will do them good, but no part of it which shall dwarf or enfeeble this faculty of divination!

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE GOOD PRIEST OF NISSARD.

"Till at the set of sun all tracks and ways
In darkness lay enshrouded. And e'en thus
The utmost limit of the great profound
At length we reach'd, where in dark gloom
and mist

Cimmeria's people and their city lie
Enveloped ever."

Odyssey (MUSGrove).

THE October afternoon had set in before the brothers were on the way to Nissard, and in spite of Berenger's excited mood, the walk through the soft, sinking sand could not be speedily performed. It was that peculiar sand-drift which is the curse of so many coasts, slowly, silently, irresistibly flowing, blowing, creeping in, and gradually choking all vegetation and habitation. Soft and almost impalpable, it lay heaped in banks yielding as air, and yet far more than deep enough to swallow up man and horse. Nay, tops of trees, summits of chimneys, told what it had already swallowed. The whole scene far and wide presented nothing but the lone, tame undulations, liable to be changed by every wind, and solitary beyond expression-a few rabbits scudding hither and thither, or a sea-gull floating with white, ghostly wings in the air, being the only living things visible.. On the one hand a dim, purple horizon showed that the inhabited country lay miles inland; on the other lay the pale grey, misty expanse of sea, on which Philip's eyes could lovingly discern the Throstle's masts.

That view was Philip's chief comfort. The boy was feeling more eerie and uncomfortable than ever he had been before, as he plodded along, sinking deep with every step almost up to his ankles in the sand, on which the bare

footed guide ran lightly, and Berenger, though sinking no less deeply, seemed insensible to all inconveniences. This desolateness was well-nigh unbearable; no one dared to speak while Berenger thus moved on in the unapproachableness of his great grief, and Philip presently began to feel a dreamy sense that they had all thus been moving on for years, that this was the world's end, the land of shadows, and that his brother was a ghost already. Besides vague alarms like these, there was the dismal English and Protestant prejudice in full force in Philip's mind, which regarded the present ground as necessarily hostile, and all Frenchmen, above all French priests, as in league to cut off every Englishman and Protestant. He believed himself in a country full of murderers, and was walking on with the one determination that his brother should not rush on danger without him, and that the Popish rogues should be kept in mind that there was an English ship in sight. Alas! that consolation was soon lost, for a dense grey mist was slowly creeping in from the sea, and blotted out the vessel, then gathered in closer, and obliterated all landmarks. Gradually it turned to a heavy rain, and about the same time the ground on which they walked became no longer loose sand-hills, but smooth and level. It was harder likewise from the wet, and this afforded better walking, but there lay upon it fragments of weed and shell, as though it were liable to be covered by the sea, and there was a low, languid plash of the tide, which could not be seen. Twilight began to deepen the mist. The guide was evidently uneasy; he sidled up to Philip, and began to ask what he-hitherto obstinately deaf and contemptuous to French—was

very slow to comprehend. At last he found it was a question how near it was to All Souls' day? and then came an equally amazing query whether the gentleman's babe had been baptized for it appeared that on All Souls' day the spirits of unchristened infants had the power of rising from the sands in a bewildering mist, and leading wayfarers into the sea. And the poor guide, white and drenched, vowed he never would have undertaken this walk if he had only thought of this. These slaughters of heretics must so much have augmented the number of the poor little spirits; and no doubt Monsieur would be specially bewildered by one so nearly concerned with him. Philip,

half frightened, could not help stepping forward and pulling Berenger by the cloak to make him aware of this strange peril; but he did not get much comfort.

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Baptized? Yes; you know she was, by the old nurse. Let me alone, I say.

I would follow her wherever she called me, the innocent, and glad—the sooner the better."

And he shook his brother off with a sadness and impatience so utterly unapproachable, that Philip, poor boy, could only watch his tall figure in the wide cloak and slouched hat, stalking on ever more indistinct in the gloom, while his much confused mind tried to settle the theological point whether the old nurse's baptism were valid enough to prevent poor little Bérangère from becoming one of these mischievous deluders; and all this was varied by the notion of Captain Hobbs picking up their corpses on the beach, and of Sir Marmaduke bewailing his only son.

At last a strange muffled sound made him start in the dead silence, but the guide hailed the sound with a joyful cry-"Hola! Blessings on Notre-Dame and holy Father Colombeau, now are we saved!" And on Philip's hasty interrogation, he explained that it was from the bells of Nissard, which the good priest always caused to be rung during these sea fogs, to disperse all evil beings, and guide the wanderers.

sound became clearer and nearer, and Philip was infinitely relieved to be free from all supernatural anxieties, and to have merely to guard against the wiles of a Popish priest, a being almost as fabulously endowed in his imagination as poor little Bérangère's soul could be in that of the fisherman.

The drenching Atlantic mist had wetted them all to the skin, and closed round them so like a solid wall, that they had almost lost sight of each other, and had nothing but the bells' voices to comfort them, till quite suddenly there was a light upon the mist, a hazy reddish gleam-a window seemed close to them. The guide, heartily thanking Our Lady and St. Julian, knocked at a door, which opened at once into a warm, bright, superior sort of kitchen, where a neatly-dressed elderly peasant woman exclaimed, Welcome, poor souls ! Enter then. Here, good Father, are some bewildered creatures. Eh! wrecked are you, good folks, or lost in the fog ?"

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At the same moment there came from behind the screen that shut off the fire from the door, a benignant-looking, hale old man in a cassock, with long white hair on his shoulders, and a cheerful face, ruddy from sea-wind.

"Welcome, my friends," he said. "Thanks to the saints who have guided you safely. You are drenched. Come to the fire at once."

And as they moved on into the full light of the fire and the rude iron lamp by which he had been reading, and he saw the draggled plumes and other appurtenances that marked the two youths as gentlemen, he added, "Are you wrecked, Messieurs? We will do our poor best for your accommodation;" and while both mechanically murmured a word of thanks, and removed their soaked hats, the good man exclaimed, as he beheld Berenger's ashy face, with the sunken eyes and deep scars, "Monsieur should come to bed at once. He is apparently recovering from a severe wound. This way, sir; Jolitte shall make you some hot tisane."

"Wait, sir," said Berenger, very

from exhaustion; "they say that you can tell me of my child. Let me hear.'

"Monsieur's child!" exclaimed the bewildered curate, looking from him to Philip, and then to the guide, who poured out a whole stream of explanation before Philip had arranged three words of French.

"You hear, sir," said Berenger, as the man finished, "I came hither to seek my wife, the Lady of Ribaumont." "Eh!" exclaimed the curé, "do I then see M. le Marquis de Nid-de-Merle?" "No!" cried Berenger; "no, I am not that scélérat! I am her true husband, the Baron de Ribaumont."

"The Baron de Ribaumont perished at the St. Bartholomew," said the curé, fixing his eyes on him, as though to confute an impostor.

I

"Ah, would that I had!" said Berenger. "I was barely saved with the life that is but misery now. came to seek her-I found what you know. They told me that you saved the children. Ah, tell me where mine is ?-all that is left me."

"A few poor babes I was permitted to rescue, but very few. But let me understand to whom I speak," he added, much perplexed. "You, sir--”

"I am her husband, married at five years old-contract renewed last year. It was he whom you call Nid-de-Merle who fell on me, and left me for dead. A faithful servant saved my life, but I have lain sick in England till now, when her letter to my mother brought me to La Sablerie, to find-to find this. Oh, sir, have pity on me! Tell me if you know anything of her, or if you can give me her child?"

"The orphans I was able to save are -the boys at nurse here, the girls with the good nuns at Luçon," said the priest, with infinite pity in his look. "Should you know it, sir?"

"I would-I should," said Berenger. "But it is a girl. Ah, would that it were here! But you-you, sir-you

know; only I would fain see you eat, rest, and be dried."

"How can I?" gasped he, allowing himself, however, to sink into a chair; and the priest spoke :

Perhaps you know, sir, that the poor Lady fled from her friends, and threw herself upon the Huguenots. All trace had been lost, when, at a banquet given by the mayor of Luçon, there appeared some pâtisseries, which some ecclesiastics, who had enjoyed the hospitality of Bellaise, recognised as peculiar to the convent there, where she had been brought up. They were presented. to the mayor by his friend, Bailli la Grasse, who had boasted of the excellent confitures of the heretic pastor's daughter that lodged in the town of La Sablerie. The place was in disgrace for having afforded shelter and supplies to Montgomery's pirate crews, and there were narrations of outrages committed on Catholics. The army were enraged by their failure before La Rochelle; in effect, it was resolved to make an example, when, on M. de Nid-de-Merle's summons, all knowledge of the Lady was denied. Is it possible that she was indeed not there?"

Berenger shook his head. "She was indeed there," he said, with an irrepressible groan. "Was there no mercy

-none?"

"Ask not, sir," said the compassionate priest; "the flesh shrinks, though there may be righteous justice. A pillaged town, when men are enraged, is like a place of devils unchained. I reached it only after it had been taken by assault, when all was flame and blood. Ask me no more; it would be worse for you to hear, than me to tell," he concluded, shuddering; but laying his hand kindly on Berenger's arm. "At least it is ended now, and God is more merciful than men. Many died by the bombs cast into the city, and she for whom you ask certainly fell not alive into the hands of those who sought her. Take comfort, sir; there is One who watches and takes count of our griefs. Sir," turning to Philip, turning to Philip, "this gentleman is too much spent with sorrow to bear this

cold and damp. Aid me, I entreat, to persuade him to lie down."

Philip understood the priest's French far better than that of the peasants, and added persuasions that Berenger was far too much exhausted and stunned to resist. To spend a night in a Popish priest's house would once have seemed to Philip a shocking alternative, yet here he was, heartily assisting in removing the wet garments in which his brother had sat only too long, and was heartily relieved to lay him down in the priest's own bed, even though there was an image over the head, which, indeed, the boy never saw. He only saw his brother turn away from the light with a low, heavy moan, as if he would fain be left alone with his sorrow and his crushed hopes.

Nothing could be kinder than Dom Colombeau, the priest of Nissard. He saw to the whole of his guests being put into some sort of dry habiliments before they sat round his table to eat of the savoury mess in the great pot-au-feu, which had, since their arrival, received additional ingredients, and moreover sundry villagers had crept into the house. Whenever the good Father supped at home, any of his flock were welcome to drop in to enjoy his hospitality. After a cup of hot cider round, they carried off the fisherman to lodge in one of their cottages. Shake-downs were found for the others, and Philip, wondering what was to become of the good host himself, gathered that he meant to spend such part of the night on the kitchen floor as he did not pass in prayer in the church for the poor young gentleman, who was in such affliction. Philip was not certain whether to resent this as an impertinence or an attack on their Protestant principles; but he was not sure, either that the priest was aware what was their religion, and was still less certain of his own comprehension of these pious intentions: he decided that, any way, it was better not to make a fool of himself. Still, the notion of the mischievousness of priests was so rooted in his head, that he consulted Humfrey

on the expedience of keeping watch all night, but was sagaciously answered that "these French rogues don't do any hurt unless they be wrought up to it, and the place was as safe as old Hurst."

In fact, Philip's vigilance would have been strongly against nature. He never awoke till full daylight and morning sun were streaming through the vineleaves round the window, and then, to his dismay, he saw that Berenger had left his bed, and was gone. Suspicions of foul play coming over him in full force as he gazed round on much that he considered as " Popish furniture," he threw on his clothes, and hastened to open the door, when, to his great relief, he saw Berenger hastily writing at a table under the window, and Smithers standing by waiting for the billet.

"I am sending Smithers on board, to ask Hobbs to bring our cloak bags," said Berenger, as his brother entered. "We must go on to Luçon.”

He spoke briefly and decidedly, and Philip was satisfied to see him quite calm and collected-white, indeed, and with the old haggard look, and the great scar very purple, instead of red, which was always a bad sign with him. He was not disposed to answer questions; he shortly said, "He had slept not less than usual," which Philip knew meant very little; and he had evidently made up his mind, and was resolved not to let himself give way. If his beacon of hope had been so suddenly, frightfully quenched, he still was kept from utter darkness by straining his eyes and forcing his steps to follow the tiny, flickering spark that remained.

The priest was at his morning mass, and so soon as Berenger had given his note to Smithers, and sent him off with a fisherman to the Throstle, he took up his hat, and went out upon the beach, that lay glistening in the morning sun, then turned straight towards the tall spire of the church, which had been their last night's guide. Philip caught his cloak.

"You are never going there, Berenger?"

"Vex me not now," was all the