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fined by a bank equally steep at the other side, raved like a congress of living creatures lashed and tormented into madness. A little farther on, the irregular arch of an enormous cavern was just visible, into which the waves plunged headlong, mounting one over the other, and shouldering like a pack of wolves driven by the hunters, or rather a crowd of human beings pursued by some implacable demon to the very gates of destruction. From the noise which the billows made whilst the cavern swallowed them, and which not a little resembled the barking or howling of dogs mingled with human screams, St. Henry denominated this frightful gulf the Mouth of Hell. It well deserved the name. For my own part, I never willingly descended there; but my fears for St. Henry frequently made me accompany him whilst I remained on a casual visit at the Wilderness. He seemed to be drawn by an unaccountable species of fascination towards this place, and I have seen him even stretch over the brink of the whirlpool where it was sucked down into the cave, as if hesitating whether he should cast himself in. We are all aware of the strange feeling which impels us, when we look from an elevation into a depth below, to throw ourselves forwards; there was, however, I suspect, something more than this involuntary propensity in my friend's mind. He never visited this spot but in his gloomiest moods; and the paleness of his features and evident agitation when he returned indicated that many terrible thoughts had been passing over his mind.

This leads me to speak more particularly of his character as I saw it when he was about nineteen years of age. The misanthropical tendency to which I have alluded, added to some disappointments which I shall speak of hereafter, had early given him a disgust to the world and to life; whilst he had derived nothing from his education to counteract this unhappy disposition. The mild spirit of religion, which teaches us to bear patiently the sorrows of our present state, and infuses into our minds so much of benevolent feeling towards our fellow creatures,-which soothes the passions and tranquillizes the emotions of our bosoms, so sure

to dominate if they are not subdued,

this he had never an opportunity of imbibing. His guardian and kinsman had sent him, to be sure, a girdlefull of theological erudition in the person of Father Ambrose,—what could he do more? Father Ambrose would joyfully discuss the question concerning homoousians and homoiousians, or describe with learned eloquence the miracles performed by St. Martin of Tours, had he been asked at any one hour out of the twentyfour, save and except those between noon and eleven the next morning, during which time he was much more importantly engaged in the grateful transactions of eating or sleeping. What could Father Ambrose do more?-Even the imperfect philosophy of the schools St. Henry had never studied. His reading, which from the insatiable appetite of his mind for action was considerable, lay chiefly amongst those works most congenial to a youthful and enthusiastic fancy. The wild fictions of romance, traditionary tales, fabulous travels, and extravagant productions of all kinds, with a most undue proportion of poetry, these were the only furniture of his mind. Temperaments the most sober would have been gradually inebriated by this kind of reading; but in such a temperament as St. Henry's, in itself naturally fervid, restless, and prone to extravagance, insanity itself was the mildest result to be expected from such a course of study. He must have possessed, along with his ardent imagination, a large stock of sound reason to have withstood such an accumulation of untoward circumstances,―anyone of which was almost enough to have overwhelmed the understanding of an ordinary person. I am only surprised that fatuity itself did not supervene,-something beyond mere frenzy. Yet it was only such ignorant and superficial observers as Jean Roche, who would ever confound his impetuous and in some respects eccentric character with madness. It is not easy to define exactly the boundary that separates sanity from insanity; in my opinion, he was no more mad than a citizen who takes it into his head to wear shoebuckles or a pig-tail after the fashion has gone by a century. The most that is ever said of the latter is, that

he acts somewhat differently from his neighbours, that he is an eccentric or an oddity; and this is all that I think should in justice be said of my friend St. Henry. His singularities took a somewhat nobler turn, but they were in no wise more irrational.

I alluded to certain disappointments which he met with in early life. He had formed by accident a very close intimacy, when about seventeen years of age, with the son of a neighbouring gentleman. This intimacy took its rise from the following circumstances. In one of his solitary rambles, having ascended the hills which enclosed his estate, he was suddenly roused from meditation by the cries of some one in distress. Looking downwards he perceived a young man in a hunting dress sitting on the ledge of a steep cliff, midway between its base and summit, from which perilous situation he appeared unable to extricate himself. St. Henry immediately descended to his relief, and, being better accustomed to these places, or possessing more strength and courage, finally helped him to regain the top of the cliff from which it appeared he had fallen. The young gentleman was very grateful; and, being of a prepossessing demeanour and withal of an intelligent mind, he and St. Henry became from that day inseparable companions. A year or two after this my friend formed another and a tenderer connexion. There was a young lady on a visit with the Count de Monjoy's family, whom in one of his chance and rare meetings with his relations he had seen. This lady, from all I have been able to collect regarding her, was as beautiful and amiable as the best women are, but no more; she was not absolutely perfect. She repaid St. Henry's admiration with her love; and in a short time had gained such an ascendancy over him that he totally sacrificed his beloved solitude for her society. Young Servigné (St. Henry's friend) saw this mutual attachment with pain, for he himself had been enslaved by the young lady's attractions. He wrote her an anonymous letter, accusing his friend and preserver of faithlessness to his mistress, being (as he asserted) engaged in the prosecution of another suit with his own (Servigne's) sister.

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This information was too credulously admitted by the lady; she received her lover at their next meeting with coldness and reserve instead of her usual smiles and affectionate confi- ; dence. With all the pride and impetuosity of his character he instantly demanded an explanation; it was given him. By the testimony of Mademoiselle Servigné, and by that of her perfidious brother whom he compelled to own the fraud, he cleared himself to the entire satisfaction of his mistress ;-but he never would see her again. He had the pleasure of hearing her with tears and sighs express her regret for her innocent error, and with smiles of joy court him once more to her side; but he received her confession in haughty silence, and rejected her advances with indignant coldness,--he never would see her again. She had once doubted his honour, and nothing on earth could persuade him to renew his addresses to one who had even for a moment suspected his truth, though she suspected it no longer. This was a singularity in my friend's temper; he could not bear even an imputation from her whom he had so ardently loved and so wholly trusted. That which to another would have been the signal of reconciliation, was to him the signal for an eternal farewell. I do not attempt to defend this part of my friend's conduct; it was unreasonable and unjustifiable. But his high notions of honour, and his opinion often expressed to me, that they who truly loved could not doubt their lovers, were the source of his present conduct and most of his future misery. He retired into his wilderness deeply impressed with the falsehood of man and the frivolity of woman: he became now a confirmed misanthrope.

About a year after this happened, in travelling through the south of France, I saw the lady who had once been loved by St. Henry. There were no traces of beauty in her countenance; she was a mere shadow, her complexion ghastly, her cheeks sunken, her lips withered, and her eyes fixed and lustreless; she was evidently within a short stage of the grave. I had become intimate with St. Henry a few weeks before their separation; and as I now passed the chair in which she sat gazing va

cantly at the crowd, she uttered a faint scream, and methought I saw the chill shudder of death convulse her frame as she was borne in by her attendants.

On my next visit to the Wilderness, whither indeed I was led rather by my friendship for St. Henry, than by his express invitation, he welcomed me with the true sneer of a cynic, muttering something about another Servigné." I turned on my heel, and was making my way from his presence as fast as possible, when he clutched me by the hand and drew me forcibly back. I looked at him stedfastly. His countenance put me in mind of a dark cloud from which the sun was endeavouring to burst in all his brightness. He was labouring to repress the natural kindness and warmth of his feelings, and to preserve the same morose, bitterly sarcastic expression with which he had received me. But it would not do his mother triumphed in his heart, and throwing himself upon my neck, he burst into a flood of tears. I saw, however, during my stay with him, that his dislike of the world had settled into a feeling little less intense than positive hatred. That is, hatred in the abstract; he would not have practically injured a human being. Nay, he would have sacrificed his own interests to advance those of another; of this I am certain. But his feelings of love and friendship were seared; he told me himself that he had shut up his heart," and would never trust his affections with another. He could not, however, wholly expel nature: I was about to join my regiment which was on its route to Spain, and he expressed his determination to solicit a commission in the same corps. Perhaps, indeed, his anxiety for death, which was now apparent both in his conduct and conversation, may have been the sole motive; I flattered myself, however, that there was still one whose society he esteemed. A commission was shortly obtained, and we set out together for Bayonne where our regiment then lay. As soon as we had entered upon actual service, St. Henry's object became manifest. He sought every opportunity of dying, and his reckless behaviour in the field, which was not so much the effect of cou

rage as of despair, would soon have found its wished-for termination, when a peace was concluded and the armies were recalled. He accompanied me to a little cottage which I possessed near Lyons (it was on the road to the Wilderness), and in a fever of disappointment, misanthrophy, and despair, betrayed symptoms of derangement by no means equivocal in the opinion of Jean Roche and the neighbours. I, who knew the secret strength of his mind, had no fears upon the subject, though many of his acts were not a little alarming. He never went to bed at night, and was heard raving very incoherently at the dead hours when others are generally at rest. Thunder storms were at that season frequent and fatal in our neighbourhood. Whilst the whole heavens were in a sheet of flame, and the oaks shattered and blackened from top to trunk by the lightning, he would walk deliberately to the ridge of a bare hill which lay behind the cottage, and, taking off his hat, opening his breast, and choosing the most exposed situation, would stand there for hours tempting destruction, and presenting himself to every thunderbolt. I remonstrated with him frequently; but he always replied that "death was inevitable, and might as well come now as henceforward; that he should like to die suddenly and violently in a convulsion of nature; and that he knew of no death so enviable as that by a thunderbolt, which blasted at oncenone so noble, for it was death by the direct hand of God." This last expression of his gave me a clue to the remedy for his disease: I asked him if he thought that God, though he did blast him with a thunderbolt, would judge him less guilty of his own death on that account; I asked him what distinction there was between putting a pistol to his own head and putting his head to a pistol fired by another person; and whether it was not as punishable suicide to court death in a thunder storm as to stretch himself at full length on the shore of a flowing sea till the waters covered him: the only difference was, that in the first case death might probably come, and that in the last it certainly would; but the will to destroy himself was the same in both. This rebuke had its proper effect: though

Memoirs of St. Henry.

St. Henry had never been duly educated in the lessons of religion, he had too much natural reverence for the divinity to commit deliberately an act so obviously unpleasing to him, About three weeks after, St. Henry left my cottage for his estate amongst the Alps, and the letter which introduced this brief memoir was the first I had received from him since his departure, and the last. I will now proceed to relate the manner of his death, which contains a few other remarkable instances of the spirit which agitated, I cannot say governed, this singular young man, even to the very latest moments of his existence.

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upper part of the body on the elbow ;
the legs were crossed at the ancles,
I approached nearer; still the figure
did not change its posture. I spoke;
no answer. Who was this intruder
and wherefore did he not notice me?
Yet as I took a closer view of the
features, there certainly was in them
some deadly resemblance of St."
Henry. My heart beat audibly. God
of heaven! can this be he?--St.
Henry! (said 1), in a scream which
agitation forced from me. It was
shrill enough to pierce the monotonous
roar of the linn, but he heard me
not. I put my hand on his shoulder
and shook him gently; the head
dropped on the chest, the arm be-
came straight, and the body which
had been supported by the rock fell
on my feet.

In this place and in this manner
died St. Henry. It appeared that he
had gone out early in the morning,
leaving strict injunctions with his
servants that no one but me, if I
should happen to arrive, should be
suffered to disturb him in his retreat.
He had often done so before, and
their ignorance did not apprehend
so sudden a catastrophe as followed.
The body was now removed to his
chamber, and laid out for interment.
I sat up with it that night, talking to
Peter (the old butler) of his late
master. In a low tone of voice,
which a natural though perhaps futile
reverence for the senseless effigy be-
fore him inspired, he gave me an ac-
count of St. Henry's gradual decay.
Since his last return to the Wilder-
ness he was observed to indulge still
more frequently in his former eccen-
tric habits. He also remained out for
whole nights together; and was often
discovered sitting in some nook of
the valley drenched with rain, but
immersed in such profound abstrac-
tion as to be wholly unconscious of
his situation. He would see no one,
and scarcely speak to his servants
though he knew they loved him. His
most usual position was to stand with
his arms crossed and his eyes bent
upon the ground, in the attitude of
deep meditation. His features were
then observed to be in continual
change and fluctuation, indicating a
mind disturbed, if not deranged, to a
high degree. Indeed, this was suffi-
ciently manifest from the appearance
of the bust which lay on the couch

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before me. The nobility of the features remained, the high and commanding forehead, the aquiline nose, and the lips firmly compressed together. But every muscle was drawn as tight as the string of a bent bow; the nerves could be seen plainly through the skin; and so little flesh remained that the head could hardly be called more than a mere scull. The body itself was, but for the thin pellicle which covered it, a perfect anatomy. Yet it appears that he had no determinate sickness, no physical disease which could have reduced him to this. The mere working of his passions had wasted his frame to a skeleton. His mind had literally worn out his body.

Upon his death being made known, Father Ambrose cheerfully consented to attend the remains of his pupil to the family burial-place at the neighbouring abbey, and to perform the usual service over them. Upon opening my late friend's bureau, however, I found a letter addressed to myself which saved the good Father that exertion of his philanthropy. It is a singular document, and illustrates St. Henry's peculiar turn of mind better than any words I could use. It follows: "Are you prepared to do what he whom you have called your friend requires at your hands, in dying? If not, destroy this paper before you read more, and let the monks have my corse to do with it what they will. If you are prepared, do as I bid you, thus: Near the brow of the cataract there is a spot of ground, bare and without trees, save that thunderriven trunk which stands, upon the bank of the stream. At the foot of this victim (like me) of heaven, I will that you bury my body: let it lie as close to the roar of the torrent as it may. No one but my servants and yourself shall attend it to the

grave, if you do as I wish you. Let there be no marble to oppress my earth as it lies, but a mound of turf: Let there be a low headstone with these words engraven upon it, and nothing more. (Here followed the epitaph.) Do this and fare you well; do otherwise and fare as you may."

I regret much that I did not see my friend before his death, as I might have reasoned him out of this strange determination. The monks (thought I) will never consent to it. But St. Henry had unfortunately died with out consulting them; and though they could not decently refuse the Count de Monjoy permission to bury his kinsman in their consecrated ground (the Count was laudably anxious about this material point), they were glad of the excuse which this document gave them to withdraw their assent. St. Henry was accordingly buried where, and in the manner which, he desired. If it were of any importance, this was a wretched place for the relics even of a beggar to lie in: it was the wildest spot of the whole Wilderness. However, I did as he had required of me. Upon the headstone these words were inscribed, and may still be discovered through the green moss which now almost covers it.

Mortal, pass on!-leave me my desolate

home:

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NUGE PHILOSOPHICÆ. No. II.

ON REVERIE.

MUCH has been said and written on the influence of particular habits in moulding the human character; to each of which a greater degree of importance than might be per

haps strictly allowable is attached by those who severally treat of them. There is a mental habit, however, whose influence on the character seems to have been so much under

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