abled to remain at Versailles with his ministers, and his more immediate circle, for the greater portion of the year. The chivalrous spirit, however, which had up to this period, or very nearly so, characterised the court of Louis, was shortly doomed to change. On the 19th April 1674, Louise de la Valliere took her formal departure from the court, in the chamber of her successful rival, Madame de Montespan, in order to enrol herself as "Sœur de la Misericorde" in the Carmelite nunnery of the Rue St. Jaques, at Paris; where, brooding over her sorrows, and seeking by good works to atone for those errors into which she had been betrayed by her own beauty and a monarch's love, she lived for many years, to use her own expressive language, "not happy, but content!" The successor of this "humble violet," as she was styled by Madame de Sévigné, was La Marquise de Montespan, who enjoyed the affections of Louis during the most brilliant part of his reign. The dominion of this witty, spirited, and haughty woman, and the transitory appearance of her sisters, the still more beautiful and witty Abbess de Fontevrault, and the captivating and gifted Madame de Thianges, form a brilliant era in the history of Versailles. Madame de Maintenon, who eventually supplanted the mistress who had introduced her to Louis, describes her as "amusing herself by allowing six dormice, harnessed to a chariot of filagree, to nibble her finger's ends, while she exhibited the king to the ministers as if he had been a child; at the same time, knowing all the most important affairs of state, and giving very beneficial and very baneful advice upon them, according to the humour in which she happened to be." Madame de Montespan was clever as she was haughty; and her raillery-and what raillery is so effective as that which proceeds from the mouth of a pretty woman?—was so dreaded by the whole herd of courtiers, that it is said, there was not one amongst them who would venture to pass the windows of her apartments at such times as they knew the presence of the king would enable her to point the shafts of her ridicule with increased bitterness and assured success; and this talent contributed greatly to the establishment of that rigid system of etiquette by which the whole affairs of Louis' court were from this time regulated. The elevation of Madame de Montespan to the distinguished position which she enjoyed was a measure pregnant with the greatest danger to that extraordinary respect in which Louis had succeeded, as it were, in enshrining the throne. Yet the character of the favourite, who held that it was good to assume a virtue though we had it not, and whose wit and beauty enabled her to preach this doctrine far more effectually than sterner moralists could have done, combined with that love of order which Louis always exacted from those around him, to bring to perfection that mysterious engine of state policy, entitled Etiquette; which, regarding the monarch as its supreme source or centre, superior to the ordinary observances of life, sanctioned his violation of the laws of virtue and propriety, without erecting his conduct into a pattern for imitation. The reign of Madame de Montespan forms the gayest period in the history of Versailles; the court had regularly taken up its residence within its walls, destined to form the model of half the palaces of the continent, and every court in Europe resounded with the praises of those festal displays of magnificence in which Louis so much delighted. But while Madame de Montespan still enjoyed the favour of Louis, and even in the midst of his transitory passion for the beautiful Duchesse de Fontanges, the spirit of Madame de Maintenon was busily weaving around the king those toils from which he was doomed never more to extricate himself. At length she obtained the object for which she had so long struggled, the hand as well as the heart of her royal lover. During the winter following the death of the queen, which took place in July 1683, the “ charming" Madame Scarron, now transformed into the "canting" Madame de Maintenon (Reader, the epithets are Walpole's,)-was secretly married to Louis by the Archbishop of Paris, in a private chapel of the castle, and in the presence of Père la Chaise, Bontemps the king's first chamberlain, and other confidential witnesses. The king now gave her apartments on the same floor which he himself occupied, and, indeed, immediately opposite to his; and, having here established her throne, this queen, in all but name, very seldom quitted it. From this time she was seen but little in public. The king received her visits only on the occasion of his indisposition; and the Duchess of Burgundy was the only one, with the exception of his majesty, who could boast of such an honour. These were the gloomiest days which Versailles witnessed during the long reign of Le Grand Monarque, notwithstanding they formed the golden age of the celebrated Oeil de Bœuf. The same good star which had so long shone brightly over the destinies of France, had sunk beneath the horizon. Those able ministers who had so long guided her counsels, had dropped one by one into the silent grave. Scarcely were those wounds healed which the unfortunate war and fearful winter of 1709 had inflicted upon the people, when death robbed Louis of all his direct and legitimate descendants, with the exception of the sickly Duc d'Anjou. From this moment the king was rarely seen in the vast saloons of Versailles except in the garb of mourning. Nor was it "the inky suit alone" which marked the sorrow which had taken hold upon him, and the change which adversity and the counsels of Madame de Maintenon had wrought upon his mind. Louis le Grand, that mighty sovereign, who had dictated the peace of Nimeguen, formed the Canal of Languedoc, and sanctioned the performance of "Tartuffe," gradually sunk into a doting bigot, who transferred the seat of empire to the bedchamber of Scarron's widow. "Oh, what a falling-off was there, my masters!" Said we not rightly then, that Versailles saw its gloomiest days under the foundress of St. Cyr? ON POPULAR AND NATIONAL POETRY. BY CHARLES MACKAY. FRANCE. BACON did not invest poetry with undue importance when he wrote, "Give me the writing of songs for a people: let who will make their laws." It would be no uninteresting or uninstructive study, taking the remark for a text, to note the influence which songs have exercised upon the fortunes of nations, by keeping alive from generation to generation the hopes, the fears, and the prejudices of the people, and thus weakening the effect of such laws as may have been forced upon them in spite of either. It is not my object, however, to take such high ground on the present occasion; but rather to traverse the pleasant fields of European song, and cull on the way some of the fairest flowers which may be indigenous to each particular soil. In France" la chanson" wields a power which has been at times sufficient to make a monarch wince upon his throne, and which in the days of Louis XIV. and XV. fully justified the remark that the government was an absolute monarchy "temperée par les chansons.” In Germany, Switzerland, Hungary, Scotland, and the Tyrol, the songs of the people are mirrors in which the national mind is vividly reflected. In England the songs, with a few exceptions, possess a more cosmopolitan character. Our lyrics, beautiful though they be, do not in general embody the characteristics and aspirations of our people. This remark applies more particularly to our modern songs, which have nothing exclusively English about them except the language, and might be translated into French, German, or Spanish, without the loss of a beauty, or the necessity for explanation, even to a reader totally unacquainted with our history and present state. But our deficiencies in this respect will be apparent if we make a more intimate acquaintance with the popular poetry of other countries, especially of those which have suffered the most from political causes. Among nations, as among individuals, sorrows and trials draw out the latent poetry, which but for them might have slumbered for ages. Sorrow is indeed the nurse of song, and inspires more music than joy or triumph. To begin with France. What a faithful index to the national mind may be found in the songs which delight the people! How redolent they are of the land which gave them birth! How untranslateable in all their original freshness, and how incomprehensible in some of their most delicate and touching allusions to the stranger who is not thoroughly acquainted with the history of the country and the characteristics of the people! Songs which cheer the husbandmen, or are hummed by cottage girls at their rustic labours; and the uncultured but still poetic staves sung by the corn-reapers or the vintagers, in which, ever and anon, there recurs a word full of meaning to the politician who is acute enough to understand it. There are very few songs of this description current among the French people which can boast of a date anterior to the Revolution, and these are mostly fragments. The old songs of Ronsard, Villon, Piron, Marot, Panard, and others, and the still more ancient lays of the troubadours, do not come within our category. They were songs suited only for the atmosphere of courts and cities, and filled with those amatory and bacchanalian conceits which are derived from the Grecian mythology, and are common to all the nations of Europe. The songs of the peasantry are more valuable; and it is much to be regretted that materials so precious to every historian who wishes to record manners as well as events, should have been lost in the lapse of ages for the want of some industrious collector. The Fronde and the Ligue gave rise to many epigrams and satires, but to few songs. We must go still further back to arrive at the most ancient of the popular lyrics which have descended to our day. One of the most interesting had its origin in the time of Charles VII. when Joan of Arc acquired her immortal celebrity. The language has been modernised more than once, as there are several versions in existence; but even in its present form it dates as far back as 1530. The concluding stanza contains a boast which every nation makes use of as an incentive against the enemy. "Ung de nous en vauli quatre!" is but the French version of the common English phrase which Goldsmith puts into the mouth of his disabled soldier,— "One Englishman can beat five French at any time!" "Entre vous, gents de vilage, Qui aimé le roy Françoys, Pour mieux les desraciner; The second stanza of this rude chaunt is exquisitely characteristic of the French to this day. If they could not exterminate the English by the "houe,"-which means not only a hoe, but that more formidable weapon, a flail,-they were at least to make faces at them, that they might see the abhorrence in which they were held ! Something of the same kind took place during the occupation of Paris by the allies in 1815, when the Parisians, unable to vent their detestation by any other mode, gave it free scope in caricatures, lampoons, and puns against the Duke of Wellington and his Duchess. In other words, they made the moue, as their ancestors had been advised to do under similar circumstances. The death of Francis I. before Pavia filled the French nation with grief and indignation; grief for the fate of the gallant young monarch, and indignation against those who were accused of having betrayed and deserted him. Among the many songs made at this period, the following is one of the few which have been preserved: "Mauldicts soient les trahistres Qui l'ont abandonné! En faict de villenie Ils se sont toujours monstré. O la faulce canaille! Qui ont le roi trompé ; Au point de la bataille N'ont point voulu frappé. Princes! seigneurs de France, Et nobles chevaliers! Le noble roy Françoys!" The rude and simple, but warm-hearted inhabitants of Brittany have preserved a number of songs of the olden time; and many ancient crones in the most unfrequented districts of that province hum over snatches of war and love songs which were common to many other parts of the country four hundred years ago. Many of them, again, are peculiar to Brittany, and, when heard by a native of that district when wandering on a foreign shore, exercise upon him an influence as powerful as the celebrated "Ranz des vaches" does upon the Swiss, or "Lochaber no more" upon the Scottish Highlander. The nuptial song of the peasants of Brittany subdues the roughest Breton into tears; and an instance is related of a lawless fellow, who quitted his native village for his crimes, and retired to the backwoods of Lower Canada. After roaming about for two years in the western world without a wish to revisit the scenes of his childhood, he one day arrived by chance at a cottage, where he heard the daughter of a Canadian settler singing the wellremembered air. He paused, enraptured; and the very next sunrise saw him trudging his weary way towards Montreal, to secure a passage across the Atlantic. In less than three months he was safe again in his homestead, brought back by an old song, which had awakened within him in a strange land the kindlier feelings of his nature, and made him, if not a good, at least a better man. The song of the reapers of La Vendée is no less dear to the country people, and has been their delight for generations. Although "its rhymes are feeble, and its style is old," it is full of grace and simplicity, and wedded to an air which renders it still more touching. It runs thus: "Ma mie reçoit de mes lettres Par l'alouette des champs, Par le rossignol chantant. Sans savoir lir' n'ecrire 'Aime moi; je t'aime tant !'” There are few who will not appreciate the beauty of the above. The following paraphrase preserves the idea, although hardly the simplicity of the original: "I send a message to my dear Each morning by the lark, And every night the nightingale And, though we neither read nor write, I know, and well knows she, That both the letter and reply Say, "Love me; I love thee!" Madame de Staël, in her touching romance "Delphine," has preserved the ancient bridal chaunt of the peasants of Languedoc, and |