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GUYON OF MARSEILLES.

The study of Marc Guyon seemed the very abode of cheerfulness it was a large airy chamber at the top of his house, which, being at the end of the street, the breeze was admitted on three sides of the chamber, through windows opening on what was the roof to the building beneath, a little gallery enclosed by an open balustrade, and shaded by awnings of linen, forming a kind of verandah, after the eastern fashion. The apartment was simply furnished; its chief treasures were books and manuscripts; its chief ornaments were-what am I saying? its chief treasure and ornament was the living being who inhabited it-Guyon himself. Who that was in his presence could have turned, either in thought or gaze, away from him? He was in the freshness and vigor of manhood, with a glorious beauty about his countenance and figure, which is but seldom seen among the fallen race of man. I do not speak of the beauty of form alone, but the beauty of form all bright and breathing with that of mind, and, what is better still, with that of heart and soul. With an intellect of a very superior order, he had too much kindness of heart, too much manliness, too much lowliness, to feel superior to the infirmities of the humblest of his fellows. It might indeed be said of him, that "he had no proud looks." One might almost read his character in his fine open countenance.

Guyon was sitting at a large table, his forefinger pressed to his brow, and his mind deeply absorbed in thought: he had been writing, and the pen was still between his fingers; but the morning breeze had blown away his manuscripts from the table, and scattered them about the room. He, however, perceived not the disorder of the books and papers, which had a short time before engrossed his most serious attention :-his mind was raised to higher contemplations. Gradually the thoughtfulness of his countenance melted into an expression of holy rapture, his lips parted with a smile, the rich blood flushed brightly over his cheek, and he raised his eyes from the ground; but then tears started into them, tears which he did not attempt to restrain. He rose up, and, opening a folio volume which lay among many others on a tall book-stand, he read with a rapid glance some few pages. "Yes," he exclaimed, as he closed the book, "I will do it-I, I alone

am the proper person-I am determined." He then returned to the table at which he had been writing, and having taken a small roll of parchment from an old casket of sculptured brass, he made some alterations and additions to the writing thereon, and then replaced it. "There is but little beside for me to do now," said he to himself, and he looked wistfully and almost sorrowfully round the chamber. "Oh, how much true happiness have I found here!" he exclaimed, “how unwillingly my dull spirit seems to depart from this sweet tran quil home!-and what a morning!" It was indeed a beautiful morning; the subdued sunlight shed a soft and golden glow throughout the room, and the loose folds of the awning flapped and creaked in the playful wind with a sound like the sails of a ship in a freshening gale. Guyon stepped out on the gallery from the window which faced the east, and commanded an extensive prospect of the country surrounding Marseilles. He bent over the orange-trees and tuber-roses, then in full flower, which were ranged along the front of the window, and thought that he had never so much enjoyed their sweetness before. He looked out on gardens and fields, and mountains more distant; and the calm blue sea reflected back the repose and beauty which it borrowed from a sky even more deeply blue-more tenderly serene. Men, women, and happy children, were at work or at play in the gardens and fields; herds of cattle were grazing on the mountains: many a white and graceful sail was gliding swiftly over the trackless sea; and in the clear free realms of the sky, birds were float. ing along with the sunshine gleaming on their outspread wings. I must not stand here, thought Guyon, or I shall begin to mourn over my captivity within this immense and frightful prison. He walked round the gallery to the side of the house which overlooked the street. The very air seemed to be changed there, as if sickened with its confinement to the narrow streets of tall dull houses. He looked around over the immense mass of buildings; Marseilles, not very long before one scene of bustling commotion, resounding with the ceaseless hum of varied and cheerful noises, was now hushed into a state of unnatural and gloomy torpor. It seemed a city of the dead, for the only sound which disturbed the horrid silence, was the measured tolling of a loud, deep-toned bell. As Guyon stood there, another well-known sound stole

by degrees on his ear; he could hear it approaching with an increasing noise from street to street, till a faint and fetid stench came fitfully with the breeze that blew past him. He looked down and shuddered, as he saw the plague-cart, heaped with putrid bodies, rumble heavily along over the grassgrown pavement beneath. He turned his head, but he only beheld, as he looked down the long street on the opposite side, the black flag on the closed gates of the city, its heavy folds waving to and fro, as if with measured motion to the dismal bell of death.

Guyon was almost the last person to enter the Hotel de Ville. All the medical men of the town had there met to consult on some means of stopping the dreadful progress of the plague, by which half the city had already perished, and which still appeared to rage with increased virulence. The conference was long, and it produced one general and decided opinion, that the corpse of a person who had died of the pestilence should be opened by some skilful hand, and a report of the exact state and effects of the disorder written on the spot. Hitherto there had been a mysterious character about the disease, which had baffled the skill and experience of all who sought to cure it. Many persons of distinguished talent were present one young man, in particular, fixed the attention of the whole assembly to every word he uttered: he had once visited Smyrna, when the plague was raging there; and the illustrations with which he supported his opinions, were made with such clearness, and even eloquence, that they had entirely settled the general conviction that the opening of a putrid body was the only means by which the nature of the disease could be clearly ascertained, and the pestilence itself effectually arrested. The young man had scarcely finished speaking, when one of the most respected and venerable physicians of the city rose and observed, with a mild and sorrowful voice, "I cannot sufficiently approve all that you have expressed, sir; but allow me to ask how this information, of which we are absolutety in need, can be obtained? The report of the effects of the plague on the corpse, can only be obtained at one price, the certain and speedy death of him who makes it. Who would willingly rush on so dreadful a fate?" As the old physician ceased speaking, he fixed his eyes almost unconsciously on the countenance of him whom he had

addressed. The change that suddenly passed over the whole person and manner of the young surgeon was indeed striking. He could not help at once feeling as though he were looked on by all present as the person expected to perform the fatal operation. The enthusiasm which had inspired him fled, and had left him almost powerless to speak or move; his lip quivered an ashy paleness overspread his whole face; the hand which had been firmly laid on the table, while he was so strongly and warmly declaring his confidence of success from the plan he recommended, could now scarcely sustain his trembling frame, as he rested on it for support. He had a young wife, a mother, and two infant children at home, all depending on his exertions for their subsistence. Every one felt for the young man, and the physician who had last spoken turned from him, observing, that they were certainly not immediately called on to point out the person who should perform the operation.

"I have been thinking," said the president of the assembly, "that, although it appears at present impracticable that the corpse of a victim of the plague should be opened without causing the death of the operator, might we not as well consult together as to the possible means of averting the fatal consequences of such an operation? There is one person, now present, I believe, whose powerful genius and superior attainments have rendered him justly celebrated, but who has not spoken among us to-day;" he looked towards Guyon, and the eyes of the whole assembly followed his: " we should feel much gratified by hearing his opinion on this awful subject." Guyon had certainly not spoken; he had been listening with serious attention to those around him, and taking notes of all that passed; he now looked up from the papers before him. "I had studied the question very attentively," he said, modestly, "before I entered this assembly, and I felt convinced there was but one expedient by which the pestilence could be stayed. I am now quite decided on the subject, from the uniform opinion of all present. Allow me also to say, that I am convinced that no precaution can save the life of him who performs the loathsome operation of opening the corpse. Why may we not at once inquire who will be the man to undertake this?" He looked round the assembly, and immediately there was a breathless silence throughout the

hall. Many an eye shrunk beneath his gaze, and the few whose looks encountered it steadily, turned ghastly pale. "I see not," he continued, in a voice of touching sweetness, "not one, whose loss to those who love him, could well be supplied. All are husbands or fathers, or the long treasured hope of aged parents. 1 alone am an orphan, bound to this life by few ties of earthly relationship. You have (I rejoice to say) some confidence in my professional talents, and I do not fear to die. I came here determined to begin the operation to-morrow at day-break; and having now told you my intention, I swear before God, that with his favor, I will fulfil the duty to which I believe He has called me.

Guyon had been an orphan almost from his birth; he had but a few, and those distant, relations, scattered about parts of Provence, far from Marseilles. While yet an infant, his unprotected situation had interested the compassion of the Bishop of Marseilles, who had been ever afterwards his unchanging friend. Guyon, however, had gradually risen to eminence by his own exertions, and at this time was in possession of a considerable fortune. On leaving the Hotel de Ville, he proceeded immediately to the palace of his friend, the bishop, who heard the determination of his young friend with profound silence. Guyon waited for his reply, but the old man only gazed upon him and wept. "Let me leave you now," said Guyon, with a faltering voice, hither to-night." "Yes, my son,” replied the prelate, “I would have you leave me now; this surprise hath half broken my heart: I must not entreat you to renounce the glorious undertaking, and yet I cannot, indeed, I cannot, bid you perform it. Go," he added, in a firmer voice, go from me now, the next few hours must not be lost to you. By God's help I will meet you with strength which I have not at present, but which those who seek with full purpose of spirit, will never fail to find."

"and return

There was one other house to which Guyon now directed his steps, but he often turned from the well-known door, and returned, and turned back again, before he could find heart to enter. It was in a little silent street at the highest part of the city, and its only inhabitants were an old female, her daughter, and one servant. Madame Longard had been as a mother to Guyon: in her house he had passed his boyhood,