even in blossom, upon the tree so copiously watered with our blood, by Berryer-the fathers of the Revolution, those noble spirits looking down upon us from the heights of heaven, by Guizot:-all this is the eloquence of imagery.

CORMENIN.

MARTIN LUTHER.

Luther is a Lollard, the singer, not of a smothered song, in a low voice, but of a song louder than thunder-a singer in whose heroic voice sun and joy shine forth. Oh well-deserved joy! and how justified this great man was in being joyful! What revolution ever had a more noble origin? He himself tells how the thing came upon him, and how he had the courage to accomplish that which his education made him consider as the "most extreme misery." He was moved with pity for the people. He saw them eaten up by their priests, devoured by their nobles, and sucked by their kings, looking forward to nothing beyond this life of sufferings but an eternity of sufferings, and taking the bread out of their very mouths to purchase of scoundrels their redemption from hell. He was moved with pity for the people, and found again in the tenderness of his heart the old song of the Lollard, and the consolation: "Sing, poor man, all is forgiven thee."

The Maid of Orleans, to those who asked her the reason why she had taken up arms, answered, "The pity that was in the kingdom of France." Luther would have answered, "The pity that was in the kingdom of God." It was not a verse of St. Paul, an old text so often reproduced without action, that

renewed the world: it was the tenderness, the force of the mighty heart of Luther, his song, his heroic joy.

Faith, hope, charity, these are indeed three divine virtues; but we must add that virtue, rare and sublime, of the purest hearts-for want of a better name, I call it joy. The condemnation of the Middle Ages, of all their great mystics, is this: "Not one had joy." How could they have had it? They were all ailing. They have groaned, languished, and waited. They died in expectation, without even catching a glimpse of the ages of action and light which we have reached so late. They loved much, but their love, so vague and full of suspicious subtleties, never freed itself from misty thoughts. They remained sad and uneasy. On the contrary, the blessing of God, which was in Luther, appeared especially in this, that, the first amongst men since antiquity, he had joy, and heroic cheerfulness. It sparkled and shone forth in him, in every form. He had that great gift fully. The joy of the inventor, happy to have found and happy to impart, that which smiles in the dialogues of Galileo, which bursts forth with a naïve pride in Linnæus, in Keppler. The joy of the fighter in the midst of battles, his noble anger, with a triumphant laughter, louder than the trumpets with which Joshua broke down Jericho. The joy of the truly strong one, of the hero, firm upon the rock of conscience, serene against all the perils and all the evils of the world. Such the great Beethoven, when, old, isolated, deaf, with a colossal effort he composed the Hymn to Joy.

And above these joys of strength, Luther had those of the heart, those of man, the innocent happi

ness of the family, and of home. What family more holy, and what home more pure?... A hospitable and sacred table, where myself, so long admitted, have found so many divine fruits, on which my heart still lives. . . With his little John Luther, I would go and follow the good doctor to the orchard, where tenderly, gravely, he preached to the birds; or again among the ripe corn, which made him weep with gratitude and love of God.

That is the modern man, and the father of you all. To whatever degree of seriousness and virile firmness our age may attain in its via sacra, let us acknowledge and bless the starting-point, truly touching, human, from whence we soared onwards, the good and strong hand of the great Luther, who poured out to us, in his gothic glass, the wine of the journey. That wine was the assurance that he gave to man, which roused him up, and sent him on his way. Many and many suffered so much

Luther swore it,

a time had the poor people who had been told that they were forgiven. made himself believed, and the world, reassured against vain terrors, launched into action.

How could the people not have believed that pure, and strong, and loyal voice, which is that of the people? All believe, all are joyful. They embrace one another in the market-places, as they did afterwards all over Europe for the fall of the Bastille. A song begins, wonderfully joyful, the Marseillaise of Luther, "My stronghold is my God." He composed the air and the words. And he went from city to city, from market-place to market-place, and from inn to inn, with his flute or his lute. All the world followed him.

MICHELET," Histoire de France."

THE GRADUAL PROGRESS OF ENGLISH LIBERTY.

It is but little more than a century that modern England has enjoyed that plenitude of liberty which her constitution was preparing for her. Through what bloody struggles, through what long eclipses, through what cruel misgivings, has she not passed before arriving at that full and peaceful possession of herself! How often, from the reign of King John to that of George II., has not the honest and patriotic Englishman had to doubt of the future destinies of his country, of the triumph of right, and of the maintenance of his dearest liberties! Those who have persevered-who have trusted-who have hoped against hope, have been finally right; but it has been only by dint of courage, of patience, and a robust faith in the good cause, and in good sense, that they have been justified, and rewarded by the enjoyment of that constitution which has cost them so dear, but which is worth all it has cost, and which has won the admiration of the most elevated and the most varied minds, from Montesquieu to the Count de Maistre.

Such is the supreme lesson which English society offers to those who might feel their faith in liberty, and their confidence in a limited government, shaken by recent events. Such, also, is the consolation which those should derive from it who prefer the proud and patient resignation of a defeat to a dishonourable complicity in the triumph of what they have all their life long either fought against or despised.

MONTALEMBERT, "Avenir Politique de l'Angleterre."

APPENDIX.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.

1.-JEAN CALVIN (1509-1564), born at Noyon, in Picardy, has been justly called one of the "fathers of French prose." His great work, L'Institution Chrétienne, is no less remarkable for the vigour and the precision of its style, than for the clearness and the force of its logic. While seeking a refuge from the persecution of the Sorbonne, on account of his advocacy of the doctrines of the Reformation, he was invited to Geneva, where he was appointed to a chair of Theology; and after long struggles and a three years' exile at Strasbourg, he eventually became the absolute master of the republic, and established at Geneva the most despotic form of theocratic government. It is to be regretted that this great Reformer should have tarnished his reputation by his inconsistent severity.

2.-FRANÇOIS RABELAIS (1488-1553), born at Chinon, in Touraine, successively a monk, a physician, and the curé of Meudon, has exhibited to an extraordinary degree, in his Pantagruel, the genius of mockery and satire, and the art of mixing up the serious with the ridiculous. But although abounding in learning, wit, and humour, his writings are revolting by their coarseness.