he turned to the middle, looked at the end, skimmed over the table of contents, fixed on principal passages, and at one place exclaimed, in his broad Italian accent- Mendacium!-Mendacium'!

"The doctor requested him to mark the passages that were untrue, proposed to discuss them afterwards, and said that he had other books on the subject. The mention of other books startled him: he looked anxiously on some books that were on the table, and then gave himself up to the perusal of Dellon's Relation' until bed-time: even then he asked permission to take it to his chamber. The next morning they met less cordial than before. As to Dellon's book, the inquisitor acknowledged that the descriptions were just; but complained that he had mis-judged the motives of the inquisitors and written uncharitably of holy Church. Their conversation grew earnest; and the inquisitor was anxious to impress his visitor with the idea that the Inquisition had undergone a change in some respects, and that its terrors were mitigated.' At length Dr. Buchanan plainly requested to see the Inquisition that he might judge for himself as to the humanity shown to the inmates, according to the inquisitor; and gave as a reason why he should be satisfied his interest in the affairs of India, on which he had written, and his purpose to write on them again, in which case he could scarcely be silent concerning the Inquisition. The countenance of his host fell, and after some further observations he reluctantly promised to comply with the request. On the following day, Dr. Buchanan accompanied the inquisitor to the 'holyhouse,' and was shown the great hall and the apartments of the chief officers; and the narrative proceeds:- Now, father (said 1), lead me to the dungeons below. I want to see the captives.'-'No (said he) that cannot be.' I now began to suspect that it had been in the mind of the inquisitor from the beginning to show me only a certain part of the Inquisition, in the hope of satisfying my enquiries in a general way. I urged him with earnestness; but he steadily resisted and seemed offended, or rather agitated, by my importunity. I intimated to him plainly that the only way to do justice to his own assertion and arguments regarding the present state of the Inquisition was to show me the prisons and the captives. I should then describe only what I saw; but now the subject was left in awful obscurity. Lead me down (said I) to the inner building, and let me pass through the two hundred dungeons, ten feet described by your square, former сарtives. Let me count the number of your present captives and converse with them. I want to see if there be any subjects of the British Government to whom we owe protection. I want to ask how long they have been here-how long it is since they have seen the light of the sun, and whether they ever expect to see it again. Show me the chamber of torture, and declare what modes of execution or of punishment are now practised inside of the walls of the Inquisition in lieu of the public Auto da fe. If after all that has passed, father, you resist this reasonable request, I shall be justified in believing that you are afraid of exposing the real state of the Inquisition in India.'

"To these observations the inquisitor made no reply, but seemed impatient that I should withdraw. My good father (said I), I am about to take my leave of you, and thank you for your hospitable at

tentions; and I wish always to preserve on my mind a favourable sentiment of your kindness and candour. You cannot, you say, show me the captives and the dungeons: be pleased then merely to answer this question, for I shall believe your words-How many prisoners are there now below in the cells of the Inquisition?' The inquisitor replied-That is a question which I cannot answer. On his pronouncing these words, I retired towards the door and wished him farewell. We shook hands with as much cordiality as we could at the moment assume; and both of us, I believe, were sorry that our parting was with clouded countenances. In passing through the hall, Dr. Buchanan saw a poor woman sitting by the wall: she clasped her hands and looked at him imploringly. The doctor pointed to her and said with emphasis: Behold, father, another victim of the holy Inquisition! (203).

Such, therefore, may be regarded as the present state of the Inquisition wherever it is suffered to exist. Its character is not changed; but the exercise of its cruelties is confined within its own walls, because the change in public opinion in most of the countries of Europe will not now admit of their open display. But it is manifestly the endeavour of the Roman priesthood to render the rising generation ignorant and ferocious: they would brutalize them by withholding education, while ministering continual stimulants to the savage propensities of the lower orders in Papal countries; and some of the acts of incendiarism, which have been perpetrated at their instigation_in Ireland, approach very nearly in guilt to Autos da fé. For houses are fired in the dead of night with the intention of consuming all the inmates for no other reason than their having received Protestant lodgers.

In bigotry, intolerance, and cruelty, Romanism remains the same as in the darkest ages. It has not changed in this respect nor can it change; for it exists only by such means as these, and let in the light upon Romanism and it would soon cease to exist. The present Pope tried for a short time to reconcile Romanism with the advanced state of knowledge in the rest of Europe, so as to remove the stigma of ultramontanism which is become the synonyme for ignorance and brutality. But, alas, it would not do! His cardinals and the Jesuits would not bear it. And the dog is returned to his vomit, or rather the dispossessed has become the prey of seven other spirits worse than the first.

We have been able to do no more than present a few leading points in this history of the Inquisition, and must refer such of our readers as desire further information to the work itself. It is very full, and mostly derived from original and authentic sources, and so far as we are able to speak is trustworthy and not exaggerated.

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ART. VII.-Euvres du Bibliophile Paul Jacob; Revues et Corrigées. Paris: 1850.

IN our Review last year of the Marquis de Bouillé's great work upon the Dukes of Guise, it was therein stated that the first Duke of Guise unhorsed the first Duke of Suffolk at a tournament given in honour of the nuptials of the sister of Henry VIII. with Louis XII., King of France. The Duke of Guise hated the marriage; but he was wrong in detesting Suffolk as the maker of the match, that last-named nobleman having been himself intensely in love with the lady.

She was the lady of many lovers. A king wooed her, yet she died the wife of a subject. That subject was in her train. He loved one, but he lived to marry three. A more remarkable personage still in the suite of Mary, when on her progress to the nuptial altar at Abbeville, was a young lady who was courted by many a sighing noble, but who became the consort and the victim of a king. These two attendants of the Princess Mary were Charles Brandon, who had recently won his dukedom on the field of Flodden; and Lady Anne Boleyn, destined to be greater and less happy than the illustrious lady whom she now served.

Mary of England had been promised to Albert of Austria. When Tournay opened its gates (1514) to the Leopards of England, the hand of the young girl (she was but 16) was engaged to Charles of Spain, and the marriage ceremony was to be solemnized at Calais. A change in the political atmosphere worked mutation in love's diplomacy too. Charles of Spain espoused Renée the daughter of Louis XII.; while Louis, with a shattered constitution and more than half a century of winters to oppress it, offered his shaking hand and a share in his diseased greatness to the royal lady thus harshly flung from prince to prince. There were but two dukes in England at the time and she loved one of them; but she loved in vain. Blooming May must to shivering January. Her royally imperious brother swore it by God's splendour." Mary smiled faintly upon Suffolk, and the gallant lover took his trembling lady by the hand; and in her escort, of which Norfolk was chief, led her to the greatness forced upon her, and the couch she coveted not at priestly Abbeville. She vowed scanty thanks to St. Wulphran as the royal galley which bore her and her fortunes plunged and tumbled through the sea on its bridal way to Boulogne. The whole race of curiosity-stricken Picards had crowded around the old tower of Caligula, on the heights, to greet the arrival from

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Britain of the successor to their late queen, Anne of Brittany. But they were disappointed; and so, indeed, was Mary. The royal tub in which she lay disgusted would by no maritime persuasion be induced to make Boulogne. The sun had gone down, and the night, the wind, and the sea, had all arisen together with triple terrors. Every galley that followed in the wake of the bride was as obstinate as the royal yacht itself. As morning broke the whole squadron went ashore with a mischievous alacrity about three leagues to the east of Boulogne. The princess, her suite, two thousand archers of King Henry's guard, a levy of very pale knights and paler ladies, with a multitude of sick and helpless domestics, stood joyless on the sands. The cannon, which were incessantly emptying their brazen throats at Boulogne in a guess-sort of greeting at the presumed propinquity of the bridal party, seemed to mock the latter's condition. It was a cheerless one enough, but there were means, hands, and ready hearts to better it. There is still a little hut on the spot, and it is said to have been for some hours the temporary palace of the young Queen Consort. Around it speedily arose, and that with a magical rapidity, an encampment really gay and glorious. Tents composed of brilliant striped silks dotted the ground. Hundreds of pennons fluttered above and around them, making the melancholy marshes for once look glad. When the Duc de Longueville and the deputation from the royal and expectant husband arrived from Boulogne at this congress of saucy-looking camps, they declined to believe that the landing had been forced. There was such an air of preparation that the impromptu quarters seemed to have been most thoughtfully cared for. At this very day there is a tradition among the local hearths and their loquacious gossips that "Madame Marie d'Angleterre" preferred the open coast to the close town, and chance greetings to those elaborately got by heart, and perhaps in spite of it. The greetings, however, of the fishy population of the district were hardly less venal than if they had been uttered by gallants in slashed hose. They cried lustily Noel! and Dieu Gard! aud picked up their largesse, while Mary stood with tears in her eyes gazing over the sea towards her old home. The weeping princess was, undoubtedly, in less sorry plight than appearances would have warranted for assuming. She was so well cared for, in short, that her presence there was, naturally enough, attributed more to her own irresistible caprice than to the invincible obstinacy of her galley. When Longueville entered the palatial hut he must have felt something of the doubting wonder of the awakened sleeper, Abou Hassan. Whether viewing the general effect or the details, he probably did full justice to the talents and taste

of Mary's master of the wardrobe, Andrew de Windsor. The properties had been all at hand in the little fleet, and the Court master-of-spectacles had exercised his craft with vigour and effect. The writer, so well known in France under his pseudonym of "Le Bibliophile Jacob," has entered, in one of his chronicles, into long details of the glories that environed Mary on this occasion. We can only humbly and modestly follow in the steps of the huge labourer in literary harvest-fields. From his full sheaves drop many a rich ear worth the gleaning, and these are of them.

There was but one room in the hut, but out of it courtly ingenuity had made a gay saloon and a cheerful bed-chamber. The bare walls were forgotten beneath a tapestry of cloth of gold, rich in quaint devices worked thereon, in crimson silk, and framed in one uniform velvet border; while over the shingled floor was spread a tapis de verdure, on which Boccaccio's ladies might have lain and laughed. The couch of the princess was surrounded with purple velvet hangings blazing in the bloom of the reddest of roses, and graceful in fringed extremities of cerulean silk and golden thread. A chair of cloth of gold and purple tissue awaited to be pressed by the heroine of the passing scene; while tabourets and ottomans from the royal yacht, all bearing the Lancastrian rose, were arranged for the service of those who, by privilege or power, were not compelled to stand in the presence of royalty that chose to be recumbent. The "Pearl of England," as Henry, with mingled pride and affection, called his peerless sister, was worthy of all the praise awarded her by admirers on either side of the channel. Sixteen summers had steeped her in beauty: the gem was even more costly than the casket, and her wit was as rare as her features were charming. Her smile is said to have been unusually enchanting, and her teeth were of so brilliant a whiteness that her laugh was as welcome to the eye as to the ear. Usually her blue eyes were bathed in gladness, and on her young cheek sat enthroned a thoughtful content, a resignation, perhaps, to what was, with an unrefining yet saddened memory of what might have been. Her shape was graceful and her heart was kind her courtesy captivated all who came to bid her welcome; and, as her French was that of Paris and not of "Stratford-leBow," she was doubly welcome to those whose homage she had come to claim as the consort of their king. Next to her speech and person, the admiration of the French was excited by her trousseau, or what would now be called by that name. Golconda's mines and. India's looms, Asia's slaves and China's worms, had contributed to its fulness and its splendour. The

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