the city of Castellane. A procession walked
all round the town, the town council, the
singers whom they appointed, following the
procession at a distance, and chanting loudly
the verses of the Song of the Petard. Every
councillor had at his button-hole a kind of
nosegay made of dry wood with grains of maize
tied to it. This maize had been swelled over
hot ashes, and made an explosive sound when
heated, which served to remind the inhabitants
of Castellane of the explosion of the petard
averted by the device of the Brave Judith.

The famous song of Malbrook is supposed by
the commission to be of a much earlier date
than the battle of Blenheim, and to have been
adapted to the Duke of Marlborough at that
epoch. They base this opinion on internal
evidence, as much in it bears reference to feudal
and chivalrous times. The original mediæval
words (to the same air) had previously been
arranged, so as to bear reference to the Duc de
Guise, who took part in the massacre of St.
Bartholomew. It is also sung to this day by
the Breton peasants, who have little idea how
many traces of former thought and custom
their rude ditty embalms.

Qui veut ouïr chanson? (bis)
C'est du grand Duc de Guise,
Doub, dan, doub, dans, don, don,
     Don, don, don,
Qui est mort et enterré;
Qui est mort et enterré. (bis)
Aux quatr' coins de sa tombe,
     Doub, &c.
Quatr' gentilshom' y avoit, (ter)
Dont l'un portoit le casque
L'autre les pistolets, (bis)
Et l'autre son épée,
Qui tant d'Hugu'nots a tués. (bis)
Venoit le quatrième,
C'étoit le plus dolent,
Après venoient les pages
Et les valets de pied.
Qui portaient de grands crèpes,
Et des souliers cirés;
Et de biaux bas d'estame,
Et des culott's de piau:
Après venoit la femme,
Et touts les biaux enfants,
La cérémonie faite
Chacun s'allit coucher,
Les uns avec leurs femmes,
Et les autres touts seuls.

[Who will hear a song about the great Duke of
Guise, who is dead and buried? At the four corners
of his tomb stood four gentlemen: one bore his
helmet, another his pistols, another the sword which
has slain so many Huguenots; the fourth came, he
was the most doleful of all. After him came the
pages and the footmen, wearing much crape, and
waxed shoes, and fine worsted stockings, and leather
breeches. After them came the wife and all the
pretty children. When the ceremony was ended
they all went home to bed, some with their wives,
and the others all alone.]

The last couplet is the same as the last in
Malbrook.

One can hardly help feeling as if historical
secrets were impressed more deeply upon the
popular mind of France than upon a similar class
of intelligence in England. At any rate, few
traditions existing now amongst us extend
further back than to wars of the Commonwealth.
In Yorkshire, where Cromwell protected the
manufacture of woollen cloths, good times are still
occasionally spoken of as "Oliver's days;" but
in many other places he is spoken of as a kind
of ogre. It is not long since a friend of mine
was looking over an old house which had once
for a short time been inhabited by Cromwell,
and he was shown a great old-fashioned brick
oven, into which (his companion told him) Oliver
used to throw his cooks to be burnt, whenever
they sent him up a dinner that displeased him.
I myself went over an old house in the north of
England not long ago, and tried in vain to
convince the housekeeper that the portrait
of the Duchess of Portsmouth was not that
of "Oliver's miss." She listened with civil,
unbelieving silence, till I ventured to say that
Louise de Quérouaille was better acquainted
with King Charles the Second than with the
stern Cromwell. "Nay," quoth the woman,
indignantly—(the picture of Charles the Second
hung in the same room as that of the Duchess
of Portsmouth)—"he were the real king, it were
Oliver as did all the mischief." But the French
have ballads still extant on historical and national
events (not merely local, like our Chevy Chase),
as far back as the captivity of Francis the First;
and the tragical end of the Duc de Biron (in
our Queen Elizabeth's days) is variously looked
upon in different French ballads, some taking
Biron's part against Henry the Fourth and the
court; another, still current in the department
of the Vosges—where Biron governed for
a time as deputy of the king—mocks his
sorrowful death. But in Brittany he is treated
more tenderly:

LE MARÉCHAL BIRON.

Le roi fut averti par un de ses gendarmes,
"Donnez-vous bien de garde du Maréchal Biron,
II vous f'rait des affaires qui vous coûteraient bon.

—Quelle entreprise a-t-il? dis-le moi, capitaine.
—Faire mourir la reine et monsieur le dauphin,
Et de votre couronne il veut avoir le fin."

Dessus ce propos-là, voilà Biron qui entre,
Le chapeau à. la main au roi fait révérence:
"Bon jour, aimable prince; vous plaîrait-il jouer
Double million d'Espagne que vous m'allez gagner?"

Le roi il lui répond, rougissant de colère:
"Va-t-en trouver la reine, au' elle tu joueras—
Des plaisirs de ce monde longtemps tu ne jouiras."

Biron n'a pas manqué, s'en va trouver la reine:
"Bonjour, aimable reine, vous plaîrait-il jouer
Double million d'Espagne que vous m'allez gagner?"

La reine lui répond, rougissant de colère,
''Je ne joue point au' princes à tant qu'ils sont
     armés;
Mettez à bas vos armes, avec vous je jouerai."

Biron n'a pas manqué, il a mis bas ses armes;
Son épée si brillante, et son poignard joli,
Les a mis par bravade droit au chevet du lit.

N'ont pas trois coups joué, les sergents ils arrivent:
"Bonjour, aimable prince; sans vouloir vous fâcher,
Ce soir à la Bastille il vous faudra coucher."