led from the bishop’s palace to the pavilion, and along it marched bishops and archbishops leading the way in copes of cloth of gold. Then came the cardinals resplendent in scarlet, knights of St. Michael with their orders, followed by all the great officers of state, whose places and the interval between them were regulated by the strictest etiquette. Among these was Henry, Duke of Guise, then twenty-two years old, one of the handsomest men of the day. Countless fingers were pointed to him, and his reception, compared with that afterward given to the king, reminds us of that so inimitably described by our great dramatic poet: You would have thought the very windows spoke, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage; and that all the walls, With painted imagery, said at once: Jesus preserve thee! welcome! When “the well grac’d actor left the stage,” men’s eyes would have “idly bent” upon the rest of the procession, but that it consisted of the fairest dames and damsels of the court, chief of whom was the bride herself, whose beauty deserved all the raptures that poets have lavished upon it. Ronsard calls her “the fair grace Pasithea,” and compares her hands to the “fingers of young Aurora, rose-dyed and steeped in dew.” At church her dazzling beauty disturbed the devotions of the worshipers. She had just completed her twentieth year: her complexion was clear, her hair black, her eyes full of fire, though at times remarkable for a dreamy languor, which gave her a voluptuous and tender look, as if to indicate a heart that was framed for love. All her movements were full of grace and majesty. She was unrivaled in the dance, and played on the lute and sang with exquisite taste. But there was a frightful reverse to this charming picture: she was untruthful, vain, extravagant, and hoped by her devotion to the forms of religion to atone for the errors of her daily life. In justice, however, to Margaret, let it be said that this last defect was not peculiar to herself or to the sixteenth century; nor dare we affirm that such compromises between God and the world were more common then than they are now. Margaret’s dress on her wedding-day was long the talk of court gossips. In such matters her taste was peculiar and exquisite. Brilliants flamed like stars among her hair; her stomacher was sprinkled with pearls, so as to resemble a silvery coat of mail; her dress was of cloth of gold, and rare lace of the same precious metal fringed her handkerchief and gloves.