by heart all the Christmas carols, ancient and modern. Formed under their auspices, our parrot soon equalled his instructors. He acquired even their very tone, giving it all the pious lengthiness, the holy sighs, and languishing cadences, of the singing of the dear sisters, groaning little doves.

The renown of merit like this was not to be confined to a cloister. In all Nevers, from morning till night, nothing was talked of but the darling scenes exhibited by the parrot of the blessed nuns. People came as far as from Moulins to see him. Ver-Vert never budged out of the parlour. Sister Melanie, in her best stomacher, held him, and made the spectators remark his tints, his beauties, his infantine sweetness. The bird sat at the receipt of victory. And yet even these attractions were forgotten when he spoke. Polished, rounded, brimful of the pious gentilities which the younger aspirants had taught him, our illustrious parrot commenced his recitation. Every instant a new charm developed itself; and what was remarkable, nobody fell asleep. His hearers listened; they hummed, they applauded. He, nevertheless, trained to perfection, and convinced of the nothingness of glory, always withdrew into the recesses of his heart, and triumphed with modesty. Closing his beak, and dropping into a low tone of voice, he bowed himself with sanctity, and so left his world edified. He uttered nothing under a gentility or a dulcitude; that is to say, with the exception of a few words of

scandal or so, which crept from the convent-grate into the parlour.

Thus lived, in this delectable nest, like a master, a saint, and a true sage as he was, Father Ver-Vert, dear to more than one Hebe; fat as a monk, and not less reverend; handsome as a sweetheart; knowing as an abbé; always loved, and always worthy to be loved; polished, perfumed, cockered up, the very pink of perfection: happy, in short, if he had never travelled.

But now comes the time of miserable memory, the critical minute in which his glory is to be eclipsed. O guilt! O shame! O cruel recollection! Fatal journey, why must we see thy calamities beforehand? Alas! a great name is a perilous thing. Your retired lot is by much the safest. Let this example, my friends, show you, that too many talents, and too flattering a success, often bring in their train the ruin of one's virtue.

The renown of thy brilliant achievements, VerVert, spread itself abroad on every side, even as far as Nantes. There, as everybody knows, is another meek fold of the reverend Mothers of the Visitation,-ladies, who, as elsewhere in this country of ours, are by no means the last to know everything. To hear of our parrot was to desire to see him; and desire, at all times and in everybody, is a devouring flame. Judge what it must be in a nun.

Behold, then, at one blow, twenty heads turned for a parrot, The ladies of Nantes wrote to Nevers,

VOL. II.

H

to beg that this bewitching bird might be allowed to come down to the Loire, and pay them a visit. The latter is sent off; but when, ah, when will come the answer? In something less than a fortnight. What an age! Letter upon letter is despatched, entreaty on entreaty. There is no more sleep in the house. Sister Cecilie will die of it.

At length the epistle arrives at Nevers. Tremendous event! A chapter is held upon it. Dismay follows the consultation. "What! lose VerVert! O heavens! What are we to do in these desolate holes and corners without the darling bird! Better to die at once!" Thus spoke one of the younger sisters, whose heart, tired of having nothing to do, still lay open to a little innocent pleasure. To say the truth, it was no great matter to wish to keep a parrot, in a place where no other bird was to be had. Nevertheless, the older nuns determined upon letting the charmer go;- for a fortnight. Their prudent heads didn't choose to embroil themselves with their sisters of Nantes.

This bill, on the part of their ladyships, produced great disorder in the commons. What a sacrifice! Is it in human nature to consent to it? "Is it true?" quoth sister Seraphine:-"What! live, and Ver-Vert away!" In another quarter of the room, thrice did the vestry-nun turn pale; four times did she sigh; she wept, she groaned, she fainted, she lost her voice. The whole place is in mourning. I know not what prophetic finger traced the journey

The

in black colours; but the dreams of the night redoubled the horrors of the day. In vain. fatal moment arrives; everything is ready; courage must be summoned to bid adieu. Not a sister but groaned like a turtle; so long was the widowhood she anticipated. How many kisses did not VerVert receive on going out! They retain him: they bathe him with tears: his attractions redouble at every step. Nevertheless, he is at length outside the walls; he is gone; and out of the monastery, with him, flies love!

CHAPTER III.

Lamentable state of manners in the boat which carries our hero down the Loire.-He becomes corrupted. His biting the nun that came to meet him-Ecstacy of the other nuns on hearing of his arrival.

THE same vagabond of a boat which contained the sacred bird, contained also a couple of giggling damsels, three dragoons, a wet nurse, a monk, and two garçons; pretty society for a young thing just out of a monastery!

Ver-Vert thought himself in another world. It was no longer texts and orisons with which he was treated, but words which he never heard before, and those words none of the most Christian. The dragoons, a race not eminent for devotion, spoke no

language but that of the ale-house. All their hymns to beguile the road were in honour of Bacchus; all their moveable feasts consisted only in those of the ordinary. The garçons and the three new graces kept up a concert in the taste of the allies. The boatmen cursed and swore, and made horrible rhymes; taking care, by a masculine articulation, that not a syllable should lose its vigour. Ver-Vert, melancholy and frightened, sat dumb in a corner. He knew not what to say or think.

In the course of the voyage, the company resolved to "fetch out" our hero. The task fell on Brother Lubin the monk, who in a tone very unlike his profession, put some questions to the handsome forlorn. The benign bird answered in his best manner. He sighed with a formality the most finished, and said in a pedantic tone, "Hail, Sister!"-At this "Hail," you may judge whether the hearers shouted with laughter. Every tongue fell on poor Father Parrot.

Our novice bethought within him, that he must have spoken amiss. He began to consider, that if he would be well with the fair portion of the company, he must adopt the style of their friends. Being naturally of a daring soul, and having been hitherto well fumed with incense, his modesty was not proof against so much contempt. Ver-Vert lost his patience; and in losing his patience, alas! poor fellow, he lost his innocence. He even began, inwardly, to mutter ungracious curses against the