France had heard and seen the most woful scene which the page of history, in the eighteenth century, presents; the national blood-thirst might, perhaps, have raged less violently.

The king gently forced the queen to seat herself at his right hand; he drew his sister to his left. Each leant her head on his shoulder, while he passed his arms round them. The young princess, the Antigone of modern history, who, in her pilgrimage of woe, is still our contemporary on earth, bowed her head on her father's kneesher fair flowing curls sweeping dishevelled on the stones. The dauphin sat on his father's knee, with one arm round his neck. The tears of this loving group flowed, without words, for more than half an hour; for, whenever either tried to speak, the voice could only express agonising cries, piercing enough to be heard in the streets nearest to the Temple donjon. These outbursts were only moderated by physical exhaustion, and calmer communion lasted, in low murmuring voices for more than two hours. The commissioners then approached the glass door to intimate that they must part.

The king rose, and clasped his family all in one long embrace. The queen threw herself at his feet, and entreated him to remain the night with them. He alleged the necessity of rest to prepare himself to go through the morrow's tragedy with beseeming firmness. He promised to see them at eight in the morning.

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Why not at seven?" asked the queen.

"Well, then, at seven," replied the royal victim.

The queen, as she crossed the ante-chamber, clung to her husband's breast, the princess and his sister encircled

him with their arms, whilst the dauphin, hanging on his hand, looked earnestly and piteously up in his face.

When the king, at the foot of the staircase, blessed

them with a last adieu, the young princess, his daughter, fell fainting on his feet. Her aunt and the faithful Clêry raised her, and the sad group lost sight of their king and relative for ever on earth.

Without following him to the scaffold, or them to their grief, the opportunity may be taken here of observing, that, among the other tortures, mental and bodily, inflicted on the harmless child who bore the dolorous title of the dauphin, and Louis XVII., no one but his sister has pointed out the agony of supernatural terror. It appears that, after his mother was dragged away to suffer execution, with tenfold the agony and insult inflicted on his father, he was left, in the long dark nights of the succeeding winter, in one of those dreary upper dungeons, in utter loneliness, aggravated by the ever-active imagination of a child. His cries reached the ears of his sister. How dreadful to her to hear those cries, without the power of flying to his relief!

The silent atrophy of despair into which the anguish of the sensitive victim subsided, has also been described by his royal sister with pathetic simplicity. How often must these orphans of the Temple, left alone in the pitiless hands of the regicides of Paris, have thought of the orphan son and daughter of Charles I., in the doleful solitude of Carisbroke Castle. The situation of the orphans of Louis XVI. suffered a bitter aggravation of misery, for they were separated. There was also this difference in their fates, that the son of Louis and the daughter of Charles both perished, like rudely trampled flowers, from the neglect and hard usage they experienced, while the daughter of Louis and the son of Charles lived to obtain their liberty, and to share in a temporary restoration of the high distinctions of which they had been deprived.

THE NUNS OF ROYAL LIEU.

It was the reign of terror-Paris rang

Through all her stormy streets with sounds of woe, And wrath, and horror; there was ceaseless clang Of arms, and eager rushing to and fro Of murderous bands, who in dread descant sang The wild Marsellois chant, not deep and low, As erst it rose, but thundered as the proud Infuriate chorus of a lawless crowd.

And there were shrieks of agony from some,
Mixt with the multitude's discordant yells;

And distant notes of the alarum drum,

And joyless pealing of unhallowed bells,

Then the suppressed and melancholy hum,

"New victims are at hand.-The death-march tells

Their near approach; and those who would remain Secure, from signs of pity must refrain."

And hard the task to many, for there were
Bright forms in that devoted company
Of consecrated maidens, young and fair,
Whose loveliness attracted every eye:
Yet had by ruffian hands been rudely there

Dragged from their convent's peaceful shades, to die Amidst the brutal rabble's jests profane

To whom meek innocence appealed in vain.

But yet there was no trait of female fear;

What time they passed those murderous ranks between; Unveiled they passed, and not a single tear

Or sign of grief amidst that train was seen. E'en when the fatal guillotine was near,

Their looks were still unruffled and serene, And radiant with the bright expression given By faith and raptured communings with heaven.

There did their hopes in perfect trust repose;

And they repined not that the path should be
Stormy and short, that led them to the close
Of this dark pilgrimage of misery;
While in sweet unison divinely rose

Their voices, "Father, we return to thee!
Ours is the glorious crown of martyrdom!
Oh! Holy Spirit, come!- Creator, come!"

The heavenly strains continued, even when
They mounted the dread scaffold's fatal stair,
In sounds more wildly thrilling; and they then
Gave such unearthly sweetness to the air,