threw off the black robe which she had worn since the death of Louis, and put on a poor, patched, threadbare gown of white. In her white cap she left a single black ribbon as the token of her widowhood. Thus arrayed for the guil – lotine, she waited the summons, while the scum of Parisian women thronged about the gratings, thirsting for the blood of the Austrian. Her journey in the ignominious cart to the place of execution has been a hundred times described, and the least vivid description it is hardly possible to read without tears. The air was full of insulting cries-" Live the Republic!" "Place for the Austrian!" Room for the Widow Capet!" The jolting of the cart-for her poor hands were bound-rendered it difficult for her to keep her seat. 'These are not your cushions of Trianon," screamed the mob. No tears moistened her swollen eyes, until the cart stopped, for a moment, before the garden gate of the Tuilleries-the scene of her royal greatness-and then the scalding drops fell upon the knees above which her head was bending. Standing upon the platform awaiting her executioner who trembled more than she did, she looked towards the tower of the Temple where her children were ; "Adieu," she said, "I go to rejoin your father!" Though she knelt and uttered a half audible prayer, something of the great soul of her mother animated her in that dread hour-she seemed to despise her murderers and to be eager

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for her last moment.

The axe falls; France is forever dishonored; put to shame forever in history, not by the crime of this needless outrage, but by the thousand hateful circumstances which attended it--disgraced not by the deed itself, but by the savage mania which prohibited a natural remorse and a human grief at such a torture and at such a death. In the presence of so dark a fate, criticism pauses and censure is dumb, faults are forgotten and we think only of the wife, the widow and the mother. Hers was indeed the broadest and the bitterest revenge in history-for no wild democrat of either sex raised hand or voice against her who will not be detested by the race to the end--who will not be hated of women and abhorred of men, until time shall be no more.

THE IRISHMAN'S PANORAMA.

JAMES S. BURDETT.

ADIES and gintlemen: In the foreground over thare yer'll observe Vinegar Hill, and should yer be goin' by that way some day, yer moight be fatigued, an' if yer ar' yer'll foind at the fut o' the hill a nate little cot kept by a man name McCarty, who, be the way, is as foine a lad as yor'll mate in a day's march. I see by the hasp on the door that McCarty's out, or I'd take yes in an' introduce yer. A foine, noble, ginerous fellar this McCarty, shure, an' if he had but the wan peratie he'd give yer half it, an' phot's more, he'd thank yer for takin' it. (Move the crank, James. Music be the bagpipes, Larry.)

Ladies an' gintlemen: We've now arrived at a beautiful shpot, situated about twinty moiles this side o' Limerick. To the left over thare yer'll see a hut be the side of which is sated a lady an' gintleman; well, as I was goin' that way wan day, the following conversation I heard 'twixt him an' her. Says she to him: "James, it's a shame for yer to be ratin' me so-yer moind the time yer came to me father's castle a-beggin'!" "Yer father's castle, me woife? shure

yer could shtand on the outside, stick yer arm down the chimney, pick peraties out o' the pot, and divil a partition betwixt you and the hogs but shtraw! (Move the crank, James, etc.)

Ladies and gintlemen: We are now arrived at the beautiful and classical Lakes of Killarney. Thare's a curious legend connected wid dese lakes that I mus' relate to yer. It is that every avenin', at foor o'clock in the afternoon, a beautiful swan is seen to make its appearance, and while movin' along transcendently and glidelessly, ducks its limbs, skips under the water, and yer'll not see him again till the next afternoon. (Turn the crank, James, etc.)

Ladies and gintleman: We have no' arrived at another beautiful shpot, situated about thirteen an' a half miles this side of Coruk. This is a grate place, noted for shportsmen, an' phile shtopping over thare at the Hotel de Finney, the following tilt of a conversation occurred betwixt Mr. Muldooney, the waiter, and meself. I says to him, says I, Mully, ould boy, will you have the kindness to fetch me in the mustard?" an' he was a long time bringin' it, an' I opportuned him for kapin' me, and says he to me, says he, "Mr. McCune (that's me), I notice that you take a great dale of mustard wid your mate." "I do," says I. Says he. I notice that you take a blame sight of mate wid your mustard." (Move the crank, James, etc.)

Ladies and gintlemen: Before I close my Panarammat I'll show you one more picture.

While travelling in the States, some years ago, for the benefit of my health, I took the cars for Chin-chin-nat-ti, State of Oh ho-ho, on me way to Mont-real and Quebecque, in Can-a-da down the river Saint Larry o mae, till a place called Buff-lo, after which I struck a party going about eighteen an' a half miles north, till a place celebrated for its great waterfall, an' called Ni-a-ga-ra.

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While passin', by the Falls wan evenin' I overheard the followin' remarks pass between a lady an' gintleman. Says he to her, Mary Ann," says he, cast your eyes up on that ledge of rocks, and see that vast body of water a-rushin' down over the precipice. Isn't that a great curiosity?" "I know that," says she, "but fou'dent it be a greater curiosity if they'd all turn round and pass back again ?"

(James, turn the crank. Larry, give us "Home, Swate Home.")