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Y AND

LATIONS

corridor, and ascended the car, which was waiting for her before the prison door. No one accompanied her, no one bade her a last farewell, not a look of pity or compassion was bestowed upon her by her keepers.

Alone, between the rows of gens d'armes that were placed along the sides of the corridor, the queen advanced, Samson walking behind her, carrying the end of the rope with which the queen's hands were bound, and behind him his two assistants and the priest. This is the retinue of the queen, the daughter of an emperor, on the way to her execution!

It may be that at this hour thousands are on their knees, offering their fervent prayers to God in behalf of Marie Antoinette, whom, in their hearts, they continued to call "the queen;" it may be that thousands are pouring out tears of compassion for her who now mounts the wretched car, and sits down on the board which is bound by ropes to the sides of the vehicle. But those who are praying and weeping have withdrawn to the solitude of their own apartments, and only God can see their tears and hear their cries. The eyes which witnessed the queen in this last drive were not allowed to shed a tear; the words which followed her on her last way could express no compassion.

All Paris knew the hour of the execution, and the people were ready to witness it. On the streets, at the windows, on the roofs, immense masses had congregated, and the whole Place de la Révolution (now the Place de la Concorde) was filled with a dark, surging crowd.

And now the drums of the guards stationed before the Conciergerie began to beat. The great white horse (which drew the car in which the queen sat, side by side with the priest, and facing backward), was driven forward by a man who was upon his back. Behind Marie Antoinette were Samson and his assistants.

The queen was pale, all the blood had left her cheeks and lips, but her eyes were red! Poor queen, she bore even then the marks of much weeping! But she could shed no tears then! Not a single one obscured her eye as her look ranged, gravely and calmly, over the mass, up the houses to the very roofs, then slowly down, and then away over the boundless sea of human faces.

Her face was as cold and grave as her eyes, her lips were firmly compressed; not a quiver betrayed whether she was suffer

ing, and whether she shrank from the thousand and ten thousand scornful and curious looks which were fixed upon her. And yet Marie Antoinette saw it all! She saw a woman raise a child, she saw the child throw her a kiss with its little hand! At that the queen gave way for an instant, her lips quivered, her eyes were darkened with a tear! This solitary sign of human sympathy reanimated the heart of the queen, and gave her a little fresh life.

But the people took good care that Marie Antoinette should not carry this one drop of comfort to the end of her journey. The populace thronged around the car, howled, groaned, sang ribald songs, clapped their hands, and pointed their fingers in derision at Madame Veto.

The queen, however, remained calm, her gaze wandering coldly over the vast multitude; only once did her eyes flash on the route. It was as she passed the Palais Royal, where Philippe Egalité, once the Duke d' Orleans, lived, and read the inscription which he had caused to be placed over the main entrance of the palace.

At noon the car reached its destination. It came to a halt at the foot of the scaffold; Marie Antoinette dismounted, and then walked slowly and with erect head up the steps.

Not once during her dreadful ride had her lips opened, not a complaint had escaped her, not a farewell had she spoken. The only adieu which she had to give on earth was a look-one long, sad look-directed toward the Tuileries; and as she gazed at the great pile her cheeks grew paler, and a deep sigh escaped from her lips.

Then she placed her head under the guillotine, ary, breathless silence followed.

a moment

Samson lifted up the pale head that had once belonged to the

Queen of France, and the people greeted the sight with the cry

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG.

MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS, an American clergyman, hymn-writer, and hymnologist, born in Philadelphia, September 16, 1796; died in New York, April 8, 1877. He was graduated at the University of Pennsylvania in 1814; took orders in the Episcopal Church, and in 1821 became rector of St. James's Church, Lancaster, Pa. In 1828 he founded a school at Flushing, Long Island, which he conducted until 1845, when he became rector of the Free Church of the Holy Communion, New York, which had been erected by his sister Mrs. Rogers. He was active in establishing St. Luke's Hospital, which was opened in 1859, he being its first pastor and superintendent, retaining that position until his death. He pub lished many tracts, sermons, and hymns.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

I WOULD not live alway- live alway below,
Oh, no, I'll not linger when bidden to go:
The days of our pilgrimage granted us here.

Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer.

Would I shrink from the paths which the prophets of God.

Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod?

While brethren and friends are all hastening home,

Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam?

I would not live alway. I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
Where, seeking for peace, we but hover around,
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air,
Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair;
And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,
Save the gloom of the plumage that bears him away.

I would not live alway- thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without, and corruption within;
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain
Scarce the victory's mine e'er I 'm captive again.