not be guillotined, as she had not committed any crime. "Then," said she, "I will force you to let me die with him," and she immediately filled the air with cries of "Vive le roi!" At this detested name, the momentary interest she had excited, vanished. She was loaded with the most revolting abuse by the same degraded women who before had taken her part. The melancholy procession again moved on. She threw her arm round her brother's neck, with a look which a stranger to the scene might have mistaken for that of joy.

In those days of terror, Paris presented the aspect of a large city rendered desolate by some dire pestilence, or deserted by its inhabitants. Every window, every shop was closed on the way to the guillotine. No sound was heard; no being was seen to disturb, by the noise of his steps, the death-like stillness of those forsaken streets. The appalling silence was interrupted only by the ferocious and abandoned creatures who daily attended, with curses and execrations, the victims to the scene of their last suffering. These now thronged round the cart, and with savage joy insulted the prisoners as they, one by ascended the steps which led to the scaffold. One of these monsters spit in the face of St. George's sister, and rudely tore off the handkerchief which covered her neck. A faint blush passed over her pale features: she turned to the woman, and, with a smile of angelic sweetness, said to her, "My good woman, insult me if you will; but do not expose my person: give me back the

one,

handkerchief." The fury was awed by her mild dignity, and, without saying a word, replaced the shawl on her shoulders.

When all the prisoners were on the scaffold, they embraced each other. St. George wrung my hand in silence; his sister gracefully presented to me hers, which I pressed to my heart. A film came over my sight-I saw no more: but oh! that sound!-methinks I hear it still; it was that of the axe which terminated their existence. I heard no more, but felt myself covered with their blood. I grew dizzy, and reeled back with horror, and should have fallen, had not a soldier, more humane than the rest, supported me. A flood of tears came at last to my relief, I recovered the consciousness of my situation, I flew away from that horrible spectacle, and the next day quitted for ever a land where Liberty was outraged by every sort of crime committed in her name.

Ballitore.

T. E. S.

SKETCH OF AN EVENING SCENE.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

THE summer breeze is hushed-the light waves sleep On the smooth bosom of the silent deep;

Its boundless flood expanding far and free,

Meet symbol of a blessed eternity!
Bathed in the lustre of the sinking beam,
Far as mine eye can reach, the waters gleam,
Unnumbered dyes of ever-changing hue,
Still intermingling with the clear sea-blue;
There the sweet sapphire's violet hues are seen,
The pure resplendence of the emerald green;
And there the amethyst's pale purple glows,
The ruby there, a flood of crimson, flows.
Ah! who could deem, amidst so soft a scene,
That storms could ever vex that sea serene,
Pure as the prayer of infancy, and mild
As the calm slumber of a sleeping child?

Mark where the waning orb, with golden fire,
Hath tinged the hamlet's lightly tapering spire,
And through the grove of dark sepulchral yew,
Showers broken sunbeams on the flowers that strew
The fresh green sod, and there spontaneous shed
Their native fragrance o'er the rustic dead.
Here pause to ponder o'er the grey grave-stone,
And in the doom of others, read thine own:
Yon lowly mound, which sad affection rears,
And hallows with the sacrifice of tears,

Is all that points where youth or beauty's bloom
Rests in the drear recesses of the tomb-
Sleeps the deep sleep, where all that charmed before
Is known no longer, and beloved no more.

Yet hush, pale mourner! cease thy frantic prayer,

To share his grave, whose heart thou canst not share; If all in vain the sun of nature glows,

To break the torpor of that chill repose,

A brighter Sun diviner beams shall shed,

Pierce the dull tomb, and burst upon the dead.
To light and life the slumberer then shall start,
Fire in his eye, and rapture in his heart,
And soar on seraph wing to realms more fair:
Live as he lived, and thou shalt meet him there.
Now the broad sun declining, slowly dips
Beneath th' horizon, in a last eclipse,
As if he longed to rest his burning head
On the cool pillow of his ocean bed;

The clouds that wandered o'er the expanse of heaven,
By the light breeze in fair disorder driven,

Their canopy of brightness round him fling,
A last due homage to their parting king.
As if reluctant to resign his sway,

A moment lingering ere he fades away,

He beams his bright farewell o'er ocean's breast,
Eludes the straining gaze, and sinks to rest.
So pass thy glories, Earth: like that pure ray,
Art, valour, genius, dazzle and decay.

And while again that radiant sun shall rise,
And re-assume the sceptre of the skies,

Thou, short-lived man! thy dream of splendour o'er,
Shalt sink and set-to rise on earth no more.