Concluding, in those hours of glee, "But when the hour of trial came, When sickness shook this trembling frame, The poor soul quitted it—and ere yet she was dead the agonized father was in such a state, that the officers round about him were obliged to set watchers over him, and from November 1810 George III. ceased to reign. All the world knows the story of his malady; all history presents no sadder figure than that of the old man, blind and deprived of reason, wandering through the rooms of his palace, addressing imaginary parliaments, reviewing fancied troops, holding ghostly courts. I have seen his picture as it was taken at this time, hanging in the apartment of his daughter, the Landgravine of Hesse Hombourg-amidst books and Windsor furniture, and a hundred fond reminiscences of her English home. The poor old father is represented in a purple gown, his snowy beard falling over his breast-the star of his famous Order still idly shining on it. He was not only sightless-he became utterly deaf. All light, all reason, all sound of human voices, all the pleasures of this world of God, were taken from him. Some slight lucid moments he had; in one of which, the queen, desiring to see him, entered the room, and found him singing a hymn, and accompanying himself at the harpsichord. When he had finished, he knelt down and prayed aloud for her, and then for his family, and then for the nation, concluding with a prayer for himself, that it might please God to avert his heavy calamity from him, but if not, to give him resignation to submit. He then burst into tears, and his reason again fled. What preacher need moralize on this story; what words save the simplest are requisite to tell it? It is too terrible for tears. The thought of such a misery smites me down in submission before the Ruler of kings and men, the Monarch Supreme over empires and republics, the inscrutable Dispenser of life, death, happiness, victory. "O brothers," I said to those who heard me first in America-"O brothers! speaking the same dear mother tongue O comrades ! enemies no more, let us take a mournful hand together as we stand by this royal corpse, and call a truce to battle! Low he lies to whom the proudest used to kneel once, and who was cast lower than the poorest; dead, whom millions prayed for in vain. Driven off his throne; buffeted by rude hands; with his children in revolt; the darling of his old age killed before him untimely; our Lear hangs over her breathless lips and cries, 'Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little!' 'Vex not his ghost-oh! let him pass-he hates him Hush! Strife and Quarrel, over the solemn grave! Sound, Trumpets, a mournful march. Fall, Dark Curtain, upon his pageant, his pride, his grief, his awful tragedy!" IV.-SACK OF THE BASTILLE. (THOMAS CARLYLE.) Thomas Carlyle was born in Dumfries-shire, in 1795. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and began life as teacher of mathematics in a school in Kirkcaldy; but soon abandoned the ferule for the pen. The Bastille of Paris was built by Charles V. of France, (begun 1369, completed 1383,) as a stronghold to defend the city from the English. It was afterwards converted, like the Tower of London, into a prison. The capture of it by the mob on the 14th July, 1789, was the commencement of the great French Revolution, which deluged France, and ultimately Europe, with blood. OLD De Launay, as we hinted, withdrew "into his interior" soon after midnight of Sunday. He remains there ever since, hampered, as all military gentlemen now are, in the saddest conflict of uncertainties. The Hôtel-de-Ville "invites " him to admit national soldiers; which is a soft name for surrender ing. On the other hand, his majesty's orders were precise. His garrison is but eighty-two old Invalides, reinforced by thirty-two young Swiss. His walls, indeed, are nine feet thick, he has cannon and powder; but, alas! only one day's provision of victuals. The city too is French, the poor garrison mostly French. Rigorous old De Launay, think what thou wilt do? All morning, since nine, there has been a cry everywhere,— To the Bastille! Repeated "deputations of citizens" have been here, passionate for arms; whom De Launay has got dismissed by soft speeches through port-holes. Towards noon Elector Thuriot de la Rosière gains admittance; finds De Launay indisposed for surrender; nay, disposed for blowing up the place rather.... ..... Woe to thee, De Launay, in such an hour, if thou canst not, taking some one firm decision, rule circumstances! Soft speeches will not serve; hard grapeshot is questionable; but hovering between the two is unquestionable. Ever wilder swells the tide of men; their infinite hum waxing ever louder into imprecations, perhaps into crackle of stray musketry,— which latter, on walls nine feet thick, cannot do execution. The outer drawbridge has been lowered for Thuriot; new deputation of citizens (it is the third, and noisiest of all) penetrates that way into the outer court: soft speeches producing no clearance of these, De Launay gives fire; pulls up his drawbridge. A slight sputter ;-which has kindled the too combustible chaos-made it a roaring fire-chaos! Bursts forth insurrection, at sight of its own blood (for there were deaths by that sputter of fire), into endless rolling explosion of musketry, distraction, execration ;-and over head, from the fortress, let one great gun, with its grapeshot, go booming, to show what we could do. The Bastille is besieged! On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in your bodies! Roar with all your threats, of cartilage and metal, ye Sons of Liberty; stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in you, soul, body, or spirit; for it is the hour! Smite, thou Louis Tournay, cartwright of the Marais, old soldier of the Regiment Dauphiné; smite at that outer drawbridge chain, though the fiery hail whistles round thee! Never, over nave or felloe, did thy axe strike such a stroke. Down with it, man! down with it to Orcus! let the whole accursed edifice sink thither, and tyranny be swallowed up for ever! Mounted, some say on the roof of the guard-room, some 66 on bayonets stuck into joints of the wall," Louis Tournay smites, brave Aubin Bonnemère (also an old soldier) seconding him; the chain yields, breaks; the huge drawbridge slams down, thundering (avec fracas). Glorious! and yet, alas, it is still but the outworks! The eight grim towers, with their Invalide musketry, their paving-stones and cannon mouths, still soar aloft intact ;-ditch yawning impassable, stone-faced; the inner drawbridge with its back towards us; the Bastille is still to take!..... Frantic Patriots pick up the grapeshots; bear them, still hot (or seemingly so), to the Hôtel-de-Ville :-Paris, you perceive, is to be burnt! Flesselles is "pale to the very lips," for the roar of the multitude grows deep. Paris wholly has got to the acme of its frenzy; whirled all ways, by panic madness. At every street barricade there whirls simmering a minor whirlpool, strengthening the barricade, since God knows what is coming; and all minor whirlpools play distractedly into that grand Fire-Mahlstrom which is lashing round the Bastille..... Blood flows, the aliment of new madness. The wounded are carried into houses of the Rue Cerisaie; the dying leave their last mandate not to yield till the accursed stronghold fall. And yet, alas, how fall? The walls are so thick! Deputations, three in number, arrive from the Hôtel-de-Ville; Abbé Fauchet (who was of one) can say with what almost superhuman courage of benevolence. These wave their town flag in the arched gateway; and stand, rolling their drum; but to no purpose. In such crack of doom, De Launay cannot hear them, dare not believe them : they return with justified rage, the whew of lead still singing in their ears. .... How the great Bastille clock ticks (inaudible) in its inner court there, at its ease, hour after hour; as if nothing special, for it or the world, were passing! It tolled one when the firing began; and is now pointing towards five, and still the firing slacks not. Far down, in their vaults, the seven prisoners hear muffled din as of earthquakes; their turnkeys answer vaguely. . . . . What shall De Launay do? One thing only De Launay could have done-what he said he would do. Fancy him sitting, from the first, with lighted taper, within arm's length of the powder magazine; motionless, like old Roman senator, or bronze lamp-holder; coldly apprising Thuriot, and all men, by a slight motion of his eye, what his resolution was :-harmless he sat there, while unharmed; but the king's fortress, meanwhile, could, might, would, or should, in no wise be surrendered, save to the king's messenger; one old man's life is worthless, so it be lost with honour; but think, ye brawling canaille, how will it be when a whole Bastille springs skyward! In such statuesque, taper-holding attitude, one fancies De Launay might have left Thuriot, the red clerks of the Basoche, Curé of Saint-Stephen, and all the tag-rag-andbobtail of the world, to work their will. . . . . . For four hours now has the world bedlam roared-call it the world chimæra, blowing fire. The poor invalides have sunk under their battlements, or rise only with reversed muskets-they have made a white flag of napkins-go beating the chamade, or seeming to beat, for one can hear nothing. The very Swiss at the portcullis look weary of firing; disheartened in the fire deluge: a port-hole at the drawbridge is opened, as by one that would speak. See Huissier Maillard, the shifty man! On his plank, swinging over the abyss of that stone ditch-plank resting on parapet, balanced by weight of patriots,—he hovers perilous—such a dove towards such an ark! Deftly, thou shifty usher: one man already fell, and lies smashed far down there, against the masonry. Usher Maillard falls not-deftly, unerring he walks, with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his porthole; the shifty usher snatches it, and returns. Terms of surrender : pardon, immunity to all! Are they accepted? "Foi d'officier, on the word of an officer," answers halfpay Hulin, or half-pay Elie, for men do not agree on it,— 'they are!" Sinks the drawbridge,-Usher Maillard bolting it when down-rushes in the living deluge-the Bastille is fallen Victoire! La Bastille est prise! V.-DEATH OF MARIE-ANTOINETTE. (CARLYLE.) Marie-Antoinette, Archduchess of Austria and Queen of France, was condemned by the Revolutionary Tribunal of the French Republicans, and was executed on the 16th October, 1793. Her husband, Louis XVI., had been guillotined on the 21st January preceding. ON Monday, the 14th of October 1793, a cause is pending in the Palais de Justice, in the new Revolutionary Court, |