MARIE ANTOINETTE.

THOMAS CARLYLE,

N Monday, 14th of October, 1793, a cause is pending in the as

these old stone walls never witnessed, the trial of Marie Antoinette. The once brightest of queens, now tarnished, defaced, forsaken, stands here at the judgment bar, answering for her life. The indictment was delivered here last night. To such changes of human fortune, what words are adequate? Silence alone is adequate.

Marie Antoinette, in this her utter abandonment, and hour of trial, and extreme need, is not wanting to herself, the imperial woman. Her looks, they say, as that hideous indictment was read, continued calm. She was sometimes observed moving her fingers as when one plays on the harpsichord. You discerned, not without interest, across that dim revolutionary bulletin itself, how she bears herself-queen-like. Her answerings are prompt, clear, often of laconic brevity; resolution, which has grown contemptuous without ceasing to be dignified, veils itself in calm words.

"You persist, then, in denial?"

"My plan is not denial; it is the truth I have said; and I persist in that."

At four o'clock on Wednesday morning, after two days and nights of interrogating, jury charging, and other darkening of counsel, the result comes out: Sentence of death.

The accused shook her head without speech. Night's candles are burning out; and with her, too, time is finishing, and it will be eternity and day. The hall is dark, ill-lighted, except where she stands. Silently she withdraws from it to die.

Two processions or royal progresses, three and twenty years apart, have often struck us with a strange feeling of contrast. The first is of a beautiful archduchess or dauphiness quitting her

mother-country, at the age of fifteen, toward hopes such as no other daughter of Eve then had.

On the morrow-says Weber, an eye witness, the dauphiness left, Vienna with a sorrow that was silent. She appeared; you saw her sink back in her carriage; her face bathed in tears, hiding her eyes, now with her handkerchief, now with her hands; several times putting out her head to see yet again the palace of her fathers, whither she was to return no more. She motioned her regret, her gratitude to the good nation, which was crowding here to bid her farewell. Then arose not only tears but piercing cries, on all sides. Men and women alike abandoned themselves to such expressions of their sorrow. It was an audible sound of wail, in the streets and avenues of Vienna. The last courier that followed her, disappeared, and the crowd melted away.

The young, imperial maiden of fifteen has now become a worn, discrowned widow of thirty-eight, gray before her time. This is the last procession:

A few minutes after the trial ended, the drums were beating to arms in all sections; at sunrise the armed force was on foot; cannons getting placed at the extremities of the bridges, in the squares, crossways, all along from the Palais de Justice to the Place de la Révolution. By ten o'clock numerous patrols were circulating in the streets.. Thirty thousand foot and horse were drawn up under arms.

At eleven o'clock, Marie Antoinette was brought out. She had on an undress of piqué blanc. She was led to the place of execution, in the same manner as some ordinary criminal, bound on a cart, accompanied by a constitutional priest in lay dress, escorted by numerous detachments of infantry and cavalry. These and the double row of troops all along her road she regarded with indiffer

ence.

On her countenance there was visible neither abasement nor pride. To the cries of "Vive la République!" and "Down with tyranny!" which attended her all the way, she seemed to pay no heed. She spoke little to her confessor. The tricolor streamers on the house-tops occupied her attention; in the streets du Roulo

and St. Honoré she also noticed the inscriptions on the housefronts. On reaching the Place de la Révolution, her looks turned toward the Jardin National, whilom Tuileries; her face at that moment gave signs of lively emotion.

She mounted the scaffold with courage enough. At a quarter past twelve her head fell. The executioner showed it to the people, amid universal, long-continued cries of "Vive la République!"

DUCHESS MAY,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

BRO

ROAD the forest spread on the sloping hills of Linteged— And three hundred years had stood mute adown each hoary wood,

With the castle there in shade.

And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall,
As adown the sun dropped large and red on the towers of
Linteged,

That to-night were near their fall.

Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since, a bride did come One who proudly trod the floors, and softly whispered in the doors, "May good angels bless our home."

"Twas a duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward, the earl; Who betrothed her twelve years old, for the sake of dowry gold, To his son, Lord Leigh, the churl.

But what time she had made good all her years of womanhood, Unto both those lords of Leigh, spake she out right sovranly, “My will runneth as my blood.

"And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's

veins," she said,

""Tis my will, as lady free, not to wed a lord of Leigh,

But Sir Guy of Linteged."

The old earl he smiled smooth; then he sighed for wilful youth, "Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and small, For so large a will, in sooth."

She, too, smiled by that same sign, but her smile was cold and fine: "Little hand clasps muckle gold, or it were not worth the hold Of thy son, good uncle mine!"

Then the young lord jerked his breath, and sware thickly in his teeth,

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He would wed his own betrothed, an' she loved him an' she loathed,

Let the life come or the death."

But a woman's will dies hard in the hall or on the sward.

"By that grave, my lords, which made me orphaned girl and dower'd lady,

I deny you wife and ward."

Unto each she bowed her head, and swept past with lofty tread. Ere the midnight bell had ceased, in the chapel had the priest Blessed her bride of Linteged.

Fast and fain the bridal train along the night-storm rode amain, Steed on steed-track, dashing off-thickening, doubling, hoof on hoof,

In the pauses of the rain,

Up the mountain wheeled the steed, girth to ground and fetlocks spread

Headlong bounds and rocking flanks-down he staggered, down the banks,

To the towers of Linteged.

High and low the serfs looked out, red the flambeaus tossed about. In the courtyard rose the cry, "Live the duchess and Sir Guy!” But she never heard them shout.

On the steed she dropped her cheek, kissed his mane and kissed his neck

"I had happier died by thee than lived on a Lady Leigh,"

Were the first words she did speak.

But a three months' joyaunce lay 'twixt that moment and to-day, When five hundred archers tall stand beside the castle wall,

To recapture Duchess May.

In her chamber did she sit, laughing low to think of it— "Tower is strong and will is free-thou canst boast, my lord of Leigh,

But thou boastest little wit."

Straight she called her maidens in. "Since ye gave me blame herein,

That a bridal such as mine should lack gauds to make it fine,
Come and shrive me from that sin.

"It is three months gone to-day, since I gave mine hand away. Bring the gold and bring the gem, we will keep bride-state in them, While we keep the foe at bay.

With a spirit-laden weight the lord leaned down passionate,
They have almost sapped the wall; they will enter therewithal,
With no knocking at the gate.

"One last boon, young Ralph and Clare-faithful hearts to do and dare

Bring that steed up from his stall, which she kissed before you all; Guide him up the turret-stair.

"Ye shall harness him aright, and lead upward to this height. Once in love and twice in war hath he borne me strong and far; He shall bear me far to-night."