The chief executioner took it as a perquisite, but was ordered instantly to lay it down. The lawn veil was lifted carefully off and hung upon the rail. The black robe was next removed. Below it was a petticoat of crimson velvet. The black jacket followed, and under the jacket was a body of crimson satin. One of her ladies handed her a pair of crimson sleeves, with which she hastily covered her arms; and thus she stood on the black scaffold, with black figures all around her, blood-red from head to foot. Her reasons for adopting so extraordinary a costume must be left to conjecture. It is only certain that it must have been carefully studied, and that the pictorial effect must have been appalling.

The women, whose firmness had hitherto borne the trial, began now to give way, spasmodic sobs bursting from them which they could not check.

"Ne criez vous," she said; "j'ai promis pour vous.”

Struggling bravely, they crossed their breasts again and again, she crossing them in turn and bidding them pray for her. Then she knelt on the cushion. Barbara Mowbray bound her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Adieu," she said, smiling for the last time and waving her hand to them, "Adieu, au revoir."

They stepped back from off the scaffold and left her alone. On her knees she repeated the Psalm, "In te Domine, confido,”—“ In Thee, O Lord, have I put my trust."

When the Psalm was finished, she felt for the block, and bowing her head muttered: "In manus, Domine tuas, commendo animam meam."

The hard wood seemed to hurt her, for she placed her hands under her neck. The executioners gently removed them, lest they should deaden the blow, then one of them holding her slightly, the other raised the axe and struck. The scene had been too trying even for the practiced headsman of the Tower. His arm wandered. The blow fell on the knot of the handkerchief, and scarcely broke the skin. She neither spoke nor moved. He struck again, this time effectively. And at once a metamorphosis was witnessed, strange as was ever wrought of fabled enchanter. The lady who

knelt before the block was in the maturity of grace and loveliness. The executioner, when he raised the head to show it to the crowd, exposed the withered features of a wrinkled old woman.

So perish all enemies of the queen," said the dean of Peterborough.

Orders had been given that everything which she had worn should be immediately destroyed, that no relics should be carried off. Sentinels stood at the doors, who allowed no one to pass out without permission; and after the first pause, the earls still keeping their places, her body was removed. It then appeared that a favorite lap-dog had followed its mistress unperceived, and was concealed under her clothing. When discovered, it gave a short cry, and seated itself between the head and neck, from which the blood was still flowing. Then beads, paternoster, handkerchief, each particle of dress which the blood had touched, with the cloth on the block and on the scaffold, was burnt in the hall-fire in the presence of the crowd.

The scaffold itself was next removed; a brief account of the execution was drawn up, with which Henry Talbot, Lord Shrewsbury's son, was sent to London, and every one was dismissed. Silence settled down on Fotheringay, and the last scene of the life of Mary Stuart, in which tragedy and melodrama were so strangely intermingled, was over.

D

THE OLD SLAVE'S LAMENT.

AR was singin', dar was dancin', in de cabins long ago,

An' cotton growin' in de fields as white as northern snow. In massa's house lights twinkled, an' de young folks danced, ho! ho! Like ob dose times ole Pete will neber know.

Spec de birds do all de singin', an' de sunshine all de dancin', on

de floor!

An' de lights go twinkle, twinkle, in ole massa's house no more. Ole Pete is sometimes hungry, but he'll let de chilluns know Dar was singin', dar was dancin', in de cabins long ago.

THE ARMADA.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise;

I sing of the thrice famous deeds she fought in ancient days; When that great fleet, invincible, against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day,
There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth bay;
The crew had seen Castile's black fleet beyond Aurigny's isle,
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile.
At sunrise she escaped their van by God's especial grace;
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.
Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecomb's lofty hall.
Many a light fishing-bark put out, to pry along the coast;
And with loose rein and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes;
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums.
The yeomen round the market cross, make clear and ample space,
For there behooves him to set up the banner of her grace.
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gayly dance the bells,
As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon swells.

Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids!

Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades!
Thou, sun, shine on her gloriously! ye breezes, waft her wide!
Our glorious semper eadem, the banner of our pride!
The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold;
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold.
Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea;
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be.

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay,
That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day;
For swift to east, and swift to west, the warming radiance spread,
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone, it shone on Beachy Head.
Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those glittering points of fire.

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night,
And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of blood-red
light;

The bugle's note, the cannon's roar, the deathlike silence broke,
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke.
At once, on all her stately gates arose the answering fires;
At once, the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires;
And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,
And the broad stream of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing
street.

And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,

As from each village round the horse came pouring in.

And eastward straight, for wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent; Southward, for Surrey's pleasant hills, flew these bright coursers

forth;

High on black Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still;
All night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill;
Till the proud peaks unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's rocky dales,
Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales;
Till twelve fair countries saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height;
Till streaked in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light.
Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth on Ely's stately fane,
And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain;
Till Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent,

And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent;
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's embattled pile,
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

THE CHURCH OF BROU.

DOW

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

OWN the Savoy valleys sounding,
Echoing round this castle old,

'Mid the distant mountain-châlets

Hark! what bell for church is tolled?
In the bright October morning
Savoy's duke had left his bride.
From the castle, past the drawbridge
Flowed the hunter's merry tide.

Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering.
Gay, her smiling lord to greet,
From her mullioned chamber casement,
Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.

From Vienna, by the Danube,

Here she came, a bride in spring.
Now the autumn crisps the forest;
Hunters gather, bugles ring,

Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,
Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.
Off! They sweep the marshy forests,
Westward on the side of France,
Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!
Down the forest-ridings lone,
Furious, single horsemen gallop.
Hark! a shout, a crash, a groan!

Pale and breathless come the hunters,
On the turf dead lies the boar.
And the duke lies stretched beside him;
Senseless, weltering in his gore!

In the dull October evening,

Down the leaf-strewn forest road,