and the little dauphin remained patiently in the dark closet till his mother released him.

Like most children of his age, he did not always make proper application of the maxims which he heard. One day that, in the exuberance of animal spirits, he was about to throw himself into the midst of some rose-bushes, "Take care," said the queen, "those thorns might tear your eyes out, and will certainly scratch you severely."

“But, dear mamma," answered he in a most magnanimous tone, "thorny paths, you know, lead to glory."

"It is a noble maxim," replied the queen, "but I see you do not quite understand it. What glory can there be in getting your eyes scratched out for the mere pleasure of jumping into a hedge? If, indeed, it were to extricate any one from danger, there would be glory in it, but as it is, there is only imprudence. My child, you must not talk of glory till you are able to read the history of true heroes who have disinterestedly sacrificed life and fortune for the good of others."

On one occasion his governess, uneasy at seeing him running at headlong speed, said to the queen, "He will surely fall." “He must learn to fall,” replied Marie Antoinette. "But he may hurt himself."

"He must learn to endure pain," said the queen, who, with all her fondness, had no desire to make her boy effeminate.

IV.

REMOVAL TO PARIS.

The love of rural pursuits evinced by the young dauphin was destined to be rudely broken in upon. While with his parents at Versailles in 1789, the revolution in France broke out, and filled the royal family with alarm. It was the misfortune of Louis XVI. to have fallen on evil times, and, with all his good qualities, to become the victim on whose head the popular resentment for long-endured injuries should be visited. It was another of his misfortunes to be surrounded by incompetent advisers, and to be deserted by the classes who might have been expected to rally round the throne.

When tumults began to take place in Paris, it was considered necessary that the king should proceed thither to show himself to the people at the Hotel de Ville. He went on the 17th of July 1789. Everybody knows that this movement gave a trifling lull to the storm. When the sovereign received the tri-coloured cockade from the mayor of Paris in front of an assembled multitude, a shout of Vive le Roi! arose on all sides. The king breathed again freely at that moment; he had not for a long time heard such acclamations. During his absence the queen shut herself up in her private rooms with her family.

She sent for several persons belonging to the court, but their doors were locked; terror had driven them away. A deadly silence reigned throughout the palace; fear was at its height; the king was hardly expected to return. He did however come back, and was received with inexpressible joy by the queen, his sister, and his children. He congratulated himself that no accident had happened; and it was then he repeated several times, "Happily no blood has been shed, and I swear that never shall a drop of French blood be shed by my order."

It is not our intention to relate the history of the revolution which had already commenced, but only to note a few particulars in the life of our young hero and his unfortunate parents. On various pretexts it was resolved by the mob of Paris, a large portion of whom were women of the lowest habits, to march to Versailles and bring the royal family to Paris. This alarming movement took place on the 5th and 6th of October. The court, deserted by the host of nobles who might have been expected to rally round the throne, and with scarcely any friends left but their immediate attendants and attached guards, were on this momentous occasion exposed to many gross indignities, and with some difficulty were able to save their lives. Carriages being prepared, they were compelled to go into them and proceed to Paris, attended by a rabble of many thousands. It was not the least of the many painful circumstances accompanying this removal, that the king was compelled to withdraw his son from the healthy breezes of the country to the comparative closeness of a city atmosphere. The boy, also, was inconsolable. To be taken away from his little garden was a sore grief; his beautiful flowers, the flowers reared with his own hands, would, he said, wither and die; and he was like to die at the thought. In order to console him, he was told he should have much nicer flowers at Paris, and as many as he could wish for. They will not be my own flowers that I planted and watered," he answered; "I shall never love any flowers so well as these."

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Clinging to his mamma in terror of the horde of wild-looking men and women who were shouting in demoniac laughter, the dauphin entered one of the coaches; the queen alternately trying to pacify his fears, and to look with calmness on the terrific throng. Already blood had been shed. The mob, in forcing the palace, had killed two of the guards who defended the queen's apartments from outrage; and with the heads of these unfortunate and brave men stuck on the end of poles, a party preceded the royal carriages to Paris. These wretches, with a refinement of cruelty which, we imagine, could scarcely be matched out of France, stopped on the way at Sevres, and compelled a hairdresser to dress the gory heads according to the fashion of the period. In the rear of this band slowly came the procession of soldiers, citizens, women--an indescribable crowd of the vilest beings on earth-some riding astride on cannons, some carrying

pikes or muskets, and numbers waving long branches of poplar. It looked like a moving forest, amidst which shone pike-heads and gun-barrels. After the royal carriages came the king's faithful guards, some on foot and some on horseback, most of them uncovered and worn out with want of sleep, hunger, and fatigue. Finally came a number of carriages containing deputies of the Assembly, followed by the bulk of the Parisian army.

In the course of the journey, which was protracted to a late hour, the king and queen were constantly reviled by the crowd of savage women who thronged about them. There was at the time a dearth of bread in Paris, arising from natural causes; but it was imputed to the king, and now that he was in the hands of the mob, they cried out that bread would no longer be either dear or scarce. "We shall no longer," they shouted at the windows of the royal carriages, ፡፡ we shall no longer want bread; we have the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's boy with us." In the midst of all the revilings, tumult, and singing, interrupted by frequent discharges of musketry, might be seen Marie Antoinette preserving the most courageous tranquillity of soul, and an air of noble and inexpressible dignity.

The departure of the royal family for Paris was so hurried that no time was afforded to make preparations at the palace of the Tuileries, which, since the minority of Louis XV., had not been the residence of the kings of France. Some apartments, however, were cleared for their reception; and from this time may be dated the captivity of Louis XVI. in the hands of his people.

On the day after the arrival of the court in Paris, a noise was heard in the garden of the Tuileries, which, terrifying the dauphin, he threw himself into the arms of the queen, crying out, "Oh mamma, is yesterday come again?" The child in his simplicity could not account for the revolutionary movements of which he, with others, was the victim; and a few days after making the above affecting exclamation, he went up to his father to speak to him on the subject. "Well, Louis, what is it you wish to say?" asked the king.

"I want to know, papa," he answered pensively, "why the people, who formerly loved you so well, are all at once angry with you; what is it you have done to irritate them so much?"

His father, interested in the question, took him upon his knee, and spoke to him nearly as follows:-"I wished, my dear Louis, to make my people still happier than they were. I wanted money to pay the expenses occasioned by wars. I asked my people for money, as the former kings of France had done; the magistrates composing the parliament opposed it, and said that my people had alone a right to consent to it. I thereupon assembled the principal inhabitants of every town, whether distinguished by birth, fortune, or talents, at Versailles; and that is what is called the States-General. When all were assembled, they required

concessions of me which I could not make, either with due respect for myself or with justice to you, who will be my successor. Wicked men inducing the people to rise, have occasioned the excesses of the last few days; the people must not be blamed for them."

The dauphin had now a more clear idea of the position of affairs, and to please his father and mother, he endeavoured to avoid giving cause of offence to those about him. When he had occasion to speak to the officers of the national guards, mayors of the communes, or revolutionary leaders who visited the Tuileries, he did so with much affability. If the queen happened to be present, he would come and whisper in her ear, "Is that right?"

The royal family were not permitted to consider the whole garden of the Tuileries as their own. The chief portion was claimed by the National Assembly. In that part appropriated to the king's household, the dauphin was given a small patch in which he might pursue his love for flowers; but even this indulgence was clogged with the regulation that he should be attended by members of the national guard. At first the escort was small, and courteously did the young prince invite his guards to enter, and graciously did he distribute flowers amongst them; sometimes saying to them, "I would give you a great many more, but mamma is so fond of them." But the guard being gradually increased, he could no longer do the honours of his little domain to all, and once he apologised to those who were pressing round the palisades "I am sorry, gentlemen, that my garden is too small to permit of my having the pleasure of seeing you all in it.”

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The

One day a poor woman made her way into the garden, and presented him a petition. My prince," said she, "if you can obtain this favour for me, I shall be as happy as a queen." child took the paper, and with a look of deep sadness exclaimed, "Happy as a queen! you say; I know one queen who does nothing but weep all day long."

V.

GLOOMY FOREBODINGS-IMPRISONMENT.

The years 1790 and 1791 were passed by the royal family in a state of constant apprehension. Clamoured against by all, and in constant danger of assassination, the king appears to have sunk into a state of gloomy despondency, from which neither the smiles of his wife nor the sallies of little Louis could raise him. For some months he scarcely spoke a word. The queen spent much of her time in tears. Recommended by a few attached partisans, as well as by his own fears, he made an attempt to leave the kingdom with his family, but, as every one knows, they were stopped at Varennes before they reached the frontiers, and brought back

to Paris. In their return they were under the charge of Barnave, one of the deputies appointed by the Assembly to attend the royal prisoners. At the time it was customary for the revolutionists to wear buttons on which was the device, "To live free, or die." Observing words to that effect on the button of M. Barnave, the dauphin said, "Mamma, what does that mean -to live free?" "My child," replied the queen, "it is to go where you please."Ah, mamma," replied the child quickly,

"then we are not free!"

This attempt at flight considerably aggravated the condition of the royal family, who were now more carefully watched than ever; the king and queen living almost continually under the eyes of sentinels, and all their correspondence watched. These things preyed on the mind of Marie Antoinette, and began to give her the appearance of premature old age.

"Mamma," said the dauphin one day shortly after the return of the family to the Tuileries, "how white your hair has grown!" "Hush, my dear child," replied the queen; "let us not think of such trifles when we have greater sorrows, those of poor papa, to distress us." It is true the queen's beautiful hair had grown white from the effect of grief. In a single night it had become as white as that of a woman of seventy, yet she was only about half that age. The Princess de Lamballe having asked for a lock of her whitened hair, she had a small quantity set in a ring and presented to her, with the inscription, Bleached by sorrow.

On the 20th of June 1792, a lawless Parisian rabble forced the Tuileries, and rushed like demoniacs from room to room in search of the king and queen, who, though sufficiently alarmed, did not quail before this barbarous torrent. Placing themselves in a recess, with two or three attendants, they awaited what might be their fate. The queen placed the dauphin before her on a table. When the tumultuous procession advanced, a person of coarse appearance gave the king a red cap, which he put on his head, and a similar emblem was drawn over the head of little Louis, almost burying the whole of his face. The horde passed in files before the table, carrying symbols of the most horrid barbarity. There was one representing a gibbet, to which a dirty doll was suspended, with an inscription signifying that it was Marie Antoinette. Another was a board, to which a bullock's heart was fastened, with the words inscribed, "Heart of Louis XVI."

By the interference of several deputies, no bloody deed was committed on this occasion. The result was very different on the ensuing 10th of August, when the palace of the Tuileries was attacked and captured after a gallant and ineffectual defence by the Swiss guards, all of whom, to the number of eight hundred, were barbarously put to death. It would be too painful, even if it were necessary, to describe this terrible massacre. The poor son of Louis XVI., no longer heir to a throne, for the monarchy