and her numerous sisterhood were led to the scaffold on the same day. While leaving the prison, they all chanted a hymn upon the fatal car. When they arrived at the place of execution, they did not interrupt their strains. One head fell, and ceased to join its voice with the celestial chorus; but the strain continued. The abbess suffered last; and her single voice, with increased tone, still raised the devout versicle. It ceased at once -it was the silence of death!

XI.

EFFECTS OF PROLONGED CAPTIVITY.

From some cause not recorded in the history of the revolution, Simon was dismissed by the municipal authorities from his office of tutor to the young king; but the change does not seem to have led to any improved treatment of the little prisoner. Hebert, likewise, was no more seen in the Temple: he had, like most of the revolutionary leaders, taken his turn under the guillotine, and received the punishment due to his manifold outrages on society. About thirteen months after, the visit of the Savoyard, three persons presented themselves at the Temple prison, as visitors from the committee of public health, to verify statements which the municipal officers had deemed it their duty to make to it of the rapid progress of the disease of Louis XVII. The boy was in his usual place at his usual employment of building cardhouses, his once expressive countenance now one dull blank. Even the heavy tread of the gentlemen as they approached him did not seem to excite his attention; nor did the sight of such unusual visitors arouse him from his apathy. Monsieur Harmand, advancing before his companions, approached the prisoner. "Sir," said he, taking off his hat as he stood before the innocent victim, "the government, informed of the bad state of your health, of your refusal to take exercise, to use any remedies, or receive the visits of a physician, and to answer any questions, nay, even to speak, has commissioned us to ascertain whether this is really In the name of the government, we now renew the offer of a physician. We are authorised to permit your extending your walks, to allow you any amusement or relaxation you desire. Allow me to press upon you the acceptance of these indulgences. I await respectfully your reply."

the case.

At the commencement of this address the unhappy child raised his eyes to the speaker, and seemed to listen with great attention; but this was all-Monsieur Harmand did not obtain a single word in reply.

"Perhaps I have not sufficiently explained myself, sir; have not made myself understood by you? I have the honour of asking you if you would like playthings of any description-birds, a dog, a horse, one or two companions of your own age, to be first submitted to you for approval? Perhaps you would like to

go now and then into the garden or on the ramparts? Do you care to have sweetmeats or cakes, a new dress, a watch and chain? You have only to say what you wish."

The enumeration of all these things, usually the objects of childish desire, did not excite the slightest sensation. The prince's countenance wore a look of utter indifference to all that was offered, and when the speaker ceased, there succeeded an expression of such sad, such melancholy resignation, that Monsieur Harmand turned away to hide his emotion.

"I believe, sir,” said one of the jailers, "that it is useless for you to talk to the child. I have now been nearly thirteen months here, and I have not yet heard him utter a word. Simon the cobbler, whose place I took, told me that he had never spoken since he made him sign some paper against his mother."

This account, so simple yet so touching, went to the very hearts of the deputies of the commune. A child not yet nine years old forming and keeping a resolution of never again speaking, because a word of his had given a pretext to the murderers of his mother! At this moment the young prince's dinner was brought up, and on its appearance the visitors could scarcely repress an exclamation of indignant surprise. For the delicately-reared son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, for the child of royalty, the heir of France, was served up for dinner "A brown earthenware porringer, containing a black broth covered with lentiles; a dish of the same ware, with a small piece of black coarse salt beef; and a second dish, on which were six half-burned chestnuts; one plate and no knife completed the dinner-service."

Involuntarily they turned to look at the child; his face expressed "What matters it! Take your victim." Was this resignation, or was it utter hopelessness? How could he have hoped for anything from the murderers of his mother? Alas! had he hoped for anything at their hands, he would have been disappointed. The representations of the visitors were disregarded. His allowance of fresh air was diminished, his window was narrowed, the iron bars were made closer, and washing, both of his person and his clothes, was thrown altogether upon himself. The door of his prison was, as it were, sealed, and it was through a narrow wicket that the pitcher of water, too heavy for his weak arms, was handed to him, with the sordid provision barely sufficient for the day. Not having strength enough to move his bed, having no one to look after his sheets and blankets, now nearly in rags, he at length was reduced to the extreme of wretchedness.

Condemned to solitude-for though two guards kept watch at the door, yet they never spoke to him-his intellect was at last impaired, and his body bent as if under the burden of life; all moral sense became obtuse, and so rapidly did his disorder now gain ground, that the tardy aid of two physicians, sent by the municipal authorities, was utterly ineffectual to arrest its

progress.

One of them could not restrain his indignation when he saw the state of the poor victim, and as he was audibly and in no measured terms giving vent to it, the prince beckoned him to approach his bed. "Speak low, sir," said he, breaking a silence which he had persevered in for eighteen months; "I pray, speak low, lest my sister should hear you, and I should be so sorry that she should know I am ill, it would grieve her so much."

XII.

DEATH OF THE LITTLE CAPTIVE KING.

We have been telling no imaginary tale. The sufferings of Louis XVII. in his foul prison require no picturesque embellishment. Yet the mind of the compassionate reader may well be excused for doubting the truthfulness of these melancholy details, and will naturally inquire if no effort was made to rescue the unfortunate prisoner from his oppressors--if no humane hand interfered to point out his condition to the people. Nothing of this kind appears to have been done. A nation assuming itself to be the greatest, the most civilised, and the most polite, quailed under the despotism of a set of wretches elevated to a power which they disgraced. As M. Thiers forcibly observes, "People dared no longer express any opinion. A hundred thousand arrests and some hundreds of condemnations rendered imprisonment and the scaffold ever present to the minds of twenty-five millions of French." And thus the fate of poor Louis-Charles, if it did not escape notice, at least encountered no censure.

The visit of the physician, to which we have alluded, took place only after the reign of terror had subsided, and the nation had resumed something like its senses. But this resumption of order came too late to save the little captive king. The physician, on seeing his deplorable condition, had him instantly removed into an apartment, the windows of which opened on the garden; and observing that the free current of air seemed to revive him for the moment, he said in a cheerful tone, "You will soon be able to walk and play about the garden."

"I!" said the prince, raising his head a little; "I shall never go anywhere but to my mother, and she is not on earth."

"You must hope the best, sir," said the physician soothingly. The child's only answer was a smile; but what a tale of withered hopes, of buried joys, of protracted suffering, was in that smile! On the 8th of June 1795, about two o'clock, he made signs to those about him to open the window. They obeyed, and with a last effort he raised his eyes to heaven, as if seeking some one there, softly whispered "Mother!" and died.

Thus expired Louis XVII. at the early age of ten years and two months. A more gentle soul never ascended to the bosom of its Creator.

NSTANCES of children having been left by accident or by unnatural parents to perish in solitary places, are unhappily to be met with in various eras of social history. Sometimes the infants thus exposed have, by some extraordinary means, been preserved, and have lived in a savage condition till found by chance and brought within the pale of civilisation. It has occasionally happened that beasts usually remarkable for ferocity have nurtured them until strong enough to subsist upon roots, berries, and other fruits. Children found under such circumstances have always been regarded with interest. Though painful to the last degree to behold a human being possessing all the characteristics of a wild beast, yet it has been pleasing and instructive to watch the gradual development of their faculties, and the growth of their moral sentiments. It is our purpose in this tract to record some of the most prominent of these cases, detailing the more interesting at length. Many accounts of wild children-for example, that of Valentine and Orson-are doubtless fabulous: it has been our care, however, to select such as are well authenticated.

There is no instance on record which excited more curiosity, especially in England, than that of a child who was known as

PETER THE WILD BOY.

At the beginning of the last century, a great sensation was created by the accidental finding of a wild boy in a German

forest, to whom the above name was afterwards given. The earliest account of him is to be found in a letter from the Hanoverian correspondent of the St James's Evening Post, published December 14, 1725. "The intendant of the house of correction at Zell," says the writer, "has brought a boy to Hanover, supposed to be about fifteen years of age, who was found some time ago in a wood near Hamelin, some twenty miles hence. He was walking on his hands and feet, climbing up trees like a squirrel, and feeding upon grass and moss of trees." The young savage was brought to George I., who was at that time residing in Hanover. The king was at dinner, and some food was offered the youth, which he rejected. His majesty then ordered him such meat as he liked best; and raw food having been brought, he devoured it with a relish. As he was unable to speak, it was impossible to learn how he was first abandoned in the woods, and by what means he existed. Great care was taken of the boy by order of the king; but, despite the vigilance of those who had charge of him, he escaped in less than a month to the woods. Every species of restraint had been evidently irksome to him, and he availed himself of the first opportunity of freedom that occurred. The woods in the neighbourhood of Hanover were diligently searched, and at length he was discovered hiding in a tree. The boldest of his pursuers were unable to reach him, for as fast as they attempted to climb, he pushed them down, so great was his strength. As a last resource, they sawed down the tree; luckily, it fell without hurting its occupant, and he was once more captured.

Early in the following year (1726) George I. returned to England, and Peter was brought over also. His appearance in London excited intense curiosity. The public papers teemed with notices of his conduct and appearance. On arriving at the palace, a suit of blue clothes was prepared for him; but he seemed very uneasy at wearing apparel of any sort, and it was only restraint that would induce him to wear it. Various colours and descriptions of costume were meantime provided, and at length his taste appeared to be gratified by a strange dress, thus described by a correspondent to an Edinburgh newspaper, April 12, 1726:"The wild youth is dressed in green, lined with red, and has scarlet stockings." By the same account, we find that he had been taught to abandon the use of his hands in walking, and to move about in an erect posture. "He walks upright," says the same authority, "and has begun to sit for his picture." On his first arrival, no inducements could persuade him to lie in a bed, and he would only sleep in a corner of a

room.

When in presence of the court, Peter always took most notice of the king, and of the princess his daughter. The scene was so novel to him, and he so strange an object to those who saw him, that many ludicrous scenes took place, which are humorously