I cannot now proceed:  ere I am bound to the fatal stake, methinks I shall die of shame, grief, and terror.  And did the friends of my infancy, my parents, suffer as I shall suffer?  Then, welcome death! welcome, hated dawn of my last day, for innocence and truth are banished from the earth!  Hark! the key turning in the lock of my cell!  Hark! those boding and pitying voices without!  Father Dominick!  Servilius!  Andrea! kindest! best!  --I die--but I die innocent, the victim only-----Hah! to burn--burn--burn!  Gracious Heaven! pardon the strife of nature!  My brain whirls!—­my eyes cloud!—­my black, dry, swollen lips,—­throat—­bosom—­heart—­O mother of God!—­O!  Saviour—­Redeemer—­pardon, pardon!—­Father of Mercies,—–­receive me!

Great Marlow, Bucks.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

SCENES FROM THE (OLD) FRENCH REVOLUTION.

(From the “Quarterly” Review of Madame Junot’s Memoirs.)

About the beginning of the revolution, a working-man, by name Thirion, had established himself in a little stall (in Paris,) where he carried on his business as a mender of carpets.  He called one morning to ask M. Permon’s (a Royalist[1]) custom, but was civilly told that the family had long employed a tradesman of his class, and could not change for a stranger:  the man took the refusal so insolently, that he was at last turned out of doors, vowing revenge.  M. Permon, the ports being still open, makes a run over to London to place some money in our funds.  Meantime “the Sections are organized,” and Thirion becomes “Secretaire, Greffier, President, je ne scai quoi, de la notre.”  The morning after his return to Paris, M. Permon had just risen, when footsteps were heard loud on the staircase, and in burst Citizen Thirion, two other patriots of the Sectional Committee, and the carpetman’s shopboy. (Madame Junot’s Narrative commences here.)

“My father was shaving himself.  Naturally quick tempered, his impatience was extreme when he recognised the individual, and he was imprudent enough to make a menacing gesture the moment they broke into his dressing-room.  ‘I am here to see the law enforced,’ cries Thirion, on seeing my father advance with the razor in his hand.  ’Well, what law is it that chooses so worthy an organ?’—­’I am here to learn your age, your pursuits, and to interrogate you as to your journey to Coblentz.’  My father, who had from the first word felt the most violent disposition to toss the man down stairs, shivered with rage; but, at last, he composed himself, wiped his chin, laid down his razor, and, crossing his arms, placed himself full in front of Thirion:  then, measuring him from the utmost height of his tall and elegant person, he said, ’You wish to know my age?’—­’Yes, such are my orders.’—­Where is the order?’ said my father, extending his