rather vaguely tells us tore King Charles to pieces? They saw him standing on the scaffold, a sad and princely figure, and they heard the frightened sobs that rent the air when the cruel deed was done. It is not possible for us now to take this picturesque and exclusive view of one whose shortcomings have been so vigorously raked to light by indignant disciples of Carlyle; but the child who has ever cried over any great historic tragedy is richer for the experience, and stands on higher ground than one whose life is bounded by the schoolroom walls, or who finds her needful stimulant in the follies of a precocious flirtation. What a charming picture we have of Eugénie de Guérin feeding her passionate little soul with vain regrets for the unfortunate family of Louis XVI. and with sweet infantile plans for their rescue. "Even as a child," she writes in her journal, "I venerated this martyr, I loved this victim whom I heard so much talked of in my family as the 21st of January drew near. We used to be taken to the funeral service in the church, and I gazed at the high catafalque, the melancholy throne of the good king. My astonishment
