My share of blows and curses; and they lied.
'Tis true thou didst once-but I recked it not;
I scarce remember now-something I said,
Some foolish jest, that woke the slumbering fiend
That slumbered only under Mary's spell.

'Tis clean forgotten now: all else remains-
'Tis a light blot-(would it had never been!)—
And thou art dead.

And Chastelard is dead.

His piteous eyes still gaze up into mine,
Brimming with liquid love, as erst they gazed
When at my feet in wistful strains he poured
His soul out with his voice. 'Twas that sad eve
When France and all its joys sank in the south
Amid the faint haze where the sunset's glow
Faded in purple gloom. I see those eyes,
As last they fell on me, when he was led
Unto his death, joyous, and calm, and free,
As I shall go to mine. He too is dead
For loving me; and I was dragged to see,
And my hand signed the warrant; yet he sent
One look, one wave, one kiss, to tell that he,
Like all who loved me, loved me to the death.

A chequered day has been this life of mine-
A sunrise blithe as those sweet morns in spring
When west winds whisper gently off the sea,
And flutter by to greet the growing light,
While all the world is gay, though fleecy clouds,
Uncharged as yet with rain, their shadows cast,
Forgotten ere they are flown; for the black bank
Of surging storm-cloud, following fast and full,
As yet is hidden. So my life was spent
'Mid days of dance, and sport, and tournament,
Where I was ever queen by right of face

And form and loveliness, which stormed men's hearts,
From councillor to page. 'Tis true, e'en then

I had begun what saintly gospellers

Have called my life of blood: my victims dropped
Silently down, and lay like the sad leaves

Which fall in early frost. I grieved for them.
'Twas not my guilt they loved me overmuch,
Or that 'twas treason to have loved a queen.
Yet I am sorry now. I have it yet,
Men say that beauty-and that 'tis for it

I die to-morrow: 'tis not politic

Two suns should shine together, whereof one
So far outshines the other. So at length
(With tears, no doubt, and protestations deep
Against the hard lot of anointed queens
Which grants no object but their people's good)
My royal loving sister has been brought

E'en to the snapping of her gentle heart

To grant me death! I would that she were here,
That I might tell her all my gratitude

And admiration of her constancy!

The harlot's bastard! Oh, to see her shrink,
And cower, blear-eyed, and dull, and shivering,
In the light of Mary's beauty! She would find
That all the weary years' imprisonment

To which she lured me with her lying words
Had scarce removed the sting from Mary's tongue.

This only grieves me, that my life has passed
With my long-planned revenge unsatisfied-
Revenge on Murray, and on all the crew
Who found for me that fitting banishment,
Which sent me to be held where I could taste,
In all the venom of its bitterness,

The filthy dregs of spite, which well beseemed
My father's harlot, to his child, her queen.

Yes, and on him whose ghastly face I saw,
With gleaming bloodshot eyes and quivering lip
(His armour glimmered in the fitful glass),
And shaking finger pointing where I sate,
My lap-dog at my feet. I scarce could shriek

Ere forth the spectre strode, from out the gloom,

And, staggering, clutched his victim silently,

Who clung to my skirt and screamed. They wrenched him free, That band of savage devils, and I heard,

Even as down I fell, amid his shrieks

For mercy, poured to men who knew it not,
The dull gush of the daggers in his side.
And then the wild sounds died off into moans-
Moans which will ring for ever in my ears.
For ever? Till to-morrow's dawn I mean.
Child, hand me here yon piece of broidery:
'Tis not yet finished, and the time grows short.
The green wool, child: why, sure thy wits are crazed
With grief to give the red. Dost thou not see

The last row must be green? All else is done.
So now- -'twill do. I'm glad 'tis finished all.
I ne'er have liked to leave a task undone.
Now, Barbara, let us think what I shall wear
At my last court to-morrow. Mind, 'twill ring
Through Christendom how Mary meets her fate.
What think'st thou of the long black velvet train,
Just looped with crimson braid, the jacket close,
But open neck and bosom? ('Twas the dress
That Bothwell loved.) And now the long white fall
Of lace, from head to foot. Look not so scared,
My girl; I know what's in thy mind: 'Twas thus
She wedded Darnley.' Yes! and so be sure
Thy mistress recks not aught of Darnley's death.
And now to bed: 'tis late. It were not fit
That we should bring a weary face to death.

6

VE

AT PARIS, JUST BEFORE THE END.

BY A VICAR OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.

[There is no matter of more vital moment to England at the present time than the right understanding of the Communal insurrection in Paris. All intelligent information on the subject, then, is or ought to be welcome. The question is not what this or that section of us wish to believe to have been the truth, but what was and is the actual truth-what did the Communal leaders really desire, and what was their actual conduct while in power. I for one regard the insurrection, considering the circumstances under which it broke out, as unpatriotic-the professed objects of it as unattainable, and the revolt as indefensible and wrong. So far I cannot sympathise with the writer of the following paper; but if, as I believe also, the insurrection arose from causes inherent in the modern industrial system-causes which are at work in England as powerfully as in France-it behoves us all to attend to what is said about it by its friends as well as by its enemies.-ED. F. M.] ERSAILLES was always a dull, and file, or even to let the Commune dreary place, with its long know how his troops are arranged, galleries full of battles, few of which and what are his supplies of artillery. I had ever heard of, and its hall of Sometimes the passport-man is very the Marshals, with huge Algerian hard to satisfy: if you are smoothpictures, that let us a little into tongued and voluble-just what a the secret of why Algiers is such spy or an 'emissary' would be sure an unprofitable colony. I was to be-you get off well enough; but soon sick of history told French if, Britonlike, you bridle up at this, fashion, and of gardens and ter- perhaps the sixth inspection of perraces, and bronze boys chasing one son and papers since the day began, another round the smaller stand- and ask if you are living in a Reup fountains, and huge tritons public, and whether they ever did sprawling, and sea-horses wallow- catch a real 'Red' by such tricks as ing, and sea-nymphs tumbling about those, you'll find (though you've in the bigger fountains, where the only been expressing your annoy'great waters' used to play. ance in English) that the way is not smooth for you. Your passport is conned over once more, this time by some particularly amiable-looking gentleman in a white hat and dusty boots, whom you took for a fellowtraveller, and were very nearly making a confidant of; and it is found that it has not been visé by the consul in the last town where Then there is questionyou were.

But this time I have no leisure for such thoughts: Versailles is changed; it is no longer dull, far too much the reverse; and as for the galleries, they are cut up into public offices, and bed-chambers and dressing-rooms for the deputies who are waiting to see M. Thiers take Paris, and yet keep to the manifesto, in which he says nothing shall induce him to fire a shell into it.

Versailles is not dull. At the railway there is a great crush; for our old enemy, the passport-man, has come to the front again; and move on you mustn't, until he is quite satisfied (as far as my Lord Granville's recommendation or some French mayor's laissez passer can satisfy him) that you have not come with intent to assassinate M. Thiers, or to suborn his generals, or to spread disaffection among his rank

ing, and consulting, and badgering, until at last you are informed that it is only par obligeance you are allowed to proceed, and the gentlemen with the ferret's eyes and the yellow facings and white lace look at you as though they were determined to be able to swear to you again, after, no matter how many years. And now you are in Versailles it is late on Sunday afternoon, but Paris, at its fullest, was never so full or so noisy as the