"I am going to the guillotine," replied Madame Roland; "a few moments and I shall be there; but those who send me thither will follow me ere long. I go innocent, but they will come stained with blood, and you who applaud our execution will then applaud theirs with equal zeal." Sometimes she would turn away her head that she might not appear to hear the insults with which she was assailed, and would lean with almost filial tenderness over the agéd partner of her execution. The poor old man wept bitterly, and she kindly and cheeringly encouraged him to bear up with firmness, and to suffer with resignation. She even tried to enliven the dreary journey they were performing together by little attempts at cheerfulness, and at length succeeded in winning a smile from her fellow-sufferer.

A colossal statue of Liberty, composed of clay, like the liberty of the time, then stood in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, on the spot now occupied by the Obelisk; the scaffold was erected beside this statue. Upon arriving there, Madame Roland descended from the cart in which she had been conveyed. Just as the executioner had seized her arm to enable her to be the first to mount to the guillotine, she displayed an instance of that noble and tender consideration for others, which only a woman's heart could conceive, or put into practice at such a moment. "Stay!" said she, momentarily resisting the man's grasp. "I have only one favor to ask, and that is not for myself; I beseech you grant it me." Then, turning to the old man, she said, “Do you precede me to the scaffold; to see my blood flow would be making you suffer the bitterness of death twice over. I must spare you the pain of witnessing my punishment. The executioner allowed this arrangement to be made.

With what sensibility and firmness must the mind have been imbued which could, at such a time, forget its own sufferings, to think only of saving one pang to an unknown old man! and how clearly does this one little trait attest the heroic calmness with which this celebrated woman met her death! After the execution of Lamarche, which she witnessed without changing color, Madame Roland stepped lightly up to the scaffold, and, bowing before the statue of Liberty as though to do homage to a power for whom she

was about to die, exclaimed, “O Liberty! Liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name!" She then resigned herself to the hands of the executioner, and in a few seconds her head fell into the basket placed to receive it.

WIDDER GREEN'S LAST WORDS.

"I'm goin' to die!" says the Widder Green.
"I'm goin' to quit this airthly scene:
It ain't no place for me to stay
In such a world as 'tis to-day.

Such works and ways is too much for me;
Nobody can't let nobody be.

The girls is flounced from top to toe,
An' that's the hull o' what they know.
The men is mad on bonds an' stocks,-
Swearin' an' shootin', an' pickin' locks.
I'm real afraid I'll be hanged myself
Ef I ain't laid on my final shelf.
There ain't a cretur but knows to-day
I never was lunatic in any way;
But since crazy folks all go free,
I'm dreadful afraid they'll hang up me.
There's another matter that's pesky hard,-
I can't go into a neighbor's yard
To say How be you?' or borry a pin
But what the paper'll have it in.

'We're pleased to say the Widder Green
Took dinner a Tuesday with Mrs. Keene,'
Or 'Our worthy friend Miss Green has gone
Down to Barkhamsted to see her son.'
Great Jerusalem! can't I stir

Without a-raisin' some feller's fur?
There ain't no privacy-so to say-

No more than if this was the Judgment Day.
And as for meetin',-I want to swear
Whenever I put my head in there,-
Why, even 'Old Hundred's' spiled and done
Like everything else under the sun.
It used to be so solemn and slow,-
Praise to the Lord from men below:
Now it goes like a gallopin' steer,
High diddle diddle, there and here!
No respect to the Lord above,

No more'u ef he was hand and glove

With all the creturs he ever made,
And all the jigs that ever was played.
Preachin', too-but here I'm dumb;
But I tell you what! I'd like it some
Ef good old Parson Nathan Strong,
Out o' his grave would come along,
An' give us a stirrin' taste o' fire-
Judgment an' justice is my desire.
"Taint all love an' sickish sweet

That makes this world or t'other complete.
But law! I'm old. I'd better be dead
When the world's a-turnin' over my head,
Sperit's talkin' like tarnal fools,

Bibles kicked out o' deestrict schools,

Crazy creturs a-murderin' round,—

Honest folks better be under ground.

So fare-ye-well! this airthly scene

Won't no more be pestered by Widder Green.*

THE LITTLE HERO.

Now, lads, a short yarn I'll just spin you,
As happened on our very last run,-
'Bout a boy as a man's soul had in him,
Or else I'm a son of a gun.

From Liverpool port out three days, lads;
The good ship floating over the deep;
The skies bright with sunshine above us;
The waters beneath us asleep.

Not a bad-tempered lubber among us;
A jollier crew never sailed,
'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,
But good seaman as ever was hailed.
Regulation, good order, his motto;

Strong as iron, an' steady as quick;
With a couple of bushy black eyebrows,
And eyes fierce as those of Old Nick.
One day he comes up from below,
A-graspin' a lad by the arm,-
A poor little ragged young urchin

As had ought to bin home to his marm.
An' the mate asks the boy, pretty roughly,
How he dared for to be stowed away,
A-cheatin' the owners and captain,
Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.

The lad had a face bright and sunny,
An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's,
An' looks up at the scowlin' first mate, lads,
An' shakes back his long shining curls;

An' says he in a voice dear and pretty,
"My step-father brought me aboard,
And hid me away down the stairs there;
For to keep me he couldn't afford.

"And he told me the big ship would take me
To Halifax town,-oh, so far!

And he said, 'Now the Lord is your father,
Who lives where the good angels are.""

"It's a lie," says the mate: "not your father,
But some of these big skulkers near,
Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor.
Speak up, tell the truth, d'ye hear?"

""Twarn't us," growled the tars as stood round 'em.
66 What's your age?" says one of the brine.
"And your name?" says another old salt fish.

Says the small chap, I'm Frank, just turned nine." "Oh, my eyes!" says another bronzed seaman To the mate, who seemed staggered hisself, "Let him go free to old Novy Scoshy, And I'll work out his passage myself."

"Belay!" says the mate: "shut your mouth, man!
I'll sail this ere craft, bet your life,
An' I'll fit the lie on to you somehow,
As square as a fork fits a knife."

Then a-knitting his black brows with anger,
He tumbled the poor slip below:

An', says he, " P'r'aps to-morrow'll change you-
If it don't, back to England you go."

I took him some dinner, be sure, mates,—
Just think, only nine years of age!
An' next day, just as six bells tolled,

The mate brings him up from his cage.

An' he plants him before us amidships,
His eyes like two coals all a-light;

An' he says, through his teeth, mad with passion,
An' his hand lifted ready to smite,

"Tell the truth, lad, and then I'll forgive you;

But the truth I will have. Speak it out.

It wasn't your father as brought you,

But some of these men here about."

Then that pair o' blue eyes, bright and winning,
Clear and shining with innocent youth,
Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows;
An', says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth."

'Twarn't no use; the mate didn't believe him,
Though every man else did, aboard.
With rough hand by the collar he seized him,
And cried, "You shall hang, by the Lord!"
An' he snatched his watch out of his pocket,
Just as if he'd been drawin' a knife.
"If in ten minutes more you don't speak, lad,
There's the rope, and good-by to your life."

There! you never see such a sight, mates,
As that boy with his bright pretty face,-
Proud though, and steady with courage,
Never thinking of asking for grace.

Eight minutes went by all in silence.

Says the mate then, "Speak, lad: say your say." His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,

He faltering says, "May I pray?"

I'm a rough and hard old tarpa'lin

As any "blue-jacket" afloat;

But the salt water sprung to my eyes, lads,
And I felt my heart rise in my throat.

The mate kind o' trembled an' shivered,
And nodded his head in reply;
And his cheek went all white of a sudden,
And the hot light was quenched in his eye,
Though he stood like a figure of marble,
With his watch tightly grasped in his hand,
An' the passengers all still around him:

Ne'er the like was on sea or on land.

An' the little chap kneels on the deck there,
An' his hands he clasps over his breast,
As he must ha' done often at home, lads,
At night-time, when going to rest.

And soft come the first words, "Our Father,"
Low and soft from the dear baby-lip;
But, low as they were, heard like trumpet
By each true man aboard of that ship.

Every bit of that prayer, mates, he goes through,
To, "Forever and ever.

Amen."

And for all the bright gold of the Indies,

I wouldn't ha' heard it again.