mit that he amply justifies his temerity.

The tragic figure of the queen drawn to execution through the roaring
mob inspired Carlyle with what is surely his most overwhelming
product.

The august shadow of the Bible is dimly apprehended as the words
ascend upwards and upwards with simple sublimity to the awful close.

Nothing he wrote in all his multitudinous volumes surpasses this
astonishing outburst:--

"Beautiful Highborn that wert so foully hurled low!

"For, if thy being came to thee out of old Hapsburg Dynasties,
came it not also out of Heaven? _Sunt lachrymae rerum, et mentem
mortalia tangunt_. Oh! is there a man's heart that thinks without
pity of those long months and years of slow-wasting ignominy;--of
thy birth soft-cradled, the winds of Heaven not to visit thy face
too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy eye on splendour;
and then of thy death, or hundred deaths, to which the guillotine
and Fouquier Tinville's judgment was but the merciful end?

"Look _there_, O man born of woman! The bloom of that fair face is
wasted, the hair is grey with care; the brightness of those eyes
is quenched, their lids hang drooping, the face is stony pale as
of one living in death.

"Mean weeds which her own hand has mended attire the Queen of the
World. The death-hurdle, where thou sittest pale, motionless,
which only curses environ, has to stop--a people drunk with
vengeance will drink it again in full draught, looking at thee
there. Far as the eye reaches, a multitudinous sea of maniac
heads, the air deaf with their triumph-yell!

"The living-dead must shudder with yet one more pang; her startled
blood yet again suffuses with the hue of agony that pale face,
which she hides with her hands.

"There is, then, _no_ heart to say, 'God pity thee'?

"O think not of these: think of Him Whom thou worshippest, the
Crucified--Who also treading the winepress alone, fronted sorrow
still deeper, and triumphed over it, and made it holy, and built
of it a Sanctuary of Sorrow for thee and all the wretched!

"Thy path of thorns is nigh ended. One long last look at the
Tuileries, where thy step was once so light--where thy children
shall not dwell.

"Thy head is on the block; the axe rushes--dumb lies the world;
that wild-yelling world, and all its madness, is behind thee."

There is a passa