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"Let me sit down and breathe," exclaimed Madame Roland; "but do not rejoice at my being set at liberty: it is only a cruel artifice. I am no sooner released from one prison than I am ordered to another. However, I am determined to put myself under the protection of the section to which I belong, and I will beg you to send thither for me."

Paris was at this time divided into sections, or parts; and the part to which Madame Roland belonged, had lately objected strongly to the cruel and unjust acts of the government. She thought, therefore, her section might assist her. The landlord's son, with all the honest and generous feeling of youth, accordingly offered to go. For no other crime than this, the poor young man was afterwards dragged to the scaffold and murdered, and his father died of grief. Such were the savage deeds of the Revolutionary Government.

Madame Roland's attempt to procure protection was of no avail. The people of her section had not power enough to save her, and she once more resigned herself to her fate. The prison she was conveyed to was even worse than the other; but she did not allow her cour

age to sink. She divided her days with as much order as she could in a dungeon, and employed her time in various ways. Reading and drawing were her principal amusements.

At length her enemies began to long for her death. She was accordingly brought before the Revolutionary tribunal, and, after the mockery of a trial, sentenced to be guillotined. On the day of her condemnation, she was neatly dressed in white, her long black hair flowing loosely to her waist. She would have melted the most savage nature; but her cruel enemies seemed to have no hearts. After sentence had been passed upon her, she walked away with a light, cheerful step, and made a sign for her friends, to signify that she was condemned. to die.

Upon preparing for execution, this nobleminded woman behaved still with the greatest calmness and fortitude. She suffered her hair to be cut off, and her hands to be bound without a murmur or a complaint. There was a man named Lamarche also left for execution, and who was to die with her. She saw that he was dejected, and tried to cheer him by her own example. She even insisted upon being

the first to suffer, that she might show him how easy it was to die; and finally met her fate with the most heroic firmness.

Such was the end of the celebrated Madame Roland. Her husband, when he heard of her death, was overwhelmed with grief and despair; and he resolved not to survive her. Accordingly, he retired from his friend's house, at which he lay concealed, and put an end to his existence with a sword he had provided for the purpose. He plunged it into his breast, and was found the next day sitting and leaning against a tree, quite dead, but as calm and composed as if in slumber. Their daughter, whom I have mentioned, afterwards became the wife of a gentleman named Champagneux, one of the most faithful friends of her parents.

MUSIC.

THAT strain again;-it had a dying fall;

-O! it came o'er my ear like the sweet South,

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing, and giving odour !—

THE DOVE SET FREE.

BY T. W. KELLY.

АH! mother, mother! tell me why
My pretty turtle-dove

So pensive sits, and turns her eye
To those bright clouds above?
Perhaps she in those sunny realms
May wish to spread her wing;

Oh! tell me what sad thought o'erwhelms
The little foolish thing?

Her eye is fix'd on yonder flight
Of birds, which in the air,

Wheeling through pathless fields of light,

The sun's fierce radiance dare: Aloft, and coupled with her mate,

She longs, like them, to range; And would her own, for such a state Of freedom, gladly change.

Oh! who could watch her wishing eyes,

Her snowy bosom move

With thrilling throbs, and know her sighs
Are breath'd but for her love!

Poor bird! her pinion, soft and sleek,
"Twere pity to confine!

Her mate, dear mother, let her seek,
Or mark how soon she'll pine!

The lovely girl so sweetly sued,
So artless her appeal;

Her glances, too, disclos'd a mood

That words could not reveal;

They both her wish so well express'd

The dove was soon set free:

Were beauty's thoughts thus ever guess'd, What triumph, Love, for thee!

THE study of literature nourishes youth, entertains old age, adorns prosperity, solaces ad versity, is delightful at home, unobtrusive abroad, deserts us not by day nor by night, in journeying nor in retirement.

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