that time the sheriff entered the oratory, and Mary arose, taking the crucifix from the altar in her right, and carrying her prayer-book in her left hand. Her servants were forbidden to follow; they insisted; but the queen bade them be content; and turning, gave them her blessing. They received it on their knees, some kissing her hands, others her mantle. The door closed; and the burst of lamentation from those within resounded through the hall.

Mary was now joined by the earls and her keepers, and descending the staircase, found at the foot, Melville, the steward of her household, who, for several weeks had been excluded from her presence. "Good Melville," said Mary, "I pray thee report that I die a true woman to my religion, to Scotland, and to France. May God forgive them that have long thirsted for my blood as the hart doth for the brook of water. Commend me to my son; and tell him that I have done nothing prejudicial to the dignity or independence of his crown.' She made a last request, that her servants might be present at her death; but the Earl of Kent objected. When she asked with vehemence, "Am I not the cousin to your queen, a descendant of the blood royal of Henry VII., a named queen of France, and the anointed Queen of Scotland?"

It was then resolved to admit four of her men and two of her women servants. She selected her steward, physician, apothecary, and surgeon, with her two maids. Mary wore the richest of her dresses, that which was appropriate to the rank of a queen-dowager. Her step was firm, and her countenance cheerful. She bore without shrinking the gaze of the spectators, and the sight of the scaffold, and block, and the executioner; and advanced into the hall with that grace and majesty which she had so often displayed in her happier days, and in the palace of her fathers. To aid her, as she mounted the scaffold, Paulet offered his arm. "I thank you, sir," said Mary; "it is the last trouble I shall give you, and the most acceptable service you have ever rendered me.

The queen seated herself on a stool which was prepared for her; and in an audible voice addressed the assembly. She said that she pardoned from her heart all her enemies. She then repeated with a loud voice, and in the Latin language, passages from the Book of Psalms; and a prayer in French, in which she begged of God to pardon her sins, declared that she forgave her enemies, and protested that

she was ignorant of ever consenting in wish or deed to the death of her English sister. She then prayed in English for Christ's afflicted church, for her son James, and for Queen Elizabeth, and in conclusion, holding up the crucifix, exclaimed," As thy arms, O God, were stretched out upon the cross, so receive me unto the arms of thy mercy and forgive my sins.' Madam," said the Earl of Kent, had better leave

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such popish trumperies, and bear him in your heart." She replied, "I cannot hold in my hand the representation of his sufferings, but I must at the same time bear him in my heart." When her maids, bathed in tears, began to disrobe their mistress, the executioners, fearing the loss of their usual perquisites, hastily interfered. The queen remonstrated; but instantly submitted to their rudeness, observing to the earls, with a smile, that she was not accustomed to employ such grooms, or to undress in the presence of so numerous a company. Her servants, at the sight of their sovereign in this lamentable state, could not suppress their feelings; but Mary, putting her finger to her lips, commanded silence, gave them her blessing, and solicited their prayers.

One of her maids, taking from her a handkerchief edged with gold, pinned it over her eyes; the executioners, holding her by the arms, led her to the block; and the queen, kneeling down, said repeatedly, with a firm voice, "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit." But the sobs and groans of the spectators disconcerted the headsman. He trembled, missed his aim, and inflicted a deep wound in the lower part of the skull. The queen remained motionless; and at the third stroke her head was severed from her body. The executioner held it up, and cried as usual, "God save Queen Elizabeth." "So perish all her enemies!" subjoined the Dean of Peterborough. "So perish all the enemies of the gospel!" exclaimed, in a still louder tone, the fanatical Earl of Kent. Not a voice was heard to cry Amen. Party feeling was absorbed in pity.

JOHN LINGARD.

THE PILOT.

A THRILLING INCIDENT.

JOHN MAYNARD was well known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest and intelligent pilot. He was pilot on

a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo, one summer afternoon -at that time those steamers seldom carried boats-smoke was seen ascending from below, and the captain called out: Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down

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there."

Simpson came up with his face pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the ship is on fire."

Then "Fire! fire! fire!" on shipboard.

All hands were called up. Buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quantities of resin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot:

"How far are we from Buffalo?"

"Seven miles."

"How long before we can reach there?"

"Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." "Is there any danger?"

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Danger, here-see the smoke bursting out-go forward if you would save your lives."

Passengers and crew-men, women and children-crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet:

"John Maynard!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"Are you at the helm?"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"How does she head?"

"South-east by east, sir."

"Head her south-east and run her on shore," said the captain.

Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out:

"John Maynard!"

The response came feebly this time, “Aye, aye, sir!" "Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?" he said.

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By God's help, I will."

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one hand disabled, his knee upon the stanchion, and his teeth set, with his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God.

JOHN B. GOUGH.

HANNAH JANE.

SHE isn't half so handsome as when twenty years agone,
At her old home in Piketon, Parson Avery made us one:
The great house crowded full of guests of every degree,
The girls all envying Hannah Jane, the boys all envying me.

Her fingers then were taper, and her skin as white as milk, Her brown hair—what a mess it was! and soft and fine as silk;

No wind-moved willow by a brook had ever such a grace,
The form of Aphrodite, with a pure Madonna face.

She had but meagre schooling: her little notes to me,
Were full of crooked pothooks, and the worst orthography:
Her "dear" she spelled with double e, and kiss with but

one s:

But when one's crazed with passion, what's a letter more or less?

She blundered in her writing, and she blundered when she spoke,

And every rule of syntax, that old Murray made, she broke;
But she was beautiful and fresh, and I-well, I was young;
Her form and face o'er balanced all the blunders of her
tongue.

I was but little better. True, I'd longer been at school;
My tongue and pen were run, perhaps, a little more by rule;
But that was all. The neighbors round, who both of us well
knew,

Said which I believed-she was the better of the two.

All's changed; the light of seventeen's no longer in her eyes;

Her wavy hair is gone-that loss the coiffeur's art supplies;
Her form is thin and angular; she slightly forward bends;
Her fingers once so shapely, now are stumpy at the ends.

She knows but very little, and in little are we one;
The beauty rare, that more than hid that great defect is gone.
My parvenu relations now deride my homely wife,
And pity me that I am tied to such a clod, for life.

I know there is a difference; at reception and levee, The brightest, wittiest, and most famed of women smile on me;

And everywhere I hold my place among the greatest men; And sometimes sigh with Whittier's judge, "Alas! it might have been."

When they all crowd around me, stately dames and brilliant belles,

And yield to me the homage that all great success compels, Discussing art and statecraft, and literature as well,

From Homer down to Thackeray, and Swedenborg on "Hell."

I can't forget that from these streams my wife has never quaffed,

Has never with Ophelia wept, nor with Jack Falstaff laughed; Of authors, actors, artists-why, she hardly knows the names; She slept while I was speaking on the Alabama claims.

I can't forget-just at this point another form appears-
The wife I wedded as she was before my prosperous years;
I travel o'er the dreary road we traveled side by side,
And wonder what my share would be, if Justice should
decide.

She had four hundred dollars left her from the old estate; On that we married, and, thus poorly armored, faced our fate. I wrestled with my books; her task was harder far than

mine

"Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the work of nine.

At last I was admitted; then I had my legal lore,

An office with a stove and desk, of books perhaps a score; She had her beauty and her youth, and some housewifely skill,

And love for me, and faith in me, and back of that a will.

Ah! how she cried for joy when my first legal fight was

won

When our eclipse passed partly by, and we stood in the sun! The fee was fifty dollars 'twas the work of half a year First captive, lean and scraggy, of my legal bow and spear.