family were not coming to partake of it. No answer. "Surely my son, at least, will come," pursued he, "since his bed and clothes are here!" No answer. After supper Cléry was obliged to send the little prince's night-clothes to him by a municipal.

As the king undressed, "I was far from thinking," said he, “what a number of questions would be asked me." He slept the sleep of an innocent man, and Cléry in the same room, in spite of orders.

The next day, and many following days, the trial was resumed. Cléry sent the young prince clean linen every other day, as pre-arranged with Madame Elizabeth; who contrived to send him a little note, pricked with a pin, imploring to know from the king himself how he bore up. The king, being allowed pen and ink, which she was not, wrote her a little note, without sealing it, begging Cléry to remit it to her by the first opportunity, adding, " You may read what I have said." "I never disobeyed my master," says the faithful Cléry, "but in this."

He sent her the note the next day, by a lad named Turgi, who brought back an answer rolled up in a ball of cotton, which he threw under the bed as he passed the door.

The wax candles which were brought to Cléry were tied up with twine. He saved the twine till he had enough, by joining the pieces together, to let down to Madame Elizabeth's window with the king's letters, and draw up the answers. By such means were this affectionate family reduced to keep up their correspondence.

When Christmas-day arrived, the king wrote his will, and employed Cléry to copy it for him. It may be asked what had he to leave? His forgiveness, his wishes, and his confession of faith. It is a very affecting document.

The next morning, at ten o'clock, he was again taken

to the bar of the Assembly, and remained there till five in the evening.

As the conclusion of the trial drew near, Cléry's suspense became horrible. On the 27th of January, early in the morning, M. de Malesherbes, the king's counsel, hastily entered, and said to him with agitation, “All is lost! the king is condemned!" The king, who saw him enter, drew near; his good old minister threw himself at his feet, choking with tears, and unable to utter a word. The king raised him, and pressed him to his heart with affection; nor did he give way to grief when he heard the fatal news; he seemed principally occupied with the sorrow of the venerable old man.

From the moment of hearing M. de Malesherbes' news, Cléry's teeth had chattered, and he had been seized with an uncontrollable trembling. Though the king wanted to be shaved, Cléry was unable to help him; he could only hold the soap while the king lathered his chin, and he dared not look him in the face. At length their eyes met; tears were rolling down Cléry's cheeks; and the king, hitherto so calm, instantly caught the infection of his grief. He became pale as a corpse; but seeing Cléry ready to sink to the ground, he caught him firmly by both hands, pressed them with great emotion, and then said encouragingly, Come, come!-more courage!"

He then finished shaving himself with tranquillity, and Cléry helped him to finish dressing.

When the deputation came to read him his sentence. of death within twenty-four hours, the king betrayed no emotion. He demanded, however, three days for preparation, and an interview with his family. He also sent for a priest, the Abbé Edgeworth; and then, when they were gone, bade Cléry serve his dinner.

Two municipals met Cléry, and said, "Your master must have no knife or sharp instrument at dinner.

You must cut his food for him, and had better go and tell him so." Cléry would not. The king was surprised and hurt at the loss of his knife; but, as the saying is, "it was all of a piece." He managed, with a spoon and a crust, to eat a few mouthfuls: the meal only lasted a few minutes.

The king's request for three days was not granted; his request that he might take leave of his family was. The scene was heart-rending. Sobs, embraces, everything that could pierce the soul. At length they tore themselves away, the king accompanying them to the door and promising to see them on the morrow. Alas! they saw him no more.

Cléry waited on him at supper, and helped him to undress. "It is not the pain," murmured the king, evidently thinking of his approaching death. Then,— Cléry, be sure you wake me at five to-morrow morning."

He slept the moment his head was on his pillow, while his faithful servant sat beside him all night, and prayed to God. At five he began to light the fire. "Is it five?" cried the king, waking up.

"By some of the clocks, sire, but not by the watch." "Is the priest come?"

"Yes, sire."

"Where is he?"

"In my bed."

"And you?"

"Have been beside you in this chair."

"Ah! how sorry

"Sire! could I think of myself at such a time? They wrung one another's hands.

The priest entered as soon as the king was ready, and administered to him the last sacraments. Cléry then asked his blessing, and took leave of him with tears. He was told, however, that he must accompany

the king to the scaffold, to assist him to undress. He shrank from it, but did not refuse. However, he was not permitted to go.

The noise in the streets was now tremendous; the mob was clamorous for its victim. The king was ready. Cléry offered him his great-coat. "I shall not need it," he said "only my hat." Then, "Gentlemen" (to the municipals), "I do hope you will allow Cléry to attend my son, who has always been accustomed to him. It is my earnest wish!"

The next instant he was gone. Cléry remained, standing like a statue, scarcely conscious of anything. How long he remained so he knew not, till roused by the beating of drums which told him that all was over!

Eventually Cléry escaped to England, where his devoted conduct made him many friends. The character of this faithful servant requires no comment—it speaks for itself from first to last.

He is buried at Vienna: his tombstone bears the simple name of "The faithful Cléry."

LOUISA SCHEPLER.

ON the borders of France and Germany, in the ancient city of Strasburg, John Frederic Oberlin was born, in the year 1740. While quite a child, he was distinguished for his generosity and benevolence. When he saw his father looking gravely and sadly over the week's bills, which, perhaps, he could not conveniently pay, little Frederic ran for his money-box, and emptied its contents, a few halfpence and farthings, into his hands. Another day, seeing some rude boys knock down a poor market-woman's basket of eggs, he gave her all his little savings. Another time, he saw a beadle ill-using a sick beggar in the street, and reproved him for it in so spirited a manner, that the enraged beadle would have made him suffer severely for his interference, had not the neighbours interposed. A few days afterwards, Frederic saw the beadle coming along the street. "Shall I run away from him?" thought he "no; God is with me, so why should I fear?" He therefore calmly passed the beadle, who only smiled at him.

The excellent mother of this promising boy used to assemble her children around her every evening, and read aloud some interesting book, while they copied pictures which their father had drawn for them; and seldom did they go to bed without begging for "one beautiful hymn from dear mamma," which she readily granted. At other times, on fine summer afternoons, their father would tie an old drum round his waist, place his seven blooming boys in a line, and make them go through the military exercise. The extreme delight little Frederic manifested on these occasions showed he