Ah! what a sight was this mighty Place de la Concorde, then the Place de la Revolution, on that bright October morning, filled with a vast and silent throng, while the splendid palace and gardens of the Tuileries, where so often the queen had been hailed with acclamations, the spacious Elysian Fields, the pride of Paris, were all spread around, as if in mockery of the sacrifice which was there to be offered; and in the centre, sublime in its terrific grandeur, towered the blood-red posts of the guillotine. Slowly the cart made its way between the noble buildings of the “_Garde Meuble_” and the Admiralty, and finally reached the foot of the scaffold. As the queen mounted the slippery steps, she trod upon the foot of the executioner. “Pardon me,” said Marie Antoinette, with as much courtesy as if she were addressing a _grand seigneur_ in the palace of Versailles. Kneeling, she uttered a brief prayer, and then turning her eyes to the distant towers of the Temple, exclaimed, “Adieu, my children; I go to rejoin your father.” She was bound to the plank. The gleaming axe slid through the groove, and the long and dreadful tragedy of the life of Marie Antoinette was closed. That night, upon the records of the cemetery of the Madeline, was made this entry:— “_For the coffin of the Widow Capet,—six livres_.” “The Revolution,” says De Tocqueville, “will ever remain in darkness to those who do not look beyond it. It can only be comprehended by the light of the ages which preceded it. Without a clear view of society in the olden time, of its laws, its faults, its prejudices, its sufferings, and its greatness, it is impossible to understand the conduct of the French during the sixty years which have followed its fall.” If absolute power could ever be fitly confided to mortal man, where could nobler depositaries of that high trust have been found than in the succession of great men who fill up the interval in the history of France from the accession of Henry IV. to the death of Louis XIV.?