Chapter M: March Court

Court day!--what an important day in Virginia!--what a day of bustle and business!--what a requisition is made upon every mode of conveyance to the little metropolis of the county! How many debts are then to be paid!--how many to be _put off_!--Alas! how preponderate the latter! If a man says "_I will pay you at Court_," I give up the debt as hopeless, without the intervention of the _la_. But if court day be thus important, how much more so is March court! That is the day when our candidates are expected home from Richmond to give an account of their stewardship; at least it used to be so, before the number of our legislators was lessened with a view of facilitating the transaction of business, and with a promise of _shortening_ the sessions. But somehow or other, the public chest has such a multitude of charms, it seems now to be more impossible than ever to get away from it.

"'Tis that capitol rising in grandeur on high,
Where bank notes, by thousands, bewitchingly lie,"

as the song says, which makes our sessions "_of so long a life_," and there is no practicable mode of preventing the _evisceration_ of the aforesaid chest, but deferring the meeting of the Assembly to the month of February, {303} and thereby compelling the performance of the Commonwealth's business within the two months which would intervene till the planting of corn. However, this is foreign to my present purpose, which is to describe a scene at which I have often gazed with infinite amusement. Would I had the power of Hogarth, that I might perpetuate the actings and doings of a March court; but having no turn that way, I must barely attempt to group the materials, and leave the painting to some regular artist to perfect. Picture to yourself, my gentle reader, our little town of _Dumplinsburg_, consisting of a _store_, a _tavern_, and a _blacksmith shop_, the common ingredients of a county town, with a court house and a jail in the foreground, as denoting the superior respect to which they are entitled. Imagine a number of roads diverging from the town like the radii of a circle, and upon these roads horsemen and footmen of every imaginable kind, moving, helter skelter, to a single point of attraction. Justices and jurymen--counsellors and clients--planters and pettifoggers--constables and cakewomen--farmers and felons--horse-drovers and horse-jockies, and _so on_, all rushing onward like the logs and rubbish upon the current of some mighty river swollen by rains, hurrying pell mell to the vast ocean which is to swallow them all up--a simile not altogether unapt, when we consider that the greater part of these people have law business, and the law is universally allowed to be a vortex worse than the Maelstrom. Direct the "fringed curtains of thine eyes" a little further to the main street--a street well entitled to the epithet main in all its significations, being in truth the principal and only street, and being moreover the political arena or cockpit, in which is settled pugilistically, all the tough and knotty points which cannot be adjusted by argument. See, on either side, rows of nags of all sorts and sizes, from the skeleton just unhitched from the plough, to the saucy, fat, impudent pony, with roached mane and bobtail, and the sleek and long tailed pampered horse, whose coat proclaims his breeding, all tied to the _staggering_ fence which constitutes the boundary of the street. Behold the motley assemblage within these limits hurrying to and fro with rapid strides, as if life were at stake. Who is he who slips about among the "_greasy rogues_," with outstretched palm, and shaking as many hands as the Marquis La Fayette? It is the candidate for election, and he distributes with liberal hand that _barren chronicle_ of legislative deeds, denominated the list of laws, upon which are fed a people starving for information. This is a mere register of the titles of acts passed at the last session, but it is caught at with avidity by the sovereigns, who are highly offended if they do not come in for a share of the Delegate's bounty. The purchase and distribution of these papers is a sort of _carmen necessarium_, or indispensable lesson, and it frequently happens that a member of the Assembly who has been absent from his post the whole winter, except upon the yeas and nays, acquires credit for his industry and attention to business in proportion to the magnitude of the bundle he distributes of this uninstructive record.

See now he mounts some elevated stand and harangues the gaping crowd, while a jackass led by his groom is braying at the top of his lungs just behind him. The jack takes in his breath, like Fay's Snorer, "_with the tone of an octave flute, and lets it out with the profound depth of a trombone_." Wherever a candidate is seen, there is sure to be a jackass--surely, his long eared companion does not mean to satirize the candidate! However that may be, you perceive the orator is obliged to desist, overwhelmed perhaps by this thundering applause. Now the crowd opens to the right and left to make way for some superb animal at full trot, some Highflyer or Daredevil, who is thus exhibited _ad captandum vulgus_, which seems the common purpose of the candidate, the jack, and his more noble competitor. But look--here approaches an object more terrible than all, if we may judge from the dispersion of the crowd who _ensconce_ themselves behind every convenient corner and peep from their lurking holes, while the object of their dread moves onward with saddle bags on arm, a pen behind his ear, and an inkhorn at his button hole. Lest some of my readers should be ignorant of this august personage, I must do as they do in England, where they take a shaggy dog, and dipping him in red paint, they dash him against the signboard and write underneath, this is the Red Lion. This is the sheriff and he is summoning his jury--"Mr. Buckskin, you, sir, dodging behind the blacksmith's shop, I summon you on the jury;" ah, luckless wight! he is caught and obliged to succumb. In vain he begs to be let off,--"you must apply to the magistrates," is the surly reply. And if, reader, you could listen to what passes afterwards in the court house, you might hear something like the following colloquy--Judge. "What is your excuse, sir?" Juror. "I am a lawyer, sir." Judge. "Do you follow the law now, sir?" Juror. "No, sir, the law follows me." Judge. "Swear him, Mr. Clerk." Ah, there is a battle!!! see how the crowd rushes to the spot--"who fights?"--"part 'em"--"stand off"--"fair play"--"let no man touch"--"hurrah, Dick"--"at him, Tom." An Englishman thinking himself in England, bawls out, "sheriff, read the riot act"--a Justice comes up and commands the peace; _inter arma silent leges_; he is unceremoniously knocked down, and Justice is blind as ought to be the case. Two of the rioters now attempt to ride in at the tavern door, and for awhile all Pandemonium seems broke loose. To complete this picture, I must, like Asmodeus, unroof the court house, and show you a trial which I had the good fortune to witness. It was during the last war, when the vessels of Admiral Gordon were making their way up the Potomac to Alexandria, that a negro woman was arraigned for killing one of her own sex and color; she had been committed for murder, but the evidence went clearly to establish the deed to be manslaughter, inasmuch as it was done in sudden heat, and without malice aforethought. The Attorney for the commonwealth waived the prosecution for murder, but quoted _British authorities_ to show that she might be convicted of manslaughter, though committed for murder. The counsel for the accused arose, and in the most solemn manner, asked the court if it was a thing ever heard of, that an individual accused of one crime and acquitted, should be arraigned immediately for another, under the same prosecution? At intervals--boom--boom--boom went the _British cannon_--_British authorities!_ exclaimed the counsel; _British authorities_, gentlemen!! Is there any one upon that bench so dead to the feelings of patriotism as at such a moment to listen to _British authorities_, when the British cannon is shaking the very walls of your court house to their {304} foundation? This appeal was too cogent to be resisted. Up jumped one of the Justices and protested that it was not to be borne; let the prisoner go; away with your British authorities! The counsel for the accused, rubbed his hands and winked at the attorney; the attorney stood aghast; his astonishment was too great for utterance, and the negro was half way home before he recovered from his amazement.

NUGATOR.

THE DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE.

SCENE I.

ROBESPIERRE'S HOUSE.

_Robespierre and St. Just meeting._

_St. Just._--Danton is gone!

_Robespierre._--Then can I hope for all things,
Since he is dead whose shadow darken'd me;
Did the crowd cheer or hiss him?

_St. Just._--Neither, sir:
Save a few voices, all look'd on in silence.

_Robes._--Ha! did they so?--but when the engine rattled,
And the axe fell, didst thou perceive him shudder?

_St. Just._--He turn'd his face to the descending steel,
And calmly smil'd. A low and ominous murmur
Spread through the vast assemblage--then, in peace,
They all dispers'd.

_Robes._--I did not wish for this.

_St. Just._--No man, since Louis Capet----

_Robes._--Say no more
My worthy friend--the friend of France and freedom--
Hasten to guard our interest in yon junto
Of fools and traitors, who, like timid sheep,
Nor fight nor fly, but huddle close together,
Till the wolves come to gorge themselves among them--
And in the evening, you and all my friends
Will meet me here, deliberate, and decide
To advance, or to recede. Be still, we cannot;
And hear me, dear St. Just--A man like you,
Firm and unflinching through so many trials,
Who sooner would behold this land manured
With carcases and moistened with their blood,
Than yielding food for feudal slaves to eat,
True to your party and to me your _brother_--
For so I would be term'd--has the best claim
That man can have to name his own reward
When France is all our own. Bethink you then
What post of honor or of profit suits you,
And tell me early, that I may provide,
To meet your views, a part in this great drama.

_St. Just._--Citizen Robespierre--my hearty thanks;
Financial Minister, by any name
Or trumpery title that may suit these times,
Is what I aim at--gratify me there
And I am yours through more blood than would serve
To float the L'Orient.[1]

[Footnote 1: A French line of battle ship. Burnt at the battle of Aboukir.]

_Robes._--'Tis well, St. Just,
But wherefore citizen me? I have not used
The term to you--we are not strangers here.

_St. Just._--Pardon me, sir, (or _Sire_, even as you please)
The cant of Jacobins infects my tongue,
I had no meaning farther. One word more
Before we part--now Danton is cut off,
We may be sure that all his partisans
And personal friends are our most deadly foes,
And it were politic and kind in us
To spare their brains unnumbered schemes of vengeance
And seize at once the power to silence them.
To give them time were ruin; some there are
Whose love of gold is such that were it wet
With Danton's blood they would not less receive it.
These may be brib'd to league with us. Farewell.

_Robes._ (_solus_.) Blood on its base--upon its every step--
Yea, on its very summit--still I climb:
But thickest darkness veils my destiny,
And standing as I do on a frail crag
Whence I must make one desperate spring to power,
To safety, honor, and unbounded wealth,
Or be as Danton is, why do I pause?
Why do I gaze back on my past career,
Upon those piles of headless, reeking dead?
Those whitening sculls? those streams of guiltless blood
Still smoking to the skies?--why think I hear
The shrieks, the groans, the smothered execrations
That swell the breeze, or seem as if I shrank
Beneath the o'ergrown, yet still accumulating,
Curse of humanity that clings around me?
Is not my hate of them as fixed, intense,
And all unquenchable as theirs of me?
But they must tremble in their rage while I
Destroy and scorn them.
(_reads a letter_.)

"Exert your dexterity to escape a scene on which you are to appear
once more ere you leave it forever. Your dictatorial chair, if
attained, will be only a step to the scaffold, through a rabble
who will spit on you as on Egalité. You have treasure enough. I
expect you with anxiety. We will enjoy a hearty laugh at the
expense of a people as credulous as greedy of novelty."

He but little knows,
Who wrote this coward warning, what I am.
I love not life so well, nor hate mankind
So slightly as to fly this country now:
No, I will ride and rule the storm I have rais'd,
Or perish in its fury.
(_Madame de Cabarus enters_.)
Ha! a woman!
How entered you?

_Lady._--Your civic guard were sleeping;
I pass'd unquestioned, and my fearful strait
Compels appeal to thee, great Robespierre!
Deny me not, and Heaven will grant thy prayer
In that dread hour when every mortal needs it.
Repulse me not, and heaven thus at the last
Will not repulse thee from eternal life.
I am the daughter of the unhappy Laurens,
Who hath but one day more to live on earth.
Oh, for the sake of all thou holdest dear,
(_kneeling before him_.)
Spare to his only child the misery
Of seeing perish thus her much lov'd sire.
His head is white with age--let it not fall
Beneath yon dreadful axe. Through sixty years
A peaceful and reproachless life he led.
Thy word can save him. Speak, oh speak that word,
For our Redeemer's sake redeem his life,
And child and father both shall bless thee ever.

_Robes._ (_aside_.) I know her now--the chosen of Tallien
How beautiful in tears! A noble dame {305}
And worthy to be mine. 'Twould sting his heart
To lose his mistress ere I take his head;
If I would bribe her passions or her fears,
As well I trust I can, I must be speedy.
Those drunken guards--should any see her here,
Then what a tale to spread on Robespierre,
The chaste, the incorruptible, forsooth----
(_coldly approaching her_.)
Lady, I may not save your father's life--
Duty forbids--he holds back evidence
Which would convict Tallien; nay, do not kneel,
I cannot interfere.

_Daughter._--Oh, say not so.
He is too peaceful for intrigues or plotters--
Too old, too helpless for their trust or aid.
Oh, for the filial love thou bearest thy sire,
Thy reverence for his years----

_Robes._--If he were living
And spoke in thy behalf, it were in vain.

_Daughter._--For the dear mother's sake who gave thee birth
And suffer'd agony that thou might'st live----

_Robes._--Not if her voice could hail me from the tomb,
And plead in thy own words to save his life.

_Daughter._--If thou hast hope or mercy----

_Robes._--I have neither.
Rise and depart while you are safe--yet stay,
One path to his redemption still is open--
It leads to yonder chamber--Ha! I see
Thou understandest me.

_Daughter._--I trust I do not.
I hope that Heaven beholds not--Earth contains not
A being capable of such an offer.

_Robes._--And dare you scorn me, knowing who I am?
Bethink you where you stand--your sire--and lover--
And hear my offer. Life and wealth for them,
Jewels and splendor and supremacy
Shall wait on thee--no dame shall breathe in France
But bends the knee before thee.

_Daughter._--Let him die.
Better he perish now than live to curse
His daughter for dishonor. Fare you well.
There is a time for all things, and the hour
May come when thou wilt think of this again.

_Robes._ (_laughing_.) Ha! ha! Wouldst thou depart to spread this
tale?
Never, save to such ears as will not trust thee!
Choose on the spot between thy father's death,
Thy lover's and _thine own_, or my proposal.

_Daughter._--My choice is made, let me rejoin my sire.

_Robes._--I'll furnish thee a passport--guards awake!
(_seizing her arm_.)
Without there! murder! treason! guards come hither!
(_Jacobins rush in and seize her_.)
A watchful crew ye are, to leave me thus
To perish like Marât by the assassins;
See that you guard her well, and keep this weapon
Which, but I wrench'd it from her, would have slain me.

_Daughter._--And thus my father dies and one as dear.
'Tis joy to suffer with them, though I perish.
I feel assured thou canst not triumph long--
And I adjure thee by the Heaven thou hast scorn'd,
Whose lingering fires are not yet launch'd against thee,
And by the Earth thou cumberest, which hath not
Yet opened to entomb thee living, come,
Meet me, and mine, and thy ten thousand victims,
Before God's judgment seat, ere two days pass.
(_the guards take her out_.)

_Robes._--She must have thought in sooth I was a Christian.

SCENE II.

TALLIEN'S HOUSE.

_Tallien with a letter in his hand._

In prison!--In his power!--to die to-morrow!
My body trembles and my senses reel.
This is a just and fearful retribution--
Would it were on my head alone! Oh Heaven,
Spare but this angel woman and her father,
And let me die--or might my life be pardon'd,
The criminal excess to which these times
Have hurried my rash hand and wilful heart,
I will atone to outrag'd human nature,
To her and to my country. Wretched France!
Once the fair home of music and of mirth,
So torn, so harrassed by these factions now,
That even the wise and good of other lands
Cannot believe a patriot breathes in this!
And she complains that I am grown a craven!
My acts of late may justify the thought,
But let to-morrow show how much I fear him.
(_A Servant enters_.)

_Servant._--The Minister of Police----

_Tallien._--Attend him hither--
Fouché--perhaps to sound me; let him try--
I yet may baffle him, and one more fatal----
(_Fouché enters_.)

_Fouché._--So you are in the scales with Robespierre,
And which do you expect will kick the beam?

_Tallien._--Why should you think that I will stake my power,
Friends, interest, and life, in useless efforts
To thwart the destined ruler of the land?

_Fouché._--Yourself have told me so. I did but mean
That he had risk'd his power and party strength
Against your life. You mean to strike at his.
Your faltering voice and startled looks betray
The secret of your heart, though sooth to say,
I knew it all before.

_Tallien._--You see too far,
And are for once wise over much, Monsieur;
I never sought to oppose your great colleague,
But would conciliate him if I might.

_Fouché._ (_sternly_.) And do you hope to throw dust in my eyes?
What means this note from Madame de Cabarus
Now in your bosom--sent to you this morning--
And this your answer? (_producing a billet_.) Have I fathom'd you?
The mystic writing on the palace wall
Scar'd not Belshazzar more than this does you.
(_Tallien goes to the door_.)
Nay, never call your men or make those signals,
I have foreseen the worst that you can do.

_Tallien._--Chief of Police, while you are in this house
Your life is in my hands--when you are gone,
Mine is in yours. Now tell me why you came?

_Fouché._--To show you that I know of your designs.

_Tallien._--And is that all?

_Fouché._--Not quite. To offer service-- {306}
A politician should not start as you do
At every word.

_Tallien._--Ah--can I--dare I trust you?

_Fouché._--I do not ask created man to trust
Honor or oath of him whose name is Fouché.
I know mankind, and study my own interest--
Interest, Tallien--that mainstring of all motion--
Chain of all strength--pole star of all attraction
For human hearts to turn to. Let me see
My interest in supporting you, and I
Can aid and guard you through the coming peril.

_Tallien._--Name your terms.

_Fouché._--My present post and what
Beside is mentioned in this schedule.
(_giving a paper_.)

_Tallien_.--Your _price_ is high, but I am pledged to pay it.
(_giving his hand_.)

_Fouché._--Thou knowest I never was over scrupulous,
But he whom I was link'd with, Robespierre,
Can stand no longer. Earth is weary of him.
The small majority in the Convention
He calculates upon to be his plea
For wreaking summary vengeance on the heads
Of all who, like yourself, are not prepared
To grant him supreme power or dip their hands
In blood for any, every, or no profit.
A ravenous beast were better in the chair.
Henriot and the civic force here, stand
Prompt to obey him. Were we only sure
To raise the citizens, these dogs were nothing--
But, sink or swim, to-morrow is the day
Must ruin him or us. Do you impeach him,
And paint his crimes exactly as they are;
Have a decree of arrest, and I and mine
Will see he quits not the Convention Hall
But in the custody of friends of ours.
'Tis true I bargain'd to assist the fiend
The better to deceive him. Mark, Tallien,
A presage of his fall--not only I
Abandon him, but I can bring Barrère
And all his tribe to give their votes against him.
Give me _carte blanche_ to pay them for their voices.

_Tallien._--But think you I can move them to arrest him?

_Fouché._--That is a _chance_ unknown even to myself,
There are so many waiters on the wind,
Straws to be blown wherever it may list
That surety of success we cannot have,
But certain ruin if we pass to-morrow.

_Tallien._--Is't true she aim'd a weapon at his life?

_Fouché._--A lie of his invention. I have seen
The weapon he pretended to have snatch'd
From her fair hands, and know it for his own.
Though I seem foul compar'd to better men,
I claim to appear an angel match'd with him.

SCENE III.

ROBESPIERRE'S HOUSE.

_Robespierre, Fouché, Henriot and others._

_Henriot._--All things are ready now, six thousand men
And twenty cannon wait your word to-morrow.

_Robes._--Henriot, I have a word to say to thee:
Thou hast _one_ vice that suits not with a leader,
If that thou hopest to thrive in our attempt,
Taste not of wine till victory is ours.

_Henriot._--I thank your caution.

_Fouché_.--I have seen Tallien
And offered peace between you; he knew not
That Laurens' daughter had assail'd your life,
Or he had mentioned it. Nor did he dream
Of what will peal upon his ears to-morrow.

_Robes._--Then, friends, farewell until to-morrow dawns.

_Fouché._--And ere its night sets in we hail thee Ruler,
Dictator of the land.

_Robes._--If such your will--
Without you I am nothing--fare you well.
(_they leave him_.)
(_looking up to the stars_.)--Unchang'd, unfading, never-dying
lights--
Gods, or coeval with them! If there be
In your bright aspects aught of influence
Which men have made a science here on earth,
Shed it benignly on my fortunes now!
Spirit of Terror! Rouse thee at my bidding--
Shake thy red wings o'er Liberty's Golgotha--
Palsy men's energies and stun their souls,
That no more foes may cross my path to-morrow
Than I and mine can drown in their own blood;
Or, let them rise by thousands, so my slaves
Fight but as heartily for gold and wine
As they have done ere now. When I shall lead them,
Then 'mid the artillery's roar and bayonet's flash
I write my title to be Lord of France
In flame and carnage, o'er this den of thieves.
Beneath th' exterior, frozen, stern demeanor,
How my veins throb to bursting, while I think
On the rich feast of victory and revenge
The coming day may yield me! Yes, this land
Of bigot slaves who tremble at a devil,
Or frantic atheists who with lifted hands
Will gravely VOTE their Maker from his throne,
This horde of dupes and miscreants shall feel
And own in tears, blood, crime and retribution,
The iron rule of him they trampled on--
The outrag'd, ruin'd, and despised attorney.
Though few the anxious hours that lie between
My brightest, proudest hopes, or sure destruction,
All yet is vague, uncertain, and obscure
As what may chance in ages yet to come.
How if the dungeon or the scaffold--Ha!
That shall not be--my hand shall overrule it--
Ingenious arbiter of life and death!
(_looking to the charge of a small pistol_.)
Be thou my bosom friend in time of need!
No--if my star is doom'd to set forever,
The cheeks of men shall pale as they behold
The lurid sky it sinks in. Should I fall
Leading my Helots on to slay each other,
Then death, all hail!--for only thou canst quench
The secret fire that rages in my breast;
If there be an hereafter, which I know not,
He who hath borne _my_ life may dare its worst,
And if mortality's last pangs end all,
Welcome eternal sleep!--annihilation!

SCENE IV.

THE HALL OF THE NATIONAL CONVENTION.

_Couthon concluding a speech from the Tribune. Tallien, Fouché, Carnôt, and others, standing near him. Robespierre, St. Just, and others, in their seats._

_Tallien_ (_to Fouché_.)--Are you ready? {307}

_Fouché._--Doubt not my aid--denounce him where he stands--
And lose no time--this hour decides our fate.

_Couthon_ (_to the Convention_.)--Our country is in danger--I invoke
Your aid, compatriots, to shield her now!
Fain as I am to avoid confiding power
Without control, in even patriot hands,
We cannot choose--and much as I abhor
To see blood flow, let punishment descend
On traitors' heads, for this alone can save us.

_Tallien_ (_approaching him_.) Thou aged fangless tiger! not yet
glutted?
Torrents of blood are shed for thee and thine--
Must thou have more? Descend--before I trample
Thee to the earth. Thou art not fit to live.
(_he drags Couthon down by the hair of
his head and mounts the Tribune_.)
(_addressing the Convention_.) Yes, citizens, our country is
imperiled,
And by a band of dark conspirators,
Soul-hardened miscreants, in whose grasp the ties
That bind mankind together are rent asunder
By spies--by fraud--by hope of power and spoils--
By baser fears, and by increasing terror
Of their dread engine, whose incessant strokes
And never failing stream astound mankind.
These men have pav'd the way, that open force
May crush the hopes of France, and bend our necks
Unto a despotism strange as bloody.
And who, my countrymen, hath been their leader?
Ye know him well--and every Frenchman breathing
Hath need to rue the hour which gave _him_ birth--
A wretch accursed in heaven--abhorred on earth,
Hath dared aspire to sway most absolute
In this Republic--and the dread tribunals
Which for the land's protection were established
When pressed by foreign arms and homebred treason,
He hath converted to the deadly end
Of slaughtering all who crossed his onward path.
His black intrigues have occupied their seats
With robbers and assassins--whose foul riot,
Polluted lives, and unquenched thirst of gold,
Have beggar'd France and murdered half her sons.
Witness those long--long lists of dire proscription
Prepar'd at night for every coming day,
Even in the very chamber of the tyrant!
Witness the wanton, groundless confiscations,
Which ruin helpless men, to feed his minions!
Witness the cry of woe too great to bear,
That hath gone up to heaven from this fair land!
Yes--hear it, every man who loves his country--
France, for a ruler now, is ask'd to choose
The vampire who would drain her dearest blood:
A sordid slave, whose hideous form contains
A mind in moral darkness and fierce passions
Like nothing, save the cavern gloom of hell,
Which knows no light but its consuming fires!
I need not point to him. Your looks of terror,
Disgust and hatred turn at once upon him.
Though there be others of his name, this Hall--
This City--France--the World itself contains
Only one--Robespierre.
(_the Assembly in great confusion_.)

_Robes._ (_to St. Just_.) This blow is sudden.

_St. Just._--Up to the Tribune--speed--your life--our power
All hang upon a moment. Art thou dumb?

_Tallien_ (_continuing_.) The evil spirit who serv'd abandons him,
And I denounce him as the mortal foe
Of every man in France who would be free--
Impeach him as a traitor to the State
In league with Henriot, Couthon and St. Just.
To overawe by force and crush the Assembly!
I appeal for proof to those who plotted with him,
But now repentant have abjur'd his cause.
I move that he be instantly arrested
With Henriot and all accomplices.

_Robes._ (_to St. Just_.) See how they rise like fiends and point
the hand
Of bitterest hatred at your head and mine,
Our veriest bloodhounds turn and strive to rend us.
(_he rushes towards the Tribune, amid
loud cries of "Down with the tyrant!"_)

_Robes._--Hear me, ye members of the Mountain--hear me,
Cordeliers, who have prais'd and cheer'd me on--
Ye Girondists, give even your foes a hearing--
Ye members of the Plain, who moderate
The fury of contending factions--hear me
For all I have done or have designed to do,
I justify myself--and I appeal
To God--and----
(_he pauses choked with rage_.)

_Tallien._--Danton's blood is strangling him.
Consummate hypocrite!--darest thou use
Thy Maker's name to sanctify thy crimes,
Thou lover of Religion! Saintly being!
The executioner! thou prayerless atheist!
To thy high priest. The scaffold is thy temple--
The block thy altar--murder is thy God.
And could it come to this? Oh, France! Oh, France!
Was it for this that Louis Capet died?
For this was it we swore eternal hatred
To kings and nobles--pour'd our armies forth--
Crush'd banded despots and confirmed our rights?
And have we bled, endur'd and toil'd, that now
Our triumph should be to disgrace ourselves
And bend in worship to a man whose deeds
Have written demon on his very brow?
What! style Dictator--clothe with regal honors
And more than regal power this Robespierre,
So steep'd in guilt--so bath'd in human blood!
It may not be--France is at last awake
From this long dreary dream of shame and sorrow,
And may her sons in renovated strength
Shake off the lethargy that drew it on!
Spirits of Earth's _true_ heroes!--if ye see us
From the calm sunshine of your blest abodes,
Look with approval on me in this hour!
(_turning to the statue of Brutus_.)
Thee, I invoke!--Shade of the virtuous Brutus!
Like thee, I swear, should man refuse me justice
I draw this poignard for the tyrant's heart
Or for my own. Tallien disdains to live
The slave of Robespierre. I do not ask
Nor can expect him to receive the meed
Which should be his. Death cannot punish him
Whose life hath well deserv'd a thousand deaths,
But let us purge this plague-spot from among us, {308}
And tell wide Europe by our vote this night
That Terror's reign hath ceas'd--that axe and sceptre
Are both alike disown'd, destroyed forever.
Let us impeach him, Frenchmen, with the spirit
That springs from conscious rectitude of purpose.
Patriots arise! and with uplifted hands
Attest your deep abhorrence of this man,
And your consent that he be now arrested!
(_members rising in disorder_.) Away, away with him--arrest him
guards!
To the Conciergerie--away with him!

(_President rising._) The National Convention have decreed
The arrest of Maximilien Robespierre.

_Robes._ (_to St. Just_.) The day is theirs--with wrath and with
despair
My utterance is chok'd. Oh, were my breath
A pestilential gale to sting their lives!
(_to the President_.) Order me to be slain where now I stand,
Or grant me liberty of speech.

(_President_.) Thy name is Robespierre--it is enough,
And speaks for thee far more than thou wilt tell us.

_Robes._ (_to St. Just_.) Come thou with me--I see an opening yet
To victory, or a funeral pile--whose light
Shall dazzle France and terrify the world.
(_Robespierre, St. Just and others taken out by the guards_.[2])

[Footnote 2: It may be well to recall to the reader's recollection, that Robespierre subsequently escaped from his guards to the Hotel de Ville. But such partisans as rallied around him speedily deserted, when a proclamation of outlawry from the Convention was issued against him, and enforced by pointing cannon against the building. After an ineffectual attempt at suicide he was conveyed in a cart to the guillotine, July 28th, 1794.

The language put into his mouth in the following pages, is of course inconsistent with historical probability, as he had wounded himself with a pistol ball in the lower part of his face.]

SCENE V.

ROBESPIERRE AND ST. JUST IN A CART CONDUCTED BY GUARDS TOWARDS THE PLACE DE GRÊVE.

_St. Just._--So here ends our part in a tragic farce,
Hiss'd off the stage, my friend--ha, ha!
(_laughing_.)
I am content--I mean I am resigned--
As well die now as later. Does your wound
Pain you severely that you look so gravely?
Cheer thee, my comrade, we shall quickly learn
The last dread secret of our frail existence,
Few moments more will cut our barks adrift
Upon an ocean, boundless and unknown,
Even to ourselves who have despatched so many
To explore for us its dark and fathomless depths.
Give me some wine. (_they give him wine_.) Here's to a merry
voyage!
What in the fiend's name art thou musing on!

_Robes._--My thoughts were with the past--the days of youth,
And peace, and innocence, and woman's love,
And ardent hope--the blossoms of a life
So baleful in its fruits. This day, the last
Of my career, is the anniversary
Of one, from which my after life may date
Its withering influence. Wouldst thou not think
That I, whom thou hast known for a few years,
Must ever have been, even from my earliest youth,
A hard and cruel man?

_St. Just._--Much like myself.
I think you were no saint even when a child.

_Robes._--Such is the common blunder of the world
To think me, like the demon they believe in,
From the beginning, "murderer and liar;"
So let it be--I would not change their thoughts.
But I, St. Just, strange as it seems to you,
Even I, whose name, even in this age of crime,
Must stand aloft alone a blood-red beacon
And warning to posterity, was once
Young, warm, enthusiastic, generous,
Candid, affectionate, a son and brother,
But proud and sensitive. I lov'd a maid--
Yes, if entire and all-absorbed devotion
Of life and soul and being to her, were love--
If to be willing to lay down my life,
My hopes of fame and honorable notice,
And all the world holds dear, for her dear sake,
May be call'd love, then I most truly lov'd her.
I was a thriving lawyer, and could raise
My voice without reward to shield the oppress'd,
I lov'd my kind and bore a stainless name.
(_a funeral crosses the street_.)

_St. Just_ (_to the officer_.) Whose obsequies are these,
That look as if the dead one had _not_ perished
By trying our Republican proscription,
The guillotine?

_Officer._--'Tis Madame de la Harpe.
Your worthy friend there sent his satellites
To bring her to the bar of your tribunal,
The high-soul'd lady sooner than be made
A gaze for all the outcasts in the city,
As you are now, hurl'd herself from a window.

_Robes._--How strange a meeting this! Ah! foolish woman,
Had she but dar'd to live another day,
She might have died at ninety in her bed,
And I, who sought to escape her threatened doom,
Baffled of self-destruction, could not die.
(_they pass on_.)
(_to St. Just_.) How small a thing may sometimes change the stream
Of a man's life even to its source, to poison!
A trifle scarcely worthy of a name,
The sarcasms of a brute, while I was pleading
An orphan's cause, convulsed the court with mirth,
Marr'd all my rhetoric, and snatch'd the palm
Of truth and justice from my eager grasp--
My wrath boil'd forth--with loud and fierce reproach
I brav'd the judge, and thunder'd imprecations
On all around. This passion ruin'd me.
And she too laugh'd among that idiot throng--
Oh, tell not me of jealousy or hate
Or hunger for revenge--no sting so fierce,
So all tormenting to a proud man's soul
As public ridicule from lips belov'd.
Have they not rued it? Let yon engine tell:
(_pointing to the scaffold in the distance_.)
What I have been since then mankind have seen,
But could they see the scorpion that hath fed
Where once a heart beat in this breast of mine,
They would not marvel at my past career.
I quit the world with only one regret, {309}
I would have shown them how the scrivener,
Who with his tongue and pen hath rack'd this land,
Could plague it with a sword. Had yonder cowards
Who vainly hope to save themselves, but stood
As prompt to follow me as I to lead them,
Our faction would have rallied. Might the cries
Of death and rapine through this blazing city
Have been my funeral knell I had gladly died.
Then had they seen my spirit whelm'd and crush'd,
Yet gazing upward like the o'erthrown arch fiend
To a _loftier_ seat than that from which he fell.
But now----

_St. Just._--Regrets are useless! such as we
May not join hands or say farewell, like others;
But since we die together, let us face
This reptile crowd, like men who've been their lords,
And show them, though they slay, they cannot daunt
Those who were born to sway their destinies.
(_men and women surrounding the cart_.)

_1st Woman._--Descend to hell, I triumph in thy death!
Die, thou accurs'd of every wife and mother!
May every orphan's wail ring in thy ears,
And every widow's cry, and matron's groan!

_2d Woman._--Thine execution maddens me with joy:
Monster, depart--perish, even in thy crimes,
And may our curses sink thee into depths
Whence even omnipotent mercy will not raise thee!
(_they shout and hiss him_.)

_Robes._--Silence awhile these shouts, unfetter'd slaves,
Hear his last words, whose name but yesterday
Struck terror to your souls! Dare ye so soon
Think that your lives are safe, and I still breathing?
Deem ye the blow that speeds my dissolution
And gives my body to the elements,
Will be the signal to call freedom hither?
Will peace and virtue dwell among ye _then_?
Never! ye bondmen of your own vile passions;
For crested serpents are as meet to range
At large and poison-fang'd among mankind,
As ye who claim a birthright to be free.
Thank your own thirst of plunder and of blood,
That I, and such as I, could reign in France.
A tyrant ye _must_ have. I have been _one_,
And _such_ a one, that ages hence shall gaze,
Awe-struck on my pre-eminence in blood,
And men shall, marvelling, ask of your descendants
If that my name and deeds be not a fable.
I die--and, Frenchmen, triumph while you may!
The man breathes now and walks abroad among ye,
Who shall be my successor. I can see
Beyond the tomb--and when ye dare to rise
And beard the tyrant faction, now victorious,
His rule commences. He shall spill more blood
In one short day to crush your hopes of freedom,
Than I in half my reign--but God himself
Ne'er had the homage ye shall render _him_.
Champions of freedom, ye shall _worship_ him,
And in the name of liberty be plunder'd
Of all for which your sons have fought and died;
And in the name of glory he shall lead ye
On to perdition, and when ye have plac'd
Your necks beneath his feet, shall spend like dust
Your treasures and pour forth your bravest blood
To be the scourge of nations and of kings.
And he shall plant your eagles in the west,
And spread your triumphs even to northern snow,
Tormenting man and trampling every law,
Divine and human, till the very name
Of Frenchmen move to nought but hate and scorn.
Then heaven with storms, and earth with all her armies
Shall rise against ye, and the o'erwhelming tide
Of your vast conquests ebb in shame and ruin.
Then--false to honor, native land, and chief!--
Ye who could swarm like locusts on the earth
For glory or for plunder, shall desert,
Or Judas-like betray, the cause of freedom,
And tamely crouch to your now banish'd king,
When foreign swords instale him in his throne:
And laugh and sing while Prussians and Cossacks
Parade the streets of this vice-branded city,
And see without a blush the Austrian flag
And England's banner float o'er Notre Dame.

Bye-word among the nations! Fickle France!
Distant and doubtful is your day of freedom,
If ever it shall dawn, which it ne'er will,
Until ye learn, what my hate would not teach ye.
On, to the scaffold! May my blood infect
With its fierce mania every human heart--
Mourn'd as I am by none! May ye soon prove
Another ruler o'er this land like me.

WOMAN.

To woman is assigned the second grade in the order of created beings. Man occupies the first, and to him she looks for earthly support, protection, and a "present help" in time of need. The stations which they occupy--the pursuits which they should engage in--the legitimate aim to which their thoughts and wishes should tend, are widely different, yet inseparably connected. To show the error so prevalent in respect to these subjects, the improper mode of education so generally adopted, and if possible, to assign to woman her proper sphere, privileges and pursuits, is the object of the present sketch. We have stated that woman is second _only_ in the scale of created beings, and proceed to examine, first, the important station which she occupies--secondly, the means usually adopted for preparing her for this station--thirdly, the results produced by those means--fourthly, the proper means--and lastly, endeavor to illustrate the ideas advanced by the testimony of history, and the observations drawn from real life.

1st. The important stations which she occupies. A daughter, a sister--the friend and companion of both sexes and all ages--the wife, the mistress, the mother--stations high, honorable, important.

In the second place, we will examine the means usually adopted for preparing her for these elevated and important duties. View her first the helpless infant--her heart uncorrupted by external influences, and her mind, like the unsullied mirror, to be made the reflector of those images and lessons, to which it is to be subjected and exposed. Soon, however, the innocence of the infant gives way to the frowardness and turbulence of the child. Generally, no restraints of a salutary nature have been exercised over her mind. The hacknied axiom, that "she is too young to understand," has prevented any examination into her powers of perception or reflection, and she has been left to follow {310} the desires of her own heart. The petulance of a nurse, impatience or thoughtlessness of a mother, may have frequently thwarted her little plans, or denied her some indulgence. Her feelings were most frequently soured by these restraints, ill humor or obstinacy was the usual result--both either suffered to pass by unnoticed, or treated in a manner calculated to engender feelings and passions, which in future life are destined to exercise a powerful and painful influence over her own happiness and that of others. Soon the child exchanges the nursery for the school room. If her circumstances in life are prosperous and _refined_, humorous studies and indiscriminately selected accomplishments are forced upon her mind, or crowded upon her hands; the former, impaired by early neglect, and enervated by improper indulgences, is wholly incompetent to the task assigned it. A superficial knowledge of many things is the usual result, while her vanity, long fed by the praises of menials and imprudent commendations of friends, visitors, &c. steps in and whispers to her credulous ear, that she _is_, or _will_ be, all that woman _can_ or _ought_ to be. During these school-day exercises, her mind has frequently been edified by relations of future scenes of pleasure in ball-rooms, theatres, assemblies, &c.--that she may shine in them being the object of her present course of study; while tales of rivalry, conquest, hatred and revenge, are frequently related in her presence, or placed in her hands; things which, if not really praiseworthy in themselves, are related and heard with an _eclat_, that induces the belief that they are the inevitable attendants on fashionable pleasures and high life. If a stimulant is applied to urge her on to diligence, it is to excel some companion, or some other like inducement, which must inevitably foster feelings of envy or emulation, calculated to poison the fountain from which is to flow the future stream of life. Such is a fashionable or popular education. The next stage on which we behold her, is the broad theatre of gay life. The duties of the daughter and sister she was never taught, and is now acting under her third station--that of the companion and friend of both sexes and most ages. If possessed of personal attractions, she moves about--the little magnet of her circle. Meeting with no events to arouse evil passions, she contents herself with exercising a petty tyranny over the hearts of the admiring swains, who follow, bow to, and flatter her. After a few brief months or years of pleasure, she determines to marry; and at length selects from her _train_ the wealthiest, handsomest, or most admired of her suitors. Her heart has no part in this transaction. Ignorant of the nature of love--ignorant of the principles necessary to ensure happiness in the married state, she remains ignorant of the exalting, ennobling influence, which it exercises over minds capable of appreciating or enjoying its blessings. She is now the wife--the mistress--the mother. Thus are rapidly crowded on her duties, for which she was never prepared by education, and which she is consequently incompetent to perform. Perhaps, for a season, the current of her life runs smooth. Her husband--either blindly devoted to her, or bent on the gratification of his own pleasures--allows her unrestrained to mingle in the same pleasures and gay scenes in which he found her. She is still seemingly amiable, and perhaps considered quite a notable woman by the most of her companions.

But a change comes! the sun of prosperity withdraws his rays. She is now forced to abandon that, which has hitherto formed all her happiness. Need I describe the result. Her heart, unaccustomed to disappointments or restraints, unfortified by holy principles, unsustained by mental resources, and perhaps too little influenced by conjugal devotion or maternal tenderness, either frets away the smile of peace and rose of health; or, sunk in self-consuming mortification, envy or some unholy passion, abandons itself to the darkness of despair, the rust of inactivity, or the canker of discontent. Her husband, if his pride and principles have survived his ruined prospects, may struggle for a time to keep up the dignity of a man; but his heart is chilled, his exertions are paralyzed--domestic happiness he cannot find, and too frequently he is driven abroad in search of those comforts and that peace, which can be found at home alone.

This is no ideal picture--it is only one of the thousands which may be found in real life. If we leave our own land and direct our attention to those countries where women hold the reins of state, we will only see the principles of early education more powerfully displayed. Among savage nations (and what but want of early culture makes a savage?) see the horrid Zingha, queen of Matamba and Angola. Nursed in scenes of carnage and blood, what could she be but a monster, the existence of whom would fain be believed to have sprung but in the heated imagination of a dream? In a more civilized country, behold Christina of Sweden. She was reared by her father to be any thing but a useful woman. She knew no restraint when young, and when she ascended the throne, knew no law but her own will--and what was the result? Despised at home, and finding that even on a throne she must in self-defence yield some of her feelings to demands of others, rather than do so she abdicated it, and leaving her native land, roamed among other nations, a reproach to her sex and a general object of disgust. Look at Mary, Queen of England. Her first lessons were malice and revenge, and faithfully did she practise them when exalted to power. And we may name the beautiful Anne Boleyn. Ambition was the goal to which all her early energies were directed, and to ambition she sacrificed honor, humanity, and eventually her life. In more modern times, the lovely lady Mary W. Montague may be noticed. Endowed with talents, accomplishments, beauty, rank, fortune, she seemed formed to move a bright and favored star in the world's horizon. But no early discipline had prepared her to be happy. United to a man who idolized her, and whom she loved--what but the want of self-control and submission to the will of others, caused her separation from a husband every way worthy of her? But why enumerate other cases? These are but a few, taken from among thousands of both modern and ancient times.

In the fourth place, we proceed to point out the remedy for these evils, by briefly shewing some of the proper plans to be adopted in education. We again assert, that in the nursery are first sown the seeds of future character. Where is the prudent and observing parent, that will not acknowledge, that at a very early age the infant is capable of forming good or bad habits, and of discriminating between the approbation or {311} displeasure shown towards it. None, we presume, will gainsay this point. As soon then as this intelligence on the part of a child is discovered, so soon does a parent's duties begin, and if faithfully discharged, the task of rearing up a useful and ornamental member of society, will be found comparatively easy.

If taught then to yield its desires to parental wishes and commands--taught that the path of duty is the path of pleasure--convinced by every day's experience that the object of all restraints is her good, and proving continually that her happiness is her parent's great delight, she soon becomes, both by habit and nature, submissive,--and consequently is at peace with herself and all around her. If a sister, early does she learn, that affection and tenderness to those so closely united to her, is a duty, the performance of which, brings a sweet reward. Gradually are her duties enlarging, and gradually is she prepared by judicious government and good habits, to fulfil them.

When the nursery is exchanged for the school room, easy is the task to lead that child on from knowledge to knowledge. The mind is not crowded with many and incongruous studies--but gradually is it enlarged, and its wants supplied by a well regulated course. If in a situation to permit the acquirement of ornamental branches, she is taught to regard them as the light dressings of the mind, intended not to interfere with what is useful and solid, but as a recreation and source of future pleasure to herself and friends. When the mental powers are sufficiently expanded, to digest what is presented to them, books of general knowledge and taste are allowed, while the manners have been formed by good society, and the ideas arranged by conversation, &c. If intended to mingle in a gay circle for a season, her character is so formed as to be able to resist, in a great degree, the snares to which such scenes usually expose the young and thoughtless. Taught to regard these things as trifles compared to the other pursuits of life, she enjoys without abusing them, and willingly returns to the sweet domestic fireside, and the pleasures and amusements within her own bosom.

The feelings which will exist between that daughter and her parents, deserve to be considered. The filial care and tenderness which was exercised over her mind, will not be forgotten or unrepaid. In all times of doubt or difficulty, to a parent's bosom and counsel will she fly, as her surest refuge. If about to settle in life, prudence and the heart directs her choice. To her parents she confides the feelings and hopes that agitate her bosom. On their judgment she relies, and knowing their sentiments are governed by the desire to see her happy, she is prepared to weigh all their reasons, and to act with prudence. She was early taught to reflect, and is now capable of acting, with dignity. Her heart is capable of _love_--she has been taught the nature of the flame, and the only solid grounds on which it could be reared. She is capable of discriminating between a man of _ton_ and a man of worth. Most generally, such a woman will marry well. The man of lightness, dissipation and folly, rarely seeks her hand. He may and does admire her, but he feels his own inferiority, and rarely wishes to form such an alliance.

The man of sense, of virtue, and of solidity, would seek such a companion to share his pleasure and sooth his pain. Mutual sympathies would engender mutual esteem, and on that foundation it is easy, very easy to rear the altar of love. A union formed with such feelings would most generally prove a happy one. If prosperous, such a woman is qualified to use without abusing her blessings. The lessons learnt at her first _home_ would be practised in her second, and she would be likely to discharge with credit the duties of a wife, a mother, and a mistress. If misfortunes came, she would be prepared to brave the storm. Her affections, never set on earthly pleasures and splendid scenes, would relinquish them without grief. Her mind, stored with useful and ornamental information, would furnish a treasury from whence her family and herself could draw with profit and delight. In the humblest vale of poverty, such a woman would be a blessing to her whole circle of associates, and in most cases preserve the affection of her husband and raise a family, respectable and useful. This too is no ideal picture. Such women have been found in all ages, and such women may be raised up in almost every circle of society. If denied the extended advantage meant by a liberal or elegant education, the principles here laid down may be carried to the peasant's cottage, as well as to the splended domes of the rich and great. Among the biographies of women in all civilized nations, many beautiful examples might be adduced.

Among the wives and mothers of our own land a rich collection might be found. One thing is here worthy of record. In tracing the history of nearly all the great men, with whose history we are acquainted, whether remarkable for valor, piety, or any other noble attribute, to a mother's influence is their eminence to be attributed, in a greater or less degree. But it is needless to enumerate instances on this occasion, as our sketch is already extended beyond the intended limits. Should it give rise to inquiry and serious investigation on this important subject, or furnish a hint worthy the attention of the serious and anxious parent, the utmost ambition of the author will be realized.

PAULINA.

LINES TO ----.

While yet the ling'ring blush of day
Hangs sweetly on the brow of even,
And birds and flowers their homage pay
In song and incense breathed to heaven,
Accept this tribute of a friend,
Whose heart of hearts for thee is glowing;
Who prays thy path of life may wend
Through light, and flowers forever blowing.

I've seen the midnight Cereus bloom;
Th' admiring throng around it gathered,
And ere they dreampt its rapid doom,
It breathed, it bloomed, collapsed and withered!
Thus youth and beauty fill the eye,
Dear lady! oft in bloomy weather,
And time scarce rolls the season by,
When with the leaf they fade together.

Though nature 'wails the dying leaf,
And sorrows o'er her silent bowers,
She soon forgets her gloom and grief
When dew-eyed spring revives her flowers; {312}
But when affection weeps for one,
Whose daily life new charms imparted,
Alas! what power beneath the sun
Can cheer the lone--the broken-hearted!

Friendship and love must ever mourn
The faded wreath of promised pleasure,
And though the flow'ers of hope lie torn
Fond mem'ry hoards the heart's lost treasure.
Oh! cherish then, that vestal flow'r!
Simplicity, dear maiden, cherish!
'Twill shed a fragrance o'er the hour
When all thy mortal charms shall perish!