Chapter 2

No. II.

Here is a scrap from another of my poetical friends, which has never seen the light, and which I will lend to the readers of the Messenger for the month. I give it as it came to me, apology and all, and doubt not it will be well received by those to whom I now dedicate it.

J. F. O.

My Dear O,—Instead of writing something new for your collection, I copy a few lines from a bagatelle, written a few days ago to a woman who is worthy of better verses: and, as they will never be published, of course, they may answer your purpose.

Very truly yours,WILLIS.

Boston, August, 1831.

N. P. W.

N. B. My friend soon recovered from this sad stroke, and he has since recovered the "key," and locked within the fate-closed casket a pearl, I learn, of great price. So much for a sophomore's Anacreontics!

If this "loan" prove acceptable, I have a choice one in store for May.

CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED.

Whether Homer or Hesiod lived first has never been determined. Herodotus supposes them both to have lived at the same time, viz. B.C. 884. The Arun. marbles make them contemporaries, but place their era B.C. 907. Besides the Iliad and Odyssey, Homer wrote, according to some, a poem upon Amphiaraus' expedition against Thebes; Also, the Phoceis, the Cercopes, the small Iliad, the Epiciclides, the Batrachomyomachia, and some Hymns to the Gods.

Hesiodwrote a poem on Agriculture, called The Works and Days, also Theogony, which is valuable for its account of the Gods of antiquity. His Shield of Hercules, and some others, are now lost.

Archilocuswrote elegies, satires, odes and epigrams, and was the inventor of Iambics; these are by some ascribed to Epodes. Some fragments of his poetry remain. He is supposed to have lived B.C. 742.

Alcæusis the inventor of Alcaic verses. Of all his works, nothing remains but a few fragments, found in Athenæus. B.C. 600.

He was contemporary with the famous Sappho. She was the inventress of the Sapphic verse, and had composed nine books in lyric verses, besides epigrams, elegies, &c. Of all these, two pieces alone remain, and a few fragments quoted by Didymus.

Theognisof Megara wrote several poems, of which only a few sentences are now extant, quoted by Plato and some others. B.C. 548.

Simonideswrote elegies, epigrams and dramatical pieces; also Epic poems—one on Cambyses, King of Persia, &c. One of his most famous compositions, The Lamentations, a beautiful fragment, is still extant.

Thespis, supposed to be the inventor of Tragedy, lived about this time.

Anacreon. His odes are thought to be still extant, but very few of them can be truly ascribed to Anacreon.

Æschylusis the first who introduced two actors on the stage, and clothed them with suitable dresses. He likewise removed murder from the eyes of the spectator. He wrote 90 tragedies, of which 7 are extant, viz. Prometheus Vinctus, Septem Duces contra Thebas, Persæ, Agamemnon, Chöephoræ, Eumenides and Supplices.

Pindarwas his contemporary. Most of Pindar's works have perished. He had written some hymns to the Gods,—poems in honor of Apollo,—dithyrambics to Bacchus, and odes on several victories obtained at the Olympic, Isthmian, Pythian and Nemean games. Of all these the odes alone remain.

Sophoclesfirst increased the number of actors to three, and added the decorations of painted scenery. He composed 120 tragedies—7 only of which are extant, viz. Ajax, Electra, Œdipus, Antigone, The Trachniæ, Philoctetes and Œdipus at Colonos. B.C. 454.

Plato, the comic poet, called the prince of the middle comedy, and of whose pieces some fragments remain, flourished about this time.

Also,Aristarchus, the tragic poet of Tegea, who composed 70 tragedies, one of which was translated into Latin verse by Ennius.

Herodotusof Halicarnassus, wrote a history of the Wars of the Greeks against the Persians from the age of Cyrus to the battle of Mycale, including an account of the most celebrated nations in the world. Besides this, he had written a history of Assyria and Arabia which is not extant. There is a life of Homer generally attributed to him, but doubtfully. B.C. 445.

Euripides, who lived at this time, wrote 75 or, as some say, 92 tragedies, of which only 19 are extant. He was the rival of Sophocles.

About the commencement of the Peloponnesian war, flourished many celebrated authors, among whom wasAristophanes. He wrote 54 comedies, of which only 11 are extant.

Also,CratinusandEupolis, who with Aristophanes, are mentioned by Horace—they were celebrated for their comic writings. B.C. 431.

Also, the mathematician and astrologer,Meton, who, in a book called Enneadecaterides, endeavored to adjust the course of the sun and moon, and maintained that the solar and lunar years could regularly begin from the same point in the heavens. This is called the Metonic cycle.

Thucydidesflourished at this time. He wrote a history of the important events which happened during his command. This history is continued only to the 21st year of the war. It has been divided into eight books—the last of which is supposed to have been written by his daughters. It is imperfect.

AlsoHippocrates;—few of his writings remain.

Lysias, the orator, wrote, according to Plutarch, no less than 425 orations—of these 34 are extant. B.C. 404.

Contemporary with him wasAgatho, an Athenian tragic and comic poet—there is now nothing extant of his works, except quotations in Aristotle and others.

Xenophon, whose works are well known, lived about the year 398 before Christ.

Ctesias, who wrote a history of the Assyrians and Persians, which Justin and Diodorus have prefered to that of Herodotus, lived also at this time. Some fragments of his compositions have been preserved.

The works ofPlatoare numerous—they are all written, except twelve letters, in the form of a dialogue. 388.

Of the 64 orations of Isæus, 10 are extant. Demosthenes imitated him. 377.

About 32 of the orations ofIsocrates, who lived at the same time, remain.

All the compositions of the historianTheopompusare lost, except a few fragments quoted by ancient writers. 354.

Ephoruslived in his time—he wrote a history commencing with the return of the Heraclidæ and ending with the 20th year of Philip of Macedon. It was in 30 books and is frequently quoted by Strabo and others.

Almost all the writings ofAristotleare extant. Diogenes Laertes has given a catalogue of them. His Art of Poetry has been imitated by Horace.

Æschines, his contemporary, wrote 5 orations and 9 epistles. The orations alone are extant. 340.

Demostheneswas his contemporary and rival.

Theophrastuscomposed many books and treatises—Diogenes enumerates 200. Of these 20 are extant—among which are a history of stones—treatises on plants, on the winds, signs of fair weather, &c.—also, his Characters, a moral treatise. 320.

Menanderwas his pupil; lie was called prince of the new comedy. Only a few fragments remain of 108 comedies which he wrote.

Philemonwas contemporary with these two. The fragments of some of his comedies are printed with those of Menander.

Megastheneslived about this time. He wrote about the Indians and other oriental nations. His history is often quoted by the ancients. There is a work now extant which passes for his composition, but which is spurious.

Epicurusalso lived now. He wrote 300 volumes according to Diogenes.

Chrysippusindeed, rivalled him in the number, but not in the merit of his productions. They were contemporaries. 280.

Bion, the pastoral poet, whose Idyllia are so celebrated, lived about this time. It is probable thatMoschus, also a pastoral poet, was his contemporary—from the affection with which he mentions him.

Theocritusdistinguished himself by his poetical compositions, of which 30 Idyllia and some epigrams remain—also, a ludicrous poem called Syrinx. Virgil imitated him. B.C. 280.

Aratusflourished now; he wrote a poem on Astronomy, also some hymns and epigrams.

Lycophronalso lived at this time. The titles of 20 of his tragedies are preserved. There is extant a strange work of this poet, call Cassandra, or Alexandra,—it contains about 1500 verses, from whose obscurity the author has been named Tenebrosus.

In the Anthology is preserved a most beautiful hymn to Jupiter, written byCleanthes,—of whose writings none except this is preserved.

Manetholived about this period,—an Egyptian who wrote, in the Greek language, a history of Egypt. The writers of the Universal History suspect some mistake in the passage of Eusebius which contains an account of this history.

This was also the age ofApolloniusof Perga, the Geometrician. He composed a treatise on conic sections in eight books—seven of which remain. It is one of the most valuable remains of antiquity.

Nicander'swritings were held in much estimation. Two of his poems, entitled Theriaca, and Alexipharniaca, are still extant. He is said to have written 5 books of Metamorphoses, which Ovid has imitated. He wrote also history. 150.

About this time flourishedPolybius. He wrote an universal History in Greek, divided into 40 books; which began with the Punic wars, and finished with the conquest of Macedonia by Paulus. This is lost, except the first 5 books, and fragments of the 12 following. Livy has copied whole books from him, almost word for word—and thinks proper to call him in return "haudquaquam spernendus auctor."

Who requested the writer's opinion of a Pencil Sketch of a very Lovely Woman.

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 beput 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 thela. 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 ofshorteningthe 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.

as the song says, which makes our sessions "of so long a life," and there is no practicable mode of preventing theeviscerationof the aforesaid chest, but deferring the meeting of the Assembly to the month of February,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 ofDumplinsburg, consisting of astore, atavern, and ablacksmith 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, andso 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 thestaggeringfence 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 thatbarren chronicleof 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 ofcarmen 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 exhibitedad 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 whoensconcethemselves 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 quotedBritish authoritiesto 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 theBritish 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 toBritish authorities, when the British cannon is shaking the very walls of your court house to theirfoundation? 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.

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 murmurSpread 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 moreMy worthy friend—the friend of France and freedom—Hasten to guard our interest in yon juntoOf 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 friendsWill meet me here, deliberate, and decideTo 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 manuredWith carcases and moistened with their blood,Than yielding food for feudal slaves to eat,True to your party and to me yourbrother—For so I would be term'd—has the best claimThat man can have to name his own rewardWhen France is all our own. Bethink you thenWhat 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 nameOr trumpery title that may suit these times,Is what I aim at—gratify me thereAnd I am yours through more blood than would serveTo float the L'Orient.1

1A French line of battle ship. Burnt at the battle of Aboukir.

Robes.—'Tis well, St. Just,But wherefore citizen me? I have not usedThe term to you—we are not strangers here.

St. Just.—Pardon me, sir, (orSire, even as you please)The cant of Jacobins infects my tongue,I had no meaning farther. One word moreBefore we part—now Danton is cut off,We may be sure that all his partisansAnd personal friends are our most deadly foes,And it were politic and kind in usTo spare their brains unnumbered schemes of vengeanceAnd seize at once the power to silence them.To give them time were ruin; some there areWhose love of gold is such that were it wetWith 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 cragWhence 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 bloodStill smoking to the skies?—why think I hearThe shrieks, the groans, the smothered execrationsThat swell the breeze, or seem as if I shrankBeneath 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 IDestroy 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 mankindSo 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 straitCompels appeal to thee, great Robespierre!Deny me not, and Heaven will grant thy prayerIn that dread hour when every mortal needs it.Repulse me not, and heaven thus at the lastWill 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 miseryOf seeing perish thus her much lov'd sire.His head is white with age—let it not fallBeneath yon dreadful axe. Through sixty yearsA 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 TallienHow beautiful in tears! A noble dameAnd worthy to be mine. 'Twould sting his heartTo 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 evidenceWhich 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 livingAnd spoke in thy behalf, it were in vain.

Daughter.—For the dear mother's sake who gave thee birthAnd 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 seeThou understandest me.

Daughter.—I trust I do not.I hope that Heaven beholds not—Earth contains notA 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 supremacyShall wait on thee—no dame shall breathe in FranceBut bends the knee before thee.

Daughter.—Let him die.Better he perish now than live to curseHis daughter for dishonor. Fare you well.There is a time for all things, and the hourMay 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 andthine 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 thusTo perish like Marât by the assassins;See that you guard her well, and keep this weaponWhich, 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 notYet 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.

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 timesHave 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 landsCannot 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 effortsTo thwart the destined ruler of the land?

Fouché.—Yourself have told me so. I did but meanThat he had risk'd his power and party strengthAgainst your life. You mean to strike at his.Your faltering voice and startled looks betrayThe 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 CabarusNow 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 wallScar'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 houseYour 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—A politician should not start as you doAt every word.

Tallien.—Ah—can I—dare I trust you?

Fouché.—I do not ask created man to trustHonor 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 attractionFor human hearts to turn to. Let me seeMy interest in supporting you, and ICan aid and guard you through the coming peril.

Tallien.—Name your terms.

Fouché.—My present post and whatBeside is mentioned in this schedule.(giving a paper.)

Tallien.—Yourpriceis 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 ConventionHe calculates upon to be his pleaFor wreaking summary vengeance on the headsOf all who, like yourself, are not preparedTo grant him supreme power or dip their handsIn blood for any, every, or no profit.A ravenous beast were better in the chair.Henriot and the civic force here, standPrompt to obey him. Were we only sureTo raise the citizens, these dogs were nothing—But, sink or swim, to-morrow is the dayMust ruin him or us. Do you impeach him,And paint his crimes exactly as they are;Have a decree of arrest, and I and mineWill see he quits not the Convention HallBut in the custody of friends of ours.'Tis true I bargain'd to assist the fiendThe better to deceive him. Mark, Tallien,A presage of his fall—not only IAbandon him, but I can bring BarrèreAnd all his tribe to give their votes against him.Give mecarte blancheto pay them for their voices.

Tallien.—But think you I can move them to arrest him?

Fouché.—That is achanceunknown even to myself,There are so many waiters on the wind,Straws to be blown wherever it may listThat 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 seenThe weapon he pretended to have snatch'dFrom 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.

ROBESPIERRE'S HOUSE.Robespierre, Fouché, Henriot and others.

Henriot.—All things are ready now, six thousand menAnd twenty cannon wait your word to-morrow.

Robes.—Henriot, I have a word to say to thee:Thou hastonevice 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 TallienAnd offered peace between you; he knew notThat Laurens' daughter had assail'd your life,Or he had mentioned it. Nor did he dreamOf 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 beIn your bright aspects aught of influenceWhich 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-morrowThan I and mine can drown in their own blood;Or, let them rise by thousands, so my slavesFight but as heartily for gold and wineAs they have done ere now. When I shall lead them,Then 'mid the artillery's roar and bayonet's flashI write my title to be Lord of FranceIn flame and carnage, o'er this den of thieves.Beneath th' exterior, frozen, stern demeanor,How my veins throb to bursting, while I thinkOn the rich feast of victory and revengeThe coming day may yield me! Yes, this landOf bigot slaves who tremble at a devil,Or frantic atheists who with lifted handsWill gravelyVOTEtheir Maker from his throne,This horde of dupes and miscreants shall feelAnd 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 betweenMy brightest, proudest hopes, or sure destruction,All yet is vague, uncertain, and obscureAs 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 beholdThe lurid sky it sinks in. Should I fallLeading my Helots on to slay each other,Then death, all hail!—for only thou canst quenchThe secret fire that rages in my breast;If there be an hereafter, which I know not,He who hath bornemylife may dare its worst,And if mortality's last pangs end all,Welcome eternal sleep!—annihilation!

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