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doubt possessed of valuable information, proposed that he should be for the present kept in solitary confinement, in one of the dungeons of the Hotel de Ville.
In entering my dungeon, I saw by the light of the turnkey's lantern a sorry bed. I groped my way to it. Oppressed with fatigue and at length overcome by sleep, I had become for a moment insensible of my dangerous position, when I was suddenly awakened by a confused noise, I listened, and distinctly heard these words: "Wife, the assassins have done in the other prisons, and are coming to those of the commune. Quick, throw me our best things: come down and let us fly." At these words I started from my bed, fell on my knees, and, raising my hands to heaven, waited in that posture the blow that was to put an end to my life. In about an hour I heard myself called: I made no reply. I was called again; I listened. "Come to your window," said somebody in a low voice. I advanced. "Do not be afraid," added the voice: "several people here are taking care of your life." After my enlargement I made fruitless inquiries to discover this generous protector. Compassionate man! whoever you are, wherever you reside, receive the tribute of a gratitude, which, while I live, will know no end!
Six-and-thirty hours passed without any person coming into my cell, without food, or the hope of any. I knew that the warden and his wife had fled. I imagined that the turnkey had done the same. On this reflection the remainder of my fortitude forsook me. A cold sweat, a shivering all over, and the pangs of death came upon me; I fell into a swoon. When I came to myself I was ready to call the assassins, whom, by the light of the lamps, I saw passing and repassing in the court. I was going to beg them to put an end to my protracted agonies, when a faint light coming through the boards above me struck my eyes. By means of a wretched table and two stools, which I piled one upon the other, I raised myself high enough to reach the top of the cell, and I rapped several times at the spot through which the light came. A trap-door opened, and some person in a mild voice said, "What do you want?" I replied in the accents of despair, "Bread or death." It was the warden's wife who spoke to me. "Recover yourself," said she, "I will take care of you." She immediately brought me bread, a bit of meat, and some water. While I remained confined in this place, this compassionate woman had the goodness to supply me with nourishment. She furnished me with a wickered bottle, which, whenever I wanted water, I presented at the trap door, and she filled it. By this means the door of my cell was seldom opened, and I remained the better concealed.
• Nevertheless, men whose arms and clothes were smeared with blood, came up at times to the window of my cell, looking to see if any victim were lodged there. But the darkness of the place, increased by the interposition of their bodies, prevented their observing me. "Is there any one here to be worked?" said they, in their horrible jargon. As soon as they were gone, I peeped out to see what was passing in the court. The first thing I saw was the assassins casting filth on the statue of Louis XIV., which
lay overturned upon the ground, and playing with the bloody remains of their victims. They were relating to one another the details of their murders, shewing the money they had earned, and complaining of not having received what had been promised them." pp. 141-144.
He was afterwards released, but was unable to obtain permission to return to his former office. In the course of his vain efforts to procure re-admission to the prison of his master, he had the boldness to seek an interview with Chaumette, one of the most ferocious of the Revolutionnaires, and though this was to enter the very den of the tiger, he escaped unhurt.
Restless, day and night, from the desire of returning to the Temple, I made fruitless applications to Pétion. After he was returned a representative in the national convention, I determined to see Chaumette, then procureur-syndic of the commune. This man received me much better than I expected. He desired to converse confidentially with me, and gave orders not to be interrupted. At first he talked to me of his birth, of the employments of his youth, and of the severities he had experienced from government. He then frankly owned the treachery of several persons in the king's service. He next spoke of the royal family and appeared to take an interest in the dauphin. "I wish," said he," to give him some education. I will take him from his family, to make him lose the idea of his rank. As for the king," added he," he will perish. The king loves you." These last words brought tears into my eyes. I endeavoured to restrain them; which Chaumette perceiving, "Give way," said he, "to your feelings: were you for an instant to cease regretting your master, I should myself despise you." Notwithstanding this cordial reception, my application to Chaumette was unsuccessful.' pp. 146-147.
This singular anecdote, tends strongly to illustrate the moral dangers of ambition. The natural character of Chaumette was, possibly, such as it is here exhibited, not discourteous nor unkind, but his way to power lay, as he imagined, through slaughter and proscription, and he hesitated at no measure, however atrocious, that appeared suited to the furtherance of his end. Augustus was merciful in the possession of established power, and perhaps Maximilian the Dictator, might have affected to deplore the massacres of Robespierre the Jacobin.
The sufferings of the Royal Family, during the residence in the Temple, are matters of public notoriety, from the popularity of the simple narrative of the faithful Cléry; and the various steps which led to the destruction of Louis, and of his wife, and sister, have been detailed too often to need repetition here; but there are some interesting particulars relating to the Dauphin and his sister, which we shall briefly notice. During some months after the execution of the King, he was left in the care of his Mother and his Aunt, but on the 3rd of July, 1793, he was
taken from them and consigned to the care of one of the lowest and most brutal of mankind, the ever infamous Simon. Previously to this miserable change, his health had given way, and the savage treatment he received from his tormentor, confirmed his malady. His apartment was close to that of the Princesses, and they,
heard him sing every day, with Simon, the Carmagnole, the Mar seillais Hymn, and other horrible songs. Simon put on his head the bonnet rouge, and dressed him in a carmagnole. He made him sing at the windows, that he might be heard by the guard; and taught him to pronounce frightful oaths against God, his family, and the aristocrats. Happily the queen did not know of these shocking proceedings, as she was gone before Simon had taught the dauphin this impious language. This was a suffering from which Heaven preserved her!
Before the queen left the Temple, a messenger had come for the clothes of the dauphin, and on this occasion she requested that the son of Louis XVI. should not leave off his mourning; but the first thing that Simon did, was to take from him his black dress. Change of life and bad treatment made him fall ill the end of August. Simon made him eat to excess, and forced him to drink a great deal of wine, although he hated it. This regimen very soon produced a fever: he took a medicine which did not succeed, and his health became wholly disordered. He was extremely fat, without growing taller. Simon still led him to take the air upon the tower.' pp. 314 315.
His bed was never made, his apartment was never cleaned, his linen was never changed, he was over-run with vermin, and so great was his terror of Simon and his other keepers, that he dreaded to ring his bell, lest it should bring some of them into his room, or to ask for any thing that he wanted, from his fear of the very sound of their voice. After the 10th Thermidor, his treatment was much improved; Laurent, the commissioner appointed by the Convention to guard the Princess and her brother, appears to have been a humane man; the filth that encrusted the unhappy child, was removed, his bed was changed, and his apartment set in order; but the work of cruelty had been too effectually done, the progress of disease could not be checked, and notwithstanding every attention paid to his health by the ablest physicians, he died June 9, 1795, at the age of ten years and two months. The Princess too, after her successive separations from her mother and her aunt, was subjected to great privations, but was, of course, better able to bear up against her sufferings, and to pay more attention to personal cleanliness, and to the arrangeinents of her chamber. After the fall of Robespierre she was visited by Barras, at the head of a deputation from the Con
vention in full costume. From this time her captivity experienced many alleviations; Laurent behaved to her with the utmost humanity, a female attendant was appointed, and even the former guardians of her education, who happily still survived, obtained access to her. At length her exchange for the deputies Camus, Quinette, and others, was effected, and on the 19th December, 1795, she left her prison, and was a few days after consigned to the Austrian Commissioners at Basle. M. Hue joined her at Huninguen, and Cléry met her at Vienna, where he died on the 10th of June, 1809.
Art. IX. An Ode to the Memory of the Princess Charlotte. By James Edmeston, Author of The Search, and other Poems.' 8vo. pp. 16. Price 1s. 6d. 1818.
THIS is certainly the most like poetry that we have seen on the melancholy occasion which it commemorates. of the stanzas are very successful, and the whole is a pleasing production. Mr. Edmeston is the author of a small volume of poems which we recently noticed with commendation.
• Rest, Princess! Rest!-the knell is rung,
The death pomp passed away;
The Chaunters' funeral anthem sung,
The torches lost in day:
That night, the moon was bright and high,
Her cold, her careless ray:
The star that lit that bridal scene,
The bridal queen of joyance there,
A transitory sound!
But Memory, monitor within,
Will long bear witness," She hath been;""
Blest Babe, thy way was short and calm,
The breeze was fresh, but soft as balm,
And favoring the tide :
Some, through many an adverse year,
Beaten afar aside :
But thou, wast wafted quickly o'er,
And reached at once the destined shore.
• MOTHER of her whom thus we mourn,
Vol. IX. N. S.
A wanderer on a foreign bourn,
And over many a sea;
Haply, some strange forboding stole
At silent midnight o'er thy soul,
Some pang of sympathy:
Some unaccounted tear drop fell,
Some sigh whose source thou couldst not tell.' pp. 13, 14.
Art. X. A Sketch of my Friend's Family, intended to suggest some practical Hints on Religion and Domestic Manners. By Mrs. Marshall, Author of Henwick Tales. 12mo. pp. 150. Price 4s. 6d. 1817.
VE have been very well pleased with this little volume, and can cordially recommend it to the class of our readers for whom it is designed. The hint which the Author gives the critic, by the motto on her title-page,
In every work regard the Writer's end,'
has not been lost for us. That end appears to us so unequivocally excellent, that we have no disposition to point out any defect of art in the construction of the narrative, which might seem to betray a somewhat inexperienced hand. The work is professedly adapted to the ingenuous mind of youth,' but the writer modestly intimates her hope, that whilst the mother listens to the simple tale, primarily intended for the daughter's eye, perhaps she may not disdain to glean some practical hint 'from this humble legend, framed to recommend the nameless 'charms of lemale excellence.' It is to be said in favour of such works as the present, that they are almost the only vehicle in which such hints can be inoffensively suggested. Those which the good sense of Mrs. Marshall has led her to venture, have the merit of being far from unseasonable under the present circumstances of religious society. Let our readers judge from the following specimen.
We had not risen from the breakfast-table one morning, when a female, rather young, and fashionably dressed, entered the room. After a few common-place civilities she turned to Mrs. Clifford, saying, "I called to tell you that Mr. S is in town, he preaches to-day at and you must positively put on your things, and go with me to hear him." "Could I consistently do so," replied her friend," I should be very happy to accompany you; but, excuse me if I say, that were this excellent man to see the dear little group by which I am surrounded, he would be the first to forbid my leaving them to listen to his sermon.”
Perhaps the conscious recollection of some duty unperformed at home, just then stung the feelings of our fair devotee; or it might be purely a misguided zeal, which reddened on her cheek, as she retorted somewhat sharply, "When, like Martha's, the heart is careful and troubled about many things,' it is easy to find a pretext of duty, to prevent our listening to the words of Jesus."