Robespierre muttered a haughty reply; but the shouts of his enemies vociferating" à bas, à bas le tyran!" drowned even the harsh tones of his commanding voice. The chamber, almost to a man echoed the charges of Varennes, and Robespierre stood alone. He was master no longer. Intoxicated with past success he had pointed even from that council-chamber to the gathering crowd without, and boasted that they were his. But now, those who before had stood by him because they dared not stand against him, drowned his voice with their shouts, as he vainly demanded to speak "for life and honor." Denied a hearing, the dictator of France retired to the secret councils of the Jacobins; but it was too late not even Napoleon himself, much less the irresolute Henriot, could have crushed the now matured rebellion. Here Robespierre erred, erred fatally, in his reliance on civil power, unsupported by military force.

At last the day of his death arrived. The fate he had measured to others was reserved for himself. Isolated from the sympathies of man, and wrapt in a gloomy ascetism, he met his fate with a haughty dignity, which nought but gratified revenge could have supported. Amid the insults and the curses of the populace, he was hurried before the very tribunal which he himself had organized and over whose secret deliberations he had long presided. In this hour of his disgrace his pulse preserved its regular beat, his countenance its uniform serenity. He had long anticipated his doom; and years before, in the densely thronged council chamber, he had spoken in tones of prophetic eloquence, of an ignominious death. He had looked beyond the tragic scenes of that day, and well he knew that the curses of France would follow his departing spirit, while his bones were bleaching in the sun. Yet he had counted the cost, and did not quail when danger came.

There is not the slightest evidence to show, that, as some have gravely asserted, Robespierre designed to set up a new religion in France, analogous to that of Mohammed. Such insinuations are rather indicative of a fertile imagination in those who make them, than a legitimate inference from his known policy. It seems more probable that his design was to establish a permanent civil dictatorship, which might form the basis of a powerful empire. With the knowledge which history gives us of the events of those times and the consequences which have resulted from them, it doubtless seems to us an absurd attempt; but it is far easier to point out the errors of the past, than to predict the certain results of present policy. He is charged with having deserted the democracy, and doubtless he did relax his efforts in their behalf, yet he never formally opposed their measures. The public executions, so frequent while he was in power, can never be justified, and they must ever give a mournful aspect to the history of that critical period.

I can say but little within the limits of this article of his contests with Danton and the Girondists. I cannot indeed admit that he sided with the Jacobin party merely to accomplish his own private schemes, or the more successfully to carry out the political plans he had previously devised; for this supposition is inconsistant with that uniform

sincerity, which even his political enemies attributed to him but it seems more probable that he sympathized with the Jacobin movements, without embracing all the sentiments of the Jacobin creed. And this conclusion is confirmed by two facts,-that the Jacobin leaders readily consigned the interests of their party to his superintendence, in full confidence of his sincerity-and that he adhered to them, after they had become useless to him as a political tool. I might add, that the success of the Jacobin interest, while under his management, authorize us to suppose that he labored for them, as well as himself.

He was a revolutionary statesman. His political measures could never have been silently accomplished in France. The terrors of the guillotine were necessary to enforce compliance on the part of his political adherents, and deter his opposers from obstinate resistance. With consummate skill he swayed the wild forces of a revolution, to whose virulence he had largely and designedly contributed, and with which his memory will ever be identified. The quiet routine of peaceful life had no charms for him; and yet he loathed the rigid discipline of the camp: he sought the storms of civil strife: his restless spirit longed for secret, bloody schemes. In the Constituent Assembly, Robespierre was ably supported, yet he never possessed the influence which Mirabeau, or perhaps Billaud, enjoyed. The great body of the Assembly, bound together by hereditary honors or family connections, viewed him as an interloper, inferior in birth and fortune to themselves, though they dreaded his influence with the communes.

Robespierre was gloomy and suspicious. He would have tools, not friends. Suspecting all, he trusted none. Silent, selfish, and repulsive, he shunned the friendly courtesies of man, and disdained the sympathies and charities of the world. He was "inexorable as death, and inscrutable as the grave." Yet, in honesty and integrity, he was not surpassed by his contemporaries; his age has christened him "the incorruptible." He would be feared rather than respected. He had faithful slaves. Patriot, or no patriot," said Fouquin Tinville, "when Robespierre has pointed out any one to me, he must die." He was a man of blood; yet he lived amid ruffians, and his age was an age of crimes. The day of his power was a "Reign of Terror;" but for its revolting scenes he is not wholly responsible. France trembles even now at his name; yet forgets not that foes were his historians, and successful rivals his biographers.

We have thus seen the all-successful advocate of Arras outstripping every rival, crushing every foe, till not a champion remained to contest with him the bloody arena. I detest his crimes, I sympathize not with his merciless policy; but I cannot, in justice, side with the bitter Carlyle, who thus describes the conqueror of the Girondists. "A poor sea-green atrabiliar formula of a man; without head, without heart, or any grace, gift, or even vice beyond common, if it were not vanity-meant by nature for a Methodist parson of the stricter sort, to doom men who depart from the written confession; to chop fruitless, shrill logic; to contend, and suspect, and ineffectually wrestle."

No;

the success of deep-laid schemes, the bloody scenes when Terror reigned; the ghosts of the guillotined, yea, the voice of reluctant historians, bespeak the man of giant thought and iron nerve. Long will the name of Maximilian Robespierre be remembered. Hated he may be, but never despised. Yet, even the life-like eloquence of a Lamartine can never divest his memory of its lurid, ghostly glare.

O. B.

Editor's Table.

A WORD or two with you, dear Reader. No, we take back that "dear;" for just now we do n't care the value of the nine hundred and ninty-ninth part of a farthing whether you are deer or scheap, as the Dutchman would say. The truth is, we have got the blues, and are consequently in a very reckless mood. Did you ever have the fortune to become personally acquainted with those azure imps? Did they ever persuade you that the world was going, wrong end first, straight to ruin; and that you were the only person in it capable, or fit to stop it and set things to right? Did they ever persuade you that the Sun got up, in the middle of the forenoon, in the west, and, after creeping sulkily across the lead-paved sky, went to bed in the east ?— that the man in the moon was making faces at you?—and that the stars, each with a leer in its eye, were winking to each other in derision of you? Did they ever convince you that the whole world in general, and everybody in particular, had no other business here than just to torment you?-to coax the Post Master to overlook your letters every time you are sure there is one for you?—to tread on your toes just when your corns are the sorest?-to carry off your left boot just as the bell "turns over" for morning prayers?—and steal your umbrella every time a rainy day comes? Did they ever constrain you, in view of all this unmerited persecution, to become perfectly savage and desperate?-to return every glance of your tormentors with a ferocious frown-and every hypocritical, good-natured word of theirs with a spiteful snarl? Did they ever fool you into the belief that you could accomplish the most unheard of feats and induce you to attempt them? as, for instance, biting an inch off the end of a crow-bar, or swallowing a pickled pepper without winking?-preventing your sweetheart from having her own way?-splitting the button on the off horn of the moon with a rifle ball?—or,

"Tying up the winds in a bundle together,

And tickling their ribs with an ostrich's feather."

Did they, whenever you attempted to learn a lesson, frighten the letters into a stampede?-fiddle while sentences danced a cotillion, and paragraphs struck up a waltz? -and cause chapters to promenade, “down outside and up the middle,” in the most approved style of confusion. In short, did they ever make you think that the world had gone crazy, and that yourself was the superintendent of "Bedlam broke loose ?” If not, most heartily do we congratulate you on your good fortune. But avaunt! ye

foul fiends, and make way for brighter thoughts. Thanksgiving is coming and we

must be merry.

Thanksgiving! why, the very word smacks of pumpkins pies and puddings. It places us right back into the midst of the "fixings." We can see the lantern's light gleam out through the cracks of the old barn-can hear the stifled cackle of chanticleer as the grasp of the assassin tightens around his neck-aye, we can stand by and witness his death-struggle without flinching. Next comes the "hot bath" in the kitchen, and then how the feathers fly! The boiling process follows, and we can even now hear that old pot growling and sputtering in the intense heat of that maple fire. Morning comes, and the notes of preparation resound from the kitchen. The children are banished-to them the kitchen is "tabooed"-the cook hurries back and forth from the buttery with a busy and important air-the fragrance of spices and sweetmeats steams up through the open door-the beating of eggs and the rattling of dishes makes sweet music in our ear. But, hark! the bell rings. It is service time, and we must away to church. How lengthy is our good pastor's prayer-how tedious his sermon-how slowly he reads his hymn-and then what a dull, dragging tune the choir are sawing upon! Will they never have done? Yes, the last “Amen” is at length uttered-a general scramble ensues, and the whole congregation moves off to the "feast of fat things" at home. Soon the great table is set out, flanked by another of humbler dimensions.-Then in march, "in long array and in procession vast," a troop of eatables formidable enough to put to rout an army of voracious appetites. There is a host of garden vegetables, followed by spareribs and turkeys— puddings and pies come tramping after, and a gigantic chicken pie brings up the rear. At length the signal is given-for a moment there is a scraping of chairs and then all is hushed-Grace is reverently said by the sire while the "young folk," with bowed heads, eye the turkey askance from under their up-strained brows. A general flourish of knives follows, and the battle is begun. Now woe to the unlucky wight who falters or faints.-At length the heat of conflict abates. The victors retire, and the wreck is cleared away. Evening comes on, and then an hour's coasting in the moonlight adown the steep hill-side, or an hour's skating on the smooth and shining ice, and then an adjournment to that old, long kitchen, where, by the glowing firelight, the winged moments speed unheeded by. Oh, what would you give, dear reader, to be a boy again, if only just long enough to spend a Thanksgiving evening as merrily and carelessly as you passed those of your early days?

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