Anecdote of Robes­pierre.

How often does the eye rest unconsciously upon mute inanimate objects, which, had they voices, would utter tales of stirring remembrance, and to some eyes, perhaps, do seem to speak such tales.

I was remarking one evening to a friend of my mother’s, the extreme magnificence in the style of the still beautiful though faded furniture of the apartments she occupied in Paris, and in which, at that moment, a large and gay party were assembled. “True,” replied he, “and I have seen these rooms in all their splendour, whilst their lovely, though frail mistress, dispensed her fascinating smiles upon an admiring circle. This house was fitted up by the celebrated St. Amaranthe, whose fate offers one of the most striking instances of revolutionary despotism.

“It is well known that even the stern heart of the tyrant Robespierre had felt her power, but this was no security against his atrocious cruelty. He was one of thirteen guests assembled on the preceding night in the Rue de Gramont, where he had partaken of the hospitality of the beauteous hostess. The next morning, whilst employed in the duties of his toilette, his Secretary observed to him that he had drunk too freely the night before. ‘What leads you to think so?’ inquired Robespierre, ‘Your unguarded conversation, Citizen, which I do not think passed unobserved, either by St. Amaranthe or her guests.’ ‘It matters not,’ said the tyrant with apparent indifference, ‘they will do me no harm,’ writing at the same moment a note which he dispatched by a servant, and then with the utmost composure continued to shave himself.

“That note conveyed his orders for the arrest of St. Amaranthe and the eleven individuals who had supped with her, one of whom was her son, a boy of thirteen; and on the following day, the only two of the party of fourteen who were not led to the guillotine were Robespierre and his Secretary.

“St. Amaranthe dressed herself with peculiar care for her execution, and a person who by chance saw her pass in the fatal cart which conducted her to death, described to me the beauty and elegance of the figure, around which the most tastefully arranged draperies of yellow crape floated on the air.”

The Old Woman and her Ass—The Hon. Henry Erskine, Lord Advocate of Scotland.

The Old Woman and her Ass.
A Fable.

In Durham’s venerable spire,

So justly famous for its choir,

Each Sunday, when the organ’s sound

Did from the sacred walls rebound,

A gentleman, some say of note,

Joined with the choristers his throat

To praise the Lord, or show his skill,

I know not; be it as it will,

With open mouth and lifted eye

He made the solemn cadence die;

And when they raised the sacred song,

His voice was heard above the throng.

The cause of all this strange emotion,

Some said was pride, and some, devotion.

One youth with vanity elate

Observed that near a woman sat,

Adown whose ancient wrinkled face

The trickling tears did run apace;

With kerchief clean she wiped her eyes,

And stifled, as they rose, her sighs.

The songster harbour’d not a doubt

How this emotion came about:

He knew his voice had pleas’d each ear,

But ne’er before had drawn a tear;

He knew he oft had charm’d the young,

And joy’d that age now felt his tongue.

The service o’er, the crowd retires,

His pride a secret wish inspires,

To know from Goody what soft part

Of all his song had touch’d her heart.

As from the church she hobbling came,

He thus address’d the ancient dame:

Goody, a word—I won’t detain you,

I think of late I oft have seen you

Melted in tears; do pr’ythee tell

The piteous cause for which they fell.

The dame replied, Some time ago,

The time when first began my woe,

I had an ass in my possession,

For selling brooms is my profession;

He bore my besoms, drew my cart,

And was the darling of my heart:

Each night, I turn’d him to the wood

To browse the bushes for his food.

One night, when all was calm and still,

Some wicked foxes from the hill,

Attack’d the honest, harmless beast,

And of his carcass made a feast.

Excuse me, Sir, if when I hear

Your worship’s voice, I shed a tear:

When it so loud and shrill does rise,

I think I hear poor Cuddy’s cries:

So like his braying is your shake,

My very heart is like to break!

MORAL.

Ye squallers, who for singers wish to pass,

First ask, if e’er your hearers lost an ass!