Secured by this costume, the three fugitives ventured forth. In the great square of the city, workmen were busily employed in repairing the hideous engine of death, and Beauvallon passed, not without a shudder, beneath the very shadow of the guillotine, to which he had been doomed.
Seated on the cold ground, beneath the fatal apparatus, was an old woman muttering to herself.
"Good evening, citizens," said she. "We shall have a fine day for the show to-morrow. Look how the bonny stars are winking and blinking on the gay knife blade they've been sharpening. It will be darker and redder when the clock strikes ten again. Down with the aristocrats!"
The fugitives needed no more to quicken their steps. They reached the frontiers in safety, and beyond the Rhine, in the hospitable land of Germany, the lovers were united; nor did they return to France till the star of Robespierre had set in blood, and the master mind of Napoleon had placed its impress on the destinies of France.
THE OLD CITY PUMP.
Many evenings since, we were passing up State Street late at night. State Street at midnight is a very different affair from State Street at high noon. The shadows of the tall buildings fall on a deserted thoroughfare; save where, here and there, a spectral bank watchman keeps ward over the granite sepulchres of golden eagles, and the flimsier representatives of wealth. The bulls and bears have retired to their dens, and East India merchants are invisible. Newsboys are nowhere, and every sound has died away. There stands the Old State House, peculiar and picturesque, rising with a look of other days, a relic of past time, against the deep blue sky, or webbing the full moon with the delicate tracery of its slender spars and signal halliards. And there stands—no! there stood the old Town Pump. But it is no more—Ilium fuit was written on its forehead—it has been reformed out of office, its occupation has gone, its handle has been amputated, its body has been dissected, and there is nothing of it left.
Yet on the evening to which we alluded in the beginning, the old pump was there, and crossing over from the Merchants Bank, we leaned against its handle, as one leans against the arm of an old friend, in a musing, idle mood. Presently we heard a gurgling sound and confused murmurs issuing from its lips—"like airy tongues that syllable men's names." Anon these murmurs shaped themselves into distinct articulations, and as we listened, wonderingly, the old pump spoke:—
"Past twelve o'clock, and a moonlight night. All well, as I'm a pump. Nobody breaking into banks, and nobody kicking up rows—watchmen fast asleep, and every body quiet. But I can't sleep. No! the city government has murdered sleep! There's something heavy on my buckets, and I fear me, I'm a gone sucker! They thought I couldn't find out what they were up to—the municipal government—but I'm a deep one, and I know every thing that's going for'ard. What a jolly go, to be sure! They told me Mayor Bigelow hated proscription—but I knew it was gammon! He must follow the fashion, and Cochituate is all the go. There ain't no pumps now—it's all fountain! Pump water is full of animalculæ, and straddle bugs don't exist in pond water—of course not. Nobody ever see young pollywogs and snapping turtles floating down stream in fly-time. Certainly not! I'm getting old—of course I am; that's the talk! I've been in office too long. Well, well, I know I'm rather asthmatic and phthisicky—but nobody ever knowed me to suck, even in the driest time. These living waters have welled up even from the time when the salt sea was divided from the land, and the rocks were cloven by the hand of Omnipotence, and the sweet spring came bursting upward from the fragrant earth, and light and flowers came together to welcome the birthday of the glad and glorious gift. Here, many a century back, the giant mastodon trod the earth into deep hollows, as he moved upon his sounding path. Then came another time. In the hollow of the three hills, the Indian raised his bark wigwam, and the smoke of his council fire curled up like a mist-wreath in the forest. Here the red man filled the wild gourd cup when he returned weary from the chase or the skirmish. And here, too, the Indian maiden smoothed her dark locks, and her lustrous, laughing eyes gazed upon the image of her own dusky beauty, mirrored on the surface of the wave. By and by the red man ceased to drink of my unfailing rill. Beings with pale faces came to me to quench their thirst; bearded lips were moistened with my diamond drops; and I looked up upon iron corselet and steel hauberk, and faces harder than either. But the old Puritans gave me form and substance—a 'local habitation and a name.' The spirit of the fountain was wedded to its present tabernacle. The dwellings of men sprang up around me in the place of the departing forest. I gave them all a cheerful welcome. If the colonists worked hard, I worked harder yet. I filled their pails and cups, and revived their failing hearts, and cheered their unremitting labors. They called me their friend. The pretty girls smiled upon me, as, under pretence of levying contributions on my treasures, they chatted with young men who gathered at my side. Then came a sterner period. I heard no more love tales—no more idle gossip. Men stood here, and spoke of deep wrong, of tyranny, of trampled rights, of resistance, of liberty! That was a word I had not heard since the red man drank of my unfettered tide. One night, there was a great gathering here. There were men and boys, a multitude. There was much angry talk and much confusion. Then I heard the roll of the drum and the regular tramp of an armed force. A band of British soldiers, all resplendent with scarlet, and gold, and burnished muskets that glittered in the moonbeams, were formed into line at the command of an officer, and confronted the dark array of citizens. Then came an angry discussion—orders on the part of the commander for the multitude to disperse, which were unheeded or disobeyed. Then that line of glittering tubes was levelled. I heard the fatal word "fire!" the flame leaped from the muzzles of the muskets, and the volley crashed and echoed in the street. Blood flowed upon the pavement—the blood of citizens mingled with my waters, and I was the witness of a fearful tragedy. In after times, I heard it named the Boston Massacre. Since then, I have seen hours of sunshine and triumph, of fun and frolic, of anger and rejoicing. My waters have laved the dust that it might not soil the uniform of Washington as he rode past on his snow-white charger, amid the acclamations of the multitude. I have seen Hull and his tars pass up the street, bearing the stripes and stars in triumph from the war of the ocean. I have heard long-winded orators spout over my head in emulation of my craft, "in one weak, washy, everlasting flood." I have seen many a military, many a civic pageant. The last I witnessed was, as Dick Swiveller remarks, a 'stifler.' It was that confounded Water Celebration. Republics is ungrateful. I was forgotten on that occasion. Nobody drank at the old city pump. People sat on my head and stood on my nose, just as if I had no feelings. I heard a young lady in the gallery overhead say, 'Well, that horrid old pump will soon be out of the way now.' And a city father answered her, 'Of course.' It was a workin' then—treason and fate, and all them things. I knew they were going to 'put me out of my misery,' as the saying goes. I'm getting superannuated—I heard 'em say so. Sometimes an office boy tastes a drop, and then turns up his nose,—as if it wasn't pug enough before,—and says, 'What horrid stuff! the Cochituate for my money!' General Washington's canteen was filled here—and he said, 'Delicious!' when he raised it to his lips. But he was no judge, of course not. Time was when I wasn't slow but I'm not fast enough for this generation. When folks write letters with lightning, and sail ships with tea-kettles, pumps can't come it over 'em. Well, well, I'll hold out to the last—I'll make 'em carry me off and bury me decently at the city's expense, and perhaps some kind old friend will write my epitaph."