Three pieces of artillery being brought forward to beat down the draw-bridge, the governor demolished the little bridge of passage on the left hand, at the entrance of the fortress; but three persons, named Hely, Hulin, and Maillard, leaped on the bridge, and demanding that the inmost gate should be instantly opened, the besieged obeyed, and the besiegers pushed forward to make good their entrance. The garrison still persisted in a vain resistance. The people massacred all who came in their way, and the victorious standard was soon hoisted from the highest tower. In the mean time, the principal draw-bridge having been let down, a great crowd rushed in at once, and every one looked out for the governor. Arné, a grenadier, singled him out, seized, and disarmed him, and delivered him up to M. Hulin and Hely. The people tore from his coat the badge of honour; numerous hands were lifted against him; and De Launay threw himself into the arms of M. Templement, and conjured him to protect him from the rage of the populace.
The deputy governor, major, and the captain of the gunners, were now united in one group. The horrid dungeons of the fortress were thrown open, never more to be closed; unhappy victims, with hoary locks and emaciated bodies, were astonished at beholding the light, on their release, and shouts of joy and victory resounded through the remotest cells of the Bastile.
The victors formed a kind of march, and while some uttered acclamations of triumph, others vented their passions in threats of revenge against the vanquished. The city militia mixing with the patriotic guards, crowns of laurel, garlands, and ribands, were offered to them by the spectators. The conquerors, proceeding to the Hotel de Ville, were scarcely arrived at the square before that edifice, La Place de Greve, when the multitude called aloud for sudden vengeance on the objects of their resentment. The governor and the other officers were impetuously torn from the hands of their conquerors, and De Launay, with several other victims, perished beneath the weapons of an infuriated populace.
Thus fell the Bastile, after a siege of only three hours. Tumultuous joy prevailed throughout Paris, and the city was illuminated in the evening. By the most experienced military engineers under Louis XIV., it had been deemed impregnable.
The Bastile consisted of eight strong towers. It was surrounded with a fossé one hundred and twenty yards wide, and on the summit of the towers there was a platform, connected by terraces, whereon prisoners were sometimes permitted to walk, attended by a guard. Thirteen pieces of cannon mounted on this platform were fired on days of public rejoicing. There were five sorts of chambers in the Bastile. The dungeons under these towers exhaled noxious vapours and stench, and were frequented by rats, lizards, toads, and other loathsome reptiles. In the angle of each dungeon, was a camp-bedstead, of planks resting on bars of iron fixed in the wall. These cells were dark and hideous, without windows or apertures, to admit either fresh air or light. They were secured by double doors of seven inches thick, the interior one covered with iron-plates, and fastened by strong bolts and heavy locks. The most horrible receptacles were the dungeons, wherein the iron cages were fixed. These cages, the disgrace of human nature, were eight feet high, by six feet wide, and formed of strong beams, strengthened further by iron plates. As this building is amply described in several works, further particulars of it may here cease.
Cowper, after an eloquent passage upon the blessings of liberty to man, says, “The author hopes that he shall not be censured for unnecessary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He is aware that it is become almost fashionable, to stigmatize such sentiments as no better than empty declamation; but it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times.” He then rolls a flood of indignation against the Bastile. The dreadful fortress was at that time standing. His imagination of human endurance under the horrors of confinement in its cells, beautifully illustrates his compassionate feelings. He says,—
Shame to manhood, and opprobrious more
To France than all her losses and defeats,
Old or of later date, by sea or land,
Her house of bondage, worse than that of old
Which God aveng’d on Pharaoh—the Bastile.
Ye horrid tow’rs, th’ abode of broken hearts;
Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair,
That monarchs have supplied from age to age
With music, such as suits their sov’reign ears,
The sighs and groans of miserable men!
There’s not an English heart, that would not leap,
To hear that ye were fall’n at last; to know
That ev’n our enemies, so oft employ’d
In forging chains for us, themselves were free.
For he, who values liberty, confines
His zeal for her predominance within
No narrow bounds; her cause engages him
Wherever pleaded. ’Tis the cause of man.
There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,
Immur’d though unaccus’d, condemn’d untried,
Cruelly spar’d, and hopeless of escape.
There, like the visionary emblem seen
By him of Babylon, life stands a stump,
And, filleted about with hoops of brass,
Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone.
To count the hour-bell, and expect no change;
And ever, as the sullen sound is heard,
Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note
To him, whose moments all have one dull pace,
Ten thousand rovers in the world at large
Account it music; that it summons some
To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball:
The wearied hireling finds it a release
From labour; and the lover, who has chid
Its long delay, feels ev’ry welcome stroke
Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight—
To fly for refuge from distracting thought
To such amusements, as ingenious woe
Contrives, hard-fighting, and without her tools—
To read engraven on the mouldy walls,
In stagg’ring types, his predecessor’s tale
A sad memorial, and subjoin his own—
To turn purveyor to an overgorg’d
And bloated spider, till the pamper’d pest
Is made familiar, watches his approach,
Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend—
To wear out time in numb’ring to and fro
The studs, that thick emboss his iron door;
Then downward and then upward, then aslant
And then alternate; with a sickly hope
By dint of change to give his tasteless task
Some relish; till the sum, exactly found
In all directions, he begins again—
Oh, comfortless existence! hemm’d around
With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel
And beg for exile, or the pangs of death.
That man should thus encroach on fellow man,
Abridge him of his just and native rights,
Eradicate him, tear him from his hold
Upon th’ endearments of domestic life
And social, nip his fruitfulness and use,
And doom him for perhaps a heedless word
To barrenness, and solitude, and tears,
Moves indignation, makes the name of king
(Of king whom such prerogative can please)
As dreadful as the Manichean god,
Ador’d through fear, strong only to destroy.
Witchcraft.
In July, 1825, a man was “swam for a wizard,” at Wickham-Skeith, in Suffolk, in the presence of some hundreds of people! In that parish lives Isaac Stebbings, a little spare man about sixty-seven years old, who obtains a livelihood as a huckster; and hard by his cottage lives a thatcher, whose wife is afflicted in mind. In the same parish there happens to be a farmer whose mind is occasionally disturbed. Some one or other put forth the surmise, that these two afflicted persons were bewitched, and Stebbings was spoken of as the “worker of the mischief.” Story grew on story; accumulated hearsays were accepted, as “proof undeniable.” Among other things it was said, that the friends of the afflicted woman had recourse to some means recorded in the annals of witchcraft for detecting the devil’s agent; and that whilst the operation was going on at night, Stebbings came dancing up to the door. In his denial of this circumstance, Stebbings admitted that he did once call at his neighbour’s with mackarel for sale at four o’clock in the morning, before the family were up, and this admission was taken to be as much as he was likely to make. Besides this, the village shoemaker persisted that one morning, as Stebbings passed two or three times before his house, he could not “make” his wax—the ingredients would neither melt nor mix. Dubbed a wizard beyond all doubt, poor Stebbings, ignorant as his neighbours, and teased beyond bearing, proposed at length of himself, the good old-fashioned ordeal of “sink or swim.” The proposal was readily caught at, and on the following Saturday, at two o’clock, in a large pond, called the Grimmer, on Wickham-green, four men walked into the water with him, and the constable of the parish engaged to attend and keep the peace! The sides of the pond were crowded with spectators—men, women, and children. Stebbings had on his breeches and shirt; and when the men had walked with him into the water breast-high, they lifted him up and laid him flat upon his back on the water. Stebbings moved neither hand nor foot, and continued in that position for ten minutes. This was the first trial, and the spectators called out “give him another.” Another trial was accordingly given, for the same length of time, and with the same result. “Try him again, and dip him under the the water,” was then the cry. They did so: one of the four men pressed his chest, and down went his head, whilst up came his heels; in a word, he was like a piece of cork in the water. These trials kept the poor old fellow three-quarters of an hour in the pond, and he came out “more dead than alive.” Still, some were not satisfied. Another man, they said, of his age and size, ought to be swam with him. Stebbings agreed even to this, for he was determined to get rid of the imputation, or die. The following Saturday was appointed for the purpose, and a man called Tom Wilden, of Bacton parish, hard by, was named for his companion. The story now got more wind, and hundreds of people from all the neighbouring parishes attended to witness the second ordeal. But, in the interval, the clergyman of the parish, and the two churchwardens, had interfered, and the swimmers were kept away, to the no small vexation and disappointment of the deluded multitude. It is gravely told, that at the very time Stebbings was swam, the afflicted farmer alluded to above was unusually perturbed; he cried out, “I can see the imps all about me; I must frighten them away with my voice;” and his delusion and his noise, as Stebbings did not sink, are put down to his account. To complete the affair, a respectable farmer in a neighbouring parish went, it is said, to some “cunning man,” and learnt to a certainty that Stebbings was a wizard. The sum of 3l. was paid for this intelligence, and for the assurance that Stebbings should be “killed by inches.”
These particulars in The Times newspaper of July 19, 1825, extracted from the Suffolk Chronicle, prove the deplorable ignorance of certain human beings in England. It is to be hoped, that such persons are not allowed to bring up their offspring in the same darkness. Little can be done towards civilizing adults of this description, but their infants may be reared as intelligent members of society.