EDINBURGH JOURNAL CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE,' 'CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE,' &c. No. 161. NEw Series. SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1847. JOHNSON AND SAVAGE. RICHARD SAVAGE serves in England as the type of a wretched man of letters; not that he was singular in this respect, but that the friendship of Johnson has caused the particulars of his life and habits to be recorded with more than usual minuteness. His biography by the great lexicographer is still in some repute; more read, as well as more praised, than any other of its author's productions of that class. I was lately surprised, however, on an accidental re-perusal of it, after an interval of many years, to find so much in this narrative that appeared to me unsatisfactory. I shall endeavour, though it is almost like broaching a heresy, to show wherein I think it defective. Savage, as is well known, came into the world (1697) under peculiar circumstances. In order to be divorced from a husband with whom she lived unhappily, the Countess of Macclesfield told a tale of infamy against herself. Her child, born soon after, and who otherwise would have been in time an English peer, was reared at a distance from her, in obscurity, and under strict care that he should never know his real origin. He received, nevertheless, a good education at a private school. It was while serving as apprentice to a shoemaker, that he discovered by accident that he had received his birth, not from the poor woman who had reared him, but from a lady of brilliant rank, who lived in affluence in the west end of London. Curiosity, ambition, perhaps some working of the natural affections, then led him to make an effort to see his real parent; but she never could be induced to grant him an interview. The poor youth used to watch whole evenings in front of her elegant mansion, that he might have the chance of seeing her go out or in, or pass through her lighted apartments; but in vain. Rendered desperate at length, he tried on one occasion to force his way into the house. She either affected or felt alarm at the proceeding, screamed to alarm her servants and neighbours, and poor Savage was thrust into the street without accomplishing his object. So far from affording him any countenance or kindly support, she attempted to get him kidnapped and sent away as a slave to the colonies. Johnson tells these and many other particulars of the conduct of this unnatural mother, but leaves her to be regarded as a mere anomaly or monster in human form. It is, however, always desirable to see motives or prompting causes for any extraordinary actions; and it seems strange that Johnson should have been unable to conjecture why this mother acted differently from her sex in general. It does not now seem difficult to suppose that the countess regarded her child, from the first, as a memento of painful circumstances in her own life, and shrunk from seeing a being invested with such distressing associations. She might think it better for him to regard PRICE 1d. himself as of humble, than of infamous extraction. When he afterwards became troublesome to her, and likely to revive her sad story before the world, she might be driven, in a paroxysm of selfish feeling, to wish him out of the country. This is not to excuse the unhappy woman; it is only an attempt to detect the workings of natural passions in her bosom as a cause for her actions. We must at the same time, in simple justice, keep in mind that the whole story has been handed down to us by the enemies of the countess. Savage, when he learned what he really was, worked no more. He had education and abilities which were enough in themselves to have put him above a humble trade. Ambition and love of self-indulgence now determined him into that false position which, with his own bad passions, was the cause of his misery through life. With an excuse for considering himself unfortunate, and constant hopes of something being done for him on that account, he put common means of livelihood out of consideration. Sir Richard Steele took him by the hand-a bad Mentor, though a kindly and well-meaning one. Under his care, Savage began, before twenty, to write poems and plays. When, in consequence of ridiculing his patron behind his back, he lost his friendship, Mrs Oldfield the actress became his friend, and agreed, from pure generosity, to give him fifty pounds a-year till he should be better provided for. The beneficence of these amiable people is praised by Johnson, without his seeing that it must have fatally encouraged Savage in the irresponsibility he felt with regard to his own support. On giving proof of his abilities by a play on the story of Sir Thomas Overbury, many other persons of eminence became his friends; and he realised a hundred pounds by the work when published, ten guineas being derived from its dedication to a man of fortune. The story of the young poet was now known. Unluckily, his friends encouraged him in a disposition to trade upon it, by way of making up for the heartlessness of his mother, and as a kind of revenge against her. When it was narrated by a friend in a periodical publication of the day, with a request that persons commiserating the hero should send contributions for him to Button's Coffeehouse, seventy guineas were deposited there in the course of a few days. A duke remarked that Savage should be looked upon as an injured nobleman, and supported accordingly by his own class. The biographer tells all this, but makes no remark on the possibility of his hero maintaining a truer dignity by supporting himself, and sinking the birth which could reflect upon him no honour. Supported chiefly by the bounty of others, and making a very imprudent use of any resources of his own, Savage advanced to thirty years of age, when he was tried for murder. He and two friends, having sat up till midnight drinking, went into a house of ill fame at Charing Cross, and stumbled into an apartment already occupied by a party. One of Savage's friends chose deliberately to commence a quarrel with these people, by kicking over their table. In the confused contest which ensued, Savage wounded a Mr Sinclair in such a way that he died next day. A more wanton piece of mischief than the whole conduct of Savage's party could not have been exhibited. Savage was condemned to be executed. A pardon was interceded for, and, notwithstanding opposition from his mother, obtained. It certainly was right that he should not have suffered for murder; but it seems equally clear that a free pardon was a great stretch of mercy in a case of such culpable homicide. Yet strange to say, Johnson presumes that 'his memory may not be much sullied by his trial;' as if it was enough that he had not killed a fellow-creature out of deliberate malice. One can go along with the biographer in a more placid humour when he relates a subsequent act of his hero. Some time after he had obtained his liberty, he met in the street the woman who had sworn with so much malignity against him. She informed him that she was in distress, and, with a degree of confidence not easily attainable, desired him to relieve her. He, instead of insulting her misery, and taking pleasure in the calamities of one who had brought his life into danger, reproved her gently for her perjury, and changing the only guinea that he had, divided it equally between her and himself.' Johnson adds, Compassion was the distinguishing quality of Savage; he never appeared inclined to take advantage of weakness, to attack the defenceless, or to press upon the falling; whoever was distressed, was certain at least of his good wishes; and when he could give no assistance to extricate them from misfortunes, he endeavoured to soothe them by sympathy and tenderness.' The partial biographer at the same time admits that he was implacable in resentment where his pity was not appealed to. Savage continued for some time to live as he had done before-indebted to the accident of the day for his subsistence, sometimes deriving a little money from his writings or a theatre benefit; at others treated by his friends in taverns; and often retiring from a gay company, whom he had entertained by his wit, to wander, solitary and homeless, through the streets. In Johnson's strong phrase, he spent his life between want and plenty-between beggary and extravagance.' What he had, he was tempted to spend foolishly, because he always hoped to be immediately supplied.' He would 'purchase the luxury of a single night by the anguish of cold and hunger for a week.' The biographer blames for this the conduct of his friends in treating him at taverns. It does not seem to have occurred to him that the treated party had a power of declining this degradation, and that honest men choose to live otherwise. Yet Savage became anxious for a settled income, and, after all the cruelty of his mother, attempted to extort a provision from her by threatening to harass her with lampoons. Johnson triumphs in the partial success of this expedient; of its essential unworthiness he says not one word. In consequence of Savage's application, Lord Tyrconnel, a friend of the countess, agreed to receive him into his house, and, besides supporting him, give him an allowance of two hundred per annum. He now lived at a regular and luxurious table, with a nobleman, to enjoy whose conversation was, he himself says, 'to be elegantly introduced into the most instructive as well as entertaining parts of literature-to receive from the most unassuming and winning candour the worthiest and most polite maxims.' Here he finished his longest poem, the Wanderer, the copyright of which he sold for ten pounds, because he wanted some trifling gratification which this sum could purchase, and because this was the first offer! Dressing handsomely, living as a kind of unfortunate nobleman, and possessed of literary fame and attractive conversational powers, he was now highly popular. To admire Mr Savage was a proof of discernment; to be acquainted with him was a title to poetical reputation. His presence was sufficient to make any place of public entertainment popular; and his approbation and example constituted the fashion. So powerful,' says Johnson, is genius when it is invested with the glitter of affluence!' A man of independent mind will of course see that it was not a situation fit to secure real happiness. It was but a gilded servitude at the best, with only one redeeming circumstance for a man of letters-that it afforded opportunities for quiet study, and for the observation of some departments of society not usually very patent to inspection. But if there was anything in it which a virtuous and unassuming student could have profited by, or by which such a person could have made it tolerable, that person was not Richard Savage. During this externally brilliant period of his life, he published a poem in praise of Sir Robert Walpole, the then all-powerful minister. Its encomiums are in the style of the dedications of that age, although the poet boldly asserts that truth is his sole guide. Now, Johnson quietly tells us that Savage was in the custom of privately speaking of Walpole in a very contemptuous manner. But Walpole sent the poet twenty pounds for his panegyric, and was no doubt expected to send that or something more; and Lord Tyrconnel required his protegé, not without menaces,' to write in praise of his leader. In the eyes of the great English moralist, it was all owing to the dependent state of Savage, and this dependence was his misfortune, so that circumstances alone were blameable! The utmost that Johnson can admit is, that if his miseries were sometimes the consequences of his faults, he ought not yet to be wholly excluded from compassion, because his faults were very often the effect of his misfortunes' as if Savage had been under some moral prohibition to work honestly, as other men do, for his own bread! What crime is there for which some such excuse could not be made? In no long time-we are not exactly informed how long-Lord Tyrconnel discharged Savage from his house, alleging reasons in the poet's own misconduct. Savage, his lordship said, was accustomed to enter taverns with any company that proposed it; there he would drink the most expensive wines with great profusion, and when the reckoning came, he was without money. When his friends paid his share grudgingly, he brought them to Lord Tyrconnel's, where he would entertain them with wines from his lordship's cellars, and disgrace the house with riot and outrage. A set of valuable books which he had bestowed upon Savage, stamped with his arms, he had the mortification to find on stalls exposed to sale, it being Savage's custom, when he wanted a small sum, to take his books to the pawnbroker. On the other hand, the poet alleged that a shabby desire to escape the expense which he occasioned, was Lord Tyrconnel's motive for sending him adrift. The reasons assigned by Lord Tyrconnel agreeing so well with the ordinary habits of Savage, as admitted by Johnson, we may well believe them to have been in the main true. Undoubtedly the gist of the whole matter is, that Savage's recklessly dissolute conduct was incom patible with the comfort of a sober gentleman's mansion. Yet still there is nothing from the moralist but pity. It has since become known that Savage wrote to Lord Tyrconnel's chaplain, representing his deplorable situation, and petitioning his intercession, in order that he might be taken back. This deprives Savage, of course, of all right to allege faults on his lordship's side. The case had been simply this—an undeserved bounty forfeited by the guilty folly of the receiver. It was soon after this period that Savage published his most celebrated poem, the Bastard, which he dedicated, with all due reverence,' to Mrs Brett-such being now the appellation of his mother, in consequence of her having married a gentleman of that name. The piece contains many striking lines, and as it related to his own story, now a pretty notorious one, it met a large sale. Johnson informs us that it had the effect of driving the poet's mother away from Bath, where she was living at the time. The biographer manifestly rejoices in this poem. He quotes, as an apology for Savage, the lines No mother's care public function to such a man as Savage; but Johnson sees nothing of the kind. He can only complain that a man of genius should not be supported by some means not of his own earning. The biographer loudly asserts the dignity of many of his friend's sentiments: he loved goodness, it seems, though he did not practise it. He was also inspired by religious sentiments; and at one time contemplated a poem in which the freethinker should be shown going through all the stages of vice and folly, till dismissed from the world by his own hand. Strange that Samuel Johnson should have failed to perceive how little worth is to be attached to such an idea, when he is himself delineating a man of contrary principles, who, nevertheless, goes through that very career in sad reality, excepting only the last particular. Savage was now living a half-outcast life, eating only when he was invited to the tables of his acquaintances, from which the meanness of his dress often excluded him.' 'Sometimes he passed the night in mean houses, which are set open at night to any casual wanderers; sometimes in cellars, among the riot and filth of the meanest and most profligate of the rabble; sometimes, when he had not money to support the expenses of even these receptacles, he walked about the streets till he was weary, and lay down in the summer upon a balk, or in the winter, with his associates in poverty, among the ashes of a glass-house.' In such places was to be found the man of exalted sentiments, extensive views, and curious observations; the man whose remarks on life might have assisted the statesman, whose ideas of virtue might have enlightened the moralist, whose eloquence might have influenced senates, and whose delicacy might have polished courts.' Nothing of the kind, I venture to say. The balk and the glass-house never received any such tenant; they only sheltered an unreflecting sensualist and profligate. That any sensible man should have ever seriously spoken of one as possessing moralist,' whom he at the same time represents as indulging himself at all times without the least regard to others, and as utterly without any sense of the decencies of civilised life, is surely most strange. Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: No father's guardian hand my youth maintained, Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained. The grossness of the whole matter, the writing of such a piece, and the publishing of it, is unperceived by Johnson. He sees not the ludicrousness of an able, well-educated man of between thirty and forty whining about the hardships of such a peculiar orphanhood. He sees not the utter folly of palliating a homicide committed in a drunken brawl, by reference to any external circumstance whatever. Only one general remark of the nature which justice would require, does he make about this part of Savage's life, where he says, 'By imputing none of his miseries to himself, he continued to act upon the same principles, and to follow the same path; was never made wiser by his suffer-ideas of virtue which might have enlightened the ings, nor preserved by one misfortune from falling into another.' The fact is, that Johnson himself continually refers Savage's misfortunes, as well as his faults, to others, and but faintly in any case blames the sufferer. To show the mistaking spirit in which he writes, take his remarks on the queen's bounty, in allowing Savage fifty pounds a-year, in requital for a little complimentary poem which he sent annually on her birth-day, under the character of the Volunteer Laureate. Caroline, with her characteristic goodness, had permitted Savage to send such a poem. Let any one look at the verses, and then say if her majesty could have had any motive but to befriend one whom she believed to be an unfortunate man of genius. The very first ode, which led to the arrangement, is little but a new deploration on the hackneyed story of his birth. Yet what says Samuel? Her majesty's reception of the poem, though by no means unkind, was yet not in the highest degree generous: to chain down the genius of the writer to an annual panegyric, showed in the queen too much desire of hearing her own praises, and a greater regard to herself than to him on whom her bounty was conferred!' Was there ever such miserable drivel as this? though it be a bold word to use towards Johnson. And this writer almost immediately after tells us, without a word of comment, how the wretched volunteer laureate used annually to retire with his fifty pounds to spend it in The last move of Savage's life was in consequence of obscure sensuality, reappearing after a brief space as an association of friends agreeing to allow him fifty penniless as usual-for Mr Savage had never been pounds a-year, on condition that he would go and live accustomed to dismiss any of his appetites without the upon it quietly in the country. This led him to Swangratification which they solicited,' and 'nothing but sea in 1739, having left London with much reluctance. want of money withheld him from partaking of every The arrangement, it seems, was not made very readily. pleasure which fell within his view!' What on earthSuch,' says his biographer, was the generosity of is this but the very wantonness of prejudice and par- mankind, that what had been done by a player without tiality? solicitation, could not now be effected by application and interest; and Savage had a great number to court and to obey for a pension less than that which Mrs Oldfield paid him without exacting any servilities.' In the name of wonder, how should this have passed for a century, in a popular book, without condemnation? After he had endured some years of penury, a few friends solicited Sir Robert Walpole in his behalf, and obtained a promise of a place for him; but the promise was never fulfilled. It is easy, of course, to see how the minister might pause before trusting any Johnson now describes Savage as practising for some years the art described in the Vicar of Wakefield-keeping up a subscription for his works, which yet never came out. Whatever he got in this way, even though it might be a benefaction of ten guineas from a liberal nobleman, he immediately spent in luxuries at a tavern, never stopping till it was done. His friends at one time commenced a plan of sending him a guinea every Monday; it was commonly spent before next morning. Wherever he went, his lively conversation gained him new friends and support; but his irregularities quickly disgusted them, so that his only chance lay in a rapid succession of new faces. Amidst all this essential meanness, there was a fiery pride about trifles. When a gentleman, meaning to be of service to him, asked him to call at a particular hour, he took it as an insult. When a few friends proposed to club for a new suit of clothes for him, and sent a tailor to take his measure, he flew into a violent rage, because, forsooth, he had not himself been intrusted with his re-equipment. But Samuel Johnson is hardly more reasonable, as will presently appear. Is it not, in reality, victimising the worthy and kindhearted, to exalt the reckless and selfish? Actually, the same page which contains the ungenerous remark, relates that Savage, having got fifteen guineas from these friends for his journey to Bristol, wrote on the fourteenth day, in a state of distress upon the road, for want of funds to carry him forward! And this perversity exists in a work of the greatest English writer of the eighteenth century! It is now known that Pope alone contributed twenty pounds of Savage's allowance. Such liberality from a successful to an unsuccessful literary man, was surely as praiseworthy as it is uncommon. While secluded in the west of England-residing, after all, chiefly in Bristol, and there acting much as he had done in London-Savage quarrelled with many of those concerned in the pension, whom, it would appear, he only thought illiberal because they did not give him whatever he wanted. He would have returned to London, but never could save or keep enough for the journey. By degrees the unhappy wretch wore out the patience of all who had befriended him in the western capital, and then fell into actual want. Arrested at length for a debt of eight pounds, he spent the last months of his parasitical life in the most appropriate manner possible-a dependent on the bounty of his jailor. A short illness carried him off in Bristol jail in 1743, and he was buried, also appropriately, at the expense of his last patron. man, So concludes this strange story. It is of course of no consequence, as a matter of literary history, how an obsolete poet of the worst age of English verse lived or died. But it is of great consequence how the tale of such a man's life is narrated. I venture to affirm that it has been narrated by Johnson in a manner which outrages all propriety, and has no excuse but the imperfect one, that the author, though himself a virtuous had been fascinated by the society of one unworthy of his regard. He tells enough to condemn Savage for ever-as that he appeared to think himself born to be supported by others, and dispensed from all necessity of providing for himself;' that he retained hatred longer than good-will; and that, when a friend had trusted him, 'he considered himself as discharged by the first quarrel from all ties of honour and gratitude.' Yet he can coolly add, within the next two pages, 'No wise man will presume to say, had I been in Savage's condition, I should have lived better than Savage.' There is, indeed, a sounding conclusion which has been often quoted, expressing a belief that the narrative will not be without its use, if those who, in confidence of superior capacities or attainments, disregard the common maxims of life, shall be reminded that nothing will supply the want of prudence; and that negligence and irregularity, long continued, will make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible.' But this is the one drop of vinegar amidst hosts of honied palliations. And after all, it goes not to the root of the matter. Want of prudence, and negligence, and irregularity, are not phrases which can express what brought Savage to contempt and misery. He was wholly an untrue and unworthy man. For what is it that constitutes goodness? Is it not mainly the ratio in which self-indulgence has been avoided, self-control been practised, and selfsacrifice encountered for kindly social objects? If so, see what title Richard Savage has to gentle consideration-a man who acted upon heedless impulse all his days, who hardly ever was indebted for a mouthful to his own honest industry, and who, while looking to others for everything, never denied himself a single pleasure which he could obtain. Even the excuses on the ground of his unfortunate origin, become absurd when we consider, on the other hand, that nature had given him abilities superior to the generality of mankind. They become still more ridiculous, as referring, not to a person of tender age, which is perhaps the common impression, but to one who advanced through the whole period of life's prime, and died at forty-six. The whole strain of Johnson's narrative is therefore, in my humble opinion, false and dangerous. And there is no saying what fatal effects it may have had in affording self-justifications to subsequent men of talent disposed to lead idle and profligate, rather than sober and industrious lives. I am myself surprised to have this to say of a work of Samuel Johnson; but since I am led to think so, it would be cowardly to pronounce otherwise. Nor is it necessarily an assertion of personal superiority to one of our greatest men, thus to arraign and condemn his moral views. I believe that I write in the light of an age superior to that of Johnson, and only speak what hundreds of honest writers of our day would say, if they chanced to read with any care the Life of Richard Savage. R. C. THE HEROIC WIFE. WHEN the revolutionary tribunals were established in 1793, Monsieur Duportail's name was one of the first which figured on the list of those suspected, who were to undergo trial, if the formula gone through on such occasions could be called such, and which so quickly sent its victims from the Conciergerie to the scaffold. M. Duportail had many titles to proscription, among which might be numbered his being steward of the royal farms, and an upright honest man. He had been married about three years to a lady he had brought from Martinique, by whom he had two children: mutual affection, and all the happiness that wealth can bestow, centered in his household when the Reign of Terror commenced. Having fortunately received intimation of the threatened danger, he quitted his dwelling a few hours previous to the arrival of the revolutionary emissaries, and secreted himself in the house of an old domestic in the faubourgs. The same evening his wife joined him. In expectation of such an event, she had, a few days previously, collected what money and valuables were in her possession, regulated the affairs most pressing, and prepared everything which she deemed necessary for a sudden departure. 'We must instantly leave Paris,' said she; 'a carriage containing the children waits for us; and if we reach Bourdeaux, we can easily conceal ourselves in my father's house until an opportunity offers for embarking for Martinique.' M. Duportail, unable to comprehend the extreme peril of his situation, endeavoured to dissuade her from her resolution; and it was only when she implored him for their children's sake to flee, that he at length consented to leave Paris the next day. During the evening, the old servant having gone out to reconnoitre, returned with the startling intelligence that every conveyance was strictly searched at the barriers, and that many persons endeavouring to escape had been arrested. The good fortune of his wife in procuring two passports did not tranquillise him; and, aware of the surveillance which existed in every town through which they would have to pass, he determined on pursuing another course, which would at least save her the misery of being a witness of his arrest. The next day he met the carriage at the appointed hour, and after some persuasion, prevailed on Madame Duportail to leave Paris accompanied only by the children, promising that he would immediately quit the city on foot, and disguised. Once safe outside the barriers, he hoped he might be able to procure horses, and rejoin her at Bourdeaux, or possibly on the road. As was expected, on reaching the barrier the coach was stopped, and at either side appeared a sinister countenance, surmounted by the red cap. It is a woman!' exclaimed one. 'Who are you?' demanded the other. Madame Duportail tendered her passport, and after a short scrutiny, the order was given to proceed. With a lightened heart she continued her route, each moment hoping to be overtaken by her husband: but vain were her expectations. Hour after hour passed in feverish anxiety, her only solace being the caresses of her chil dren. On arriving at Tours, there was no intelligence of him: the same disappointment awaited her at every town through which she passed. On reaching Bourdeaux, she immediately drove to her father's residence. 'My husband?' was all she could utter, throwing herself into her parent's arms. 'Your husband! Unhappy child, you are not then aware of his arrest?' 'Arrested! Where?-when?' It was the very day of her departure. Though stunned by the intelligence, she quickly recovered herself. Tell me all. He is arrested, but is he still living?' 'He is; but every day these monsters judge, condemn, and 'Leave the horses to the carriage!' exclaimed the young wife; or rather get fresh ones: I shall instantly return to Paris. I must save him-I shall save him!' All remonstrance was unheeded, nor would she even allow her father to run any risk by accompanying her. The only delay to which she consented was while he went to procure a letter from an old acquaintance to a member of the Convention, who, besides having some influence himself, happened to be the confidant of Danton, the then minister of justice. Leaving the children with her father, she retraced her route, and, nearly exhausted, arrived in Paris eight days after M. Duportail's arrest. Without loss of time, she sought the deputy for whom the letter was directed; but on inquiry, was told by an old porteress at the lodge that he was from home. 'I shall wait for him,' said Madame Duportail. 'As you please,' replied the old woman; but where will you stay?' 'I shall remain here,' replied madame, terrified by the insolent tone of the speaker. 'In the rain! You must be an aristocrat, then, for they are capable of anything. Our deputies have enough to do, I warrant; for they are beset from morning till night with petitions.' With a malicious glance she passed into the lodge. Thus left to herself, the young wife could not avoid reflecting upon the situation in which she was placed; and though, under other circumstances, she would have shrunk at the idea of visiting a man unknown to her, she was too much absorbed with the thought of her husband's peril to heed it at that moment. A glance at her travel-stained dress, and a fear that her appearance in such plight would have an unfavourable effect on the mind of her protector, made her hesitate as to whether she should remain; but no time was allowed for consideration, for at that moment a gentleman, dressed in ball costume, carrying some papers in his hand, descended into the court. Here is the deputy, young lady. I find that I was mistaken in saying he had gone out,' exclaimed the porteress, chuckling as she emerged from the lodge, yet half afraid that her falsehood might get her into trouble. Madame Duportail presented the letter to the stranger, who, glancing at the writing, and then at his visitor, requested her, with an air of constraint, to come into the house. On opening the letter, and perusing it rapidly, I am going to the Convention,' said he, and have no time to lose: this letter tells me who you are, and is sufficient to make me do all in my power for your husband. Oblige me by coming up stairs.' He led the way into an elegantly-furnished apartment, the furniture of which bore evident traces of the Revolution. The pictures were surmounted by armorial bearings, some of the subjects being devotional, while others represented battle scenes, in which members of the royal family were conspicuous: the room evinced all the luxury of a noble mansion of the old regime. Having handed his visitor a chair, the deputy seated himself before a table covered with papers and pamphlets. · 'He may perhaps be here to-morrow,' said the deputy, as he commenced writing. Her eyes followed the pen in its movements, and with difficulty she restrained herself from sobbing aloud. There,' added the deputy, as he folded the letter, I am confident my friend will be satisfied that I have done all that lay in my power, as he has demanded. I am happy in having rendered you this little service,' continued he, as he rose and politely presented the letter. Madame Duportail had also risen. Do you think, monsieur, that Citizen Danton will take pity on me?' she asked in an almost inarticulate voice. The deputy regarded her for a moment silently, and with a scarcely perceptible smile replied, I have no doubt of it.' He made a few steps towards the door, but returning, added, 'Be sure to deliver the letter yourself.' They descended the stairs, and the deputy, making a profound salute, rapidly traversed the courtyard. Madame Duportail followed more slowly. It was only then that she was struck by the peculiarity of the look which accompanied the injunction to deliver the letter in person, and she felt some misgivings as the idea arose in her mind that there was a mystery linked with it which she could not fathom. While walking along the street, her attention was excited by a stentorian voice exclaiming, 'A list of the execrable conspirators who have been condemned by national justice to suffer to-morrow morning.' She shuddered as she tendered a piece of money to the man, who, handing her one of the papers, continued his route, uttering his funereal cry. With a palpitating heart she glanced over the list, which contained the names, ages, and rank of the victims whose doom had been pronounced; but her husband was not among the number. lives,' was the wife's silent ejaculation. But who could speak for the morrow? The remainder of the day was passed in gleaning information respecting the prisoners: her husband, she learned, was incarcerated in the Oratorio. 'He still The next morning she went to Danton's house. The citizen minister still slept. On her return some hours after, she was told that he had left town. 'Where has he gone?' To Auteuil,' was the reply of the domestic, in a tone of impertinent familiarity. This suspense was dreadful; but her hopes again rose when, on consulting the public lists, her husband's name did not appear. The following day, changing her dress so as not to be recognised by the valets, she inquired for Danton. The minister was in his office, but could not be disturbed. Entering a cabaret at the opposite side of the street, from whence the house was observable, she called for some wine. The woman of the shop, interested by her youth and beauty, and rightly guessing that some other motive than that of drinking wine induced her to remain so long, strove by her attention to lessen the young wife's grief. The evening fell, and thanking the woman for her kindness, Madame Duportail, with the energy of despair, boldly entered the minister's hotel. On the domestics endeavouring to prevent her going beyond the courtyard, she showed the letter, mentioning its being from Citizen R and the necessity of its immediate delivery. The deputy's name acted like a talisman, and she ascended the grand staircase. Servants were hurrying to and fro, and in the confusion she reached the door of one of the upper apartments, from whence the sound of boisterous mirth proceeded. She was here accosted by a domestic, who inquired her business. Without making |