Sir Anth. Now, hang me! if ever I call you Jack again. while I live! Abs. Nay, sir, but hear me. Sir Anth. Sir, I won't hear a word-not a word! not one word! so give me your promise by a nod-and I'll tell you what, Jack-I mean you dog-if you don't Abs. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness! to Sir Anth. Zounds! sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll as the bull's in Cox's Museum; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew-she shall be all this, sirrah! yet I will make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty. Abs. This is reason and moderation indeed! Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes! Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for mirth in my life. Sir Anth. 'Tis false, sir. I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah! Abs Sir, I hope I know my duty better. Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please!—It won't do with me I promise you. Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. Sir Anth. 'Tis a confounded lie!-I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog! but it won't do. Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word Sir Anth. So you will fly out! can't you be cool like me? What good can passion do?-Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! don't provoke me!-but you rely upon the mildness of my temper-you do, you dog! you play upon the meekness of my disposition!-Yet, take care-the patience of a saint may be overcome at last!—but mark! I give you six hours and a half to consider this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why -confound you! I may in time forgive you. If not, zounds! don't enter the same hemisphere with me! don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest.—I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you, and hang me! if ever I call you Jack again!-R. B. Sheridan. SACK OF THE BASTILLE. [By kind permission of THOMAS CARLYLE, Esq.] ALL the morning, since nine, there has been a cry everywhere— "To the Bastille !" Repeated "deputations of citizens" have been here, passionate for arms, whom De Launay has got dismissed by soft speeches through port-holes. Towards noon Elector Thuriot de la Rosiere gains admittance; finds De Launay indisposed for surrender; nay, disposed for blowing up the place rather. Woe to thee, De Launay, in such an hour, if thou canst not (taking some one firm decision) rule circumstances! Soft speeches will not serve; hard grapeshot is questionable; but hovering between the two is unquestionable. Ever wilder swells the tide of men; their infinite hum waxing ever louder into imprecations,-perhaps into crackle of stray musketry; which latter, on walls nine feet thick, cannot do much execution. The outer drawbridge has been lowered for Thuriot; new "deputation of citizens" (it is the third, and noisiest of all) penetrates that way into the outer court. Soft speeches producing no clearance of these, De Launay gives fire; pulls up his drawbridge. A slight sputter—which has kindled the too combustible chaos-made it a roaring firechaos! Bursts forth insurrection, at sight of its own blood (for there were deaths by that sputter of fire), into endless rolling explosion of musketry, distraction, execration;-and overhead, from the fortress, let one great gun, with its grapeshot, go booming, to shew what we could do. The Bastille is besieged! On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in your bodies! Roar with all your throats of cartilage and metal, ye Sons of Liberty! stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in you, soul, body, or spirit, for it is the hour! Smite, thou Louis Tournay, cartwright of the Marais,-old soldier of the Regiment Dauphinè; smite at that outer drawbridge though the fiery hail whistles round thee! Never, over nave or felloe, did thy axe strike such a stroke! Down with it, man! down with it to Orcus! let the whole accursed edifice sink thither, and tyranny be swallowed up for ever! Mounted (some say on the roof of the guard-room, some 66 on bayonets stuck into joints of the wall") Louis Tournay smites: brave Aubin Bonnemere (also an old soldier) seconding him; the chain yields, breaks; the huge drawbridge slams down, thundering. Glorious! and yet, alas, it is still but the outworks! The eight grim towers, with their Invalide musketry, their paving-stones and cannon mouth, still soar aloft intact; ditch yawning impassable, stone-faced; the inner drawbridge with its back towards us. The Bastille is still to take. Frantic patriots pick up the grape-shots: bear them, still hot (or seemingly so), to the Hotel de Ville. Paris, you perceive, is to be burnt!" Flessells is "pale to the very lips," for the roar of the multitude grows deep. Paris wholly has got to the acme of its frenzy; whirled all ways by panic madness. At every street barricade there whirls simmering a minor whirlpool, strengthening the barricade, since God knows what is coming; and all minor whirlpools play distractedly into that grand Fire-Maelstrom which is lashing round the Bastille. Blood flows the aliment of new madness. The wounded are carried into houses of the Rue Cerisaie; the dying leave their last mandate not to yield till the accursed stronghold fall. And yet, alas! how fall? The walls are so thick ! Deputations (three in number) arrive from the Hotel de Ville; Abbe Fauchet (who was of one) can say with what almost superhuman courage of benevolence. These wave their town flag in the arched gateway, and stand rolling their drum-but to no purpose. In such crack of doom De Launay cannot hear them, dare not believe them: they return with justified rage, the sound of lead still singing in their ears. How the great Bastille clock ticks (inaudible) in its inner court there, at its ease, hour after hour, as if nothing special for it or the world were passing! It tolled one when the firing began, and is now pointing towards five, and still the firing slacks not. Far down in their vaults the seven prisoners hear muffled din as of earthquakes; their turnkeys answer vaguely. What shall De Launay do? One thing only De Launay could have done-what he said he would do. Fancy him sitting, from the first, with lighted taper, within arm's length of the powder magazine, motionless (like old Roman senator, or bronze lamp-holder), coldly apprising Thuriot, and all men, by a slight motion of his eye, what his resolution was. Harmless he sat there while unharmed: but the king's fortress meanwhile could, might, would, or should, in no wise be surrendered, save to the king's messenger. One old man's life is worthless, so it be lost with honour; but think ye, brawling canaille, how will it be when a whole Bastille springs skywards! In such statuesque, taper-holding attitude, one fancies De Launay might have left Thuriot, the red clerks of the Basoche, Curé of Saint Stephen, and all the tag-rag-andbobtail of the world, to work their will. For four hours now has the world bedlam roared; call it the world chimæra, blowing fire. The poor Invalides have sunk under their battlements, to rise only with reversed muskets. They have made a white flag of napkins; go beating the chamade, or seeming to beat, for one can hear nothing. The very Swiss at the portcullis look weary of firing, disheartened in the fire deluge. A port-hole at the drawbridge is opened, as by one that would speak. See Huissier Maillard, the shifty man! On his plank, swinging over the abyss of that stone ditch-plank resting on parapet, balanced by weight of patriots-he hovers perilous! such a dove towards such an ark! Deftly, thou shifty usher! one man already fell, and lies smashed far down there against the masonry. Usher Maillard falls not; deftly, unerring he walks, with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his port-hole; the shifty usher snatches it, and returns. Terms of surrender, "Pardon, immunity to all. Are they accepted?" "Foi d'officier" (on the word of an officer), answers half-pay Hulin-or half-pay Elie-for men do not agree on it—"they are!" Sinks the drawbridge; Usher Maillard bolting it when down; rushes in the living delugethe Bastille is fallen! Victoire! La Bastille est prise! THE MAY QUEEN. [By kind permission of Messrs. A. STRAHAN & Co.] You must wake and call me early,-call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the glad new year;Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black,-black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret, and Mary, there's Kate, and Caroline; I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley,-whom think you should I see, He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches, blow the faint sweet cuckoo flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray : And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. the meadow grass, The night winds come and go, mother, upon the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, So you must wake and call me early,-call me early, mother dear; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad new year : |