after he was dismissed into eternity."

Sir Walter Scott, after noticing "the wild and squalid features" of
Marat, who "lay concealed in some obscure garret or cellar, among his
cut-throats, until a storm appeared, when, like a bird of ill omen, his
death-screech was again heard," thus states the death of another of the
murderers of the Malherbes:--"Robespierre, in an unsuccessful attempt to
shoot himself, had only inflicted a horrible _fracture on his
under-jaw_. In this situation they were found like wolves in their lair,
foul with blood, mutilated, despairing, and yet not able to die.
Robespierre lay on a table in an anti-room, his head supported by a deal
box, and his hideous countenance half-hidden by a bloody and dirty cloth
bound round his shattered chin. As the fatal cars passed to the
guillotine, those who filled them, but especially Robespierre, were
overwhelmed with execrations. The nature of his previous wound, from
which the cloth had never been removed till the executioner _tore_ it
off, added to the torture of the sufferer. The shattered jaw dropped,
and the wretch yelled aloud, to the horror of the spectators. A mask
taken from that dreadful head was long exhibited in different nations of
Europe, and appalled the spectator by its ugliness, and the mixture of
fiendish expression with that of bodily agony."

Mons. Malherbes loved to relate an answer made to him by a common
fellow, during his stay at Paris, when he was obliged to go four times
every day to the prison of the Temple, to attend the king: his extreme
age did not allow him to walk, and he was compelled to take a carriage.
One day, particularly, when the weather was intensely severe, he
perceived, on coming out of the vehicle, that the driver was benumbed
with cold. "My friend," said Malherbes to him, in his naturally tender
manner, "you must be penetrated by the cold, and I am really sorry to
take you abroad in this bitter season."--"That's nothing, M. de
Malherbes; in such a cause as this, I'd travel to the world's end
without complaining."--"Yes, but your poor horses could not."--"Sir,"
replied the honest coachman, "_my horses think as I do_."

[10] I cannot pass by the name of Henry, without the recollection of
what an historian says of him: "L'Abbe Langlet du Fresnoy a publie
cinquante-neuf lettres de a bon Roi, dans sa nouvelle edition du Journal
de Henry III. on y remarque du feu de l'esprit, de l'imagination, et
sur-tout cette eloquenc