,
she shines in that black wreck of things;--long memorable. Honour to
great Nature who, in Paris City, in the Era of Noble-Sentiment and
Pompadourism, can make a Jeanne Phlipon, and nourish her to clear
perennial Womanhood, though but on Logics, Encyclopedies, and the Gospel
according to Jean-Jacques! Biography will long remember that trait of
asking for a pen "to write the strange thoughts that were rising in
her." It is as a little light-beam, shedding softness, and a kind
of sacredness, over all that preceded: so in her too there was an
Unnameable; she too was a Daughter of the Infinite; there were mysteries
which Philosophism had not dreamt of!--She left long written counsels to
her little Girl; she said her Husband would not survive her.

Still crueller was the fate of poor Bailly, First National President,
First Mayor of Paris: doomed now for Royalism, Fayettism; for that
Red-Flag Business of the Champ-de-Mars;--one may say in general, for
leaving his Astronomy to meddle with Revolution. It is the 10th of
November 1793, a cold bitter drizzling rain, as poor Bailly is led
through the streets; howling Populace covering him with curses, with
mud; waving over his face a burning or smoking mockery of a Red Flag.
Silent, unpitied, sits the innocent old man. Slow faring through
the sleety drizzle, they have got to the Champ-de-Mars: Not there!
vociferates the cursing Populace; Such blood ought not to stain an Altar
of the Fatherland; not there; but on that dungheap by the River-side!
So vociferates the cursing Populace; Officiality gives ear to them.
The Guillotine is taken down, though with hands numbed by the sleety
drizzle; is carried to the River-side, is there set up again, with slow
numbness; pulse after pulse still counting itself out in the old man's
weary heart. For hours long; amid curses and bitter frost-rain! "Bailly,
thou tremblest," said one. "Mon ami, it is for cold," said Bailly,
"c'est de froid." Crueller end had no mortal. (Vie de Bailly in
Memoires, i., p. 29.)

Some days afterwards, Roland hearing the news of what happened on the
8th, embraces his kind Friends at Rouen, leaves their kind house which
had given him refuge; goes forth, with farewell too sad for tears. On
the morrow morning, 16th of the month, 'some four leagues from Rouen,
Paris-ward, near Bourg-Baudoin, in M. Normand's Avenue,' there is seen
sitting leant against a tree, the figure of rigorous wrinkled man; stiff
now in the rigour of