that Sanhedrim of Insurrection,
we find all as good as extinct; undone, ready for seizure. Robespierre
was sitting on a chair, with pistol shot blown through, not his head,
but his under jaw; the suicidal hand had failed. (Meda. p. 384.)
Meda asserts that it was he who, with infinite courage, though in a
lefthanded manner, shot Robespierre. Meda got promoted for his services
of this night; and died General and Baron. Few credited Meda (in what
was otherwise incredible.) With prompt zeal, not without trouble, we
gather these wretched Conspirators; fish up even Henriot and Augustin,
bleeding and foul; pack them all, rudely enough, into carts; and shall,
before sunrise, have them safe under lock and key. Amid shoutings and
embracings.

Robespierre lay in an anteroom of the Convention Hall, while his
Prison-escort was getting ready; the mangled jaw bound up rudely with
bloody linen: a spectacle to men. He lies stretched on a table,
a deal-box his pillow; the sheath of the pistol is still clenched
convulsively in his hand. Men bully him, insult him: his eyes still
indicate intelligence; he speaks no word. 'He had on the sky-blue coat
he had got made for the Feast of the Etre Supreme'--O reader, can
thy hard heart hold out against that? His trousers were nankeen; the
stockings had fallen down over the ankles. He spake no word more in this
world.

And so, at six in the morning, a victorious Convention adjourns. Report
flies over Paris as on golden wings; penetrates the Prisons; irradiates
the faces of those that were ready to perish: turnkeys and moutons,
fallen from their high estate, look mute and blue. It is the 28th day of
July, called 10th of Thermidor, year 1794.

Fouquier had but to identify; his Prisoners being already Out of Law.
At four in the afternoon, never before were the streets of Paris seen so
crowded. From the Palais de Justice to the Place de la Revolution, for
thither again go the Tumbrils this time, it is one dense stirring mass;
all windows crammed; the very roofs and ridge-tiles budding forth human
Curiosity, in strange gladness. The Death-tumbrils, with their motley
Batch of Outlaws, some Twenty-three or so, from Maximilien to
Mayor Fleuriot and Simon the Cordwainer, roll on. All eyes are on
Robespierre's Tumbril, where he, his jaw bound in dirty linen, with
his half-dead Brother, and half-dead Henriot, lie shattered; their
'seventeen hours' of agony about to end. The Gendarmes point their
swords at