Robespierre, have blushed to be seen or heard in the
tribune, was exposed in the public sight unsheltered by her veins.

Against this there was no modesty. Of all privacies, the last and the
innermost--the privacy of death--was never allowed to put obstacles in
the way of public action for a public cause. Women might be, and were,
duly suppressed when, by the mouth of Olympe de Gouges, they claimed a
"right to concur in the choice of representatives for the formation of
the laws"; but in her person, too, they were liberally allowed to bear
political responsibility to the Republic. Olympe de Gouges was
guillotined. Robespierre thus made her public and complete amends.

THE HORIZON

To mount a hill is to lift with you something lighter and brighter than
yourself or than any meaner burden. You lift the world, you raise the
horizon; you give a signal for the distance to stand up. It is like the
scene in the Vatican when a Cardinal, with his dramatic Italian hands,
bids the kneeling groups to arise. He does more than bid them. He lifts
them, he gathers them up, far and near, with the upward gesture of both
arms; he takes them to their feet with the compulsion of his expressive
force. Or it is as when a conductor takes his players to successive
heights of music. You summon the sea, you bring the mountains, the
distances unfold unlooked-for wings and take an even flight. You are but
a man lifting his weight upon the upward road, but as you climb the
circle of the world goes up to face you.

Not here or there, but with a definite continuity, the unseen unfolds.
This distant hill outsoars that less distant, but all are on the wing,
and the plain raises its verge. All things follow and wait upon your
eyes. You lift these up, not by the raising of your eyelids, but by the
pilgrimage of your body. "Lift thine eyes to the mountains." It is then
that other mountains lift themselves to your human eyes.

It is the law whereby the eye and the horizon answer one another that
makes the way up a hill so full of universal movement. All the landscape
is on pilgrimage. The town gathers itself closer, and its inner harbours
literally come to light; the headlands repeat themselves; little cups
within the treeless hills open and show their farms. In the sea are many
regions. A breeze is at play for a mile or two, and the surface is
turned. There are roads and curves in the blue and in the white. Not a
step of yo