glets, and were left to choose between
their headdresses and their heads. Barere's delight at the success of
this facetious fiction was quite extravagant; he could not tell the
story without going into such convulsions of laughter as made his
hearers hope that he was about to choke. There was something peculiarly
tickling and exhilarating to his mind in this grotesque combination of
the frivolous with the horrible, of false locks and curling-irons with
spouting arteries and reeking hatchets.

But, though Barere succeeded in earning the honorable nicknames of the
Witling of Terror and the Anacreon of the Guillotine, there was one
place where it was long remembered to his disadvantage that he had, for
a time, talked the language of humanity and moderation. That place was
the Jacobin Club. Even after he had borne the chief part in the massacre
of the Girondists, in the murder of the Queen, in the destruction of
Lyons, he durst not show himself within that sacred precinct. At one
meeting of the society, a member complained that the Committee to which
the supreme direction of affairs was entrusted, after all the changes
which had been made, still contained one man who was not trustworthy.
Robespierre, whose influence over the Jacobins was boundless, undertook
the defence of his colleague, owned there was some ground for what had
been said, but spoke highly of Barere's industry and aptitude for
business. This seasonable interposition silenced the accuser; but it was
long before the neophyte could venture to appear at the club.

At length a masterpiece of wickedness, unique, we think, even among
Barere's great achievements, obtained his full pardon even from that
rigid conclave. The insupportable tyranny of the Committee of Public
Safety had at length brought the minds of men, and even of women, into a
fierce and hard temper, which defied or welcomed death. The life which
might be any morning taken away, in consequence of the whisper of a
private enemy, seemed of little value. It was something to die after
smiting one of the oppressors; it was something to bequeath to the
surviving tyrants a terror not inferior to that which they had
themselves inspired. Human nature, hunted and worried to the utmost, now
turned furiously to bay. Fouquier Tinville was afraid to walk the
streets; a pistol was snapped at Collot D'Herbois; a young girl,
animated apparently by the spirit of Charlotte Corday, attempted to
obtain an interview with