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A VISIT TO HORACE WALPOLE

in the "Rue Coulture St. Catherine." Presently would come a patter of tiny feet, and a fat, and not very sociable, little dog, which had once belonged to the said Madame du Deffand, would precede its master, whom you would hear walking, with the stiff tread of an infirm person, from his bedroom on the floor above. Shortly afterwards would enter a tall, slim, frail-looking figure in a morning-gown, with a high, pallid forehead, dark brilliant eyes under drooping lids, and a friendly, but forced and rather unprepossessing smile. Tonton (as the little dog was called), after being cajoled into a semblance of cordiality, would be lifted upon a small sofa at his master's side, the tea-kettle and heater would arrive, and tea would be served in cups of fine old white embossed Japanese china. And then, the customary salutations exchanged and over, would gradually begin, in a slightly affected fashion, to which you speedily grow accustomed, that wonderful flow of talk which (like Praed's Vicar's)

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Slipped from politics to puns,

And passed from Mahomet to Moses,”

that endless stream of admirably told stories, of recollections graphic and humorous, of sallies and bon mots, of which Horace Walpole's extraordinary correspondence is the cooled expression, but of the vivacity and variety of which, enhanced as they were by the changes in the speaker's voice and look, and emphasized by his semi-French gesticulation, it is impossible to give any adequate idea.

(Eighteenth Century Vignettes. First Series.)

THE TRIUMVIR MARAT

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THE TRIUMVIR MARAT

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NEARLY a century ago, there lived in the Rue des Cordeliers one who had made himself a power in France. Long before the tocsin first sounded in 1788, this man-half dwarf, half maniac, foiled plagiarist and savant manque, prurient romancer, rancorous libeller, envious, revengeful, and despisedhad heaped up infinite hatred of all things better than himself. Cain in the social scale," he took his stand upon the lowest grade, and struck at all above him with dog-like ferocity, with insatiable malignity. Champion of the canaille, he fought their battles, and the common cry of curs was his. Denounced to the Constituent Assembly, hunted by the Paris Commune, besieged in his house by Lafayette; shielded by Danton; hidden by Legendre; sheltered by the actress Fleury; sheltered by the priest Bassal; proscribed, pursued, and homeless, he still fought on, and the publication of L'Ami du Peuple was not delayed for a single hour. By the name that he had conquered, all Paris knew him. Woe to the noble who was recommended ” by the remorseless "People's Woe to the suspect who fell into the clutches of that crafty "Prussian Spider!" Day after day he might be seen at the Convention,-cynical, injurious, venomous; dressed in a filthy shirt, a shabby, patched surtout, and ink-stained velvet smalls; his hair knotted tightly with a thong, his shoes tied carelessly with string. Men knew the enormous head and pallid, leaden face; the sloping, wild-beast brows and piercing, tigerish eyes; the croaking, "frog-like

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Friend!

THE DANCE OF DEATH

mouth"; the thin lips, bulged like an adder's poisonbag, men knew the convulsive gestures, the irrepressible arm with its fluttering proscription list, the strident voice that cried incessantly for "heads,”— now for five hundred, now for five hundred thousand. All Paris knew the Triumvir Marat, who, in concert with Robespierre and the Mountain, was slowly floating France in blood.

(Four Frenchwomen.)

THE DANCE OF DEATH

(AFTER HOLBEIN)

"Contra vim MORTIS

Non est medicamen in hortis.”

He is the despots' Despot. All must bide,
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray ;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith—
"Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play."
There is no King more terrible than Death.

The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armèd Knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;
The Burgher grave he beckons from debate ;

THE DANCE OF DEATH

He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay.
There is no King more terrible than Death.

All things must bow to him. And woe betide
The Wine-bibber,-the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,

The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;
Woe to the Judge that selleth Law for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller harryeth :—
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay...
There is no King more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity,-nor will be denied.
When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate :-
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may ;
Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,—
In the last furrow,-feels an icy breath,
And knows a hand hath turned the team astray
There is no King more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,

JOHNSONIANA

That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright.
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;
The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate;
He hath no grace for weakness and decay :
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray,
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth ;—
All these he leadeth by the lonely way.
There is no King more terrible than Death.

ENVOY

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Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late,
I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,

Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;

But know not less that there must come a day,— Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,— When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,There is no King more terrible than Death.

JOHNSONIANA

(Being things Dr. Johnson might have said if his speech could have been enriched by some of our popular war-words.)

To Sir JOHN HAWKINS, Kt.:

"Sir, I perceive objection is your objective. But contradiction is not argument."

TO FANNY BURNEY (who coloured readily) :

"Make yourself easy, my dear little Burney. Your blushes do you credit. Nature disdains a camouflage."

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