We have an esteem for ghost-inspectors, which it is utterly impossible to extend to Day-fatalists. Mrs. Piptoss, too, may be pitied; but Mog, turning her money when the moon makes her re-appearance, is an object of ridicule. We shall neither be astonished, nor express condolence, if the present, which Miss Caroline anticipates from the knot in her lace, be not forthcoming; and as for Miss Amelia, who has extinguished the candle, and to the best of her belief lost her husband for a twelvemonth, we can only wish for her, that when she is married, her lord and master will shake her faith in the prophetic power of snuffers. But of all the superstitions that have survived to the present time, and are to be found in force among people of education and a thoughtful habit, Day-fatalism is the most general, as it is the most unfounded and preposterous. It is a superstition, however, in which many great and powerful thinkers have shared, and by which they have been guided; it owes much of its present influence to this fact; but reason, Christianity, and all we have comprehended of the great scheme of which we form part, alike tend to demonstrate its absurdity, and utter want of all foundation.
Bear thee up bravely, Strong heart and true! Meet thy woes gravely, Strive with them too! Let them not win from thee Tear of regret. Such were a sin from thee, Hope for good yet!
Rouse thee from drooping, Care-laden soul; Mournfully stooping 'Neath griefs control! Far o'er the gloom that lies, Shrouding the earth, Light from eternal skies Shows us thy worth.
Nerve thee yet stronger, Resolute mind! Let care no longer Heavily bind. Rise on thy eagle wings Gloriously free! Till from material things Pure thou shalt be!
Bear ye up bravely, Soul and mind too! Droop not so gravely, Bold heart and true! Clear rays of streaming light Shine through the gloom, God's love is beaming bright E'en round the tomb!
The Girondists were led from their dungeons in the Conciergerie to their execution on the 31st of October, 1793. Upon that very day Madame Roland was conveyed from the prison of St. Pélagié to the same gloomy cells vacated by the death of her friends. She was cast into a bare and miserable dungeon, in that subterranean receptacle of woe, where there was not even a bed. Another prisoner, moved with compassion, drew his own pallet into her cell, that she might not be compelled to throw herself for repose upon the cold, wet stones. The chill air of winter had now come, and yet no covering was allowed her. Through the long night she shivered with the cold.
