strong, cannot reach them, and they refuse to believe that there is an avenging God in heaven. They are blind to the fact that they shall die a shameful death when their time comes, and inflict indelible disgrace on the relatives who survive them, through their ruthless deeds.
This scene vanished, and another succeeded it on the vacant space. This was a most clear and startling representation of the death of Robespierre and his wretched accomplices in guilt. As this horrible picture is only too well known to every reader of history, I shall not describe it here. It was represented before me in all its harrowing details, as it has been described by Thiers, Carlyle, and other authors. The people who surrounded the guillotine shouted with an insane joy. The world was relieved of monsters.
I turned to the Demon in desperation, and besought him to take me away from that dreadful place.
'No,' he replied, 'we are here now, and we must stay to see the end. What will your friends above say if you run away now like a coward, and have nothing to tell them when you return? It may be against my interest to show you these things, but show you them I must; so keep your eyes and your ears open.'
Other scenes, dark and terrible indeed in the history of our unhappy planet, succeeded each other quickly in this ghastly theatre. The last of these was that of a battle on the sea. Two dark lines of noble ships, splendidly built, manned and armed, wonderful creations of the intellects and hands of men, were battering each other with fire and cannon-balls, doing their very best to destroy each other, to rend, or burn, or sink each other in the sea. And this is honour, glory—certainly it is, and duty too, when defending the right against the wrong. The ambition of men and nations, which will resort to such cruel means as these for
