In my early childhood I was deeply fascinated by a cap-dummy. Unlike most of its race, it had a well-shaped head and most artistic features. My grandmother used it to fit her caps on; and this head and neck, so much larger than even my largest doll, was a most delectable companion. I think it perhaps softened my feelings toward the whole race of dummies. It is very likely owing to early association with that creature, whose striking physiognomy was necessarily supplemented by a good deal of imagination, that I have been moved to raise my voice in their defence. Certain it is that they seem to me deserving of more attention. Is there not in their history and habits a field for investigation, for description, possibly for fiction? If I have contributed a little to the impartiality of their future treatment, I have done enough. A. E.
Which?
Scene—The Conciergerie. Time—Thermidor.
Two hundred prisoners lay there, waiting for
Judicial butchery. As in the hall their feet
Tramped up and down, Death's huge flail seemed to beat
On the last ears of harvest. Big with fate,
Clouds lowered over Paris. The coupe-tte
Sweated and toiled, and yet two hundred lay
Ready, expectant, innocent. Each day
A coarse, fierce, brutal, cruel man appeared.
Smoking a pipe; removed it; stroked his beard.
And, spelling over the day's list, called out
Name after name, pronounced half wrong, no doubt.
These were the victims named for that day's cart.
Each rose at once, all ready to depart,
Without a shudder,—without groan or tear,—
Each one embraced his friends, and answered, "Here!"
What use to tremble at a daily call?
Death stood so near—was so well known to all,
Men of low birth and men of lineage high
Walked with an equal fortitude—to die,
All brave alike—noble or Girondist.
It chanced the jailer with the fatal list,
Reading it out to the sad crowd one day,
Called out one name distinctly: Charles Leguay.
Two men at once stepped forward side by side:
"Present!" two voices to his call replied.
He burst out laughing:
"I can pick and choose!"
One was a bourgeois, old, in square-toed shoes,
Cold and respectable; with powdered wig;
Of some provincial law-court the last twig.
Ex-deputy of the Third Estate, perchance.
The other—with calm brow and fiery glance—
Was a young handsome officer, still dressed
In his torn uniform.
"Ha! ha! I'm blest
But this is funny!" roared the man who read
The daily death-list. Then he stopped, and said,—
"Have both got the same name?—the two of you?"
"We are both ready."
"No! that will not do!"
Replied the jailer. "One's enough for me.
Explain yourselves. I'll settle it. Let me see."
But both were Charles. Both bore the name Leguay.
Both had been sentenced the preceding day.
The jailer rolled his eyes and scratched his head.
"The devil take me if I know," he said,
"Which of the two of you I'd better pick.
Here, citizens,—you settle it; but be quick,
For Samson don't like waiting for his cart."
The young man drew the older man apart.
Few words sufficed. Two questions, and no more:
"Married?"
"Ah, yes!"
"How many children?"
"Four."
"Well! Are you ready? Speak! Which is to die?"
"Marchons!" the officer replied,—"'tis I!"
(Translated by Mrs. E. W. Latimer.)
