Robert Merry's Museum, Vol VIII, July to December, 1844

On the 17th of July she was put on trial, and avowed the fact and all the circumstances, alleging, as justification, that she considered Marat a criminal already convicted by public opinion, and that she had a right to put him to death. She added, that she did not expect to have been brought to trial, but to have been delivered up to the rage of the populace, torn to pieces, and that her head, borne on a pike before the corpse of Marat, would have served as a rallying point to Frenchmen, if any still existed worthy of the name.

She was led from the place of trial to that of execution. On the way she displayed a firmness and tranquillity which even awed into silence the _poissardes_, those furies of the guillotine, who in general pursued the victim to death with execrations and reproaches. She submitted to her fate with the same composure that had marked all her previous conduct.

The circumstances which attended this extraordinary action, the privacy with which it was concerted, the resolution with which it was executed, the openness of confession, the contempt of punishment, and, above all, the execrable character of the monster who was the subject of it, have taken off so much of the horror generally felt at an act of assassination, that the name of Charlotte Corday is generally pronounced with respect and a great degree of admiration.

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GRAMMATICAL WITTICISM.--“Bobby, what’s steam?” “Boiling water.” “That’s right. Compare it.” “Positive, _boil_; comparative, _boiler_; superlative, _burst_.”

Conjugal Affection.

CHAPTER I.

One of the most remarkable instances of conjugal affection is furnished by the story of Victoria Colonna, which I will relate.

The Marquis de Colonna was accused by one of the emissaries of the Inquisition, of heresy and treason; and at the instigation of his uncle, Montalbert, who wished to ruin him, through private hatred, Colonna was seized and thrown into a dungeon, his chateau ransacked, and his wife and child were dispossessed of their inheritance.

Colonna had been conveyed to the castle of St. Angelo, and this was all that could be heard respecting him. Whether he had been tried and convicted, could not be learned. He was, in short, as dead to the world and all his family and connections, as if he had suffered the usual lot of mortality; and as such occurrences were by no means uncommon in the Italian states during the reign of papal tyranny, Colonna was speedily forgotten by all except his faithful wife, Victoria.

Although interdicted by the cruel laws of the Inquisition, and threatened with the denunciations of the spiritual pater, Victoria traversed nightly the walls of the great citadel; sometimes wading up to her knees in the Tiber, when making the circuit of the towers and bastions, listening in the midnight hour for the slightest sigh, or footfall, that might reveal to her the cell in which her beloved husband was immured. But for several months, all her efforts to discover it were unavailing. Yet, nothing daunted by want of success, and feeling no love of life but in her husband’s company, the faithful woman still continued in the fond and anxious hope that Heaven would, at its fitting time, listen to her prayers, and that she should again be blessed with a sight of him so dear to her, or that she should at least become acquainted with his fate.

Nor were her hopes in the end disappointed; for, early one morning, as she was finishing her accustomed nightly wanderings round the black and desolate pile, her attention was aroused, about the time of dawn, by the clattering of a chip of a tile from the battlements, which fell close to her feet. She immediately looked for the falling object; her quick hopes immediately surmising it to be some signal from the one she sought. Nor was she disappointed; the tile had been scratched upon by a nail, and on it were inscribed the names of Albert and Victoria. In a moment of rapture, she pressed the tablet to her heart, fell on her knees, and offered her thanks to Heaven. She then turned her eyes toward the lofty towers, and again small fragments of stone were made to descend from a small grating about half way towards the top. “Here then,” she ejaculated, “here is the cell of my beloved husband.” She was confirmed in her thoughts, by perceiving the delicate hand of Albert thrust through the narrow aperture of the bars; and the sight of it so affected her that she fell down in a swoon, overcome with hope and love and joy.

When she recovered, she made the best of her way to her dwelling in the city, and immediately began to concert measures for her husband’s escape. But when she considered the height and thickness of the walls, the vigilance of the guards, the jealousy of the priesthood, the suspicions of her neighbors, and the espionage of the minions of the Inquisition, she almost despaired. Yet, as she fervently trusted in Heaven for aid, she determined to use every effort to accomplish her object, and sat down at once to consider the best means of doing so.

The first difficulty that presented itself was that of establishing communication between herself and the prisoner. This the quickness of her mind immediately overcame; or at least fancied it could. She thought that by raising a small paper kite by the side of the tower, its string might be easily made to pass over the grated aperture of the dungeon. But how was the prisoner to be made acquainted with the operation, which must necessarily be made in darkness, and at a time of night, when people are usually in a deep slumber?

Waving all difficulties, however, she determined to make the attempt on the following night. As soon as it was night, she put on the disguise of one of those miserable wretches who search and prowl about on the muddy banks of the river to pick up the refuse of the city. The wind was fortunately fresh, as it was late in the month of October. She had not forgotten to provide herself with the fragile instrument upon which her hopes were built. It was a small paper kite, formed of oil paper, stretched upon two cross pieces of very fine whalebone; and for a string, she employed the strongest silk she could procure. The kite was with some difficulty at length raised, and fluttered up at the sides of the tower. With great patience and ingenuity, the indefatigable wife brought it close against the grating from which the tile had been thrown. The wind caused it to beat and flutter against the bars. It aroused the prisoner. He put his hand forth, and succeeded in obtaining the kite.

Although all was dark, yet the expectant prisoner had light enough in his own thoughts to see that this was the part of some plan for his deliverance; and he could attribute it to no one but to her whom he knew to be attached to him in life or death. Finding, therefore, the string still held below, he gave it several pulls. This was felt by Victoria, who, overjoyed beyond measure, fastened a note to its extremity, explaining the plan for his escape, and promising on the next night, by the same means, to make another communication; and having so far succeeded, she withdrew.

I need not attempt to describe the feverish anxiety of the following day, both to the prisoner and his wife. To Victoria, as well as to Albert, it was an age in length. At length, however, the night did arrive, and at the accustomed hour, Victoria again raised her little kite, and by this means established a communication as before; and through its instrumentality, she supplied the prisoner with paper and pencil to communicate his wishes and his desires.

On the next night, Albert prepared an account of what had befallen him since the period of his arrest; that he had been three times examined before the Inquisition, and exhorted to confess; that he expected daily again to be summoned; and that he had been threatened to be put to the torture. He also begged her to make herself well acquainted with the plan of the prison, its avenues, passages, and character of its keepers; and if possible, to obtain an admission within the walls.

[To be continued.]

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ORIGIN OF THE FLOWER “FORGET-ME-NOT.”--Mills, in his work on chivalry, mentions that the beautiful little flower “forget-me-not,” was known in England as early as Edward the Fourth, and in a note gives the following pretty incident: “Two lovers were loitering along the margin of a lake on a fine summer’s evening, when the maiden discovered some flowers growing in the water close to the bank of an island at some distance from the shore. She expressed a desire to possess them, when her knight, in the true spirit of chivalry, plunged into the water, and, swimming to the spot, cropped the wished-for plant; but his strength was unable to fulfil the object of his achievement; and feeling that he could not regain the shore, although very near it, he threw the flowers on the bank, and casting a last affectionate look on his lady-love, said, ‘Forget me not,’ and was buried in the water.”

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PIGS.--The editor of the New York Sunday Mercury appears to hold young pigs in very high esteem, having dedicated a piece of poetry entirely to juvenile porkers. He intimates, however, that he should like them better, if they didn’t _make hogs of themselves_ when they grew up.

[Illustration: Frederick II.]

Frederick II.

This king of Prussia, who acquired the title of _the great_, was born on the 24th of January, 1712. He was reared in the school of adversity; his father, Frederick William, being a brutal tyrant, even in his own family. To escape from this domestic tyranny, which was almost insupportable, he planned a clandestine flight from Prussia, with a confidant by the name of De Katt. His father discovered this before it could be carried into effect. The consequence was, that Frederick was arrested along with his friend, and both were instantly tried before an obedient court-martial, which condemned them to death. This sentence would have been carried into effect against the Prince, but for the interposition of Charles the VIth, of Austria, to whose earnest entreaties Frederick William at length yielded, with the prophetic remark that “Austria would one day discover what a serpent she had nourished in her bosom.”

The prince, however, suffered a long and severe imprisonment, in the fort of Custrin, where, as if to aggravate his punishment, the unfortunate De Katt was beheaded on a scaffold, raised before his apartment, to the level of the window, from which he was compelled to witness this cruel and afflicting spectacle. His subsequent treatment in prison was as harsh and severe as that of the meanest felon, and a considerable time elapsed before he found the means of softening its rigor.

This was at length managed through the instrumentality of a Baron Wrech, whose family lived in the neighborhood, and who, at considerable risk as well as expense, furnished him with books, music, and other comforts. By degrees he so gained upon his gaoler, that he was permitted, under cover of the night, to visit at the Baron’s residence; and as the young Wrechs were sprightly and accomplished, as well as anxious to serve him, they got up little concerts for his amusement. In this way, for upwards of a year, his imprisonment was greatly ameliorated.

The old king at last relented, and Frederick obtained his liberty; but it was only on the special condition that he married Elizabeth Christina, a princess of the house of Brunswick. This forced marriage proved utterly abortive of the object intended by the tyrannical old match-maker, for Frederick never lived with the princess, although, through life, he treated her with the greatest respect. She was a woman of meritorious conduct, but quite destitute of personal attractions.

Frederick’s marriage took place in 1732, and from that time till the death of his father in 1740, he resided at Rheinsberg, a village some leagues from Berlin. During this interval of eight years, he devoted himself chiefly to literary pursuits, and wrote his _Anti-Machiavel_, and _Reflections on the Character of Charles XII._ The social circle with which he was connected at this time, consisted mostly of learned and ingenious Frenchmen, and probably that circumstance contributed to imbue him with the strong predilection which he ever afterwards displayed in favor of everything French.

His accession to the throne in 1740, brought at once into action the whole energies of his character. He himself entered personally upon all the duties, usually committed by kings to their ministers; and in order to accomplish the multiplicity of business which thus devolved upon him, he laid down strict rules for the appropriation of his time, to which he ever afterwards scrupulously adhered. He rose regularly at four in the morning, occupying but a few minutes with his dress, of which, however, he was careless even to slovenliness; and this practice he continued till a late period of his life.

The details of a peaceful administration were, however, found quite inadequate to the activity of his mind. Accordingly, in the first year of his reign, he resolved on war; but, unfortunately for his character, it was a war of aggression--a war, too, against a female, and the heir of the very house which had saved him from the scaffold. He resolved to wrest Silesia from Maria Theresa, of Austria, and in less than two years he accomplished this object, the province being ceded to him by the treaty of Breslaw, in 1742. It has ever since continued to form a part of the Prussian dominions.

The acquisition of Silesia, and the grasping policy of Frederick seem to have excited the jealousy of other European powers, as well as the enmity of Austria; for a new war broke out in 1742, in which, after a good deal of bloodshed, Prussia was again victorious, and had the possession of Silesia confirmed to her by a new treaty.

In the succeeding ten years, Frederick sedulously cultivated the arts of peace, and by adhering strictly to the systematic apportionment of his time, he was enabled to exercise a personal superintendence over every department of government, without abridging either his pleasures or amusements, and without the slightest abandonment of his literary pursuits. He carried on an extensive correspondence with Voltaire, and several of the most distinguished literati of Europe. He wrote the _History of his own Times_, and _Memoirs of the House of Brandenburg_; and he re-established the Academy of Sciences of Berlin. It was in the interval of peace, too, that he invited Voltaire, and other literary characters to reside at his capital. The visit of that extraordinary man, and its result, are well known. The quarrel between him and Frederick, and the terms on which they parted, were little creditable to either; and, besides, they very clearly proved to the world, that in the business of life, philosophers are not superior to ordinary men.

The most important portion, however, of all Frederick’s labors during these ten years of peace, was his civil administration. It comprehended various useful reforms, and the introduction of numerous improvements, for the benefit of the people. He was zealous in the cause of education, and in the establishment of schools and professorships. He also caused the laws to be revised and a new code to be prepared, which, after much labor, was effected, and it still goes under his name. This code abolished torture, and recognized universal toleration in religion. Perhaps the general character of the jurisprudence he established, may be best gathered from his celebrated instruction to the judges:--“If a suit arise between me and one of my subjects, and the case is a doubtful one, always decide against me.”

In the midst of all his improvements, Frederick was again roused to war. He had been advised that Austria, Russia, and Saxony had entered into a treaty for the conquest and partition of his territories. He demanded an explanation from the court of Vienna, which, being unsatisfactory, he immediately struck the first blow by marching an army into Saxony, and taking possession of it almost unopposed. Thus commenced the celebrated “seven years’ war,” the result of which, after numerous battles, and an incredible waste of human life and treasure, was a treaty which again confirmed Prussia in the possession of Silesia, and established the reputation of Frederick as the greatest military genius of the age.

The next ten years were spent in efforts to repair the devastation and misery which Prussia had suffered by the war. Among other ameliorations, may be mentioned his emancipation of the peasantry, from hereditary servitude, which he began by giving up his own signorial rights over the serfs on the crown domains. A good deal of his time was also devoted to literary pursuits, as it was during this period that he wrote his “_History of the Seven Years’ War_.”

In 1772 he became a party to the partition of Poland, and shared largely in the spoil, as well as in the disgrace of that infamous political robbery. In 1778, he was again in hostility with Austria, respecting the succession to Bavaria, which that power, at the death of the Elector, without issue, proposed on some antiquated, feudal grounds, to re-annex to her own dominions. This war was of short duration, Frederick being successful in settling the question by treaty. In 1785, he had another dispute with Austria, in which he appeared as the defender of the Germanic Confederation, and the rights of its several princes. Here he was also successful, the emperor Joseph yielding the question at issue, without having recourse to arms.

Frederick was now getting old, and his constitution had begun to decay. He also suffered occasionally from gout, the necessary consequence of rich diet and high-seasoned cookery, to which he was all his life exceedingly partial. He had, moreover, a voracious appetite, and he constantly indulged it to repletion. This brought on a complication of disorders, under which he suffered severely, though he never once uttered a complaint, but continued his public services with as much zeal and anxiety, as when in perfect health. He continued to do so up to August, 1786, when a confirmed dropsy having supervened, he fell into a lethargy on the 16th of that month, and expired during the night.

An impartial reviewer of the reign of Frederick, will discard all that is attractive or dazzling in his character, either from his talents as an accomplished warrior, or his wit as a man of letters. He will consider him simply as a ruler of a nation, and a member of the great European community. In that view it is impossible to deny that his administration of affairs was singularly marked by promptitude and energy. Wherever active exertions were required, or could ensure success, he generally prevailed; and to use the words of an elegant writer, “as he was in all things a master of those inferior abilities which are denominated address, it is not wonderful that he was uniformly fortunate in the cabinets of his neighbors.” His reign, however, with all its glory, and all its success, both in diplomacy and war, was a memorable proof that the happiness of the people is of little consequence, even to an enlightened despot, when balanced either against his cupidity or his ambition. It was these qualities alone that embroiled Frederick with his neighbors; and we have only to turn to his own works for a melancholy confession of the disastrous consequences which were thus entailed upon his subjects.

“The state of Prussia,” says he, in his history of his own times, “can only be compared to that of a man riddled with wounds, weakened by the loss of blood, and ready to sink under the weight of his misfortunes. The nobility were exhausted, the commons ruined, numerous villages were burnt, and many towns were nearly depopulated. Civil order was lost in a total anarchy; in fact, the desolation was universal.” In this candid exposure of the consequences of his own policy, Frederick has given the true character of his reign. Such were the results of a successful career of conquest; one which is often regarded as the most brilliant in the annals of mankind--one which conferred the title of “the great,” on the chief actor; and one which has been the almost unbounded theme of eulogy. He increased his kingdom by twenty thousand square miles; left seventy millions of Prussian dollars in the treasury, and an army of two hundred thousand men; yet, while the government was thus enriched and strengthened, we see by the monarch’s own confession, how the people had suffered.