The Sun.
London, England, 1848-09-04 00:00:00

NEW MONTHLY.

Both the August and September numbers await
at our hands at least some few words of commemo-
ration. In the first there is an agreeable and con-
genial criticism on the book just written about
Charles Lamb, by Thomas Noon Talfourd ; in the
latter there is a similar review upon the memorials
of John Keats, written by Richard Monckton
Milnes. General as we knew the disease to be,
which has been happily termed by Mr. Ma-
caulay the lues Boswelliana, or the morbus
biographicus, we must, nevertheless, express our
astonishment when we find Mr. Dudley Costello
pronouncing the eulogium of a court strumpet, and
extenuating the cowardice with which Madame du
Barri met death upon the guillotine. Speaking of
the horror she evinced on ascending the scaffold her
encomiast observes—" This has been made a subject
of reproach to her, as if the fear she felt was a token
of cowardice." To say the least of it, it was some-
thing like it—the too words indeed seem to ourselves
to be very nearly synonymous. Further on it is re-
marked—" Take away this fear from a woman, and
what remains but a hideous Amazon !" "What ! was
Charlotte Corday a hideous Amazon when she appeared
upon the tumbril in her scarlet chemise, like "celestial
vengeance appeased and transfigured ?" What ! was
Marie Antoinette a hideous Amazon when, lying calmly
under the axe, " she fled from earth, bequeathing to
it her indignation and its own remorse ?" What !
was Madame Roland a hideous Amazon, when she
passed through the streets of Paris to her execution
so sublimely, clad in a robe of white, emblematic of
her innocence, her magnificent hair, black and glossy
as a raven's wing, falling in thick masses almost to
her knees, her complexion purified by long captivity,
and blooming with all the freshness of youth under
the influence of a sharp frosty day in November,
" her whole countenance radiant with glory, while
a movement between pity and contempt agitated her
lips ?" No; the true version of this lamentable catas-
trophe, when the vicious mistress of Louis XV.
shrieked out to the rabble, in the agony of her terror
" Life ! life ! life for my repentance ! life for all my
devotion to the republic ! life for all my riches to the
nation !" The true version of this miserable incident
has been eloquently given by Lamartine. " The people
laughed and shrugged their shoulders," writes that great
historian. " They showed her by signs the pillow of
the guillotine, upon which her charming head was
about to sleep. The passage of the courtezan to the
scaffold was but one lamentation. Under the knife
she still wept. The Court had enervated her soul.
She alone, amongst all the women executed, died a
coward, because she died neither for opinion, nor for
virtue, nor for love, but for vice. She dishonoured
the scaffold as she had dishonoured the throne."
Every one of those golden words has imprinted a
brand upon the memory of Madame du Barri, which
not all the good-nature of a million Dudley Costel-
loes will ever be able to efface. Charles Rowcroft
gallops onward with " Tick" as hilariously as poor
Peter Priggins. " Paquerette," "Philip and his
Poodle," and " The Richest Commoner in England,"
are continued. Miss Eliza Lynn—that marvel of
erudition !—contributes a charming sketch called,
" A Day in the Life of an Ancient Egyptian Dandy."
It is not unworthy of the author of " Azeth" and
" Amymone." There are besides these a multitude of
capital miscellaneous contributions.