A man is fallen indeed when he is thus flattered. The anodyne
draught of oblivion, thus drugged, is well calculated to preserve a
galling wakefulness and to feed the living ulcer of a corroding
memory. Thus to administer the opiate potion of amnesty, powdered with
all the ingredients of scorn and contempt, is to hold to his lips,
instead of "the balm of hurt minds", the cup of human misery full to
the brim and to force him to drink it to the dregs.
Yielding to reasons at least as forcible as those which were so
delicately urged in the compliment on the new year, the king of France
will probably endeavor to forget these events and that compliment. But
history, who keeps a durable record of all our acts and exercises
her awful censure over the proceedings of all sorts of sovereigns,
will not forget either those events or the era of this liberal
refinement in the intercourse of mankind. History will record that
on the morning of the 6th of October, 1789, the king and queen of
France, after a day of confusion, alarm, dismay, and slaughter, lay
down, under the pledged security of public faith, to indulge nature in
a few hours of respite and troubled, melancholy repose. From this
sleep the queen was first startled by the sentinel at her door, who
cried out to her to save herself by flight- that this was the last
proof of fidelity he could give- that they were upon him, and he was
dead.
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