or BASTILLE, denotes a small antique castle, fortified with turrets. Such was the famous Bastile of Paris, which seems to have been the last castle that retained the name. It was commenced in 1369, by order of Charles V., and finished in 1383, under the reign of his successor. Its chief use was for the custody of state prisoners; or, more properly speaking, for the clandestine atrocities of a corrupt and cold-blooded despotism. Nowhere else upon earth had human misery by human means been rendered so lasting, so complete, and in many cases so remediless, as in the Bastile of Paris. This the following case, the particulars of which are given by M. Mercier, will serve to evince in a very striking manner.

Upon the accession of Louis XVI. to the throne, the ministers then in office, anxious to obtain popularity by an act of clemency and justice, began their administration by inspecting the registers of the Bastile, and setting many prisoners at liberty. Amongst these was an old man, who, during forty-seven years, had groaned in confinement between four thick and cold stone walls. Harshened by adversity, which strengthens both the mind and the constitution when they are not overpowered by it, he had resisted the horrors of his long imprisonment with an invincible and manly spirit. His locks, white, thin, and scattered, had almost acquired the rigidity of iron; whilst his body, environed for so long a time by a coffin of stone, had borrowed from it a firm and compact habit. At last the narrow door of his tomb, turning upon its grating hinges, opened not as usual by halves; an unknown voice announced his liberty, and bade the aged prisoner depart. Believing this a dream, he hesitated, but at length rose up and walked forth with trembling steps, amazed at the space he traversed; the stairs of the prison, the halls, the court, seemed to him immense, and almost without bounds. He stopped from time to time, and gazed around like one bewildered; his vision was with difficulty reconciled to the clear light of day; he contemplated the heavens as a new object; his eyes remained fixed, and he could not even weep. Stupified with the newly-acquired power of changing his position, his limbs, like his tongue, refused, in spite of his efforts, to perform their office; but at length he got through the formidable gate—that gate which, like the portal of hell in Dante, bore to many the fatal inscription, Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate. When he felt the motion of the carriage prepared to transport him to his former habitation, he screamed out, and uttered some inarticulate sounds; and as he could not bear this new movement, he was obliged to descend from the vehicle. Supported by a friendly arm, he sought out the street where he had formerly resided: he found it, but no trace of his house remained; one of the public edifices occupied the spot where it had stood. He now saw nothing that brought to his recollection either that particular quarter, the city itself, or the objects with which he had formerly been familiar. The houses of his nearest neighbours, which were fresh in his memory, had assumed a new appearance. In vain were his looks directed to all the objects around him; he could discover nothing of which he had even the smallest recollection. Terrified, he stopped and fetched a deep sigh. What did it signify to him that the city was peopled with living creatures? None of them was alive to him; he was unknown to all the world, and he knew nobody; he wept and regretted his dungeon. At the name of the Bastile, which he often pronounced, claiming it as an asylum, and the fashion of his clothes, which marked a former age, the crowd gathered round him; curiosity, blended with pity, excited their attention. The most aged asked him many questions, but had no remembrance of the circumstances he recapitulated. At length accident brought in his way an ancient domestic, now a superannuated porter, who, confined to his lodge for fifteen years, had barely sufficient strength to open the gate. But even he did not know the master he had served. From this man, however, the unfortunate victim of tyranny learned that grief and misfortune had brought his wife to the grave thirty years before; that his children had gone abroad to distant climes; and that of all his relations and friends none now remained. This recital was made with the indifference which people discover for events long past and almost forgotten. The miserable man groaned aloud in his desolation. The crowd around offering only unknown features to his view, made him feel the excess of his calamities even more than he would have done in the dreadful solitude he had left. Overcome with sorrow, he presented himself before the minister to whom he owed that liberty which was now a burden. to him, and bowing low, said, "Restore me again to that prison from which you have taken me; I cannot survive the loss of my nearest relations, of my friends, and, in one word, of a whole generation. Is it possible in the same moment to be informed of this universal destruction, and not to wish for death? This general mortality, which to the rest of mankind comes slowly and by degrees, has to me been instantaneous, the operation of a moment. Whilst secluded from society, I lived with myself only; but here I neither can live with myself nor with this new race, to whom my anguish and despair appear only as a dream. There is nothing terrible in dying; but it is dreadful indeed to be the last." The minister was melted; he caused the old domestic to attend this unfortunate person, as he only could talk to him of his family. This discourse was the sole consolation he received; for he shunned all intercourse with a new race, born since he had been exiled from the world; and he passed his time in the midst of Paris in the same solitude as he had done whilst confined in a dungeon for nearly half a century. But the chagrin and mortification of meeting no person who could say to him, we were formerly known to each other, soon put an end to his existence.

The reader may be curious to know the nature of the offence which had been visited by so terrible a punishment. It consisted in some unguarded expressions respecting Louis XV. These had been reported, very probably exaggerated, by some informer or enemy; a lettre-de-cachet had been issued; and the offender seized, committed to the Bastile, and forgotten.

At the breaking out of the French revolution, the Bastile was attacked by the Parisians, and, after a vigorous resistance, taken and razed to the ground. This memorable event occurred on the 14th July 1789. At the time of its capture only seven prisoners were found in it.