Acquaintances Letty had none in the great city. Mrs. Jones, the lady of her husband’s partner, of course called upon her and gave her a party, to which her acquaintance generally were invited. Now, though Mrs. Jones and her friends belonged most strictly to the class called respectable and genteel, yet they were not fashionable. Letty appeared to comprehend this as it were by intuition. Nature had certainly intended her to be somebody—she accordingly took her line of conduct at once, and she determined that though circumstances required that with Mrs. Jones an air of cordiality and sociability must be preserved, yet this was not so necessary with that lady’s friends. Letty never cut any body directly. Her innate sense of propriety and natural good-breeding revolted from a course to which none but people of vulgar minds and shallow parts ever resort. She possessed, however, a tact which enabled her to drop an acquaintance without the slightest seemingness of rudeness or ill-manners. She knew how first to smile most cordially when she met the “droppee,” to wonder—

It was so long since they had met; she supposed, however, it must be her fault, but she had been so busy she had not been able to pay half her visits; to press the hand slightly, and with a smile an angel might almost envy, to say, “Good-bye, I will endeavor soon—”

And then glide gently away before the sentence was filled up. And this was the last of it. On the next meeting a sweet smile, a courteous bow, but no time to speak; and so the season passed; no visit exchanged, each eradicated the other’s name from her “list”—the object was effected not only without offense, but with such ease and grace, that the dropped was afterward heard to say:

“I think Mrs. A. a most lovely woman, and regret I was compelled by circumstances I could not help to stop visiting her, and so she has given me up.” Mrs. C. is not the only deluded mortal in this world.

Mrs. Smithson, we have seen, had determined that Mrs. Jones’s “set” were not to become her “set.” She was willing to bide her time. She was aware that great events are usually the creatures of slow growth. They may at the last grow with rapidity, but the seed which produces them has been for a long time germinating. She believed that a cultivated mind and accomplished person joined to a determined will, can achieve anything it pleases in the social as in other worlds, and she was determined to prove the truth of her convictions in her own case, and so she went on improving her mind, perfecting her accomplishments and biding her time.

Mr. Smithson, like all other reputable gentlemen, had, on becoming a married man, taken a pew in church. It was in a fashionable church, which then meant an Episcopal church, for fashion in those days was pretty much monopolized in Quakerdelphia by Episcopalians and a few degenerate descendants of the co-religionists of Penn, who had departed wofully in dress and manners from the primitive simplicity of “Friends.” Now-a-days things are somewhat altered, as one may perceive at a glance on entering some of the Presbyterian churches in the fashionable part of the city—the display of velvets, brocades and furs, the oceans of feathers and parterres of flowers show that their owners have entered on the race, and that it is almost a dead heat. Nor has the innovation ceased here. The full, rich, deep swell of the organ has been substituted for the bass-viol, and (rise not at the mention of it, shades of Knox and Calvin,) it is rumored that your descendants are about to worship in a Gothic temple, with its windows of stained-glass through which the “dim religious light” is to penetrate, and dim enough it is during our short winter afternoons. Whether the resemblance to the “Mass-houses” which were torn down in the sixteenth century is to be carried out fully in the interior as well as exterior, we have not learned, nor whether it is only to be confined to “sedilia,” “screen,” “south-porch,” “octagonal font at the door,” or whether any or none of these remains of Medievalism are to have a place within. The “Ecclesiologist” no doubt can enlighten our readers, and to that we refer them.

Mr. Smithson, as we said, took a pew in a fashionable church, and in a desirable position. Thither, accompanied by his fashionable-looking wife, who, in her turn, was accompanied by her richly-bound prayer-book, he resorted on Sunday mornings. The attention of the devotees around was at once attracted by her, and stray glances would slip from the leaf of the prayer-book to the “new person” near by. “N’importe,” Letty might say, as did a celebrated English dandy when an hundred opera-glasses were leveled at him, “Let them look and die.” With her attire no fault could be found. The material was of the richest and most costly kind, the colors most harmoniously combined; the fit perfect, showing her willowy and graceful figure to the utmost advantage, and the furs genuine martin.

“Who is she?” was the whispered colloquy, as the parties proceeded down the aisle, with a glance over the shoulder.

“Don’t you know—her name is Smithson. A rich Shamble street merchant. Live in Hazelnut street, in old Corkscrew’s house—said to be splendidly furnished.”

“Yes; but who is she? Where does she come from?”

“Don’t know exactly; but believe from New York, or Baltimore, or Richmond, or somewhere.”

“Very definite—and the last location very likely.”

“But what do you think of her? Very lady-looking—don’t you think so? And how beautifully she dresses. Her muff and tippet are certainly martin—and what a love of a hat. Martine tells me she paid $25 for it.”

Here the ladies having reached the door, the edifying commentary on the sermon just delivered ceased, and the parties separating, pursued their several ways. The first speaker, or querist, was Mrs. Rodgers, one of the most decided leaders of the ton in Quakerdelphia, whose father having retired from trade as a hardware merchant when she was a very little girl, felt her superiority to those of her acquaintances who were still engaged in trade. Her husband was in the same position as herself, and their united fortunes enabled him to provide his friends with the finest clarets, the oldest Madeiras, the fattest venison, and one of the greatest bores at the head of his own table who ever spoiled good wine by prosing over it. His lady gave no balls nor grand routes; she was too exclusive for that; but admittance to her “Evenings” was eagerly sought after by all who aspired to be of the ton. The other lady, Mrs. Cackle, a widow, was one of those gossips who are everywhere found. Her pretensions to fashion were only pretensions, and she held her own in the gay world simply by making herself useful as the purveyor of all the fashionable scandal of the day to her fashionable acquaintance. Mrs. Rodgers and others of her set, would have as soon thought of doing without their cards or their carriages as without “Cackle,” as she was familiarly called; and hence she was at home in all the “best houses” of Quakerdelphia.

The pew which the Smithsons occupied, was adjoining that of Mrs. Rodgers. It was the family-pew of a certain Mrs. Edmonson, who, after a long career in the gay world, had recently, alarmed by conscience or gray hairs, abandoned cards for prayer-meetings, and despairing of “grace” under what she was pleased to term “the didactic essays and moral teachings” of Dr. Silky, her pastor, had abandoned them for the preachings of the Rev. Mr. Thunder, a celebrated revivalist. Here a new scene was opened for her. Possibly her jaded feelings may have required some new and varied stimulant. We do not say so positively. We merely repeat what “Cackle” said.

“Poor, dear soul! she was so worn-out with whist and piquett, that any change was for the better.”

Be this as it may, she certainly entered upon her new course of life with much zeal. She faithfully attended not only the three regular Sunday services, but all the occasional week-day lectures and familiar meetings for prayer and religious conversation. These latter were always preceded by tea at the house of some of the sisters of the Rev. Mr. Thunder’s flock. Projects for converting the world were then new, and the recent convert entered upon them with all the zeal which had formerly animated her when arranging the details of a ball or of a party for the theatre. The dwellers in Africa and the isles of the Pacific, occupied much of their attention; but they did not seem to know that within a few squares of where they were engaged alternately in sipping tea or expounding prophecy, dwelt a population, perhaps more degraded and more requiring enlightenment, than those over whose darkness they mourned. The inhabitant of Africa thought nothing of a Saviour of whom he had never heard. The denizen of St. Anne’s street uttered his name only to blaspheme. Which of these, according to the doctrine as laid down by the Apostle to the Gentiles, most required the humanizing influences of the missionary of the cross, we leave to each to determine for himself.

One thing is certain. Had Mrs. Edmonson not been thus called off, Mrs. Smithson could not have obtained the pew which she now occupied. A gradual acquaintance was beginning to spring up between her and Mrs. Rodgers, arising from the principle of contiguity. Commend us to that principle. It has settled the fate of many a son and daughter of Eve. It commenced we know not how. It was probably from some one of those thousand and one little offices which neighborhood induces. A shawl may have become entangled in something requiring the friendly offices of a neighbor to unloose; or the warmth of the weather may have created an uncomfortable feeling, which the opportune loan of a fan may have relieved. How the acquaintanceship in question was first brought about we have forgotten—if we ever knew. It is of no consequence to us. Every one knows the progress of these things. At first it is a distant bow, as much as to say, “I should like to know you, but don’t care to advance.” Then came a casual and passing remark, as they emerged from the pew to the aisle. Then the walk down the aisle, side by side, until reaching the door, when each assumed her husband’s arm, and the respective couples mingled in the crowd; and finally the continued walk together to the parting-place, whence each pursues the path to their own residence. These things have often occurred before; they were enacted by Mesdames Rogers and Smithson then, and will occur again. Their husbands followed slowly in the rear, discussing the state of the weather, the prospects of business, the likelihood of speedy news from Europe, there not having been an arrival for upward of a month, with other topics of a kindred nature. Mrs. Rodgers, a well-educated lady of considerable conversational powers, found the mind of her new acquaintance as agreeable as her person, and before they separated,

“Hoped she might be permitted to improve the acquaintance thus opportunely begun, by calling on Mrs. Smithson.”

Letty graciously gave the required permission, expressing all that courtesy demanded on the occasion, but carefully abstaining from appearing overwhelmed with the compliment, as many a weaker minded and less skillful tactician would have done. She knew that her cue was to meet advances half-way, but not to pass the line one hair’s breadth, if she wished any new acquaintance to be made to feel, than in seeking her, the obligation was mutual.

On the next day but one Mrs. Rodgers was ushered into Letty’s drawing-room. That lady did not detain her long before she made her appearance, but still dallied sufficiently to allow the other to take in at a rapid glance the completeness of her establishment. Her experience, however, was for once at fault, for she determined hastily that the woman who could arrange her rooms with such taste, must have been surrounded by like refinements and elegancies all her life. Her reception of Letty, therefore, when she arrived, was most cordial and impressive. The season was far advanced. Her last “Evening” was on that of the succeeding day, “and it was to secure Mrs. Smithson’s appearance as well as further to cultivate so pleasant an acquaintance thus agreeably begun, that she had called this morning, etc.”

Mrs. Smithson, on her part, would be very happy to make one at this exclusive assemblage, and a very unfashionably long visit for a morning call followed. Mrs. Rodgers was anxious to find out all about Letty, who she was, where she came from, etc.; but was foiled in all her skillful questions, by answers equally skillful. When at length she took her leave, she could not help pondering on this to herself. She admitted her curiosity about it, but wound up by saying to herself, be she who she may, she is certainly a most agreeable personage, and I think I have made a most decided hit in introducing her into our set.

As for Letty, she was all exultation on the departure of her visitor. She saw herself achieving at once the distinctions she panted after. Not only were the doors of the drawing-room of dame Fashion opened to her, but as she passed through them with firm step and head erect amid the ill-concealed envy of the crowd which filled them, she saw the curtains of the boudoir drawn aside at her approach, and she was admitted into the inmost presence-chamber of the goddess. Not so fast, Letty. You certainly have mounted the first rung of the ladder; and my readers and myself know you now too well to fear for a moment that you will go backward; but there is many a step yet to climb before you reach that giddy height on which you aspire to stand.

The next evening soon came, and after almost all the guests had assembled, Mr. and Mrs. Smithson arrived. She was arrayed in a dress of the richest kind, and with her usual faultless taste. Her ornaments were few, but elegant; the best of them being that bright, fresh face and elastic form, which the dissipation of city life had not yet impaired. She had a severe and scathing ordeal to pass. It was felt by several, with the keen intuition which women alone have, that she might prove a formidable rival. Mrs. Rodgers’ reception and treatment of her were most kind. She introduced several most desirable acquaintances to her, and the gentlemen in especial were delighted with her. Letty’s earliest allies, it may be remembered, were of the male sex; but the gallant Colonel Lumley, and that exquisite of exquisites, Mr. Tom Harrowby, were of a different stamp from Phil Dubbs and even Harry Edmonds, though the latter, in after days, achieved renown both at the bar and in the senate-chamber. The evening passed but too delightfully and too rapidly for Letty. She felt that she was at last among kindred minds, and on arriving at home, when she reviewed what had transpired as she was preparing for her night’s repose, she was satisfied that her debut had been eminently successful, and that she had made a decided hit. With visions of much future greatness before her, she fell asleep.

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[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

The practice of interment in churches and church-yards prevailed in Paris till near the end of the eighteenth century. In 1790 the National Assembly passed a law commanding all towns and villages to discontinue the use of their old burial-places, and form others at a distance from their habitations. An imperial decree was issued in 1804, ordering high ground to be chosen for cemeteries, and every corpse to be interred at a depth of at least six feet. Another decree, of 1811, ordained a company of undertakers, to whom the whole business of interment was to be consigned, who arranged funerals in six classes, and established a tariff of expense for the service rendered. The cemeteries of Paris are four in number. PÈre-la-chaise, Montmartre, Vaugirard, and Mont-Parnasse.

PÈre-la-chaise, the subject of the beautiful engraving in our present number—engraved for us by J. A. Rolph, of New York—occupies a tract of high and sloping ground to the north-east of Paris. It derives its name from the confessor of Louis XIV., who occupied a splendid mansion on its site—a country-house of the Jesuits for more than one hundred and fifty years. This beautiful burial-ground was consecrated in 1804, and on the 21st of May of that year the first burial took place within its walls. In the fosses communes the poor are gratuitously interred in coffins placed side by side, without ornament or mark of any kind. Temporary graves, to be held for six years, may be procured for fifty francs, and may afterward be retained on five years’ lease by the regular payment of the same sum. If afterward purchased, a deduction of the first payment of fifty francs is made. The ground is purchased in perpetuity at a rate of one hundred and twenty francs per square metre, where vaults may be sunk or monuments erected at the pleasure of the owner. Many of the most celebrated personages of France here repose in the dreamless sleep, amid garlands and flowers. Baron Cuvier, Casimir PÉrier and Benjamin Constant. Marshals Ney, Suchet, Massena, LefÈvre—Volney rests here, with Talma, Mademoiselle Raucourt, Macdonald, Beaumarchais, and many whose names are imperishable in history.

The picturesque monument of Gothic architecture, to the right on entering, contains the ashes of Abelard and Heloisa—this sepulchre was constructed from the ruins of the celebrated Abbey of Paracleet.

We rejoice that, in our own country, a wise foresight has already disposed our citizens to set apart at a distance from the busy mart and the thriving town, secluded and beautiful places for the quiet resting-place of the beloved dead. From this pious feeling has sprung our own Laurel-Hill—Mount Auburn, near Boston—Greenwood, near New York, and scores of other places appropriately named and selected in the vicinage of cities and towns of our country—where the monumental pile and the humble tomb bear silent company. The roses embowering these make the whole air fragrant, but, dying in autumn return again with the spring, mute yet eloquent preachers of a Final Resurrection.

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———

BY A. M. PARIS.

———

In the balmy breath of the early spring,

In the warbling notes that her songsters sing,

In her bursting buds, and her fragrant flowers,

In her azure skies and her golden hours,

In the leafy woods and the meadows green,

Are thy powers displayed, and thy breathings seen.

Thou art found in the ocean’s wide expanse,

When the gentle waves in the sunbeams dance,

Or propelled by the storm’s resistless might,

Rise foaming up to their giddy height;

When the first faint blush of the glowing morn,

Lights the dewy pearl on the flower and thorn,

And the sunbeams kiss the awakening flower,

And the zephyr stirs the enchanted bower;

Or the silvery clouds of the sunset lie

On the radiant breast of the evening sky,

And the gentle gales through the forests play,

And the requiem sing of departing day,

On the craggy steeps of the rock-based hills;

By the flowery banks of the purling rills;

From the darkling climes of the gelid north,

Where the bright Aurora flashes forth,

And the iceberg gleams in the moon’s soft light,

Through the lengthened hours of the polar night;

To the sunny south, where the palm-trees spread

Their feathery boughs o’er the sheltered head;

And a thousand flowers of brilliant hue,

Are forever expanding to the view;

And a thousand birds of plumage bright,

Rejoice in the groves of a land of light;

O’er the gladsome earth, in the stars of night,

Thou art seen, if the heart be attuned aright.

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———

BY IK. MARVEL.

———

I believe that sooner or later, there come to every man, dreams of ambition. They may be covered with the sloth of habit, or with a pretence of humility; they may come only in dim, shadowy visions, that feed the eye, like the glories of an ocean sun-rise; but you may be sure that they will come: even before one is aware, the bold, adventurous goddess, whose name is ambition, and whose dower is Fame, will be toying with the feeble heart. And she pushes her ventures with a bold hand: she makes timidity strong, and weakness valiant.

The way of a man’s heart will be foreshadowed by what goodness lies in him—coming from above, and from around;—but a way foreshadowed, is not a way made. And the making of a man’s way comes only from that quickening of resolve, which we call Ambition. It is the spur that makes man struggle with Destiny: it is Heaven’s own incentive, to make Purpose great, and Achievement greater.

It would be strange if you, in that cloister-life of a college, did not sometimes feel a dawning of new resolves. They grapple you, indeed, oftener than you dare to speak of. Here, you dream first of that very sweet, but very shadowy success, called reputation.

You think of the delight and astonishment, it would give your mother and father, and most of all, little Nelly, if you were winning such honors, as now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half hour together, upon some successful man, who has won his prizes; and wonder by what secret action he has done it. And when, in time, you come to be a competitor yourself, your anxiety is immense.

You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and re-write; and when it is at length complete, and out of your hands, you are harassed by a thousand doubts. At times, as you recal your hours of toil, you question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost certain of success. You repeat to yourself, some passages of special eloquence, at night. You fancy the admiration of the Professors at meeting with such wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that its superior goodness may awaken the suspicion that some one out of the college—some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies away.

The eventful day is a great one in your calendar; you hardly sleep the night previous. You tremble as the chapel-bell is rung; you profess to be very indifferent, as the reading, and the prayer close; you even stoop to take up your hat—as if you had entirely overlooked the fact, that the old president was in the desk, for the express purpose of declaring the successful names. You listen dreamily to his tremulous, yet fearfully distinct enunciation. Your head swims strangely.

They all pass out with a harsh murmur, along the aisles, and through the door-ways. It would be well if there were no disappointments in life more terrible than this. It is consoling to express very depreciating opinions of the Faculty in general;—and very contemptuous ones of that particular officer who decided upon the merit of the prize themes. An evening or two at Dalton’s room go still further toward healing the disappointment; and—if it must be said—toward moderating the heat of your ambition.

You grow up however, unfortunately, as the college years fly by, into a very exaggerated sense of your own capacities. Even the good, old, white-haired squire, for whom you had once entertained so much respect, seems to your crazy, classic fancy, a very hum-drum sort of personage. Frank, although as noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet—you cannot help thinking—very ignorant of Euripides; even the English master at Dr. Bidlow’s school, you feel sure would balk at a dozen problems you could give him.

You get an exalted idea of that uncertain quality, which turns the heads of a vast many of your fellows, called—Genius. An odd notion seems to be inherent in the atmosphere of those college chambers, that there is a certain faculty of mind—first developed as would seem in colleges—which accomplishes whatever it chooses, without any special painstaking. For a time, you fall yourself into this very unfortunate hallucination; you cultivate it, after the usual college fashion, by drinking a vast deal of strong coffee, and whiskey-toddy—by writing a little poor verse, in the Byronic temper, and by studying very late at night, with closed blinds.

It costs you, however, more anxiety and hypocrisy than you could possibly have believed.

——You will learn, Clarence, when the Autumn has rounded your hopeful Summer, if not before, that there is no Genius in life, like the Genius of energy and industry. You will learn, that all the traditions so current among very young men, that certain great characters have wrought their greatness by an inspiration, as it were, grow out of a sad mistake.

And you will further find, when you come to measure yourself with men, that there are no rivals so formidable, as those earnest, determined minds, which reckon the value of every hour, and which achieve eminence by persistent application.

Literary ambition may inflame you at certain periods; and a thought of some great names will flash like a spark into the mine of your purposes; you dream till midnight over books; you set up shadows, and chase them down—other shadows, and they fly. Dreaming will never catch them. Nothing makes the “scent lie well,” in the hunt after distinction, but labor.

And it is a glorious thing, when once you are weary of the dissipation, and the ennui of your own aimless thought, to take up some glowing page of an earnest thinker, and read—deep and long, until you feel the metal of his thought tinkling on your brain, and striking out from your flinty lethargy, flashes of ideas, that give the mind light and heat. And away you go, in the chase of what the soul within is creating on the instant, and you wonder at the fecundity of what seemed so barren, and at the ripeness of what seems so crude. The glow of toil wakes you to the consciousness of your real capacities: you feel sure that they have taken a new step toward final development. In such mood it is, that one feels grateful to the musty tomes, which at other hours, stand like curiosity-making mummies, with no warmth, and no vitality. Now they grow into the affections like new-found friends; and gain a hold upon the heart, and light a fire in the brain, that the years and the mould cannot cover, nor quench.

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———

BY ANNE G. HALE.

———

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BY T. H. CHIVERS, M. D.

———

All aboard? Yes! Tingle, tingle,

Goes the bell, as we all mingle—

No one sitting solely single—

As the fireman builds his fire,

And the steam gets higher, higher—

Thus fulfilling his desire—

Which forever he keeps feeding

With the pine-knots he is needing,

As he on his way goes speeding—

And the Iron Horse goes rushing,

With his fiery face all flushing—

Every thing before him crushing—

While the smoke goes upward curling,

Spark-bespangled in unfurling,

And the iron-wheels go whirling,

Like two mighty mill-stones grinding,

When no miller is them minding—

All the eye with grit-dust blinding—

And the cars begin to rattle,

And the springs go tittle-tattle—

Driving off the grazing cattle—

As if Death were fiends pursuing

To their uttermost undoing—

With a clitta, clatta, clatter,

Like the devil beating batter

Down below in iron platter,

As if something was the matter;

Then it changes to a clanking,

And a clinking, and a clanking,

And a clanking, and a clinking—

Then returns to clatta, clatter,

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter—

And the song that I now offer

For Apollo’s Golden Coffer—

With the friendship that I proffer—

Is for Riding on a Rail.

Thus, from station on to station,

Right along through each plantation,

This great Iron Horse goes rushing,

With his fiery face all flushing—

Every thing before him crushing—

Sometimes faster, sometimes slower,

Sometimes higher, sometimes lower—

As if Time, the great world-mover,

Had come down for his last reaping

Of the harvest ripe, in keeping,

Of the nations waiting, weeping—

While the engine, overteeming,

Spits his vengeance out in steaming

With excruciating screaming—

While the wheels are whirling under,

Like the chariot-wheels of thunder,

When the lightning rends asunder

All the clouds that steam from Ocean,

When he pays the Moon devotion—

With a grinding rhythmic motion—

Till the frightened sheep are scattered,

Like the clouds by lightning tattered,

And the gates of day are battered

With the clitta, clatta, clatter—

Still repeating clatta, clatter,

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

As if something was the matter—

While the woodlands all are ringing,

And the birds forget their singing.

And away to heaven go winging

Of their flight to hear the clatter,

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

Which continues so, till coming

To a straight line, when the humming

Is so mixed up with the strumming,

That the cars begin to rattle,

And the springs go tittle-tattle—

Frightening off the grazing cattle—

Like Hell’s thunder-river roaring,

Over Death’s dark mountain pouring

Into space, forever boring

Through th’ abysmal depths, with clatter

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

And a clinking, and a clanking,

And a clanking, and a clinking—

Then returns to clatta, clatter,

Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,

Like the devil beating batter

Down below in iron platter—

Which subsides into a clunky,

And a clinky, and a clanky,

And a clinky, clanky, clanky,

And a clanky, clinky, clanky;

And the song that I now offer

For Apollo’s Golden Coffer—

With the friendship that I proffer—

Is for Riding on a Rail.

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———

BY JULIA KAVANAGH.

———

Amongst the women of the French Revolution, there is one who stands essentially apart: a solitary episode of the eventful story. She appears for a moment, performs a deed—heroic as to the intention, criminal as to the means—and disappears for ever; lost in the shadow of time—an unfathomed mystery.

And it is, perhaps, this very mystery that has invested with so much interest the name of one known by a single deed; which, though intended by her to deliver her country, changed little in its destinies. To admire her entirely is impossible; to condemn her is equally difficult. No one can read her history without feeling that, to judge her absolutely, lies not in the province of man. Beautiful, pure, gentle, and a murderess, she attracts and repels us in almost equal degrees; like all those beings whose nature is inexplicable and strange, according to the ordinary standard of humanity. Although it is generally acknowledged that site did not exercise over contemporary events that repressing power for which she sacrificed her life, it is felt, nevertheless, that no history of the times in which she lived, is complete without her name; and to her brief and tragic history an eloquent modern historian^[12] has devoted some of his most impressive pages.

The 31st of May was the signal of the fall and dispersion of the Girondists. Some, like Barbaroux, Buzot, Louvet, and their friends, retired to the provinces, which they endeavored to rouse for one last struggle. Others, like Madame Roland and the twenty-two, prepared themselves in their silent prison solitude for death and the scaffold. The name of the Girondists now became a sound as proscribed as that of Royalist had been during their brief sway. No voice gifted with power was raised throughout the republic in favor of the men by whom, in the midst of such enthusiastic acclamations, that republic had been founded. France was rapidly sinking into that state of silent apathy which foreboded the Reign of Terror: discouraged by their experience of the past, men lost their faith in humanity, and selfishly despaired of the future. A maiden’s heroic spirit alone conceived the daring project of saving those who had so long and so nobly striven for freedom; or, if this might not be, of avenging their fall, and striking terror into the hearts of their foes, by a deed of solemn immolation, worthy of the stern sacrifices of paganism, offered of yore on the blood-stained shrines of the goddess Nemesis.

The maiden was Marie-Anne Charlotte, of Corday and of Armont, one of the last descendants of a noble, though impoverished Norman family, which counted amongst its near relatives, Fontenelle, the wit and philosopher of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and amongst its ancestors, the father of the great tragic poet of France, Pierre Corneille.

Her father, Jacques of Corday and of Armont, was a younger son of this noble line. He was, however, poorer than many of the peasants amongst whom he lived, cultivating with his own hands, his narrow inheritance. He married in early life a lady of gentle blood, but as poor as himself. They had five children and a noble name to support, in a vain show of dignity, on their insufficient income. It thus happened that Charlotte, their fourth child and second daughter, was born in a thatched dwelling, in the village of Saint-Saturnin des Lignerets; and that in the register of the parish church where she was baptized, on the 28th of July, 1768, the day after her birth, she is described as “born in lawful wedlock of Jacques Francois of Corday, esquire, sieur of Armont, and of the noble dame Marie Charlotte-Jacqueline, of Gauthier des Authieux, his wife.” It was under these difficult circumstances, which embittered his temper, and often caused him to inveigh in energetic terms against the injustice of the law of primogeniture, that M. d’Armont reared his family. As soon as they were of age, his sons entered the army; one of his daughters died young; and he became a widower when the other two were emerging from childhood into youth. They remained for some time with their father, but at length entered the Abbaye aux Dames, in the neighboring town of Caen.

The greatest portion of the youth of Charlotte Corday—to give her the name by which she is generally known—was spent in the calm obscurity of her convent solitude. Many high visions, many burning dreams and lofty aspirations, already haunted her imaginative and enthusiastic mind, as she slowly paced the silent cloisters, or rested, lost in thought, beneath the shadow of the ancient elms. It is said that, like Madame Roland, she contemplated secluding herself for ever from the world in her monastic retreat; but, affected by the scepticism of the age, which penetrated even beyond convent walls, she gave up this project. From these early religions feelings, Charlotte derived, however, the calm devotedness which characterized her brief career: for though self-sacrifice may not be the exclusive attribute of Christianity, it cannot be denied that the deep humility by which it is accompanied—a feeling almost unknown to the ancients—is in itself the very spirit of Christ. The peaceful and solemn shadow of the old cloister favored the mild seriousness of Charlotte’s character. Within the precincts of her sacred retreat she grew up in grave and serene loveliness, a being fit for the gentlest duties of woman’s household life, or for one of those austere and fearless deeds which lead to the scaffold and give martyrdom in a holy cause.

The scepticism that prevailed for the last few years preceding the Revolution, was not the sensual atheism which had disgraced the eighteenth century so long. The faith in a first and eternal cause, in the sacredness of human rights and the holiness of duty, was firmly held by many noble spirits, who hailed with enthusiasm the first dawn of democracy. This faith was blended in the soul of Charlotte Corday, with a passionate admiration of antiquity. All the austerity and republican enthusiasm of her illustrious ancestor, Pierre Corneille, seemed to have come down to his young descendant. Even Rousseau and Raynal, the apostles of democracy, had no pages that could absorb her so deeply as those of ancient history, with its stirring deeds and immortal recollections. Often, like Manon Philipon, in the recess of her father’s workshop, might Charlotte Corday be seen in her convent cell, thoughtfully bending over an open volume of Plutarch; that powerful and eloquent historian of all heroic sacrifices.

When the Abbaye aux Dames was closed, in consequence of the Revolution, Charlotte was in her twentieth year, in the prime of life and of her wonderful beauty; and never, perhaps, did a vision of more dazzling loveliness step forth from beneath the dark convent portal into the light of the free and open world. She was rather tall, but admirably proportioned, with a figure full of native grace and dignity; her hands, arms, and shoulders, were models of pure sculptural beauty. An expression of singular gentleness and serenity characterized her fair, oval countenance and regular features. Her open forehead, dark and well-arched eyebrows, and eyes of a gray so deep that it was often mistaken for blue, added to her naturally grave and meditative appearance; her nose was straight and well formed, her mouth serious but exquisitely beautiful. Like most of the women of the Norman race, she had a complexion of transparent purity; enhanced by the rich brown hair which fell in thick curls around her neck, according to the fashion of the period. A simple severity characterized her dress of sombre hue, and the low and becoming lace cap which she habitually wore is still known by her name in France. Her whole aspect was fraught with so much modest grace and dignity, that, notwithstanding her youth, the first feeling she invariably inspired was one of respect; blended with involuntary admiration, for a being of such pure and touching loveliness.

On leaving the convent in which she had been educated, Charlotte Corday went to reside with her aunt, Madame Coutellier de Bretteville Gouville; an old royalist lady, who inhabited an ancient-looking house in one of the principal streets of Caen. There the young girl, who had inherited a little property, spent several years, chiefly engaged in watching the progress of the Revolution. The feelings of her father were similarly engrossed: he wrote several pamphlets in favor of the revolutionary principles; and one in which he attacked the right of primogeniture. His republican tendencies confirmed Charlotte in her opinions; but of the deep, overpowering strength which those opinions acquired in her soul, during the long hours she daily devoted to meditation, no one ever knew, until a stern and fearful deed—more stern and fearful in one so gentle—had revealed it to all France. A silent reserve characterized this epoch of Charlotte Corday’s life: her enthusiasm was not external, but inward: she listened to the discussions which were carried on around her without taking a part in them herself. She seemed to feel instinctively that great thoughts are always better nursed in the heart’s solitude: that they can only lose their native depth and intensity by being revealed too freely before the indifferent gaze of the world. Those with whom she then occasionally conversed, took little heed of the substance of her discourse, and could remember nothing of it when she afterward became celebrated; but all recollected well her voice, and spoke with strange enthusiasm of its pure, silvery sound. Like Madame Roland, whom she resembled in so many respects, Charlotte possessed this rare and great attraction; and there was something so touching in her youthful and almost childlike utterance of heroic thoughts, that it affected even to tears those who heard her on her trial, calmly defending herself from the infamous accusations of her judges, and glorying with the same low, sweet tones, in the deadly deed which had brought her before them.

The fall of the Girondists, on the 31st of May, first suggested to Charlotte Corday the possibility of giving an active shape to her hitherto passive feelings. She watched with intense, though still silent, interest the progress of events, concealing her secret indignation and thoughts of vengeance under her habitually calm aspect. Those feelings were heightened in her soul by the presence of the fugitive Girondists, who had found a refuge in Caen, and were urging the Normans to raise an army to march on Paris. She found a pretence to call upon Barbaroux, then with his friends at the Intendance. She came twice, accompanied by an old servant, and protected by her own modest dignity. Pethion saw her in the hall, where she was waiting for the handsome Girondist, and observed, with a smile—

“So, the beautiful aristocrat is come to see republicans.”

“Citizen Pethion,” she replied, “you now judge me without knowing me, but a time will come what you shall learn who I am.”

With Barbaroux, Charlotte chiefly conversed of the imprisoned Girondists; of Madame Roland and Marat. The name of this man had long haunted her with a mingled feeling of dread and horror. To Marat she ascribed the proscription of the Girondists, the woes of the republic, and on him she resolved to avenge her ill-fated country. Charlotte was not aware that Marat was but the tool of Dunton and Robespierre. “If such actions could be counseled,” afterward said Barbaroux, “it is not Marat whom we would have advised her to strike.”

Whilst this deadly thought was daily strengthening itself in Charlotte’s mind, she received several offers of marriage. She declined them, on the plea of wishing to remain free: but strange indeed must have seemed to her, at that moment, those proposals of earthly love. One of those whom her beauty had enamored, M. de Franquelin, a young volunteer in the cause of the Girondists, died of grief on learning her fate. His last request was, that her portrait and a few letters he had formerly received from her, might be buried with him in his grave.

For several days after her last interview with Barbaroux, Charlotte brooded silently over her great thought, often meditating on the history of Judith. Her aunt subsequently remembered that, on entering her room one morning, she found an old Bible open on her bed: the verse in which it is recorded that “the Lord had gifted Judith with a special beauty and fairness,” for the deliverance of Israel, was underlined with a pencil.

On another occasion Madame de Bretteville found her niece weeping alone; she inquired into the cause of her tears.

“They flow,” replied Charlotte, “for the misfortunes of my country.”

Heroic and devoted as she was, she then also wept, perchance, over her own youth and beauty, so soon to be sacrificed for ever. No personal considerations altered her resolve; she procured a passport, provided herself with money, and paid a farewell visit to her father, to inform him that, considering the unsettled condition of France, she thought it best to retire to England. He approved of her intention, and bade her adieu. On returning to Caen, Charlotte told the same tale to Madame de Bretteville, left a secret provision for an old nurse, and distributed the little property she possessed amongst her friends.

It was on the morning of the 9th of July, 1793, that she left the house of her aunt, without trusting herself with a last farewell. Her most earnest wish was, when her deed should have been accomplished, to perish, wholly unknown, by the hands of an infuriated multitude. The woman who could contemplate such a fate, and calmly devote herself to it, without one selfish thought of future renown, had indeed the heroic soul of a martyr.

Her journey to Paris was marked by no other event than the unwelcome attentions of some Jacobins with whom she traveled. One of them, struck by her modest and gentle beauty, made her a very serious proposal of marriage: she playfully evaded his request, but promised that he should learn who and what she was at some future period. On entering Paris, she proceeded immediately to the Hotel de la Providence, Rue des Vieux Augustins, not far from Marat’s dwelling. Here she rested for two days, before calling on her intended victim. Nothing can mark more forcibly the singular calmness of her mind: she felt no hurry to accomplish the deed for which she had journeyed so far, and over which she had meditated so deeply: her soul remained serene and undaunted to the last. The room which she occupied, and which has been often pointed out to inquiring strangers, was a dark and wretched attic, into which light scarcely ever penetrated. There she read again the volume of Plutarch she had brought with her—unwilling to part from her favorite author even in her last hours—and probably composed that energetic address to the people, which was found upon her after her apprehension. One of the first acts of Charlotte was to call on the Girondist, Duperret, for whom she was provided with a letter from Barbaroux, relative to the supposed business she had in Paris: her real motive was to learn how she could see Marat. She had first intended to strike him in the Champ de Mars, on the 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille, when a great and imposing ceremony was to take place. The festival being delayed, she resolved to seek him in the convention, and immolate him on the very summit of the mountain; but Marat was too ill to attend the meetings of the National Assembly: this Charlotte learned from Duperret. She resolved, nevertheless, to go to the convention, in order to fortify herself in her resolve. Mingling with the horde of Jacobins who crowded the galleries, she watched with deep attention the scene below. Saint Just was then urging the convention to proscribe Lanjuinais, the heroic defender of the Girondists. A young foreigner, a friend of Lanjuinais, and who stood at a short distance from Charlotte, noticed the expression of stern indignation which gathered over her features; until, like one over-powered by her feelings, and apprehensive of displaying them too openly, she abruptly left the place. Struck with her whole appearance, he followed her out; a sudden shower of rain, which compelled them to seek shelter under the same archway, afforded him an opportunity of entering into conversation with her. When she learned that he was a friend of Lanjuinais she waived her reserve, and questioned him with much interest concerning Madame Roland and the Girondists. She also asked him about Marat, with whom she said she had some business.

“Marat is ill; it would be better for you to apply to the public accuser, Fouquier Tinville,” said the stranger.

“I do not want him now, but I may have to deal with him yet,” she significantly replied.

Perceiving that the rain did not cease, she requested her companion to procure her a conveyance. He complied, and before parting from her, begged to be favored with her name. She refused, adding, however, “You will know it before long.” With Italian courtesy, he kissed her hand as he assisted her into the fiacre. She smiled, and bade him farewell.

Charlotte perceived that to call on Marat was the only means by which she might accomplish her purpose. She did so on the morning of the 13th of July, having first purchased a knife in the Palais Royal, and written him a note, in which she requested an interview. She was refused admittance. She then wrote him a second note, more pressing than the first, and in which she represented herself as persecuted for the cause of freedom. Without waiting to see what effect this note might produce, she called again at half-past seven the same evening.

Marat then resided in the Rue des Cordeliers, in a gloomy-looking house, which has since been demolished. His constant fears of assassination were shared by those around him; the porter, seeing a strange woman pass by his lodge without pausing to make any inquiry, ran out and called her back. She did not heed his remonstrance, but swiftly ascended the old stone stair-case, until she had reached the door of Marat’s apartment. It was cautiously opened by Albertine, a woman with whom Marat cohabited, and who passed for his wife. Recognizing the same young and handsome girl who had already called on her husband, and animated, perhaps, by a feeling of jealous mistrust, Albertine refused to admit her: Charlotte insisted with great earnestness. The sound of their altercation reached Marat; he immediately ordered his wife to admit the stranger, whom he recognized as the author of the two letters he had received in the course of the day. Albertine obeyed reluctantly; she allowed Charlotte to enter; and, after crossing with her an antechamber, where she had been occupied with a man named Laurent Basse, in folding some numbers of the “Ami du People,” she ushered her through two other rooms, until they came to a narrow closet, where Marat was then in a bath. He gave a look at Charlotte, and ordered his wife to leave them alone: she complied, but allowed the door of the closet to remain half open, and kept within call.

According to his usual custom, Marat wore a soiled handkerchief bound round his head, increasing his natural hideousness. A coarse covering was thrown across his bath; a board, likewise placed transversely, supported his papers. Laying down his pen, he asked Charlotte the purport of her visit. The closet was so narrow that she touched the bath near which she stood. She gazed on him with ill-disguised horror and disgust, but answered as composedly as she could, that she had come from Caen, in order to give him correct intelligence concerning the proceedings of the Girondists there. He listened, questioned her eagerly, wrote down the name of the Girondists, then added with a smile of triumph—

“Before a week, they shall have perished on the guillotine.”

“These words,” afterward said Charlotte, “sealed his fate.” Drawing from beneath the handkerchief which covered her bosom, the knife she had kept there all along, she plunged it to the hilt in Marat’s heart. He gave one loud expiring cry for help, and sank back dead in the bath. By an instinctive impulse, Charlotte had instantly drawn out the knife from the breast of her victim, but she did not strike again; casting it down at his feet, she left the closet and sat down in a neighboring room, thoughtfully passing her hand across her brow: her task was done.

The wife of Marat had rushed to his aid, on hearing his cry for help. Laurent Basse, seeing that all was over, turned round toward Charlotte, and with a blow of a chair felled her to the floor, whilst the infuriated Albertine trampled her under her feet. The tumult aroused the other tenants of the house; the alarm spread, and a crowd gathered in the apartment, who learned with stupor that Marat, the Friend of the People, had been murdered. Deeper still was their wonder when they gazed on the murderess. She stood there before them with still disordered garments, and her disheveled hair, loosely bound by a broad green ribbon, falling around her; but so calm, so serenely lovely, that those who most abhorred her crime gazed on her with involuntary admiration.

“Was she then so beautiful?” was the question addressed many years afterward, to on old man, one of the few remaining witnesses of this scene.

“Beautiful!” he echoed enthusiastically, adding with the eternal regrets of old age: “Ay, there are none such now!”

The commissary of police began his interrogatory in the saloon of Marat’s apartment. She told him her name, how long she had been in Paris, confessed her crime, and recognized the knife with which it had been perpetrated. The sheath was found in her pocket, with a thimble, some thread, money, and her watch.

“What was your motive in assassinating Marat?” asked the commissary.

“To prevent a civil war,” she answered.

“Who are your accomplices?”

“I have none.”

She was ordered to be transferred to the Abbaye, the nearest prison. An immense and infuriated crowd had gathered around the door of Marat’s house; one of the witnesses perceived that she would have liked to be delivered to this maddened multitude, and thus perish at once. She was not saved from their hands without difficulty; her courage failed her at the sight of the peril she ran, and she fainted away on being conveyed to the fiacre. On reaching the Abbaye, she was questioned until midnight by Chabot and Drouet, two Jacobin members of the convention. She answered their interrogatories with singular firmness; observing, in conclusion: “I have done my task, let others do theirs.” Chabot threatened her with the scaffold; she answered with a smile of disdain. Her behavior until the 17th, the day of her trial, was marked by the same firmness. She wrote to Barbaroux a charming letter, full of graceful wit and heroic feeling. Her playfulness never degenerated into levity: like that of the illustrious Thomas Moore, it was the serenity of a mind whom death had no power to daunt. Speaking of her action, she observes—

“I considered that so many brave men need not come to Paris for the head of one man. He deserved not so much honor: the hand of a woman was enough.... I have never hated but one being, and him with what intensity I have sufficiently shown, but there are a thousand whom I love still more than I hated him.... I confess that I employed a perfidious artifice in order that he might receive me. In leaving Caen, I thought to sacrifice him on the pinnacle of ‘the mountain,’ but he no longer went to it. In Paris, they cannot understand how a useless woman, whose longest life could have been of no good, could sacrifice herself to save her country.... May peace be as soon established as I desire! A great criminal has been laid low.... the happiness of my country makes mine. A lively imagination and a feeling heart promise but a stormy life; I beseech those who might regret me to consider this: they will then rejoice at my fate.”

A tenderer tone marks the brief letter she addressed to her father on the eve of her trial and death:

“Forgive me, my dear father,” she observed, “for having disposed of my existence without your permission. I have avenged many innocent victims. I have warded away many disasters. The people, undeceived, will one day rejoice at being delivered from a tyrant. If I endeavored to persuade you that I was going to England, it was because I hoped to remain unknown: I recognized that this was impossible. I hope you will not be subjected to annoyance: you have at least defenders at Caen; I have chosen Gustave Doulcet de Pontecoulant for mine: it is a mere matter of form. Such a deed allows of no defense. Farewell, my dear father. I beseech of you to forget me; or, rather, to rejoice at my fate. I die for a good cause. I embrace my sister, whom I love with my whole heart. Do not forget the line of Corneille:

‘Le crime faite la honte, et non pas l’Échafaud.’