“I am sorry, my children, to see you are so much overtaken with the

pomps and vanities of this world; more it seems to me than that young

child, that we might expect it of. You should strive to have the

ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, and remember that pride comes

before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

“So it does, grandsir,” answered his daughter-in-law meekly, after a

moment of silence; “and I wont wear this elegant dress, but will put on

my brown paduasoy; that was always thought good enough for me.” Showing

that she had the requisite ornament, and that the Scripture he quoted

was not applicable to her.

“No, no child,” he replied quickly; “that would be disrespectful to your

husband. I suppose you will be expected to have some worthy adornments,

and I must say you become the dress.”

“That she does,” added his son, forgetting the old gentleman’s exordium

in his conclusion, “and I don’t believe there will be a more personable

woman there than Captain Robert Stimpson’s wife.”

“Oh, Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, with recovered spirits, “do remember

to shut up Trip; if you don’t he’ll follow us to the wedding; and if I

was to see him in that room I do believe I should be mortified to

pieces.”

The evening at length arrived, and the company assembled in Madam

Brinley’s parlor, which was used on this occasion for the

reception-room. This was a fine room in the fashion of the day, and so

lofty that a reasonably tall man might walk across it with his hat on,

without fear of having it knocked off by the large beam which crossed

the centre of the ceiling. A rich Turkey carpet, betokening very high

style in those days of sanded floors, formed the centre-piece of the

room. High-backed leather-seated chairs, thickly studded with brass

nails, stood stiffly against the walls. The fireplace, ornamented with

Dutch tiles, was furnished with andirons of polished steel; and the

shovel and tongs of the same metal, seemed, as the merry blaze danced on

their bright surfaces, to cast significant glances at each other across

the hearth. A large mantel-glass surmounted the fireplace, on each side

of which hung in rich black and gold frames, the respective arms of the

Brinley and Borland families, the lady of the house belonging to the

latter. A large pier-glass hung between the two front windows, in which

each lady might survey her goodly person, and compare it with that of

her neighbor; beneath this was a slab of gray marble, with highly

ornamented iron supporters fastened into the wall. A tall, oaken desk

and book-case stood in one corner of the room, opposite to which, a

round snap-table of black mahogany, with claw feet, displayed its disc

turned down, of so remarkable a polish, that little Trip—who,

notwithstanding all his master’s care in shutting him up at home, had

managed to escape from his confinement, and had followed his mistress

into the room unperceived—on seeing his image so truly reflected, ran

up to it with great glee, sniffing and wagging his tail, delighted at

having found, as he supposed, a comrade of his own species to bear him

out in his audacity. Mrs. Stimpson turned all manner of colors, and cast

many imploring looks at her husband, who pretended to be wholly absorbed

in the contemplation of a fire-screen which stood near. On a servant’s

attempting to drive Trip out, he set up a shrill bark, and ran on his

little bow-legs, with his feet turned out, to his mistress for

protection; jumped into her lap—on her very pink lustring

petticoat—and, putting his black paws on her shoulders, began whining

and licking her face with great affection. On seeing which, John

Fayerweather took his little four-footed acquaintance in his arms, and

put him in a place of safety; while Captain Stimpson electrified the

company by a more than usually sonorous h-m-gh.

Madam Brinley in crimson velvet, and looking finely, occupied a large

arm-chair, curiously carved, on one side the fireplace. Madam

Fayerweather, in a beautiful white-grounded brocade, and looking as if

she was wishing every body joy, was on her right. Next to her sat Mrs.

Wendell, plainly, though handsomely dressed. She could boast of but

little beauty, excepting a pair of fine eyes, beaming with intellect and

benevolence; her wit and fine sense, however, rendered her the centre of

attraction at every party.

Mrs. Stimpson had the honor of sitting next Madam Brinley on the left,

her husband as near her as possible, as if for mutual protection. The

other guests stationed themselves with great exactness, according to

their rank and affinity to the hostess.

The bridal party entered. The bride, a sparkling brunette, with an

exquisite figure, was arrayed in a sack of white brocade, embroidered

with large silver-flowers; a necklace of oriental pearl encircled her

throat, and pendants of the same hung from her ears. Her hair combed

back from her beautiful forehead, was turned over a cushion on the top

of her head, where it was confined by a diamond bodkin, falling from the

back of her head in glossy ringlets, whose jetty hue contrasted finely

with her white neck. Altogether she was as fair a bride as one would

wish to see.

The bridegroom, a handsome man of two and thirty, appeared to be fully

sensible of his importance, at the same time to be sufficiently enamored

of his bride, and to applaud himself on the taste he had displayed in

his choice. The fair bridemaids “looked sweetly” in their buff-colored

satins, with aprons of Brussels’ lace, and triple ruffle cuffs of the

same. The groomsmen were Mr. Lindsey, a gay young Englishman, and George

Fayerweather. The latter, from his stature and noble proportions, was

the most conspicuous figure in the assemblage; towering over every other

by at least three inches. He was in a coat of light-blue, with

under-garments of white silk. His countenance was an expansion of all

the good-humor and happiness of his mother’s, with a dash of fun and

frolic, under which might be detected traces of thought and deep

feeling. John, “a pale, intellectual-looking student,” was too reserved

and diffident to become an actor in the scene, but sat retired, and

observed every thing going on in quiet enjoyment, admiring Judith nearly

as much as his brother.

The solemn ceremony, which was very impressively performed by Mr.

McGregor, being over and the cake cut and distributed, arrangements were

made by the master-of-ceremonies, Mr. Wendell, for the ball. The door

being thrown open, the company were ushered into the dancing-room,

brilliantly lighted up for the occasion. After a short pause, Mr.

Wendell called upon the governor to lead out the bride for the opening

minuet, which was danced in a very gubernatorial and bridal manner. The

bridegroom and Madam Brinley followed, and then Judge Wentworth of

Boston and Madam Fayerweather, who was still celebrated for her minuet.

Her husband never danced, and Mr. Wendell then called out Captain

Fayerweather and Miss Stimpson, though scarcely expecting that Judith

would be prevailed upon to dance.

To his surprise, after a little hesitation, with a smile and a blush,

she rose, and as her partner led her to the head of the room, an

involuntary murmur of admiration ran round the assembly—for never had a

pair appeared of more singular beauty. They stood side by side, while

the accustomed prelude was played, the blue and white of his habit,

contrasting beautifully with the color of hers, as did his stately

figure with hers of bird-like lightness; she extended her dress to its

greatest width in her delicate fingers; she cast a timid glance around

the room, he one of manly greeting, her little foot slid to the right,

and she made a low and graceful courtsey, while his tall figure was

bending to the floor in perfect time to the measure, in this salute to

the company. Then rising slowly, they stood for a moment with one foot

in advance, awaiting the proper signal from the music, when they turned,

and he, with sparkling eyes, and she, with the delicate bloom on her

cheek heightened to a rose, made a like lowly reverence to each other.

Then, as the pair became animated with the music, and they floated round

the room, now advancing now receding, in their magic evolutions crossing

and re-crossing, their graceful forms rising and falling in measured

waves to the time—all their attitudes, and all their motions of

elegance and delicacy combined; they might have seemed some fair beings

of another sphere, weaving a mystic spell to drive afar all sorrow. This

was the old-fashioned minuet. How has its place been supplied in the

ball-room, by the waltz and its varieties, the mazurka, the polka, etc.

What were Judith’s father and mother doing all the while? Entirely

forgetting the rest of the company, and following their daughter with

their eyes, Captain Stimpson, with his lips firmly compressed, moved his

head from side to side in time to the music, or rather with involuntary

imitation of Judith’s motions.

“Did you ever! Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, in an irrepressible

ecstasy, as Judith slowly glided through a peculiarly beautiful part of

the figure.

“I sartainly never did,” said the captain, drawing in a very long

breath.

“But, after all,” rejoined Mrs. Stimpson, “she has the same solemn eyes

of my poor, dear mother; and it seems to me more so than ever to-night.”

“Look like her grandmother!” said her husband, with strong emphasis;

“she looks more like a bird of paradise, such as I’ve seen in Ingee.

That yaller satin becomes her most remarkably; she sartainly is the

comeliest person that ever I clapped my eyes on.”

Here Madam Fayerweather joined them, and laying her hand impressively on

the arm of Mrs. Stimpson, interrupted them as she pointed to Judith,

“She’s the prettiest, the dearest creature that ever was seen, and as

good as she is pretty;” and as the object of her encomiums came up to

them with glowing cheeks, the minuet being finished, Madam could not

refrain from kissing her, saying, “My dear, you did dance charmingly.”

George would willingly have made one of the group, but was called away

reluctantly by his co-adjutor, the young Englishman, who asked him with

more freedom than George approved of, “What he would take for his

bargain?” then surveying his noble figure with internal admiration, he

added, after a short pause, “Fayerweather, you are a lucky dog.”

Afterward, in the course of the evening, he managed to pay Judith so

much attention as to distress the modest girl not a little, and to give

some pain to George, whose office as groomsman, did not allow him to be

exclusively devoted to her. Mr. Lindsey manœuvered to be beforehand with

every one else in inviting her to be his partner in the country dances,

and her refusal necessarily obliging her to sit still, he took his seat

by her, and persisted in keeping it until supper was announced, when he

took her hand, which she had no pretence for refusing, and led her in

triumph to the supper-table.

Mr. Fayerweather, who had intended to perform this office himself, in

order to do particular honor to his son’s choice, felt no slight

displeasure at such presumption, with a strong disposition to make known

to Mr. Lindsey, that “he considered him an impertinent coxcomb.” He

refrained, however, and advancing toward Judith’s father and mother, he

begged to have the honor of leading _Madam_ Stimpson to the

supper-table. Madam Stimpson bridled up and looked at her husband; the

dignified frown on whose brow was contradicted by the complacent smile

which, in spite of his endeavor, lurked about his mouth; then making her

courtsey—and a very good one it was—she gave her hand to Mr.

Fayerweather; and the three proceeded in state to the supper-room—the

captain marching with head erect on the other side of his wife. It was a

proud evening for Captain Bob Stimpson.

On the whole, the wedding went off with great _éclat_. The happy pair

set off the next day for Boston, to embark for Quebec. On the following

week, Captain Fayerweather was to set sail on a two years’ voyage—on

his return from which he was to claim his bride.

On the day previous to George’s departure, he gave his father a cabinet

of ebony, curiously inlaid, and of costly and peculiar workmanship,

which a French prisoner, whose release he had been instrumental in

procuring in one of the British ports, had prevailed upon him to accept

as a token of gratitude for the service.

“Thank you, my son,” said Mr. Fayerweather, not a little gratified;

“that will be just the thing for my valuable papers, the little trunk I

keep them in is too crowded.”

“I wish you would let me have that, sir, to take with me; I always took

a fancy to it,” rejoined his son.

“You shall have it, and Judith shall have a jewel-box well filled on her

wedding-day, too.” So saying, Mr. Fayerweather ran down stairs to the

counting-room and quickly returned with the little trunk in his hand to

his own chamber, where he and his son had been communing. He sat down

panting, and remained a minute or two without speaking, with his hand on

his side.

“What’s the matter, sir, that you are so out of breath?” his son

anxiously inquired; “why didn’t you let me go for you? I didn’t know

what you left the room for.”

“Oh, it’s nothing but a slight palpitation of the heart, to which I have

been subject a little of late—it will soon go off.”

It did not go off, however, and the attack continued longer than usual;

but Mr. Fayerweather without heeding it, or suffering any indications of

it to appear before his son, proceeded to remove the papers into their

new place of deposit—and George took the little trunk into his own

possession. The day after Mr. Fayerweather felt more unwell than he was

willing to make known, wishing to spare his family any additional weight

upon their spirits, at the time of his son’s departure. After this his

attacks became more frequent and of longer duration, rendering it

impossible to conceal them any longer from Madam, who, in alarm, sent

immediately for Dr. Holly. The latter, upon inquiring into the symptoms,

and examining the pulse of his patient, looked grave. His prescriptions

were successful, however, and Mr. Fayerweather in a few weeks appeared

to be restored to his usual health.

But to return to George; his usual gay spirits deserted him as he was

taking his leave of Judith, and a depression wholly unknown to him

before seized him, as the boat which was to bear him to the vessel

appeared merrily dancing over the waves to the wharf, opposite the

window near which they were standing.

“Farewell, Judith!” said he, then adding playfully, but with a voice not

wholly free from a slight tremor, “when I return, do not let me find you

the bride of some dashing Englishman.”

“Oh, George! how can you say so?” she replied, the tears gushing into

her eyes; “how can you think I could ever be the bride of any man but

you; but if there is any truth in dreams, the one I had last night,

tells me I shall never be a bride.”

“Oh, psha upon dreams!” he said, running off to hide the tears which, in

spite of his manliness, were now streaming down his own cheeks. She saw

him spring into the boat, which she kept in sight until it reached the

vessel. Then going up to her own room, with a spy-glass she watched the

vessel as it gradually receded from view, until its tallest mast sunk

beneath the waves. She yielded to a burst of anguish, which she in vain

attempted to control, and sat for some moments sobbing, then her tears

ceased to flow, and her countenance resumed its wonted serenity; she

then went below, superintended old Mary, and prepared her grandfather’s

supper with more than usual care, her generous nature not suffering her

own private feelings to interfere with the comfort or happiness of

others.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

JOY AND SORROW.

BY RICHARD COE.

“I am happy, O, how happy!”

Said a little child, one day,

At his play,

With his ball of twine and kite,

That to his supreme delight,

To the skies

Did arise,

Far from human sight.

Came a sudden gust and squall,

Gone was kite and twine and all;

Tears were in his eyes!

“I am happy, O, how happy!”

Said a maiden young and fair;

On the air,

Scarce the words had fallen, when,

Lo! her lover, down the glen,

Now she sees,

On his knees,

Like to other men,

Vowing love to fairer maid;

Words she overheard he said

That her soul did freeze!

“I am happy, O, how happy!”

Said a gay and laughing bride;

By her side

Stood the husband of her choice,

Who did in his strength rejoice:

Months have fled;

O’er the dead

Now she lifts her wailing voice!

From her lonely pillow now

Who may lift her pallid brow?

Who may raise her head?

“I am happy, O, how happy!”

Said a mother fair and mild;

On her child

Gazing with her love-lit eyes—

The sweet cherub from the skies,

That in love,

Like a dove,

Strayed from Paradise:

Lo! the angel Death, one day,

Took her darling one away,

Beckoning her above!

“I am happy, O, how happy!”

Said a Christian on his bed,

With his head

Turned toward the setting sun:

“Soon my labor will be done,

Then will I,

With a sigh,

To the mighty One,

Who is e’er the Christian’s friend

All my anxious cares commend,

And will calmly die!”

* * * * *

STANZAS.

BY R. PENN SMITH.

The tears of morn that steep the rose

A zephyr soon may kiss away;

Sporting ’midst odor to unclose

The virgin bud to foliage gay.

But then at eve the fragrant flower,

Oppressed with dews, will droop—decay;

For zephyr hath no longer power

To kiss the dews of night away.

Our childhood’s tears like dew-drops flow;

A mother’s kiss soon dries the tear;

But tears the aged shed in wo,

Are only dried up on the bier.

* * * * *

LETTY RAWDON.

AN EPISODE IN AMERICAN LIFE.

BY THOS. R. NEWBOLD.

The ever-changing hues of the kaleidoscope, and the varying tints of our

autumnal forests do not present more changeful or varied scenes than are

to be found in real life in this country. The decay of one family, the

rise of another, depending as they do on the pecuniary fortunes of their

possessors, render American society a scene of constant excitement, and

he who is at the top of the social ladder to-day, falls to-morrow with

the fall of stocks to the bottom. The little tale which follows is but a

type of what is daily occurring around us, and is presented as a general

outline, which all may fill up at their leisure to suit their pleasure.

Letitia, or as she was usually called in her girlhood, Letty Rawdon, was

the only daughter of old Elias Rawdon, a thrifty and prosperous tailor

in the pleasant village of Middlebury. The old man had married rather

late in life, after he had in his own phrase “got a little something

snug about him.” She followed the usual course of village girls, and at

the dame’s school had learned those difficult arts of reading, writing,

and ciphering. In her young days, the road to learning was not the plank

or rail-road track on which our young people now travel so readily. The

A, B, C, required some study to ponder out, and in 179—, the portals to

learning were not thrown so wide open as they are in the year of grace

1852. Be that as it may, Letty, however, mastered them. From her

earliest years she had been an ambitious child, never content unless she

was among the foremost; as eager for superiority over her little

schoolmates in play as in study, as if she had been born to rule them.

She was not what would be termed a handsome child, but her features were

delicate, and her full hazel eye looked out from its long lashes with a

glance that showed full well the determined soul within. She was her

father’s darling, who denied her nothing, whence she soon obtained a

complete ascendancy in the dwelling of the old tailor.

When Letty was about thirteen years of age, a fashionable

boarding-school was opened in the village, and the old man yielded at

once to her wishes to become a day-scholar at it. Here her ambition

carried her rapidly onward, and if Letty, when she entered it, was

comparatively a raw, ignorant country-girl, no one who saw her at the

termination of her course of studies there, could have recognized in the

graceful, intelligent, and accomplished girl before him, the little

awkward being, who, four years before had there commenced her career.

The principal of the school, an elegant and accomplished lady, was early

attracted to her by her aptitude for learning, and her desire to acquire

it, and Letty was soon a favorite pupil. Nor whilst cultivating her mind

did she neglect her person. The elegant manners of her preceptress made

a most decided impression on her; gradually she found her own forming on

the model before her, and in process of time, though she made no

pretensions to great beauty, it would have been difficult to have found

a more attractive person than Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter.

The young men of the village and neighborhood were the first to make

this discovery, and at all the general merry-makings which occurred,

Letty Rawdon was, beyond all rivalry, the village belle. We say general

merry-makings, for our village, like all others large and small, had its

aristocracy, and in the eyes of the “upper circle,” we mean the female

part of it, of its fifteen hundred inhabitants, she was only “that

conceited, forward thing, the daughter of old Rawdon, the tailor.” Mrs.

Baxter, the wife of the leading lawyer of the place, in an interview

with Mrs. Danforth, the wife of the physician, had settled—“that,

although they supposed in their small place they must know the tailor’s

daughter when they met her in the street, or at church, or other public

place, still she was not to be on any account admitted into their set.”

How often has many a lovely girl been thus tabooed, not that she would

not confer honor on them, but she might mayhap be in the way of an

advantageous settlement of some marriageable daughters, perchance less

attractive than herself.

Letty soon found that there was a determination in the female magnates

of the village to crush her rising into any importance among them. But

the spirit of the girl rose with the occasion. In a short time it became

generally known that she was to be kept at a distance by the village

fashionables. What cared she? Her father had accumulated a snug little

competency, and few girls in the neighborhood would be as well dowered

as Letty. On this she was allowed to draw as she pleased. New and tasty

furniture adorned the best “sitting-room,” and Letty’s brilliant

performance on by far the best piano in the village, caused many a hasty

step to loiter on its way, as it passed the tailor’s door. Nor were the

listeners confined to the outside of the house, for within were

frequently found all the “most desirable” young men, who showed a

decided preference for Letty’s fine music and lively conversation, to

the more dignified, but less agreeable assemblages of the exclusives of

the place. Nor abroad did she attract less admiration than at home, and

envy itself was at length compelled to confess that Letty Rawdon was by

far the best dressed and most stylish girl in the village.

As a natural consequence, suitors followed. Phil Dubbs, the only child

of the wealthiest farmer in the neighborhood; young Harry Edmonds, just

called to the bar, and for whom his friends already predicted a

brilliant career; Edward Simpson, the junior partner of the principal

mercantile firm in the place, were prominent among these. Each wooed in

his peculiar way. Dubbs had enjoyed no advantages of education beyond

what the village grammar-school afforded; but then he was an

accomplished graduate in all rural sports. No young man in the country

had as good a horse, or rode him as well; he had the best pointers, and

was the best shot to be found in 20 miles round, and was in all such

accomplishments perfect. To him Letty was under obligations for

finishing completely one part of her education; for he broke a favorite

colt for her especial use, and under his skillful tuition she became a

fearless and accomplished horse-woman. Edmonds quoted Byron and Moore to

her constantly, when he had better have been employed over Coke and

Starkie; and spoiled as much paper in perpetrating bad verses to her, as

would have sufficed for his pleas and declarations during a year’s

practice; and Simpson never returned from “the city,” whither he went to

make the purchases of goods for his firm, without a selection of the

choicest articles for Letty’s especial use, accompanied with directions

as to the latest style of making them up.

Thus strengthened and fortified, Letty saw her foes gradually yielding

before her. One by one they surrendered at discretion, until Mrs.

Baxter, herself, at last sought the acquaintance, and at twenty years of

age, Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter, stood the supreme arbitress of

_ton_ in her native village. Although she was grateful to her allies for

the assistance they had afforded her, she was by no means disposed to

bestow herself in return on any of them. She was not one of those whose

hearts are easily won. She was prodigal of her smiles; she was ready to

do a kind act, or say a kind word, but the surrender of her heart and

hand was another matter. She was ambitious of social distinction. She

had achieved the highest place at home, and she panted for triumphs yet

to come on a wider and loftier stage. Since she had left school her time

had not been misspent. She continued to cultivate, under the tuition of

her former master, her very decided musical talents; her mind was

strengthened and enlarged by a course of judicious reading, for which

Harry Edmonds supplied her with the material; and the foreign languages

she had acquired were not forgotten. She felt herself far superior to

all her companions, and that her genius was hidden in the comparatively

obscure place in which her lot was cast.

There are few women who do not at some period or other, or in some form

or other, meet their fate in the shape of a man. Happy, they, who are

exempt from this general calamity of the sex; for calamity in too many

cases we believe it to be. For our part, we plead guilty to a sneaking

liking to single women, yclept by vulgar minds, old maids. Under this

denomination, we do not, however, include that numerous bond of “single

sisters,” hovering between the ages of 35 and 45, to whom a

superannuated bachelor, or an interesting widower, especially if he be a

parson with a half a dozen responsibilities, is a god-send. Oh, no! we

mean none of these, but one of these dignified ladies, of nameless age

and easy fortune, of whom all of us count one or more among our

acquaintance. Where are such complete establishments to be found as

among these? Go to visit them, and your ears are not deafened by a

practicing miss of 14, thumping an unfortunate piano, until if it had

any powers of speech it would certainly cry out “pianissimo;” or by one

of those lively squalls from the upper regions, which resembles nothing

earthly but the serenade of an amatory cat at midnight. From these, and

such like annoyances you are exempt, and then if you enjoy the privilege

of an intimacy which admits you to the tea-table—where else is such

superb Imperial or glorious Souchong to be found? Piping hot, it is

poured into a cup of such clean and delicate texture, that the fragrance

of the grateful shrub is heightened thereby. The water with which it has

been compounded has certainly boiled. Just the right quantity has been

admixed. It does not require to be ruined, by having a supply of tepid

water added to it after it has been poured in to your cup; nor does it

come on table a tasteless slops, at which even a four-footed animal,

unmentionable to ears polite, would utter a grunt of dissent if

presented to it. No. Commend me to one of those tea-tables. The muffins

also, are so hot, so “just done;” or the toast without being burned to a

cinder, or hardened to a board, is crisp and delightful as the most

fastidious could require. The cream, too—please do not mention it—the

same milk-man may serve her next door neighbor, but in her mansion no

skim-milk is mixed therewith, to eke out to a large family the amount

required in the compound used therein, and which is called by courtesy,

tea. And then the sugar, sparkling as so many diamonds in the antique

silver bowl in which it rests; no “broken-topped” or “crushed,” but

“Stewart’s” or “Lovering’s extra loaf” is alone used here. It sometimes

happens that a “_petit souper_” is substituted for the tea-table. The

oysters, Morris river coves, when they can be had, certainly: the

terrapins, none but the genuine Egg-harbors ever enter her doors, and

the inimitable John Irwin has exhausted on them all the resources of his

skill. All the appliances of her table are in keeping, and as you admire

the dignified courtesy with which she attends to the wants of each

guest, or leads the conversation into channels she thinks most

acceptable to those around her, the mind involuntarily recurs to the

days of hoops and hair-powder, trains and high-heeled shoes.

In those days, rail-roads were a thing which had entered into the

imagination of no man as a mode of travel, and he who should have spoken

of an iron horse rushing on his course, and drawing hundreds of human

beings after him at a speed of 30 miles an hour, would have been

considered quite as great a believer in the marvelous, as those now are,

who have faith in Paine’s light. Even post-coaches were a novelty off of

the great thoroughfares, and the public conveyance usual to such small

places as Middlebury, was the old long-bodied stage, with its three or

four seats behind the driver’s, and stowing away some ten or twelve

passengers. Blessings on those old carriages, we say. It is true, their

pace rarely got up to five miles an hour, and that at every five miles

or so they stopped “to water,” at an expense of some fifteen minutes of

time; but what of that? Minutes seem to be more valuable to travelers

now, than hours were then. But what mixed feelings did not these produce

in our bosom, when seated in the old stage on our route out of town for

the holydays, between impatience to arrive at our journey’s end, and the

airy fabrics we erected, of what we should do when we reached there.

There was the best and kindest of grandmothers as impatiently waiting

for the arrival which was to enable her to spoil “the boys” with

indulgences, as we were to be spoiled. There was the well-remembered

pony, a little less anxious we opine to be dashed around the country,

than we were to dash him. Then, there was the mill-dam, where the

many-colored sun-fish awaited our hook and worms, and the bathing-place

below the dam, where we could venture to try our newly-acquired skill

across “the hole” without danger; and the store, where gingerbread and

candy, and pipes for soap-suds bubbles were bought, with those “odd

quarters” which grandma so freely bestowed. Who can ever forget these

early days? And the deeper he sinks into the sere and yellow leaf, the

brighter do they rise up. They constitute the small portion of our lives

upon which we can look back with perfect complacency; for the light

shadows which once partially clouded them have long since faded away and

been forgotten, and nought but the memory of the bright joyous sunshine

remains.

The old stage which plied between Middlebury and the city of

Quakerdelphia, one day landed as a passenger at the former place a young

man of some thirty years of age. Whether business or pleasure attracted

him thither is of no consequence to this story, although from the

character of the man it was more probably the former. At the age of

sixteen John Smithson found himself an apprentice in a dry-goods store

of Quakerdelphia. He had come thither with a sound constitution, a good,

solid English education, such as was then less frequently obtained in

country schools than now is; great industry and indomitable

perseverance. These last traits had early attracted the attention of his

acquaintance, and his success in whatever he should undertake predicted.

He soon attracted the attention and confidence of his employers, and the

respective grades of apprentice, clerk, and junior partner were attained

by him. In the mercantile world he had for some time been noted for his

intimate acquaintance with and complete knowledge of business, and for

the integrity, straightforwardness and manliness of his character, and

no one was surprised when the senior member of the firm retired a year

before, that it took the title of Jones, Smithson & Co. John Smithson

had achieved mercantile distinction. Wealth had commenced flowing in

upon him in a continuous and unbroken stream, and a few years would in

all probability see him among the richest merchants of his adopted city.

But social distinctions were wanting to him. In his younger days he had

been too busy to think of matrimony, or indeed, of female society at

all. He was too much engaged in achieving the position he now occupied

to care much for aught else, and his intercourse with men had rubbed off

the awkward angles of the raw country lad. Still the want of refined

female society had necessarily left him without that polish which can be

derived from it alone. He occupied then no social position. His home

connection was respectable, and his growing wealth would enable him to

take a place among the magnates about him; all his future, then,

depended on his choice of a wife; for he began about this time to be

cognizant of the fact that it was high time for him to marry.

He was fully impressed with this idea when he first met Letty Rawdon,

nor did subsequent interviews with her serve to weaken the impression.

Indeed, he began to be fully convinced of the necessity of the fact, and

after paying some four or five visits to Middlebury, determined to

inquire of Letty what was her opinion on the subject. On being

interrogated by him, therefore, on this point, she still further

strengthened his determination by agreeing fully with him thereon. Here

was one point gained. Still another step, however, was to be taken. He

again had recourse to his adviser, and she, on being interrogated

whether it would be best for her to drop the name of Rawdon and take

that of Smithson, determined it also affirmatively, to the entire

satisfaction of the querist.

Letty, clear-sighted woman that she was, saw at an early period of her

acquaintance the influence she was gradually acquiring over John

Smithson. It is true he was not very handsome, but he had a manly,

intelligent face and a good figure. If he did not understand all the

mazes of a cotillion—waltzing was then unknown here, and the polka

would have horrified our reputable predecessors—he had not entirely

forgotten all the figures of the country-dance or the reel which he had

learned when a boy. He rode well, too, and often accompanied the young

lady in her gallops about the country. It is true he was more conversant

with the qualities of Yorkshire woolens or India piece-goods, than with

most of those lighter accomplishments by which alone many conceited

addle-pates think that women are to be caught. But he was by no means

uninformed. His reading had not been very extensive, but as far as it

went it had been good—history, biography, travels comprised the chief

of it—Shakspeare had, however, attracted him to his magic page, and

many an idle hour which had been spent by many of his brother clerks in

the theatre, the oyster-cellar or the billiard-room, had been passed by

him in the manner above described. He was a close observer also of men

and things, and Letty soon began to find his society much more to her

taste than that of any unmarried man with whom she had ever associated.

She then asked herself the state of her own heart. Ambitious though she

was, she was too true and honest a woman to give her hand without her

heart; and after a brief, but careful consultation with herself, decided

that she could in all honesty take him “for better, for worse, for

richer, for poorer.” In a worldly point of view it was the chance of a

lifetime. The rich and rising merchant of the great city proposing to

make her, the daughter of a village tailor, the future partner of his

greatness. Letty was not insensible to this—we will not say she was

grateful for it; she had too just an appreciation of her own merits to

be so; but she was not blind to its advantages in a worldly point of

view. Had it occurred some two years sooner, all the aristocracy of

Middlebury would have cried out “shame;” but now it was received as a

thing of course, and Smithson was warmly congratulated on his admirable

taste.

It was decided by Letty, and confirmed by Smithson, that in order to

secure high social position, a good start was necessary. There must be

no false step, no blunder at the outset. How many apparently promising

fortunes has this one false step marred. He accordingly took a good

house in the most desirable part of Hazelnut street, the very centre and

focus of fashion in Quakerdelphia. To furnish the house was in those

days the business of the wife, and Letty determined to disburse the, for

his situation, very considerable dower her father could give her, in

fitting up her new mansion, leaving it to her future lord and master to

furnish the sinews of war for carrying on the ensuing campaigns.

Accompanied by her former preceptress, the assistance of whose taste she

had evoked, Letty proceeded on her first visit to “the city.” We shall

not stop to describe her first sensations on entering so large a place.

Reading and descriptions had given her a pretty correct idea of what a

city was, and she did not, like another country-girl we have heard of,

complain “that she could not see the town for the houses.” Let not this

be considered an exaggeration, for the reverse of the case occurred in

our own presence a very few years since. We were at a country-house a

few miles from the city, when a friend of its owner arrived there,

accompanied by one of her children, a lovely little girl of some five

years of age. From some cause or other she had never since she could

remember been in the country before, and delighted with all she saw—the

trees, the green fields, the flowers, she hurried with a smiling face to

her mother, exclaiming—“Oh, mamma, is this indeed the real country?”

After a day or so devoted to sight-seeing, the serious business which

brought her there was entered upon by Letty. Cabinet-makers were

visited, upholsterers consulted, and trades-people of various kinds

looked in upon, until finally, like a genuine woman, she stopped buying,

simply because her money was all gone. Articles of _vertu_ were not so

common in those days as now, but yet our friend contrived to mingle a

good deal of the ornamental with all of the useful in her purchases, and

when, some time after, a carriage whirled to the door of a capacious

Hazelnut street mansion, and a lady and gentleman descended therefrom,

few ladies of Quakerdelphia entered a more elegant and luxurious home

than did Mrs. John Smithson when she passed its portals.

CHAPTER II.

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.

* * * * *

[Illustration: PÈRE-LA-CHAISE.

Engraved by J. A. Rolph.]

* * * * *

PÈRE-LA-CHAISE.

[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.

* * * * *

THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

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.

* * * * *

FIRST AMBITION.[11]

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.

-----

[11] From Dream Life, just published by Charles Scribner, New York.

* * * * *

THE STAR OF DESTINY.

BY ANNE G. HALE.

[It is related of Signora Angelica Kauffman, the celebrated

Italian, that when a youthful maiden, she was one evening by the

bank of her native stream, a short distance from Mount Rosa,

near the entrance of a forest, when, charmed with the beauty of

the sunset, she fell into a reverie, during which a vision

passed before her, which led her to form the resolution—which

she patiently kept—of being a painter. She afterward obtained

the prize from the Royal Academy at London, England, for her

painting of the Weeping Magdalen. _See Graham’s Magazine, Vol.

XXX._]

May, with thousand buds of beauty

Gemmeth o’er the valley’s breast,

Once again with chainless freedom

Are the Alpine streamlets blest;

Down the ancient, snow-clad mountains,

In their joy they leap and spring,

All entrancing with the music

Of the merry lay they sing.

And the haughty, towering glaciers

Gazing down so stern and wild,

Yield them to the spring-time influence,

And diffuse a radiance mild—

For the glowing sunset lingers

On those crystal turrets high,

Long beyond the sun’s departure

From the clear and cloudless sky.

Downward are the rays reflected

To each ancient forest-tree,

Standing in its solemn grandeur,

Monarch of a century;

Birds their evening hymns are singing,

And the peasant homeward hies—

’Tis the welcome hour of vespers

And from every heart they rise.

All, save one—her soul enraptured

With the splendor of the scene,

Listlessly reclines she—dreaming—

On the streamlet’s bank of green;

Thoughts of power her spirit burden

Clamorous for a garb of words,

But they strive in vain for freedom,

Speech no worthy aid affords.

Longing for the tongue of Poet,

For his language bold and grand—

Or for that high power majestic,

With which oft a master-hand

On the vague and empty canvas,

Into being life-like calls

Images first etched by Fancy,

On the mind’s eternal walls.

Dreaming on of Fame and Beauty,

Gazing still upon the sky,

Twilight gathers over nature,

Darkness draws unheeded nigh.

There before her, in the forest,

Stand the oaks in majesty—

Yet before her they are changing

To a statued gallery!

And beneath each marble statue,

There are carved upon the base,

Names that Art hath made immortal,

Names the laurel deigned to grace!

But upon one gray pedestal,

Standing statueless—alone—

She deciphers with emotion

One familiar name—_her own!_

Filled with solemn awe she lifteth

To the heavens her tearful eyes,

And above that lone pedestal

Sees a glorious star arise!

For herself prepared and ready,

(She can read the mystery,)

’Tis a niche in Fame’s high temple,

’Tis her star of destiny.

Years rolled on—that youthful vision

Haunted still the maiden’s brain,

Oft her fainting heart beguiling

Of its toil, and care, and pain;

Onward, upward still she passed,

By Ambition daily fed,

Till that star e’en as a halo

Threw its lustre round her head.

But have none, save that fair maiden,

’Neath Italia’s sunset sky,

Had pre-knowledge of the future—

Known their coming destiny?

Yea—for all—or soon or later—

Are Life’s mysteries unsealed—

If its oracle, the prescience,

Oft hath Heaven in love revealed.

Not at even, seen but dimly,

Doth the glorious scene appear,

But at noonday, in Faith’s sunlight,

Shines in truthful radiance clear;

Not a marble statue raised

By the flattering hand of Fame—

But a cross—the Cross most holy.

Lifted up in Jesus’ name!

Low upon its base, engraven

—Man—as if upon the stone

Constant tears had wrought the title,

Sadly, secretly—alone;

Upward o’er the cross appearing,

Brighter than the orbs on high,

One fair star full often blesses,

The upraised—the prayerful eye.

Let us from the heavenly vision

Comfort under trial gain;

Though upon our drooping shoulders

We the heavy Cross sustain,

Still the Star of Bethlehem shineth,

With its clear, consoling light,

And by its all-powerful glory,

Day shall take the place of night!

* * * * *

RAIL-ROAD SONG.

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.

* * * * *

CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

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.