marshals, announcing to the wife the plans of the emperor. This tapestry represents Josephine laying the letter before her husband, and appealing to him to deny its contents. The whole scene is one of touching beauty. Josephine is on her knees; the tears are rolling down her cheeks; the open letter is in her jeweled hands; while her whole countenance bears the marks of the most beautiful grief and anxiety. Napoleon stands before her, with scarcely less of sorrow on his own countenance; and he turns half away, to hide his feelings. Without the door are listening figures, ready to catch the words uttered, and go away and spread them through the metropolis. The figures are as large as life, and wrought in a most perfect manner. One can hardly gaze upon it without tears; and I noticed that the French stopped longer before it, and became more excited in beholding it, than in viewing any other scene.

Speaking of Josephine reminds me that the house in which she formerly lived still stands in Rue Victoire, an object of interest to the stranger. Here her youth was spent, and here she lived when a young, ardent man became her lover, and poured into her ear the tale of his passion. She was lovely, gentle, and dovelike; he was fiery, impetuous, and strong. She clung to him as the vine clings to the mighty oak. To her he here unfolded his proud projects and opened his great designs, to which she shook her head in silence. Soon he began to put these plans into execution, and at length came and led her away to the old Cathedral of Notre Dame, and placed a crown upon her head. She loved him with undying and untiring affection; his battles she watched with the most painful interest; and in all France there was not a truer heart than that

which Napoleon found, ere his dream of conquest commenced, in a cottage shaded by rich foliage, in a little lane in Rue Victoire.

One of the darkest deeds of Napoleon's history was his infamous divorce from this lovely and accomplished female. His overleaping ambition led him to it. His heart was not alienated, and he loved Josephine still; but he gave her up for the cold, half-hearted, superficial Maria Louisa, who deserted him in his misfortunes, and lived in gayety while he continued in exile.

There are also many other private residences of much historical interest, and many public buildings which are associated in the mind with the most fearful events which ever transpired in that city of crime and pleasure. These

VESTIGES OF REVOLUTIONS

are found in almost every street, and each palace and public garden has its tale of horror to tell, which makes the blood run cold, and freezes up the heart with dread. In one place, you will be stopped and pointed to the house in which Marat met his terrible end. As you see the guide tremble, you will ask him to relate the story. He will tell you of a beautiful young woman, of delicate form and fair complexion, who left her aged sire one day, placing on his table a note saying that she had gone to England, should never return, and requesting him to forget her. On she wanders, towards Paris, in the lumbering diligence. On reaching the city, she repairs to a hotel, sleeps a while, and then wanders out to purchase a sheath knife. On she goes, with the knife buried in her garments, to the house of citizen Marat. He is a coward, steeped in blood, and suspects some treachery, and will not see

her. She retires to her hotel, and writes to him urgent epistles. Of these he takes no notice. She sends again, telling him that she can unfold infamous plots, and reveal horrid purposes; but he is still afraid. At length, sick and tired, he goes into his bath; and his pursuer knocks at the door, and mingles her musical voice with the echo. The guilty Marat hears a female tone, and Marat never was insensible to female charms. He cries, "Come in ;" and Charlotte Corday stands before him. She tells him of treason; of honored men engaged in it; of the way to arrest it. His face grows pale with rage; and he seizes his pen to write the names of foes just given him, declaring, with an oath, that they shall have blood to drink. As he bends over his paper, Charlotte plunges her knife deep into his heart; and his purple gore mingles with the water of his bath, and the names which he has written are blotted out with blood. At once, Paris is in arms. The din of confusion sounds, rings, and

echoes. The woman surrenders herself into the hands of officers, and is led to the revolutionary tribunal. She owns the horrid crime, and, with exulting voice, exclaims, "I killed Marat! He was a savage beast, and his death will give repose to my bleeding country." She is doomed to die. Out goes the death cart from the gloomy prison, and in it rides Charlotte Corday, with the red death gown on, her cheeks as fair and beautiful as when, a few days ago, she left her distant home. The cart stops, and soon the executioner holds up her bleeding head, that the people may see that his work has been done faithfully. The spirit of Charlotte Corday, beautifully misguided, goes chasing the haggard soul of Marat up to the judgment seat of Christ.

In another street will be pointed out the house in

which lived Admiral Coligny, who was slain on that terrible night which preceded St. Bartholomew's day. For days previous, the unsuspecting Huguenots came pouring into the city, filling the hotels, and thronging its private residences. The night comes, and the clanging bell of St. Germaine gives the signal, and the servants of the pope are drenching their swords in Prot estant blood. Torches glare on the night, and bold crimes are committed in the streets. Already thou sands have fallen, whole families butchered, and whole kindreds swept away. The noise and confusion increase, and a vile host surrounds the hotel of the admiral, the leader of the Protestants. They force the doors; the brave Swiss guard are slain in the hall; the chamber of the sick and suffering noble is invaded; and a German menial passes a sword through the body of the veterán, and then gashes the face and hands. Below is heard the voice of the Duke of Guise, asking, "Is it done?" The assassins reply by forcing the mutilated body through the window, and hurling it upon the pavements below. The duke wipes the blood from the face, recognizes Coligny, and, kicking the lifeless clay, passes on to finish his work. Through every street goes the bloody band, with white scarfs on their arms and white crosses on their hats, from the Louvre to the Boulevards. All that day, the tide of blood flows; the houses are full of death; and the Seine is red and gory. Out goes from Paris the dreadful intelligence. The streets of Rome echo with shouts of gladness; and the pope goes to the cathedral, and celebrates high mass, and, from the high altar of St. Peter's, applauds the murderous work.

In taking another turn, we stumble upon the spot where Princess Lamballe, the unfortunate friend of