all Paris sounding, in wonder, in rage or admiration, round her. Duperret is put in arrest, on account of her; his Papers sealed, -which may lead to consequences. Fauchet, in like manner; though Fauchet had not so much as heard of her. Charlotte, confronted with these two Deputies, praises the grave firmness of Duperret, censures the dejection of Fauchet.

On Wednesday morning, the thronged Palais de Justice and Revolutionary Tribunal can see her face; beautiful and calm: she dates it "fourth day of the Preparation of Peace." A strange murmur ran through the Hall, at sight of her; you could not say of what character. Tinville has his indictments. and tape papers: the cutler of the Palais Royal will testify that he sold her the sheath knife; "All these details are needless," interrupted Charlotte; "it is I that killed Marat." By whose instigation?" By no one's." What tempted you, then? His crimes. "I killed one man," added she, raising her voice extremely (extrêmement), as they went on with their questions, "I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; a villain to save innocents; a savage wild beast to give repose to my country. I was a Republican before the Revolution; I never wanted energy." There is therefore nothing to be said. The public gazes astonished: the hasty limners sketch her features, Charlotte not disapproving: the men of law proceed with their formalities. The doom is Death as a murderess. To her Advocate she gives thanks; in gentle phrase, in highflown classical spirit. To the Priest they send her she gives thanks; but needs not any shriving, any ghostly or other aid from him.

On this same evening, therefore, about half-past seven o'clock, from the gate of the Conciergerie, to a City all on tiptoe, the fatal Cart issues; seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in red smock of Murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life; journeying toward death, -alone amid the World. Many take off their hats, saluting reverently; for what heart but must be touched? Others growl and howl. Adam Lux, of Mentz, declares that she is greater than Brutus; that it were beautiful to die with her: the head of this young man seems turned. At the Place de la Révolution, the countenance of Charlotte wears the same still smile. The executioners proceed to bind her feet; she resists, thinking it meant as an insult; on a word of explanation, she submits with cheerful apology. As the last act, all being now ready, they take the

neckerchief from her neck: a blush of maidenly shame overspreads that fair face and neck; the cheeks were still tinged with it when the executioner lifted the severed head, to show it to the people. "It is most true," says Forster, "that he struck the cheek insultingly; for I saw it with my eyes: the Police imprisoned him for it."

In this manner have the Beautifulest and the Squalidest come in collision, and extinguished one another. Jean-Paul Marat and Marie-Anne Charlotte Corday both, suddenly, are no more. "Day of the Preparation of Peace?" Alas, how were peace possible or preparable, while, for example, the hearts of lovely Maidens, in their convent stillness, are dreaming not of Love paradises and the light of Life, but of Codrus' sacrifices and Death well earned? That 25,000,000 hearts have got to such temper, this is the Anarchy; the soul of it lies in this; whereof not peace can be the embodiment! The death of Marat, whetting old animosities tenfold, will be worse than any life. O ye hapless Two, mutually extinctive, the Beautiful and the Squalid, sleep ye well, in the Mother's bosom that bore you both!

This is the History of Charlotte Corday; most definite, most complete; angelic-demonic: like a Star! Adam Lux goes home, half delirious; to pour forth his Apotheosis of her, in paper and print; to propose that she have a statue with this inscription, Greater than Brutus. Friends represent his danger; Lux is reckless; thinks it were beautiful to die with her.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[1777-1844.]

Or Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown!

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's Crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone:

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat

Lay their bulwarks on the brine
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime.
As they drifted on their path

There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between:

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried: when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a death shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom;

Then ceased;-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail,

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the Victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave:

"Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save,

So peace instead of death let us bring!

But yield, proud foe! thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,

And make submission meet

To our king!"

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose:
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As Death withdrew his shades from the day;