[to be continued.]
[CHARLOTTE CORDAY.]
Charlotte Corday is remembered as the assassin of the wicked Marat. No one was ever more cruel than Marat. He was one of the worst of the French Jacobins at Paris, who in 1793 practiced every kind of crime. They professed to be freemen, but were tyrants more cruel than Nero. They filled Paris with murders, executions, and every kind of misery. No one's life or property was safe, and Marat, who was now their leader, constantly urged them to new cruelty. He seemed to the people of Paris and all the world a savage monster who could only live amidst bloodshed and crimes, and had begun in France what is known as the "Reign of Terror."
There lived in the country a young girl whose intended husband, it is said, had been put to death at the suggestion of Marat. Her name was Charlotte Corday. She was about twenty-five years old, fond of reading and study, tall and beautiful, when she resolved to kill Marat. If she could destroy the monster, she thought she would save the republic and revenge her lost lover. In July, 1793, Charlotte bade her father good-by in a short note, and set out from a friend's house at Caen on her journey to Paris. She hoped to make her way into the famous club of the Jacobins, and stab Marat in the midst of his guilty companions.
Early on the second morning after she had reached Paris she went to the Palais Royal, bought a knife, and drove to the house of Marat. He had been for some time unwell, and unable to join his companions at the Jacobin Club. Charlotte was refused admittance, and went away disappointed. She went back to her hotel, wrote a short note to Marat, telling him that she wished to see him on business of importance to France, and once more returned to his house. She sent up the note. Marat read it, and ordered her to be admitted. He was in his bath; Charlotte stood alone before her victim. It was the 13th of July, 1793, about eight in the evening.
She told him of some events at Caen. Marat asked the names of the deputies from Caen, and began to write down a list of them to have them put to death. The guillotine was an instrument then employed to cut off people's heads; and Marat said, "Let them all be guillotined."
"Guillotined!" exclaimed Charlotte, with horror, and plunged the knife into Marat's heart.
"Help!" he cried; "help, my dear!"
His housekeeper and some others ran into the room. He was seen lying covered with blood, and Charlotte standing motionless beside him.
PAINTING THE PORTRAIT OF CHARLOTTE CORDAY ON THE EVE OF EXECUTION.
A crowd gathered around the house; they carried her away to prison. She was brought to trial before the Revolutionary judges, and showed no signs of emotion or fear. "It was I that killed Marat," she said. She was condemned to death. She wrote to her father, asking his forgiveness for having given her life to her country. On the 15th of July she was led through the streets of Paris to the scaffold. Many of the people followed her with applause and cries of sympathy. She smiled as her head was cut off, looking beautiful even in death.
Marat, her victim, was buried by his fellow Jacobins with a great display. His body was covered with flowers, and his bust or statue appeared in every part of Paris. The Reign of Terror went on for two years longer. The murders and executions were fearful. But at last Robespierre, Marat's successor, was killed, and the murderers were punished. Marat's four thousand busts were thrown down, and his grave dishonored.
As for Charlotte Corday, she was a murderess roused to madness by the crimes of her victim.
[HOW "THE BABY" WENT NUTTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.]
BY KATE UPSON CLARK.
"Beats all," said good old Mr. Hurlbut to good old Mrs. Hurlbut, as he laid down the paper from which he had been reading—"beats all what mizzable little fellers some o' them poor children in the city be. It seems a good many folks on farms, like us, Sereny, have took 'em in 'n' kep' 'em a spell. Must 'a done the poor little things good. Law! makes me feel bad."
Good Farmer Hurlbut took off his spectacles and wiped them with great thoroughness. He was thinking not only of the little newsboys, and the other poor children of whom he had been reading, in the city, fifty miles away, but of a certain little boy of his own and "Sereny's," who had gladdened their home for nine short years, and then had died, leaving them desolate indeed, but with a warm place in their hearts for all his kind.
Presently Farmer Hurlbut spoke again, and, it seemed to Aunt Sereny, rather irrelevantly:
"Lots o' nuts this year up in the north pastur. The clump o' chestnuts is fuller 'n ever—the biggest chestnuts I ever see; 'n' up higher there's more walnuts 'n' butternuts than you ever see in your life. Guess we'll have to go over and get George's folks 'n' Eliza Jane 'n' the girls, 'n' have a picnic some warm day up there, and gather 'em."
"Yes, we must," assented kind Aunt Sereny.
"It would be sorter nice for them poor little fellers in the city to take a day off in the woods so," continued Farmer Hurlbut, jerking his thumb toward the paper from which he had been reading.
"Yes, it would," concurred Aunt Sereny.
"But," went on Farmer Hurlbut, with a puzzled expression, "how to get at 'em—that's the question."
"I should think so," said Aunt Sereny, whose sole mission in life was to agree and to smooth over and to dispense peace generally.
Suddenly Farmer Hurlbut seized his paper, and began to look over what he had been reading, passing his finger patiently along the lines.
"I thought so!" he exclaimed at last, pinning a particular place with his big thumb. "I thought I see the name of the superintendent of the society, 'n' I did. He'd know, I s'pose."
"Know what?" asked his wife, mildly.
"Why, how to get at 'em."
"Oh!" Aunt Sereny brightened up wonderfully.
"How d'ye s'pose 'twould do to ask a whole raft on 'em to come?" asked Farmer Hurlbut, reflectively.
"I'd be kinder afraid on 'em, so many, seems to me"—with a little deprecatory laugh.
"Thet's so," said her considerate husband. "They be wild little critters, so I've heerd. Mebby five or six would be enough. My! how their eyes would shine to see them nuts!"
Aunt Sereny laughed—a wholesome, sunshiny laugh as ever was heard.
"'N' I know," continued Farmer Hurlbut, affectionately, "that you'd feed 'em up, 'n' pet 'em, 'n' do 'em more good 'n all the mission schools in creation."
Aunt Sereny protested modestly, but was sure she would be willing to try and see what she could do.
There was a little time of silence, during which the clock struck nine.
"Wa'al, what say, Sereny?" said the old farmer at last.
The old lady understood him perfectly.
"I say, Josiah," she replied, with considerable emphasis—"I say, do just as you've a mind to."
The consequence of this conversation was a letter from Farmer Hurlbut to the superintendent, and later, the appearance of six ragged boys, equipped with bags, on a pleasant Wednesday morning in early November, at the railroad station in the city, ready to take the train which would reach Farmer Hurlbut's at nine o'clock in the forenoon. That is, six boys were expected. But when the gentleman who was waiting at the station to put the little party on the cars came to count them, behold! there was a seventh figure, very much smaller than any of the rest, holding on tight to a bigger boy's hand.
It was a shrunken little mite, with a big coat on it that came to the floor, and a hat that must have belonged to somebody's grandpa—a comical, pitiful, heart-breaking little figure as ever was seen.
"Who's that, Tim?" asked the gentleman of the boy to whose hand the little creature was desperately clinging. He didn't know Tim very well, and had never encountered this tiny object before.
"I don't know as you'll like it," gasped Tim, apparently in great terror lest he was going to be circumvented, "but it's the Baby, 'n' he's five years, on'y he's little, 'cause he hasn't growed, 'n' he's been sick, 'n' mother said as how a whiff o' country'd do him good, 'n' mebby he could go 'stead o' me. Philly here'll see to him."
"Yes, sir," said Phil Barstow, whose outfit was only less imposing than the Baby's own. "I know the Baby, 'n' the Baby knows me, 'n' if you think it's too many for Tim to go too, we kinder decided—Tim's mother 'n' Tim 'n' me—that mebby the Baby'd better go 'stead o' Tim, or," added Phil, with unexpected heroism, and swallowing hard, "or 'stead o' me."
"It's all right," said the gentleman, who was sure, from the tone of Farmer Hurlbut's letter, that he wouldn't mind having seven any more than six. "It's all right, Tim. Now take good care of him, and sit still, all of you."
So "the Baby" was put on board, and the cars moved slowly off.
At the end of their journey, there was Farmer Hurlbut with his big lumber wagon, which had three boards laid across it for seats. The boys, with their bags and their dreadful costumes, filed out as soon as the train stopped, their glowing faces revealing unmistakably their identity.
They were immediately pounced upon and conveyed to their seats in the wagon, where Aunt Sereny was waiting for them.
Farmer Hurlbut was overflowing with joviality and good-humor. Two great suggestive baskets and a mighty jug were packed into the front of the wagon, and behind were various boxes and barrels to hold the surplus nuts.
"And who's this?" asked Aunt Sereny, beaming delightfully from the front seat of the wagon, and fixing her gaze particularly upon the forlorn little straggler clinging tight to Tim's hand.
"Please, mum," said Tim, eagerly, "it's the Baby, 'n' he's sick, 'n' mother was for havin' him come 'stead o' me, but they said mebby you'd take us both."
"Take you both!" exclaimed the dear old lady, wiping her eyes vigorously, and kissing the Baby's weazened little face, "I guess we will! It'll do him good, likely's not, bless his heart! Josiah, mebby"—as the horses started off briskly—"mebby," significantly, "the boys are hungry after their journey. Just get out the little tin cups 'n' I'll give them a drink o' milk apiece, 'n' mebby a sandwich 'n' a turn-over as we're riding along. It's a good ways up to the north pastur'," continued the old lady, as she dealt out the things liberally, and watched them grasped eagerly by the half-starved little creatures.
"There's plenty, boys; eat all you want. Goodness me! Josiah Hurlbut," she whispered to her husband, "they haven't had nothing to eat for a week—I know they haven't!"
But the chief ecstasy was on the back seat, where the Baby was ensconced between Tim and Philly, and eagerly swallowing a cup of Aunt Sereny's rich yellow milk.
"Massy, Phil," cried Tim, admiringly, "see the Baby a-drinkin'! How does it taste, Baby?—good?"
The Baby nodded, a grave smile settling upon his poor little visage under the big hat.
"More," he said, weakly.
"More! My gracious!" said Tim, in the wildest spirits—"more! He wants more, Philly. Hain't et or drinked so much as this for a month, I sh'd think. Can he have some more, mum?" reaching out a claw-like hand with the tin cup, which went back brimming full.
Pretty soon the boys began to talk.
"See there!—quick! That's a squirrel, boys—a reg'lar squirrel. Ever see one before?"
"Trout in that brook, bet you a cent, boys! Won't the rest o' the fellers stare when we tell 'em what we've seen?"
"Are there more nuts 'n that"—pointing to a heavily laden tree which they were passing—"in the place we're going to?"
"Humph!" returned Farmer Hurlbut, the sight of whose ponderous fist had impressed his wild little crew as much perhaps as his kindness and generosity; "there's more nuts up in the north pastur', where we're a-goin', than you'll see all the way put together."
In about an hour the north pastur' was reached, and the boys tumbled out of the wagon amid a jumble of sweet-fern and pennyroyal, and other sweet woodsy-smelling things.
Aunt Sereny found a comfortable seat near by, and fell to knitting as usual, and Farmer Hurlbut, going to a thicket close at hand, pulled out two long stout poles, which he had prepared for this very occasion, and laid away a week before.
Then Jim Bowker and Sammy Jones, two of the biggest boys, were sent up two of the best trees, and once well up, they lay flat along the great branches, and plied the poles vigorously. The glossy brown nuts and prickly burrs came flying "fast and furious."
The Baby crept timidly out of the wild bombardment, and sat down beside the ample figure of Aunt Sereny. His tiny hand—the fac-simile of Tim's only less skinny—grasped her dress firmly. Aunt Sereny put her hand into her pocket and drew forth unheard-of treasures of peppermints, sweet-flag root, and caraway-seeds. These the Baby gravely took and devoured.
Noon coming ever so much too soon, Aunt Sereny, amid great applause, suggested something more in the line of refreshments. She accordingly spread a white cloth over a great flat rock, and set forth a feast calculated to drive a hungry boy crazy with delight. Even the Baby fairly laughed aloud.
"I tell you, boys," said Tim, springing to his feet as he heard it, and even dropping a precious tart in his enthusiasm—"I tell you the Baby hasn't laughed like that since I can remember. Hi! ain't it jolly?"
The meal fairly over, they lay a little while on the warm dry grass enjoying the mild sunshine, Aunt Sereny knitting peacefully on. Two or three boys dozed a little, and the Baby crept up to his old place beside Aunt Sereny, and gathering up his tiny figure upon her dress, went fast asleep. She spread a light shawl over him, and drew him closer, amid affectionate and admiring glances from Tim. Tim adored anybody who was good to the Baby.
Pretty soon Farmer Hurlbut roused them up to go to the walnut-trees, and two other boys were detailed for duty in the branches, which they beat and beat again with their poles. "Shucks" were new things to them all.
"Shure enough," said Larry O'Brien, with a fine brogue, "and now I'll know what they mane whin they say I don't know shucks—but I do, though."
This caused an uproarious laugh, and Larry kept on saying witty things, to the great amusement of all. Not Sydney Smith himself was ever the source of more delight.
The train was to start at five, and it was nearly that time when the tired, sunburned, happy little crowd drew up at the railroad station. Aunt Sereny had been having a whispered consultation with Farmer Hurlbut on the way home, and when they stopped, she took Tim and the Baby aside.
"Tim," she said, "can't you leave the Baby with us a little while—to stay a week or two, you know? You tell me where to write, and I'll let your mother know how he gets along. We'll take good care of him."
Tim gazed at her with open mouth and shining eyes. "The Baby?" he gasped. "Why—mother—and—me" (slowly) "can't get along 'thout the Baby. He sleeps with me"—his lip trembling—"every night. Seems 's if I couldn't sleep nohow 'thout his little hand hold o' mine."
"But he says he'd like to stay," Aunt Sereny answered, coaxingly. "I asked him"—for the mite had ridden home in Aunt Sereny's lap.
"Does he?" said Tim, brightening. "If he wants to—mebby—well—D'ye s'pose mother'd like it?"
But Aunt Sereny settled Tim's doubts, and the train finally rolled away without the Baby.
There he staid at the farm-house, and grew so strong and well that he was allowed to remain for many a long year. Tim and his tired, overworked widowed mother became frequent visitors to the same hospitable spot, as well as the rest of the boys who had formed the memorable nutting party. In fact, a nutting party in the north pastur' became an annual institution, which continues to the present time.
[A PRIVATE CIRCUS.]
BY JIMMY BROWN.
There's going to be a circus here, and I'm going to it; that is, if father will let me. Some people think it's wrong to go to a circus, but I don't. Mr. Travers says that the mind of man and boy requires circuses in moderation, and that the wicked boys in Sunday-school books who steal their employers' money to buy circus tickets wouldn't steal it if their employers, or their fathers or uncles, would give them circus tickets once in a while. I'm sure I wouldn't want to go to a circus every night in the week. All I should want would be to go two or three evenings, and Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. There was once a boy who was awfully fond of going to the circus, and his employer, who was a very good man, said he'd cure him. So he said to the boy: "Thomas, my son, I'm going to hire you to go to the circus every night. I'll pay you three dollars a week, and give you your board and lodging, if you'll go every night except Sunday: but if you don't go, then you won't get any board and lodging or any money." And the boy said, "Oh, you can just bet I'll go!" and he thought everything was lovely; but after two weeks he got so sick of the circus that he would have given anything to be let stay away. Finally he got so wretched that he deceived his good employer, and stole money from him to buy school-books with, and ran away and went to school. The older he grew the more he looked back with horror upon that awful period when he went to the circus every night. Mr. Travers says it finally had such an effect upon him that he worked hard all day and read books all night just to keep it out of his mind. The result was that before he knew it he became a very learned and a very rich man. Of course it was very wrong for the boy to steal money to stay away from the circus with, but the story teaches us that if we go to the circus too much, we shall get tired of it, which is a very solemn thing.
We had a private circus at our house last night—at least that's what father called it, and he seemed to enjoy it. It happened in this way. I went into the back parlor one evening, because I wanted to see Mr. Travers. He and Sue always sit there. It was growing quite dark when I went in, and going toward the sofa, I happened to walk against a rocking-chair that was rocking all by itself, which, come to think of it, was an awfully curious thing, and I'm going to ask somebody about it. I didn't mind walking into the chair, for it didn't hurt me much, only I knocked it over, and it hit Sue, and she said, "Oh my, get me something quick!" and then fainted away. Mr. Travers was dreadfully frightened, and said, "Run, Jimmy, and get the cologne, or the bay-rum, or something." So I ran up to Sue's room, and felt round in the dark for her bottle of cologne that she always keeps on her bureau. I found a bottle after a minute or two, and ran down and gave it to Mr. Travers, and he bathed Sue's face as well as he could in the dark, and she came to and said, "Goodness gracious, do you want to put my eyes out?"
"OH, MY!"
Just then the front-door bell rang, and Mr. Bradford (our new minister) and his wife and three daughters and his son came in. Sue jumped up and ran into the front parlor to light the gas, and Mr. Travers came to help her. They just got it lit when the visitors came in, and father and mother came down stairs to meet them. Mr. Bradford looked as if he had seen a ghost, and his wife and daughters said, "Oh my!" and father said, "What on earth!" and mother just burst out laughing, and said, "Susan, you and Mr. Travers seem to have had an accident with the inkstand."
You never saw such a sight as those poor young people were. I had made a mistake, and brought down a bottle of liquid blacking—the same that I blacked the baby with that time. Mr. Travers had put it all over Sue's face, so that she was jet black, all but a little of one cheek and the end of her nose, and then he had rubbed his hands on his own face until he was like an Ethiopian leopard, only he could change his spots if he used soap enough.
You couldn't have any idea how angry Sue was with me—just as if it was my fault, when all I did was to go up stairs for her, and get a bottle to bring her to with; and it would have been all right if she hadn't left the blacking bottle on her bureau; and I don't call that tidy, if she is a girl. Mr. Travers wasn't a bit angry; but he came up to my room and washed his face, and laughed all the time. And Sue got awfully angry with him, and said she would never speak to him again after disgracing her in that heartless way. So he went home, and I could hear him laughing all the way down the street, and Mr. Bradford and his folks thought that he and Sue had been having a minstrel show, and mother thinks they'll never come to the house again.
As for father, he was almost as much amused as Mr. Travers, and he said it served Sue right, and he wasn't going to punish the boy to please her. I'm going to try to have another circus some day, though this one was all an accident, and of course I was dreadfully sorry about it.
LAWN TENNIS TOURNAMENT AT THE ST. GEORGE'S CLUB GROUND, HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY, OCTOBER 27, 1881.