tice to
his remains, for they were afterward, by order of government,
disinterred and thrown into a common sewer. I scarcely ever stopped on
the _Place de la Concorde_ without thinking of Charlotte Corday, and
bringing up the dreadful scene in Marat's house, and her own execution.
I fancied her as she appeared that day--a smile upon her face, a wild
enthusiastic joy in her eyes, as if she had executed her task, and was
willing, glad, to leave such a horror-stricken land. No man can doubt
the purity of Charlotte Corday's character. She was no ordinary
murderer. She did not act from the promptings of anger, or to avenge
private wrongs. She felt it to be her duty to rid France of such an
unnatural monster, and undoubtedly thought herself God's minister of
vengeance.

Another spot which may justly be denominated a place of blood, is the
Conciergerie. It is yet as grim and awful as ever, in its appearance.
The spot is still shown in the stones where the blood ran from the
swords of the human butchers. If the history of this prison were
written, it would make a dozen books, and some of the most heart-rending
tragedies would be unfolded to the world. The great and good, and the
wretchedly vile, have together lived within its walls and lost their
hopes of life, or their desire for it. I could never pass it without a
shudder, for though it was not so much a place of execution as a
prison, yet so terrible a place was it that many a prisoner has
joyfully emerged from its dark walls to the scaffold. It has witnessed
the death of many a poor man and woman, stifled with its foul air, its
horrid associations, and the future with which it terrified its inmates.
Many a noble heart has been broken in its damp and dimly-lighted cells,
for it has existed for many centuries. As early as 1400 it was the scene
of wholesale butchery, and on St. Bartholomew's night, its bells rang
out upon the shuddering air, to add their voice with the others, which
filled every heart with fear.

Paris is one of the most singular cities in the civilized world for one
thing--for the atrocities which it has witnessed. Certainly, in modern
times no city in the world has been the scene of such hideous acts as
the city of the fine arts. Deeds have been done within a century, which
would put a savage to the blush. The place is still pointed out where a
poor girl was burned by a slow fire. She had wounded a soldier, and as a
punishment, she was stripped naked, her