She exhorted him to ascend first, that his courage might not be shaken
by witnessing her death. She turned to the statue of Liberty,
exclaiming, "Oh, Liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name."
She was thirty-nine years of age, and though she ended her life thus
young, she had achieved immortality.

M. Roland was at this time in safety in Rouen, but when he heard of the
death of his noble wife, he resolved to give himself up at once to the
authorities. The interests of his child, however, tempted him to another
course. Should he give himself up he would certainly perish, and by the
law of France his possessions would be confiscated, and would not,
therefore, descend to his child. Were he to die, even by his own hand,
the case would be different--he would save the property for his child.
Five days after his wife perished upon the scaffold, he fell upon his
sword on a high road near Rouen. The following lines were found upon his
person:

"The blood that flows in torrents in my country dictates my resolve:
indignation caused me to quit my retreat. As soon as I heard of the
murder of my wife, I determined no longer to remain on an earth tainted
by crime."

I had occasion often while in Paris to cross the street of the _Ecole de
Medicine_. It is a rather pleasant street, and leads into the street of
_Ancienne Comedie_, named so after the _Theater Francaise_, which was
formerly located upon it. Just opposite it is a _cafe_ which Voltaire
used to frequent, and I have stopped to take a cup of chocolate in it.
But one day I hunted up number eighteen of the street of _Ecole de
Medicine_. The house was one which Marat used to occupy in the time of
the great revolution. We paused a moment upon the threshold, and then
passed up a flight of stairs and entered the room where Marat used to
write so many of his blood-thirsty articles. A little room at that time
opened out of it, and in the apartment was a bath-room. He often wrote
in his bath in this room.

The last day Marat lived, was the 13th of July, 1793, and it was spent
in this little room. He was the monster of the revolution, loved the
sight of blood as a tiger does, and his influence over the multitude
gave him power to sacrifice whoever he pleased. If he but pointed his
long finger at a man or woman, it was death to the victim. No one was
safe. Under his devilish prompting, already some of the truest
republicans in France had been beheaded, and every hour some u