rooms; in one corner are arrangements for shooting; at a distance is a beautiful little grove, in which sits a fortune-teller, to reveal the mysterious destiny of those who are foolish enough to pay their money for such an object. In the center is an open space for dancing. The earth is hard and level, and seems well fitted for the purpose. A large orchestra is on a beautiful stand, back of this open space, discoursing sweet music. Here the young men and women of Paris come to spend their evenings in gambling, eating, or dancing. Though terribly destructive to morals as these places must from necessity be, they are, doubtless, less poisonous to society than the low dances which are held in our large cities. While there is much to intoxicate the passions, steal away the senses, and bewilder reason, there is also much to please the imagination and satisfy an innate love of the beautiful; while, in the dances among us, there is lust without beauty, and vice without taste. Every appeal is made to the lowest appetites and propensities of our fallen nature, and not one effort made to please the judgment or improve

the taste.

All the public gardens and pleasures of Paris are under the strict attention of the police, who, without uniform, are moving about in all directions. The least signs of indecorum will secure their interference; and such is the influence of this body of men, that, in all the time I remained in Paris, I did not observe one single instance of that loose, vulgar rowdyism which is so noticeable in England and America. There were no gatherings on corners of the streets, no disputes along the Boulevards, and, though the streets and pleasure grounds were thronged, none seemed to be

disposed to disorder and contention. On the countenances of the living, moving mass seemed to be the most determined good nature; and though I have been in the streets at almost all hours, yet I did not see a drunken man or a disorderly person during my whole stay in that delightful city. The most charming order seemed to prevail, not only in open sunlight, but in the dim and dismal night.

XVIII.

OBJECTS OF INTEREST IN PARIS.

THE finest view of Paris, and I think the finest view of any city I ever took, was from the top of

THE TRIUMPHAL ARCH,

situated on an elevated ground, overlooking the city. It was commenced by Napoleon, and completed in 1836, at a cost of more than ten million francs. It consists of a grand central arch, ninety feet high and forty-five feet wide, through which passes a traverse arch, scarcely less bold and magnificent in its proportions. The monument risés to a hight of one hundred and fifty-two feet, and sinks its solid stone foundation twenty-five feet below the surface of the ground. The piers and the entablature are richly ornamented with carved stone work, and form one of the most magnificent triumphal arches in the world. The ascent is obtained by a flight of two hundred and sixty-one steps; and when, at the expense of weary limbs, it is reached, one of the finest prospects conceivable bursts upon the sight. For an hour, I stood looking down upon the city which spread out before me. The Champs Elysees, with the spacious avenue, was thronged with people. Beyond, the palaces were glistening in the sun; the Notre Dame and the Pantheon lifted up large towers and domes, like monuments amid a sea of habitations, the ornamented columns pointing upward, like

the fingers of a giant; the broad, flat roof of La Madaleine stretched out like a plain; while all around, a beautiful country was spread in every direction. I have stood upon the dome of St. Paul's, in London, and St. Peter's, in Rome; but I do not remember a finer view than that which is obtained from the top of the triumphal arch. The view from the dome of St. Paul's is destroyed by the dim, hazy atmosphere, and the perpetual fogs which hang over London. That obtained from St. Peter's is broken by ruins, and marked by the signs of decay every where observable.

Another fine view of Paris is obtained from

PERE LA CHAISE,

the beautiful cemetery north-east of the city. For a long time, this lovely spot, where the dead now sleep, was the garden of a convent, and gloomy friars roamed where now reigns the silence of death. In 1804, it was purchased and laid out as a burial-place, and is now the most noted cemetery in the world. I do not think it so beautiful as Mount Auburn or Laurel Hill. There is a crowded appearance, which detracts much from its solemn and mournful aspect. It is filled with monuments, chapels, urns, and other funereal ornaments. The most striking feature of this place is the great number of little chapels, erected over different graves, large enough to hold two or three persons, and in which are chairs, an altar, and a crucifix. To these chapels friends repair to weep, and to pray for the souls of those whose ashes are beneath. The tombs are also covered with wreaths, flowers, and votive offerings of every description. The long street leading to the cemetery is filled with women and children braiding wreaths and making artificial flowers, which friends purchase as

they enter, and leave upon the grave. A description of one of these monumental chapels will give a general idea of the whole. The one which I sketched was of soft sandstone, Corinthian architecture, seven feet long and four feet wide. A man could stand upright in it. The walls were thin, and the door of iron trellised work, through which the interior could be seen. It was furnished with a chair, a prayer book, several pots of the geranium, a vase of natural flowers, a kneeling statue, a silver crucifix, a miniature daguerreotype, a mourning picture, and some twenty-five wreaths of artificial flowers. A little table on which some of these things stood was covered with white muslin, and the floor neatly spread with painted carpet. In the rear, behind the altar, or table, was a small stained glass window; and the whole structure was neat and beautiful. The cemetery, which has about one hundred acres, is filled up with chapels and monuments, beneath which sleep in death many who were once loved and honored in life. One of the most conspicuous monuments here is that of the two lovers, Abelard and Heloise, whose story is better known to all the ladies than it is to me. It is built out of the materials of the abbey which was founded by Abelard, and of which his unfortunate companion was the first abbess. No stranger goes to that cemetery without inquiring for this remarkable tomb, and none turn from it without an expression of pity for the fate of those whose death it is designed to commemorate.

The burial-place of Marshal Ney, whose only crime was that he loved his country too well, is here. After having fought the battles and avenged the wrongs of France, he was condemned and shot as a traitor; and his ashes are here, without a monument. An iron fence