encloses the spot where he sleeps, and on one of the rails an old soldier has scratched with his sword the three letters of his name; and this is the only inscription which marks his resting-place. As I stood over that plain grave, the dim past came rushing through my mind. The storm of battle again raged upon the earth. The solid ground shook with the clash of arms and the tramp of thousands. I was at Friedland, and Borodino, and Waterloo, and saw the magnif icent column of Ney advancing to the terrible charge, pressing into the smoke and tumult of the battle, often repulsed, torn, and mangled, but at last victorious. I heard Napoleon call him the "bravest of the brave," and saw him rush where death and danger were to be braved. The scene changes, and the battle is over. One man is led out to die. His step is firm and his head erect. With a noble declaration of fidelity to France, he is shot to appease the clamors of the Duke of Wellington, the present idol of the English nation. Buried in a dishonored grave, which none who admire personal courage and heroic devotion to country can visit without emotion, he sleeps, awaiting the sound of the last trumpet.

Connected with the cemetery is a chapel for burial services, capable of scating about three hundred persons, and is a plain stone edifice, without ornaments or decorations. While we were in the grounds, we saw an old man, with his wife, and two children, engaged in prayer over a new-made grave. The wind was playing with his waving hair, and wafting his petition up to God. A funeral came in, bearing some lowly corpse to its long home; and, as we moved away, the last sound we heard was the rattling in of the earth upon the plain and unornamented coffin. There are about sixteen thousand tombs in this cemetery.

THE MORGUE

is a place which I visited with much melancholy interest. This is a plain Doric building on the banks of the Seine, where dead bodies are brought to be recognized by friends. They are divested of their clothing, which is hung up beside them, and are allowed to remain three days, at the end of which time they are buried. They are laid out upon a brass table, or platform, behind a glass partition. The table is inclined, and the whole person may be viewed by the spectator. About three hundred a year, or nearly one a day, are brought here, most of whom are drawn from the river. I went in to this sad place on two occasions. The first time, it was empty; no human form was laid out there in the chill of death. But the second time, it was not So. Two bodies were laid out for inspection. Large numbers were continually coming and going, and an idle, morbid curiosity seemed to impel the people forward, and gather them close around the bodies. At length, a woman came with a basket on her arm. She came in careless and gay, singing some familiar song, and pressed her way up to the glass, through which she could see the bodies. She gazed a moment, turned pale, uttered a shriek, and rushed away, followed by the crowd. She had recognized in the form of one of the dead men a husband, brother, or lover, and, in the fullness of her heart, had gone away to weep.

As we left the place, the dead-cart came in with more bodies. We could not tell the number; but the man who drove it had three hats in his hand, and the load appeared to be heavy.

The stranger who is alone in Paris will have some peculiar feelings as he goes into this home of death,

and beholds the forms of the dead stretched out for recognition. He will realize his own liability to fall, stricken by the hand of disease, away from home, and in the midst of strangers, and be laid out thus, with no friend to come and recognize him, and bear him away to a distant burial.

Nor can one help inquiring as to the cause of these numerous deaths. Did they faint and fall, or did they cast themselves by design into the Seine? Were they tired of life, and did they expect to escape from misery by suicide? It is a melancholy fact that, in the midst of the gay inhabitants of Paris, suicides are terribly frequent. Almost every day, some poor fellow-creature puts an end to his own life, and goes up to meet his God a self-murderer. The pleasures of that light and glad metropolis do not make the people content with life; and weary of it, and tired of its perplexities, and with a perverted view of the future, they rush out of time into an eternity of which they know but little, and for which they are not prepared.

THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES,

or royal house for poor and infirm soldiers, is situated on the left bank of the Seine. This admirable charity was founded by Louis XIV., and is an object of great interest. It is occupied by soldiers who have been disabled, or who have served in the army thirty years; and of these there are now about three thousand. They are well cared for, well fed and clothed, all dressing in a plain, neat uniform. They have a church, library, and all the other appendages of such an institution. We rode in, passing a row of cannon, - the trophies of African conquests, along by the barracks, gazing out upon old soldiers who were thronged around,

On

some minus an eye, some a leg, and some an arm. entering, we found a company of Napoleon's old soldiers drawn up for review. Some had legs, and some had eyes; but the majority of them were in some way disabled. It was an affecting sight to see these old soldiers, whose faces will now kindle up with enthusiasm at the mention of Waterloo, Austerlitz, and Lodi. They are men who have fought under the eye of the emperor, and marched to deadly battle to the thunders of his artillery. It was some festival, and high mass was being said in the church; and we met the gov ernor of the Invalides, Jerome Bonaparte, ex-king of Westphalia, being escorted in by a company of soldiers. We knew him at once, from his resemblance to Napoleon the cocked hat, the same countenance and bearing; and I almost imagined that the emperor was again among men, and moving before me. He is a noble-looking man; and, as he moved by, we uncovered our heads, which he perceiving, and probably recognizing us as strangers, very courteously returned by removing his cocked chapeau. We followed on to the church, which is ornamented with flags, torn and bloody, which the French have taken in battle. A few years ago, there were three thousand of these trophies of war; but, on the entry of the allied forces into Paris, in 1814, Joseph Bonaparte, ex-king of Spain, commanded them to be burnt, that they might not fall into the hands of their former owners. The present

number is less; and among them is seen none taken from American ranks; the stripes and stars wave not amid those signals of blood and conquest.

In the center of the church, beneath a dome, is being built the magnificent tomb of the emperor, whose sleep at St. Helena has been broken by the clamors of pride,

and whose ashes were borne back to France, a few years ago, in funereal pomp such as the world never witnessed before; and here they will remain guarded and wept over by the veterans who have served under him in his most terrible battles.

The kitchens, dormitories, and dining-rooms are in excellent order. The various spacious apartments are hung with pictures and adorned with statues, and the whole constitutes one of the most interesting objects which a stranger can visit in the whole city.

THE GOBELINS.

The stranger in Paris will find great pleasure in visiting the manufactory of ornamental tapestry, named for one Jean Gobelin, who commenced the business some four or five centuries ago. He was succeeded by several other private persons, and the whole establishment at length fell into the hands of the government; and one hundred and twenty hands are now employed in the manufacture of the most beautiful fabrics for the state. Some of the pieces of tapestry made here require several years, and are most exquisite in their design and finish. We saw it in all the various stages of progress, and nothing can exceed the perfection to which the art is brought. Softer and richer than the nicest paintings, these pieces of tapestry are sent away to decorate the palaces of kings. I noticed particularly a very fine piece of work of this kind, nearly finished. It was a scene drawn from the history of Napoleon. He had arrived to the sad conclusion of obtaining a divorce from his beautiful empress Josephine. Actuated by political motives, and impelled by an uncontrollable ambition, he had already taken the steps necessary in such a case. A letter is sent from one of Napoleor's