whose only crime seemed to be that she was of the house of Austria, were carried to the guillotine, and inhumanly murdered, they were put into coarse coffins, and buried in a little cemetery belonging to the church of La Madaleine. On the records of that church is now a charge like this: "For the coffin of the widow Capet, seven francs;" and this was the whole sum laid out for the interment of the gifted, beautiful, and high born queen, whose word-once made proud nobles tremble. With her husband, she was placed in an unhonored grave; and the ground was afterwards purchased by a stern royalist, who planted it as an orchard, that the traces of the graves might not lead to a discovery, fearing that, in some wild and terrible moment, the populace might dig up the bones, and insult even their decay. When monarchy was restored, the ground was purchased by government, and a neat chapel erected over the spot where the king and queen were interred. To this chapel thousands come to wonder at the violence which it commemorates. Up to the present year, there has been one visitor whose heart must have bled at the very sight of its beautiful walls, and in memory of the fate of those who were laid beneath it. I refer to the Duchess of Angouleme, who, during the present year, (1851,) has been called from earth. She was the daughter of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette. the time of the murder, she was but a child; and, with her brother, the dauphin, then only seven years old, was shut up in a dark and gloomy dungeon. The boy was soon let out to a brutal keeper, who had orders not to kill him, but to get rid of him. Hence every indignity was heaped upon him. For a whole year, his clothes were not changed; and for six months, his bed was not made. Under such treatment, the young

At

prince wasted away, and died in June, 1795. His sister survived, and was treated with brutal violence, until the Austrian government induced the French to give her up, in exchange for some prisoners of war; and she was taken to the court of Vienna, with a wasted frame and a broken heart. She has since passed through various changes, having been married, elevated, and a second time driven into banishment, until now she has found shelter in the grave. To her, this chapel, which marks the spot where her parents were buried, must have been an object of great interest; and, every year since, she has been furnished with a bouquet of flowers from the spot, over which she has wept and mused, until, entirely withered, she has cast them away. The

CHAPEL OF ST. FERDINAND

is also an object of much interest. It was erected to commemorate the death of the Duke of Orleans, who came to an untimely end in 1842. He was out, riding in his carriage, when the horses became unmanageable; and, in endeavoring to leap to the ground, his foot was entangled, and, being precipitated to the earth, his skull was fractured. He was taken and carried into a grocery on the spot where the chapel now stands. His father, Louis Philippe, and the other members of the royal family, were soon on the ground; but the unfortunate young man died in a few hours after. The old grocery was taken down, and a chapel, dedicated to St Ferdinand, was erected on the spot. The chapel has seats for about fifty persons, and is fifty feet long, built in Gothic style. Opposite the doorway is the altar, and over it a statue of the Virgin and Child. On the left side of the chapel is another altar. On the right is a beautiful group of statuary, representing the prince on

his death bed, with an angel kneeling over him. This angel was the work of the Princess Marie, the deceased sister of the duke, who little dreamed that she was fashioning the marble for the monumental tomb of her brother. Behind the altar is the little room in which the prince died, remaining nearly as at that time. A few rough chairs, a confessional and crucifix, constitute the only furniture. On one side is a mournful picture representing the death scene as it actually occurred. The duke is stretched upon a bed, pale and bleeding. The king holds his hands, with a countenance full of the deepest grief; the queen and many of the nobles are looking on or weeping in the most abject sorrow; while a robed priest, with a benign countenance, adds to the effect of the scene.

The Duke of Orleans was very popular with the people, and had he been alive his father would hardly have been driven from his throne in the late revolution; or if this had been the case, his son would have been allowed to assume the reins of government without resistance. The next son of the king was as unpopular as the Duke of Orleans was beloved; and when the tide of anarchy came surging against the throne of Louis Philippe, he had no one to roll it back again. The son of the Duke of Orleans, the Count of Paris, is still alive; and if ever the tide turns again in favor of monarchy, as it surely will, the count, who is now but a child, will be the most likely to ascend the throne. He is said to be a boy of good parts, an amiable disposition, but somewhat destitute of energy and decision. God grant that the time may not soon come when France, and gay, beautiful Paris shall be again deluged with blood.

XVII.

PARISIAN LIFE.

ONE cannot fail to observe that the Parisians are very much devoted to light amusements. The evidence of this fact meets you at every corner, and in every great gathering. These amusements are generally of the lightest and most trivial kinds; and however devoted an Englishman or an American might be to pleasure, he would soon tire and weary himself with the vain and foolish sports which engross so much of the time of the middle and lower classes of Paris. great pleasure grounds are the

CHAMPS ELYSEES,

The

a fine promenade, striking west from Place de la Con corde one and a quarter miles, laid out with foot and carriage paths, and forming a beautiful resort for the gay and fashionable crowds, who sit and walk by hours, hearing sweet music, and witnessing gay scenes. Trees finely trimmed, and hedges carefully trained, give shelter from the sun, while thousands of chairs and benches furnish seats when the people are weary. These grounds are let for panorama and other exhibitions, from which an income is derived of about twenty thou sand francs per annum. On the afternoon or evening of any pleasant day, thousands of persons are seen moving about under the trees, or resting themselves on the benches, or enjoying some of the sports of the place

and occasion. On Sabbath day, the crowd swells to tens of thousands, and, in holiday attire, move about without the least noise or confusion. The appearance of these grounds is much like the appearance of one of our muster fields, but without the confusion and noise of the latter. Let me describe the Champs Elysees, as I first saw them. Approaching by the Rue St. Honore, the grounds presented themselves to my sight, filled with fifty thousand persons. All kinds of amusements seemed to be in progress. Beneath the trees, young men, in large numbers, were engaged in the various games calculated to give strength and vigor to the muscular system. On both sides of the Avenue de Neuilly, which is twelve feet wide, and paved with bitumen, were pavilions, richly decorated and finely illuminated, radiant with all the colors of the rainbow, and flowing with banners, ribins, pennants, and laces. These were open on one side, and filled with singers. In front were about one hundred tables, with two chairs to each. The whole was enclosed with ropes, without which stood thousands looking on and listening to the fine singing and music. Any person was allowed to go in, and sit down on the chairs, and use the tables, without charge, but was expected to order wine and refreshments. Husbands and wives, lovers and ladies, parents and children, were here sipping wine and eating ices, and enjoying the occasion. The singers were dressed in the hight of French fashion, gesticulated with French vehemence, and drew shouts of applause from French auditors. On one occasion, seeing other people entering the enclosure, a friend and myself took our seats with the rest. Soon a waiter camè, and asked us, in indifferent English, what we would have. We told him we did not wish to drink,