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 propor tions. The monument rises 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

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 seating 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.