crucifixes, confessionals, pulpits, chapels, shrines, and fine and rare statues and paintings illustrating the birth, life, death and resurrection of Christ, and the history of saints and nations of later times. I sometimes think I would be almost happy if I could describe clearly to our readers these scenes of grandeur and glory, for more than once in the presence of great works of art and rare music did my soul melt and my eyes reveal the fact in glistening drops like dew, while I, in a figure, bowed one knee to the worker below and one knee to the Master above. Our guide said: "There, behind the pulpit, three hundred Communists were killed," and as we went out he showed us where balls and bullets had scarred the columns and walls during a struggle with Communists. As we drove by the Luxor obelisk, in the Place de la Concorde, he said: "There is where the Guillotine stood, and here is where foreign armies have encamped." And driving along the Champs Elysées we came to the Panorama of Rezonville, which is a representation of an awful battle between the French and Germans, in which nearly thirty-four thousand lives were lost. We enter a building, and, going through a dark passage, go up into a circular room which appears to be in the centre of a large and bloody battle-field; motion and noise are the only things lacking to make it appear entirely real. It is thrilling, awful and graphic, like a bloody battle-scene suddenly frozen or struck into silence and immovability by power superhuman. You see the sky and clouds above, the fields, woods and mountains near and many miles away. The smoke hangs over

the cannon, the bombs are suspended in air. Thousands of soldiers and horses; some charging with banners, and many fallen, bleeding and dying. Here is the dusty road of midsummer, broken fences, wasted harvests, houses on fire, dust upon the weeds, gravel, and leaves of plants and trees, broken guns, wrecked wagons, torn horses, and men fearfully mangled. The scene was awfully real-quite real enough. The painters, Messrs. de Neuville and Detaille, are indeed great artists. We could not tell how near we were to the canvass or surface upon which these awful scenes were so vividly portrayed. Going on by the Arc de Triomphe, we arrive at the Trocadéro Palace and Gardens.

Here our party, or those who wished to pay a small fee, were hoisted by a grand hydraulic lift to the top of the great tower, nearly three hundred feet above the Seine, where is had one of the grandest views of the city. The morning is clear. The guide said: "We burn gas and charcoal, and that leaves our atmosphere clear. This circle below us is the largest dome on earth, and the festival hall beneath it contains seven thousand seats in red velvet." Underneath is a great aquarium, and there in front is the immense cascade which falls over eight plateaux. Yonder is the Pantheon, the Notre Dame, the Hotel des Invalides with its beautiful gilded dome rising three hundred and forty feet from the ground. Yes, here on every hand is beautiful Paris; flowers in full bloom and fountains in full play; and our party, composed of people from distant lands, is jocular and joyous. There, just across the Seine, in a great, open space,

where a world's fair was held in 1878, they are now erecting a vast steel tower.

This lofty tower is to surpass all the towers of the earth. It will eclipse the towers of the brick age, the granite age, and the golden age. Yes, this iron and steel age surpasses the age when nations chiseled cathedrals out of rocky mountains and windowed them with rainbows, and bribed Old Ocean, and thunder storms, and birds, and æolian harps to make music among their everlasting pillars. This daring structure is to be a thousand feet high. Think of it! Columns of steel lifting their glittering fingers, nearly a fourth of a mile into the heavens, where lightnings flash and rule; is it not audacious? For years, I have dreamed of a glass palace rearing its bright crown a thousand feet into the sky, but here I am confronted and cast down by a real one of cold steel. But, maybe an army of us "energetic and enterprising Americans," led by a romantic dreamer, will go westward on a crusade, and coming to the awful ledges of the Yosemite, smite with our steel chisels until we cut clear from the mountain a national monument two thousand feet high; and then with the mighty enginery of modern times we will roll it to the centre of Yosemite's vale, where it may forever smile down upon the little needles of Cleopatra.

Tomb of Napoleon: The ashes of Napoleon I. are enshrined in a massive sarcophagus, weighing tons, which is of beautiful, dark-red granite finely polished. It is in a circular crypt, thirty-six feet in diameter, and twenty feet deep, and is seen from the main

floor, the circle being surrounded by a marble balustrade. The tomb is directly under the lofty, gilded dome of the Hotel des Invalides, which I have already mentioned. The floors are marble, the columns and walls are marble; fine statues stand around and the rarest paintings glorify the ceilings. Here are the magnificent tombs of his brothers, Joseph and Jerome Bonaparte, and other heroes, all standing amid splendors which are gazed upon by our party in almost breathless wonder and admiration. In fact, my London friend said, "I can hardly breathe in here." Then I laughed, for I perceived that I too had not been breathing for a moment. Yes, there were so many great and beautiful things to see, "all in one breath," that we looked rapidly and forgot for a brief period to breathe. Oh, see that beautiful altar on spiral columns of rare marble, where the light is mellowed into gold before it falls upon it! Now we are below, near the massive coffin. See the twelve heroic and beautiful statues facing the costly urn of glorified human dust! The church is one of much interest and beauty. Here are fine statues of famous heroes and great men, and many old banners forced from fierce warriors on distant and blood-red fields, in the days of triumph, when Glory showered bright crowns upon France and her daring and desperate sons.

CHAPTER XIX.

PARIS: CHURCHES, MARKET, CEMETERY.

NOTE-BOOK

IN HAND-PALAIS ROYAL-DINE IN THE FAMOUS PLACE- MUSIC― RED WINE-CHURCH ST. EUSTACHE CROWDED WITH BEAUTY AND GLORY— TWELVE HUNDRED CELLARS UNDER TWENTY-TWO ACRES OF GLASS-ROOFED MARKETS-PERE LA CHAISE -TWENTY-TWO THOUSAND ATTRACTIVE HOMES FOR THE DEAD-MIGHTY MEN SLEEPING IN MARBLE BEDS -ABELARD AND HELOISE, FAMOUS AND UNHAPPY LOVERS, IN MARBLE, SIDE BY SIDE, GAZING INTO THE HEAVENS MARSHAL NEY'S GRASS-BLADE MONUMENT -A BEAUTIFUL PARK-THE LOUVRE PALACEGALLERY ONE-FOURTH OF A MILE IN LENGTH-GREAT PAINTINGS-BRILLIANT ROOMS.

ART

As the reader may begin to weary of gay, gorgeous Paris, I will cut short my voluminous notes taken in France, and thus get ready to go to mountainous Wales and "Bonny Scotland." When I left WilkesBarré, I provided myself with a note-book of sufficient size, I then thought, to contain the notes I would take while on my trip; but, when I returned to America the great, the bright "Queen of the West," enthroned on emerald, silver, jet and gold, between the two oceans, I was writing in note-book number