eyond. Further on, in a direct line, the middle avenue
of the Gardens extends away to the _Place de la Concorde_, where the
Obelisk of Luxor makes a perpendicular line through your vista; still
further goes the broad avenue through the Elysian Fields, until afar
off, the Arc de l'Etoile, _two miles distant_, closes this view through
the palace doorway.

Let us go through it, and on, to the Place de la Concorde, reserving the
Gardens for another time. What is there in Europe--nay, in the
world,--equal to this? In the centre, the mighty obelisk of red granite
pierces the sky,--on either hand showers of silver spray are thrown up
from splendid bronze fountains--statues and pillars of gilded bronze
sweep in a grand circle around the square, and on each side magnificent
vistas lead the eye off, and combine the distant with the near, to
complete this unparalleled view! Eastward, beyond the tall trees in the
garden of the Tuileries, rises the long front of the Palace, with the
tri-color floating above; westward, in front of us, is the Forest of the
Elysian Fields, with the arch of triumph nearly a mile and a half
distant, looking down from the end of the avenue, at the Barriere de
Neuilly. To the right and left are the marble fronts of the Church of
the Madeleine and the Chamber of Deputies, the latter on the other side
of the Seine. Thus the groves and gardens of Paris--the palace of her
kings--the proud monument of her sons' glory--and the masterpieces of
modern French architecture are all embraced in this one splendid _coup
d'oeil_.

Following the motley multitude to the bridge, I crossed and made my way
to the Hotel des Invalides. Along the esplanade, playful companies of
children were running and tumbling in their sports over the green turf,
which was as fresh as a meadow; while, not the least interesting feature
of the scene, numbers of scarred and disabled veterans, in the livery of
the Hospital, basked in the sunshine, watching with quiet satisfaction
the gambols of the second generation they have seen arise. What tales
could they not tell, those wrinkled and feeble old men! What visions of
Marengo and Austerlitz and Borodino shift still with a fiery vividness
through their fading memories! Some may have left a limb on the Lybian
desert; and the sabre of the Cossack may have scarred the brows of
others. They witnessed the rising and setting of that great meteor,
which intoxicated France with such a blaze of power and