glory, and now,
when the recollection of that wonderful period seems almost like a
stormy dream, they are left to guard the ashes of their ancient General,
brought back from his exile to rest in the bosom of his own French
people. It was to me a touching and exciting thing, to look on those
whose eyes had witnessed the filling up of such a fated leaf in the
world's history.

Entrance is denied to the tomb of Napoleon until it is finished, which
will not be for three or four yours yet. I went, however, into the
"Church of the Banners"--a large chapel, hung with two or three hundred
flags taken by the armies of the Empire. The greater part of them were
Austrian and Russian. It appeared to be empty when I entered, but on
looking around, I saw an old gray-headed soldier kneeling at one side.
His head was bowed over his hands, and he seemed perfectly absorbed in
his thoughts. Perhaps the very tattered banners which hung down
motionless above his head, he might have assisted in conquering. I
looked a moment on those eloquent trophies, and then noiselessly
withdrew.

There is at least one solemn spot near Paris; the laughing winds that
come up from the merry city sink into sighs under the cypress boughs of
Pere Lachaise. And yet it is not a gloomy place, but full of a serious
beauty, fitting for a city of the dead. I shall never forget the sunny
afternoon when I first entered its gate and walked slowly up the hill,
between rows of tombs, gleaming white amid the heavy foliage, while the
green turf around them was just beginning to be starred by the opening
daisies, From the little chapel on its summit I looked back at the blue
spires of the city, whose roar of life dwindled to a low murmur.
Countless pyramids, obelisks and urns, rising far and wide above the
cedars and cypresses, showed the extent of the splendid necropolis,
which is inhabited by pale, shrouded emigrants from its living sister
below. The only sad part of the view, was the slope of the hill alloted
to the poor, where legions of plain black crosses are drawn up into
solid squares on its side and stand alone gloomy--the advanced guard of
the army of Death! I mused over the tombs of Moliere and La Fontaine;
Massena, Mortier and Lefebre; General Foy and Casimir Perier; and
finally descended to the shrine where Abelard reposes by the side of his
Heloise. The old sculptured tomb, brought away from the Paraclete, still
covers their remains, and pious hands (of lovers