ple passed by and laid the tribute of silence or of tears on
his bier.

The Pantheon is now given over as a memorial to the men of France who
have enriched the world with their lives. Over the portals of this
beautiful temple are the words, "Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite." Across
its floors of rarest mosaic echo only the feet of pilgrims and those of
the courteous and kindly old soldiers who have the place in charge. On
the walls color revels in beautiful paintings, and in the niches and on
the pedestals is marble that speaks of greatness which lives in lives
made better.

The history of the Pantheon is one of strife. As late as Eighteen Hundred
Seventy the Commune made it a stronghold, and the streets on every side
were called upon to contribute their paving-stones for a barricade. Yet
it seems meet that Victor Hugo's dust should lie here amid the scenes he
loved and knew, and where he struggled, worked, toiled, achieved; from
whence he was banished, and to which he returned in triumph, to receive
at last the complete approbation so long withheld.

Certainly not in the quiet of a mossy graveyard, nor in a church where
priests mumble unmeaning words at fixed times, nor yet alone on the
mountain-side--for he chafed at solitude--but he should have been buried
at sea. In the midst of storm and driving sleet, at midnight, the sails
should have been lowered, the great engines stopped, and with no requiem
but the sobbing of the night-wind and the sighing of the breeze through
the shrouds, and the moaning of the waves as they surged about the great,
black ship, the plank should have been run out, and the body wrapped in
the red, white and blue of the Republic: the sea, the infinite mother of
all, beloved and sung by him, should have taken his tired form to her
arms, and there he would rest.

If not this, then the Pantheon.

WM. WORDSWORTH

Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow and ever-during power;
And central peace subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation. Here you stand,
Adore and worship, when you know it not;
Pious beyond the intention of your thought;
Devout above the meaning of your will.
--_Wordsworth_

[Illustration: WILLIAM WORDSWORTH]

Some one has told us that Heaven is not a