tatue of him who for sixty years had inspired them; the titles of his
principal works were inscribed on the sides of a pyramid that
represented his immortality. His statue, formed of gold and crowned with
laurel, was borne on the shoulders of citizens, wearing the costumes of
the nations and the times whose manners and customs he had depicted; and
the seventy volumes of his works were contained in a casket, also of
gold. The members of the learned bodies, and of the principal academies
of the kingdom surrounded this ark of philosophy. Numerous bands of
music, some marching with the troops, others stationed along the road of
the procession, saluted the car as it passed with loud bursts of
harmony, and filled the air with the enthusiastic strains of liberty.
The procession stopped before the principal theatres, a hymn was sung in
honour of his genius, and the car then resumed its march. On their
arrival at the quai that bears his name, the car stopped before the
house of M. de Villette, where Voltaire had breathed his last, and where
his heart was preserved. Evergreen shrubs, garlands of leaves, and
wreaths of roses decorated the front of the house, which bore the
inscription, "_His fame is every where, and his heart is here_." Young
girls dressed in white, and wreaths of flowers on their heads, covered
the steps of an amphitheatre erected before the house. Madame de
Villette, to whom Voltaire had been a second father, in all the
splendour of her beauty, and the pathos of her tears, advanced and
placed the noblest of all his wreaths, the wreath of filial affection,
on the head of the great philosopher.

At this moment the crowd burst into one of the hymns of the poet
Chenier, who, up to his death, most of all men cherished the memory of
Voltaire. Madame de Villette and the young girls of the amphitheatre
descended into the street, now strewed with flowers, and walked before
the car. The Theatre Francais, then situated in the Faubourg St.
Germain, had erected a triumphal arch on its peristyle. On each pillar a
medallion was fixed, bearing in letters of gilt bronze the title of the
principal dramas of the poet; on the pedestal of the statue erected
before the door of the theatre was written, "_He wrote Irene at
eighty-three years; at seventeen he wrote OEdipus_."

The immense procession did not arrive at the Pantheon until ten o'clock
at night, for the day had not been sufficiently long for this triumph.
The coffin of Volt