laughs; the Tuileries with its palace, where Louis Philippe once lived with his family, still preserved (with some few marks of popular fury) as it was in 1848, when Girardin recommended the abdication, which ended in an airing on horseback; and its gardens, which are only rivalled in tasteful walks, manifold flower-beds, beautiful fountains, and luxuriant orangeries by the Luxembourg, where the taste of the Medici family is still preserved, notwithstanding Louis Blanc held socialist meetings there, and notwithstanding soldiers have rendezvoused in the gilded rooms; the museum of artillery, where the arms of France, from the invasion of Gaul down to the last revolution, are displayed, including the armor of Joan of Arc, and the delicate festoonery of the entrance hall, in the shape of the iron chain which the Turks used at the siege of Vienna, to construct a ponton bridge over the Danube; the Jardin des Plantes, where the roar of the beasts does not in the least disturb the silent putting forth of the fragrant flowers; where the cedar of Lebanon grows within sight of the anaconda's den; where the delicate tamarind tree and flowering magnolia are arranged in the same home with the gazelle and rhinoceros; where geology and botany have their halls, and the most disgusting lizard and snake their hidingplace; where all is scientifically arranged, and within whose centre is a bower and a summer-house overlooking the whole, and affording a splendid view of Paris;-and above all embracing a Sabbath evening, with its concerts in the open air, its crowded cafés, its immense promenades, a living and moving mass of blouses and monsieurs, fine ladies and mademoiselles in neat caps, the amusements, Punch and Judy, cross-bow firing at plasters, billiards, wooden-horse riding, circuses performing, music playing, cat and dog entertainments, children with little balloons, amidst glancing lights and spraying fountains, gardens of the rarest flowers, and shadows of arched trees, mingled with the everlasting jabber and gay laugh of the French; which latter is not the least wonderful phase of this city of wonders. But why enumerate, where there is so much to be seen? There is indeed " but one Paris." The world of science, politics, and of luxury, has here its heart. Its throbs are great, and penetrate the remotest part of Europe, aye, even extending world-wide. Yet one cannot but feel that the jaw of destruction opens wide to ingulf this city. A few centuries more, and the curious traveller may wander along the ruined quays of the Seine, now adorned with so many bridges and walls, noting the piles where once stood the Hotel de Ville, from which Lamartine held the populace enchained by the beauty of his diction and the spell of his noble thoughts; or wondering at the brass column to Napo leon, eternal as his fame, towering up amidst decay; or at the despoiled gardens and palaces of this pleasure-maddened city. If the godlessness of a people is any indication of a future, imagination may revel in the ruins of the future Paris. May it not conceive yon Place de la Concorde, now glittering with lights, musical with fountains, and crowded with people,—where Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette were beheaded,-as waving with the ripe corn, or chaotic in ruins, like the palace of the Cæsars? Or may we not rather hope that France, springing from the mire of moral degradation, shall rise in the newness of a civilization, in which republican simplicity shall walk hand in hand with Christian truth? We yesterday visited the tombs of Voltaire and Rousseau, in the basement of the Pantheon. France venerates, at present, too highly their splendid intellects, to permit her to dissociate the effect of their genius from their glaring vices. On the tomb of Voltaire is the following: "Il combattit les athées et les fanatiques, inspira la tolerance et reclama les droits de l'homme contre la servitude de la feodalité." I thought the commentary of our refugee-republican-Roman courier most excellent. In his tolerable English he said, after reading it: "France built this Pantheon to her grand hommes, who wrote for liberty, and—she go to Rome to kill Liberty;" and with a shrug of the shoulders, he turned away to read the inscription on Rousseau's tomb: "Here reposes the man of nature and of truth;" not knowing how significant of French fate was the sentiment thus graven upon the tomb of a man whose life gave the lie to all his beautiful raptures on truth and virtue. The same thing is discernible now, in the public men of France. They talk political abstractions in pert, pithy, pretty, curt sentences; but when they undertake to do-Humph! Dominichino would shrug his shoulders again. France needs ome such men as Lafayette-content to be useful, rather than plendid; practical, instead of brilliant. 5. LAFAYETTE'S TOMB. We thought that we could not do better upon our second Sabbath, especially in Paris, than to visit Lafayette's grave. It is sought after by few, and these, I am proud to say, are Americans. The coachman could not find the street, without some difficulty. A long ride up the Faubourg de St. Antoine, brought us to the Rue de Picpus, upon the outskirts of the city. A convent, now occupied by the "Sisters of Charity," and an old chapel of Doric, surround the tomb of Lafayette. We walked through long arbors of grapes and flowers, amid the tidy-looking elderly dames-all dressed in their white dresses and whiter bonnets, until we turned into a narrow, treeless cemetery, where among the Montmorencies, Rosambos, and other noble families of France, reposes the friend of America and of Washington. A large slab covers the grave of himself and wife; and near by are the remains of George Washington Lafayette, his son, who died in 1849. The victims of the reign of terror lie around them. A few wreaths decorate the bare tomb. A deep and solemn quiet, in strange contrast to the ever-rushing tide of the streets, reigned within this sacred home. I loved this spot. It reminded me of our own simple American graveyards. No mark of nobility, no heraldic armor, was engraved upon the tomb. No old soldiers are here to guard it; no lofty column rises to the memory of the good and genial Lafayette. But he has a monument more durable than brass. It is in the heart of America. As time lapses, we should cherish more deeply, and care with nicer heed for, those revolutionary soldiers and patriots, who worked out so excellent a constitution, through so much difficulty and danger. We have no long line of kings to emblazon in splendor the historic page, or palaces full of their pictures and trophies; we have no dim old cathedrals, hallowed with the footsteps of mighty cardinals and priests, and almost groaning with their weight of marble honors; we have no battles to boast of so scourging and bloody as Borodino and Austerlitz; but we have a history rich in spiritual independence, and eventuating in a government, which Lord Brougham has truly called, the highest refinement in civil polity which the world has ever seen. We have in our historic annals the name of at least the purest, if not the greatest of Frenchmen-Lafayette! His remains sleep quietly, sequestered among the kindly sisters of charity. No revolution will exhume them, as were exhumed the proud kings at St. Denis. Respect, if not enthusiasm, and never obloquy, will attend his memory. Americans will always delight to leave the din of the great city, to search out and honor his simple tomb. XXX. London, in other Phases. "These struggling tides of life that scem That rolls to its appointed end." Bryant. WELL, it came over one right goodly, to reach a spot where one does not have to call our old homely Saxon words by such outré and unaccustomed terms. To say breakfast, instead of "déjeûné, monsieur;" to say "how much?" instead of that everlasting "combien ?" to feel that you are understood and heeded without acting it out like a player, was indeed a relief. On our ride up to London from Dover, the English country did not look so attractive as when we saw it in the beginning of June, all fresh and green in its primal garniture. Perhaps the scenes which Italy and the Alpine valleys had pencilled and laid away in memory's portfolio, detracted from the rural beauty; perhaps the fields bared of their grain, and wanting that rich, golden yellow which interlaced the fertile vales of the Rhone and of the Aar, have contributed to disparage the aspect of the country; and perhaps, our eyes have been sated with natural views. No matter, London-London has lost nothing of its attractions by our continental tour. There is a kind of incredulity attaching itself to all the associations of ancient renown and power, which cling around the places we have visited upon the continent. We cannot more than half believe that the Doges of Venice ruled with such splendor and power; that Athens was the theatre of |