From the terrace parallel to the Thames, there is a most delightful prospect of the river; and the verdant meads on the opposite side. One could almost fancy, looking out upon the water views, that the Belinda of Pope, was again seated beneath the rich awning of her gilded barge in conscious beauty: "The sumbeams trembling on the floating tides; An entire day, was profitably employed in wandering about Hampton Court, and its beautiful grounds; for although we had taken an early start, the myriad gas-lights were flashing along Regent Street, as we drove rapidly from the railway station, to our lodgings in Hanover Square. CHAPTER VIII. PARIS.-AN ENTRANCE AND AN EXIT. Crossing the Channel tions The Louvre Place de la Concorde - The Churches of the Madeleine, St. Roch, and St. Denis. THOSE who have been unfortunate enough to cross the Channel from Folkestone to Boulogne, in a storm, will know how to appreciate the intense disgust which clings to the mere retrospect of that transit. In those small steamers, during the drivings of such a pitiless storm as we encountered, passengers were speedily driven from the upper deck, to the small cabins below: and there with an economy of space worthy of a Slaver, things and persons speedily underwent "a sea change." I cannot conceive that Dante in all his fourteen embassies from the Florentine States, ever went on a sea voyage, or ever crossed the English Channel; or he would most certainly have embodied in his Purgatorio, or Inferno, a most horrifying episode on sea-sickness, which the lapse of centuries since he wrote, involving the noblest discoveries in chemical and medical science, has not availed to banish from the list of those ills, "that flesh is heir to," on the sea. Landing at Boulogne after nightfall, in a drenching rain, with but the sickly gleam of a few gas lamps, making "darkness visible” on the Quay-was certainly not calculated to put one in the best of humors. But after passing the rather rigid scrutiny of French Custom House officials, we found in the neatness and comfort of a French Hotel some solace for all our vexations. A most unexceptionable supper, and a night's repose upon couches, whose luxuriousness would have satisfied the most discontented Sybarite-restored our tempers to their natural equilibrium ; and our first morning on the soil of France, found us in the best of humors. There is nothing in Boulogne that would induce the traveler to linger, and we left it at noon of the next day for Paris. After a somewhat tedious and monotonous ride, through a flat and uninteresting country, just as the shades of evening were settling down upon the landscape, we caught sight of the heights around Paris; surmounted by those curious looking wind mills. Here was the position on those eventful last days of March, when in the absence of Napoleon, Joseph Bonaparte, and Marshals Marmont and Martre, vainly endeavored to repel the allies and save Paris. Those heights have their stirring tales to tell, how fields were lost and won. How the black huzzars of Brandenburg annihilated whole squadrons of Imperial Cuirassiers-the finest cavalry of Europe: and how, the bearded Cossacks of the Don, charged batteries, entrenchments, redoubts and regiments, until one hundred pieces of cannon were silenced, and four thousand French, as gallant fellows as ever drew trigger, lay dead along the lines-leaving Marmont to make the best terms he could for the astonished Eagle of the Empire. Lights were flashing along the Boulevards, and gay throngs were rapidly filling both sides of that magnificent thoroughfare as we drove rapidly through it. Turning down the Rue de la Paix, we rattled over the Place Vendôme, catching a passing view of that dark shaft which still commemorates after the manner of Trajan's Column at Rome, the glorious deeds of the "Man of Destiny," whose statue still looks down, upon the city he loved so well. The next morning from the balcony of the Hôtel Meurice, we took a first view of Paris by daylight. From this elevation the eye commanded the finest portion of the Rue de Rivoli, now fast becoming, under the sagacious policy of the present Emperor, one of the finest streets in this beautiful capital. It was Sunday; but the gay city knows no rest. The street is alive with all the stir and excitement of Parisian life. Yonder rattles an omnibus with its merry crowd upon the top; right behind it a heavily laden sand cart drags slowly along-on the opposite side, arm in arm, singing merrily, go some workmen. in blue shirts-these are blouse-men, those terrible fellows, whenever the tocsin of Revolution is sounded. And listen, the stirring roll of the drum is heard, and here comes a detachment of the recently created Imperial Guard, with their high and ungainly looking caps. These are all picked men of regiments, chosen by their Imperial Master on account of long service, proficiency, or marked bravery. The Garden of the Tuileries is directly over the way, with its pleasant walks and graceful fountains. In orderly rows under the trees stand the long line of chairs and stools, to be brought forth in the course of the day, for the thousand loungers, young and old, who through the long sum'mer afternoons crowd this favorite place of resort. And there is the dark and sombre mass of the Palace of the Tuileries. It dates back for its origin to that bold bad woman, Catharine de Medicis, and only failed of completion under her auspices, by the superstitious fears awakened by an astrological prediction. It slowly advanced towards completion under the munificence of Henry IV. and Louis XIII., and first became a royal residence, when the gay and gallant Court of Louis XIV. filled its spacious Halls, and magnificent saloons with all the fashion and folly of France. This old pile could tell many a fearful tale. It witnessed the scenes of the dreadful 20th of June, 1792, when that terrible crowd of thirty thousand, composed of all the vile cut throats and abandoned women of the metropolis, defiled before Louis XVI. as he reclined in one of the embrasures of those windows, surrounded by a few faithful National Guards. They carried a bleeding heart,. torn from some aristocrat's breast, upon a pike. The Amazons shook above their heads olive branches and spears, dancing wildly, and singing that dreadful revolutionary song, "Ca Ira." In those very gardens, right before us, an eye witness of the outrage stood the youthful Napoleon, "all unknown to fame," and expressing his furious indignation, at the license permitted to the mob. But when the poor frightened King put on the "Cap of Liberty," he could not restrain his indignation, and uttered that memorable expression; "they should cut down five hundred of these wretches with grape shot, and the rest would speedily take to flight." If the poor King had only known the will and energy of that strange Corsican youth, then standing in the gardens of his Palace, he might have saved his throne and life. But it was not so to be. France must be scourged for her crying sins, and the hour of vengeance had struck. It was here too, in this very Palace, that one of the noblest instances of heroic devotion, was exhibited by the unshaken fortitude, with which the Swiss Guard, amid the defection that was around them, stood by the throne they had sworn to defend. They were mowed down by the storm of grape shot, and fell in the place where they stood, unconquered even in death. Well has the historian Alison said of their devotion, "that in |