discharged on that eventful morning, may still be seen on the front of this Church. While speaking of the churches of Paris, let no one forget to visit that memorable old Church outside the walls, the world-renowned Church of St. Denis. It was in the vaults of this Church, the royalty of France found a resting place, until their bones were disturbed by the Vandals of the Revolution. Paris has nothing to display in comparison with the adornments of this small, but marvellous temple. It is some six miles outside the walls of Paris, and was founded by Pepin, but finished and consecrated by his more illustrious son, Charlemagne. There are as it were two Churches here, one level with the ground, and one beneath it, the latter being as ancient as Dagobert and Charlemagne-the former having been raised over the first structure by Louis IX. The stained glass of the windows of this old Church, is among the finest in Europe. Its effulgence tinges the sunbeam with every imaginable variety of color, and fills the holy place with radiance. As the bright luminary that rules the day, runs his course, the groined roof and clustered columns of the ancient pile glow in amber, violet, emerald and ruby hues-followed by a rich combination of silver, crimson, and azure tints, the beaming lustre of which darts from aisle to nave, from nave to transept, glows around the altar, and like a mystic halo from on high, resting within the choir,

"Fills the air around with beauty."

The fact of this stained glass being the work of modern times, hardly thirty years old, refutes the common assertion, that this beautiful art is comparatively lost. The skill whose cunning fingers wrought these splendid adorn

ments, might compass designs of any magnitude, either in the illumination of tracery, or the complicated groupings of History, without receding from the point of excellence attained by the most renowned masters. Indeed it may well be questioned, whether the annealing of glass in the age of Albert Durer, was comparable to those processes in modern chemistry, of which the latest glass-stainers have been enabled to avail themselves.

The Oriflamme, or sacred banner of Clovis, is suspended from an eminence at the eastern extremity of this venerable edifice, behind the High Altar. It is of a deep scarlet color, and tradition assigns the age of thirteen hundred and seventy years to this old silken remnant of monastic superstition and imposition. The monks of the old Abbey Church were in the habit of assuring the people that this banner was brought to the Abbey by an angel, about the period of the conversion to Christianity of old King Clovis.. It was called Oriflamme from the representation of flames. worked in golden threads upon the silk. The chapels above are shrines profusely adorned with embellishments. of art, and glittering with wealth and magnificence. But beneath their stone pavements are the tombs of three dynasties of kings..

"A thousand years of silenced factions sleep."

These chapels underneath have well been called the Chronicles of France and Europe-stone and marble editions of the Book of French Kings and Queens, Counsellors, Warriors, Heroes, and Philosophers. It is hardly possible to make the circuit of these subterranean recesses, without stumbling on prostrate royalty, or on some marble form, whose prototype in the days of Chivalry and the Crusades, waged battle with the mailed knight, encountered the

scimetar of the Saracen, or charged the English bowmen at Cressy, Poictiers, or Agincourt. The sculpture of some of the cenotaphs is exquisite, and the recumbent statues beautiful. In one of the recesses is a statue of Marie Antoinette in a kneeling posture, considered a perfect likeness of that unfortunate princess. Brazen doors open into the royal vault, now containing eight coffins, in which are the remains of Louis XVI. and his Queen, Louis XVIII. and other members of this branch of the royal family. The remains of the greatest monarch of them all, Napoleon, rest near the banks of the Seine, under the dome of the Hotel des Invalides, "in the midst of the people that he loved so well." There is ample daylight in the crypts beneath St. Denis, and every thing is seen to the best advantage. It is just the spot where Richard II. might have told

"Sad stories of the death of Kings:

How some have been depos'd, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd,
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping killed."

CHAPTER IX.

JOURNEY FROM PARIS TO CHAMONIX.

Departure from Paris-Macon

Geneva-Ride to Chamonix

Mer de Glace-The Source of the Arveiron- Mont Blanc.

It was at early dawn on a summer morning that we left Paris, by the Lyons railway for Macon. There is nothing peculiarly striking about the scenery between Paris and Macon. The country is generally level, and with a few exceptions, the towns through which you pass have no particular interest. We caught a passing glimpse of the picturesque towers of the old Cathedral of Sens, where Thomas Becket found a sanctuary, when he fled from the wrath of Henry, of England: and we saw for a moment, at Dijon, the gloomy looking front of what was once. the Palace of the celebrated Dukes of Burgundy. The low lying hills to the north and south of Dijon, were pointed out to us as the famous range, whose vineyards produce the delicious wine, that bears the name of this once proud Duchy. Now and then, we passed through quaint old towns, with their fantastic gables, grim looking steeples and towers, and furnishing at intervals, a rapid glance along the vista of some ancient street, with its red tiled houses, and narrow time-worn footways. Along through the open country, might be seen the picturesque looking windmills, swinging their huge arms lazily around: or some venerable chateau peeping out from the leafy shelter of ancestral trees. We arrived at Macon, some

three hundred miles from Paris, late in the afternoon. It is a forlorn old town, located on the banks of the Saone, which is spanned here by a bridge of twelve arches. Nor did the discomforts of the filthiest Inn to be met with in Europe, assist in changing for the better our first impressions of its misery and wretchedness. Macon is the seat of a considerable trade in wine, and gives name to a peculiar kind, both red and white, much admired by Frenchmen; but to an uncultivated taste, smacking very much. of the sharpness of the best vinegar. At five the next morning, we were off in the diligence for Geneva. We started at a dashing pace over the Bridge, stopping to breakfast at a miserable village, some twenty miles from Macon, where sour wine, omelettes reeking with oil, and chickens that appeared to have died of a slow decline, were rather revolting, even to a traveler's appetite, made still more keen by the fresh morning air. The scenery along the first part of the road was monotonous and tame in the extreme; but towards noon we had the magnificent range of the Jura towering above us, and were soon in the midst of the glorious scenery of its mountain passes. The road over the Jura is constructed in the most substantial manner, and all along protected at the sides. As we passed over some of the loftier eminences, troops of mountain girls, besieged the sides of the diligence with offerings of Alpine flowers, for which of course, they expected and received a few sous in return. About three o'clock, we caught sight of the long range of the snow-covered summits of the Oberland Alps, and a short time afterwards the magnificent dome of Mont Blanc appeared, rising cold and white against the sky. At first the appearance was that of a huge white cloud; but remaining stationary, with no