eel that at the same time wrote his name indelibly on the
roll of honor.

Carnot, thrice happy thou! Thy name is secure on history's page, and thy
dust now resting beneath the dome of the Pantheon is bedewed with the
tears of thy countrymen.

Saint Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris, died in Five Hundred Twelve.
She was buried on a hilltop, the highest point in Paris, on the left bank
of the Seine. Over the grave was erected a chapel which for many years
was a shrine for the faithful. This chapel with its additions remained
until Seventeen Hundred Fifty, when a church was designed which in beauty
of style and solidity of structure has rarely been equaled. The object of
the architect was to make the most enduring edifice possible, and still
not sacrifice proportion.

Louis the Fifteenth laid the cornerstone of this church in Seventeen
Hundred Sixty-four, and in Seventeen Hundred Ninety the edifice was
dedicated by the Roman Catholics with great pomp. But the spirit of
revolution was at work; and in one year after, a mob sacked this
beautiful building, burned its pews, destroyed its altar, and wrought
havoc with its ecclesiastical furniture.

The Convention converted the structure into a memorial temple, inscribing
on its front the words, "Aux grandes Hommes la patrie reconnaisante," and
they named the building the Pantheon.

In Eighteen Hundred Six, the Catholics had gotten such influence with the
government that the building was restored to them. After the revolution
of Eighteen Hundred Thirty, the church of Saint Genevieve was again taken
from the priests. It was held until Eighteen Hundred Fifty-one, when the
Romanists in the Assembly succeeded in having it again reconsecrated. In
the meantime, many of the great men of France had been buried there.

The first interment in the Pantheon was Mirabeau. Next came
Marat--stabbed while in the bath by Charlotte Corday. Both bodies were
removed by order of the Convention when the church was given back to
Rome.

In the Pantheon, the visitor now sees the elaborate tombs of Voltaire and
Rousseau. In the dim twilight he reads the glowing inscriptions, and from
the tomb of Rousseau he sees the hand thrust forth bearing a torch--but
the bones of these men are not here.

While robed priests chanted the litany, as the great organ pealed, and
swinging censers gave off their perfume, visitors came, bringing
children, and they stopped at the arches where Rousseau and Voltaire