ages. Paris, late in June, was hot, but not dusty: the
country was both. There is an uninteresting glare and hardness in
a French landscape on a sunny day. The soil is thin, the trees are
slender, and one sees not much luxury or comfort. Still, one does
not usually see much of either on a flying train. We spent a night at
Amiens, and had several hours for the old cathedral, the sunset light
on its noble front and towers and spire and flying buttresses, and the
morning rays bathing its rich stone. As one stands near it in front,
it seems to tower away into heaven, a mass of carving and
sculpture,--figures of saints and martyrs who have stood in the sun and
storm for ages, as they stood in their lifetime, with a patient waiting.
It was like a great company, a Christian host, in attitudes of praise
and worship. There they were, ranks on ranks, silent in stone, when
the last of the long twilight illumined them; and there in the same
impressive patience they waited the golden day. It required little fancy
to feel that they had lived, and now in long procession came down the
ages. The central portal is lofty, wide, and crowded with figures. The
side is only less rich than the front. Here the old Gothic builders let
their fancy riot in grotesque gargoyles,--figures of animals, and imps
of sin, which stretch out their long necks for waterspouts above. From
the ground to the top of the unfinished towers is one mass of rich
stone-work, the creation of genius that hundreds of years ago knew no
other way to write its poems than with the chisel. The interior is very
magnificent also, and has some splendid stained glass. At eight o'clock,
the priests were chanting vespers to a larger congregation than many
churches have on Sunday: their voices were rich and musical, and, joined
with the organ notes, floated sweetly and impressively through the dim
and vast interior. We sat near the great portal, and, looking down the
long, arched nave and choir to the cluster of candles burning on the
high altar, before which the priests chanted, one could not but remember
how many centuries the same act of worship had been almost uninterrupted
within, while the apostles and martyrs stood without, keeping watch of
the unchanging heavens.

When I stepped in, early in the morning, the first mass was in progress.
The church was nearly empty. Looking within the choir, I saw two stout
young priests lustily singing the prayers in deep, rich voices. One
of