eing, following a perhaps wayward fancy, and enjoying
myself the better for it.

One beautiful morning I sauntered out from my hotel, with a friend, who
was also a stranger in Paris.

"Where shall we go?" he asked.

"To a little cemetery called Picpus, far away from here."

"Will it be worth our while to go so far to see a small cemetery?"

"You shall see when we get there."

We went part of the way by an omnibus, and walked the rest, and when the
morning was nearly spent, we stood before No. 15, Rue de Picpus. The
place was once a convent of the order of St. Augustine, but is now
occupied by the "Women of the Sacred Heart." Within the convent, which
we entered, there is a pretty Doric chapel with an Ionic portal. There
was an air of privacy about, the little chapel which pleased me, and a
chasteness in its architecture which could not fail to please any one
who loves simple beauty. Within the walls of the court, there is a very
small private cemetery, but though private, the porter, if you ask him
politely, will let you enter, especially if you tell him you are from
America.

"Here is the cemetery which we have come to see," I said to my friend.

"Certainly, it is a very pretty one," he replied; "still I see nothing
to justify our coming so far to behold it."

"Wait a little while and you will not say so."

The first group of graves before which we stopped, was that of some
victims of the reign of terror--poor slaughtered men and women. The
grass was growing pleasantly above them, and all was calm, and sunny,
and beautiful around. Perhaps the sun shone as pleasantly when, on the
"_Place de la Concorde_," they walked up the steps of the scaffold to
die--for _Liberty_! Oh shame! One--two--three--four--there were eight
graves we counted, all victims of the reign of terror. For a moment I
forgot where I was; the graves were now at my feet, but I saw the poor
victims go slowly up to their horrible death. The faces of grinning,
scowling devils, male and female, were before me, all clamoring for
blood. I could see the tiger-thirst for human flesh in every
countenance--the fierce eye--the flushed face--and yet, how still were
the winds, how cheerful the sky.

Yet, though every pure-hearted man or woman must detest the horrible
cruelties of the great revolution must shudder at the bare mention of
the names of the leaders in it, is it not an eternal law of God, that
oppression at last produces madness? Have not tyra