of Alphonso de Lamartine,
the poet. I noticed in one compartment some admirable traceries in solid
oak, and before the high altar an elaborate gilt-bronze lamp--the gift
of the wife of Louis Phillippe; but the most brilliant portion of the
ulterior is the fresco painting.

As we walked slowly from chapel to chapel, and transept to transept, I
could see men and women--principally the latter--with great apparent
devotion kneeling before the altar, or at the confessional. It was not
Sunday, yet many people were constantly passing in and out. I might
perhaps infer from this fact, that the French possess much religious
feeling--but I cannot believe it. Art and literature swallow up
religion.

The war-spirit soon eats out vital religion--and revolution and blood
sap the morals of any people. The reader will remember that even our
revolution rapidly dissipated the good morals of the nation. Never was
there a time in the history of New England when vice of every sort made
such progress as in the time of the revolution. This is not strange, for
war necessarily blunts the religious sensibilities, and opens the door
of almost every vice.

We left the interior of the church and stood upon its steps. The Louvre
in all its magnificence stood before me. I looked up at the tower of the
church, and listened to the very bell which, more than three hundred
years ago, gave the signal for the commencement of the massacre of St.
Bartholomew. While I stood there it seemed to me that I could go back
to the past--to that night of horror when the Protestants were gathered
at the fete of St. Bartholomew. When twelve had struck, in the dead of
night, the bell in St. Germain l'Auxerrois gave out the solemn signal,
and there ensued a scene of horrible atrocity, such as the world has
rarely witnessed, and which will make the names of its perpetrators
infamous so long as the world lives.

It was in the house of the dean of St. Germain l'Auxerrois that the
beautiful Gabriel d'Estrees lived for awhile and died.

* * * * *

SAINTE CHAPELLE.

The Sainte Chapelle is one of the finest specimens of florid Gothic
architecture in the world, and I went with a Frenchman one day to see
it. It is impossible to give the reader any adequate idea of its
peculiar beauty, but I can briefly sketch it, and at least point out
some of its most striking features. It was erected by St. Louis in 1248,
and set apart for the rece