ying
buttresses subdued and dreamlike under the night sky.

Who can look upon this architectural wonder without thinking of those
historical, twelfth-century days when the first stone was laid, and it
slowly rose to perfection? All the centuries that have since rolled on,
changing and destroying much of its charm? The perils it went through
and did not altogether escape in those terrible days of '93 when,
condemned, it was saved by a miracle? That Age of Reason, which drove
half the excitable Frenchmen of Paris stark staring mad.

How can we haunt these precincts without thinking of their high priest
Victor Hugo, who loved them as Scott and Burns loved their wholesomer
banks and braes? Everywhere uprises a vision of the old grey-headed man
as we remember him, with pale heavy face, grave earnest manner, deep
thoughtful eyes, and on the surface, so little that was light, excitable
and French; for ever pondering upon the mysteries of life, human
suffering and endurance, broken destinies. His face looks at you from
every dark and vacant window in the neighbouring Ile St. Louis. The
shadows of Notre Dame fall upon its mediaeval roofs; the dark waters of
the river wash their foundations, and sometimes flood them also. If they
could only whisper their secrets of human sin and suffering, that great
army of martyrs who have died, not in defence of the good but in
consequence of the evil, the world would surely dissolve and disappear.
Many a time has he stood contemplating these problems, planning the
destinies of his characters, from the windows of the Hotel Lambert. Its
painted ceilings recall the days of Lebrun, and up and down the old
staircases and deserted corridors one hears the cynical laugh of
Voltaire and the tripping footsteps of Madame de Chatet.

We left this delightful and romantic atmosphere behind us as our driver
pursued his way down the right bank of the Seine.

Another world, inhabited by another people. Darkness reigned; lamps were
few and far between; the roar of the great city sounded afar off, and
amidst that roar dwelt all the rank and fashion, wealth and intrigue,
that turn the heaven-sent manna to ashes of the Dead Sea fruit.
Presently he crossed a bridge and there was a flash of lamps upon the
dark waters below. The Seine was pursuing her relentless course,
carrying her burden of sorrows to the far-off sea, burying them in the
ocean of eternity, recording them in the books of heaven.

A few moments