ter, human and divine, is continually made manifest to the spectator. The expression of surprise, evidenced on the face of the Saviour, when he finds himself betrayed into the hands of the soldiers by the kiss of Judas, seems inconsistent with his knowledge and consequent anticipation of the manner in which he is about to be treated. The fear depicted on his countenance, when he is brought before Caiaphas, the evident suffering he is laboring under, bodily and mental, when he is scourged, the yielding on his part to the weight of the cross he is made to bear, at the same time that an old man in the bas relief is able to support it, impress the observer with the difficulties the artist had to encounter, with the inconsistencies of the condition to be represented, and indeed with the impossibility of carving a mystery in stone. The artist has succeeded admirably in his representation of Judas, whose deceitful smile and hypocritical kiss bespeak the traitor as distinctly as plaster can speak. These bas reliefs are much esteemed, and were ample compensation for our visit to this celebrated church, if even the attractions of the choir had been less.

Père la Chaise, the most celebrated of the cemeteries of Paris, is situated just outside of one of the eastern barriers, on a very handsome and elevated piece of ground, overlooking the city. It is beautifully located, and presents two or three views of the capital from its heights, that make

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it a favorite resort for strangers. He who is familiar with Mount Auburn, or Greenwood, will be disappointed with the appearance of Père la Chaise. He will not be struck with the style of the monuments, the beauty of the ornaments, or the variety and arrangement of the walks and trees. He will tire of the monotony of the Catholic chapels, and will feel that there is too much sameness, and too little space. Père la Chaise is not comparable as a place of beauty, or a mere work of art, to the remarkable cemeteries of our own country. Its great interest lies in the illustrious dead, that lie buried beneath its surface. The warrior and philanthropist, the philosopher and the poet, the dramatist and the orator, lie here, side by side, commingling the dust that strove so fiercely in life. Davoust and De Lille, La Place and La Fontaine, Racine, Molière, and Talma, immortal names, are here buried together.

The first tomb that strikes attention, on entering and passing to the right, is the celebrated monument to Heloise and Abelard, formed in the Saxon style, from the ruins of the famous Paraclete, an abbey founded by Abelard, and of which Heloise was the first abbess. It is of the twelfth century, and consists of a chapel, in which is the tomb, the actual tomb erected by Peter, the Venerable, to the memory of Abelard. On the top of the tomb, rest side, by side, the statues of Abelard and Heloise, whose unfortunate love, separated them so entirely in life, whose story has formed

the theme of so much exquisite poetry, and whose misfortunes have excited the sympathy of all succeeding generations. In this cemetery of great names, where nearly every inscription recalls to your recollection familiar historical incidents, and men, whose fame is everywhere, here, where repose the bodies of Cuvier, of Massena, of Perier, and of Bernardin de St. Pierre, there is no tomb so much visited as this old sepulchral chapel, to the memory of Abelard and Heloise.

We were arrested, at every step of our progress, by monuments to such men as Lallemand, and Ricardo, and Lefevre; we rested against the appropriate pyramid that covers the dust of Volney, and symbolizes "the ruins of empire," amidst the sad remains of those whose kingdom is no longer on earth. The turf, that covers the unmarked resting-place of the "bravest of the brave," claimed a passing tribute of meditation, as we remembered the sad fate of the unfortunate Ney. Around the simple monument that marks the grave of the great astronomer La Place, and over the tomb of the celebrated Lavoisier, who fell a victim to the terrors of the Revolution, in the very midst of his experiments, we lingered mournfully.

These cities of the dead, serve not only to commemorate the sacred spots, where rest the great and the loved of earth, but they are eloquent moralizers to the living! It is instructive and pleasant to visit them, to mingle, in imagination, with the spirits, that hover around the mansions

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of the great dead, and to gather lessons of wisdom and of warning, from the solemn breathings of the muffled trees, and the silent teachings of the mournful marbles, that stand, in melancholy sadness around.

To those accustomed to the freedom of debate of the House of Representatives, and to the unstinted discussion of our State Legislatures, and to the laws without number, that every winter produces, all over the Union, the sessions of the Chambre des Députés, during this spring, presented a most singular state of affairs. The place of meeting was at the Palais Legislatif. What a misnomer! France was called "La Republique Française." What a perversion of terms! We were shown into the chamber, an imposing hall, "When do the sessions take place!" I inquired, of a very gentlemanly attendant, who seemed to take great pleasure in showing us what had been. "Don't know, Monsieur. That depends on M. le President." "But," said I, "are there no regular days for the meeting of the deputies?" "Not now, Monsieur; there used to be, Monsieur, mais tout cela est changé. Monsieur knows that since the coup d'état, the deputies only meet when the President directs, and that until then, the time of meeting is unknown." "But," I pursued, "when they are once called together, they then go on regularly from day to day!" "Oh no, Monsieur; they must not sit over thirty minutes. The Presi

dent does not allow it." "Thirty minutes!" I exclaimed; "why with us, they would scarcely get seated by that time. What legislation can they effect in thirty minutes?" "Oh, pardon, Monsieur, it is all arranged for them. The President attends to that. It is furnished from the Elysée Bourbon. Does Monsieur see that placard, headed 'La Verite,' well, it is all put up there, and it appears in the Gazette, exactly as it is put up there. Monsieur will take notice, that the tribune is removed, and that each member speaks from his own place, not as formerly. The President has changed all that. The places for spectators are closed. Monsieur knows that the sessions are private. The President has directed, that no one shall be permitted to be present, except a deputy. Monsieur perceives that long platform, with fauteuils; those are for the six Councillors of M. le President. They approve or disapprove of the proceedings of the deputies, according as the President directs. Enfin, Monsieur, everything is changed since the coup d'état, and the Chamber of Deputies is no longer the Chamber of Deputies! M. le President does everything, just like the great Napoleon did." Such was French legislation at the time of our visit, and such the feeling of the French people. They were content with private sessions, with nominal deputies, and with prescribed decrees, if the President willed it, and if the President bore the name of Napoleon! And this was French "liberty, equality, fraternity!" Each