but ill-fated Mary Queen of Scots to be married to the Dauphin, afterward Francis II. Before the high altar here Napoleon and Josephine were crowned. Pope Pius VII was forced to come from Rome for the occasion. After waiting in the cold church until benumbed, when the Pope finally attempted to place the crown upon Napoleon, he was brushed aside and Bonaparte took the coronet in his hands and himself placed it upon his own head! Alas, poor Josephine! Six years later, divorced, she retired to eat out her heart in solitude, still loving and praying for Napoleon, while that ambitious monarch marched once more to this altar of Notre Dame and was married to Marie Louise of Austria. Once more, in 1840, Notre Dame opened her portals for Napoleon, this time to chant the solemn requiem over his body brought from St. Helena for its grand resting place in the Invalides.

Notre Dame has not only echoed to the eloquence of Bossuet, Bernard, St. Dominic, Peter the Hermit, Urban II and several other Popes, but it has also blushed crimson from its rose-windows. Carlyle tells us how, in the reign of terror, the image of the Virgin was torn down, the Bible was dragged through the streets, a scarlet woman-symbol of Reason-was enthroned before the altar, and votaries bowed before her in this erstwhile sacred place. Images of Voltaire and Rousseau took the place of saints, and Notre Dame became the temple of Irreverence and Ribaldry, while the streets ran red with blood. But not for long. Tiring of such empty jesting, the people abandoned the church altogether, and it became a warehouse for empty wine casks! It was Na

poleon who ordered it renovated and had worship restored.

IN THE HALL OF NATIONS

Of course we went out to Versailles, over the same beautiful road that the hungry mob took in 1789, crying, "Bread, Bread! Give us bread!" When they reached the great palace of Versailles (built by Louis XIV) the silly queen, Marie Antoinette, asked why they did not give the poor people bread. When told there was no bread, the languid queen replied, "Then give them cake!" The royal palace and gardens of Versailles are immense and imposing beyond words. D'Artagnan helped in building Versailles. Here Louis XIV, the modern Solomon in all his glory, built with the blood and tears of France acres and acres of buildings, piling up taxes skyhigh and laying the foundation for the awful revolution that came to his successors. Wonderful parks, gardens, fountains, open-air theaters, grand concert halls, marble vestibules, colonnaded walks and drives, artificial lakes, a forest of ten thousand acres filled with sylvan statuary, aged trees (John D. Rockefeller has given one million francs toward upkeep), and hanging gardens rival Nebuchadrezzar's in Babylon. Art gallery, opera house, grand chapel-everything—a city within the royal grounds, all self-contained, is here. Here Madames Pompadour and du Barry held forth. Here the kings lived like Turkish sultans and kept their harems, to the scandal of all Europe. Here Napoleon came. Came also Bismarck, Von Moltke, and also President Woodrow Wilson. In the grandest room of the grand palace-the Hall of Mirrors-was signed the treaty which made our

country free from English control. Here also the German Empire was created, and here we saw the table on which the final papers were signed concluding the famous treaty of Versailles which ended the last war. Out these double doors went Woodrow. Wilson, Clemenceau, and Lloyd George, roundly cheered by thousands, while out those doors yonder went the German representatives crestfallen and silent. They had given back to France all that Bismarck and Von Moltke had won and had signed a bond that would tax the children of Germany for generations. "And," added our guide, an aged French professor, "they must pay it all-to the last franc!"

A

XIX

BELGIUM-LONDON-HOME

A wilderness of steeples peeping

On tiptoe thro' their sea-coal canopy;

A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown

On a fool's head-and there is London town.

-Dr. Johnson.

BOARD the finest, swiftest train in Europe we

speed from Paris toward Brussels. Fertile land with rich bountiful harvests reward the busy farmers, mostly women. We soon see effects of war: trees torn and mutilated, houses battered and riddled, bomb holes and scars, piles of rubbish, lonely chimneys and blackened walls. Millions and millions of dollars have been spent, however, in rehabilitation; many new houses are being built, while railroad stations are taking on new life. Hope would be cheerily cloudless were it not for the ever-present militarism which still clogs the steps of progress. One may look in no direction without seeing brass buttons, braid, and bayonets. Men march and drill, and women work the fields! The world is not yet safe for anything or anybody!

Arrived in Brussels, we go at once to Waterlootwenty miles away-to visit the great scene of Napoleon's setting sun. Waterloo, now a thriving town of twenty thousand, was then but a small village. Just beyond and outside the town occurred the great battle. Almost opposite the house where Wellington had headquarters stands the small Catholic church where Napoleon attended mass the day before the battle. On we go

past the house where Victor Hugo boarded while sketching the scenes and revising his chapter on Waterloo. Hugo has analyzed the battle of Waterloo better than any historian has ever done. He says: "Waterloo is not a battle; it is a change of front on the part of the universe. . . . It was time that this vast man should fallNapoleon embarrassed God!" As I looked over the ground I resolved to read "Les Miserables" again.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO

The actual scene of fighting is now a beautiful farm, level and smooth, with fine green pastures, and cattle gently feeding where serried ranks of infantry and cavalry clashed in deadly strife on June 18, 1815. Standing on the edge of the battle field, I could hear the soft drowsy tinkle of the sheep-bells where on that fateful day cannon volleyed and thundered and the earth trembled under the shock of war. The field seems small compared with Argonne forest and scenes of the late war. How could such a small space hold seventy-five thousand men on each side? No wonder that more than sixty thousand were left dead on the field!

At the entrance to the field stands a great circular house containing the cyclorama of the battle. How very lifelike the picture is! Here is Ney, hatless, charging the British red-coats; yonder is a hollow square of British, stolidly receiving the charge and hurling wounded riders and foaming horses madly in wild confusion. There is Napoleon sitting his white horse, with face as pale as his breeches and horse. His hat is flung away while he looks eagerly in the distance for a Grouchy who