CHAPTER XV.

PARIS.

Paris the Beautiful.--Notre Dame.--Tuileries and Louvre.--Garden of the Tuileries.--Bois de Boulogne.--Church of the Invalides.-- Napoleon's Tomb.--Place de la Concorde.--Story of the Man of the Iron Mask.--Versailles and the Trianons.--Story of the Dauphin.-- Fontainebleau.--The Seine.--Water-Omnibuses.--A Wonderful Boat.-- Tommy's French.--A Surprise.--St. Eustache.--Molière.--Young French Heroes.--Wyllys Wynn's Poem.

Paris the beautiful!

City of light hearts, smiling faces, charming courtesies, and gay scenes everywhere!

City of dark tragedies of history that have hardly left behind a scar! The tropical forest gives no warning of poison lurking under the flowers; the bright Southern sky wears no trace of the tempest. Paris says to the stranger, "I am beautiful: I have ever been beautiful, and I wear loveliness like a crown."

The streets are as gay as the summer sunshine in them; the boulevards, as the wide streets and avenues for pleasure walks are called, seem channels of happiness, through which the tides of life run as brightly as they glimmer along the Seine. "La belle Paris!" says the stranger as he comes, and "La belle Paris!" he utters respectfully as he goes.

We do not wonder that the French love it; that Napoleon gloried in it, and that Mary Queen of Scots left it with a heavy heart. Here human nature has light, warmth, and glow; and love, sympathy, and patriotism are everywhere to be seen.

"Where are the ruins caused by the siege and the Commune?" asked Frank Gray, after the Class had been driven through a number of streets. "I do not see the first sign of there having been a recent war and revolution."

"In the fall of 1870," said Master Lewis, "shot and shell for a long period fell around the city and into it like rain. In the following spring the Commune was declared the government of Paris, and it seemed bent on destroying the city's beauty, and overturning its monuments of art. The Vendôme Column, which celebrated the victories of Napoleon the Great, was pulled down as a monument of tyranny; the Palace of the Tuileries and the Hotel de Ville were set on fire; and the wealthy citizens who had endured the siege by a foreign foe fled from their own countrymen. To-day most of the houses destroyed by the war and the Commune are rebuilt, and the streets are as splendid as in the gay days of the Empire."

The Class took rooms in the _Grand Hotel_, one of the largest and finest houses for public entertainment in Europe. Its first visit was to the ancient Cathedral of Notre Dame, whose history is as old as Christianity in France, and which even before that period was a Pagan temple. Here _Te Deums_ for all of the nation's victories have been sung; funeral orations of kings have been pronounced, confessions of sin for a thousand years have been made, and masses innumerable celebrated. Here Napoleon the Great was crowned, and Napoleon III. was married. Here the Goddess of Reason, after being borne through the streets in state, was enthroned during the Revolution of 1793. It has thirty-seven chapels.

In entering the cathedral the Class seemed to be in a new world. The rose-colored windows flooded the edifice with a soft light; and beyond it was a blaze of candles amid clouds of incense, for the priests in their gorgeous vestments were administering at the altar.

The boys passed through the waves of light reverently, and stood near the altar. A choir of altar boys suddenly rose amid the smoke and lights and glitter of priestly robes, and sang most melodiously. It seemed very solemn and grand, but the thought of the associations of the place was even more awe-inspiring. The scene was one that had been enacted for more than a thousand years, under the groined roof of the same stately edifice, and the past seemed to hang, a weight of gloom, in the very air.

On each one's paying half a franc, the Class was admitted into the sacristy, where the sacred relics, purchased in the East by St. Louis himself, are kept. Among them is a supposed piece of the true cross and a pretended part of the Crown of Thorns which was put upon the Saviour's head before the Crucifixion.

The second day that the Class spent in Paris was the most delightful of the whole tour.

"I shall go with you to-day," said Master Lewis, "to the most beautiful place in Europe, the most beautiful garden in Europe, and one of the most beautiful picture-galleries in the world."

"The Tuileries?" asked Frank.

"The Louvre?" asked Ernest.

"Both," said Master Lewis.

"The Tuileries and the Louvre are now one. Francis I. began the building of the Louvre in 1541; Catharine de Medici commenced the Tuileries in 1564; Napoleon III. united the two palaces in the four years following 1852. The two palaces have been growing about three hundred years. The Tuileries was partly burned by the Commune. The united palaces cover twenty-four acres. Think of it! Twenty-four acres of art, ornament, pictures, and splendor!"

The garden of the Tuileries is the favorite promenade of wealthy and fashionable Parisians, and seemed to the boys too beautiful for reality. Graceful statues rise on every hand from flower-beds, bowers, by cool fountains, and in the shade of grand old trees,--statues in marble, stone, and bronze; Grecian, Roman, French. Airy terraces, basins bordered with rich foliage and gorgeous flowers carry the eye hither and thither, and call out some new expression of admiration at almost every step.

"How happy the life of a French king must have been!" said Tommy Toby.

"How unhappy the lives of French kings have been!" said Master Lewis. "If you would have a view of royalty that makes a peasant's life seem desirable, read the history of the old French kings."

The beautiful forests of France extend to the very outskirts of the city. One of these, the Bois de Boulogne, is the favorite park of Paris. It contains more than two thousand acres. It has an immense aquarium, pavilions of birds, and a garden for ostriches and cassowaries, and its principal avenue is one hundred yards wide.

The Class visited this park on a beautiful afternoon, passing through the Champs Elysées, a splendid avenue filled with equipages. In this walk the boys saw the famous _Arc de Triomphe_ and the _Palais de l'Industrie_, in which the World's Fair was held in 1855, when nearly two million strangers beheld Paris in her glory. The Arc de Triomphe was begun in 1806, the year of the battle of Austerlitz, and was finished by Louis Philippe. It commemorates the victories of Napoleon, and is the most magnificent imperial monument in the world.

No scene in Paris seemed to inspire a part of the Class with so much awe as the tomb of Napoleon. At the entrance to the crypt of the dome of the church of the Invalides, containing the conqueror's remains, are these words: "I desire that my ashes may rest on the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French people whom I have loved so well."

From a balustrade above the tomb under the beautiful dome the boys looked down in silence on the sarcophagus, or stone coffin, which is of Finland granite. The monolith on which it rests is porphyry, and weighs 130,000 pounds. The monument cost nine million francs.

A beautifully tinted light fell upon the sarcophagus.

"Look," said Tommy, "see--"

An armed guard approached, with a solemn gesture of the hand. He simply said,--

"Be reverent."

The Hotel des Invalides, an asylum for disabled soldiers, of which the church and dome are a part, was founded by Louis XIV. The dome is gilded, and is three hundred and thirty feet high.

Ernest Wynn, who seemed to have a part of some old ballad always upon his lips, repeated some fine lines to Master Lewis as they went out of the church,--a quotation from an old song, entitled "Napoleon's Grave." (At St. Helena.)

"Though nations may combat and war's thunders rattle, No more on thy steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain; Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle, No sound can awake thee to glory again."

The delightful _Place de la Concorde_, which is between the Garden of the Tuileries and the Champs Elysées, and which has been called the most delightful spot in any European city, had been passed through by the Class in their walk to the park, and it was decided to give an afternoon to a visit to it. Here stands the obelisk of Luxor, brought from the ruins of Thebes.

Here stood the guillotine, or rather the guillotines, on which Louis XIV. and Marie Antoinette and nearly three thousand persons perished. Here revolutionists cut off the heads of the royal family, and the people the heads of the revolutionists.

Two beautiful fountains were playing on the afternoon when the Class made their visit. The sky was all rose and gold; the Seine flowed calmly along; the aspect of every thing seemed as foreign to any past association of war, tragedy, and pangs of human suffering as the figures of the Tritons and Nereids that were spouting water from the fishes in their hands.

Leaving the Place de la Concorde, which Master Lewis said he believed was constructed in part of stones of the old Bastile, the Class went to the public square where the Bastile had stood.

"The Place of the Bastile," said Master Lewis, "now adorned by the Column of Liberty, is the site of the old Castle of Paris, which was built as a defence against the English. The castle became a prison for people who offended the French kings. The Man of the Iron Mask was confined here. It was regarded as an obstacle to liberty, and it was stormed by the people during the Revolution, and destroyed."

"Who was the Man of the Iron Mask?" asked Tommy Toby.

"That is a question that used to be asked by all the statesmen of Europe, and that has been repeated and always will be by every reader of history. It has been answered in many different ways. Books, pamphlets, and essays have been written upon the subject. It is still a secret, and seems destined always to remain so. I will give you briefly the strange history of this State prisoner."

THE MAN OF THE IRON MASK.

"During the reign of that voluptuous old monarch, Louis XIV. of France, there appeared on one of the Marguerite Islands, in the Mediterranean, a prisoner of State closely guarded, and entrusted to the especial care of a French governmental officer, De Saint Mars.

"Although confined in this obscure spot in the sea, where but little was seen or heard save a distant sail and the dashing of waters, he became a marked man among the few who chanced to meet him, and the circumstance of his concealment was in danger of being noised abroad. He was consequently removed to Paris, and immured in the cells of the Bastile.

"From the time that he began to attract attention on the island in the Mediterranean to the close of his protracted life, no one but his appointed attendants is known to have seen his face.

"His head was enveloped in a black-velvet mask, confined by springs of steel, and so arranged that he could not reveal his features without immediate detection.

"His guardian, De Saint Mars, had been instructed by a royal order, or by an order from certain of the king's favorites, to take his life immediately, should he attempt to reveal his identity.

"During his confinement on the Marguerite island, De Saint Mars ate and slept in the same room with him, and was always provided with weapons with which to despatch him, should he attempt to discover the secret of his history. If report is true, De Saint Mars might well exercise caution, for it is asserted that he was to forfeit his own life if by any want of watchfulness he allowed the prisoner to reveal his identity.

"The prisoner himself seemed anxious to make the forbidden discovery. He once wrote a word on some linen, and succeeded in communicating what he wished to an individual not in the secret of the mystery. But the _ruse_ was discovered, and the person that received the linen died suddenly, being taken off, it was supposed, by poison. He once engraved something, probably his name, on a piece of silver plate. The person to whom it was conveyed was detected in his knowledge of the secret, and soon after died, as suddenly and mysteriously as the one who had received the linen.

"These incidents indicate that the prisoner was a man of shrewdness and learning.

"He was attended, during his imprisonment in the Bastile, by the governor of the fortress, who alone administered to his wants; and when he attended mass he was always followed by a detachment of invalides (French soldiers), who were instructed to fire upon him in case he should speak or attempt to uncover his face.

"These circumstances, and many others of like character, show that he was a person of very eminent rank, and that those who thus shut him out from mankind were conscious that they were committing a crime of no ordinary magnitude.

"Who, then, was this person of mystery, familiarly known as the Man of the Iron Mask?

"He is supposed by many to have been a son of Anne of Austria and the Duke of Buckingham, and consequently a half-brother of Louis XIV., and a co-heir to the throne of France. If so, it would appear, that, while Louis XIV. was luxuriating amid the splendors of the palace of Versailles, his brother was suffering the miseries of exile, or languishing in a dungeon, shut out not only from the outward world, but from all intercourse with mankind. But other writers think him to have been some less remarkable person.

"The iron mask, of which frequent mention has been made in sensational books, was a very simple contrivance of velvet and springs of steel."

* * * * *

The Class made two excursions from Paris, one to Versailles and the other to Fontainebleau.

Versailles, a town of 30,000 inhabitants, which has grown up around one of the finest palaces and parks of Europe, was originally the hunting-lodge of Louis XIII. Louis XIV. chose the place for a palace, and employed almost an army of men for eleven years upon the structure. He spent upon this palace nearly £40,000,000 sterling. Thither in 1680 he removed his gay court, and here he passed in gloomy grandeur his melancholy old age.

It is a place of beautiful gardens, wonderful fountains, fine statues, and walks associated with the history of kings, queens, statesmen, and scholars. The palace to the visitor seems a vast picture gallery, wherein is shown the conquests of France. It is a long journey through the glittering rooms. Here you see the representation of a king in his moment of triumph, adored as a god, and there you see the same king overthrown or stretched upon his bed of death. The fountains murmur, the orange trees fill the air with perfume, and you turn from the exhibition of the glowing and faded pomps of history to the gardens, feeling that after all man's only nobility and kingship and hope of a crown lies in his soul, and it is virtue alone that makes one royal.

Two small palaces or villas in the Park of Versailles, called Great Trianon and Little Trianon, recalled to Master Lewis the happy days of the life of Marie Antoinette, which she spent here while the unseen cloud of the Revolution was gathering, and the calm settled down on Paris before the storm.

"We have seen the places where Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette lived and were beheaded. What became of their children?" asked Frank Gray.

"The oldest son of Louis XVI. died at the beginning of the Revolution. As it may give you a picture of the stormy times of the period, let me tell you

THE STORY OF THE DAUPHIN.

"He was born at Versailles in 1785. He was a most affectionate child, and was ardently attached to his mother. He used to sport about the gardens of the palace; the very place where we are now was his play-ground.

"He would sometimes rise early in the morning to gather flowers from the gardens to lay on his mother's pillow.

"'Ah!' he would say, when weary of play, 'I have not earned the first kiss from mother to-day.'

"The Revolution came and cast a shadow over Versailles, with all its glory. The royal family was surrounded with enemies, and was in constant terror, and the little dauphin was made unhappy by the sight of his mother's tears.

"One day a serving-woman told him that if he would procure some favor for her she would be happy as a queen.

"'As happy as a queen!' he answered: 'I know of one queen who does nothing but weep.'

"The Revolutionists overthrew the Bastile and the throne, and the members of the royal family were obliged to seek protection in the National Assembly. They were then confined in an old French prison, called the Temple.

"The king was tried by the Assembly, was condemned and executed. He deeply loved the dauphin, and parted from him with bitter grief.

"After the king's death the dauphin was the principal solace of the queen in her imprisonment. He was at last removed from the queen's apartment by an order of the Committee of Public Safety. It is related that when the guards came to take him away, his mother fought for him until her strength was exhausted, and she fell senseless upon the floor.

"After the execution of his mother he was given over to the care of a brutal shoemaker, named Simon, who endeavored to cause his death without committing palpable murder. He was ill-fed, beaten and abused, and received the name of the 'She-wolf's Whelp,' referring to Marie Antoinette.

"At this period the police were in the habit of distributing in the streets songs against 'Madame Veto,' as the queen had been called. One of the most infamous of these, as vulgar as it was brutal, had been preserved by Simon.

"One day, for the want of a new torture for the child, Simon resolved to make him sing this obscene song against his mother.

"'Come along, Capet,' said he, 'here is a new song which you must sing to me.'

"He handed the song to the dauphin. The boy saw its meaning, and with all the instincts of a susceptible nature he recoiled from the thought of reviling his mother. He laid it down on the table without saying a word.

"Simon arose in wrath.

"'I thought I said you must sing.'

"'I never will sing such a song.'

"'I declare to you that I will kill you if you refuse to obey me.'

"'Never!'

"Simon caught up an andiron, and threw it at the child with a force that would have proved fatal had he not missed his aim. His passion then gradually subsided, but the boy refused to sing.

"One day, after a system of abuses too shocking to relate, Simon seized the dauphin by the ear, and drawing him to the middle of the apartment, said,--

"'Capet, if the Vendéans were to set you at liberty, what would you do to me?'

"'I would forgive you,' replied the noble boy.

"His situation at last became wretched in the extreme. He was placed in a filthy cell where he could neither receive pure air nor have exercise; his food was scanty, his bed was not made for six months, and his clothes were not changed for a year. He became covered with vermin, and the mice used to nibble at his feet. He passed the days in utter silence, wishing only to die. Once, when he had attempted to pray kneeling, he had been discovered and terribly punished, and he felt that it was not safe for him to speak even to his God.

"After the overthrow of the Revolutionary government under Robespierre, he was assigned to more merciful keepers. But his body and mind were in ruins, and all efforts to restore him proved in vain.

"It was a lovely June day in the summer of 1795. He was dying; without, the air was full of sunshine, of birds and roses.

"'Are you in pain?' asked his attendant.

"'Yes,' he said; 'but not in so much as I was, the music is so sweet.'

"He presently added; 'Do you not hear the music?'

"'From whence does it come?'

"'From above.'

"His eyes became luminous; he seemed happy and peaceful, and he fancied that among the voices that seemed to be singing around him he could distinguish that of his mother. It may have been all but a dream or fancy, but it grew out of the filial devotion of his heart."

Fontainebleau is one of the most ancient palaces of France; it is a labyrinth of galleries, salons, amphitheatres, secret chambers, and fantastic balconies. To traverse the palace is a journey. Like all the old French palaces, it is surrounded with gardens, parks, and has its wood or forest. Indeed, the town of Fontainebleau is situated in a forest, which covers an extent of sixty-four miles.

"Artists, poets, romancers, and lovers," says a writer, "have from time immemorial made the forest of Fontainebleau the empire of their dreams. You ought to see it in the morning, when the bird sings, when the sun shines, ... when all these stones, heaped beneath those aged trees, take a thousand fantastic forms, and give to it the appearance of the plain on which the Titans fought against Heaven. Oh, what terrible and touching histories, stories of hunting and of love, of treason and vengeance, this forest has covered with its shadow!"

St. Louis loved this forest, and Napoleon signed his abdication at Fontainebleau.

Master Lewis had allowed the boys to have a day to themselves in each of the principal places where they had stopped. If one of them wished to make an excursion on that day to some neighboring place, the good teacher made some careful arrangement for that one to do so. He was very careful about all matters of this kind, without really seeming to distrust the boys' judgment in their efforts to look out for themselves. A coach-driver, a traveller, a valet-de-place, or some person was usually employed to have an eye on the member of the Class who was allowed to make a tour to a strange place alone.

The boys, with the exception of Tommy Toby, were given a day to go where they liked in Paris. Master Lewis did not dare to allow Tommy this privilege, after his misadventure in England.

The Wynns visited the Palace of the Institute; Frank Gray, the Grand Opera House.

"I would like to go to the river this morning," said Tommy, "and sail on the ---- queer boats there."

"The flies, or water-omnibuses?" said Master Lewis. "I will go with you."

Tommy looked surprised and hardly seemed pleased, not that he did not generally like Master Lewis's company, but because it looked to him like a restraint upon his freedom.

But the good teacher took his hat and cane, and Tommy did not express any displeasure in words. The two went to a splendid stone bridge called the Pont d'Jena, over the Seine.

Compared with the Mississippi, the Ohio, or the St. Lawrence, the Seine is but a small stream. The river is lined with solid stone-work on each side, and its banks are shaded with trees. It is filled with queer crafts, and a multitude of families live on the barges that convey wood, coal, and certain kinds of merchandise from place to place.

As Master Lewis and Tommy were standing on the bridge, watching the sloops as they lowered their masts to pass under, an astonishing sight met Tommy's eyes.

It was a great boat, like a steamer, but without screw or paddles, swiftly passing up the river by means of a chain which rose out of the water at the bows, ran along the deck, turned around wheels which seemed to be worked by an engine, and then slipped overboard at the stern.

"How far can that boat go on in that way?" asked Tommy.

"The chain by which the boat is carried forward," said Master Lewis, "is _one hundred miles long_."

Master Lewis and Tommy passed some hours among the queer crafts on the river, taking passages here and there on the flies or water-omnibuses.

"Were you afraid to trust me alone this morning?" asked Tommy, on their return.

"Well, yes."

"Did you think I could not speak French well enough to go out alone?"

"Your French might not be very well understood here."

"I think I can talk simple French, such as servants could understand very well."

In the afternoon, being somewhat alone, Tommy thought he would explore the hotel, which was something of a town in itself. He descended from his apartment on the third floor, with the intention of going to the courtyard. But he could not find the place which had so attracted him from his window. He tried to go back, but lost the way even to his apartment. He descended again, but failed to find any place he remembered to have seen before. It was all as grand as a palace, but as puzzling as a labyrinth he had seen in the grounds of Hampton Court Palace.

He said to one after another of the very polite people he chanced to meet,--

"Please, sir [or madam], do you speak English?"

He received only smiles of good-will, and courteous shakes of the head, in answer to all inquiries.

Tommy remembered his French lessons. Happy thought! He accosted a servant, whose knowledge of the language he fancied might be as simple as his own:--

"_Pardon, Monsieur, voulez-vous avez la bonté de m'indiquer un valet-de-place?_"

"_Je ne comprends pas_," said he.

"_Je ne comprends pas_," said Tommy. "_Je ne puis pas trouver ma chambre_," pointing upward. "_Voulez-vous m'indiquer quelqu'un qui parle l'Anglais?_"

"_Je ne comprends pas._"

"_Ne comprenez-vous Français?_" said Tommy.

The man's face wore a willing, but very puzzled expression.

Just then a girl with a happy face came out of one of the rooms.

"Do you speak"----

"Why, yes, of course I speak. I am very glad to meet you here. How pleasant!"

It was Agnes, the young lady who had made herself so agreeable on the steamer.

The next morning, after a chat with Agnes, Master Lewis said to Tommy,--

"I think I will let you take a day to go where you like."

"Will you not let me go with you?" asked Agnes. "It is a fête day, or some kind of Church festival, and I would like to go to that lovely church of St. Eustache, where they have the finest organ and sweetest chanting in the world. I know you will like it. It took a hundred years to build the church. It is all just like fairy-land."

As Agnes had been reading the comedies of Molière, the French Shakspeare, she induced Tommy to attend her to the old Théâtre Français, which was under the direction of the great dramatist for many years, and where he was stricken down by death in the middle of a play. It was not open for an exhibition at the hour of the visit, but a courteous Frenchman took them through it, and related to Agnes some pleasing anecdotes of Molière.

The Class took many delightful walks along the clean streets and charming boulevards, visiting churches, public buildings, statues, and paintings. In one of the visits to a church Tommy was much amused by a priest who, as the people were going out after some superb music, pretended to be praying, but who, amid the noise and confusion, was only making contortions of his face. Tommy went through the priest's performance in dumb show when he returned to the hotel, for the amusement of Agnes, but was checked by Master Lewis when he attempted a similar imitation in one of the public rooms, lest some one might mistake it for a want of reverence for sacred things.

In one of these walks they were shown a place where a French boy did a noble act at the end of the last war.

An order had been issued to shoot all persons found with arms in their hands in the streets. A captain with his company on duty came upon a French boy with a musket.

"I must order your execution," he said.

"Let me return a watch I have borrowed," said the boy.

"When will you return?"

"At once, upon my word."

The boy went away, and the captain never expected to see him again. But he presently came back, and taking a heroic attitude said,--

"_I am ready. Fire!_"

He was pardoned.

"The young French people," said Master Lewis, "are very patriotic. History abounds with noble acts of French boys. I will relate an incident or two to the point:--

"Joseph Barra lived in the interior of France at the beginning of the French Revolution. He was a generous-hearted boy, who loved truth, his mother, and his country. He was a Republican at heart; a boy of his impulses could have been nothing else.

"Wishing to serve his country in the great struggle for liberty, he entered the Republican army at the age of twelve, as a drummer boy. His whole soul entered into the cause; he was ready to endure any hardship and to make any sacrifice, that the country he loved might be free. He allowed himself no luxuries, but he sent the whole of his pay as a musician to his mother.

"His regiment was ordered to La Vendée to encounter a body of Royalists. One day he found himself cut off from the troops, and surrounded by a party of Royalists. Twenty bayonets were pointed towards his breast. He stood, calm and unflinching, before the glittering steel.

"'Shout,' cried the leader of the Royalists, 'shout, "Long live Louis XVII!" or die!'

"The twenty bayonets were pushed forward within an inch of his body.

"He bent upon his captors a steady eye, kindling with the lofty purpose of his soul. He took off his hat. He gazed for a moment on the blue sky and the green earth. Then, waving his hand aloft, he exclaimed, '_Vive la République!_'

"The twenty bayonets did their cruel work, and the boy died, a martyr to his convictions of right and of liberty.

"Joseph Agricole Vialla, a boy thirteen years of age, connected himself with a party of French Republican soldiers stationed on the Danube. One day an army of insurgent Royalists were discovered on the opposite side of the river, attempting to cross over on a pontoon. The only safety for the Republican soldiers was to cut the cables that held the bridge to the shore. Whoever should attempt to do this would fall within range of the Royalists' guns, and would be exposed to what seemed to be certain destruction.

"Who would volunteer?

"Every soldier hesitated. The boy Vialla seized an axe, and ran to the bank of the stream. He began to cut the cables amid frequent volleys of shot from the other side, when a ball entered his breast. He fell, but raising himself for a moment, exclaimed,--

"'I die, but I die for my fatherland!'

"In the _Chant du Départ_--an old French revolutionary song, once almost as famous as the _Marseillaise_--the deeds of these boy-heroes are celebrated in the following strain:--

"'O Barra! Vialla! we envy your glory. Still victors, though breathless ye lie. A coward lives not, though with age he is hoary; Who fall for the people ne'er die.

"'Brave boys, we would rival your deed-roll, 'Twill guard us 'gainst tyranny then; Republicans all swell the bead-roll, While slaves are but infants 'mong men.

"'The Republic awakes in her splendor, She calls us to win, not to fly! A Frenchman should live to defend her, For her should he manfully die!'"

Wyllys Wynn seemed much impressed by these incidents of youthful heroism. He sometimes wrote poems, and on his return to the hotel he related the incident of the boy and the watch in these lines, which he read in one of the parlors to Agnes.

HONOR BRIGHT.

The rush of men, the clash of arms, The morning stillness broke, And followed fast the fresh alarms, The clouds of battle-smoke.

The Seine still bore a lurid light, As down its ripples run, Where late had shone the fires at night, The rosy rifts of sun.

"Shoot every man," the captain cried, "That dares our way oppose!" Like water ran the crimson tide, Like clouds the smoke arose.

They forward rushed, the streets they cleared,-- But ere the work was done, Before the troop a boy appeared, And bore the boy a gun.

"Thou too shalt die," the captain said. The boy stopped calmly there, And sweet and low the music played Amid the silenced air.

"Hold!" cried the boy; "a moment wait. For, ere I meet my end, I would return this watch, that late I borrowed of my friend."

"Return a watch?" The captain frowned. "Your meaning I discern; Such honest lads are seldom found: And when would _you_ return?"

"At once!" the hero makes reply; "As soon as e'er I can; I _will_ return, and I will die As nobly as a man!"

"Well, go!" The lordly bugle blew, And said the man, with joy, "Right glad am I to lose him, too, I would not harm the boy."

Some moments passed; the deadly rain Fell thickly through the air; The smoke arose, and, lo! again The boy stood calmly there.

The muskets ceased, the smoke-wreath passed O'er sunlit dome and spire,-- "Here, captain, I have come at last, And I am ready. Fire!"

As marble grew the captain's cheek, He could not speak the word. The shout of _Vive la République!_ Adown the ranks was heard.

The bugle blew a note of joy, "Advance!" the captain cried,-- They marched, and left the happy boy The colonnade beside.

We sing Vialla's sweet romance, Of Barra's death we read, But few among the boys of France E'er did a nobler deed.

The palace burns, the columns fall, The works of art decay, But deeds like these the good recall When empires pass away.