I looked upon the many beautiful paintings of the last named artist, that adorn the halls of Versailles, I did not wonder that his fame should have saved his life, when once condemned and sentenced to death during the reign of terror.  The guillotine was robbed of its intended victim, but the world gained a great painter.  As Boswell transmitted his own name to posterity with his life of Johnson, so has David left his, with the magnificent paintings that are now suspended upon the walls of the palaces of the Louvre, the Tuileries, St. Cloud, Versailles, and even the little Elysee.

After strolling from room to room, we found ourselves in the Salle du Sacre, Diane, Salon de Mars, de Mercure, and d’Apollon.  I gazed with my eyes turned to the ceiling till I was dizzy.  The Salon de la Guerre is covered with the most beautiful representations that the mind of man could conceive, or the hand accomplish.  Louis XIV. is here in all his glory.  No Marie Antoinette will ever do the honours in these halls again.

After spending a whole day in the Palace and several mornings in the Gardens, I finally bid adieu to the bronze statue of Louis XIV. that stands in front of the Palace, and left Versailles, probably for ever.

* * * * *

PARIS, September 2.

I am now on the point of quitting the French Metropolis.  I have occupied the last two days in visiting places of note in the city.  I could not resist the inclination to pay a second visit to the Louvre.  Another hour was spent in strolling through the Italian Hall and viewing the master-workmanship of Raphael, the prince of painters.  Time flies, even in such a place as the Louvre with all its attractions; and before I had seen half that I wished, a ponderous clock near by reminded me of an engagement, and I reluctantly tore myself from the splendours of the place.

During the rest of the day I visited the Jardin des Plantes, and spent an hour and a half pleasantly in walking among plants, flowers, and in fact everything that could be found in any garden in France.  From this place we passed by the column of the Bastile, and paid our respects to the Bourse, or Exchange, one of the most superb buildings in the city.  The ground floor and sides of the Bourse, are of fine marble, and the names of the chief cities in the world are inscribed on the medallions, which are under the upper cornice.  The interior of the edifice has a most splendid appearance as you enter it.

The Cemetery of Pere la Chaise was too much talked of by many of our party at the Hotel for me to pass it by, so I took it after the Bourse.  Here lie many of the great marshals of France—­the resting place of each marked by the monument that stands over it, except one, which is marked only by a weeping willow and a plain stone at its head.  This is the grave of Marshal Ney.  I should not have known that it was his, but some unknown hand had written with black paint, “Bravest of the Brave,” on the unlettered stone that stands at the head of the man who followed Napoleon through nearly all his battles, and who was shot after the occupation of Paris by the allied army.  Peace to his ashes.  During my ramble through this noted place, I saw several who were hanging fresh wreaths of everlasting flowers on the tombs of the departed.