one of the loveliest views of the city. It spans the river between the glorious Louvre and the imposing dome of the Institute. Stand midway, and here, in the heart of modern life, will you find yourself in the midst of enchantment. Let the vision be a morning vision, and the lights about you will be pearly, the blue of the air rose-tinged, the gold of the sun-rays, as it shimmers over the water, broken and tossed against its blithe, persistent grey. Or see it at the magical hour of sunset. All the gilt of the Louvre glistens like living light. Towers and fretted spires are pencilled in the lovely glow, seemingly enlarged by the large serenity of the atmosphere. Below, the roll of the river curls into the deep grey hollows of the mysterious isle whose gates of romance are fittingly guarded by the high towers of Notre Dame, the church that foreigners will persist in regarding as the most beautiful of Paris, and whose architectural value has been absurdly overrated, I suppose because of Victor Hugo; while Saint Étienne-du-Mont, with its delightful jubé, Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, home of poetry, and the exquisite Sainte Chapelle are neglected for this second-rate edifice. On one side Richelieu's dome, fronted by its circling space which breaks the winding, gracious line of quay and bookstalls; on the other, Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, bending its Gothic shadow to the bright glory of the Louvre, and the
