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 of Normandy anterior to the conquest of England, it is the chosen place where the bones of many of them repose. Here are the remains of Rollo, the first duke of Normandy and the ancestor of the Conqueror, and over them a monumental effigy; of William of the Long Sword, his son; of Henry, the father of Coeur de Lion; and here the Lion-heart itself was deposited. At a later day, the remains of the Duke of Bedford—the English regent of France, discomfited by the Maid of Orleans—were deposited here; and an inscription behind the great altar marks the spot. Different parts, in the neighborhood of altars, are occupied by inscriptions and engraved effigies of bishops, archbishops, cardinals, and other eminent men, whose standing or character gave them admission after death to this company. Over all was the vast Gothic roof, stretching on with its ancient and numerous arches in imposing perspective; and the light which was shed upon this scene came through richly painted windows, where were martyrdoms and sufferings and triumphs, such as the history of Christianity records. And here was I, an American,—whose very hemisphere had been discovered long since the foundation of this church, whose country had been settled, in comparison with this foundation, but yesterday,—introduced to these remains of past centuries, treading over the dust of archbishops and cardinals, and standing before the monuments of kings and the founder of a dynasty, the greatest and best established of modern Europe. Now, indeed, may I believe in antiquity and in the acts which are recorded. Often, in fancy, have I doubted if such men as history mentions ever lived and did what we are told they did: if William of Normandy actually conquered England; and, indeed, if such a place as England existed for him to conquer. But this fancy, this Pyrrhonism of the imagination, is now exploded. These monuments and their inscriptions, with the traces of centuries upon them, in this holy place, bear testimony to what I have read. In this immense building there are no pews, but simply a few chairs placed in the middle of the church. Every thing is stone; the floor, the pillars, and walls are all of stone. I ascended the highest tower, by a winding staircase which communicated apparently with a great number of other staircases, all of stone, running in every direction about the tower. Indeed, every step that I took showed the extent of the building. From the tower I saw the palace of the archbishop, and his gardens beneath; besides looking down completely upon the whole city and the adjoining country, with the Seine curling through the beautiful meadows, green at this very close of the month of December. Next passed to a building scarcely less interesting or ancient, laEglise de St. Ouen. Beautiful rose-painted windows, tombs, and a splendid Gothic coup d'oeil arrested the attention. From this we passed to the adjoining building, the Hotel de Ville, or city hall. Here was the museum, a gallery of paintings and statues: we hardly paused long enough fully to study a single picture, much less several hundred; and yet I cannot but record the admiration, blind and untutored, which was excited by this first view of the arts in Europe. In the collection, a painting was pointed out as that of
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