And so one understands how the entire world was affected by the dreadful catastrophe not long ago in the burning of this great old house. Neither M. Claretie, with his eyes full of tears, nor any of the distracted company was bemoaning a personal loss, was thinking of private interests in sight of the devastating flames; but all were throbbing, as one heart, before a national calamity. The civilised world felt it had lost a precious and a unique thing. The new building will contain most of the rescued works of art, but the figures of Rachel, of Delaunay, of so many shades of departed dramatic glory, have gone. The new theatre will probably be handsomer than the old one, and it could easily be that; it will also be more modern, more comfortable; it may even be fitted up with luxury, and, Heaven permit it! that horrid national institution, the _ouvreuse_, may be abolished. Blessed changes! but we of our generation will ever be grateful that it was on the old stage we saw Got and Reichemberg, Worms, Barretta, and Bartet. L’École des Beaux Arts is another national institution. In all things the French passion for art is visible. Art is the one thing the entire race takes seriously. The capital is laid out to please the eye and captivate the senses like a work of art. This School of Fine Arts itself is connected with one of the most radiant bits of Paris. The bridge, called after it, seizes 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 upward view running past bridges and gardens, past the grey temple of legislation, to sweep upon a wide curve into the colonnaded heights of the Trocadero.