Nevertheless，admirable as the Paris of to-day may seem to you，conjure up the Paris of the fifteenth century；rebuild it in imagination；look through that amazing forest of spires，towers，and steeples；pour through the middle of the immense city the Seine，with its broad green and yellow pools that make it iridescent as a serpent's skin；divide it at the island points，send it swirling round the piers of the bridges；project sharply against an azure horizon the Gothic profile of old Paris；let its outline float in a wintry mist clinging round its numerous chimneys；plunge it in deepest night，and watch the fantastic play of light and shadow in that sombre labyrinth of edifices；cast into it a ray of moonlight，showing it vague and uncertain，with its towers rearing their massive heads above the mists；or go back to the night scene，touch up the thousand points of the spires and gables with shadow，let it stand out more ridged and jagged than a shark's jaw against a coppery sunset sky—and then compare.
And if you would receive from the old city an impression the modern one is incapable of giving，go at dawn on some great festival—Easter or Whitsuntide—and mount to some elevated point，whence the eye commands the entire capital，and be present at the awakening of the bells.Watch，at a signal from heaven—for it is the sun that gives it—those thousand churches starting from their sleep.First come scattered notes passing from church to church，as when musicians signal to one another that the concert is to begin.Then，suddenly behold—for there are moments when the ear，too，seems to have sight—behold，how，at the same moment，from every steeple there rises a column of sound，a cloud of harmony.At first the vibration of each bell mounts up straight，pure，isolated from the rest，into the resplendent sky of morn；then，by degrees，as the waves spread out，they mingle，blend，unite one with the other，and melt into one magnificent concert.Now it is one unbroken stream of sonorous sound poured incessantly from the innumerable steeples—floating，undulating，leaping，eddying over the city，the deafening circle of its vibration extending far beyond the horizon.Yet this scene of harmony is no chaos.Wide and deep though it be，it never loses its limpid clearness；you can follow the windings of each separate group of notes that detaches itself from the peal；you can catch the dialogue，deep and shrill by turns，between the bourdon and the crecelle；you hear the octaves leap from steeple to steeple，darting winged，airy，strident from the bell of silver，dropping halt and broken from the bell of wood.You listen delightedly to the rich gamut，incessantly ascending and descending，of the seven bells of Saint-Eustache；clear and rapid notes flash across the whole in luminous zigzags，and then vanish like lightning.That shrill，cracked voice over there comes from the Abbey of Saint-Martin；here the hoarse and sinister growl of the Bastile；at the other end the boom of the great tower of the Louvre.The royal carillon of the Palais scatters its glittering trills on every side，and on them，at regular intervals，falls the heavy clang of the great bell of Notre-Dame，striking flashes from them as the hammer from the anvil.At intervals，sounds of every shape pass by，coming from the triple peal of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.Then，ever and anon，the mass of sublime sound opens and gives passage to the stretto of the Ave-Maria chapel，flashing through like a shower of meteors.Down below，in the very depths of the chorus，you can just catch the chanting inside the churches，exhaled faintly through the pores of their vibrating domes.Here，in truth，is an opera worth listening to.In general，the murmur that rises up from Paris during the daytime is the city talking；at night it is the city breathing；but this is the city singing.Lend your ear，then，to this tutti of the bells；diffuse over the ensemble the murmur of half a million of human beings，the eternal plaint of the river，the ceaseless rushing of the wind，the solemn and distant quartet of the four forests set upon the hills，round the horizon，like so many enormous organ-cases；muffle in this，as in a sort of twilight，all of the great central peal that might otherwise be too hoarse or too shrill，and then say whether you know of anything in the world more rich，more blithe，more golden，more dazzling，than this tumult of bells and chimes—this furnace of music，these ten thousand brazen voices singing at once in flutes of stone，three hundred feet high—this city which is now but one vast orchestra—this symphony with the mighty uproar of a tempest.
1 This might be freely translated：The dam damming Paris，sets Paris damning.
2 Portions of these Roman baths still exist in the Htel de Cluny.
3 The recreation and fighting ground of the students，the present Faubourg Saint-Germain.
4 Fidelity to the kings，though broken at times by revolts，procured the burghers many privileges.
5 An order formed in the twelfth century，specially vowed to the rescuing of Christians out of slavery.
6 The place of execution，furnished with immense gibbets，the site of an ancient Druidical temple.
7 Pierre Mignard（1610–1695），the well-known French painter，a contemporary of Molière.
8 From that period of the French Revolution when this bad imitation of the antique was much in vogue.
