were far more than realized. The half had not been told me of its fine streets, well-filled, showy stores, and its aristocratic residences. Every thing seemed as gày as the lark and beautiful as the butterfly.

The people of Paris are less robust and noble than the English. The men are generally small in stature, active, and industrious.. The women are less finely formed, but have, as a general thing, more personal charms than their neighbors on the other side of the channel. The style of dress is more rich and gay. The men pay far more attention to a well-cut coat, a genteel hat, and a finely-polished boot, than the men of any other nation I have seen. I should judge that American fashions were half way between the slouchy rig of the English and the extreme of fashion seen among the French. The women dress more gay and showy than on the other shore, and seem to have a fondness for light, airy fabrics, and high and dazzling figures and colors. About half the women seen in the streets were destitute of bonnets, and wore, instead, a neat, pretty muslin cap. The stores on the street were more attractively adorned, and the goods were displayed more advantageously, than in London, and the whole appearance of the place had an aspect of cheerfulness.

The streets of Paris are wide, and kept perfectly clean. The Boulevards formerly the foundations of the city wall, which has now been taken down and outbuilt― run all round the city, and form the most spacious broadways in the world. Holborn and Fleet Street do not compare with them for wealth, cleanliness, gayety, and splendor, and the stranger soon finds. himself compelled to give expression to his admiration in the most enthusiastic language.

What the parks are to London, the public squares,

or "places," as they are called, which are generally ornamented with fountains or columns, are to Paris. Of the "places" and columns, there are several of much interest. The Place Vendome is an octagonal space in which is the triumphal pillar erected by Napoleon to commemorate his German victories. The shaft is of stone, and covered with bronze bass-reliefs formed entirely of cannon taken in the battles of the conqueror. The bass-reliefs are spiral, and display the most noted events in the German campaigns. On the summit stands the bronze figure of Napoleon himself, who is looking out from his dizzy elevation upon the passing multitudes below. It is an imitation of the Trajan pillar at Rome, and surpasses it in grandeur, and in the heroism of the deeds which it commemorates.

In front of the Tuileries is the Place de la Concorde, ornamented with beautiful fountains which play ceaselessly, and in the center of which rises the Luxor Obelisk, an Egyptian shaft, at least three thousand years old, and which is covered with unread Egyptian characters. It was brought from Egypt during the reign of Louis Philippe. On the base are engravings and diagrams of the machine by which it was raised to its present elevation. It is said that the engineer who had charge of the work felt the most extreme solicitude as to his success; and as thousands gathered to see the obelisk rise to its position, he moved among them with a charged pistol protruding from his vest, with which he had determined to commit suicide, if, by any accident, he should fail in his attempt. The obelisk stands where the guillotine stood in the time of the revolution, and where the wretched Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, and their unfortunate friends, met a dread ful fate.

CHURCHES

In the Place de la Bastille is a pillar of bronze, commemorating the revolution of 1830. It stands where once the Bastille, that famous old prison, which, for centuries, had been the awe of freemen, reared its front. When, in the indignant anarchy of the French populace, that structure was demolished, and a stone of it was sent to every town in the nation, this beautiful column arose in its place. It is covered with the names of those who fell in the tumult of 1830, and in the base is kept their bones and dust. A spiral staircase of two hundred and ten steps winds to the summit, on which stands a figure of Liberty. The shaft towers to the hight of several hundred feet, and commands an extensive view of the city and surrounding country.

These various columns give great beauty to the city, and are far superior to the monuments in London. They all have some great historic interest, and commemorate events which are interwoven with the most terrible scenes in the history of the nation. On these monuments, and on all the palaces, churches, and public buildings of Paris, are the words which compose the great national lie-"Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité." No sentiment could contain a greater falsehood. The French have less true, genuine liberty than under the reign of the Bourbons. There are more slaves to-day, in France, under Louis Napoleon, than there were under Louis Philippe. Liberty means universal license; equality consists in universal want, an equality in degradation; fraternity means a brotherhood of anarchists, such as, years ago, shouted along the streets of Paris, with trunkless heads on gory pikes. The French republic is a military despotism. The streets of Paris are full of soldiers, dressed in uncomely uniform, who march through the crowded streets, and across the

pleasure grounds, to overawe the people. The bayonet, and not the ballot-box, rules; and Louis XVI. was no greater tyrant than is Louis Napoleon. I do not see how we can cherish for a moment any hope of the permanence of the French government. All the glory is in the name, while the people cannot appreciate, do not desire, and have not a genuine republic. There are said to be one hundred thousand soldiers within call of the president, and present appearances seem to indicate that he will soon have need of them.

A trait in the French character is seen in the cafés, or drinking establishments, of the metropolis. The Frenchman loves his coffee more than he does his wife, and often spends more time in the café than in the bosom of his family. In the Boulevards, at almost any hour of the day or evening, may be seen scores and hundreds of men and women sipping coffee and eating ices in the open street. In front of the saloon are found a large number of little tables, with one or two chairs to each, each occupied, while within and without the saloon are busy waiters, hurrying to and fro, to receive orders and supply the wants of their patrons. Sometimes little arbors, on the most frequented streets, are fitted up with hanging lamps; fountains abound, and cool retreats, and hither resort hundreds to eat, drink, and enjoy. The enchantments which art throws around these fairy spots render them the favorite resorts of men of all classes and conditions. The visitor must purchase some article, or pay two or three sous for the use of the chair and table. Thus the keepers make good livings, and are enabled to embellish their premises in very gorgeous style.

The lowest form of morals prevails in Paris to a great extent. The true idea of public virtue, in its

noblest sense, can scarcely be said to exist, and a thousand forms of evil stalk abroad without reproof. The marriage tie is easily broken, and the obligations of the marriage relations are hardly recognized. The young Parisian lady considers herself a slave, under the surveillance of her parents, until her marriage, when she enters into a state of uncontrolled liberty, her husband caring little for her affairs, and she attending but little to his interests. Immorality is sanctioned by law, and the corrupters of society are licensed by government. No small part of the public revenue is derived from this source; and pollution is a part of the system, as common school education is part of our system. Each infamous woman is licensed by the police as we license cabmen or auctioneers, and carries her certificate of shame and crime in her pocket. There is no public. conscience in relation to vice. Young men and women who enter upon a career of crime seem to feel that they are doing no evil. In London, there is a public conscience, and a public voice, and a public shame; and every loose woman and they meet you in the

streets at night by scores and hundreds-bears on her countenance the wo-begone proof of her degradation. But in Paris, not a blush indicates that the most depraved feels ashamed of her occupation, and crime wears the open countenance and fair cheek of innocence.

There are less outside appearances of crime in Paris than in London, from the simple fact that in the latter city vice is branded, hated, and despised, while in the former city it is courted, patronized, and defended. Infanticide prevails to a fearful extent, and hundreds of infants every year are destroyed by unnatural moth ers. Almost every day the Seine sweeps some infant body down out of the sight of those who gave it being.