An almost incredib.e number of children are found and

taken to the foundling hospitals. In former times, connected with these hospitals was an open box in the wall, into which the mother could come at night, unseen, and put her babe. As she rung a bell near by, the box was drawn in, and the child taken out, and the name of the person who put it there remained entirely unknown. In 1833, this box was abandoned, since which time infanticide has very largely increased, while the number of children born out of wedlock has in no way diminished. Other fearful facts might be given, corroborating the dreadful prevalence of immorality and crime; but I forbear.

Paris is well supplied with hospitals and asylums for the poor, the blind, aged ecclesiastics, foundlings, and orphans. The attendance and nursing in these charitable institutions are performed generally by the nuns of the various convents, of which there are about thirty in the city. The sisters of St. Vincent de Paul are much admired for their devotion to the sick and the poor. They number about five hundred, and are always employed in works of love and charity, if we may believe Catholic testimony on the subject. I can see how, in a great city like Paris, a convent may be a useful institution, and, while there, learnt to look upon these sisters of charity with less disgust than formerly; and yet convents may be, and are generally, made tremendous engines of evil. Professedly open to public inspection, they are, in fact, closed to all investigation, and none but the priests of a corrupt church see behind the veil. What horrid crimes are committed in them, what persons are confined there, what revolting excesses indulged under their sanctity, the busy world outside knows not; and, doubtless, many a convent and

monastery on the continent has witnessed scenes such as outshine the crimes which have been perpetrated in the Tower of London and the old Bastille.

The population of Paris is about eleven hundred thousand seven hundred and sixty-seven, and this is steadily increasing. The city is built on both sides of the Seine, which, like the Thames, is spanned by several noble bridges, across which a tide of life is continually sweeping. There seems in Paris to be an activity, a rapidity of movement, which can scarcely be said to be the character of any other nation. The people walk faster, talk faster, eat faster, ride faster, and live faster, in all respects, than do their English neighbors. The English love the past, and protest against the removal of the ancient landmarks; the French love change, and pant for revolutions, and find enjoyment in scenes of disorder and confusion. The English love law, and are strong advocates for order and propriety; the French have little respect for law, and execute kings with as little hesitancy as they do traitors. The English love precedent; the French love innovation.

That there is no love of law, no domestic virtue, no public honor, is not true. But that these are not national characteristics, we may judge from the successive revolutions, the murder and banishment of successive monarchs, the license given to crime, and the over whelming influence of might irrespective of right.

There exists among the French the deepest and most inveterate hatred towards the English, these two nations seeming to consider themselves "natural enemies." This hatred arises from the rival position of the two countries, and from the dreadful wars in which blood has been shed, the stains of which are not yet washed

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out. The monuments, triumphal arches, and pillars are commemorative, to a considerable extent, of victories obtained over each other, and the military idols of each nation - Bonaparte on the one side, and Wellington on the other obtained victories, each, which the other could look upon only with rage. If you mention the word "Waterloo" to the boys in the streets of Paris, they will grit their teeth, clinch their fists, and tell you that the time is not far distant when that stain will be blotted out, and the injured honor of France vindicated. This feeling, I was assured, is prevalent in the French army, the regiments of which want some employment, and, doubtless, throat-cutting would be the most agreeable. Victor Hugo may poetize in the chamber of deputies, and Richard Cobden may declaim in the House of Commons, and peace conventions may be held every month in Exeter Hall; but while this national prejudice exists, the stream of blood will not be stayed. And this prejudice is increased by such rash speeches as are made at reformatory meetings in London, in which one nation is praised, lauded, and bespattered with compliments to the discredit of all others. England is a great nation, but she is not the only great nation. She has national crimes; nor is she the only nation whose banners are stained with guilt; and it becomes England, France, and America to treat each other with candor, forbearance, and justice.

When the traveler lands in France, he begins to find the Catholic religion exerting an influence, and acting out itself. Though all religions are tolerated, this swallows up all others; and in the metropolis, a Catholic church is found in almost every street. The churches of London do not compare with them in cost, architectural beauty, and splendid adornments. In all that goes

to make up outward show and dazzling beauty, the church edifices of Paris excel; and it is no wonder, when the poor, ignorant man enters one of them, that imagination steals away his judgment, and leads him to substitute the outward service for the internal love. The oldest church in Paris is

NOTRE DAME,

which stands on the site of an ancient Roman temple, and has resisted the assault of nearly ten centuries. It is one of the finest specimens of architectural taste I ever saw; but for the great purpose of worship, it is almost completely useless. Two towers surmount the structure, from which a fine view of Paris is obtained, in one of which is an enormous bell, weighing thirty-two thousand pounds, which sends out its iron tone like the voice of a giant. Decay and neglect are written all around, and the fine edifice gives many evidences of the ruthless assaults of civil war. As we entered, a meanlyclad, dirty-faced ecclesiastic, with a brush, stood near. The brush he occasionally dipped in a basin of water, keeping it wet, that the faithful might use it to cross themselves as they came in. In many parts of the cathedral, men and women were bowing on the cold floor. mumbling over their prayers, and counting their beads. One has an irresistible feeling of religious veneration, as he stands beneath the arches of such a structure, where far above him the birds have built their nests, and the swallows are flying about with a mournful sound. In the chapels all around the church are paintings and statues, to commemorate distinguished events and personages. We were pointed to the very spot on the floor on which Napoleon stood, when he was married to Josephine by Pope Pius VII. Here, too, was

the very spot where he placed the crowns upon his own head and that of his imperial consort. In a marble vault in this cathedral lies the dead body of the late archbishop, who was unfortunately killed in the last revolution. He was an amiable man, and his fall was much lamented. When blood was flowing in the streets of Paris, he went out, regardless of his own safety, to stay the crimson tide. Wherever he was

recognized his authority was respected, and he moved from street to street, quelling the fury of the misguided populace. But at length, while climbing over a barricade in one of the streets, a random shot was fired which laid him low. Near his sarcophagus is a painting representing his fall. Two or three citizens, who recognize his mild features, are endeavoring to restrain the wild passions of others, while intense sorrow is depicted on their countenances. The whole scene is sublime and mournful in the extreme. Near by are two of the small bones of the back, and the ball which pene trated between them into the spinal marrow.

One of the tombs in this old edifice is decorated with a group of statuary of extraordinary origin. The wife of an Austrian nobleman had a singular dream. She saw her husband in a coffin, and engaged in a fearful struggle with embodied Death. He called for her to help him; but she was powerless, and the monster performed his work. She awoke, and her dream was over; but in a few days she learnt that, at the very hour of her sleep, her husband was accidentally killed. She had a group of statuary made to represent her dream; and here it stands, to remind every beholder of his own conflict with the powers of death.

At Notre Dame are kept the robes in which Napoleon was crowned, and the ecclesiastical habits in