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which the pope was arrayed when the service was performed. The former is a sort of cape, or cloak, worked all over with gold cord and lace. The fabric is of rich crimson velvet, and a gorgeous affair. The latter is a habit of crimson velvet, richly worked in the usual form of religious vestments. Here, too, is the gold plate used at the sacraments which follow coronations, and a large number of religious dresses, upon which I gazed, wondering how John the Baptist would have looked arrayed in such, or what the people would have thought of Christ, had he been bedecked with such when he rode into Jerusalem. Should a priest walk through our streets in similar robes, the children would imagine him some crazy playactor who had broken away from the stage, and was wandering out to secure attention and draw patronage. The people would never suppose him to be a follower of the meek and lowly Jesus. We cannot judge of men by dress, but when human beings array themselves like clowns or circus riders, common sense will find it hard to recognize in them the distinguishing features of the teachers of religion.

As I walked about in this old cathedral, I began to dream. The past, the dreadful past, seemed to come rushing back. In imagination, I was in the National Convention. I saw the bishops and clergy with uncovered heads ascend the tribune, and abjure the religion of the Savior, and cast away with contempt the emblems of their sacred office. I heard the hoarse voice of Hebert, declaring that God did not exist, and calling on all men to dethrone him. I saw a wanton prostitute led forward by a bishop, and introduced as the Goddess of Reason, and in my ear sounded a shout which seemed like that of rebel angels when they endeavored to overturn the throne of God. Out

sweeps that throng from the Chamber of Deputies, across the Place de Revolution, by the Tuileries, on to the Church of Notre Dame. In the midst, in a splendid chariot, rides the harlot, the goddess of blooddrunken France. They enter the church; they throng its aisles, and fill its spacious nave. On the altar, the woman takes her seat, and her reign commences. Scenes of crime and shame are witnessed over the very ashes of the dead. The altar itself, from which the sacred articles have scarcely been removed, is made the theater of unbounded license. Lust and beauty reign where once grave old friars and sable monks chanted songs to God, and the very arches ring with the sounds of vice and crime. Hell is let loose, and Death reigns in the very courts of life. My dream ends, and I awake only to hear a priest saying over his prayers before one of the altars, and find that Notre Dame is almost empty; that the Goddess of Reason has been dethroned, and the revolution lives only in the memory of the past.

The next church to which we pursue our way is

THE MADELEINE,

a costly and elegant structure, near the western termination of the Boulevards. I have seen larger churches, but I never saw one more gorgeous than this. It was commenced in 1796, and finished and dedicated during the reign of the late king. It is built in the Grecian style of architecture, and cost the immense sum of thirteen million and seventy-nine thousand francs, or more than two million six hundred thousand dollars. It is three hundred and twenty-eight feet long, and one hundred and thirty-eight feet wide. It is surrounded by Corinthian pillars about fifty feet high and sixteen

and a half in circumference. Colossal statues ornament the building without, and rich sculpture and elegant carving mark it as one of the most remarkable churches of France. On entering the church, a splendor dazzles and bewilders. The deep tones of the organ, the gold and glitter of the temple, the long train of priests, and the multitude of apparently devout worshipers, produce a profound impression upon the mind. Nothing can surpass the elegance and richness of the whole interior, from the painted ceiling to the marble pavement, from the grand altar to the spacious vestibule. I frequently wandered into this church to attend the service, which is held every evening, and of which I could not understand a single intelligible sentence. Rich music and solemn chants, and sometimes a short discourse, to which thousands listened with attention, filled up an hour which certainly might have been spent by many in a worse employment. And it is easy to see how the mind can be carried away, deluded by the show and glitter of such a service. A religion which has its splendid temples and its pealing organs, its richly-wrought robes and its decorated priests, which utters its appeals to the passions and the imagination, has here erected its throne. Wealth, art, science, skill, labor, luxury, and taste have here conspired to erect a temple which, untenanted, has power to excite wonder and create an impression of awe.

THE PANTHEON,

a magnificent church, was built by money obtained by lottery, as, indeed, were many of the churches of Paris. This is one of the finest buildings in France, and is in imitation of its Roman namesake, to some extent. The dome is richly painted, representing some kind of Popish

saint-worship, in which good spirits and bad figure in the same scene, and are portrayed according to the taste of the artist, who received one hundred thousand francs for his work. Underneath the church are the vaults, in which are deposited the dust of some of the most noted men of France. The bones of Rousseau and Voltaire are here their mischief all done, and their specious errors all exploded. The famous Marat was entombed here; but the hand of revolution dug up his bones, which were thrown into a common sewer; and thus disappeared all that death left of a man whose name carried terror to a trembling nation. From the dome, an extensive view of the city is obtained. The long streets, the thronged Boulevards, the fine churches, and the clustering dwellings are all spread out before the eye, forming a beautiful panorama, such as is seldom seen.

Besides the above, there are many other Catholic churches, filled with pictures and images, and kept in repair at an immense cost, some of which are memorable as the scene of events which have been recorded in history. There are about forty-two thousand Catholic priests and bishops in France, with convents for the Trappists, Capuchins, Benedictines, and many others, who go about barefoot, or shod with sandals, like so many hermits, who have dehumanized themselves, and lost their manhood. There are several Protestant sects in Paris, of whom the Calvinists are the most numerous. This denomination has four or five places of worship, and about double the number of ministers. The ministers are unlike in religious opinion, and preach in different churches every Sabbath. The people follow them from church to church, no one holding a seat, but securing the most agreeable situation he can. I

went to the Oratoire, on one occasion, to hear the eloquent M. Coquerel. The house was full, and those who could judge said the preacher delivered a very able discourse, which was doubtless the case; but the whole appearance of the man was painfully theatrical. The gestures and bearing of the distinguished divine I could but contrast with the appearance of one of his colleagues, Adolph Monod, whom I was fortunate to see and hear on another occasion. The latter is not so great an orator, but a more devout man; has but little of the embellishments of imagination, but much of the power of the cross of Christ. The rich and the noble, the brilliant and the gay, fill the Oratoire when M. Coqueril discourses; the humble, the pious, and the good crowd the aisles when Monod holds up his crucified Master.

The English have a church in Paris; the Wesleyans one in Rue de la Concorde, where, one Sabbath, I preached to a little company of about two hundred, of mixed French, English, and Americans. Under the present government of France, the people are allowed full religious liberty. The Protestant and Catholic enjoy equal privileges, and the discussion of religious truth is open to all who choose to engage in it.

There are in Paris several interesting edifices, which. like the Pantheon, are not used for religious worship, but stand to commemorate some important events. One of these is the

CHAPELLE EXPIATOIRE.

On entering this chapel, all that is mournful in the history of a most unfortunate family is brought vividly to our recollection. When the French revolution had done its utmost, and the king and his noble queen,

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