way, in most places. There being but few subterranean drains, in almost all the streets there is a stream of black muddy water running through the gutter, which is in the middle. Most of the houses are built of stone, six or seven stories high, and are all, in the central parts of the city, dirty and unsight ly. "Paris (says a late writer) is a vast collection of dirty alleys, of slaughter-houses, and barbers' shops; an immense suburb huddled together within the walls, so. close that you cannot see the loftiness of the buildings for the narrowness of the streets, and where all that is fit to live in, and best worth looking at, is turned out upon the quays, the boulevards, and their immediate vicinity."This, though rather highly coloured, is, I think, from my rambles today, a pretty correct picture. The number of forlorn and apparently resourceless creatures who throng the ways, and the wretched looking women who are harnessed to small loaded carts, are features of this metropolis of pleasure and politeness, which must forcibly strike every American.

Paris and its customs have been so often described, that it would be tedious to enter into many minute details; I shall therefore merely set down, each evening, as I now do, a few of the things which come uppermost in my thoughts.

The river Seine, along the banks of which I spent some time, is, I think, not quite so ugly and uninteresting as the Thames at London; though it is by no means so broad and deep. The Seine is bounded by walls, on the tops of which are arranged for sale, prints, books, dogs, parrots, cakes, hardware, and a thousand different nick-nacks-from a splendid gold watch to a twopenny whistle. The river itself is almost filled up with rafts of faggots, floating baths, and long low covered scows, used by the washerwomen, who flourish

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their clothes-bats, and chatter most furiously. The view of the city from the bridges is quite imposing. The publick buildings and other edifices seen from the Pont Neuf, are more striking than those seen from Waterloo bridge on Thames. Paris here looks like a collection of palaces and of ruins. On the one hand, you see the long and splendid range of buildings constituting the Louvre and the Tuileries, the Chamber of Deputies on the opposite side of the river, with the Institute and the Mint; and on the other hand, the towers of Notre Dame, and piles of stately old fashioned structures, all having the venerable appearance of antiquity.

Observing an English gentleman in the street-for the English are absolutely every where-I inquired of him the nearest way to the garden of the Tuileries, and he kindly accompanied me thither. Who that has been in Paris, has not been in raptures with this enchanting spot: its broad and clean gravel walks, bordered with lime trees, and enriched with statues-its fountains and pools of water, sparkling with gold and silver fish-its beds of flowers, scenting the air with rich perfume-its long rows of orange trees in boxes, bearing clusters of vegetable gold-its raised terraces and deep groves of chestnut-all these form an assemblage of natural and artificial beauties, which is truly enchanting. The grey and magnificent front of the palace, which faces the gardens, adds much to the scene; and the best view of the whole is enjoyed from its porticoes. In some of the basins of water, beautiful white swans were swimming, unmolested by the crowd constantly gazing upon their graceful motions. Not a statue, or shrub, or flower, appears in the smallest de gree injured by any rude hand; but this I attributed in a great degree to the men in arms, who were

constantly walking and watching in all parts of the garden. There are more fine marble statues in this place, than in all the United States put together; most of them, how ever, are greatly disfigured by time and mildew: though interesting in themselves, I do not think they add any charm to this rural scene.

From the Tuileries I went to the Palais Royal. The front of the palace, which is the only part occupied by its owner the Duke of Orleans, is on the Rue St. Honoré, the principal street of the metropolis. The form of the whole building is a parallelogram, or hollow four-sided figure, like most other hotels or large houses in Paris. You enter the open space in the centre, through arches or porticoes in the sides of the building; and a range of shops, elegantly fitted up, forms the ground story of the three sides of the edifice not occupied by the Duke. The arched passage, or gallery before the shops, is nearly half a mile in extent. Every article of ornament or use may be had here. A tailor in one place says he will furnish you with a suit of clothes, before you can read a newspaper-a deal er in blacking will seat you on a stool covered with velvet, and polish your boots in a moment-a miniature painter will furnish you with a likeness, almost as soon as he looks at you-and the restaurateur will pamper the appetite with any thing you like, from an omelette soufflé to the hind legs of a frog. The garden, in the centre of the open space, is quite pretty; it is ornamented with a copious fountain of water, thrown to a considerable height, and with numerous trees and shrubs. There is a small cannon, which is discharged every day when the sun shines, at twelve o'clock, by the focus of a burning glass, which sets fire to the priming at that time. The length of the garden is about seven hundred, and the breadth three hundred feet.

The Palais Royal is the epitome of all Paris. From what I have seen of it to-day, I should pronounce it a most convenient, useful and splendid bazaar; but I have only examined the ground floor; both above and below this, every one knows that the most deplorable scenes of depravity are constantly to be witnessed.

Sunday, July 20.-This morning, as I went to breakfast at a Caffé, I found all the shops open, and the streets as crowded and busy with secular affairs as yesterday. A stranger from America, who had lost the regular succession of the days of the week, would never recover them by the Sundays of Paris. In the afternoons, it is true, the shops are generally closed; but then all places of public amusement are open; the fiddle is heard, and the dice-box and dominos seen, in every place of entertainment. I went to hear mass at Notre Dame or the Cathedral of our Lady, and then visited a number of other churches. From my little experience, it would be idle to speak of the state of religion in Paris, did it not accord with other and better testimony. From what I have seen, I should say that in the middling and wealthy classes, and among the young generally, there was not even the feeblest sentiment of piety, or the smallest realizing belief in a future state. In the churches I attended, there were only a few poor women and children, and a number of idle persons, attracted by the paintings, or by the imposing manner in which the rites of the Catholick church are solemnized.

The cathedral of Notre Dame is certainly a fine old Gothick monument; but I was disappointed in its appearance, and in the effect which it produced on my feelings. The vast extent of its interior, its fretted arches and long aisles, and its painted glass, shedding "a dim religious light,"-these, and many

other circumstances calculated to lead the memory back to the middle ages, and "call up a train of feudal and monastic visions," excited in me no thrilling emotion: the clouds of incense, the chants of the monks, and the full notes of the organ, kindled in me no heavenly musing, no devotional awe. What can all this mean? How has my romantic spell been broken? Perhaps it was by the mutilated, ragged and half starved wretches by whom I was surrounded; perhaps it was by the dirt and fleas.

Monday, July 21.-This morning I searched for my friend Dr. Gardner, but could discover no traces of him. I had the good for-, tune, however, to fall in with a French gentleman, who was anxious to speak the English language with me, and in return to teach me French. We agreed to pass the hour from 9 till 10 every morning, in my parlour, for this purpose, and afterwards to visit together the publick places in the city. I spent a good deal of time to-day on the Boulevards, the most fashionable portions of which are close to my apartments. The Boulevards form a wide street, planted on each side with trees; they nearly surround the city, and occupy the site of the old walls; but now there is almost as much town beyond this circular street, as within it: it has gravelled side walks, and to-day, as the weather was fine, they were crowded with all sorts of people: shops and stalls of every description line both sides of the way, and all manner of tricks and schemes are practised to gain the attention and the money of the passing multitude-ballad singers, dancing children and dogs, conjurors, puppet showmen, and a hundred other mountebanks exert themselves to the utmost, for any chance gratuity they may obtain: among the rest, I saw a chemist experimenting with phosphorus.

At night, the Northern Boulevards near my lodgings, presented

a brilliant and busy scene: the cafés and restaurateurs, which are here numerous, were brilliantly illuminated, and every shop and stall was tastefully lighted up-musick could be heard in every direction, and the gay crowd in many places became a perfect moving mass-all the Parisians of every description seem to have resorted here. I can well believe that no other city habitually presents such a spectacle: "it is only exceeded by the carni, val at Naples or at Venice."

Among other publick establishments, I visited the Hotel Dieu. This is a noble institution, and is said to offer, in its various arrangements, a flattering specimen of the numerous hospitals of this metropolis. Since I renounced the study of medicine, a hospital has always been an exceedingly unpleasant place to me. I therefore hurried through this as fast as possible. The building is in the most populous part of the city, close to Notre Dame, and is built partly on the Isle des Palais and partly on the main land, the two portions being connected together by a covered bridge. The floors of the various sick rooms were covered with brown tile, most of the bedsteads were of iron, and every thing seemed clean and comfortable. The miserable inhabitants are tenderly nursed by a society of nuns, called the Sisters of Charity. These nuns are to be found in all the hospitals of France, devoting their lives to the relief of suffering humanity. It was delightful to notice these females, in their neat black gowns and white caps, assiduously attentive to all the wants of the sick, without the smallest expectation of reward in this world for their labours of love.

Tuesday, July 22.-I delivered some of my letters of introduction, and they were all kindly received. The day was principally passed in the palace of the Louvre, and it would require many days to exa