should have burst forth into the excesses and licentiousness of the Revolution. The wealth of palaces and churches presented allurements, and it was reckoned a virtue to demolish every vestige of royalty, as well as every monument of religion, however valuable as specimens of art. An ignorant and infuriated mob wantoned in the work of destruction, both as it regards property and life. Nothing was sacrednothing was spared. The public edifices of Paris resemble a forest shaken and shattered by the violence of a tempest. In the whirlwind of the Revolution, innumerable monuments of the arts were irrecoverably lost. Notre Dame experienced the fate of all other churches. Its statues were prostrated, its altars demolished, and its treasures pillaged. Royal and ecclesiastical munificence has since furnished it with the same temptations, destined perhaps at some future day to produce the same scenes of licentiousness.

Contiguous to Notre Dame, and standing immediately upon the bank of the Seine, is the Hotel Dieu, one of the thirty or forty hospitals which are to be found in Paris. They are of two kinds, denominated hopitaux and hospices. At the former, the sick alone are admitted: at the latter, the aged, infirm, and needy are received. Both classes are maintained by the government, and are under the superintendence of a general council, consisting of the principal magistrates. Upwards of 15,000 beds are made up in these charitable institutions, and the annual expenditure averages more than a million of dollars. In the hospitals alone, 50,000 sick are annually accommodated, at an expense of two and half a millions of francs. The number of deaths is

on an average about one in seven. The hospices generally contain about ten thousand inmates, with an annual disbursement of three millions of francs. Besides these extensive charities, a million and half of francs are annually distributed to the indigent at their own houses.

As the Hotel Dieu is a fair specimen of the arrangements and accommodations of the Parisian hospitals, and as it would be impracticable for us to go the rounds of all of them, we wen through its several wards, its kitchen, its medical department, and in short, gave it a full examination. Although its location is extremely injudicious, being in the most crowded part of the city, with a confined air, these disadvantages have been obviated as far as possible, and the

apartments manifest a remarkable degree of neatness. The floors are as spruce and clean as those of a palace. Most of the bedsteads are of iron, placed at convenient distances, and the couches bear the marks of the strictest attention. The culinary utensils also appear to be kept in good order, and the articles of food palatable and wholesome. We saw about 800 inmates stretched upon their beds of pain and sickness; but rendered as comfortable as the nature of their diseases would permit. Connected with the hospital, is a large and convenient amphitheatre, where one of the most eminent surgeons of the age gives lectures to a numerous class of students, accompanied by anatomical dissections, and by practical illustrations derived from the wards. This system of medical education is as perfect, and attended with as many advantages, as can be effected by science, skill, and industry.

The Hotel Dieu is indebted for much of its cleanliness, neatness, and comfort, to the Sisters of Charity, a society of nuns, whose industrious habits and assiduous attentions to the sick extremely interested us. They are uniformly clad in black robes, with pretty white caps, and a silver cross suspended at their breasts. In their manners they are modest, polite, and affable. The whole of their time is gratuitously devoted to the unfortunate inmates of the hospital, at the side of whose beds they are constantly seen sitting with their needle-work, watching all the little wants of the sick, and administering comfort and consolation. Whatever may be the faults of their creed, the heart pays a voluntary tribute to that practical and operative faith, which instead of relying solely on correctness in speculative doctrines, manifests its sincerity by a spirit of active benevolence and charity, seeking out the abodes of wretchedness and distress, and imitating the example of the great Author of our religion, who went about doing good.

LETTER XXXV.

PARIS CONTINUED-BOULEVARDS-FAUBOURGS-OLD PART OF THE CITY-HACKNEY COACHES-PUBLIC SQUARES-CHAMPS ELYSEES-COURS DE LA REINE-PLACE DE LOUIS XV-GARDEN OF THE TUILLERIES-PLACE VENDOME--PLACE DU CAROUSEL-PALACE OF THE LOUVRE-ROYAL MUSEUM.

December, 1825.-Three or four of the first days after our arrival, which were remarkably pleasant, being a lingering remnant of autumn, were actively employed in completing a topographical survey of Paris, and in fixing in our minds its great outlines. With this view, we threaded its thousand intricate streets, and traversed its Boulevards. The latter constitute a peculiar and conspicuous feature in its topography. They consist of broad avenues planted with double rows of stately trees, well paved, with wide convenient side walks, and bordered with ranges of handsome buildings, four, five, and six stories high. This belt of spacious and beautiful streets designated by different names, extends quite round the city, being built upon the ruins of its old walls. Louis XIV. who, with the exception of Napoleon, did more than any other monarch for the improvement of the capital, directed these promenades to be adorned with trees, and at intervals erected triumphal arches, enriched with numerous devices in bas-relief, which remain entire, and are among the most splendid embellishments of the city.

The Boulevards make a circuit of four or five miles, and for the whole distance present a constant scene of activity, bustle, business, and pleasure, being filled with carriages and thronged with pedestrians, from the most fashionable belles and beaux of the metropolis, down to apple-women, pastry-cooks, and paupers. Both sides of the way are lined with shops, boutiques, and open stands, where goods, articles, and trinkets of every description, embracing a variety which nothing but French ingenuity could devise, are ostentatiously exposed for sale. All possible modes of attracting attention are resorted to, from the vender of gewgaws who vociferously cries his wares, to some pretty brunette, who throws the glances of her dark eye from the door

or window. I have seen a seller of jack-knives draw a circle of customers, by playing with a live snake; and there is a boot-black who has made money, by availing himself of the services of a monkey. The animal will use the brush with great dexterity, and go through with the whole operation of cleaning shoes, which is every where done by Frenchmen in the open streets. Even mendicants have recourse to tricks, and contrive to make their share of the bustle. One of them, perhaps, will attempt to charm the ear of the passenger by the music of his violin, while another has a dog by his side, holding a hat in his mouth to catch the sous. A person might linger whole days about this extensive panorama, where every thing is in motion, in looking at the ten thousand little nothings, which he had never before witnessed, and would never care to see again. But I have already perhaps allotted too much space to this noisy world of trifles.

Between the Boulevards and the new ramparts of the city, which are fifteen or sixteen miles in circumference, and concentric with the ancient walls, is a wide belt of ground called the Faubourgs. They are intersected by the great avenues, leading from the barriers into the centre of the town, which form the principal streets. The population of this district is less dense, than in that which has been longer settled, and in the outskirts, the buildings are scattered. Some of the most beautiful parts of the metropolis, as well as a number of the principal institutions, are in this section, which is fast filling up, and rapidly improving.

Within the circle of the Boulevards, the streets form a perfect labyrinth, and are uniformly narrow, dark and gloomy, assuming in some places, on account of the castellated roofs, a degree of wildness. They are almost universally constructed with an inclination towards the middle, where there is a gutter to carry off the mud and water, frequently rushing down in torrents. There are no side-walks, and the width is generally so contracted, as to admit of none. These circumscribed limits often leave but little space for the pedestrian between the constant throng of carriages, and the walls of the buildings, against which he is liable to be pinned or to be run over. His least calamity is a certainty of being bespattered with mud, which is thrown up so as to darken the shop-windows. The rules regulating the hackneys and cartmen are very strict: they are obliged to sing out in turning corners, and if they run over a person,

they are instantly reported to the police, and lose their license. Trusting to these rigid regulations for security, and with the satisfaction of knowing, that if their necks are broken, the coachman must suffer, foot-passengers are extremely adventurous, walking or crossing at their leisure directly in front of the horses. Strangers are more timid, and often fly to the shop doors for refuge, or, like the rustic upon the bank of the river, wait in vain for the stream of carriages to run away.

The great thoroughfares in this part of the town are Rue St. Honoré, running parallel to the right bank of the Seine, but at some distance from it, in an easterly and westerly direction; and Rue St. Martin, extending from north to south through the whole extent of the city. These are incessantly thronged with crowds of an active and bustling people, always in motion, and intent either on business or pleasure. With the exception of Rue Rivoli, forming the northern boundary of the garden of the Tuilleries; Rue de la Paix, extending thence through the Place Vendome, and one or two others, there are no handsome streets within the Boulevards. The buildings are often six or seven stories high, with fronts projecting so near to one another, that the sun, especially from the low level of his winter declination, seldom peeps into the deep and cheerless avenues; and there is very little in stucco walls, or the dim twilight of the shops to reconcile us to the loss of his beams.

For the greater part of the time since our arrival in Paris, the streets have alternately been covered with snow and ice, or deluged with torrents of mud and water. In either case,

it is extremely uncomfortable walking or riding. The public coaches are of two kinds, called fiacres and cabriolets—the former drawn by two horses, and the latter, in the form of a chaise, by one. Both are cheap, safe, and commodious conveyances in good weather-just the time when they are not wanted. The French to our great annoyance, as well from feelings of humanity as from a regard for our own necks, never cork their horses; and when it is slippery, the poor animals fairly skate along the inclined pavements, upon their smooth shoes, being frequently unable to keep their legs. One of our countrymen and his lady were a few weeks ago thrown from the coach, at the imminent risk of their lives, by the fall of the horses; and my friend met an adventure of the same kind, in riding half a mile to dinner, but fortunately