Paris.

Dear Charley:—

I like this city very much—every one seems so happy out of doors. Not only the poor, but the wealthy, are fond of the open air; and a great deal of time is spent in the gardens and on the boulevards. Every place seems to have provision made for the enjoyment of the people. Ices and lemonade are to be found wherever you go. The appearance of the streets in Paris is much gayer than those of London. You see a much greater number of women walking out, and they are generally very neatly dressed. But the streets do not look as substantial as they do in London. If there is more that is imposing, there is less that keeps up your wonder. I do not feel able to think that the people here have much business to do, for every one seems to be engaged in pleasure; and yet there are great concerns going on, and the fine manufactures of this city are only to be done by labor and attention. Nothing, at our first glances at the city, have pleased us more than the profusion of flowers every where to be seen. It is quite common to see men with a rose in the button hole, or a beautiful carnation. The roses are my admiration. I never saw such beauties before; and whether it is owing to the climate, or to scientific cultivation, I know not, but certainly I never have beheld such variety or perfection. In the flower shops you will find very large bunches of rosebuds, each bunch made up exclusively of buds of one size, from the dimensions of a pea in all gradations up to the diameter of a half dollar—not a leaf opened, simply a bouquet of rosebuds, and the whole embowered in a delicate sheet of white paper. I reckoned the contents of one, and found two hundred and sixty-seven buds not larger than a common pea, and the price was only a franc. The moss roses are beyond all my conceptions of floral beauty; and, go where I may, I find every niche of ground adorned with standard roses of various hues, and the walls and windows are beautified with brilliant geraniums, which are evidently great favorites.

We had a funny affair yesterday. We all went to make a call upon Mr. D——, and found his residence in a splendid part of the city; but, instead of being ushered into his drawing-room, we were brought into the saloon of no less a personage than the Lord Bishop of Jamaica! He politely directed us to the next apartment, where we spent an agreeable hour with the family, and found that similar mistakes occur almost daily.

Our first tramp for a sight was to Notre Dame; and I shall never forget, Charley, my first view of this cathedral. The exterior is more striking than any church edifice that I have yet seen. No engraving can afford a fair idea of its grandeur to one who has not seen it, though it will help my mind, to recall its beauties whenever I see the picture. You are so well read about Paris, that I hardly need tell you that eight centuries have rolled away since Notre Dame was built. It is regarded as the noblest Gothic pile in France, and is the pride of Paris. The front is one hundred and twenty feet wide, and the richness of the carvings upon the exterior is wonderful. I am really glad to see that great pains are taking to restore and adorn this church. The decayed stones are taken out, and new ones replaced, and the carvings also are renewed where necessary, so that future ages may see what so delights us. The two towers are forty feet square and two hundred high, and you ascend by a staircase of four hundred steps. The form of the church is that of the Latin cross. Its dimensions inside are four hundred feet by one hundred and forty, and the height is one hundred feet. All through the cathedral is a line of Gothic arches supported by columns, and, as you enter the great door, you see the entire edifice. The walls look bare to my eye, in spite of the paintings. We were much pleased at seeing the spot where Napoleon was crowned; and George was in ecstasies, for you know how thoroughly he goes in for his beau ideal of the hero. Here are, the splendid candelabra which the emperor gave on the occasion. We heard mass, but the service was very formal, and the priest might have been a real downeaster, for he had a horrid nasal twang, and his "sanctissime" was "shanktissime." The history of these churches is strange, and I think a pretty good book might be written on the romance of church architecture. The portal of the north aisle of the choir was erected by a vile assassin, the Duke of Burgundy, who murdered his cousin, the Duke of Orleans, in 1407. This, of course, was his penance, and fully expiated his crime. The great bell weighs thirty-two thousand pounds, and was baptized in presence of Louis XIV., and is called Emanuel Louise Therese, after his queen. I cannot attempt to describe the beauties of this building, inside or out. The exterior is all flying buttresses, crocketed pinnacles, and sculpture. Inside you see chapel after chapel; and as to windows of painted glass, they are studies for hours. The rose windows are exquisite.

We repaired to a small chapel used as a sacristy, or treasure-house of the church. Here we saw the coronation robes of Napoleon, and splendid capes and embroideries, in gold and silver, given by Charles X. and Louis Philippe; and here, too, is the vertebrÆ of the late Archbishop of Paris, who was killed in the revolution of 1848. The bone has a silver arrow tracing the course of the bullet, which lies beside it. This is in time to be a saintly relic, but it seems to me a filthy sight, and in wretched taste. But Popery knows well what to do with dead men's bones. For a minute description of this church, I would refer you to three volumes, called the "History of Paris," published by Galignani. On our return we went to the Hotel de Ville, and had the company of M. O——n, whose kindness did much for us on several occasions. The Hotel de Ville stands in the Place de GrÈve, where so much blood has been shed in other days. Here the martyrs of the Protestant faith have been put to death. Here it was that Dubourg was strangled and burnt by order of Francis II. Dubourg was a noble character. His last words were, "Father, abandon me not; neither will I abandon thee."

This noble pile was begun in 1533, and only completed in 1841, and in the modern improvements fifteen millions have been expended. The whole now forms an immense quadrangle. The front is Corinthian, with pillars and niches between the windows. A vast number of statues adorn the front, and others are in preparation.

It was at the doorway in the centre that Lamartine, "the noblest Roman of them all," so gloriously withstood the mob in February, 1848, declaring that the red flag should not be the flag of France. I wish you could see this palace, for such it is, though occupied by the city authorities. London has nothing to approach it in splendor. The staircases are gorgeous, and are so rich in sculpture that only a sculptor could properly speak of them. We saw the room where Robespierre held his council and attempted suicide, and also the window where our Lafayette embraced Louis Philippe, and presented him to the mob in 1830. It is the same window where poor Louis XVI. addressed the savages, when he wore the cap of liberty. By the way, I hate the sight of that cap, which always reminds me of the lamp-post executions of the French capital in 1792-3. Its prevalence in our happy country is owing to the French mania which once possessed the people, and has very much died out. The apartments are regal, and some of them, I think, quite superior to those of Windsor Castle. In this building is a fine library, and here are deposited the vast collection of American books obtained by Vattemare, whom, you recollect, we saw at Washington.

I cannot tell you how sorely vexed we are to find the Louvre shut up for repairs and decoration; every week they say it is to be reopened, but I fear we shall leave Paris ere it happens.

How much we would all give to have you here; for, though we are glad to tell you what we see, we feel there are scores of objects which interest us that we have to pass over, but which would make your eyes glisten, if you could gaze upon. Well, my dear fellow, stick to your business, make your fortune, and then come and look at the beautiful and fair in the old world; and who knows but perhaps we may yet chat cosily together in Paris? O, I do love to wander through this city by moonlight, and gaze upon the bright, lofty buildings as they loom up so gloriously in the mild lustre of a silvery night. God bless you.

Yours affectionately,

james.