for elegant, primitive simplicity. Every Thursday he has a general reception, and probably does more good than by preaching. Prayers in French before tea. Fine singing from the "Chants Chretiens." I could not help thinking, at one of these soirées, I never saw so much simplicity, so much polish, and so much affection, mingled. My father would have been pleased with the sweet quietness of the girls. Almost all the conversation was religious.

Parisians hear music every hour for nothing, which it would take large sums to procure in America. I calculated that one might hear gratis thirty orchestras and 150 singers, any evening in the Champs Elysées. The music in the Madeleine, St. Roch, Notre Dame, St. Etienne, Notre Dame de Lorette, and St. Vincent de Paul, is rococo, and probably equal to any out of the Pope's chapel. The solos of a distant, lamenting female voice, tremolo, minore, diminuendo, contrasted with a crash of a hundred instruments, and then a hundred voices like Russell's, [deep bass,] and the interspersed canto fermo, or austere Gregorian chant, centuries old, combine with the tableau vivant of a priestly pantomime of purple and gold chasubles, (the mantle with cross,) and the yet more imposing long white flowing robe of cambric over pink, girt with pink-the young priests being picked for their figure to make a bewitching show, which intoxicates poor female worshippers into a trance of ambiguous rapture, which they deem religion. I think the magic of anti-christian pomp has attained its acme. Poor Puseyism, compared with what it imitates, is but pewter to gold and rubies. They have made a separate art of the dressing and marshalling of hundreds of officiating persons, who move or stand with the height of solemn grace, and the overpowering combination of costume, the prelates, the priests in heavy purple or crimson, gilt-the younger clergy, imitating the white-robed angels of their pictures, the nuns, (most of them seemed crying, with swollen eyes,) the little boys in pure white, and the innumerable girls, in veils. I observed that men, who looked like emperors at the distant altar, were canal-men and bravos, when they passed me in the procession.

When an eminent speaker in the House of Commons said, this week, that none of the Dissenters went over to Popery, adding that the existing plan of Oxonian training tended to rear up Romanists, he uttered what any eye may see confirmed in Paris. Who would not, if he goes pomp-hunting, prefer the real old middle-aged mummery to the would-if-l-could-ish simulation of it? Frequent visits to Popish celebrations, must lead truly Protestant minds to doubt the possibility of giving any aid whatever to genuine worship, by the appliances of costly archi

tecture, graphic representations, and elaborate music. "Christian Art," in the sense of the modern art-mad school, there is none. The highest philosophy of cultus-if the phrase may be allowed. -leads to the most simple and apostolic rites.

It is high time that America and Britain were bestirring themselves to send light and leaven into this continent. M. Gasparin has lately given some frightful accounts of once evangelical Germany. Among his statements are these: Public worship is disregarded. In Berlin, out of four hundred thousand souls, there are three hundred thousand who never attend any of the thirty-two churches. Dr. Tholuck declares that, a few months ago, at Halle, in the principal service of the cathedral there were present fourteen persons; in another church six, and in a third five! Next day he attended a sermon, of which he was the only auditor! The theatres are as full as the churches are empty. Is it wonderful, when we regard the tendency of German philosophy? The papers of the tailor Weithing are published by the state authority of Zurich. Delecke makes fun of poor timid Voltaire and Diderot, "who never were prepared to look on man as the culminating point of existence.” Mary and his fellows say: "The idea of God is the key to the dungeon of mouldy civilization. Let us away with it. The true road to liberty, equality, and happiness, is atheism. Let us teach man that there is no God but himself." Wiehern testifies that emissaries are out, that schools of atheism are founded very widely, under the guise of reading clubs and singing societies.

M. Thiers has made a speech against free trade, which, independently of the topic, is considered the greatest speech of the session. All the left side, his opponents, joined in the acclamation. I don't believe that Demosthenes ever showed more tact in "wielding the fierce democraty." His triumph as an orator is complete, though the question may go against him. This government feels itself in great danger. These amazing gatherings of soldiery show it. They are from distant provinces. Everywhere you see casernes taking the place of other buildings. People feel the mortification of this under a Republic. Two spics attend poor Mr. Close's little chapel! The police is threefold: 1, soldiers; 2, police without uniform; 3, unknown spics, (waiters, guards, valets, drivers, &c.) Thank God for our gospel and our freedom!

In the number of animals the Garden of Plants is surpassed by the London Zoological Gardens; but what surpass its gardens, trees, walks, buildings, museums, fountains, and free lectures? Constantly open to the people. Every tree of every climate; all flowers of the world in numbers of enclosed gardens,

with paths between ; every plant labelled with the botanical name, and all arranged by families. The museums of natural history, the mineralogical and geological and paleontological collections of Cuvier, Hauy, and Jussieu, the collections of fossils and comparative anatomy, kept me perpetually wondering. The buildings are numerous and extensive. The Cedar of Lebanon, which is a colossal tree, repaid me for all my weariness. It is ten feet round, near the branches.

The palace of Versailles might occupy a volume. It would take a month to see it well. In my ignorance I thought all these palaces, with their grounds, not a hundredth part so extensive as they are. I did not figure to myself miles of avenue, trees of all zones, thousands of statuary, spaces so ample as to remind one of American forests and prairies, and chambers so numerous that the foot wearies before they are half traversed.

I attended a lecture on history in the College of Sorbonne. Entered the library, filled with quiet students reading; a priest presides. Library of St. Genevieve; what a place! Transcendent loftiness and beauty; 200,000 volumes; 100 reading; copy of Rafaelle's School of Athens as large as the side of a house.

On the 5th (July) I went to church, expecting to hear Monod. The old psalms did me good. The old Huguenot look was in some of the Frenchmen. Just before the second singing, a sparrow tried to get into a window over the pulpit. Immediately they sang Psalm lxxxiv. 3. The preacher was M. Enfoux, of Geneva. I dined at the table d'hôte; nineteen changes of plates. On my right, a Russian lady and four daughters; they spoke English, French, German, and Russ. On my left a party of fine English. I love to meet decent English people; you look in their faces and believe them. In the evening I went to Wesleyan chapel, and heard the minister, young Mr. Close, preach a beautiful orthodox sermon; full and able on original sin. About a hundred were there.

I sicken at the everlasting sight of bayonets and swords, and the feeling of espionage. There never was a stronger police under an autocrat. I am weary of speaking broken French, though the courtesy of every class passes description. So do the vastness, beauty, and keeping of public institutions. Fifty thousand persons are maintained in these charities. Under a polish, which reaches almost the lowest of the canaille, there is a godlessness which is horrible. Leaving out a few names in Sardis, blessed ministers and people, whose love seems the greater for insulation, this beautiful, matchless, glorious capital is Satan's Words fail-paper must not aid-to report the moral roftenness of a generation brought up in bloody infidelity. The

seat.

fear of God, producing truth, is lacking. Yet of ceremonious religion there is vast increase. The priests, in black garments, go about the streets. Yet evil as popery is, it owns a Saviour, prayer, a heaven and hell, and a God. There is a school growing rampant, which denies each or all of these.

The chief thought I had in these fairy-land palaces and Eden pleasaunces, was of the monarchs, and great ones, who had been violently torn from them; Louis XVI., Napoleon, Charles X., Louis Philippe. The chief thought as I gazed from the north balcony of St. Cloud on the incomparable view of Paris and the great spaces around and between, was, will God's justice suffer this wicked country to remain unvisited? The chief personal reflections were, I love American simple nature more than ever, and American freedom of religion more than any words can utter. I love and covet these matchless and incredible wonders less than my dear fireside; 1 less than ever wish ornaments for my church, or ornaments for my house. O for the purity and peace of Christ's religion for all I love!

DIJON, July 10, 1851.

To-day I have been in a fairy-land all the while. O la belle France! It is just the word. By stage I can understand how it might be very tedious, but by luxuriously rapid and wellappointed rails, it was just the sliding of one ravishing picture over another. A few elements in bewitching combination-this is the secret of French landscape. The time is favourable. Every thing is in its glory. The early part of the day we were almost always dashing through the valley of some river. The valley is a prairie exactly; we see the gentle barrier on each side. Towards evening we began to be sensible of a great change. The scene became rugged. We went through tunnels of thousands of feet. Bare rocks expose themselves, and at length the basin (in which we seem always to be) shows around its further edge mountains and beginnings of what we are going to have anon. We pass the watershed, and are in a new world; every thing is changed. Geology, houses, dress, almost sky, seem new. I have come into the land of St. Bernard! I am in the heart of Burgundy, a dukedom greater than many realms. Every village has had some memory, all day long, but now we are nearing the central region of a country most famous. France is as green as England, and along here as much of a garden; but O how pensive from the total absence of cottages! Every inch is tilled except where perpendicular. No forest, but tens of millions of trees, all planted and very scattering, now in clumps, now in rows. I have certainly this day seen a hundred miles of poplars. VOL. II.-14*

In the boundless champaign of tillage, they seem as necessary to the scene as the spires of Holland. Why am I so often reminded of Old Virginia? I will tell you. In England, or even New England and New York, the eye would behold the plain cut up by hedges, &c. Here, as in Virginia, though for a different reason, all is open. Yonder is a view of rolling land, descending rounded towards the river we are skirting. Ten thousand acres lie over the round haunch of the broad swell, as perfect a garden as I ever saw, but so mottled that every one of us compared it, over and over, to a bedquilt; a patch of wheat, a patch of rye, a patch of mustard, a patch of broom, a patch of walnuts, the ground of all being vineyard, vineyard, vineyard, in a green like distant Indian corn. Vineyards are exactly like pole beans of a certain height. In certain situations they are very beautiful, as to-day, when ever and anon they hang over the round bank of land next the horizon, like hanks of green yarn over a hedge. Observe, the prospect is so vast, and so unobstructed by trees, that fields look like squares of chess, only oblong, and no division breaks the continuity except a sweet, fairy-road, winding away among vines and wheat, with, it may be, a cart load of girls, all colours, under broad brims of straw, with pitchforks. We have seen miles of hay-making, with five hundred groups, no one of which would disgrace a picture of Claude. You know all the people live in villages. These villages, at this season of deep verdure, seem always to be nestling. You wonder how the houses can squat and huddle so. They cluster around the little church, like sheep around the ram, as close, as irregular. All are of a colour, rusty russet red, tops are same as sides. In themselves ugly and mean, as parts of a rapid landscape very snug and beautiful. What remembrances crowd in during 200 miles of road carrying one deep into the ancient feudal soil! Here were the Gauls; here was Cæsar; we have passed several towns named by him. Here were the barons and monks of the middle ages. Here were Burgundian princes, who were all but kings, and yonder are their castles, black with age and awfully frowning over the sweet peaceful soil. Here, as you approach Dijon, were the walks of Bernard's and of Bossuet's childhood.

Dijon! I now understand what an old rocky French town is. I never can describe it. Everybody here as fresh as Irish. I wonder at the hale, happy look of all. But we are high up; all the way from Paris to this vicinity, we have been going up the streams. Every thing in the air is like Lexington, [Virginia,] or Schooley's Mountain, [New Jersey.] At a glance we see we are in the old Burgundian capital. Quiet, pleasant old town. Our first visit was to the celebrated Museum. Men and girls