could come with hat in hand in Paris, and say, “I was your fellow-passenger.”  From the Salle de St. Cecile, I visited the Column Vendome, from the top of which I obtained a fine view of Paris and its environs.  This is the Bunker Hill Monument of Paris.  On the top of this pillar is a statue of the Emperor Napoleon, eleven feet high.  The monument is built with stone, and the outside covered with a metallic composition, made of cannons, guns, spikes, and other warlike implements taken from the Russians and Austrians by Napoleon.  Above 1200 cannons were melted down to help to create this monument of folly, to commemorate the success of the French arms in the German Campaign.  The column is in imitation of the Trajan pillar at Rome, and is twelve feet in diameter at the base.  The door at the bottom of the pillar, and where we entered, was decorated above with crowns of oak, surmounted by eagles, each weighing 500 lbs.  The bas-relief of the shaft pursues a spiral direction to the capitol, and displays, in a chronological order, the principal actions of the French army, from the departure of the troops from Boulogne to the battle of Austerlitz.  The figures are near three feet high, and their number said to be two thousand.  This sumptuous monument stands on a plinth of polished granite, surmounted by an iron railing; and, from its size and position, has an imposing appearance when seen from any part of the city.

Everything here appears strange and peculiar—­the people not less so than their speech.  The horses, carriages, furniture, dress, and manners, are in keeping with their language.  The appearance of the labourers in caps, resembling nightcaps, seemed particularly strange to me.  The women without bonnets, and their caps turned the right side behind, had nothing of the look of our American women.  The prettiest woman I ever saw was without a bonnet, walking on the Boulevards.  While in Ireland, and during the few days I was in England, I was struck with the marked difference between the appearance of the women from those of my own country.  The American women are too tall, too sallow, and too long-featured to be called pretty.  This is most probably owing to the fact that in America the people come to maturity earlier than in most other countries.

My first night in Paris was spent with interest.  No place can present greater street attractions than the Boulevards of Paris.  The countless number of cafes, with tables before the doors, and these surrounded by men with long moustaches, with ladies at their sides, whose very smiles give indication of happiness, together with the sound of music from the gardens in the rear, tell the stranger that he is in a different country from his own.

LETTER IV.

Versailles—­The Palace—­Second Session of the Congress—­Mr. Cobden—­Henry Vincent—­M.  Girardin—­Abbe Duguerry—­Victor Hugo:  his Speech.

VERSAILLES, August 24.