While in Paris this time, I was struck with the number of indecent photographs by no means to be confounded with works of art, in the windows of shops in the Rue de Rivoli, and indeed almost everywhere; such photographs, as we should never allow to be exhibited in London, yet here nothing was thought of it. Even ladies stopped to examine them without a blush. Indeed, it appeared to me that such is the impudent immorality and impurity now in Paris, that such an expression as an innocent blush would be difficult to detect, more especially as the conscience--that delicate sympathy of the mind which would cause it to shrink from all that was not perfectly pure and beautiful--is made to retire and give place to reason and materialism. The pleasure and satisfaction of the senses seems to be all that they consider worth living for. Pleasure is God, and both the soul and body bow before it. Poor France, after so much suffering and national disgrace, still fondly hugs the filthy rags of Irreligious Reason, which she sadly calls _liberté_, _equalité_, and _fraternité_.
Next morning (April 14th), we crossed the Channel in delightfully smooth water, and arrived in London safely once more. Dear old London, with all thy fogs I love thee still! Every true Englishman, even after travelling in climates more genial than his own, ever feels a tenderness in returning to his own island home once more. Taken as a whole, there is no city like London; no country or even climate like that of England. Although we have no majestic snow-capped Alps around us, nor the eternal blue skies and sunny climate of Italy, nor the classical and ancient mementoes of Rome and Greece,--yet we have wild mountain scenery, beautiful lakes, lovely undulating and richly timbered landscapes, dimpled by happy homesteads where the silver stream flows sweetly by; and there are our magnificent coast headlands and beautiful seaside resorts, great populous cities, with their splendid public buildings and fine parks. And as a rule, I believe, there is no country so healthy, no life so pure as ours, whatever may be said to the contrary.
In the travels of the last few months, we have seen much of the sublime majesty and loveliness of Nature; the wealth of art treasures in painting, sculpture, and architecture that adorns fair Italy; the inspired works of the gifted men of past ages, so eloquently telling their noble thoughts, expressive of reverence and love for the beautiful--proofs indeed of their great and magnificent genius, and that fair things cannot die. We have also seen something of the wondrous yet sad mementoes of the mighty Pagan nations entombed in their once great cities--vast sepulchres of a splendid past; those Titanic minds which governed in their time the whole of the known world; a few beautiful but crumbling columns, all that is now visible of their glory and conquering power. On such ground we tread lightly, reverencing the great and mighty dead. From these we turn to the young and vigorous Christian nations planted in their stead, and in thus contemplating the past and the present, and the wondrous power and goodness of God, one cannot but be struck with the truth and beauty of the ninetieth psalm, and also exclaim, as did the psalmist, "Lord, what is man, that Thou art mindful of him?"