RETURNED to the Louvre, and spent the forenoon in its celebrated Musée and Gallery of Paintings. This gallery is one thousand three hundred and thirty feet long, and would reach from Broadway to Wooster-street! The ceiling is oval, and is elegantly gilded and adorned. The perspective of the gallery is much like that of Thames Tunnel, and the farther end appears to be only three or four feet high. As to the paintings, I have marked in the catalogue those which particularly struck me, and no farther description would be worth while. The gallery of ancient sculpture is of course intensely interesting, and contains one of the finest collections in the world. (See Madame Starke.) Walked up to the Boulevards, which, with Rue Rivoli, Rue Castiglione, and perhaps two or three others, are the only streets which do credit to the city. The Boulevards are quite modern; and when the trees are matured, and the building finished, they will be much more beautiful than now. The Boulevard des Italiens is the handsomest. In the Boulevard Conti, is the superb church of _St. Madeline_, the interior of which is not yet completed. It is like the _Bourse_, or Exchange, on the model of a Grecian temple, and is built of white marble, surrounded with exquisite Corinthian pillars, and ornamented with bas-reliefs. In the Place Vendome, nearby, is the celebrated column (on the model of Trajan's,) erected by Napoleon to commemorate his victories. What a gigantic mind was Napoleon's! It is displayed as much in the monuments, edifices, and public works, which he planned and executed, as in his ambitious projects for the conquest of Europe. This column is made of cannon taken in his battles, and you must see it, in order to understand the difficulty as well as grandeur of such a project. Returned to my room before dark; for recent examples have shown, that it is not quite safe to be out alone, late in the evening, in the streets of Paris. Several persons have been attacked and robbed, and one or two killed, in this neighborhood, within a few days. * * * * *