that the children confided to them had
been treated with humanity. Those who
succeeded in bringing up foundlings till
they reached the age of twelve years
were rewarded with a present of fifty
francs.

Amongst the sights of Paris at the present
day, the Foundling Hospital is not the least
attractive. But to look for the building,
where we last left it, in the Faubourg Saint
Antoine, would be lost labour; neither
does a subsidiary asylum which was
established at the corner of the square (called
the Parvis) of the Cathedral of Notre
Dame still exist. Both, in fact, were
combined into one, and their inmates
transferred in the year eighteen hundred to
the premises in the Rue d'Enfer, originally
occupied by the Oratory where the priests
of that congregation performed their noviciate.
This "Street of the Infernal Regions"
owes its present designation to this
simple cause: the street of Saint Jacques,
which runs parallel to it and occupies higher
ground, was formerly called the Via Superior
(upper road), and the Rue d'Enfer, its lower
neighbour. Via Inferior; a poetical imagination
soon made the corruption.

We are not at all indebted, for our
knowledge of the preceding facts, to the very
excellent Sister of Charity who accompanied us
over the Hospice des Enfants Trouvés when
last we paid a visit to that establishment;
but what she did relate may serve in some
measure to show what is its present condition.
When the moment comes we shall let
her speak for herself; but our own impressions
must first of all be recorded.

Before we reached the Hospital we had
passed the previous half-hour in the gardens of
the Luxembourg; and, although the flowers
are not so fine nor the company so gay, as are
to be seen in the rival parterres and avenues
of the Tuileries, both were brilliant enough
to form a striking contrast to the dull,
deserted, flowerless street which bears the
redoubtable name already mentioned. It lay
before us, grey, blank, and dreary, with nothing
to relieve the monotony of its general
aspect but an inscription over the gateway of
a building on the right hand side, informing
us that there stood the "Hospice des Enfants
Trouvés." If the site had been selected
expressly for the purpose of being out of the
way, where no witnesses might see the
trembling mother deposit her new-born child,
it could not have been managed better. As
we drew near the entrance a further indication
of the purposes of the building was
visible in the words "Panier des Enfants,"
very legibly inscribed on what seemed to
be the lid of a letter-box let into the
wall, but which, on being raised—for it is
never fastened—proved to be the children's
basket, the tour or turning-box of the
establishment. In obedience to a heavy single
knock—there is a bell-handle beside the
turning-box, but that was not for our use,
having no infant to deposit—the wicket-door
opened with the customary squeak of the
cordon, and we were admitted. Could we see
the Hospital? Willingly; would we oblige
the portress by walking into the little office
on the left hand, by putting down our names
in a register there, and by depositing one
franc apiece towards the general funds of the
asylum? All these things we did with great
pleasure, and the portress then rang a bell,
in obedience to which summons a Sister
of Charity made her appearance from a
door in the quadrangle, and we were
consigned to her care to be conducted over the
building.

She was a quiet, grave, motherly woman,
with evidently only one object in her thoughts
—the duties of her profession. The Sisters
of Charity soon learn what those duties are,
and never fail in the performance of them.
Sister Petronille—that, she said, was her
name—conducted us across the courtyard to
the door from whence she had issued, and
together we ascended a lofty staircase, and
passed into a tolerably large room. This was
the salle à manger, but it was empty just
then; so we proceeded to the next apartment,
the "day-room" of the establishment,
where we found about twelve or thirteen
children, all, we were told, under two years
of age, some of whom were in cradles, and
the rest in the arms of nurses.

"These are the little sick ones," said Sister
Petronille, "who are not kept in the
infirmaries, but, for all that, require constant
attendance. Those who suffer from graver
maladies are in separate wards under the
care of the doctors, who come constantly to
see them."

"And the healthy children, where are
they?" we inquired.

A faint smile passed over Sister
Petronille's pale features.

"God be thanked!" she replied; " they are
all safe in the country. It was only yesterday
that we sent away the last batch, all strong
and hearty, and likely to live, if God permits
them."

"And these little ones?"

"Ah!" she sighed," some of these too
may go one day into the country, we hope.
But it is not probable that all will; for
they are very tender, and require careful
nursing."

"Then, are there none but the sick left
here in Paris?"

"On the contrary; downstairs there are
plenty; but they are the youngest: you will
see them presently."

From the "day-room" we retraced our
steps to the landing-place at the head of the
staircase, and entered a long corridor which
communicated with four general wards or
infirmaries devoted to such of the children as
were under medical or surgical treatment, or
were affected by ophthalmia or measles. It