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private nature, indeed, than the last, but the principle of which is well worthy attention. It is an asylum for the aged. Every individual who has paid a certain small sum, by monthly instalments, from the age of ten years, increasing gradually, and regularly advanced, till the whole amount raised from each contributor is about 50%. may, at the age of seventy, claim as a right the benefit of the institution, which allows to each a separate bed-room, with a sitting-room between two. They dine in a common hall, and their table is amply furnished with plain and wholesome food. There is also connected with the establishment an hospital, where the sick have every necessary attendance, and the best medical advice.

From the Hotel des Invalides we proceeded to the Pantheon. It is called a church, but it has not much the appearance of a sacred edifice. It is an immense pile, and in the finest style of classic elegance and grandeur. It was reared as a mausoleum for the ashes, and a temple for the monuments of the illustrious men of France-and the edifice is well worthy the purpose to which it is dedicated. It is built in the form of a cross, and has a dome of vast dimensions. We ascended to the gallery that surrounds it, from whence, perhaps, is enjoyed the finest view of the capital. It is certainly superior to that from Montmartre, as the principal objects are nearer, and the panorama is complete. We were much astonished at the purity of the atmosphere, though it was the middle of the day, and we were in the centre of an immense metropolis. Every

building in Paris was as distinctly seen, as if the sun had but just risen upon it, and not one of its teeming population had been awake. This is owing, in a great measure, to the burning of wood, besides, that the atmosphere is much purer in itself. How unlike the view from the top of St. Paul's, in London. -There, every building is black with smoke, and you look down as upon the steam and mist of a boiling and tumultuous sea. But, from this elevation in Paris, nothing can exceed the magnificence and grandeur that every where press upon the eye. There is no uncertainty, or indistinctness, or confusion in the view. Every palace, and every temple, and every public edifice stands before you in its own individual majesty, and urges its peculiar claims upon your admiration and respect, as though it were the only object worth remarking in the scene: while the complete panorama, the coup d'œil, surpasses any thing I had ever imagined of a majestic city, and such as, in ruins, I could not but conceive, would rival Palmyra or Persepolis of old: for the ordinary houses being all of stone, unsullied by a smoky atmosphere, uniform and lofty, and relieved by distance their massive clusters and prolonged perspective, give them the appearance of distinct and separate edifices-while the palaces themselves, occupying so large a portion of the space-the mighty length of the Louvre-the gay pavilions of the Thuileries-the brilliant dome of the Hotel des Invalides, mingling with innumerable other roofs, and domes, and spires, and beautiful facades, and varied lines of architecture, stretching along the

banks of the Seine, encircled by the magic groves of the Boulevards, intermingled with the bright foliage of innumerable gardens-and presenting the chaste and spotless grandeur of stone wrought after the noblest models, and white as from the quarry, in contrast with the more sober aspect and deeper hues of the surrounding country-altogether compose a spectacle that transfixes the spectator in astonishment, and calls up the most powerful and affecting associations to the contemplative mind. Where are the hands that reared these palacesand, when another hundred years have rolled away, where will be the men who inhabit and frequent them! This vast population that breathe and move beneath me-and whose noise ascends like the throbbings of the heart of a mighty empire: what are their pursuits-their expectations and their aims? They are immortal-there is a life beyond the grave-there is another city and a fairer land! Are they alive to their high and eternal destinyare they conscious of their responsibility at the tribunal of God--are they seeking the riches-the enjoyments--the habitations-and the honours of another world? It is said of Xerxes, that he wept when he surveyed the millions that surrounded him on the plains of Asia, and reflected, that in a hundred years they would be no more. The Redeemer of mankind, from a far nobler motive, had compassion on the multitude when he saw them as sheep without a shepherd. And well may the christian philanthropist weep, when he contemplates the infidelity, frivolity, and vice, in which that vast popula

tion are sunk, upon whose majestic city he has gazed with admiration and delight. But I dare not trust myself with reflections such as these. The theme is inexhaustible-and I have already put your patience to too severe a trial.

Your's, &c.

LETTER XIII.

Paris.

MY DEAR

YESTERDAY we were at Versailles. We proceeded through the Bois de Bologne to St. Cloud, the favourite residence of Buonaparte and his Empress, Maria Louisa. I must not omit to mention, that on this occasion we were driven by the postillion who drove Napoleon eleven years, and who, of course, had times conducted him to that very many palace, when Emperor of France. The Bois de Bologne, is to Paris something like what Hyde Park is to London. It is a favourite drive of the Parisians. It has, however, been shorn of its beauties by the British troops, who were encamped there, by whom many of the trees have been cut down and destroyed, so that little else but brushwood now remains.

St. Cloud is pleasantly situated upon a commanding eminence, about six miles from Paris. It is embosomed in delicious woods, and surrounded by all the Sylvan beauties which nature, in conjunction with art, can yield. The gardens are tastefully laid out, and considered as equal in beauty, if not in extent, to any the royal palaces can boast. In short, it possesses every attraction as a country residence for a monarch—a retreat, always at hand, from the business of a throne, and the bustle of a court. It consists of a noble front, with two wings, forming

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