very equivocal; so that when real miseries

occur, they are in danger of being overlooked:

uti mox

Nulla fides damnis, verisque doloribus adsit.

The mere infirmity of age has numerous asylums for both sexes, where they are maintained in comfort, I had almost said in a degree of luxury. We might search the whole world, perhaps, and not meet with another institution to be compared with the Salpetrière for every thing that can mitigate the wretchedness of declining years, in alliance with every species of affliction both of mind and body. Another asylum, which struck me as having special claims to the admiration of the philanthropist, is a house of refuge for repentant prisoners under sentence of capital punishment. When a prisoner has given long and tried proof of his sincere contrition for any crime, however deep its complexion, he is sent hither, and in the course of time obtains letters from the King, either commuting the sentence for pardon at once, or some punishment in a mitigated form.

There are not less than nineteen establishments

for privation and misery in one shape or other in Paris, all under the direction and supported at the sole expense of Government.

It may be supposed that the many happy provisions and asylums for the poor with which this country abounds would rather tend to increase than repress the number of paupers, by offering, as Mr. Pitt said, "a premium to idleness." This evil is, however, effectually prevented by the vigilance of the police, who accurately inform themselves of the particulars of every man's character and circumstances. If a beggar is once convicted of taking up with his vagabond occupation, without sufficient reason, or some decided claim to protection, on the second offence he is sent to prison.

Those who beg in the streets have an express permission for the purpose, which is only granted under peculiar circumstances; and this will account for their being less importunate than they are with us. Tell a French beggar you have nothing for him, and he retreats with a bow.

17th. Voltaire; and a more wretched picture of desolation cannot be imagined; no, not excepting the abomination spoken of by Daniel. The windows are kept closed, and seem as if they would fall to pieces. The canvass on the shutters is black, and peeling off; and the iron bars, of the deserted balcony appear not to have parted with one atom of the accumulated rust of forty or fifty years. Looking through a broken casement on the ground floor, you get a melancholy peep into a chaos of rubbish just discernible through darkness horrible, which leaves a very heavy weight on the spirits-at least it did so upon mine. Never, surely, was there a more appropriate monument: certainly nothing expressly monumental of stone or mortar could, with the same effect, so emblematically represent the gloomy horrors of his desolating and dreary philosophy.

Returned from viewing the house of

Within a few doors, at a boutique of curioșities, was shewn to me the identical writingbox in which the philosopher of Ferney held papers when he travelled; the impression

his

of his seal and initials, in wax being still distinct near to the lock, with which he sealed it for greater security. Would only that this box, and all other depositories of his papers, had been true to their trust to the present hour! There was also a cabaret and breakfast service for tea and coffee, of Dresden china, which he brought from Prussia, after his memorable visit to Frederick. They were for sale; but as I think we already have too many mementos of the man at home, I had no fancy to add to the number by becoming a purchaser.

Never was I more disappointed with music than at the Opéra Italien last Wednesday. The entertainment was the "Donna del Lago." The Donna, a thickish, short, round-faced, "fullblown blonde," with rather good-humoured features, but destitute of the smallest pretensions to voice. I was really glad to make my escape before the second act. The orchestra band was, however, capital. Without any

efforts, pour briller, by any instrument more than the rest, ambitious of attracting a bravo, all was in due subordination to the singer; and

vigilantly scrupulous of entering into his manner and feeling, which I conceive to be the very perfection of the art of accompaniment; and without which, indeed, it does not deserve the name. As to the vocal performers, my visit to this theatre has completely fixed an opinion which I have long entertained, that an opera of Rossini's, to go off well, must have its obligato parts performed in obligato style of excellence. Nothing short of excellence will do: neither gods, men, nor columns, can permit mediocrity here, which deprives the whole piece of character, and reduces it to a sort of tame beauty, which inspires no passion or feeling of any sort, but weariness. Any executive defect in the leading parts of Rossini's music is, I think, more felt than in any other composer's of equal celebrity; and the reason is plain, the effect so peculiarly depends upon the exquisite taste of the air and melody. Here it is that all the witchery resides. But as to the quantum of enjoyment which is to be derived from the best music, we must all admit, I believe, that as much depends upon the auditor being in tune himself, as the voice or