worshipping there before the shrines of the saints, there was a great paucity compared with Amiens, or Boulogne. There were two priests in a very noisy manner catechising a parcel of children, boys and girls apart, of the middling order. And the lecture of one of them, who had the girls for his class, chiefly consisted of scolding for their learning nothing! He observed us strangers looking and listening; and seemed ashamed of the small proficiency of his disciples. His subject was the sacrament of confirmation, for which he was endeavouring to prepare them. Leaving this decaying motherchurch of Paris, we went to what had been from the time of its erection by Louis XV. the church of St. Genevieve, until the dreadful period of the revolution, in 1793, when its name was changed to what it bears now, the Pantheon; and its under-ground apartments devoted to the reception of the apostles and disciples of the age of reason, after they become numbered with the dead, while the area on the scene of the gorgeous worship of the meritricious church, which may be seen above by the light of day, now presents a dreary void of every thing, save four tablets under the dome, bearing the names of those who fell in the three glorious days' of July, 1830.

Nothing can be a more appropriate symbol of that wretched system which consists in the negation of every thing—even of the being of a God, than the interior of this gloomy building, as it now stands. Its stores are stores of emptiness. It is proposed to display some pictures above, in the cupola, the work of modern French artists: but what were to be their subjects I could not learn. The archbishop of Paris has made, I believe, some attempts of late to reclaim

the edifice for its original use. But, I should think, it would be dangerous for the government, at present, to listen to this demand. It is not more than six years since the populace pulled down the archiepiscopal palace, and obliged its possessor to fly the city for his life. And this only, for the part he took in having the obsequies of the late Duc de Berrie performed at the church of St. Germain Auxerre. This was the occasion also of the defilement and dismantling of that notorious building, standing near the Louvre, from the tower of which, on the fatal eve of St. Bartholomew, 1572, the tocsin was rung, and continued all the rest of the night, for that appalling massacre. I own that I walked, a few evenings since, with solemn satisfaction round that now ruined temple of bigotry, viewing its desolation, which I beheld, as a pledge of the judgment soon to be emptied upon the head of an unreformed and unreformable church. But to return to the Pantheon. After walking through the unoccupied area above, I was conducted to the chambers of death underneath, where, by the light of a lantern, I beheld, first the broken and decaying tomb of Jean Jacques Rosseau, and his coffin indecently exposed, as a matter of curiosity to any one who would mount a few steps of a ladder, placed there for the purpose. At the other end there was a representation of a dead hand thrust forth, holding a thing like in shape unto a torch; which our guide surlily told us, was a symbol of the light that had sprung from the tomb of the philosopher, to shew to mankind the way to In the opposite vault was a similar monument of Voltaire, who, with the exception of his heart, which he had bequeathed to Ferney, lay interred there.

This monument also, seemed to be in the worst state of repair, and hastening to dissolution. Near to it, and in the same abode of darkness stood a statue, in white marble, of the arch-apostle of infidelity himself, well executed. I shall not soon forget the expression of the countenance, and especially the thin and compressed. lips of the declared enemy of Christ, whom modern France has formally deified. Alas, what shall be her end, who says of such men 'These are thy Gods?' for this building is called her PANTHEON; and upon the architecture of its portico, she has blazened, in large letters of gold, these words: 6 AUX GRANDS HOMMES LA PATRIE RECONNAISANTE.' Let us remember that this temple of infidelity, or of ATHEISM, was once dedicated to superstition. And now, under its new name, it stands as a monument and a witness, that it is but a step that leads from believing too much to believing nothing at all, except the most monstrous of all lies-that the testimony of the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ is a cunningly-devised fable! In my next I propose saying something of the state and prospects of Protestantism here. At present I can say no more than that I have been cheered three times-Good Friday, Easter Sunday and to-day, at our chapel, by joining in our beautiful service with my countrymen, sojourning here like myself. I perceive that there (I speak of that to which Mr. Lovett is chaplain) the coming of the Lord shortly is, not as in England and Ireland too generally, truly testified, and urged as the "generation truth" of our day.

ON THE ABUSE OF WORDS.

ARCHBISHOP TILLOTSON used to say, in his time, that our language was 'running into a lie.' I do not know what the simple-hearted old prelate would have said, could he have listened to a conversation in a modern drawing-room. I do not even except what are usually styled religious circles. I cannot however pretend to point out all the departures from that beautiful rule, "Let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay." It would be almost endless to follow all the increasing and diminishing hyperboles of continual recurrence from the rhetorical flourish of the parliamentary declamator, down to the conversational additions of the youthful denizen of a boarding-school. I may touch upon it some future day; at present, I will only fasten on one word, which seems, of late years especially, to have had an undue importance assigned it. Can natural philosophers inform us what strange predilection for the saccharine fermentation has, in this good realm of England, caused such a predominant love for the adjective expressing it, in the female part of our population?

It was the remark of a well known Scottish minister, that he could always tell a lady's writing by recurrence of the word sweet.' And truly, setting aside its literal and physical applications, I have heard the epithet or expletive, call it which you will, bestowed liberally on man, woman, and child, with

all their thoughts, sayings, and doings. It is given alike to house, garden, church, field, landscape, valley, stream; it designates morning, evening, and adorns occasionally all the features of the face. I have heard it applied to chapter and verse, book and essay, psalm and hymn, and have even known it tried in strange union with a school! It intrudes into the fine arts, from the oil painting, in solid magnificence, down to the airy pencil sketch; and from the anthem, pealing in stately sublimity through the vaulted cathedral, down to the simple air which awakens some chord of tender feeling. Like many other things, it is applied, and mis-applied, and the praise it gives like the applause of a bad man, is sometimes censure. I am writing rather acidly, for, to confess the truth, I am tired of the sound, and prefer a mingling of flavours to a predominance of sweets.

They who are disposed to question the truth of my remark, as to the real value of the quality discussed, are respectfully referred to our great lexicographer, not in his Dictionary, but in his Life of Waller, where he comments upon the kind of beauty, expressed by the name Saccharissa, as applied by the poet to the Lady Dorothea Sidney.

I have the privilege of attending the ministry of a clergyman of sound Christian principles, extensive learning, and high reasoning powers; his sermons, as might be expected, are marked by close argument and practical appeals and exhortations. It was, with no small surprise and indignation that I heard them, not very long since, entitled 'sweet sermons.' It reminded me, if great things to small may be compared, of an anecdote mentioned to me by a