The “_Institut_” has a public séance, or meeting, on the 15th of every month. I was present at one of these assemblies; and I am ashamed to confess, that I had difficulty in refraining from laughter. The society holds its sittings in a spacious room in the palace of the _Louvre_. The members were seated in such silent, solemn state, each with his reading desk, books, ink, and wax lights before him, while a dull and uninteresting paper was reading, that their gravity produced the opposite effect on me, and “_malgré_” my respect for the establishment, and for those who belong to it, it was not without a struggle that I composed my features, and checked the impulse of nature. At last, fortunately for me, “_Colin d’Harleville_,” a dramatic writer of merit, ascended the rostrum, and read a kind of funeral oration, or eulogy, on the memory of an author of reputation, lately dead. The simplicity of the speaker’s manner, the harmony of his voice, and the feeling which he displayed, in deploring the loss and proving the worth of his friend, charmed every ear; and, notwithstanding the pompous faces which surrounded me, I became as melancholy as they wished to appear serious. The members of “l’institut national” wear a blue cloth uniform, richly embroidered with silk of the same colour. The “_Jardin national des Plantes_[84],” founded originally by Buffon, is one of the most interesting objects at Paris. Naturalists, and persons fond of botany, have here every opportunity of cultivating those useful studies, and of gratifying, in the amplest manner, their favourite taste. The garden itself, which is extensive, and reaches to the river, contains every kind of curious and exotic plant. There is a greenhouse likewise, filled with such trees, the tender nature of which cannot bear the coldness of a northern atmosphere.