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 268 the hammer than the valuation, the difference is given to their original owners.

From the foundation of this admirable Institute—which has been the means of preventing so much disgrace and misery during the revolutionary difficulties of the Capital—2,282,611 persons had received succor up to the beginning of 1836. During the same period it had distributed $31,674,702, besides giving $134,746 in alms.

In the year 1837, it aided 29,629 persons by the distribution of $477,772, and gave $1,089 for masses to be said daily by three chaplains, who received a dollar for each of their services.

You may form an idea of the number and variety of persons who derive assistance from the Monte Pio, by a walk through its extensive apartments. You will there find every species of garment, from the tattered reboso of the lèpera to the lace mantilla of the noble dame; every species of dress, from the blanket of the beggar, to the military cloak and jewelled sword of the impoverished officer; and, as to jewels, Aladdin would have had nothing to wish among the blazing caskets of diamonds for which the women of Mexico are proverbial.

The M—or School of Mines—is one of the most splendid edifices in America. It was planned and built by Tolsa—the sculptor of the statue of Charles IV.—and is an immense pile of stone, with courts, stairways, saloons, and proportions that would adorn the most sumptuous palaces of Europe. But this is all. The apparatus is miserable; the collection of minerals utterly insignificant; the pupils few; and, among the wastes and solitude of the pile, wanders the renowned Del Rio—one of the most learned naturalists of this hemisphere—ejaculating his sorrows over the departed glory of his favorite schools.

An edifice used for the manufacture of tobacco, situated at the north-western corner of the city, and erected by the old Spanish government, has been converted into a citadel. I never visited it, and can give no account of its interior.

Passing westward, toward the Paseo Nuevo from the Alameda, you cross the square in front of the A, the common prison of the Capital. In the front of one of its wings a low-barred window is constantly open, and within, on an inclined plane, are laid the dead bodies found daily within the limits of the city. It is almost impossible to take your morning walk to the adjoining fields, without seeing one, and frequently two corpses, stretched bleeding on the stones. These are the victims of some sudden