e age of ninety years, not for himself,
but for the public good.--Reader, if you ask for his monument, look
around you.--He died on the 25th of February, 1723, aged 91."

He is called the builder of the city, as well as of the church; for Sir
Christopher Wren was the architect of more than fifty of the churches
in London.

One morning, our friend, Miss S., was kind enough to accompany us to
Greenwich, where, you know, is the Hospital for disabled sailors of the
British navy. The day was warm and lovely, like what we call the Indian
summer in America. We took an omnibus to London Bridge; from thence we
proceeded by railway, and in a few minutes were in Greenwich. We
entered the magnificent old Park, and wandered about for a long time,
to our hearts' content, among the venerable old trees, admiring the
graceful deer that were enjoying themselves all around us. At last we
came to the top of a charming hill, where we sat down to rest and look
at the river. Several of the sailors had arranged spy glasses of
various sizes for the accommodation of visitors, and for the good to
themselves of a few pence. We patronized one of these, and then
descended to the Hospital, which is the main object of interest. It was
just time for the old sailors' dinner, and we went into one of their
dining rooms, where there were about three hundred seated at an
excellent meal, plain, but wholesome and plentiful. A very pleasant
sight it was; they were chatting, telling good old stories, and
laughing merrily, and evidently enjoying themselves highly. There were,
at that time, more than seven hundred of these veterans in the
building. Those who chose carried their dinners to their rooms.

The place for the sailors' sleeping rooms was a long hall, with small
rooms on one side and large windows on the other. The rooms were just
large enough for a bed, a bureau, a little table, and, I think, two
chairs. There were shelves around the room, except on the side that
looked into the Hall, where was the door and a window. On these shelves
were ranged little keepsakes, books and various articles of taste,
often beautiful shells; there were hanging up around the rooms profiles
of friends, perhaps the dearest that this life can give us. I could not
help thinking that many a touching story might be told by those silent
but eloquent memorials. We were much amused with looking at a card put
in one of the windows of these little comfortable state rooms, on which