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visible. Under the name of the well-known Regnault de St. Jean d'Angely these lines were inscribed: "François, de son dernier soupir

Il a salué la patrie;

Un même jour a vu finir

Ses maux, son exil, et sa vie."

of

And a very handsome monument to the memory an artist, named Ravrio, in bronze and gold, informs us that he was the author also of numerous fugitive pieces, to prevent his following which into oblivion, his bust, well executed in bronze, surmounts his tomb; and the following verses give us a little insight into his character:

"Un fils d'Anacréon a fini sa carrière,

Il est dans ce tombeau pour jamais endormi ;
Les enfans des beaux arts sont privés de leur frère,
Les malheureux ont perdu leur ami.”

The practice of affixing busts to tombs seems worthy of more general adoption :-it identifies and individualizes the deceased, and thus creates a more definable object for our sympathies. Perhaps the miniatures which we occasionally saw let into the tomb-stones and glazed over attained this point more effectually, as the contrast between the bright eye and blooming cheek above, and the fleshless skeleton below, was rendered doubly impressive. Not only is the doggrel of the English churchyard banished from Père La Chaise, but it is undegraded by the bad spelling and ungrammatical construction which, with us, are so apt to awaken ludicrous ideas where none but solemn impressions should be felt. The order by which all the lapidary inscriptions must

be submitted to previous inspection, though savouring somewhat of arbitrary regulation, is perhaps necessary in the present excited state of political feeling, and is doubtless the main cause of the general propriety and decorum by which they are distinguished. The whole management of the place appears to be admirably conducted :-decency and good order universally prevailed; not a flower was gathered-not a monument defaced-not a stone scribbled over. It was impossible to avoid drawing painful comparisons between the state of the plainest tombs here, and the most elaborate in Westminster Abbey, defaced and desecrated as many of the latter are by the empty-headed puppies of the adjoining school, and the brutal violations of an uncivilized rabble. This sacred respect for the works of art is not peculiar to the cemetery of Père La Chaise, nor solely due to the vigilance of the police; for in the innumerable statues and sculptures with which Paris and its neighbourhood abound, many scattered about in solitary walks and gardens at the mercy of the public, I have never observed the smallest mutilation, nor any indecorous scribbling. The lowest Frenchman has been familiarized with works of art until he has learnt to take a pride in them, and to this extent at least has verified the old adage, that such a feeling "emollit mores nec sinit esse feros."

As I stood upon a hill, I saw a funeral procession slowly winding amid the trees and avenues below. Its distant effect was impressive, but, as it approached, it appeared to be strikingly deficient in that wellappointed and consistent solemnity by which the same ceremony is uniformly distinguished in England.

The hearse was dirty and shabby, the mourning coaches as bad, the horses and harness worse; the coachmen, in their rusty coats and cocked hats, seemed to be a compound of paupers and old-clothesmen; the dress of the priests had an appearance at once mean and ludicrous: the coffin was an unpainted deal box; the grave was hardly four feet deep, and the whole service was performed in a careless and unimpressive manner. Yet this was the funeral of a substantial tradesman, followed by a respectable train of mourners! Here was all the external observance, perhaps, that reason requires; but where our associations have been made conversant with a more scrupulous and dignified treatment, it is difficult to reconcile ourselves to such a slovenly mode of interment, although it may be the established system of the country. All the funerals here are in the hands of a company, who, for the privilege of burying the rich at fixed prices, contract to inhume all the poor for nothing. It is hardly to be supposed, that in such a multiplicity of tombs there are not some offensive to good taste. Many are gaudy and fantastical, dressed up with paltry figures of the Virgin and Child, and those tin and tinsel decorations which the rich in faith and poor in pocket are apt to set up in Roman Catholic countries: but the generality are of a much nobler order; and I defy any candid traveller to spend a morning in the Cemetery of Père La Chaise without feeling a higher respect for the French character, and forming a more pleasing estimate of human nature in general.

SUNDAY IN PARIS.

"Tis church-time, and half of the shops are half shut, Except in the quarters of trade, where they put

At defiance what Louis enacted;

The streets are as full as before-and I

guess

The churches are nearly as empty, unless

Some mummery pageant be acted.

When worship becomes a theatrical show, Parisians of course most religiously go -for the forwardest places,

To pray

Where best they may see a fine puppet for hours,
Before a fine altar of tinsel and flowers,

Perform pantomimic grimaces.

Some gaze on his shoes and his gloves of white kid,
Or the jewels with which every finger is hid,
Or his flounces of violet satin ;

Other eyes on his laces and mitre are kept,
Attentive to all his performance-except

The prayers that he mumbles in Latin.

The senses give thanks-no responses are made,
And when there's a pause in the form and parade,
The orchestra strikes up a chorus;

The women then ask, Who is that?-Who is this?
While the men slily ogle the singers, and kiss
Their hands to the sweet Signoras.

Is there nothing of fervour?-O yes, you may mark
Some hobbling old crones in a vestibule dark,
Who dab in the consecrate lotion

Shrivell'd fingers to cross their forehead and breast
Then kneel at a chapel with candlesticks dress'd,
And kiss it with real devotion.

They pour from the church-and each dandisette begs,
As she crosses the street and exhibits her legs,
To know what is further intended;

For Sunday's devoted to pleasure and shows,
And the toils of the day of rest never close
Till the Sabbath is fairly ended.

One talks of Versailles-or St. Cloud-or a walk;
And a hundred sharp voices that sing, not talk,
Vivaciously second each mover:

Some stroll to the Bois de Boulogne; others stray
To the Tuilleries, Luxembourg, Champs Elysées,
To the Garden of Plants, or the Louvre.

But the dinner-hour comes-an important event!
What pondering looks on the cartes* are now bent!
And how various-how endless the fare is,
From the suburb Guinguette, to where epicures choose
Fricandeaus, fricassées, consommés, and ragouts,
At Grignion's, Beauvillier's, or Very's.

Some belles in the Tuilleries' walks now appear,
While loungers take seat round about them—to sneer,
To chat, read the papers, or slumber.

In disposing the chairs there are different whims,
But one for the body, and two for the limbs,
Are reckon'd a moderate number.

The Boulevards next are the grand rendezvous,
Where parties on parties amusement pursue,
A stream of perpetual friskers,

From the pretty Bourgeoise and the trowser'd Commis,
The modern Grisette, and the ancient Marquis,
To the Marshal of France in whiskers.

Crowds sit under trees in defiance of damps;
Th' Italian Boulevard, with its pendulous lamps,
By far is the smartest of any—

* Bills of fare.

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