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

To pray for the forwardest places,
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,

In bonnets, slim waists, and bare elbows dress'd out,
Each Parisian beauty may there have a rout

For the price of the chair-a penny.

English women are known by their dresses of white;
The men by superior neatness and height-

They talk of gigs, horses, and ponies ;

All look twice as grave as the French—yet their laugh,
When they choose to indulge it, is louder by half,
And they turn in, of course, at Tortoni's.

The theatres open, some thirty or more—
All are fill'd, yet the crowd seems as thick as before,
Regardless of mud, or of weather;

You'd swear it were carnival-time; and in sooth
The town is a fair-every house is a booth,
And the people all crazy together.

What braying of gongs-what confusion of tongues!
What a compound of noise from drums, trumpets, and lungs!
Each striving his neighbour's to smother;

Mimes, mountebanks, conjurors, each have their rings,
While monkeys and dancing-dogs-roundabouts-swings-
Are so thick, they encroach on each other.

Here's a dwarf, and a monster, both beautiful sights!
And there is the man without fingers, that writes
With his chest, and his grinders after-

Both scribbled so well, you can't say which is worst ;-
There Judy and Punch with a cat is rehearsed,
In a circle convulsed with laughter.

A tavern or ball-room each mansion appears;
Up stairs, under mirrors and bright chandeliers,
You may witness quadrilling bodies ;
While some smoke below in the Estaminets,
And others take ice, Roman punch, and sorbets,
Or chat to the Bar-install'd Goddess.

In all, gaming claims indiscriminate love;
The dice-box and billiard-ball rattle above,
If you pass by a palace or stable.

Below, at the corner of every street,

Swart shoe-blacks at parties of cards you may meet,
The blacking-box serving as table.

The Palais Royal is a separate fair,

With its pickpockets, gamblers, and nymphs debonnaire,
Of character somewhat uncertain :

But as it is late, and these scenes, I suspect,
Won't bear a detail too minute and direct,
For the present we drop the curtain.

PORTRAIT OF A SEPTUAGENARY;
BY HIMSELF.*

"I will conduct you to a hill-side, laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects and melodious sounds, that the harp of Orpheus was not half so charming."

AFTER all the critical denunciations against the unfortunate wight, who suffered the smallest inkling of himself or his affairs to transpire in his writings;after the pretty general confinement of Auto-biography to players, courtesans, and adventurers ;-after the long absorption of individuality in the royal and literary plural we, the age has at last adopted the right legitimate Spanish formula of "I the King:” our writers, from Lord Byron downwards, have become their own heroes, either direct or allegorized; and if any one will cast his eye over the columns of

* Now no longer in existence.