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, The streets are as full as before-and I guess When worship becomes a theatrical show, To pray for the forwardest places, Perform pantomimic grimaces. Some gaze on his shoes and his gloves of white kid, Other eyes on his laces and mitre are kept, The prayers that he mumbles in Latin. The senses give thanks-no responses are made, The women then ask, Who is that?—Who is this? Is there nothing of fervour ?-O yes, you may mark Shrivell❜d fingers to cross their forehead and breast They pour from the church-and each dandisette begs, For Sunday's devoted to pleasure and shows, One talks of Versailles-or St. Cloud-or a walk; Some stroll to the Bois de Boulogne; others stray But the dinner-hour comes-an important event! Some belles in the Tuilleries' walks now appear, In disposing the chairs there are different whims, The Boulevards next are the grand rendezvous, From the pretty Bourgeoise and the trowser'd Commis, Crowds sit under trees in defiance of damps; In bonnets, slim waists, and bare elbows dress'd out, For the price of the chair-a penny. English women are known by their dresses of white; They talk of gigs, horses, and ponies ; All look twice as grave as the French—yet their laugh, The theatres open, some thirty or more— You'd swear it were carnival-time; and in sooth What braying of gongs-what confusion of tongues! Mimes, mountebanks, conjurors, each have their rings, Here's a dwarf, and a monster, both beautiful sights! Both scribbled so well, you can't say which is worst ;- A tavern or ball-room each mansion appears; In all, gaming claims indiscriminate love; Below, at the corner of every street, Swart shoe-blacks at parties of cards you may meet, The Palais Royal is a separate fair, With its pickpockets, gamblers, and nymphs debonnaire, But as it is late, and these scenes, I suspect, PORTRAIT OF A SEPTUAGENARY; "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. |