a man of rank, and those of a beggar who had been interred side by side.

I must confess that after the first pious emotion, which such a place cannot fail to inspire, the . bad taste of some of the statues, and the very unchristian-like physiognomy of our Cicerone, gradually inclined me to a less poetic train of reflection, when, on visiting the tomb of Charles II. I was astonished to find myself standing beside that great writer, of whose works it has been justly said that each was a battle gained in favour of the Bourbons; that august race, who, driven from France by revolutionary fury, as the Stuarts were banished from Great Britain, had, like the latter, well nigh left their ashes in a foreign land.

Many of my countrymen will doubtless envy me, for having visited in such company the tombs of immortal kings, heroes, prelates, statesmen, and poets, whose images silently resting on their monuments, attest the succession of twelve centuries of events, most of them connected with the annals of our old monarchy. By a very natural transition, my imagination almost immediately transported me to the royal catacombs of Saint-Denis, the profanation of which has been so eloquently deplored by the illustrious author of the Genie du Christianisme, who, during the republic, was the first to invoke the legitimacy of the tombs of our kings, as during the empire, he first invoked the legitimacy of their thrones. The last asylum of the sovereigns of England has not been violated; but though Cromwell did not long enjoy the honours

of royal interment, the place which the rightful successor of Charles II. ought to occupy beside his brother, is usurped by a monarch who was not a Stuart. Oh! temple of Saint-Denis ! if the ashes of a new race of Bourbons should ever repose in the solitude of thy funereal sanctuary, thou wilt be chiefly indebted for the honour to him who, having pronounced an anathema on thy profaners, has, by his writings, once more familiarized France with monarchical doctrines. By a second revolution, the ashes of the enemies of kings have been deposited in the sacred vaults of Westminster; but it may be presumed that the Stuarts would still have retained possession of their throne and their sepulchre, had the only great poet of Charles the second's reign devoted his genius to the cause of the restoration! But alas! the English Homer was the apologist of regicides, and Cromwell's secretary!

There is a species of profanation existing in Westminster Abbey, as well as in St. Paul's cathedral, which arises from the vanity of those who purchase the right of erecting in the British Pantheon, monuments whose bad taste and arrogance I have just condemned. Even the pure whiteness of these new marbles, presents a very disagreeable contrast with the venerable hue of antiquity diffused over this noble structure, and would of itself form a sufficient objection to them; but the incongruity is rendered the more intolerable by the frequency of its occurrence. One of these monuments is greatly admired by the English on

account of the skilful execution of its sculpture, the subject of which, however, is a very ungraceful and unpoetic allegory. It is the production of a Frenchman, the celebrated Roubillac. The artist's idea was to pourtray Lady Nightingale, whom her husband is endeavouring to rescue from the grasp of death. The grim king of terrors is represented by a skeleton, the details of whose anatomy the sculptor has copied with hideous precision. On viewing this monument, M. de Chateaubriand must have been reminded of the remark he himself makes in his chapter on sculpture; "this ill accords with the spirit of Christianity. which presents death under so fair an aspect to the righteous."

I heard the illustrious writer also express his indignation at the clumsiness with which some of the old sculptured ornaments in the interior of Westminster Abbey have been repaired; but were I to attempt to report either his censure or his praise, I fear I should only prove my own unworthiness for such a task. When we came to Poet's Corner, the name given to that part of the building which is devoted to the monuments of great writers, I was prepared to listen most attentively to the noble representative of our modern literature; but on turning round I found that I had lost sight of M. de Chateaubriand. He had lingered a few paces; and I dare say before I met him he had already visited the sanctuary, where a niche would have been prepared for him beside that of the author of Paradise Lost, had the Mar

tyrs been written in the language of Milton. On returning from this part of the Abbey, I recognised, by the mere initials of their names, the spot containing the ashes of those two rival statesmen, who, after mutually contending for power during their lives, now peaceably share one vault, and almost one tomb, amidst the close ranks of the departed great. But it is impossible to refrain from smiling at the sight of a great queen standing bolt upright, in a sort of case, like the wives of the Pharaohs, with this difference, however, that Elizabeth, whose jealous and tyrannical coquetry is imprinted in her countenance, is represented not as death has made her, but arrayed in the robes of royalty. The dress instantly enables one to recognise the petticoated Louis XIV. of England, without the minute examination of the features, to which the Cicerone who conducts the visitors, invites them, by opening the case in which her Majesty is enclosed, with a familiarity which would have mightily offended the virgin queen. I must, however, inform you that I am not alluding to an embalmed body, but to a wax image of Elizabeth. The fixed look of the countenance is truly frightful, and seems to express a feeling of indignation at being summoned before posterity with so many wrinkles. Elizabeth is not the only royal personage who is thus moulded in wax and exhibited in the Abbey. There are other cases containing King William, Queen Anne, &c. A wax image is also shown of a hero of more modern date, namely Lord Nelson, who is represented with his

mutilated arm, and dressed in a dirty naval uniform. I cannot express to you how ridiculous it is to see the exhibition of our Curtius thus transported to the vaults of Westminster Abbey. The very bili of the entertainment is not omitted; and a board hung up at the door, states the price of admittance.

LETTER X.

TO M

BEFORE I give you an account of the British Museum, I beg that you will banish all idea of a comparison with our Louvre, which the title of Museum naturally excites. The British Museum is a public, or, if you chuse, a royal and national establishment, for it is placed under the immediate direction of the government, by which it is maintained. It combines the advantages of a collection of animals and minerals, with a gallery of sculpture. The visitor is allowed to contemplate these valuable stores at his leisure; but I cannot conceive by what strange abuse of words the library of this establishment is called public, when the dusty backs of a collection of folios are all that the public are permitted to see. The books of a