,
with this singular epitaph,

Ci git qui ne fut rien,
Pas meme academicien.

In the square garden within the cloisters, are several ancient urns, and
tombs. Amongst them is the vase which contains the ashes, if any remain,
of Abelard and Heloise, which has been removed from the Paraclete to the
Museum. It is covered with the graceful shade of an Acacia tree, which
seems to wave proudly over its celebrated deposit. Upon approaching this
treasurable antique, all those feelings rushed in upon me, which the
beautiful, and affecting narrative of those disastrous lovers, by Pope,
has often excited in me. The melancholy Heloise seemed to breathe from
her tomb here,

"If ever chance two wandering lovers brings,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tear each other sheds:
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
Oh! may we never love, as these have lov'd."

National guards are stationed in every apartment of the Museum, and
present rather an unaccording appearance, amidst the peaceful solemnity
of the surrounding objects. This exhibition is not yet completed, but,
in its present condition, is very interesting. Some hints, not
altogether useless, may be collected from it. In England, our churches
are charnel houses. The pews of the congregation are raised upon
foundations of putrefaction. For six days and nights the temple of
devotion is filled with the pestilent vapours of the dead, and on the
seventh they are absorbed by the living. Surely it is high time to
subdue prejudices, which endanger health without promoting piety. The
scotch never bury in their churches, and their burial places are upon
the confines of their towns. The eye of adoration is filled with a
pensive pleasure, in observing itself surrounded with the endeavours of
taste and ingenuity, to lift the remembrance of the great and good
beyond the grave, in that very spot where the frailty of our nature is
so often inculcated.

Such a display, in such a place, is rational, suitable, and admonitory.
The silent tomb becomes auxiliary to the eloquence of the pulpit. But
the custom which converts the place of worship into a catacomb, can
afford but a mistaken consolation to posthumous pride, and must, in some
degree, contaminate the atmosphere which is contained within its walls.
One evening as I was passing through the Boulevard Italien, in company
with a gentleman from Toulon, we met a tall, dark, ho