pieces they are quite weary of. Gray and I have been at the Avare
to-night: I cannot at all commend their performance of it. Last night I
was in the Place de Louis le Grand (a regular octagon, uniform, and the
houses handsome, though not so large as Golden Square), to see what they
reckoned one of the finest burials that ever was in France. It was the
Duke de Tresmes, governor of Paris and marshal of France. It began on
foot from his palace to his parish-church, and from thence in coaches to
the opposite end of Paris, to be interred in the church of the
Celestins, where is his family-vault. About a week ago we happened to
see the grave digging, as we went to see the church, which is old and
small, but fuller of fine ancient monuments than any, except St. Denis,
which we saw on the road, and excels Westminster; for the windows are
all painted in mosaic, and the tombs as fresh and well preserved as if
they were of yesterday. In the Celestins' church is a votive column to
Francis II., which says, that it is one assurance of his being
immortalized, to have had the martyr Mary Stuart for his wife. After
this long digression, I return to the burial, which was a most vile
thing. A long procession of flambeaux and friars; no plumes, trophies,
banners, led horses, scutcheons, or open chariots; nothing but

friars,
White, black, and grey, with all their trumpery.

This godly ceremony began at nine at night, and did not finish till
three this morning; for, each church they passed, they stopped for a
hymn and holy water. By the bye, some of these choice monks, who watched
the body while it lay in state, fell asleep one night, and let the
tapers catch fire of the rich velvet mantle lined with ermine and
powdered with gold flower-de-luces, which melted the lead coffin, and
burnt off the feet of the deceased before it wakened them. The French