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In the Catacombs under the church repose the Duchesses of Argyle and Roxburgh, the Countesses of Westmeath and Bathyani, Lady Hamilton and Lady Louisa Murray; Lords Howden, St. Helens, and Teynham; Lord Gorvaugh also,who was brought from France, and lies in a very singular French coffin; Generals Gascoyne and Cleiland, Dr. Birkbeck, Mr. Horsley Palmer, &c. Here, too, is a large vault belonging to Mr. Macready; a youthful daughter is the occupant. In other Catacombs not under the church, are the vaults of Lords Cavan and Ashburton; of Thomas Wakley, M.P.; the coffins of Ladies Headfort, Kinnoul, and Anson; of Joseph Sabine, F.R.S., John Auldjo, and Mr. Praed, M.P., upon whose coffin a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers had just been placed. The list includes a long array of noble and honourable names, many of them renowned in our military and naval annals. There are many beautiful crosses in the Cemetery.

Not far from the spot at which we now emerge stands a fine old cross of speckled granite, in memory of Rebecca Anne Scobell; and elsewhere, there is an object of singular and touching interest, which may serve to represent this class of design. Of the graves and monuments that are evidently Catholic, several are equally unobtrusive and affecting. As we stand before a headstone hung with wreaths that outlive the season's decay, and shaded by a profusion of carefully tended flowers and evergreens, we feel the beautiful truth of Godwin's reflection, in his Essay on Sepulchres,—"the world is for ever in its infancy,"—and prefer the sweet, touching, childlike piety that dwells around that humble dwelling of death, whether it contain white hairs or the bright locks of youth, to the lofty column and the sculptured mausoleum. With no heavy or morbid oppression of the spirit, we yet are with the dead, who, at fourscore, had but tottered on a brief way before, like little children,—and we linger in peaceful reflection,—as old Marvell says—

These are graves indeed, and not vacant monuments. A writer who has described Père la Chaise, bids us look at a mausoleum; "it is an empty one." Yonder is another, and further on are many more. "Know ye not, (he asks) that it is usual with the man of wealth at Paris to possess his town hotel, his country-house at St. Cloud, a box at the Italian Opera, and a tomb in this Cemetery?" We have never felt our human sympathies repelled, whilst traversing the English Cemetery, with a suspicion of