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

To a green thought in a green shade." 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 buman sympathies repelled, whilst traversing the English Cemetery, with a suspicion of

this kind, sent back, as from a fruitless errand, by a sound from the hollow mausoleum, which to the ear of imagination might say, "Not at home." Yet here are edifices sufficiently spacious to beget the same misapprehension into which the child ran in Père la Chaise, when mistaking from the size of the buildings their object, he asked, as he stopped before one of them, "Who lives here ?"

In the Dissenters' portion of the Cemetery there is a fair proportion of striking monuments and interesting records. Proceeding along the path towards the Chapel, and passing one of those needless applications of the word private, of which there are so many examples, "the private grave of Richard Rootsey," we pause to copy a verse inscribed to Mrs. Sarah Flint; the personal pronoun with which it terminates had evidently been masculine in the original, and the change conveys a peculiar effect:

"Grave of the righteous, surely there The sweetest bloom of beauty is;

Oh may I sleep in Christ as fair,
And with a hope as bright as hers."

Among several tombs is one conspicuously handsome, to the memory of the wife of Mr. Hopper, the sculptor; and a very plain one to Mr. George Comb, "Seventeen years pastor of the Particular Baptist Church, Soho Chapel, who fell asleep in Jesus, 1841."

A stone to the memory of John Sears, relates that

"He was born of sinful parents, born again of the Spirit, tasted of the promises of Jehovah's grace, longed for their consummation, and peacefully slept in Jesus."

There is something startling, and yet at the close, something impressive and sweet, in the tribute to the wife of Daniel Curtis, dissenting minister

"She was a pattern of good works, and though her faith was weak, it triumphed over the gates of Hell on the very threshold of death, and she began the Hallelujahs

of Heaven before she left the earth."

On the elegant tomb of Mrs. Elizabeth Harrison, it is written

"In Adam, her head, she acknowledged she fell,

But in Jesus, her Lord, she loved much to dwell;
Thus living, she felt there was no condemnation,
And dying, rejoiced there was no separation."

Linger we awhile beside the grave at which we now stop; it is that of Dyer, the friend of Charles Lamb; the G. D. with whom the gentle Elia held such long literary and social conference. George Dyer was in his 86th year when he died.

"Above the scholar's fame, the poet's bays,
Thus Dyer on the tomb we write thy praise,-
A life of truth-a heart from guile as free,
In manhood and in age, as infancy;

And brotherly affection, unconfined

By partial creeds, and open to mankind;
Even here did Heaven to recompense thee send
Long life uncensured, and a tranquil end."

As the noble epitaph, "Here lies Fulke Greville, the friend of Sir Philip Sidney," remains to this hour, honouring him who devised it, so might it have been briefly written of G. D., "Here lies the friend of Elia."

Taking a farewell view of this scene of

"sad enchantment," we remember what we owe to the taste and talent of the various artists by whom its embellishments have been executed. Many of the most beautiful are by SIEVIER. We annex one simply as an example. It is of beautiful white veined marble-two children of Mrs. Hollond, of Grosvenor Place, sleep within. MR. MARES, of Kensal Green, is also among those successful sculptors who are distinguished for the vigour and purity of their designs; nor will the spectator fail to admire the works of several of their competitors. The mason, MR. LANDER, is so extensively occupied here, that it would be wonderful if the fruits of his knowledge and experience did not invariably ensure satisfaction.

Space does not permit us to dwell upon the admirable manner in which the inter

ments are conducted; but it would be unjust to omit an expression of that respectful appreciation in which the qualities displayed by the chaplain, the REV. J. TWIGGER, are held, by all who have observed his performance of the funeral service, and listened to his impressive reading.

THE MISER'S DAUGHTER.

A Tale.

BY THE EDITOR.

BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

HOW HILDA RECEIVED THE INTELLIGENCE THAT RANDULPH HAD BEEN WOUNDED IN THE DUEL; AND WHAT PASSED BETWEEN CORDWELL FIREBRAS AND THE MISER.

Nor having seen his daughter overnight, for he did not wait up for her, Mr. Scarve only became acquainted with the beau's attempt to carry her off, on the following morning. The relation of the matter threw him into a violent passion, and when, shortly afterwards, Jacob ushered in Sir Norfolk Salusbury and Firebras, who called to acquaint him with the result of the two duels, they found him in a state of the greatest excitement. Without allowing the baronet time to utter a word, he rushed up to him, and, in a voice half choked by fury, exclaimed-" Have you killed him?have you killed him?"

"Do you allude to Mr. Randulph Crew, sir ?" demanded Sir Norfolk, calmly.

"No, to the beau-to Villiers!" rejoined the miser.

"I have not engaged with him," replied the old baronet; "but he has met with due chastisement from Mr. Crew."

"I am glad to hear it," rejoined the miser; "but I should have been better pleased if his villainy had been punished by any other person. You, yourself, are in some measure to blame for this misadventure, Sir Norfolk."

"I can make due allowance for your excited feelings, Mr. Scarve," returned the baronet; " but "

"'Sdeath, sir!" interrupted the miser-" why did you let Hilda out of your sight? Since you undertook the charge of her, it was your duty to keep strict watch over her."

"I feel there is reason in what you say, Mr. Scarve," replied Sir Norfolk; "nevertheless-"

"I want no explanation," cried the miser, fiercely; "it is sufficient for me that the thing has happened. And look how it stands:-My daughter is entrusted to your care-is all but carried off by a libertine, from under your very nose-and is rescued by the very person of all others I wished her to avoid, and against whom I cautioned you. Can anything be imagined more vexatious?"

"It is as vexatious to me as it can be to yourself, Mr. Scarve,"

replied Sir Norfolk, sternly, for his forbearance was fast ebbing; "but I must pray of you to use more moderation in your tones and language. Recollect whom you are addressing.

"I ought to have recollected your blind and stupid punctiliousness, which so easily makes you the dupe of designers, before I committed my daughter to your charge," cried the miser, exasperated by the other's haughtiness.

"Whew!" exclaimed Firebras, with a slight whistle. “There'll be another duel presently, if he goes on at this rate."

"Mr. Scarve, I wish you a good morning," said the old baronet, bowing stiffly; "you shall hear from me ere long."

"Stay, Sir Norfolk," cried Hilda, rushing up to him; "my father does not know what he says. For my sake, let it pass.' "Ay, ay, Sir Norfolk, let it pass," said Firebras, in a low "Mr. Scarve's intemperate conduct should move your pity rather than your anger."

tone.

"I believe you are right, sir," replied the old baronet in the same tone; "I will regard it as a mere infirmity of temper.”

"Sir Norfolk," said Hilda, speaking with forced calmness"some menacing words passed between you and Randulph Crew last night. You say he has risked his life on my account, and has punished my assailant. I trust that nothing has passed, or may pass, between you and him. Promise me this, Sir Norfolk." "Sir Norfolk may safely give that promise now," remarked Firebras.

"How mean you, sir?" cried Hilda, becoming as pale as death. "Have you met him, Sir Norfolk ?-have you fought ?" The old baronet averted his head.

"I will answer for him," said Firebras; " they have met." "But nothing has happened?" cried Hilda. "Randulph is safe, is he not?"

"I did my best not to touch him,” replied the old baronet, reluctantly; "but he put me so hardly to it, that-that--" "Well," cried Hilda, breathlessly.

"After receiving a scratch myself, which a plaster has cured," pursued Sir Norfolk; "I slightly wounded him."

"And this is the reward of his devotion to me!" cried Hilda. "It is nothing-nothing whatever, Miss Scarve," said Firebras ; "the surgeon says he will be out again in a week."

"I am glad you hit him," said the miser; "it will teach him to meddle where he has no concern in future."

"I was grieved to do so," replied Sir Norfolk; "but he forced me to it. I never crossed swords with a braver young man. You have formed an erroneous opinion of him, Mr. Scarve."

"I have formed no opinion of him at all," rejoined the miser. "You are sure he is not dangerously wounded, Sir Norfolk?" cried Hilda.

"Quite sure," replied the old baronet.

"Thank Heaven!" she exclaimed. And with a gasp for ut