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have lingered around! How many eyes which never beheld the sleepers within have wept for their loss, while tracing that revered name—glancing upward in the dusk of eve, almost expecting to see the spirit of Scott descending in the twilight, to hover over the devoted beings he loved so well. On every side here, some tribute to virtue,some testimonial of suffering, claims more than a passing regard. Here stands a white marble pillar to the memory of a young sportsman, shot at the age of twenty; here, near the church, full of years and honours, inhabiting a handsome mausoleum of stone, sleeps Dr. Valpy. Another, surrounded by flowers, is raised to the wife of Mr. Frederick Sprattlin; and opposite is the monument of Captain Thomas Blair and several of his family, who died early. That broken pillar of white marble bears inscriptions on either side-one of which records the "awful and agonizing catastrophe" of April, 1839, when Eliza Maria, the "youngest and fondly-cherished daughter," was thrown from her horse in Hyde Park, and expired in St. George's Hospital. Very near each other in the circle are striking monuments commemorative of a similar fate-those of Mr. Burton, Mr. Powell, and Mr. Sams; all of whom, like poor Miss Blair, were killed by accidents with horses.

Suddenly we pause to admire a contrast with all the richly-adorned sepulchres around. Behold it simple, grand, massive—formed of huge blocks of granite—sober in hue, sublime in its effect—the mausoleum of the "Rashleigh Family of Menabilly." We pass amidst tombs of various form to a large space railed in, in the midst of which stands a beautiful cenotaph of white marble, superbly ornamented—it is that of Mr. Holland, a wealthy merchant. Close to it, a lofty obelisk of red granite, to the memory of Thomas Lothian, claims notice; and at a brief distance, more remarkable than all, appears a magnificent catacomb mausoleum; that of Mr. Huth, а Prussian merchant. The beholder passes on each side of this in mute