one of the best in the book, and perhaps not so commonly known as some others, is that said to be still visible at the Duke of Richmond Inn, at Goodwood, on the carved figure-head (a lion) of Anson's ship the Centurion :

"Stay, traveller, awhile, and view

I who have travelled more than you;
Quite round the globe in each degree,
Anson and I have ploughed the sea;
Torrid and frigid zones have passed,
And, safe ashore arrived at last,
In ease and dignity appear-
He in the House of Lords-I here."

The collection is not improved by the addition of a third class, containing "Monumental Epigrams." If intended as a collection of genuine epitaphs remarkable for their terseness or eccentricity, it is anything but complete, and the thing has been much better done before. But in point of fact it is a jumble of old tombstone verses, either genuine, or which have passed for such, with the playful or bitter "last words" which wits have suggested for their friends or enemies. By the side of inscriptions which are known to have a local existence, we find such things as Goldsmith's "Madam Blaize," Moore's lines upon Southey, and Punch's suggested epitaph on a locomotive engine-" Her end was pieces." The classification of epigrams is perhaps not very easy; but this kind of division into "Humorous" and "Monumental" is certainly the most illogical that ever was attempted. We wonder under which heading the editor would have classed the following verses, if he had happened to meet with them. They are an anticipatory dirge for Professor Buckland, at that time the great popular geologist, from the pen of Archbishop Whately. We do not know that they have been printed, except in the columns of a newspaper.

"Mourn, Ammonites, mourn o'er his funeral urn,

Whose neck ye must grace no more;

Gneiss, granite, and slate,—he settled your date,

And his ye must now deplore. Weep, caverns, weep, with infiltering drip,

Your recesses he'll cease to explore; For mineral veins or organic remains, No stratum again will he bore. His wit shone like Crystal-his knowledge profound

From Gravel to Granite descended; No Trap could deceive him, no Slip confound,

No specimen, true or pretended. Where shall we our great Professor inter, That in peace may rest his bones? If we hew him a rocky sepulchre,

He'll get up and break the stones, And examine each stratum that lies around,

For he's quite in his element underground. If with mattock and spade his body we lay

In the common alluvial soil; He'll start up and snatch those tools away

Of his own geological toil;

In a stratum so young the Professor dis

dains

That embedded should be his organic remains.

Then exposed to the drip of some casehardening spring,

His carcass let stalactite cover; And to Oxford the petrified sage let us bring,

When duly encrusted all over; There 'mid mammoths and crocodiles, high on the shelf,

Let him stand as a monument raised to himself.

1st Dec. 1820."

The reader will find, in this last class, four Latin lines which have always been a puzzle to curious scholars. They are said to be found on a stone in Lavenham Church, Norfolk—

"Quod fuit esse quod est

Quod non fuit esse quod esse
Esse quod non esse

Quod est non est erit esse."

(We prefer leaving out the commas, as we have found the punctuation of other passages, whether the printer's or the editor's, of rather a hap-hazard character.) There is a translation given-one of several which we have seen, perfectly in

telligible in themselves, but quite impossible to be got, by any fair grammatical process, out of the original Latin. The most plausible interpretation suggested-and if not the true one, it has, at least, the merit of great ingenuity-goes upon the supposition that the name of the deceased was Toby Watt. Then it comes out something like this: "That which was Toby Watt, is what Toby Watt was not; to be Toby Watt, is not to be what Toby Watt is; Toby is not, he will be." It is true that the Lavenham epitaph is said to be upon one John Wales: but we believe it exists elsewhere, with various readings; and it is by no means impossible that John Wales's relatives borrowed the inscription, admiring it none the less that it was unintelligible. That some such play upon words is the key to the riddle, seems probable from another epitaph in Mr Booth's book

"Hic jacet Plus, plus non est hic,

Plus et non plus-quomodo sic?" Of which the following, said to be in St Benet's Church, Paul's Wharf, seems to be a free translation"Here lies one More, and no more than he;

One More and no more-how can that be?

Why, one More and no more may well lie here alone,

But here lies one More, and that's more than one."

Such grim puns were not thought irreverent to the dead by the taste

of the day. We are not fond either of monumental witticism or monumental eulogy: if we must needs choose a poetical memorial, there is one in the book (which really exists at Peterborough) whose plain-speaking strikes our fancy:"Reader, pass on, nor idly waste your time,

In bad biography, or bitter rhyme; What I am now, this cumbrous clay insures,

And what I was, is no affair of yours."

It will be seen that we have been unable to compliment the present editor on his selection. Especially we regret to see some of the modern personalities of 'Punch' copied into his pages. They may be excused in an ephemeral publication; they are not really malicious-indeed, nothing is more remarkable than their general good-humour and freedom from bitterness, when the temptations of the professional joker are considered-and they answer the intended purpose of raising a laugh. But in a book intended for the drawing-room table, as this seems to be, the same sense of propriety which has excluded some of the wittiest epigrams of former generations on account of their grossness, should also have suffered verses of no remarkable brilliancy, which describe living and late bishops (whose names are supplied in a note) as "Soapey" and "Cheesey," to remain in the files of periodical papers, or in the memories of their admirers.

CARLINGFORD is, as is well known, essentially a quiet place. There is no trade in the town, properly so called. To be sure, there are two or three small counting-houses at the other end of George Street, in that ambitious pile called Gresham Chambers; but the owners of these places of business live, as a general rule, in villas, either detached or semi-detached, in the North-end, the new quarter, which, as everybody knows, is a region totally unrepresented in society. In Carlingford proper there is no trade, no manufactures, no anything in particular, except very pleasant parties and a superior class of people-a very superior class of people, indeed, to anything one expects to meet with in a country town, which is not even a county town, nor the seat of any particular interest. It is the boast of the place that it has no particular interest-not even a public school for no reason in the world but because they like it, have so many nice people collected together in those pretty houses in Grange Lane-which is, of course, a very much higher tribute to the town than if any special inducement had led them there. But in every community some centre of life is necessary. This point, round which everything circles, is, in Carlingford, found in the clergy. They are the administrators of the commonwealth, the only people who have defined and compulsory duties to give a sharp outline to life. Somehow this touch of necessity and business seems needful even in the most refined society: a man who is obliged to be somewhere at a certain hour, to do something at a certain time, and whose public duties are not volunteer proceedings, but indispensable work, has a certain position of command among a leisurely and unoccupied commu

nity, not to say that it is a public boon to have some one whom everybody knows and can talk of. The minister in Salem Chapel was everything to his little world. That respectable connection would not have hung together half so closely but for this perpetual subject of discussion, criticism, and patronage; and, to compare great things with small, society in Carlingford recognised in some degree the same human want. An enterprising or non-enterprising rector made all the difference in the world in Grange Lane; and in the absence of a rector that counted for anything (and poor Mr Proctor was of no earthly use, as everybody knows), it followed, as a natural consequence, that a great deal of the interest and influence of the position fell into the hands of the curate of St Roque's.

But that position was one full of difficulties, as any one acquainted with the real state of affairs must see in a moment. Mr Wentworth's circumstances were, on the whole, as delicate and critical as can be imagined, both as respected his standing in Carlingford and the place he held in his own familynot to speak of certain other personal matters which were still more troublesome and vexatious. These last, of course, were of his own bringing on; for if a young man chooses to fall in love when he has next to nothing to live upon, trouble is sure to follow. He had quite enough on his hands otherwise without that crowning complication. When Mr Wentworth first came to Carlingford, it was in the days of Mr Bury, the Evangelical rector - - his last days, when he had no longer his old vigour, and was very glad of

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assistance," as he said, in his public and parish work. Mr Bury had a friendship of old standing with