as all men know, Great Toppletoton Street.
Where that thoroughfare intersects with
Tip Street is, as you well know, Wangwidgeon
House — a big mansion in the rustic style, of
brick, with stone dressings, standing in a
court-yard — where dwells that mighty prince,
the Duke of Pampotter. Next door to him,
down Tip Street, is the bachelor's mansion
of the Honourable Tom Sardanapalus,
M.P. Then comes Mrs. Zenobia, the rich
Indian widow (worth two lacs : husband
was in council : eats too much mulligatawney :
a great tract distributor, and horsewhips her
maid-servants). Then is the noble mansion,
a double house, of old Sir Fielding Framboise,
of the firm of Framboise, Verditter, and Plum,
bankers, and a sleeping partner in a great
brewery. And then, sir, come Toppletoton
Mews, and down Toppletoton Mews is the
Cocked Hat and Smalls, used by all the gentlemen
servants in the neighbourhood.

Checks, the landlord, who was the Bishop
of Bosfursus's butler, and married Mrs. Crimmins
his Grace's housekeeper, has a very delicate
and difficult task to perform, I can assure
you, to keep on friendly terms with all his
customers — to oblige all and offend none. Some
of the gentlemen are so very particular, so very
scrupulous as to precedency and professional
etiquette. There's the duke's gentleman,
Mr. Lapp.  Well, once upon a time, he was
not too proud to step round and take a glass
with Checks — in his private snuggery, be it
understood — and even to smoke a pipe with
Binns, Mrs. Zenobia's butler, and Truepenny,
the Honourable Tom Sardanapalus's man,
who reads all his master's blue-books, and is
crushingly erudite on the case of the Ameers
of Scinde. But, bless you, Mr. Lapp
happening to see a groom — a low stockbroker's
groom — in Checks's parlour, dandling Mrs.
Crimmins's sister's child, there and then cut
and repudiated Checks and his establishment
for ever. He told Mr. Wedgewood, Prince
Knoutikowski's groom of the chambers, that he
"would never enter that man's house again."
Checks, when he heard of it, said in great
wrath, that " nobody wanted him so for to
do," that he was " a hupstart; " and that he,
Checks, had kicked him many a time, when
they both lived at Sir John's — where Checks
was under-butler, and the duke's gentleman
was a knife boy. Then, the footmen rebelled,
because Doctor Philblister's coachman used
the coffee-room. Then, even the grooms
revolted, because a man of stably appearance,
supposed to be an ostler out of place, used the
tap-room; and, as he sat made a hissing noise
as though he was rubbing down horses. Poor
Checks was very nearly out of his mind; at
last he bethought him of the expedient of
dividing his coffee-room into two, by a
moveable wooden partition. In one of these
he put the butlers, and in another the footmen.
The great men among the former, and
the tip-top valets were free of his snuggery;
the grooms and coachmen had the tap-room;
and the common helpers and stable-folk and
the general public the bar.

Our dray has brought us from Mr. Checks's
establishment to the brewery. We may,
perhaps, by-and-bye, look in upon it again, to
inspect its home — the head-quarters of every
one of the Phases of Public life we have
already described.

GRAVES AND EPITAPHS

IT has happened to be my fortune to live
during these summer months in the near
neighbourhood of one of our London
Cemeteries, within range of the odours of the roses,
the mignonette, and other flowers that sustain
by their presence there, thoughts of beauty
and hope in the minds of those who choose to
wander among the gravestones. Close to
London it is pleasant and soothing to
compare this tranquil, ornate ground with those
wretched PLACES OF SKULLS which disfigure
and disgrace the great town. Death seems
quite a different thing, in comparison; indeed,
only in such really becoming places is the
sacredness of death and burial at all recognised.
The unhappy burial-places in the city
destroy and disgrace their own object. The
original object of all interment under the
walls of churches was of course natural
enough; for it added sacredness to the
grave. In that churchyard of St. Clement
Danes, for example, how stood such considerations
of old ? To-day, the flat-beaten stones
are lifted up now and then, disclosing a whity
earth which tells far too clear a story, and a
body is thrust in. But, once on a time — when
Danes and all manner of sailors and foreign
settlers were laid here under the protection
of St. Clement — the space about was clear,
and no thick rows of houses intercepted the
sight of the flow of the river along its damp
and pebbly Strand, as the funeral party
grouped together near the church, and Father
Anselm or Father Hugo spoke the Latin
prayers. Now, the effect of the ceremony is
precisely reversed: the church does not
sanctify the burial, and the burial disgraces
the church.

Cemeteries express the feelings, and meet
the wants of an altered time. God's acre (to
use the old German name) must not be a miserable
tenth of an acre, where you sow death,
and reap pestilence and fees. Burial must be
made beautiful and sacred again. In various
directions round London, as estates change
hands and conveniences occur, pieces of
spacious ground fall into the possession of
societies. Yew trees, willow trees speckle
them, walls encircle them. Temples are
erected, and due consecration performed, that
those whose creeds are different may each
have for his remains the form of rite which
his fathers professed. Groups of children,
knots of decorous wanderers may be seen
strolling in the sunshine among grass, and
trees, and flowers. To such a place the new