speaks of his "more severe studies," and of
their common friend, Virgil. The probability
is that he was of a delicate constitution and
of a lively enough mind, and that his attention
had been drawn to the writings of
Shaftesbury and others, with a vivacity that
Addison thought fit to repress.

Francis Colman, in seventeen hundred
and thirty-three, father and grandfather of
the two George Colmans, the dramatists,
both buried here also. He was sometime
British Minister at the Court of Tuscany.
The dramatic propensity of the family appears
to have commenced with this gentleman,
who interested himself in operatic
affairs, and wrote the words of Handel's
Ariadne in Naxos. He was an intimate
friend of Gay.

Dr. John Jortin, in the year seventeen
hundred and seventy, aged seventy-one.
Author of the Life of Erasmus; an elegant
scholar, critic, and theologian. He lies in the
churchyard under a flat stone, which is surrounded
with iron rails, and briefly inscribed
with his name, age, and the day on which
be ceased to be mortal (mortalis esse desiit).
Among the improvements which the authorities
here are making, we trust we shall see
these good words rescued from the dirt which
has obscured them. There were some curious
inconsistencies in Jortin. He was a good-natured
man, with unattractive manners;
was a writer of elegant sermons, which he
read very badly; and was always intimating
that he ought to have had greater preferment
in the Church, though he was suspected, not
unreasonably, of differing with it on some
points held essential to orthodoxy. His Life
was written by Dr. Disney, the Unitarian.
The doctor's book ought to have been more
amusing, considering that Jortin had the
reputation of being a wit.

Mr. Thomas Wright, seventeen hundred
and seventy-six. One of those didactic gentlemen
who cannot leave off the habit of fault-finding
even in their graves, but must needs
lecture and snub the readers of their tombstones.
This posthumous busybody—who informs
us that his own head is quiet—seems
determined that the case shall be different
with ours. The following is his epitaph in
the churchyard:—

"Farewell, vain world! I've had enough of thee;
I value not what thou can'st say of me;
Thy smiles I value not, nor frowns don't fear;
All's one to me; my head is quiet here;
What faults you've seen in me take care to shun;
Go home, and see there's something to be done.''

Of course there is. But why could not Mr.
Thomas Wright let us have a little quiet as
well as himself? Did he despair of being
able to give us any pleasure in his company
alive or dead?

The Rev. Martin Madan, seventeen hundred
and ninety, aged sixty-four. His mother
was a Cowper, and aunt of the poet. He made
himself conspicuous in his day, and very unpopular
with the religious world, by writing
a curious book called Thelypthora (female
ruin), in which, upon the strength of the
Mosaic law, he recommended polygamy as a
remedy for seduction. His arguments were
learned and acute; but were accompanied
with so much bigotry, that, in conjunction
with the usual repugnance of the community
to touch upon one of the sorest of social
questions, they left him at the mercy of opponents
who might otherwise have found
them very puzzling.

George Colman the elder, seventeen hundred
and ninety-four, aged sixty-one. Author
of The Jealous Wife and other comedies;
joint-author with Garrick of the Clandestine
Marriage; with Bonnell Thornton of the
periodical work The Connoisseur; and translator
of Terence's Plays and Horace's Art
of Poetry. An elegant scholar, and lively
and amusing, but in no respects great
writer. He comes much nearer to Murphy
than to Varibrugh and Farquhar. He saw
pleasantly into the surface of things, but
little further.

Dr. Warren, in seventeen hundred and
ninety-seven, aged sixty-six. The elder of
two celebrated physicians of that name, father
and son. Dr. Warren seems to have been a
model of his class. He was no formalist, but
impressed and interested his patients with
the most sterling qualities, both professional
and personal; and had the art (a very great
and important art in a physician) of entertaining
them and keeping up their spirits.
We have heard it said, on the best of all authorities
on such a point—that of an amiable
and intelligent woman—that the "finest eyes
in the world" were hereditary in the Warrens;
so that, under all the circumstances,
the reader will not wonder to be told that
Mrs. Inchbald, who was one of his patients,
was secretly in love with him, and would
pace Sackville Street after dark purely to
have the pleasure of seeing a light in his
window. A pleasant answer is recorded of
him to Lady Spencer. Her Ladyship questioned
whether the minds of physicians must not be
frequently embittered by the reflection, that
a different mode of treatment might have
saved the lives of their patients. Dr. Warren
thought otherwise. "The balance between
satisfaction and remorse must," he considered,
"be greatly in favour of satisfaction;" and
as an instance of it, he hoped he should have
the pleasure of curing her ladyship "forty
times before he killed her."

James Elphinstone, in eighteen hundred
and four, aged eighty-eight. The good dominie
before mentioned; translator of Martial.
The marble tablet inscribed to his memory,
on the outside of the eastern wall, was set up
by his wife, which reminds us of an omission
in our former notice of him; to wit, that after
his return from a visit to France, when a