young man, he never altered his dress. It
was a suit of drab colour, with bag-wig and
toupee, all made according to the fashion
which prevailed at the time. Latterly, however,
he more than once offered to make any
change in it "which Mrs. Elphinstone might
deem proper;" but the good lady's eyes had
been so accustomed to see her husband as he
was, that she could not bear the thought of
beholding him otherwise; or, to use the more
emphatic language of one of his pupils (the
late Mr. R. C. Dallas, the novelist), his virtues
and worth had so "sanctified" his appearance
in her eyes, "that she would have thought
the alteration a sacrilege." It appears also,
from accounts given us by the same gentleman,
that the worthy schoolmaster, to his
zeal for the purity of the English language,
added no less for that of the appearance of
the ladies: for Mr. Dallas tells us, that when
any were in company, whose sleeves were at
a distance from their elbows, or whose
bosoms were at all exposed, he would fidget
from place to place, look askance with a slight
convulsion of his left eye, and never rest till
he approached some of them; and, pointing
to their arms, would say, "Oh yes, indeed! it
is very pretty; but it betrays more fashion
than modesty;" or some such familiar phrase,
after which he became very good-humoured.
One fancies good Mrs. Elphinstone bridling
up at these times in the consciousness of her
own well-covered charms, and approving her
husband for thus combining his admiration of
ladies' beauties in the abstract, with objections
to the fair challengers of it in the
particular.

But we shall forget the place of which we
are talking; though, indeed, to speak of such
deceased people as the Elphinstones is the
next thing to looking at children playing
over their graves. Their smiles excuse one's
own.

The ensuing record on a stone in the
churchyard recalls all our gravity:—

CAROLINE NELSON BIANCHI,
Died June 28, 1807, aged 5.
Also, Francesco Bianchi,
di Cremona, died 27 November, 1810, aged 59.

We mention both these names for the
affecting reason that they record a father
who died broken-hearted for the loss of his
child. He was a distinguished musical composer,
and wrote operas that were favourites
with the Billingtons of his day. It hardly
need be added that he was a most amiable
and benevolent man. What a death he
must have died! Three years of wasting
sorrow! Yet death thus loses its sting; and
in the last moments there is the blissful hope
of rejoining the object of affection. Those
are great payments of their kind; great
privileges; unable as the sufferer must be,
till sure of dying, to rejoice in their possession.

Elizabeth Inchbald, before mentioned,
eighteen hundred and twenty-one. She lies
at the western extremity of the churchyard,
close to a son of Canning, the verses on whose
tombstone by his father have little merit
beyond that of conventional elegance. They
are not unaffecting; for if Nature speaks at
all, she must speak to some purpose, whatever
be her language; but compared with it in
other respects the plain prose tribute to Mrs.
Inchbald is characteristic of the prevailing
difference in the minds of the two persons—
that to the woman being truth itself, while
the statesman's is truth after a fashion; and
the fashion addresses itself to one's attention
as much as the truth.

Sacred to the memory
of
ELIZABETH INCHBALD;
Whose Writings will be cherished
While Truth, Simplicity, and Feeling
Command Public Admiration;
And whose Retired and Exemplary Life
Closed, as it Existed,
In Acts of Charity and Benevolence.

"Existed" is hardly the right word. It
should have been "was passed," or something
of that kind. But it is intelligible, and was
true. We take the opportunity of observing,
in addition to our previous notice of this lady,
that although we have spoken but of the
latest and profoundest of her two novels, the
Simple Story; the other, Nature and Art, is
also full of genius, and would alone have
rendered the steps of her pilgrimage in this
life worthy the tracing. It is one of the
earliest works of fiction in this country that
sounded in the ears of the prosperous the
great modern note of Justice to All. No
reader of the least reflection can forget the
impression made on him by the trial of the
poor girl, whose crime was owing to the very
judge on the bench that sentences her to
death.

Reginald Spofforth, the glee composer, in
eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, aged
thirty-seven. There is a tablet to his memory
on the left-hand side on the outer wall of the
church, close by the principal entrance.
Bacon has compared the fragrance of flowers
out-of-doors to the coming and going of the
warbling of music. The crescendos and diminuendos
in Spofforth's beautiful composition,
Health to my Dear, always remind us of that
charming smile. Musicians, for the most
part, are not as long-lived as painters, or
even as poets, though the latter are so excitable
a race. The reason is not perhaps so
much that the musical art is of the more
sensuous nature, as that musicians, owing to
the demands of their profession, continue all
their lives to go more into company and to
keep late hours. The painter (barring corporate
jealousies) can live as quiet as a