tombstones are introducers of the living to
the dead; makers of mortal acquaintances;
and "one touch of nature," in making the
"whole world kin," gives them the right of
speaking like kindred to, and of, one another.
It is a pleasure to see the flowers so well
kept, and for so long a time. The mother said
they would be so as long as she lived. It is
impossible not to respect and sympathise with
feelings like these. "We should say, nevertheless
(and as questions of this kind are of
general interest, we address the remark to all
loving survivors), that although a life-long observance
of such attentions could do anything
but dishonour to living or dead, the discontinuance
of it after a certain lapse of time
would not, of necessity, be a reproach to
either: for the practice concerns the feelings
of the one still more than the memory of the
other; and in cases where it might keep open
the wounds of remembrance too long and too
sorely, no loving persons, while alive, could
wish that their survivors should take such
pains to hinder themselves from being relieved.
It is natural for some time, often for
too long a time, to associate with the idea of
the departed the bodies in which they lived
and in which we loved them. Few of us can
so spiritualise their new condition all at once,
as to visit them in thought nowhere but in
another world. We have been too much accustomed
to them bodily in this. In fact,
they are still bodily with us; still in our
world, if not on it; and for a time we must
reconcile that thought to ourselves as well as
we can; warm it with our tears; put it on
an equality with us, by means of our very
sorrow, from which, whatsoever its other
disadvantages, it is now exempt; give it
earthly privileges of some kind, whether of
flowers or of fondness.

Returning from the church into the High
Street there presents itself, not many yards
further, on the right side of the way, a curious
looking brick ediifice, at once slender and
robust (if the reader can imagine such a combination);
or tall and sturdy; or narrow,
compact, send thick in the walls. Over the
second story is a square tower, probably intended
to hold a bell; and originally there
was another tower above that, which must
have made the whole edifice appear unaccountably
tall. Finally, to adopt the convenient
word of that late eminent antiquary,
Mr. John Carter, there stands on each side
of the first story, the "costumed statue of a
charity-child."

It is the old Kensington Charity School,
built by Sir John Yanbrugh; now a savings'
bank, with a new school-room by the side
of it.

Sir John, as is well known, was a wit full
of mirth in his comedies, and an architect full
of gravity in his buildings. He was the son
of a Dutchman by a French mother. A
certain Dr. Evans who was addicted to the like
extremes in literature, though neither his
mirth nor his gravity were so good, wrote a
jesting epitaph on Sir John, the final couplet
of which has become famous:—

"Lie heavy on him, earth, for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee."

Sir Joshua Reynolds, however, was of
opinion that Vanbrugh's style was misconstrued,
and that it was very poetical and
noble. The present building has certainly
contrived to look heavy, even though it is
narrow; but nobody who looks at it can
doubt that it was built to endure. If suffered
to remain it will, even now, probably outlast
the whole of Kensington. Look at it, reader,
as you go, with an eye to this supposition.
Think also what interest a celebrated name
can attach to a homely structure; and wonder
to reflect that he who built it was the same
Captain Vanbrugh, a man of wit and pleasure
about town, who wrote the characters of
romping Miss Hoyden and the dandy Lord
Foppington.

Next to Sir John Vanbrugh's old edifice
is the new Vestry Hall, a building lately
erected in the style that prevailed in the
reign of James the first, and which has acquired
a nautral popularity in this suburb
from the presence of Holland House. There
is something in the style too very suitable to
the British climate, its bow windows largely
admitting the light, while the comparatively
blind and solid walls are characteristic of
warmth and snugness. The warm colours
also of yellow and red that prevail in the
exterior of these buildings, and the bricks of
which they are composed in preference to
stone and stucco, are far better for us than
the cold whites of the latter. Honest old red
is the best of all. The most miserable object in
England on a rainy day (next to the pauper
that inhabits it) is a tumble-down hut of
lath and plaster.

CHIPS.

CHINESE PLAYERS.

IN the Chinese quarter of George Town,
Prince of Wales Island, there is of course a
Pagoda. It is a spacious building, with several
courts and temples containing grotesque idols.
Two granite lions, shaped fantastically,
guard the entrance. Now the Chinese—in
Prince of Wales Island, at any rate—do not
allow their idols to be selfish; they borrow the
use of their temples from them for mundane
purposes of pleasure, and they themselves eat
at least half of the good things they place upon
the tables of the gods. I first entered the
George Town Pagoda during Chinese holidays.
In front of it a theatre had been erected
under the open sky. Its entertainment had
been offered gratuitously—in the promenade
form—to the public, who were invited also to
purchase refreshments from the stalls in the