mind and purifies the heart, I asked in all
reverence, which was considered the most costly
tomb in the grounds? I was taken to a sort of
temple in grey marble, the peculiarity of which
is, as I was begged to observe, that on entry
you go up a step instead of down one, and
the graceful shape and the polished sides of
which are decidedly handsome and a little
heathenish.

This, I was told, cost some three thousand
pounds, and I uncovered my head accordingly.
The one nearly opposite, not yet finished, would
come to about two thousand pounds; while the
foundations just laid down were for a vault to
hold twelve people, and to cost more than a
thousand pounds. What is the bricked pit in
the centre for—the coffins? Oh dear no! A
grating would be placed over that, and would
form the flooring of the vault, while the coffins
would be ranged round the walls at the sides.
Did I observe the thickness of the masonry?
Well, this pit was designed to receive the ashes
of the people interred, if—say a thousand years
hence—these walls should crumble and decay.
It was being built by a gentleman for himself
and family, who, when in town, takes the deepest
interest in the work, coming here every day to
see how the building progresses. No time to
meditate upon the strangeness of this idiosyncrasy,
for we have arrived at the chapel, and
Mr. Dawe hands me over to another official,
while he transacts some business with a fat and
jolly-looking couple who "want to look at a bit
of ground." Again, as when in the conservatory,
a singular feeling arises as to the speciality
of the building. As in every other instance,
flowers are associated with joy and life, so in
every other sacred edifice, bridals and christenings,
with their attendant prayers, and hopes
and fears, are as germane as the last rites to the
dead. But there is no altar here wherefrom to
pronounce the marriage blessing, no font round
which parents and friends have clustered, and
the double row of seats at each side have been
used by mourners, professed or real, but by
mourners only. It needs no guide to explain
the use of the black trestles in the centre of the
building. Some thousands of coffins have
probably rested on them, though they are only
used for the burials in the grounds. For the
coffins deposited in the catacombs below, these
trestles are not required. They are placed on
a hydraulic press, and lowered through the
floor by machinery, as the clergyman reads the
service.

We go down by a stone staircase, and I
am speedily in the centre of a wide avenue,
out of which branch other avenues; and on
stone shelves on each side of these, rest coffins.
This is Catacomb B. Catacomb A is away from
the chapel, and has long been filled. This present
catacomb has room for five thousand bodies,
and my companion (who has been custodian of
the vaults for the last thirty years) considers it
about half full. I am therefore in a village
below ground, of some two thousand five hundred
dead inhabitants, and I can (not without
reproaching myself for the incongruity) compare
it to nothing but a huge wine-cellar. The
empty vaults are precisely like large bins, and
were it not for the constant gleams of daylight
from the numerous ventilating shafts, my guide
with his candle would seem to be one of those
astute cellarmen who invariably appear to return
from the darkest corners with a choicer and a
choicer wine. The never altogether absent
daylight destroys this illusion, and I proceed to
examine the coffins around me. They are, as a
rule, each in a separate compartment, some
walled up with stone, others having an iron gate
and lock and key, others with small windows in
the stone; others, again, are on a sort of public
shelf on the top. The private vaults are fitted up,
some with iron bars for the coffins to rest on,
others with open shelves, so that their entire
length can be seen. The price of a whole vault,
holding twenty coffins, is, I learn, one hundred
and ninety-nine pounds; of one private compartment,
fourteen pounds; the cost of interment in
a public vault is four guineas; each of these sums
being exclusive of burial fees, and an increased
rate of charges being demanded when the coffin
is of extra size. Rather oppressed with the
grim regularity with which every one of these
arrangements is systematised, I am not sorry
to ascend the stairs, and ask my companion
how he would find a particular coffin buried
say twenty years before. By its number—and
he shows me a little book wherein all these
matters are methodically set down, and in
which, in case of burials out of doors, under
the head of "remarks"—I find the locality of
each grave thus described: "Fifteen feet west
of Tompkins;" or, "three feet south of Jones,"
as the case may be. "We have so many of the
same name," exclaims the catacomb keeper,
"that we should never find them unless the
whole place were planned out into squares and
numbers." Here Mr. Dawe joins us, and I ask
to be taken to the dissenters' catacomb, that I
may see for myself the last resting-place of the
poor woman whose ashes have been squabbled
over, and written on by Sikh and Christian. On
the way, I inquire how many men are employed
at the cemetery? Mr. Dawe has difficulty in
saying, as so many labourers are occasionally
employed. Night watchman? Oh yes, there
is a night watchman, who is armed with a
gun, which he fires every night at ten. He
is accompanied by a faithful dog, and patrols
the cemetery the whole of the night. No, he
has no particular beat. Formerly, he had to
be at the entrance to each catacomb (they are
situated at the two extremities of the grounds)
at stated hours during the night, and "tell-
tales" were provided, to test his punctuality,
but these have not been used for many years.
The directors having perfect confidence in their
servant, think it better that he should be left
free, than by compelling him to be at one place
at a particular time, enable possible depredators
to make their calculations accordingly.

No, he is not aware of any attempt ever having
been made to rob the cemetery. It is thoroughly