that pass through the various casts taken in plaster of Paris, till scarce a trace remains of their original symmetry and grace in the base copies hawked about the streets—so an idea, or a feeling, once true and beautiful, becomes garbled and absurd by passing through the hands of awkward imitators. I have not the slightest intention of taking up the defence of 'young gentlemen who make frowns in the glass;' in truth, their laments and regrets are about as just as those of an old gentleman of my acquaintance, blessed—I believe that is the proper phrase—with a more than ordinary portion of children and grandchildren, but who kept dying off, and being buried in the family vault, to the great sorrow of the grandfather, who, equally vexed and indignant, complained, 'there will not be a bit of room for me in my own vault.'"
Edward Lorraine.—"A hard case, truly, to outlive one's very grave; though, to me at least, there is something very revolting in our system of burial—something very contrary to the essentially cheerful spirit of our religion. I can conceive no scene more chilling and more revolting than a London burying-ground; haste, oblivion, selfishness are its outward
