"Lay not my body in the catacombs, but place it among kindred dust, and cover it with the sod on which a daisy may bloom."

green

We have mounted to the brow of the hill, and are standing between the church and the cemetery, looking down on the Gothic terrace, the Egyptian avenue, and the cedar circle of catacombs. The garden of death is now plainly seen in its length and its breadth; masses of elms and other trees beautify the surrounding fields; and London is in the distance, stretching out itself on the right and on the left.

The public buildings of the city, the travelling steam-carriages of the neighbouring railroad, and the arriving visitors at the cemetery, all speak of busy life; while every foot of the broad acres in the foreground is dedicated to death.

The cemeteries of the metropolis may be said to mingle the character of the British churchyard with that of Père la Chaise in Paris; being neither so monotonously solemn as the former, nor so artificial, sentimental, and romantic as the latter. They are entitled to a perambulator's consideration, providing, as they do, suitable resting-places for the dead, sufficiently removed from the habitations of the living. It is almost impossible to muse among these flower gardens of the grave, without connecting them with some undefined emotions of our approaching dissolution.

We are now quitting a spot which death will

render doubly dear to many a mourner as the sun runs his course. And shall the disunited atoms again assume form and comeliness? Yes!

God form'd them from the dust, and he once more
Will give them strength and beauty as before,
Though strewn as widely as the desert air-

As winds can waft them, or as waters bear.

How cheering, how animating, how heartreviving are the words of the Redeemer, "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die!" John xi. 25, 26. Happy, indeed, is he who can say, in the language of exultation, nothing doubting, "I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth and though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another," Job xix. 25-27.

This Nunhead Cemetery of All Saints, occupies a commanding site between Peckham and the Kent road, sloping down to the east, north, and south-west, at a distance of some three or four miles from London, and, though far from being completed, gives a fair promise of equalling those which have already won the public approbation. It is the largest of all the cemeteries, comprising at least fifty acres.

In walking to this place I observed, on a neighbouring hill, a singular-looking erection, and the grave-digger, who is even now, with an assistant, preparing a 66 narrow house" for an inanimate tenant, tells me it is a telegraph. Fleet and mysterious herald, what tidings bring ye? What news bear ye onward to the "mart of all the earth?" Is it weal or woe? Are ye the messenger of good or of evil? Ye do well to outstrip the winds in your course, for man is hastening on to the tomb; his days are swifter than " a weaver's shuttle."

There is a glorious view of London from this spot. The five oaks stretching themselves across the cemetery are strikingly attractive. The palisades of the boundary, mounting tier above tier; the fine swell of the ground and commanding slope; the groups of young trees, and flowers of all hues, are very imposing.

I have walked round the spacious enclosure. What an extended space for a grave-ground! What a goodly homestead for the king of terrors! Here seems to be room enough to bury us all! At present the monuments are but few; but this is a want that mortality will soon supply. Fever, and consumption, and death, and time, are industriously at work. It is not to one, but to all, that the voice of the Eternal has gone forth; "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."

I have just peeped into the lumber room. What

found I there? Nothing but emblems of mortality. Well, if these abound, the consolations of the gospel abound also. "When this cor

ruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, "Death is swallowed up in victory," 1 Cor.

xv. 54.

THE CHINESE COLLECTION.

FANCY to yourself, standing by the wayside at Hyde Park Corner, within a bow shot of Apsleyhouse, a showy Chinese pagoda, of two stories, with green roofs, edged with vermilion, and supported by vermilion pillars, bearing on its front a hieroglyphical inscription, signifying "ten thousand Chinese things." You enter the pagoda by a flight of steps to a vestibule, and then ascend a larger flight, after which, pursuing your course along the lobby, you soon find yourself in a goodly apartment of a novel kind, more than two hundred feet long, broad enough and high enough to form a most agreeable promenade.

Your attention is arrested by three richly gilt colossal and imposing idol figures, representing "the three precious Buddhas," or, "past, present, and to come." Bewildered by the novelty, lightness, beauty, richness, and elegance of the numberless objects which meet your gaze, you sit down to compose yourself, anticipating, with restless pleasure, the rich treat that awaits you.

And now comes confusedly to your memory all that you know of China, not unmingled with