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in the South Park Street Cemetery. They lie in nameless obscurity, where they held their heads so high. Generals, councillors, judges, the woman of fashion, the beauty of the hour, the man of business, the man of pleasure, rest together in that distressful acre. As we turn over the delightful pages of Echoes from Old Calcutta, responsive to Doctor Busteed's gentle summons the dead rise for an hour from their slumber. They renew the interrupted flirtation, exchange compliments and shots, sip at their 'loll Shrub,' pace their minuets, pull at their extinct hukkahs. Mr. Hickey is sharpening his pen and his periods in the Bengal Gazette office. The young bloods, with their black Cape 'Coffres' in attendance, are taking their pleasure in their pinnaces on the river, whence the strains of the French horn reach the celebrated Miss Sanderson, and the other languid ladies, as they pace in their chariots round the Lál Diggi Tank. Palankeens hurry past to Council House and Court. Mr. Councillor Francis in his budgerow hastens on the tide to Húglí, where she, quae spiravit amores, as he inscribes it in his Diary, is awaiting him. In the morning mist a shot is heard in the direction of Belvedere; at the next meeting of the Council the Governor will explain to his colleagues how he has found it necessary to wing the most active of their number. The deer are dozing in Impey's Park, of which Park Street recalls the existence, and Middleton Row the main avenue. Clive's new fort thunders out its salute to the dank dawn;