invention of engraving, our acquaintance with the matchless works of Greece, and other causes, this branch of art has made considerable advance. Why, then, should a sculptor be now "cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, bound in," by such inflexible conditions? If some variation is discoverable in the ancient types, why should he not have the advantage of selection, and avail himself of that attitude best adapted to the situation of the tomb and the character of the deceased? Not to multiply examples of deviation—the Queen of Henry IV., in Canterbury Cathedral, has one arm reposing at her side, and the other upon her breast. The arms of Edward III., in Westminster Abbey, are both stretched at his side. An abbot of Peterborough, in that cathedral, holds a book and a pastoral staff. The hands of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, in his beautiful chapel, are raised, but separate. Several have the arms crossed, expressive of humility and resignation. Others (lay as well as clerical) press a holy book to their bosom; and some place the right hand upon the heart, denoting the warmth of their love and faith. In his description of Italian monuments, Mr. Ruskin remarks, that "though in general, in tombs of this kind, the face of the statue is slightly turned towards the spectator, in one case it is turned away" (Stones of Venice, vol. iii. p. 14.); and instances are not unfrequent of similar inclinations of the head at home. Why then should this poor choice be denied? Why should he be fettered by austere taskmasters to this stereotyped treatment, to the proverbial stiffness of "our grandsires cut in alabaster." Indignation has been excited in many quarters against that retrograde movement termed "pre-Raphaelism," yet what in fact is this severe, angular, antiquated style, but identically the same thing in stone? What but pre-Angeloism? Upon the supposition that the effigies have departed this life, or even that the spirit is only about to take its flight, anatomical and physiological difficulties present themselves, for strong action would be required to hold the hands in this attitude of prayer. The drapery, too, hanging in straight folds, has been always apparently designed from upright figures, circumstances evincing how little the rules of propriety were then regarded. Their profusion occasions a familiarity which demands a change, for the range is here as confined as that of the sign-painter, who could only depict lions, and was therefore precluded from varying his signs, except by an alteration in the colour. Such is the yearning of taste for diversity, that in the equestrian procession on the frieze of the Parthenon, out of about ninety horses, not two are in the same attitude; yet to whatever extent our churches may be thronged with these sepulchral tombs, all must be, as it were, cast in the same mould, till by repetition their beauty