of sculpture I remember--a carving of a cow, a milkmaid, and a monk, in
reference to the legend that the site of the cathedral was, in some way,
determined by a woman bidding her cow go home to Dunholme. Cadmus was
guided to the site of his destined city in some such way as this.

It was a very beautiful day, and tho the shadow of the cathedral fell on
this side, yet, it being about noontide, it did not cover the churchyard
entirely, but left many of the graves in sunshine. There were not a great
many monuments, and these were chiefly horizontal slabs, some of which
looked aged, but on closer inspection proved to be mostly of the present
century. I observed an old stone figure, however, half worn away, which
seemed to have something like a bishop's miter on its head, and may
perhaps have lain in the proudest chapel of the cathedral before occupying
its present bed among the grass. About fifteen paces from the central
tower, and within its shadow, I found a weather-worn slab of marble, seven
or eight feet long, the inscription on which interested me somewhat. It
was to the memory of Robert Dodsley, the bookseller, Johnson's
acquaintance, who, as his tombstone rather superciliously avers, had made
a much better figure as an author than "could have been expected in his
rank of life." But, after all, it is inevitable that a man's tombstone
should look down on him, or, at all events, comport itself toward him "de
haut en bas." I love to find the graves of men connected with literature.
They interest me more, even tho of no great eminence, than those of
persons far more illustrious in other walks of life. I know not whether
this is because I happen to be one of the literary kindred, or because all
men feel themselves akin, and on terms of intimacy, with those whom they
know, or might have known, in books. I rather believe that the latter is
the case.

We went around the edifice, and, passing into the close, penetrated