"Well, well, the old gentleman will be among his own family; and though relations are so apt to quarrel when alive, I believe they are very good friends after death. You never heard of their coffins standing on end and running a-tilt at each other, did you?" Tickled by the absurdity of this idea, he again indulged in a burst of that inane and hideous laughter by which I had previously been revolted; and having dismissed the undertaker with a renewal of his peremptory orders, he walked up and down the room, quaffing fresh glasses of Madeira, fantastically swinging his arms, and chuckling as he muttered to himself, "Capital dodge about the malignant fever! Tomkins will spread it everywhere, and so explain the hurry. Good, good!"

CHAPTER VII.

ABANDONED once more to solitude, silence, and my own miserable thoughts, I had no other occupation than to count every knell of the clock that brought me sixty minutes nearer to my living burial, a doom from which I recoiled with increasing horror as the chance of escaping it grew hourly less and less. On the following day the soulsickening processes of preparation for the grave gave me a frightful foretaste of my impending fate. The undertaker came to. measure me for my coffin, taking the dimensions of my body with as much indifference as if I had been a log of wood; and observing with a complacent smile, that he had a ready-made article at home which would exactly fit-a lucky circumstance, as he was so much pressed for time. Two of his men subsequently tumbled and turned me over without the smallest ceremony, to invest me in my shroud-the court-dress in which we all present ourselves at the grand levee of the King of Terrors. Something there was at once ridiculous and repulsive in the elaborate toilette with which they decorated a ghastly corpse, shortly to become a still more ghastly skeleton; while their coarse language was not less offensive than the unfeeling familiarity with which they performed their functions. "I say, old chap," cried one, laying his dirty hand upon my forehead, and moralizing with an evident complacency upon my plight; "I say, old chap, all your money wasn't of no use, you see, when it

comes to this here; and they do say you wasn't over nice in scraping it together. You wern't no better than you should be, though you did carry your head so high; but there's one comfort, you'll be call'd over the coals where you're going to. If you was to give me all your estate, and all your gold in the bank, I wouldn't change places with you. Ah, Joe, Joe," he continued, turning to a boy by his side; "now you see how true it is that a live dog is better than a dead lion."

"True enough, Mr. Hodges," was the reply; "it's all very well to be Dives, and have your swing among the bigwigs, in this here world; but Lazarus has the best of it, I reckon, in kingdom come.

"Well, Joe, and what can be fairer? it's only turn and turn about, you know."

Such was the tone of the discourse to which I was condemned to listen, and I need not state that it did not tend to diminish the mental distress by which I had been already overwhelmed.

Thus did I lie, as a victim dressed out for sacrifice, counting the weary hours in an unimaginable desolation and despair of spirit, until the arrival of the fatal Friday that was to consummate my horrible doom. Early on that morning my coffin was brought in and deposited by my bedside, my whole soul recoiling from it with an abhorrence only the more intense, because my loathing was unsusceptible of utterance or manifestation. Mr. Hodges, the undertaker's foreman, drew up the window-blind, exclaiming, as he re

turned to the bedside,

"Well, I'm blessed if ever I see a more fresh-looking stiff-un" (such was his brutal nickname for a corpse); one might almost swear that he was only asleep. To be sure he's only three days dead, and we don't often screw 'em up so fresh. And he ain't swelled the least in the world. Some deaduns don't care what trouble they give, and will puff themselves out in such a thoughtless way after being measured, that it's a good hour's work to ram and jam them into their wooden box. We shan't have any such bother here; the old chap, you'll find, will fit as true as a trivet. Bear a hand, and let's try."

The coffin had been placed on tall tressels, and as I was lifted from the bed to be laid within it, my head was elevated for a few seconds, and I caught, through the window, a clear view-my last view, as I then believedof the world without. Oh! how transcendently charming, how ineffably sweet, and beautiful, and glorious, did it appear! God's

mild eye was radiant in the unclouded heavens; the birds were singing gaily, intoxicated with sunshine; the shifting lights and shades gave picturesque variety to hill, and dale, and grove, to earth and water; all was life and motion in the fields; and in the contiguous paddock I caught a glimpse of the white cob to whom I had been indebted for so many pleasant rides

By hedge-row elms and hillocks green,

and whose back I was never again to bestride! Never had the face of nature, beaming with flowery smiles, appeared so lovely; never had I clung to life with so much love and yearning as at the moment when I was about to be driven out of the world by

Murder most foul as at the best it is,
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

After I had been deposited in my narrow receptacle, not without many a coarse and unfeeling scoff from the parties who performed this office, I was again left to solitude and my own miserable thoughts. While I was occupied in calculating the lapse of time, with an ever-increasing horror, I heard footsteps approaching; my daughter bent tenderly over me, repeatedly kissed my lips, while her tears fell fast upon my face; and whispering an almost inaudible" Farewell, forever, my dear, dear father!" retired sobbing from the room. Most sweet and dear was this evidence of filial affection, even although it could not for an instant defer the appalling catastrophe which was about to overtake me.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHILE reflecting upon the visit of my dear and good daughter, which was not altogether without a soothing influence upon my soul, I was startled by the tolling of the church-bell, at all times a solemn and impressive sound, but oh! how indescribably awful and harrowing to me, who heard it tolling for my own funeral, my own quick interment ! Whatever faint lingerings of hope had hitherto clung to my heart now died away, and my despair was consummated when the foreman returned to the chamber and screwed down the top of the coffin, an operation which he effected with a celerity which surprised me. His assistant joining him after a brief interval, I was hoisted

on their shoulders, carried through the parlor and the hall, and finally pushed into a hearse, the door of which must have been left open for several minutes, since I distinctly heard much of what was passing around me a circumstance for which I was subsequently enabled to account. I caught the sound of my son's voice, talking not only in a tone of unconcern, but of absolute levity, with his Newmarket friend, Sir Freeman Dashwood, who had doubtless been summoned rather to celebrate the son's succession than to show respect to the deceased father. By the trampling of hoofs, the rolling of wheels, and other indications, I became aware that, my funeral not being deficient in any of the customary paraphernalia, I was to make my triumphal procession to the grave with all that mockery of earthly grandeur which is usually displayed when a gentleman's corpse is about to be subjected to the worms. The bearer of the black panache marshaled the array, followed by horses with nodding plumes and housings of sable velvet, and mourning-coaches, whose occupants seemed to be anything but mourners, and wand-bearing footmen, and the decorated hearse in slow and solemn stateliness, conveying earth to earth with all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious--dust!

On the arrival of this idle pageant, the vanity of vanities, at the church-door, the coffin was borne into the sacred building; and the funeral service, of which, from my position, I did not lose a single word, was performed by Mr. Mason, the curate, with a more than usual impressiveness and feeling. When I reflected-for I had time for thought even in that harrowing moment-that I had not only refused my daughter's hand to this gifted and excellent man, but had impoverished her, should she marry him after my decease, in order still further to enrich my unnatural son, my heart became penetrated by a pang of the most intense shame and remorse. Blind and erring mortals that we are! How often and how completely should we alter our wills, could we look forward for a few days, or even for a few hours!

A few more slow steps in the churchyard, usually covered with a slab of stone, led down to the door of our family vault. Down that slope I was carried; I was borne into the sepulchre; by the directions of the undertaker's foreman I was deposited on the ground near the entrance; the men withdrew; the door was locked; I heard the departing footsteps of the assembled spectators; all was over; I was buried alive!

THIS picture is the joint production of the brothers Barraud, and represents an incident in Sir Walter Scott's celebrated novel. It is another instance of that growing attachment to the beautiful so characteristic of the age, and may be considered the painter's best production. There is a quietness of tone and simplicity of treatment peculiarly adapted to the subject, and the principal character is so thoroughly individualized that, having read the novel, we recognize him at a glance. Among our readers, however, there may be some who have forgotten the incident referred to, and for the benefit of such we transcribe the passage:

"One summer evening, as, in a stroll such as I have described, I approached this deserted mansion of the dead, I was somewhat surprised to hear sounds distinct from those which usually soothe its solitude-the gentle chiding, namely, of the brook, and the sighing of the wind in the boughs of three gigantic ash-trees, which mark the cemetery. The clink of a hammer was on this occasion distinctly heard; and I entertained some alarm that a march-dike, long meditated by the two proprietors whose estates were divided by my favorite brook, was about to be drawn up the glen, in order to substitute its rectilinear deformity for the graceful winding of the natural boundary. As I approached, I was agreeably undeceived. An old man was seated upon the monument of the slaughtered Presbyterians, and busily employed in deepening with his chisel the letters of the inscription, which, announcing in scriptural language the promised blessings of futurity to be the lot of the slain, anathematized the murderers with corresponding violence. A blue bonnet of unusual dimensions covered the gray hairs of the pious workman. His dress was a large old-fashioned coat of the coarse cloth called hoddin-gray, usually worn by the elder peasants, with waistcoat and breeches of the same; and the whole suit, though still in decent repair, had obviously seen a train of long service. Strong clouted shoes, studded with hob-nails, and gramoches or leggins, made of thick black cloth, completed his equipment. Beside him, fed among the graves a pony, the companion of his journey, whose extreme whiteness, as well as its projecting bones and hollow eyes, indicated its antiquity. It was harnessed in the most simple manner, with a pair of branks, a hair tether, or halter, and a sunk, or cushion of straw, instead of bridle and saddle. A canvas pouch hung around the neck of the animal,-for the purpose, probably, of containing the rider's tools, and anything else he might have occasion to carry with him. Although I had never seen the old man before, yet from the singularity of his employment, and the style of his equipage, I had no difficulty in recognizing a religious itinerant, whom I had often heard talked of, and who was

known in various parts of Scotland by the title of Old Mortality.

Where this man was born, or what was his real name, I have never been able to learn; nor are the motives which made him desert his home, and adopt the erratic mode of life which he pursued, known to me except very generally. According to the belief of most people, he was a native of either the county of Dumfries or Galloway, and lineally descended from some of those champions of the Covenant, whose deeds and sufferings were his favorite theme. He is said to have held, at one period of his life, a small moorland farm; but whether from pecuniary losses, or domestic misfortune, he In the language of Scripture, he left his house, had long renounced that and every other gainful callhis home, and his kindred, and wandered about until the day of his death-a period of nearly thirty

years.

66

During this long pilgrimage, the pious enthusiast regulated his circuit so as annually to visit the graves of the unfortnate Covenanters who suffered by the sword, or by the executioner, during the reigns of the two last monarchs of the Stuart line. These are most numerous in the western districts of Ayr, Galloway, and Dumfries; but they are also to be found in other parts of Scotland, wherever the fugitives had fought or fallen, or suffered by military or civil execution. Their tombs are often apart from all human habitation, in the remote moors and wilds to which the wanderers had fled for concealment. But wherever they existed, Old Mortality was sure to visit them when his annual round brought them within his reach. In the most lonely recesses of the mountains, the moor-fowl shooter has been often surprised to find him busied in cleaning the moss from the gray stones, renewing with his chisel the half-defaced inscriptions, and repairing the emblems of death with which these simple monuments are usually adorned. Motives of the most sincere, though fanciful devotion, induced the old man to dedicate so many years of existence to perform this tribute to the memory of the deceased warriors of the church. He considered himself as fulfilling a sacred duty, while renewing to the eyes of posterity the decaying emblems of the zeal and sufferings of their forefathers, and thereby trimming, as it were, the beacon-light which was to warn future generations to defend their religion even unto blood.

"In all his wanderings, the old pilgrim never seemed to need, or was known to accept, pecuniary assistance. It is true, his wants were very few; for wherever he went, he found ready quarters in the house of some Cameronian of his own sect, or of some other religious person. The hospitality which was reverentially paid to him, he always acknowledged by repairing the gravestones (if there existed any) belonging to the family or ancestors of his host. As the wanderer was usually to be seen bent on this pious task within the precincts of some country churchyard, or reclined on the solitary tombstone among the heath, disturbing the plover and the blackcock with the clink of his chisel and mallet, with his old white pony grazing by his side, he acquired from his converse among the dead, the popular appellation of Old Mortality."

RICHARD HURD, Bishop of Worcester, was a very considerable man in his day. The friend and follower of Warburton, he could read this passage in a letter of his master, "of this Johnson, you, and I, I believe, think much alike," and not feel ashamed of the imputation of contemning so illustrious a a man as the author of the English Dictionary. But the world," which knows not how to spare," has long ago decided which was the greater man of the two; and accordingly, while every man is familiar with all that befell Johnson, the life of Hurd is known comparatively to few; for which reason we subjoin a short account of him.

Richard Hurd was born on the 13th January, 1720, at Congreve, in the parish of Penkrich, Staffordshire. He was the second son of John and Hannah Hurd, who, he has himself told us, were "plain, honest, and good people,-farmers, but of a turn of mind that might have honored any rank and any condition." These worthy people were solicitous to give their son the best and most liberal education, and sent him to the grammar school at Brerewood. In 1733 he was admitted of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, but he did not go to reside there until a year or two afterward. He took the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1739, and that of Master in 1742; in which year he was elected a fellow, and ordained deacon in St. Paul's Cathedral, London; and in 1744 he was admitted into priest's orders at Cambridge.

Dr. Hurd's first literary production was, Remarks on Weston's "Inquiry into the Rejection of the Christian Miracles by the Heathens," published in 1746; and in 1748, on the conclusion of the peace of Aixla-Chapelle, he contributed some verses to the University collection for 1749. In the same year he took the degree of Bachelor of Divinity, and published his "Commentary on the Ars Poetica of Horace," in which he

endeavored to prove that the Roman poet has treated his subject with systematic order and the strictest method; an idea which has been strenuously combated by several eminent writers. In the preface to this Commentary, he took occasion to compliment Warburton, in a manner which won him the favor of that learned dogmatist, and procured for him a return in kind in the Bishop's edition of "Pope's Works," where Hurd's Commentary is spoken of in terms of the highest commendation. This exchange of flattery gave rise to an intimacy between these persons, which continued unbroken during their lives, and is supposed to have exercised considerable influence over the opinions of Hurd, who was long considered as the first scholar in what has been termed the Warburton school. The “ Commentary" was reprinted in 1757, with the addition of two dissertations, one on the drama, the other on poetical imitation, and a letter to Mr. Mason on the marks of imitation. In 1765, a fourth edition, corrected and enlarged, was published in three volumes octavo, with a third dissertation on the idea of universal poetry; and the whole was again reprinted in 1776. This work fully established the reputation of Hurd as an elegant and acute, if not always a sound and judicious, critic.

In May, 1750, he was appointed by Sherlock, Bishop of London, one of the Whitehall preachers. About this time he entered warmly into a controversy respecting the jurisdiction of the Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, which had been appealed against by some contumacious members of that University; but it is hardly necessrry to relate the particulars of the contest.

In 1751 he published a Commentary on the Epistle to Augustus; and in 1753 a new edition of both Commentaries, with a dedication to Warburton. The friendship he had formed with Warburton continued to increase