AMONG the many miserable and humiliating spectacles which so often present themselves in the crowded streets of the richest capital in the world, a pauper's funeral is one of the most melancholy. It is like a parody upon the gorgeous pageantry with which the opulent deck out this last act of their tragedy or farce; for, to a great portion of them, life is either a tragedy or a farce. A workhouse funeral glides through the streets silent and noteless, so humble in its appearance, so slender in its retinue, that the busy crowd who jostle past it, on either side, hardly see that they are shouldering a substance which is now that which they must soon be, and in which but lately the same swarm of agitating passions and feelings was hived. The coffin of the coarsest and worst materials for your parish undertaker only finds it difficult to provide such as are not too good for his customers; a pall, once velvet, but now, by long service, grown brown and bare; cloaks plentifully darned, and yet scarcely enough to hide all the holes which time and the innumerable wearers of these solemn suits of customary'-not 'black,' but russet; and all the other appointments bearing marks of that niggard spirit with which the reck less survivors yield the last decencies of mortality to those who can no longer minister to their pride or their profit.

The mourners' are commonly two imbeciles, palsied or idiots; who, being unable to work, are made to act dumb sorrows, which they can inspire in others, but cannot feel themselves, and to stand with their hats off beside the open grave, while the voluble parson profanely jabbers so much of the burial service as he thinks a pauper's soul can want or deserve. Even the place of burial is usually different from that of others, whom Misery has not marked for her own; and a dismal spot of ground, in some wretched neighbourhood, is set apart for the interment of the poor: thus keeping up, even in the manner of rotting, a distinction between the different orders of society, and giving the lie to the proverb,

which says that the grave levels all ranks.'

I never see a pauper's funeral but I follow it, to observe the manner in which the cold corpse is consigned to its mother earth. You may infer from this that I am an idle person, that I possess some singular tastes, and that I am of a melancholy turn. Your first conclusions would be suf ficiently correct; but you would be mistaken in the last. I do not seek melancholy occasions-God knows they find a man out often enough, let his path lie whither it may !-on the contrary, I love laughter, and am of a mercurial disposition; and yet there are times when a melancholy spectacle acts as a mental corroborant, and strengthens one's thoughts up to the ills one has to bear, by showing the misery of many, and the vanity of all things under the sun. Lady Montague, somewhere, in one of her letters, written when she had become old, and when, although not less witty, she was more wise than in her younger days, recommends her daughter, who had been speaking in terms of the strongest affection of her children, not to love them too much, nor to indulge even in all their natural force those feelings which, in a young mother, are at once so beautiful and so powerful; because she reminds her, that, by some of the accidents to which flesh is heir,' she might be deprived of her children, and that then her grief would be proportioned to the intense love which she had borne them. She enjoins her, therefore, to love them less; and to prepare her mind, by checking and curbing it, for the disappointments which, in all human probability, she would be doomed to bear. It is a cold and heartless precept, applied in this way; and all that this witty profligate said and did was nearly of the same character; but, as applied to the things of the world generally, nothing can be more wise. It is hateful, as an attempt to loosen the holiest bond that can connect human sympathies; but it is sage, as a divine revelation, if it is regarded only in the form of a caution to men not to let their hearts fasten

on.

and take root upon the rocky path which they have here to tread. If any man thinks too well and too fondly of the world, let him go and contemplate a pauper's funeral. This train of thought was generated in my mind a short time ago, as, in making my way from Soho Square, I encountered, in some of the defiles thereabouts - -the name of which I cannot recollect-one of these spectacles. It was on one of those days-of which we have so many in England, and with which no other country is cursed-a small drizzling rain was falling, which, with the assistance of the smoke and bad air in the neighbourhood I speak of, produced a sort of palpable fog, at once uncomfortable to the feelings and depressing the spirits: it was, in short, such a day as a man, if he had to choose, would wish to be buried The coffin was preceded by a fat red-faced undertaker's man, who wore the undress costume of his tribe; that is to say, all black, with the exception of his stockings, which were white, and over which he wore a pair of very dirty Hessian boots. The coffin was borne by some of the workhouse men, whose coats and jackets, of various colours, were seen under the scanty pall. A paralytic idiot, in a suit of gaudy livery-for the parish officers can buy cast-off finery at a cheaper rate than more sober clothes-followed the coffin; and beside him walked an old man, in whose looks there was an expression of sincere grief, which principally attracted my attention. He was dressed in decent black, and appeared to be too deeply affected by the sorrowful task he was engaged in to notice the grimaces of the halfwitted fool who was placed, as if in mockery, beside him. The procession moved pretty quickly along the streets, and, by a sudden turning, was brought in sight of a workhouse burying-ground, which it entered. I followed, and saw the ceremony performed in the usual cold and careless manner, which I had witnessed too often to be surprised at. I should, perhaps, have quitted the place, and have thought nothing, as I knew nothing more of the person who had been interred, but that, as I stooped over

the grave, I read upon the coffinplate a name which was familiar to me: it was Francis Post-Obit, who, it appeared, had died in the thirtyeighth year of his age. I had known a man of this name some years before, and his age would perhaps have been just that of the corpse lying before me; but, as his fortune was at that time good, and his expectations much better, I thought it could by no possibility be the same person : still a feeling of curiosity kept me near the grave until the funeral was over. The old man, whom I had before observed, looked sorrowfully into the grave; and, as he turned away, put his hand to his eyes. I followed him, and soon learnt from him that the unfortunate man who had been thus obscurely buried was the same I had once known, and that the old man, who gave me this information, had been his father's servant. From him I obtained some particulars, which, joined to facts already within my knowledge, acquainted me with nearly the whole of Post-Obit's history.

His father was a clergyman in the north of England, who, having nothing else to give him, bestowed on him an education which would have fitted him for almost any employment in which talents and information were requisite. At Cambridge the young man acquired a taste for expense, which he saw with bitterness that he could never hope to gratify; but this conviction, instead of making him contented with his lot, only irritated still further his desires; and the possession of wealth seemed to him the only happiness which a reasonable man ought to strive to attain. He often said that it appeared to him there was only one good and one evil in the world—the first was riches; the second, poverty. Soon after his quitting college, the death of a very distant relation, without children, put him into the possession of a small estate; which, although it was not enough to have satisfied his desires, would have been very useful in enabling him to pursue his advancement in the world by other means. It had, however, a directly contrary effect upon him; he thought that, as, among his relations, there

were many wealthy persons, he might, by exerting himself to please them, induce them to leave him their fortunes when they should happen to die; and, of all methods of gaining money, none seemed to him at once so easy and pleasant as that of inheriting. He always dressed in black himself, and thought it in others the most interesting habit possible. A funeral was a gala to him; and he even solicited to be invited to those of all his acquaintance, because the lugubrious ceremonies were so congenial to the temper of his mind.

and aunt.

Among the relations whom he had marked out, and of whom he proposed to himself the pleasure of being the principal legatee, were an uncle He paid them visits, and was so assiduous in his attentions to each-so affectionate in the expression of his letters-so disinterested in all his proceedings-that, as they were without children, or any other near relation, they both, at nearly the same moment, invited him to come and take up his abode with them; intimating, though not expressly saying, that it would be worth his while to do so. A hint like this for which he had been waiting-was not thrown away upon Post-Obit; but there was something embarrassing in the choice which he felt obliged to make. He was aware that to live with the one would compel him to renounce the other; because, besides their hating one another in that cordial manner so common among near relatives, they lived in different parts of the country. Post-Obit debated the matter well in his own mind, and took the sagest precautions, in order to ensure a correct judgment on the subject. In the first place he procured the certificates of his relations' baptism, and he sent, at some expense, a medical person to examine into the health of each of them. He had estimates made at assurance offices, and consulted the celebrated dumb fortuneteller as to the duration of their lives. At length, having got all his proofs together, and examined them with great coolness, he decided in favour of the aunt; because she was nearly as rich as the uncle, and was V. I.-No. 7.

twelve years older. He, therefore, wrote to her that he should be happy to devote his whole life to making hers happy; and prepared to follow up his letter by his own personal as

surances.

The old lady accepted his offer, and understood it literally. She expected, as rich and old people sometimes do, that her caprices were to be laws to all around her, and that nobody was to look or breathe but for her pleasure. A more despotic old dowager never lived for the torment of others. Post-Obit went about his task with great ardour: he studied the old lady's character, and laid down a plan of making himself perfectly agreeable to her in every respect, with the hope that he might become so necessary to her happiness that she could never do without him. He was indefatigable; and Heaven knows that he ought to have been so, for the old lady was unreasonable to the last degree. She was fond of reading, but her eyesight was so feeble that she dared not exercise it; and, therefore, PostObit was obliged to read to her morning, noon, and night. She went out but little, and then only for a short time; she was visited by none but old worn-out court ladies; and Post-Obit was as completely chained to her side as ever house-dog was to his kennel: nay, worse-he was not let loose at night; for the old lady could not go to sleep without the help of some novel-writer; and the devoted young man was obliged to sit by her bed-side, yawning over the beauties of the Minerva press, until his heart sickened.

This was all very irksome, but, nevertheless, very necessary; for the old lady had other relations, who were upon the watch, and who, if Post-Obit had made the least default in his attentions to her, would have endeavoured to supplant him. To increase his chagrin, his aunt seemed to grow young again; his unwearied attention rendered her so tranquil and comfortable, that her health was better than ever, and he began to think that he was defeating his own object; but he was, at the same time, convinced that to relax in his

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assiduity would be to destroy his hopes.

While these thoughts were uppermost in his mind, he received a letter, which informed him that his uncle was at the point of death, and had expressed a strong desire to see him. Post-Obit thought that a man given over by his physicians was more likely to die than an old woman in such excellent health as his aunt was, and he therefore set off to the dying man, without taking leave of his aunt. When he arrived at his uncle's bed-side, he was so attentive, and so adroitly excused himself for not having been to see him before, that the sick man was soon appeased. Nothing could equal the anxiety of Post-Obit for his dear uncle's life, and it seemed to produce the impression he wished. My dear nephew,' said the uncle, if you had been with me, I should never have been reduced to this state.'

My dear uncle,' the nephew could have replied, but did not, if you had not been reduced to this state, I should never have been with you.'

Still the old gentleman continued in a deplorable state of health. The physicians said they could do nothing for him; but, like all sick men, the patient was not satisfied unless he took physic. A quack doctor had been recommended, whose skill his uncle was desirous to try; and, as Post-Obit knew that, although there are some diseases which even able physicians cannot cure, there is always a great chance for the heir when a quack comes in to practice, he consented that he should prescribe. By chance, or by that ill luck which seemed to beset PostObit, this quack cured his uncle; and, in a few weeks, he had the disappointment of seeing him restored to an excellent state of health. The quack dabbled a little in alchymy; and his success having given him a great influence over the old gentleman, who was not the wisest of God's creatures, he made him believe that he possessed the secret of compounding the elixir vite. One day the old man broke into his nephew's room, almost jumping for joy. My dear Frank,' he said, I have a secret

Ay; but you don't know,' rejoined the uncle, 'the extent of your obligation. He has imparted to me a secret.'

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'What!' asked Frank, eagerly, has he taught you to make gold?'' Oh! no; better than that.' "What can be better than that?' 'He has taught me a secret, by which I can prolong my life several thousand years.'

Frank could have told his uncle that he was an old fool, but he refrained. He saw that the quack was a dangerous man, so he quarrelled with him the same evening, by way of getting rid of him. The result was, however, quite contrary to his expectations; for his uncle, instead of dismissing the quack, besought his dear nephew to quit his house, 'because,' he said, 'the secret of enjoying life was too important to be trifled with; and the doctor could not pursue the necessary labour and studies under the same roof with a person who had provoked him to an altercation, and who evidently bore him ill will.' Frank saw that his empire was destroyed, and that the old man's fear, together with the doctor's impudence, had made the latter lord of the ascendant; so, without wasting time in remonstrances, he took his departure, in the hope of being reconciled to his aunt.

The abrupt manner in which he had quitted her caused her, in the first instance, the most poignant sorrow. She had survived those years in which people weep for the loss of any object on which their affections may be placed; but Frank had so long ministered to her comforts, that she deplored his absence because she missed the care and attention he used to bestow upon her. It happened that an Irish footman, whom Frank had discharged, came to inquire for his late master; and learning, from the lady's maid, how things

were, he presented himself in the character of a gentleman, the junior branch of a respectable family; and, in a week after his first appearance, the old lady married him. When Frank returned, Lawrence O'Brady, Esq. welcomed him with the greatest cordiality, and appeared to have got rid of the degrading recollection that he had ever blacked his boots.

Poor Frank was now almost in despair. To renew his acquaintance with his uncle was impossible, for the quack doctor had made such good use of his time, that he had inspired the old man with a perfect hatred for his nephew. It would, besides, not have been worth while, for the doctor engaged him so deeply in the pursuit of the elixir vite and the philosopher's stone, that his fortune was dissipated, and he died just in time to save himself from utter poverty. He had resolved never again to have any thing to do with legacy hunting, but to endeavour, with the little fortune he had left, to become rich by his own exertions; when he was informed, by a particular friend, that there was an old gentleman of the same name as himself, extremely rich, without any relations, who was desirous of finding out some one of his own family, how ever remotely connected, to inherit his vast fortune. He thought it would be worth while to visit him; and, without raising his expectations too high, he fancied that it was probable he might reap some benefit from the old man's favourable intentions. Here better success attended him. The old man was fascinated by his obliging manners; and his desire to please, which had, from long practice, become habitual to him, made such an impression upon his namesake, that, after a very short acquaintance, he proposed to make Frank his heir. Now a prospect of wealth seemed, indeed, to open upon

him. His new friend possessed extensive estates, which he took Frank to visit. He pointed out to him all these advantages in the minutest manner, in order that he might be acquainted with property which was soon to be his own. He sent for an attorney in the next town, and had his will prepared, by which he made Frank the sole possessor of all his riches, of every description. After this act of generosity he was so complaisant as to die within a fortnight; and Frank saw the golden object, for which he had so long toiled, now within his grasp, and placed there, as it were, by accident.

He entered upon the possession of his estates, and retained them not quite a year. It appeared that the old gentleman was possessed of the property, which he had bequeathed, under a family settlement; and, although he had the right of disposing of it in any way he chose, yet that disposition must be accompanied by certain formalities, which the country attorney had wholly neglected. The next heir commenced a suit in Chancery, Frank was turned out of possession, and the estate put into the hands of a receiver, until the question could be fully and properly discussed. The lawyers whom he consulted advised him by all means to defend his claim; he followed their advice, sold his small property to pay their bills, was seized with sickness while attending the Court of Chancery, sent by the person in whose house he had lodgings to the workhouse, and there died in misery, having no other attendant than the old servant whom I saw following him to the grave. Such was the fate of a man who might have been happy in himself, and an ornament to society, but whose fatal passion for legacy hunting destroyed his hopes and his happiness.