Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed, and I was left alone. A line of Marston’s ‘Malcontent’—

‘Death’s a good fellow and keeps open house—’

struck me at that moment as a palpable lie.

I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out. The place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled with ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous coffins ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one, and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about the mortality within.

‘This,’ I soliloquised, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated, and rotund—‘this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word, an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not to walk, but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a rhinoceros.

‘His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step forward, it has been his misfortune to take two towards the right, and three towards the left. His studies have been confined to the poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of a pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and suffocation— of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa.

He was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath. He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He patronised Du Pont, the bellows-maker, and died miserably in attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I feel a deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathise.

‘But here,’ said I—‘here’—and I dragged spitefully from its receptacle a gaunt, tall, and peculiar-looking form, whose remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome familiarity—‘here is a wretch entitled to no earthly commiseration.’ Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position on the ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued my soliloquy—

‘Entitled,’ I repeated, ‘to no earthly commiseration. Who, indeed, would think of compassionating a shadow? Besides, has he not had his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the originator of tall monuments—shot- towers—lightning-rods—Lombardy poplars. His treatise upon “Shades and Shadows” has immortalised him. He edited with distinguished ability the last edition of “South on the Bones.” He went early to college and studied pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon the French-horn. He patronised the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and Allbreath were his favourite writers—his favourite artist, Phiz. He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitor, like the fama pudicitiœ in Hieronymus. He was indubitably a—’

‘How can you?—how—can—you?’ interrupted the object of my animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate exertion, the bandage around its jaws—‘how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you not see how they had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know anything—how vast a superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you do not know, however, sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is really a great relief to be able to open one’s mouth—to be able to expatiate—to be able to communicate with a person like yourself, who do not think yourself called upon at every period to interrupt the thread of a gentleman’s discourse. Interruptions are annoying, and should undoubtedly be abolished—don’t you think so?—no reply, I beg you—one person is enough to be speaking at a time. I shall be done by-and-by, and then you may begin. How the devil, sir, did you get into this place?—not a word, I beseech you—been