for extra coffins is in many a dread of the dreadful co-tenants of the grave, and those who have shrunk from rats and worms during their lifetime, cannot endure that such intruders should visit their remains unchecked. When such precautions are assured they die easier. Thus it was that the late Sir Philip Crampton—Sir Walter Scott's Crampton—who died only a few years ago, left directions that his coffin should be filled up with plaster of Paris "to keep away the rats," which was accordingly done. We may imagine this dismal and grotesque operation in presence of the relatives, the plasterers pouring in their liquid material, the gradual covering in of the poor relics, the last glimpses, and the final "setting" in one hard mass. It was of this physician, when a public testimonial was being planned, to be set up in a public burying-ground to his memory, that a truly witty remark was made by a brother of the profession, who, arguing the needlessness of such a commemoration, applied a famous inscription. "For," he said, "si monumentum quæris circumspice."
The remaining curious specimens on our list, of wills and will-making, must be reserved for another chapter next week.
THE BROWN-PAPER PARCEL.
IN FIVE CHAPTERS.CHAPTER I.
A very woman: one in whom
The spring-time of her childish years
Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
Though knowing well that life hath room
For many blights and many tears.
"Miss Mackworth, Miss Mackworth!"
"Miss Mackworth, do look what we've got."
With a shout, a rush, and a bang, four children, loaded with packages, stormed into the school-room of a certain house in Onslow-square, London, eager to exhibit their holiday purchases to their young governess.
Miss Mackworth was seated on the floor in the cheerful fire-light, and close beside her crouched three little mortals, four-year-old twin girls, and a fat toddling baby boy, all watching with wide-open eyes and suspended breath, while her steady fingers built up, brick on brick, a splendid tower nearly as high as the mantel-piece.
"O Miss Mackworth!" cried Archie, a rough-headed boy of eight, "it has been so jolly. First we went to Bond Street, and then to the German Fair, and then to the Bazaar—and only look here!"
"Miss Mackworth, please look at our dolls," petitioned twin girls of six.
"Oh! stuff about your stupid dolls! What does Miss Mackworth care for such girls' trash. Miss Mackworth, here's a cross bow! Won't I make the deer at Granny's look out sharp!"
"Now Archie, Archie," interposed Carrie, a demure damsel of ten, rather oppressed by the weight of her eldership, "do put the things down properly, and then Miss Mackworth can see them. Dear! are the nursery children here?" as baby made a sudden onslaught on the tower of bricks, and tumbled it down with a great crash.
"Yes," said Mary Mackworth. "Nurse and Harriet are busy packing, and the poor little things seemed so dreadfully in the way that I asked leave to have them down here. They have been very good."
"I'm glad they have been good," said Carrie, patronisingly: "now Archie, don't you go cutting that string. You'll be teazing us all for string to-morrow, you know you will."
"Bother to-morrow! I shall be at Littlemore, and Granny 'll give me heaps of string. I say! Miss Mackworth"
Then arose the tumult afresh, and Miss Mackworth, forbearing to hush where hushing was vain, gave full and free attention to every article exhibited; admired and criticised, praised the serviceable presents chosen by Carrie for the almshouse women and servants at Littlemore, and finally promised to cut out and place some garments for endless dolls bought for grandmama's school-tree. The hubbub did not subside until the arrival of the nursemaid in quest of the little ones reminded the school-room party that they must make haste to prepare for tea.
In three hours' time the little flock were all in bed, and Miss Mackworth sate, in sole possession of the school-room, busily engaged in arranging the promised dolls' clothes.
Presently, Mrs. Halroyd came in: a pretty, faded woman, still quite young, but with the matronly figure and somewhat worn countenance which generally distinguish the mother of a "large small family."
"How good-natured of you, Miss Mackworth," she said, glancing at the governess's work: "you spoil those little people!" And then, as she laid an envelope on the table, she said nervously, colouring and hesitating, "I think, you will find that quite right: and I will let you know the day of our return—probably not before the 20th of January—my mother-in-law wishes for a long visit this year."
"Thank you very much."
"You don't go to your uncle's this time, I think?"
"Oh, no!" and the bright dark colouring deepened, and the brown eyes danced, but half tearfully: "I am going home! to Farley-in-the-Fields."
"Ah! yes," said Mrs. Halroyd, her
