Intense pain had brought on a delirium-we perceived this on first entering the room- -for the wretched man was raving to himself-talking idly in mad, unconnected. sentences, that yet seemed, at times, to have a reference to past facts.

One while he told us his dream. "He had lost his way on a great heath, to which there seemed no endit was cold, cold, cold-and dark, very dark—an old woman in leading-strings, blind, was groping about for a guide "—and then he frightened me, for he seemed disposed to be jocular, and sung a song about an "old woman clothed in grey," and said "he did not believe in a devil."

Presently he bid us "not tell Allan Clare "-Allan was hanging over him at that very moment, sobbing. I could not resist the impulse, but cried out, "This is Allan Clare-Allan Clare is come to see you, my dear sir." The wretched man did not hear me, I believe, for he turned his head away, and began talking of charnel houses, and dead men, and "whether they knew anything that passed, in their coffins."

Matravis died that night.

CURIOUS FRAGMENTS,

EXTRACTED FROM A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY."

EXTRACT I.

I DEMOCRITUS Junior have put my finishing pen to a tractate De Melancholia, this day, December 5, 1620. First, I blesse the Trinity, which hath given me health to prosecute my worthlesse studies thus far, and make supplication with a Laus Deo, if in any case these my poor labours may be found instrumental to weede out black melancholy, carking cares, harte-grief, from the mind of man. Sed hoc magis volo quam expecto.

I turn now to my book, i nunc liber, goe forth, my brave Anatomy, child of my brain-sweat, and yee, candidi lectores, lo! here I give him up to you, even do with him what you please, my masters. Some, I suppose, will applaud, commend, cry him up (these are my friends) hee is a flos rarus, forsooth, a none-such, a Phoenix (concerning whom see Plinius and Mandeuille, though Fienus de monstris doubteth at large of such a bird, whom Montaltus confuting argueth to have been a man malæ scrupulositatis, of a weak and cowardlie faith: Christopherus a Vega is with him in this). Others again will blame, hiss, reprehende in many things, cry down altogether, my collections, for crude, inept, putid, post cœnam scripta, Coryate could write better upon a full meal, verbose, inerudite, and not sufficiently abounding in authorities, dogmata, sentences, of learneder writers which have been before me, when as that first named sort clean otherwise judge of my labours to bee nothing else but a messe of

CHAPTER XI.

STRANGE things have happened unto me—I seem scarce awake-but I will re-collect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what hath befallen me in the few last weeks.

Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left Widford.

A month or two ago I had been busying myself in drawing up the above narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had forced my mind to dwell upon facts, which had begun to fade from it; the memory of old times became vivid, and more vivid-I felt a strong desire to revisit the scenes of my native village-of the young loves of Rosamund and her Clare.

A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to walk-I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon-after a slight breakfast at my Inn-where I was mortified to perceive, the old landlord did not know me again-(old Thomas Billet--he has often made angle rods for me when a child)—I rambled over all my accustomed haunts.

Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bed-chamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood -I felt like a child-I prayed like one-it seemed as though old times were to return again; I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew-but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun, when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass.

I visited, by turns, every chamber-they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold—I

touched the keys-I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music-blended with a sense of unreality, which at last became too powerful—I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.

I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at the back of the house-we called it the wilderness. A well-known form was missing, that used to meet me in this place-it was thine, Ben Moxam-the kindest, gentlest, politest, of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature, thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, without a soft speech, and a smile. I remember thy goodnatured face. But there is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam; that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees. remember them sweeping to the ground.

I.

I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place-its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking, which have accompanied me to maturer years.

In this wilderness I found myself after a ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood—the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon, all was as I had left it-my heart softened at the sight -it seemed, as though my character had been suffering a change, since I forsook these shades.

My parents were both dead; I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away my friends, and I knew not where he had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed, that I might be restored to that state of innocence, in which I had wandered in those shades.

Methought, my request was heard; for it seemed, as

though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father; and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet for the place where I stood, I thought, was holy ground.

This state of mind could not last long; and I returned, with languid feelings, to my Inn. I ordered my dinnergreen peas and a sweetbread-it had been a favourite dish with me in my childhood-I was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was impatient to see it come upon table -but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful; my tears choked me. I called for wine-I drank a pint and a half of red wine-and not till then had I dared to visit the churchyard, where my parents were interred.

The cottage lay in my way-Margaret had chosen it for that very reason, to be near the church-for the old lady was regular in her attendance on public worship-I passed on-and in a moment found myself among the tombs.

I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot again-my mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from attending a plain stone was placed over the grave, with their initials carved upon it-for they both occupied one grave.

I prostrated myself before the spot; I kissed the earth that covered them-I contemplated, with gloomy delight, the time when I should mingle my dust with theirs-and kneeled, with my arms incumbent on the grave-stone, in a kind of mental prayer for I could not speak.

Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feelings, and felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects. Still I continued in the churchyard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralising on them with that kind of levity, which will not unfrequently spring up in the mind, in the midst of deep melancholy.