1 The entrance to Little Pedlington from the London road is by High Street, and presents to the astonished eye of the visitor an aspect truly imposing; nor will the first impression thus created be easily obliterated from the "mind's eye." On one side, after passing between two rows of well-grown elms, stands Minerva Mansion, a seminary for young ladies, kept by Miss Jubb, sister of the Rev. J. Jubb, under whose able superintendence is Birch House, in the Crescent, a seminary for young gentlemen, the terms of both of which may be had at Yawkins's Library ; and on the other, the view is met by the Green Dragon Inn, kept by Mr. Scorewell, whose politeness and attention are proverbial, and where travellers may be sure of meeting with every accommodation on very reasonable terms. Passing along we come to East Street, West Street, North Street, and South Street, so named from the several directions they take (see Rummins), all converging into a focus, designated Market Square (now one of the fashionable promenades), the market having formerly been held on the identical spot now oc cupied by the New Pump; of which more in its proper place. But, if we are at a loss to which of these noble streets to give the preference, whether for regularity or cleanliness, in what terms shall we describe the Crescent? Well may it be said that Englishmen are prone to explore foreign countries ere yet they are acquainted with their own; and many a one will talk ecstatically of the marble palaces of Venice and Herculaneum who is ignorant of the beauties of Little Pedlington. The Crescent, then, is at the end of North Street, and is so called from the peculiarity of its form (we are again indebted to Rummins), it being somewhat in the shape of a half moon. It consists of twentyfour houses mansions we might say-uniformly built of bright red bricks, which, when the sun is full upon them, are of dazzling brilliancy. There are bow-windows to all the edifices, and each having a light green door with a highly polished brass knocker, three snow-white steps forming the ascent, an effect is produced which to be admired need only be seen, and which, though some other places may perhaps equal, none certainly can surpass. We cannot quit the Crescent without calling the attention of the literary pilgrim to the second house from the left-hand corner, No. 23. THERE LIVES JUBB! A something inward tells me that my name BOARDING-HOUSES. The principal Boarding-house is kept by Mrs. Stintum, and is delightfully situated No. 17 Crescent. This excellent establishment combines elegance with comfort, and nothing can exceed the care and attention of the proprietress to her guests, who will find under her fostering auspices all that their own homes would afford. This house is always thronged with the most elegant company. Mrs. Starvum's Boarding-house, which yields to none for comfort, and which for elegance few can excel, is most beautifully situated No. 11 South Street. The attention and assiduity of Mrs Starvum are proverbial. As none but the haut ton are received here, we need not add that visitors will not find a deficiency in any of those comforts and conveniences which they have been accustomed to in their own houses. LIBRARIES. Yawkins's Library, in Market Square, has long been known to the frequenters of Little Pedlington; and if an excellent collec 1 Shakespeare. tion of books, urbanity, all the new publications, attention, all sorts of choice perfumery, tooth-brushes, despatch in the execution of orders, Tunbridge-ware, etc., etc., all at the most moderate prices, can claim the suffrages of the public, we have no hesitation in requesting their patronage of Mr. Yawkins. Nor should we be just in failing to recommend Snargate's long-established Library in High Street. Here will subscribers be furnished with both old and new publications with the utmost readiness, and with a politeness highly creditable to the proprietor. And, if moderate charges for Tunbridge-ware, perfumery of the best quality, e'c., etc., etc., are a desideratum, Mr. Snargate will be certain of an ample share of support. Here also is the Post Office. There is also (as we are told) a minor establishment in Market Street, kept by a person of the name of Sniggerston, the publisher of a would-be Pedlington Guide. It would ill become us to speak of the work itself, which abounds in errors of the grossest kind, and will be found altogether useless to the traveller; but of the establishment we are bound in fairness to say that nothing can be urged against it, as we are informed that it is resorted to by some of the respectable tradespeople of the town, and the FARMERS and COUNTRY FOLKS on market-days. BATHS. That immersion in water, or, as it is commonly called, bathing, was practiced, both for health and cleanliness, by the ancients, is clearly proved by the existence of baths in Rome, still bearing the name of the emperors for whose use they were constructed emperors long since crumbled into dust! But baths, properly so called, were reserved for the use only of the great; the middling and lower classes plunging (such is the opinion of our learned townsman Rummins) into the Tiber (a river in Rome). Our town, however, can boast of two establishments, to which all classes may resort; and if we hesitate to say that Mrs. Yawkins's hot and cold baths, No. 22 West Street, are unequalled for comfort and cleanliness, it is only because we must, in justice, admit that nothing can exceed the cleanliness and comfort to be found at the cold and hot baths kept by Widow Sniggerston, No. 14 Market Square. CURIOSITIES, ETC. A few years ago the STOCKS, which had stood, time immemorial, at the church door, were removed, and the present Cage was substituted in their place. Mr. Rummins, however, with praiseworthy zeal, anxious to preserve a relic of the vener able machine which had confined the legs of so many generations of offenders, petitioned the competent authorities of the town for leave to place one of the sliding boards in his collection of curiosities. This was granted; and Mr. R. is always happy to exhibit this interesting fragment to respectable persons, between the hours of 12 and 2, on any Friday during the season. The NEW PUMP, which stands in the centre of Market Square, is an elegant and conspicuous object, as seen from the further end of any of the four leading streets; but it will amply repay the curious for a close and attentive inspection. It is composed entirely of cast iron, its predecessor having been merely of wood: such is the progress of luxury and civilization! It is in the form of an obelisk, or nearly so, on the top of which is a small figure of Neptune brandishing his trident, the attitude of which is much admired. The spout represents a lion's mouth, and the effect, as the water flows from it, is as pleasing as it is appropriate. The handle is in the form of a dolphin's tailfitting emblem! On the front, towards South Street, is the following inscription, for which we are indebted to the classical pen of Mr. Rummins: THIS PUMP, THE OLD ONE BEING WORN OUT, AT THE EXPENSE OF THE PARISH OF LITTLE PEDLINGTON. THE ENVIRONS. Having conducted the stranger through the town, we will now lead him to its environs, and point out those spots most worthy of a morning's drive or walk. Nor should any lover of the picturesque leave us without visiting Snapshank Hill. There is no carriage road to it, and the path being broken and uneven, full of holes and ruts, conse quently not altogether safe for horses, we would recommend a pedestrian excursion as by far the most agreeable. It is exactly five miles distant from the Pump in Market Square, and the path is for the whole of the way a tolerably steep ascent. On arriving at the summit of the hill a scene presents itself which the world cannot equal. But, since prose is too tame to do justice to it, we must borrow the exquisite description by our poet : "Lo, Snapshank Hill! thy steep ascent I climb, The volume reads like a comedy, and indeed almost falls into the shape of a comedy, the characters and trifling events acting and reacting on each other and being always naturally related. The incident of the "loss of Miss Cripp's bag" is treated with a sincerity which is one of the elements of dramatic effect. This earnestness lends a dignity to what would be hopelessly trivial. Dear me, sir!" says the landlord, "I was near forgetting to remind you; but if Miss Cripp's bag should n't be found before twelve o'clock you'll be sure to hear it cried then, if you go down to Market Square. As these things don't happen every day they are the more interesting, you know." The gossips of Little Pedlington-always called "Lippleton " in the place, a capital stroke of vraisemblance discuss the news. "What about Miss Cripp's bag?" "No tidings of it — I just called there.” "Ahem! I say, my dearrow, between you and me, what is your opinion about the two sovereigns which she says were in the bag?" "She says so, so no doubt they were; but, as I said just now to Mrs. S, who ever saw Cripps with gold in her purse? You know her whole income is but fifty-five pounds a year, and her quarter won't be due till next Wednesday week. Besides, I know a certain person who wanted two pounds of her on Friday, when she had not got them to pay; and you know that when the money does come in nobody pays more punctually than poor Cripps." This founding of what is uncomplimentary on a compliment is excellent. Finally, the visitor is roused up at midnight by the chambermaid. "Master thought you'd like to know, sir, Miss Cripps has got her bag safe, with everything in it except the money." The visitor going to Little Pedlington was detained at "Squashmire Gate," which in a moment of impatience he called "an infernal place." The poor woman, evidently hurt at the opprobrious term, with a look of mild rebuke said: "Sir, all the world can't be Lippleton. If it was, it would be much too fine a place and too good for us poor sinners to live in!" And the visitor declared that that simple and genuine utterance gave him a higher anticipation of the importance of "Lippleton" than all the elaborate praises of the Guide Book he had just been reading. It gives us also an admirable idea of the art of true humor. Lippleton, however, had a perpetual jealousy of the great metropolis. "From London, sir?" asks little Jack Hobbleday. "Yes, sir," is the stranger's answer; and the reader will see how true to nature and character is the rejoinder. "Never saw London; in fact, never was out of Little Pedlington. Had the honor of being born in the place; have had the honor of passing all my life in it; hope to have the honor of laying my bones in it. Should have no objection, though, to pass two or three days in London, just to see the sights; and yet a Pedlingtonian need n't break his heart if he never did." (These admissions of superiority, and attempts at qualifying that superiority, are very happy.) "You can show nothing like that, I take it," pointing to the pump. 66 Well, well, Rome was n't built in a day; but, as I understand, you are making great improvements there. Why, one of these days, perhaps, sir - I am old enough to remember when we had nothing but a drawwell here; then came the old pump, a wooden thing with a leaden handle, which in those days we thought a very fine affair." All this belongs to] a good school of natural bumor. The idea of a local "profile-taker" supposing that the Royal Academy was envious of him and in league to "keep him down" would seem far-fetched, and might belong to burlesque. A contemporary humorist would not venture to deal with such a topic seriously. Yet nothing could be more natural than the sketch of Daubson, the artist of Little Pedlington, the creator of the "all-butbreathing Grenadier" which was refused in London and was now exhibited in "Yawkins's Skittle Ground": Looked at the profiles hanging about the room. them severally," Beautiful!"-"Charming!"-"Exquisite !" "Divine!" Said of So, so, mister," said Daubson, rising, "I've found you out; you are an artist." "I assure you, sir," said I, "you are mistaken. I am sorry I cannot boast of being a member of that distinguished profession." "You can't deceive me, mister. Nobody, excepting one of us, can know so much about art as you do. Your opinions are so just, it can't be otherwise. But these are trifles not worth speaking of though they may be very well in their way, mister-and though without vanity, I may say, I don't know the man that can beat them. But what think you of my great work - my 'Grenadier,' mister? Now, without flattery." Encouraged by the praise of my connoisseurship, and from so high a quarter, I talked boldly, as a connoisseur ought to do; not forgetting to make liberal use of those terms by the employment of which one who knows little may require a reputation for connoisseurship amongst those who know less. "Where could you have got your knowledge of art, your fine taste, your sound judgment, if you are not an artist? I wish I could have the advantage of your opinion now and then-so correct in all respects - I am sure I should profit by it, mister. Now, there is your portrait: as like you as one pea is to another." "Yes," said I, it is like; but is n't the head thrown rather too much backwards?" Daubson's countenance fell! "Too much backwards! Why, mister, how would you have the head?" "My objection goes simply to this, Mr. Daubson. It seems to me that by throwing the head into that position "Seems to you, mister! I think I, as a professional artist, ought to know best. But that is the curse of our profession : people come to us, and would teach us what to do." "You asked me for a candid opinion, sir; otherwise I should not have presumed to "Yes, mister, I did ask you for a candid opinion; and so long as you talked like a sensible man, I listened to you. But when you talk to a professional man upon a subject he, naturally, must be best acquainted with- backwards, indeed! I never placed a head better in all my life!" Reflecting that Daubson, "as a professional man," must, consequently, be infallible, I withdrew my objection, and changed the subject. "How is it, sir," said I, "that so eminent an artist as you is not a member of the Royal Academy?" was. - "D-n the Royal Academy!" exclaimed he, his yellow face turning blue: "D-n the Royal Academy! they shall never see me amongst such a set. No, mister; I have thrown down the gauntlet and defied them. When they refused to exhibit my Grenadier,' I made up my mind never to send them another work of mine, mister; never to countenance them in any way and I have kept my resolution. No, mister; they repent their treatment of me, but it is too late; Daubson is unappeasable: they may fret their hearts out, but they shall never see a pictur' of mine again. Why, mister, it is only last year that a without my knowledge - sent them one of my friend of mine. picturs, and they rejected it. They knew well enough whose it But I considered that as the greatest compliment ever paid me, it showed that they were afraid of the competition. D-n 'em! if they did but know how much I despise 'em! I never bestow a thought upon 'em; not I, mister. But that den must be broken up; there will be no high art in England while that exists. Intrigue! cabal! It is notorious that they never exhibit any man's picturs unless he happens to have R. A., tacked to his name. It is notorious that they pay five thousand a year to the Times for praising their works and for not noticing mine. D-n 'em, what a thorough contempt I feel for 'em. I can imagine them at their dinners, which cost them thousands a year; there they are, Phillips, and Shee, and Pickersgill, and Wilkie, and Briggs, laying their heads together to oppose me! But which of them can paint a Grenadier'? D-n 'em! they are one mass of envy and uncharitableness, that I can tell you, mister." Happily, Mr. Daubson," said I, "those vices scarcely exist in Little Pedlington." 'Unheard of, mister. I don't envy them - I envy no man— on the contrary, I'm always ready to lend a hand to push on any rising talent that comes forward; though, to be sure, I'll allow no man to take profiles in Little Pedlington whilst I live that's self-preservation. But they! - they'd destroy me if they could. But, bad as some of them are, the worst are those envious fellows Turner and Stanfield. They have done their utmost to crush me, but they have not succeeded. Why, mister, last summer I began to do a little in the landscape way. No sooner were my views of the Crescent and of Little Pedlington Church mentioned in our newspaper, than down comes a man from London with a camera-obscuru to oppose me! Who was at the bottom of that? Who sent him? Why, they did, to be The envious! But I didn't rest till I got him out of the town; so that scheme failed No, no, mister; they'll not get me amongst them in their d-d Academy, at least, not whilst they go on in their present style. But let them look to it; let them take care how they treat me for the future; let them do their duty by me- they know what I mean or they may bring the Little Pedlington Weekly Observer about their ears. For my own part, I never condescend to bestow a thought upon them! D-n 'em if they did but know the contempt I feel for them!" sure. Here another sitter was announced; so I received my portrait from the hands of the great artist, paid my shilling, and departed. The theatrical scenes in "Little Pedlington," excellent as they are, do not harmonize with the general conception. They are too exaggerated, belong to a larger canvass, and are, indeed, more or less of an after-thought. The truth was, they were inserted to gratify the personal feelings of the author, who had had a quarrel with a manager in reference to one of his pieces "Married and Single." Strut, the manager of Little Pedlington Theatre, is intended for Elliston; and his partialities and flourishings will be recognized by one at all familiar with this eccentric. The dispute arose in this wise. Poole had adapted his comedy from a popular French piece, virtually claiming the merit of originality, much as our own free adaptors do. When he was engaged on the subject, which was to be entitled "Married and Single," Mr. Elliston asked him if he knew anything of the French piece · "Le Célibataire et l'Homme Marié" of which he said he had received a flat, vulgar translation under the same title, and of which he could make no use. Poole described his scheme, with which the manager was delighted, saying it was the very thing he wanted, and asked the author to come and dine, and read it to him. The latter read his piece; and, to his astonishment was greeted with "This is all very well, sir; but a three-act comedy is of no sort of use to my establishment." Much affronted by this turn, Poole took his wares to another house, where the comedy was accepted and announced for July 17 (1824). This at once operated to develop the singularity of Elliston's character. He could now step forward and address the public with the accustomed flourishings which so amusingly illustrate his character. He at once issued a proclamation for all his announcements were proclamations-giving notice that his piece, "Married and Single," would be produced on July the 16th-though probably not a step had been taken towards the production. The matter rested until the day before the announced performance, when it was given out that "from peculiar circumstances" a favorite Ellistonianism"it was obliged to be postponed until next week." Next week, however, came out one of Elliston's confidential addresses to the town: "Married and Single" will be acted as soon as the Lord Chamberlain's licence arrives. Circumstances render it proper to explain that this comedy has been since November last in the manager's possession; and the subject having been previously declined by the rival theatres, it was reserved from a supposi tion of the improbability of competition to receive that fair chance early in the next season to which its merits were thought to entitle it, and which the productions then already in a course of success rendered it difficult to give during this. Although the peculiar circumstances which call for the postponement will throw back the performance to a period when it must appear under every disadvantage, yet nothing but imperious necessity will prevent Mr. Elliston from redeeming the pledge already given to the public, with whom it is ever his pleasure and his pride to be punctual. Every line of this delightful piece of bombast is characteristic. The hazy indistinctness - the grand words - the lofty engagement - all are in the best manner of "the inimitable' - as he was in his way. A few days later the bills gave out, with a sort of jubilant particularity, that "yesterday at two o'clock the licence arrived, and the piece shall be produced, if possible, before the end of the season." Every step of this proceeding justifies the acute and delicate interpretation of the Ellistonian mind, which lived in a dreamy world, where a promise was equivalent to a performance, and where logic, and it may be said truth, was defied. The justification which Elia put forward for the free dramatists of the Restoration - namely, that they had a special code of morals for the stage-might be applied to Elliston. For at the very bottom of the bill which contained these assurances not only were the last three nights of the season announced, but the bill of fare for each night was set out in detail! This happy effrontery takes the matter wholly out of the category of seriousness. Poole was the friend of Talma as well as of many other French actors, and has preserved some interesting recollections of the first. He was also a friend of the elder Matthews, to whom he wrote, in allusion to a common friend, that stretched over an amazingly long period. Many of the "he was leading a see-Dan-Terry life." His active career present generation, naturally fancying that a man whose plays had been laughed at by their great-grandfathers must have passed away, were surprised to hear of his recent death. The present writer, among his last recollections of Mr. Dickens, remembers meeting him as he came from paying a visit to John Poole. Dickens described him as a poor, half-intelligent being, in a sad state of decay, This was the wreck of the waiting mortal extinction. once lively and even brilliant Poole. It was through the agency of this old friend that a small pension was secured for him. A short time after, in the month of February, 1872, he expired. A ROMAN FUNERAL. WE are so accustomed to bury our dead that it is only by an effort that we can conceive of ourselves as disposing fered widely in this respect. of them otherwise. Yet the practice of mankind has difAnd in every nation the traditional mode acquires a sanctity, from association with the most solemn and tender moments of life, which induces us to look with horror on any alternative method. When Darius found an Indian tribe who ate the bodies of their dead, they were not less shocked at the idea of burning corpses than the Greeks in his train were at the horrible cannibalism of the Indians. Even when the breath has left the mortal frame, the cold remains of those we have loved are not less dear than when they were animated with life; but custom alone creates the direction in which that love manifests itself, and each direction is alike but an unavailing protest against the inexorable law which dissolves the ashes of the departed into fleeting gases and crumbling dust. The Egyptians embalmed their dead. The Hebrews buried them out of their sight. The Greeks sometimes buried and sometimes burnt, the latter mode gaining the ascendency as civilization advanced. The Persians, if we may trust the hints of earlier and the assertions of later writers, seem to have gathered their dead together on the top of a low building, and there left them to the birds and winds of heaven. Burying, burning, embalming, these are disposal of its dead. But there is scarcely any modificathe three great alternatives adopted by humanity for the tion of these methods which has not found its adherents; and there is scarcely any conceivable substitute for them which has not been practised somewhere. The posture of burial has been varied, in many places it being thought till decorous to bury in an sitting attitude. Some Red Indian tribes expose their dead on the branches of trees; the E hiopian inclosed them in pillars of crystal. Maritime nations have sometimes honored their chiefs by laying them'in state in a ship or canoe, and burning or setting it adrift. Sacred rivers are the chosen burial ground of some; others commit their dead to the sea alone. Some leave the corpse it decays, and then bury the bones; others remove the flesh from the bones immediately after death, and then dress and adorn the skeleton. Burial alive is by some thought a mark of affection; exposure to wild beasts is the chosen custom of by no means barbarous races. The Indian tribe above referred to finds many parallels. Nor was it always thought necessary to wait until death supervened. There is grim humor in the picture given by He. rodotus of a tribe, where, when any one fell sick, "his chief friends tell him that the illness will spoil his flesh; and he protests that is he not unwell; but they, not agreeing with him, kill and eat him." (Thalia, 99.) Horrors like these, however, can scarcely be classed among modes of sepulture; nor, perhaps, is it necessary to mention the tribes that drink their dead, having first reduced them to powder. Suffice it to say that there is no mode of disposing of dead bodies so singular, or so revolting, that it has not been adopted in good faith by some among the interminable varieties of savage races. Among civilized nations, however, burial (under which we may include enbalming) has divided with cremation the allegiance of custom. It would be improper to regard the first as the characteristic of Semitic, the second of Aryan races. For, though Lucian speaks of burial as the mark of barbarians, burning of Greeks, it is beyond question that burial remained to the last an alternative in Greece and Rome. It would rather appear that burial is the first rude suggestion of decency, prompting the mourner to lay the dead body reverently away, rather than to leave it to moulder unheeded; and that as burial is recognized to be incomplete, embalming and cremation are the two alternatives suggested. The Egyptians regarded fire as a wild beast; and, as Herodotus tells us, they preferred embalming to allowing the bodies to be torn by beasts or consumed by worms. The Greeks preferred the alternative of speedy destruction. Cremation was with them, though not the universal, the solemn and honorable form of sepulture. A corpse cast up by the sea might be buried by a benevolent passer-by (three handfuls of dust were held equivalent to burial, and laid the weary ghost); in time of danger, or for want of means, a body might be committed to the earth. But mourning friends who wished to do the last sad honors to the deceased followed him to his funeral pyre, and cherished the ashes which survived the flames in vases of costly make. It may be interesting, therefore, to set before our eyes what precisely passed on such an occasion. When our elder brethren, Greeks or Romans, lost a friend, with what sad ceremonies did they take their leave of him! For clearness' sake, let us confine ourselves to the better known nation. Let the scene be Rome, in the early days of the empire. It is a week since Caius Cornelius Scipio died. He lies in state in the hall of his house on the Palatine, one of the last family mansions left on the hill, which the emperor wants to make entirely his own. He lies in the great hall, where the statues of his ancestors look down on him who has at last become one of them gone over to the majority. His son Lucius knelt at his bedside when he breathed his last; kissed him a moment before death, to catch the last faint breath. From the finger he drew his ring, which has now been replaced in view of the approaching funeral. The relatives who stood in the room raised a loud cry of grief, in the vain hope of recalling the sleeper if he were but in a trance, a cry which has become historical as a sign that all is over-conclamatum est. Still he slept unmoved, and while notice was sent to the undertakers, the household attendants washed the body with warm water, and then handed it over to the professional ministers. These bathed it with sweet-smelling unguents, removing all that savored of sickness or death, and attired the corpse in garments suitable to his high position, the toga prætexta covering in death him who had worn it in life. A small coin was placed in the mouth, in accordance with immemorial custom, to pay for his ferrying over the dark river. The crown which had been given him, like our Victoria Cross, for bravery on the field of battle, adorned the pale brows. And so, calm and stately, he was laid in the great ancestral hall; flowers and green leaves were strewn around, and a branch of cypress planted beside the entrance door, a signal of invitation to his friends, and of warning to those whom religious considerations forbade to enter the house where a dead body lay. For seven days his sorrowing clients, those whom he had shielded in his day of power, and friends who had loved him well, have flocked in to pay the last tribute of rèspeet, and gaze once more on the well-known face; and now, in the bright morning sunshine, they are going to carry him beyond the precincts of the city, to reduce the lifeless body to ashes, and deposit the remains in the sepulchre where stand the urns of the heroes of his race. The herald has gone forth, to invite who will to attend. For this is no ordinary man who is dead. Rome knew him well; and his family, we may be sure, will give him a funeral befitting his rank. Not at night will his burial be, like that of some poor plebeian who has gone the long journey; every solemnity that the servants of Libitina know will be lavished on his obsequies. From early morn the folk have been streaming to the door, clad in suits of customary black; the undertakers have been bustling about and are now marshalling the splendid procession. Police officers are in attendance, to assist in maintaining order. The nearest relatives have gathered around the deceased. They lay him on his bier, no extravagant couch of ivory, as some who should have known better have lately begun to affect, but carved of dark wood, and stately with dark rich hangings, as befits a Roman citizen. And now at a given word these relatives lift the bier on to their shoulders, and the long procession files down the hill, and out to the place where the pyre is built, not far from the family burving-place. The van is led by trumpeters, blowing a loud note of lamentation, and opening the way through the crowded streets near the Forum, to which their steps are first directed. Next come singing women, chanting in mournful strain the praises of the deceased. Yet a third band of hired attendants succeed, actors reciting appropriate sentiments from familiar poets, their chief also exhibiting in dumb show the actions which made the dead man famous. But who are these who follow now? Have the dead arisen to do him honor? There, large as life, walks the long line of noble ancestors whose blood flowed in the dead man's veins. Waxen masks, modelled on the busts which stand in the great hall, cover the faces of those selected to personate the heroes; each wears the robe he would have worn this day if the grave had given him up. It seems in truth as if all the mighty ones of his race, generals, and statesmen, heroic names of Rome, have arisen to lead their descendant with welcome to his resting place among them. Old stories of wars in Apulia and Samnium, with Gaul and Carthaginian, crowd on the beholder's mind. There goes he who was proudly styled "African," the conqueror of Hannibal, "great Scipio's self, that thunderbolt of war." There, he who acquired a corresponding title from his victories in Asia against Antiochus. There, he who blent the elegance of Greek learning with the manly valor of Rome, the stern patriot who approved the slaying of his own usurping kinsmen, to whom a master-pen has lately given fresh immortality as the friend of Lælius. And many more, famous of old, and living still in the memories of men, mingle in this strange procession where the immortal dead do honor to their latest son. Hitherto the procession had been wholly professional, not to say theatrical, in character. But these who come next recall the gazer to every-day life. For these are they who late were slaves, whom the liberality of the deceased has made free. Vulgar minds may ostentatiously manumit by will large numbers of slaves, swelling their funeral pomp at their heir's expense; but where no such sordid motive has directed the enfranchisement, who so fit to be there as they? Who have better right to walk, as they now walk, immediately before the bier? In front of the bier they bear tables, inscribed with the deeds of the deceased, the laws he carried, the battles he fought. Captive banners and trophies of war are displayed; there is a map of some unknown land he conquered. All Rome may see to-day, if there be one here who needs the telling, how great a man is now being borne through the city he loved so well. Behind the bier come kinsmen and friends, women as well as men. The latter are dressed in black, as are all the professional assistants: the women wear white, a custom which, being somewhat novel in Rome, elicits a good deal of criticism. Bareheaded walk the women, with dishevelled hair and hands that beat their breasts; the male relatives, with an equal inversion of ordinary habits, have their heads closely veiled. Innumerable the crowd that follows. All Rome's best are there. The Senate have turned out to a man. Many who barely knew the deceased follow among his friends. Many join the procession out of mere curiosity, but most from a desire to pay this tribute of respect to one whom they have so long honored from afar. And now they have reached the Forum. In the midst of this great space, the Westminster of Rome, the procession halts. The ancestors of the deceased seat themselves, in solemn semi-circle, on the ivory chairs of the magistrates. In their midst his nephew, Publius, well known for his oratorical powers, ascends the rostra, and pronounces a long and labored panegyric over him who lies deaf and unheeding before him. He tells how his youth was devoted to study and martial exercise, not wasted on luxury and riotous living; how his manhood was spent in fighting Rome's battles abroad, and upholding order at home-an easy task now the might of the emperor has crushed all factious sedition. He speaks of his piety toward the gods, his love for his wife and children, his zeal on behalf of his clients, his kindness to all with whom he was brought into contact. In everything, he says, he lived worthy of his high lineage, worthy of those ancestors whose effigies are present beside him. And so the speaker is led to trace back the grand line of ancestors, and in kindling words remind his hearers of all the Scipios had done for Rome. What an Athenian audience felt when their orators recalled the names of those who fought at Marathon, that surely must a Roman audience have felt when they were reminded of the glories of the Scipios. The bier is taken up, the procession is marshalled again. Through the bustling streets, out through the city gates, the famous Porta Capena, out on to the Appian Way, streams the long line of mourners. At the gate many generally leave the procession, but to-day they have but a short way further to go, for the tomb of the Scipios is not far beyond the gate, on the side of the Appian Way. The crowd therefore, pours out almost without diminution, till they reach a cleared spot not far from the tomb, whereon a great pile has been erected. Huge logs of wood form the body of the structure, interspersed with various inflammable substances; it stands four-square, like some gigantic altar to the unseen powers. A row of cypress trees, transplanted for the occasion, throws a gloomy shadow across it. The bier is placed on the top with all its splendid belongings. Ointments of the costliest description, spikenard and frankincense, and all the strongest and sweetest smelling unguents, are plentifully poured on the pile; Palestine and Syria, Arabia, Cilicia, have been laid under contribution. All is now ready, and as Lucius Scipio steps forward, the women raise a piercing wail. You may see the tears in the young man's eyes, for his head is turned to us and away from the pile, as with trembling hand he applies a lighted torch. The flame mounts skyward with immense rapidity; huge swirls of smoke, pungent yet fragrant, sweep to leeward. As the fire reaches the body, the wailing of the women is redoubled. The men stand by in silence. No funeral games are exhibited to-day during the burning; nor do his relatives follow the somewhat barbarous custom of throwing in armor, clothes, and valuables to be consumed in the flames. The great crowd stands well-nigh motionless in genuine grief. It does not take very long to reduce the whole to ashes. The pitch and resin, the rich unguents, all make the fire fierce and brief. A heap of mouldering embers is soon all that is left. The crowd melts away, while the relatives perform the remaining rites. The embers are quenched with wine, and a solemn invocation addressed to the soul of the departed. Those officiating then wash their hands with pure water, and proceed to gather the white calcined bones, easily distinguishable from the dark wood-ashes which cover them. These precious relics are solemnly sprinkled, first with wine, then with milk, dried with a linen cloth, and deposited in an alabaster urn. Perfumes are mingled with the ashes. The urn is then carried to the tomb, and deposited in the niche prepared for it. All round the walls you see similar urns, each in its own niche, each inscribed with a simple memento, like the inscriptions on our tombstones. All being now over, the family take their departure, with pious ejaculations and prayers for calm repose -"Sweet be the place of thy rest!" Outside the tomb, the priest sprinkles each of them thrice with pure water, to remove the pollution of the dead body, which was recognized by all nations of antiquity; and then dismisses them with the well-known formula, Illicet, ye may depart. The family and relatives of the deceased make their way quietly home along the Appian Way, which is lined for a considerable distance with tombs like a suburban road with villas, and through the crowded streets, which have now resumed their usual aspect. On reaching the house they will be purified afresh by water and fire, being sprinkled with the one, and made to step over the other. For nine days they will then remain apart, mourning for the dead. On the expiry of that time a sacrifice will be offered to the gods below, and a great funeral feast will be given, at which all the guests will be dressed in white. Games, it may be, and shows of gladiators, will then be exhibited; food will be distributed to the populace. After that the family will return to their ordinary avocations: the men will not resume their mourning garb; the women will wear theirs for some time longer, the widow perhaps retaining hers for a year. But not for long will the dead man be forgotten; at intervals they will go to the tomb on the Appian Way, bearing flowers and perfumes to lay beside the ashes of the dear one gone. Lamps will be lighted there, to relieve the sepulchral gloom. And on stated occasions commemorative feasts will be held, where the family and friends will assemble, dressed in white, to do honor to the memory of the departed. Such was a funeral in the old days of Rome. Of course only those of great men could be celebrated with all this pomp and splendor. The undertakers distinguished several kinds of funerals, and called each by an appropriate name. The obsequies of the poor were generally performed at night; and it seems probable that many bodies might be burned together on one common pyre. In the case of young persons, many of the ceremonies were dispensed with, and infants were not burnt at all, but simply interred. Stringent but unavailing laws were made to repress the extravagance of funerals. The Twelve Tables allowed only ten musicians and three hired mourners, and forbade throwing perfume in the flames, or using gold in any way, it being even thought necessary to explain by a special statute that this prohibition did not apply to corpses whose teeth were stopped with gold! But so long as cremation was the popular form of burial, these sumptuary laws were in vain. With the introduction of Christianity the practice of cremation died out, and by the fourth century seems to have become quite extinct. This may have been partly owing to the Jewish origin of Christianity, but is probably in greater measure due to the widespread belief in an immediate second advent. Many if not all of the early Christians believed that the bodies which they committed to the earth would be raised and purified from the stains of mortality in the day of the resurrection. It need hardly be said that this is in direct opposition to the teaching of 1st |