A few columns are devoted to a brief memoir of a person of mean parentage, but no mean virtues, who during nearly half a century was the grave digger of the parish of Malton, in Yorkshire, and who in that space of time buried above five thousand of its inhabitants.

Michael Parker was born in 1758, in the town of Malton, of poor parents. His earlier years were spent in lounging about the streets, or strolling in the fields with boys of his own age, joining in their rustic games, or predatory freaks. In later years, like many wiser heads, he looked back on these days with pleasure; and dwelt with apparent interest on certain adventures, when the codlings on a neighbour's tree tempted to what was then thought a venial sin, and the rightful voice of the owner scared him away.

Michael never had even the first rudiments of education. No ancient dame, Who boasts, unruly brats, with birch to tame, had the guardianship of his morals, or taught him to con his alphabet. When he was old enough to labor he was taken to the wharfs, and was principally engaged in the carrying of coals. He was diligent, and as he approached the "bloom of lustihood" looked out for a helpmate through life. Whether a man can keep a wife or not, there are no laws against taking one; and the parish is bound to keep him and his progeny, if he cannot keep himself. But Michael had no degrading selfishness; he cherished independence to his latest days; the name of poor-house he could not endure, and felt as great an antipathy towards closing

his life in such a place, as he would have felt towards the man who dared to question his love of labor. At eighteen he married, and had several children, only one of which survived to his paternal care. After Michael became a father, no public-house sign could tempt him to spend his time and money in waste and wassail. He loved company and a glass of "amber stout," but he loved his home, and wife and children, better. While many a harum-scarum acquaintance was quaffing and singing in a pot-house, Michael was taking his ease in his own humble dwelling. There he had pleasures not to be found elsewhere; and if he sometimes spent his last shilling it was in procuring comforts or necessaries for his family.

Michael's dress was suited to his employment a large slouching broad brimmed hat served as a screen to his neck from coal-dust, and protected his face from the sun's rays.

He wore a fustian

jacket, with large holland pockets; an ample pair of corduroys hung loosely from his hips; his colored worsted stockings generally looked the worse for wear, but were always well darned by the notable hands of his industrious wife, and, though the darning might not exactly match the original color, it mattered not, for no holes were visible; his large roomy shoes, made for service rather than show, were tied with hempen string; his shoulders were clothed with a wide-spread sack; and, unless he bore it full, he carried a stout well tarred coal-poke beneath his arm. Thus accoutred, he was accustomed to pace the streets with slow and solemn steps, and with a look that bespoke contentment of mind. If, as Lord Chesterfield said, "a gentleman is always known by his gait-it must not be hurried, or too quick," Michael Parker was, in this respect, a gentleman. It may be objected that he had a straddling walk, and squared his path too much, but he walked with the independence of Nature's child. It not unfrequently happened, that some loitering urchin cracked a rude joke upon him as he pursued his even course; and then Michael would gravely turn round, with bis left hand upon his side, and assuming more than usual importance, rebuke the youthful sally, express astonishment that the boy was not better taught, and, if the offence was flagrant, threaten flagellation. It was only for the sake of peace, or to awe the meddlesome, that he held

such language; for he never dealt blows Vulgar flouts from the adult were often passed upon Michael, for the sake of hearing him talk. He had a stammering, hesitating tone, with a peculiar lisp in certain words, which was often very amusing to his auditors.

For many years Michael appeared happy with his lot in life, and satisfied with the little he knew; but after he was advanced to the honorable post of gravedigger to the parish of Malton, an office of real employment, which he held in addition to his business of carrying coals, he manifested greater enthusiasm for it than seemed to belong to his character. Nothing afforded him more satisfaction than the forming of a grave; and he was accustomed to pay frequent and prolonged visits to the abodes of death. The avocation awakened in him a new and unsuspected disposition to inquiry. The curious conformation of a boue, the cranium, which had been the seat of life and intellect, the silent progress of decay in the last remains of mortality, engaged him in frequent speculation. A chamber in his cottage, which contained a strange exhibition of assorted bones, and a constant propensity to increase his collections, exposed him to the suspicion and displeasure of his neighbours; yet nothing abated his love for the relics of the dead, or his pleasure in burying the defunct. He was often seen in a grave, pausing from his labor, leaning on his spade, indulging in reverie over some newly turned up remnant of "decayed intelligence," and then, awaking as from a trance, plying his task afresh till it was done. A gentleman once said to him, "Well Michael, you like the exercise of making graves, would you like to bury me?" After a moment's pause, and a shrewd cast of the eye, Michael answered, "Well Sir! you must be buried-and I would make you as good a grave as any body;" and then with his spade he traced upon the ground the exact figure of a coffin; adding, in his native dialect, " Dere, dat's de shap, but I-I-could mak a better den dat." He sometimes complained of the badness of trade; and that he had not any graves to dig.

Michael plodded on-hawking coals, and digging graves, witnessing the cares and griefs of others, and having none of his own, till he lost his wife. To the unfeigned sorrow he felt and manifested on that occasion, may probably be added

some concern that decorum forbade him from digging her grave. He deeply mourned for his worthy helpmate. Michael was not a metaphysician, and therefore he had a heart; he was not a genius, and yet his heart had feelings. He had been a tender husband, and his tenderness now centered in his motherless child. His home had lost its great attraction; it was in a measure desolate, and his little son was his sole and constant companion. Michael was scarcely ever seen in the streets without his child trudging after him. While perspiring beneath a load of coals, Michael would turn round, to call "Johnny, cum my lad, cum alang Johnny" and perhaps before he had advanced a hundred yards, turn round again, and repeat, "Johnny, cum my lad, cum alang Johnny. His intense fondness for his little boy was so well known, that many mischievous people would pretend to kidnap the child, and, catching him up, forcibly bear him away to some distance, while poor Michael, over-sensitive to danger, lustily raised a hue and cry, and rushed to the rescue.

Michael, after tasting the blessings of domestic life, bitterly felt the loneliness of a lone man. He had been accustomed on coming from a hard day's labor to find a clean hearth, a table neatly spread with plain wholesome cheer, and the honest smiles of his Johnny's mother. With the hope of similar happiness he married again. This second union was not equal to his first. His new wife was worthless, and one day,after sacking the drawers of the clothes which had been worn by her predecessor, she eloped. Michael had little reason for regret; yet he was a fond creature, and sometimes appeared to grieve. On these occasions, Johnny often soothed him by saying, "she has not taken the breadloaf with her; no, she has not taken that." Michael's greatest trial befel him after this. His boy, at eighteen years of age, began to decline in health; and in a few months died. This blow to Michael was irretrievable, but he bore it like a christian man no murmur escaped his lips he bowed submissively to the Power that had removed his greatest, his last, earthly joy. He raised a gentle hillock over the remains of his son, decked it with flowers, which he nurtured with peculiar care; and planted by the grave a small tree, whose boughs increased in after years, and cast solemn shadows around. This tree, in despite of poor Michael's feelings, was subsequently removed.

Michael had now nothing human that belonged to him to love. He retired to his cottage, and entirely secluded himself. He was always discomposed by intrusive curiosity, which his frigid welcome to visitors manifested. Society had no charms for him, and he shunned it. Yet his nature was all benevolent, and his "heart wanted something to be kind to." The solitude of his home afforded him an object, this was his poor cat: he fondled it, and the poor creature purred, and stretched herself upon his knee, and cheered him with her gambols. To her he added a dog, and then a leveret, and turtle-dove. Puss's progeny were preserved by Michael, and, at one time, sixteen cats were inmates of Michael's home, and shared his porringer of milk. When impelled by hunger, which they occasionally felt, these creatures paid marauding visits to the neighbourhood, until com plaints occasioned some of the parochial authorities to pay Michael a visit, and forcibly dislodge his feline friends.

Some years after the elopement of Michael's wife, he was gravely assured by a person in the street that she was dead. Upon this intelligence he hastened home, put off his working dress, and, as soon as he could, reappeared in " proper mourning." The rector of Malton, better informed than Michael, proved to him that she was living; and the "decent crape," and other insignia of sorrow, were as quickly and becomingly put off as they had been put on.

Michael had a sort of taste for the fine arts. He collected any thing that assumed the appearance of a picture or print, not exceeding the price of sixpence; and engravings and drawings, suitable to his style of collecting, were frequently presented to him. He likewise practised drawing, and made a certain progress in design. On being once asked what he had lately done, in that way, he replied, he had been making "a landscape;" upon inquiring the subject, he said, "a cat upon a wall." He was a great admirer of sign-boards, and particularly of those belonging to the inns; the "Bull and Dog" was one that he frequently mentioned with praise. A pasteboard figure, resembling any droll object, or a colored print, he regarded as a treasure.

Michael was not an inquirer concerning disputed points of theology; he had been trained in his childhood, by his father, to go to church, and was a staunch church

man: an anecdote will verify this. One Sunday some wanton persons, lounging about the doors of a respectable dissenting meeting-house, in Malton, to observe who entered, saw Michael advancing along the street with his accustomed deliberate step, in his best clothes, his face clean washed and shaved, going to the parish church : they instantly determined that he should, for once, be compelled to go to the meeting-house. When he approached them, he was forced to the door, while he vociferated "Murder! murder!" till a desperate struggle enabled him to escape from his persecutors, and gain the place in which he could worship according to his conscience.

As he became old, he sometimes, under provocation, gave utterance to rough expressions, foreign to his kindly disposition. More than once, he was heard to say to his wanton persecutors, that "he should have them some day, and he would, certainly, bury them with their faces downward." Versed in the superstitions of the vulgar, he regularly observed the periodical return of St. Mark's eve, when it is supposed the "shades" of those who are to die in the coming year are visible in the church. To one of his abusers he said that he had seen him on St. Mark's eve, and should have him soon. Observations of this nature obtained him enemies, and expressions of real sorrow which he often manifested on the indisposition of his neighbours, were sometimes regarded as insincere, and his approach to the dwellings of the afflicted forbidden. He felt indignant on being thus uncivilly treated because he dug graves. When the time approached that the office he had performed for many, should be performed for him, he and a friend engaged that the survivor should form the other's grave.

The interior of Michael's cottage was amusing and gratifying. He suffered no week to pass without a thorough renovation of his furniture. On that occasion the antique chairs and tables were regularly rubbed with oil, which, in length of time, gave them an ebon hue, and the walls and floor were whitened in places where the most lively contrast would be formed with the furniture. The ancestral elbow chair, thickly incrusted with the weekly addition of oil, retained its ancient nook. Around the apartment, at measured distances, were his things called pictures, which he designed for ornament. Pots,

pans, brushes, and unsightly objects, were stowed away in a snug corner; but his stock of delf and crockery-ware, reduced through lapse of years and service, was duly ranged in order, in a conspicuous part. When at his meals, seated near the fire-place, in his ancient chair, before a small table, with a copious bowl of porridge, the door bolted or locked against intruders, his cats mewing about him, the grim pictures on the walls all telling some history, interesting to him alone, Michael was a study for an artist and a philosophizer on human life. In the upper room, which had been the depository of his museum, and which served latterly as a dormitory and wardrobe, he drew his first breath, and yielded up his last.

In the latter part of life Michael derived some small emolument from selling applescoops, in the manufacture of which he was a great proficient. Some friends furnished him with materials, and many well-wishers were purchasers of his handyworks. He felt the chill of penury in declining age. The times had changed; the increase of population in Malton had divided its trade, whilst its aggregate returns were less than those of former years; and Michael, no longer able to trudge to the adjoining villages with his sack of coals, was opposed by a woman in the town, of obstreporous tongue, and masculine habits, who drove a cart of coals at a price so low, that the poor fellow could not cope with her. He had neither a team, nor means to purchase one, and his little trade dwindled to nothing. Until he became thus helpless, and afflicted with rheumatism, he had stood aloof from every appearance of alms-taking; but his spirits bowed with his years, and, for his daily morsel of bread, he submitted to something like begging. The manner in which he made known his wants was peculiar. He generally began by an enquiry after the health of the individual he applied to, and hesitatingly proceeded to observe that trade was very bad, and that he had not, for a long time, had any thing to do: if he observed no yielding, he made a more immediate appeal, by stating that he was an invalid, and unable to work. He interjected these remarks with observations on the state of the weather, or bits of news. Direct solicitation for relief he scarcely, if ever, made. There were a few benevolent families in Malton, whose dole was certain upon such

occasions; for he had become an object of real pity, and must have wanted necessaries, without their assistance. Latterly, he occasionally received small pittances from the parish. The officers desired to remove him into the workhouse; the proposition was fearfully repugnant to his feelings; he earnestly implored that he might not be torn from the cottage in which he had been born, and passed all his days; and so piteous were his terror and intreaties, that he was suffered to end his days beneath the humble roof of his honest forefathers.

In March, 1823, as Michael had hecome incapable of all labor, an appliIcation was made to him for the loan of his churchyard spade; this he refused, but at length surrendered it, saying, "Why den ye mun tak it; ah sall be better agean next time dere is a grave to dig." He grew weaker and weaker, and never dug another. Being asked where he thought he should go after death; he answered, "Where God shall be pleased to take me." On the 5th of April he died. He had given a few directions concerning his funeral, which were punctually observed. A "wake" was held in the house, at which several gentlemen attended; it was an old custom, which he esteemed, and begged might not be omitted. A favorite hymn which he was accustomed to sing to himself as he walked along the streets, was also, by his request, sung in the church. Several persons joined in assisting to form his grave; and the concourse of people that attended his funeral was considerably greater than is seen on ordinary occasions. As the funeral procession moved along the streets, many voices repeated, “poor Michael," "poor fellow."

DEATH WATCH.

Wallis, in his Ilistory of Northumberland, vol. i. p. 367, gives the following account of the insect so called, whose ticking has been thought by ancient superstition to forbode death in a family. "The small scarab called the death-watch, (Scarabæus galeatus pulsator,) is frequent among dust, and in decayed rotten wood, lonely and retired. It is one of the smallest of the Vagipennia, of a dark brown, with irregular light brown spots, the belly plicated, and the wings under the cases pellucid; like other beetles, the

helmet turned up, as is supposed for hearing; the upper lip hard and shining. By its regular pulsations, like the ticking of a watch, it sometimes surprizes those that are strangers to its nature and properties, who fancy its beating portends a family change, and the shortening of the thread of life. Put into a box, it may be heard and seen in the act of pulsation, with a small proboscis against the side of it, for food more probably than for hymenæal pleasure as some have fancied."

This rational account will not be ill contrasted with the following witty one by Swift, which contains an effectual charm against the omen :

A wood worm,

That lies in old wood, like a hare in her form, With teeth or with claws, it will bite or will scratch,

And chambermaids christen this worm a death watch :

Because like a watch it always crics click: Then woe be to those in the house who are sick;

For as sure as a gun they will give up the ghost,

If the maggot cries click, when it scratches the post.

But a kettle of scalding hot water injected,
Infallibly cures the timber affected:

The omen is broken, the danger is over,
The maggot will die, and the sick will recover.

Baxter, in his "World of Spirits," sensibly observes, that "there are many things that ignorance causeth multitudes to take for prodigies. I have had many discreet friends that have been affrighted with the noise called a death-watch, whereas I have since, near three years ago, oft found by trial, that it is a noise made upon paper, by a little nimble running worm. It is most usually behind a paper pasted to a wall, especially to wainscot; and it is rarely, if ever heard, but in the heat of summer. *

EPITAPH.

In Calstock Churchyard, Cornwall. 'Twas by a fali I caught my death; No man can tell his time or breath; I might have died as soon as then If I had had physician men.

Brand.