and eight pounds in summer. Burke said
they had got so daring, that he believed they
might have gone on even to seize people in
ihe streets. At first they removed bodies only
in the dark; latterly they grew more bold and
went in the daytime. When they were carrying
the girl Paterson, some boys from the High
School yard followed them, crying, "They are
carrying a corpse." They nevertheless got her
safe delivered. Hare could sleep well after a
murder, but Burke kept a "twopenny candle"
all night by his bedside, and a bottle of whisky.
If he awoke, he sometimes gulped half a bottle
at a draught, and that made him sleep. When
their money was spent, they pawned their clothes,
and took them out again as soon as they got a
subject.

After the trial, when Burke was removed to
the Lock-up house, he had scarcely been seated,
when, looking round, he said to the officers:

"This is an infernal cold place you have
brought me till."

He then said Hare was the guiltier of the two,
for he had murdered the first woman, and
persuaded him (Burke) to join him, and he should
regret to his last hour that he did not share the
same fate. He then prayed; and when some
chapters of the Bible were read to him, remarked,
"That passage touches keenly on my crimes."
When he was removed to Calton-hill Jail, he
wished the turnkeys good-bye. "Though I
should never see you again," he said, "you will
see me on the 28th at the head of Libberton's
Wynd. I have now only five weeks to live,
and I will not weary greatly for that day." He
then grew composed, cheerful, and talkative.
In his sleep he sometimes raved and ground his
teeth, but on awakening, recovered his
composure.

It was discovered by the numerous biographers
of Burke that he was a native of Tyrone, and
had served seven years in the Donegal militia.
When he came to Scotland, he turned canal
labourer, then pedlar; he had tried his hand
at weaving, baking, and cobbling. Burke was
thought a lively harmless man, fond of singing,
and kind to children, whom he used to
encourage to dance, by hiring a street-organ to
play to them. He was once seen to shudder
when some one told him of a child's face having
been lanced for a tumour. To account for his
money, he pretended that he smuggled "small
still" whisky; while his wife used to boast of
legacies and small annuities. Burke had been
at one time a regular attendant during the
"revivals" at the open-air prayer meetings in
the Grassmarket, and had possessed a small
library of religious books.

The excitement in Edinburgh during this
trial was unequalled in intensity. The mob
shouted for the blood of Hare, the two women,
and Burke's other accomplices. Two guineas
were offered the turnkeys for one peep at the
murderer. Eager enthusiasts paid enormous
sums for Burke's shoemaking hammer; and
Hare's whisky-bottle brought a high price.
The blood-soaked bed was cut up into relics,
and the chairs were hollowed into snuff-boxes.
Mrs. Burke, venturing back into the West Port,
was nearly torn to shreds, and was besieged
in the watchhouse. Finally, she left the town
and went to Glasgow. Mrs. Hare, alias Lucky
Log, was pelted nearly to death with snowballs,
mud, and stones; was nearly killed also at
Glasgow; and eventually escaped to Belfast,
quite indifferent to her husband's fate.

It was felt to be a blot on Edinburgh, and a
stain on Scotland; for although the two men were
Irish, the woman who had been deepest in it
was a native of Maddiston, in the county of
Stirling. The populace were savage, also, against the
doctors. The night of the trial, Dr. Knox's
and Dr. Munro's class-room windows were
broken, and, but for a stormy night, their houses
might have been destroyed.

During this agitation, Burke was composed
and almost apathetically calm. He regretted
one or two of his murders, and showed
one touch of humanity in his anxiety for his
wife, to whom he sent some money and an
old watch. He shut himself up daily with two
Catholic priests, and expressed his belief in the
efficacy of full repentance and perfect faith. He
declared to the turnkeys that he was glad of his
sentence, for it had brought him back to
religion. He was suffering much from a cancer,
which was popularly supposed to have been
caused by a death-bite from Daft Jamie, but which
was really the result of fatigue and dissipation in
former years. He was kept chained to the gad in
the condemned cell, and was guarded day and
night, to prevent his committing suicide. His
great anxiety seemed to be to get from Dr.
Knox the five pounds still unpaid for the beggar-
woman's body, and buy some clothes to appear
in on the scaffold. "Since I am to appear
before the public," he said, "I should like to be
respectable."

He betrayed no emotion till his "dead clothes"
were brought him to put on, on the morning
of his execution. He slept soundly for five
hours before this. He then grew impatient, and
said: "Oh that the hour were come which is to
separate me from the world!" At half-past five the
smith removed his chains. When they dropped
off, he looked up to the ceiling and said, "So
may all earthly chains fall from me." At half-
past six, the priest prayed with him. At seven,
Burke came with a firm step into the keeper's
room, and sat in an arm-chair by the fire, sighing
once or twice deeply, when a priest said to
him: "You must trust in the mercy of God."
He exhibited no emotion at seeing the
executioner; merely said, "I am not ready for you
yet;" and in a minute or two submitted silently
to be pinioned.

Invited to take a glass of wine, he bowed and
drank "Farewell to all present, and the rest of
my friends;" then thanked the magistrates,
bailie, and jailer, for their kindness. When
the magistrates appeared in their robes, and
with their rods of office, he rose instantly, and
walked on, conversing calmly with the priest.
As he passed up Libberton's Wynd, in crossing