from the Lock-up house, he picked his way
through the mud (it had rained) with the
greatest care.

The night before, the gibbet had been raised
by torchlight. An immense crowd remained
till two in the morning, cheering as every fresh
beam was fixed. Hundreds slept in the adjacent
closes and on stairs, and at the windows of
neighbouring houses in the Lawnmarket. Many
well-dressed ladies were among the spectators,
and half-a-crown for a single hasty look
from a window was freely given. By seven
o'clock the rain had almost ceased. When the
raw cold day had begun, every avenue to the
High-street was thronged, and the area between
the West Port and the Tron church was one
close-wedged mass of heads. About forty thousand
persons were waiting eagerly for St. Giles's
clock to strike eight. There were crowds on the
Castle-hill and in Bank-street, and stragglers as
far as the Advocate's Library. The rough and
ribald jests and street-cries changed to a
demoniacal roar of joy when Burke appeared
ascending the stairs to the platform; then there
rose yells, savage curses, and stormy cries of
"The Murderer!" "Burke him!" "Choke him,
Hangie!" "Hang Hare, too!"

An Edinburgh mob is always fierce, and now
their deepest passions were thoroughly roused.
Burke stood before them at last, a thickset,
cadaverous man, with very light hair, an old
black coat too large for him, a white neckcloth,
and mouldy boots. He turned deadly pale, and
shook when he heard the appalling shouts; but
he still cast at the heaving mob one look of fierce
and desperate defiance. He then knelt and
prayed, with his back to the people, and told the
priest that he died in the full assurance that he
should be saved. When he arose, he took up the
silk handkerchief on which he had knelt, and
carefully put it into his pocket. He looked
at the gallows, and took his place on the drop,
giving a withering scowl at a man who pushed
him a little on one side. He told the hangman
how to untie his neckcloth. As he put on the
white cap, the yells grew tremendous. "Don't
waste rope on him," they cried. "You'll see
Daft Jamie in a moment." But the murderer
stood unflinching, and even manifested a
repugnance to the cap being drawn over his tace.
He then said the Belief, uttered a cry to
God, and, jerking the signal handkerchief
from him angrily, fell and died with hardly a
struggle.

Not one said "God forgive him," or "May he
find mercy!" The whole dark mass below the
scaffold shouted, clapped their hands, waved
their hats, and roared applause, that was heard
as far away as the roads of the suburbs. Many
cried ferociously, "Off with the cowl. Let's see
his face." Every time the corpse moved, a shout
rose again. The men on the scaffold threw
shavings and chips from the coffin among the
people, and the workmen scrambled for them
and for the rope. There were a few shouts of
"Let's have him to tear to pieces!" and there
was a defeated attempt made to lead the mob
to Surgeon's-square, to pull down the
classroom.

On Thursday, Burke's body was exhibited by.
Dr. Munro, Mr. Liston, Mr. George Combe the
phrenologist, Sir William Hamilton, Mr. Joseph
the sculptor, and others. Phrenologists found
Burke's organ of Benevolence to be as large as
that of Destructiveness. On the Friday, thirty
thousand persons visited the Anatomical Theatre,
to see the corpse.

Hare had a narrow escape at Dumfries, where
he was besieged in an inn by the furious
populace, who kept calling out, "Burke him!"
"Give us the murderer!" "Hell's ower gude
for the like of you. The very deevils wadna let
ye in, for fear of mischief!" The mob then
pursued him to the jail, and threatened to burn
down the door with peat and tar-barrels. Eventually,
Hare escaped from one of the Cumberland
ports, and got safely to London. There,
however, a terrible vengeance fell on this
branded wretch. The scoundrel obtained work
under a feigned name at a tanner's. His
terrible secret at last coming out, the men seized
him and tossed him into a lime-pit, which
burned out his eyes. According to a
London paper, Hare died a few years ago, in
Canada.

There were no more Burking murders until
1831, when two men, named Bishop and
Williams, drowned a poor Italian boy in Bethnal-
green, and sold his body to the surgeons. The
bill introduced in 1829 to supply the hospitals
with the unclaimed bodies from the workhouses
and elsewhere, closed this door to hell, we trust,
for ever.

Very shortly after the conclusion of "BLACK SHEEP,"
A NEW SERIAL STORY,
BY THE AUTHOR OF
AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE
Will be commenced in these pages, and continued
from week to week until completed..

MR. CHARLES DICKEN'S READINGS.

MR. CHARLES DICKENS will read at Dublin on the 15th
18th, and 22nd; at Belfast on the 20th; at St James's
London, on the 26th; at Cambridge on the 27th; and at
Norwich on the 29th of March.