struggling through a narrow ravine, with beetling precipices on each side, should see a tiger bounding towards him, so did I feel that my enemy was rushing at me, and that I could have no escape. I was alone in my library: my limbs had lost all power of movement: to rise and ring the bell was impossible; and even had I been able to do so, I could only have stared wildly at whoever might answer the summons, for of utterance I was incapable. The hands of the tormentor were upon me, and I was forced to yield. My whole frame became rigid; my jaw dropped; my eyes were fixed; my pulsation ceased. But I could see all that was around me, though, in my present state of vision, each object was invested with colours not its own. I was perfectly conscious of my situation; could hear with painful distinctness the slightest whisper; and felt the horrible conviction that in this apparently exanimate state, I might remain several days, and then be buried-buried alive! Newnham could have saved me, but Newnham was away.

Such was my dreadful idiosyncrasy. It has been experienced only by a few others, and these have lived at such distant intervals, that the majority of medical physiologists are not aware of the phenomenon. To have almost all the signs of death, and yet be alive and conscious ; to feel every touch, and yet not betray sensation; to be in a state of mental sensibility, while utterly powerless as to muscular movement or vocal utterance-this is indeed the most ghastly state in which a human being can be placed. It is not apoplexy, nor palsy, nor syncope, nor what is vulgarly called "trance," because in those afflictions sensation is denied. But in the visitation to which I was unhappily subject, sensation was preternaturally acute. *

Alone, alone in this miserable state, I remained an hour-a long, long hour. I could count the time by the dial on the mantel-shelf.

It has been stated by a medical philosopher, that "we ought by no means to conclude that the sense of hearing is totally lost because the person under examination does not discover himself to be possessed of it by the slightest motion of the eye-lids, the lips, the fingers, or any other parts of the body; for, as it is generally thought that the heart is the first part of the body which moves, so those who, after they are deprived of the other senses, give distinct relations of every thing they had heard during that time, can attest that the sense of hearing remains longer than any of the rest. The truth of this is, in a remarkable manner, confirmed by the testimony of a celebrated priest, who having affirmed that it was unlawful to give absolution to a dying person who by no signs discovered that he had the sense of hearing, altered his opinion after he himself had fallen into a deliquium so violent, as to deprive him of all motion, though at the same time he distinctly heard the whole conversation of those who were present when his misfortune happened."- Uncertainty of the Signs of Death, 1751.

"There have been many examples of men in show dead, either laid out upon the cold floor, or carried forth to burial: nay, of some buried in the earth; which, notwithstanding have lived again, which hath been found in those that were buried (the earth being afterwards opened) by the bruising and wounding of their head, through the struggling of the body within the coffin; whereof the most recent and memorable example was that of Joannes Scotus, called the Subtil,' and a schoolman, who being digged up again by his servant, (unfortunately absent at his burial, and who knew his master's manner in such fits,) was found in that state. And the like happened in our days in the person of a player buried at Cambridge."-Lord Bacon." History of Life and Death.

See also "A Supplementary Report on the Results of a Special Inquiry into the Practice of Interment in Towns, made at the request of Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department. By Edwin Chadwick, Esq., Barrister-at-law." 1843.

Bitterly did I meditate, but with profound reverence, on the inscrutable dispensations of Providence-on those dispensations which had made me the prey of so gaunt a malady. Among my other ruminations, it even occurred to me that if by some miracle (Newnham being absent) I should be saved, Miss Winburn would count me among her semi-fiends. But for this I cared not. I yearned for life on any terms.

To what could my peculiar organization be liable? Was it hereditary? On a sudden, a recollection of my youth flashed upon me, and I seemed to have obtained a clue to the mystery.

Let me here relate the incident which (though many years had passed) was vividly acted over again in retrospection.

My mother (a widow) having suffered a grievous illness, was taken for dead, and laid out as a corpse. As night came on, a wax candle was lighted and placed on a table close to her feet. I slept in a chamber adjoining hers. Before daybreak, I was horribly startled on hearing a shriek, and some incoherent words uttered in my mother's voice! Rushing into the room, I saw the corpse (as I supposed) in a sitting posture, half-wrapped in flames. Two women were there, trembling and aghast. The hideous extremity gave me presence of mind; and, throwing blankets on the body, I stifled the flames. What was my joy on finding that my mother lived! The fiery pain had resuscitated her; and, fortunately, I had stopped the burning before it had done its fatal work. She suffered some time from the injury, but eventually recovered. On inquiry, it appeared that the women (as is too often their habit) had drunk to excess; and moving about incautiously, had overturned the candle, and ignited the garments in which she whom they watched was clothed.

I now attributed to the shock I then received, and to the tendency to deliquium on the part of my mother, the wretched liability that has haunted my life. That in my present danger I should have made such investigations, may appear incredible; but so it was.

While thus thinking and despairing, the door was opened, and Olivia entered. Joy, like a burst of sudden sunshine, came over me. It soon faded, for alas! I could not speak, could not move!

My wife approached me-looked at me-passed her hand over my face, which, no doubt, was cold. She grew pale: her countenance assumed a dismal expression: she staggered to the bell, and rang it violently. A servant speedily appeared.

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Run instantly," gasped she: "Run to Bloomsbury Square- to Doctor Mead, and beg him to come here without loss of time. Your master is ill-dying. Run, run."

The man departed on his errand, and I was left alone with her whom I valued more than life itself, precious as the latter seemed to me at that awful juncture. She sat down by my side, and took one of my hands in hers. I question which of us looked the most forlorn: I, the living corpse, or she, the self-imagined widow. Her agony seemed to petrify her. We might both have been taken for pale statues.

Doctor Mead (living so near me) soon arrived. He felt my wrists, but could detect no pulse: he peered into my eyes; they were fixed: he closed my jaw; it fell again: he held a mirror over my face; it was unstained.

"Madam," said he, mournfully, to my wife," come with me from this place. All is over!"

Olivia would now have fainted, but that Mead upheld her, and bore her out of the room.

Of the sufferings which my wife underwent during the next four-andtwenty hours, I was not a witness, as she did not again enter the room till I was placed in my coffin. Oh! that horrible process, and those which preceded it! The clothes I wore when the dreadful visitation came on me were taken off, and I was wrapped in a shroud. How I loathed the touch of those busy fingers that were laying me out, as the phrase is, decently! But more detestable even than this, were the men who lifted me, by the head and feet, into that narrow box-our final chamber. The hard lid was now placed over me slantwise, so that light was not altogether shut out. Great God, what were my maddening emotions! in a little time I should be inclosed for ever in darkness-should hear the driving of the screws which would imprison me till doomsday! What demon could have possessed me when I suffered Newnham to go so far away?

Two days more elapsed, and still every muscle in my body refused to obey my will. My good and afflicted wife frequently came into the darkened chamber, to gaze at and pray by me. I felt her hot tears fall on my face. I heard her sobs and broken ejaculations, and loved her more than ever. Cruel, cruel fate! Why could I not die and end such intolerable anguish?

row.

I was lost.

At length arrived the last evening on which I should be permitted to see the light of Heaven. The funeral was to take place on the morThe feeble ray of hope that till now had flickered before my eyes expired. The grave was already dug to receive me— me, a living man! Horror, unutterable horror! No help! Nothing but passive submission to a tremendous fate!

How it happened that the senses I had up to this time retained were not stricken away by frenzy, I know not; but I still listened to every sound and movement. These were very few, as, for the most part, the house was hushed in gloomy reverence to the dead.

Ha! what is that—that violent pealing of the muffled knockerthat peremptory ringing of the house-bell? More noise! a hurried talking in the passage, and a rush of feet upstairs! Can Newnham have arrived? Yes, yes! My preserver is here!

Pale, and out of breath, my friend, accompanied by Olivia, darted into the room. In a moment the hard and stifling board was removed "I do not despair of restoring him," said Newnham Send one of the men to me, and order a bed to be

from over me. to my wife. warmed."

My wife flew to fulfil what was desired, and my valet was soon in the room. Assisted by Newnham, he quickly delivered me from the coffin, drew off the hateful wrappings in which I was inclosed, and carried me to bed. Though in a little while I had some slight feeling of the warmth, my immobility was as stubborn as ever. Hot bricks were

now applied to my feet. Other means were perseveringly adopted; and at length Newnham and his companion agitated my limbs by violent extensions and inflections. Watching the proper moment, my friend, placing his mouth close to my ear, cried out with a loud voice, "Northbrooke! Osborne Northbrooke, awake! You are in danger. Awake! Your friend Newnham calls you. Awake!"

This sudden vociferation following the other endeavours, dissipated,

in a slight muscular degree, the lethargy which had so long held me in thrall. Though weak even to exhaustion, I was able to give my friend a faint token that he had succeeded. Some corroborating and cordial liquors were now dropped into my mouth, and after an effort or two I swallowed them. The glad intelligence was conveyed to my wife, though she was forbidden for some hours to see me. Newnham remained at my side during the night, from time to time administering restoratives, and watching anxiously lest the torpor might return. the next midday I once more folded my dear wife in my arms.

On

I will not profane the sacredness of so hallowed an interview by any attempt to describe it. We learned that Newnham, while in Northumberland, had read an account in a newspaper of my "sudden death,” and that, without the least delay, he had posted to London as fast as horses could convey him. A little longer, and his anxious energy would have been in vain. Since the period above recorded, I have been blessed by two other children-girls-who by the sound of the carriage at the door, are just returned with their mother and brother from a ball at a neighbour's house. It is two o'clock in the morning. I have finished my narrative just in time, and will only add that I can now consign myself to my pillow without any fear, should any singular malady return, of being

BURIED ALIVE *.

THE HEAD AND THE HEART.

BY J. E. CARPENTER.

OH! the head and the heart are the jewels that fling
Their lustre alike round the peasant and king;
The head the most brilliant-the heart the most rare,
And Earth has no gem that can with them compare :
The head though it dazzles-'tis worldly display,
The heart sheds a balm 'neath the light of its ray;
In the deep mines of feeling they both take a part,—
We've a cheer for the head-and a tear for the heart!

Oh! the head and the heart, though they sometimes entwine
As the ivy the oak, or the tendrils the vine;

The head, like the oak, would in winter seem bare,
If the heart did not twine, like the fond ivy, there;

For the head, ever reckless, the heart never heeds,
Till the rough storms of life all its progress impedes,-
And when from its boughs they have stripped ev'ry part,
The head seeks for refuge and flies to the heart.

Yes! the head is the man, with his thoughts like the wind,
And the heart is like woman, still tender and kind;

But the head with his boasting would pitiful be,

Unless with the heart he contrived to agree;

The head, oft in error, will blame and abuse,

The heart bids us all to forgive and excuse;

No man without woman in life could take part,—

Then the world's brightest gems are the head and the heart.

Leamington Spa.

• The above recital is founded on a well-authenticated incident. In his " English Malady," page 307, Doctor Cheyne gives an instance even more remarkable than the present, of Death-in-Life.

THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF NIMROD.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF HANDLEY CROSS.

No. II.

OUR opening paper left Nimrod singing the praises of Melton Mowbray.

With Letters on the Game Laws, Racing, Cocking, &c., he carried the close of the previous hunting season (1824-5) into the October number of the Sporting Magazine of the latter year, thus early making a commencement of that system of procrastination that characterised his writings. One would have thought that these Tours-these personal observations, would have been best written at the time they were made, just as the "Times" Commissioner now publishes his progress in Ireland; but Nimrod could not manage it, he required to be back at home before he could do anything in the writing way, and no doubt much amusing matter would be lost in the keeping and transit. In our mind he overrated the importance of the Tours; and we really believe, if he had set to in a good, familiar, letter-writing style, and published them at the time they were made, the papers would have been far more acceptable than they were in their more polished form, at a later, and sometimes altogether out of date, period.

In October, 1825, he published his doings of the previous April, when he winds up the season most appropriately in the New Forest with Mr. Nichol's hounds. Here he found much good company, and good quarters at Sir Hussey Vivian's, but "a lamentable scarcity of foxes." This he attributes to the "unhappy mania for pheasants," which had increased so much in the precincts of the forest, that no sooner did a fox stray out of it than he was trapped. Indeed, he tells us further on, that that late ancient veteran, the amiable and renowned Mr. Butler, who exceeded his half century of Spring seasons in the New Forest, predicted that hunting in the Forest would be mere matter of history forty years thence. Twenty of the forty have now passed away without, we are happy to think, the prophecy being nearer its fulfilment. The number of the magazine concludes with a brace of good trencher stories, one told by, the other told of, the celebrated Mr. Butler. "Billy," as the reverend gentleman was generally called, was asked to dine with a Dorsetshire yeoman, a character that recent times has converted into the gentleman farmer, or perhaps squireen, as they call them in Ireland. 'My host," said Mr. Butler, weighed upwards of twenty stone, and sat behind a rump of beef weighing fifty-two pounds. Being a bachelor, a friend of his weighing nearly as much sat at the bottom of the table behind a loin of veal weighing thirty pounds, and there was a ham in the middle weighing twentyseven pounds. When these were removed, the maid in waiting placed six plum puddings in six different dishes on the table, when her master called to her That will do, Sally; don't put any more puddings down till I tell you." The other is told by Nimrod of " Billy" himself: "On the last day of my visit to Sir Hussey," writes Nimrod," he had a large party to dinner, amongst whom was Mr. Butler; and, by accident he was placed opposite an excellent painting of a fox by Barenger. It so happened that Mr. Butler never saw this fox till he had taken his glass of port wine after his cheese, when he suddenly exclaimed,

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