worn on British soldiers’ hats, a ponderous chapeau and epaulets, worn, he insists, by Lord Nelson at the renowned battle of Trafalgar.  He has not opened, he adds, this box for more than twelve long years.  Next he drags forth a military cloak of great weight and dimensions.  “Ah!” he exclaims, with nervous joy, “here’s the identical cloak worn by Lord Cornwallis-how my ancestors used to prize it.”  And as he unrolls its great folds there falls upon the floor, to his great surprise, an old buff-colored silk dress, tied firmly with a narrow, green ribbon.  “Maria!  Maria!  Maria!” shouts the old man, as if suddenly seized with a spasm.  And his little gray eyes flash with excitement, as he says—­“if here hasn’t come to light at last, poor Mag Munday’s dress.  God forgive the poor wretch, she’s dead and gone, no doubt.”  In response to the name of “Maria” there protrudes from a little door that opens into a passage leading to a back-room, the delicate figure of a female, with a face of great paleness, overcast by a thoughtful expression.  She has a finely-developed head, intelligent blue eyes, light auburn hair, and features more interesting than regular.  Indeed, there is more to admire in the peculiar modesty of her demeanor than in the regularity of her features, as we shall show.  “My daughter!” says the old man, as she nervously advances, her pale hand extended.  “Poor woman! how she would mourn about this old dress; and say it contained something that might give her a chance in the world,” she rather whispers than speaks, disclosing two rows of small white teeth.  She takes from the old man’s hand the package, and disappears.  The anxiety she evinces over the charge discloses the fact that there is something of deep interest connected with it.

Mr. McArthur was about to relate how he came by this seemingly worthless old package, when the property-man, becoming somewhat restless, and not holding in over high respect the old man’s rubbish, as he called it in his thoughts, commences drawing forth, piece after piece of the old relics.  The old man will not allow this.  “There, young man!” he says, touching him on the elbow, and resuming his labor.  At length he draws forth the dust-tenanted skull, coated on the outer surface with greasy mould.  “There!” he says, with an unrestrained exclamation of joy, holding up the wasting bone, “this was in its time poor Yorick’s skull.  It was such a skull, when Yorick lived!  Beneath this filthy remnant of past greatness (I always think of greatness when I turn to the past), this empty tenement, once the domain of wisdom, this poor bone, what thoughts did not come out?” And the old man shakes his head, mutters inarticulately, and weeps with the simplicity of a child.

“The Star’ll have skulls and bones enough to make up for his want of talent now-I reckon,” interposes the property-man.  “But!—­I say, mister, this skull couldn’t a bin old Yorick’s, you know—­”

“Yorick’s!—­why not?” interrupts the old man.