He had always through life expressed the utmost abhorrence of being buried among what he haughtily termed the “_common brush_” in the parish churchyard, and pointed out a particular spot, in the neighbourhood of his cottage, where he had been frequently known to lie dreaming or reading for long summer days, as a more agreeable place of interment. It is remarked by a former biographer, that he has displayed no small portion of taste in the selection of this spot. It is the summit of a small rising ground, called the Woodhill, situated nearly in the centre of the parish of Manor, covered with green fern, and embowered on the top by a circle of _rowan-trees_ planted by the Dwarf’s own hand, for the double purpose of serving as a mausoleum or monument to his memory, and keeping away, by the charm of consecration supposed to be vested in their nature, the influence of witchcraft and other unhallowed powers from the grave. All around this romantic spot the waste features of a mountainous country bound the horizon, presenting a striking contrast to the fertile beauty of the intermediate valley, and withal capable of suggesting to the enthusiastic and imaginative mind of the Solitary, the idea of _this_ scene being a more desirable grave, sacred as it was in the grandeur of Nature, than the merely _Christian_ ground of a country churchyard. “What!” the proud unsocial soul of the misanthrope might perhaps think— “What! to be decently interred In a churchyard, and mingle my brave dust With stinking rogues, that rot in winding-sheets, Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o’ th’ soil!” Nevertheless, whatever might have been his sentiments regarding the dead among whom, during his days of health, he loathed to be placed, certain it is, that, when brought within view and feeling of the awful close of mortal existence, his heart was softened towards his fellow-men, his antipathies relaxed, and he died with a wish upon his lips to be buried among his fathers.