“Bless you!—a very common thing,” rejoins Mr. Snivel, with a bow. “Well, this lean simpleton said they (the graves) were made while he was sick. That being the case, he was deprived-and he lamented it bitterly-of being present at the funerals, and getting the names of the deceased. He is a great favorite with the grave-digger, lends him a willing hand on all occasions, and is extremely useful when the yellow fever rages. But to the sexton he is a perfect pest, for if a grave be made during his absence he will importune until he get the name of the departed. ‘Graves,’ says I, ‘where do they bury these unfortunate women who die off so, here in Charleston?’ ‘Bless you, my friend,’ says Graves, accompanying his words with an idiotic laugh, ‘why, there’s three stacks of them, yonder. They ship them from New York in lots, poor things; they dies here in droves, poor things; and we buries them yonder in piles, poor things. They go-yes, sir, I have thought a deal of this thing-fast through life; but they dies, and nobody cares for them-you see how they are buried.’ I inquired if he knew all their names. He said of course he did. If he didn’t, nobody else would. In order to try him, I desired he would show me the grave of Mag Munday. He shook his head, smiled, muttered the name incoherently, and said he thought it sounded like a dead name. ‘I’ll get my thinking right,’ he pursued, and brightening up all at once, his vacant eyes flashed, then he touched me cunningly on the arm, and with a wink and nod of the head there was no mistaking, led the way to a great mound located in an obscure part of the graveyard—” “A great mound! I thought it would come to that,” sighs Madame Montford, impatiently. “We bury these wretched creatures in an obscure place. Indeed, Madame, I hold it unnecessary to have anything to distinguish them when once they are dead. Well, this poor forlorn simpleton then sat down on a grave, and bid me sit beside him. I did as he bid me, and soon he went into a deep study, muttering the name of Mag Munday the while, until I thought he never would stop. So wild and wandering did the poor fellow seem, that I began to think it a pity we had not a place, an insane hospital, or some sort of benevolent institution, where such poor creatures could be placed and cared for. It would be much better than sending them to the whipping-post—” “I am indeed of your opinion-of your way of thinking, most certainly,” interpolates Madame Montford, a shadow of melancholy darkening her countenance.