of a corrupted heart, with a hope of meeting the wan spectres of his own departed passions, since he could not meet the passions themselves; and he met them, for they could not rest, but returned to their former habitation, like unclean spirits as they were, each bringing seven more along with it, but not to torment him.  Such were the beings with which the soul of this aged materialist was crowded.  During life his well known motto was, “let us eat, and drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.”  Upon this principle, expanded into still wider depravity, did he live and act during a protracted existence, and to those who knew him, and well known he was, there appeared something frightfully revolting in the shameless career of this impenitent old infidel.

Deaker was a large man, with a rainbow protuberance before, whose chin, at the time we speak of, rested upon his breast, giving to him the exact character which he bore—­that of a man who to the last was studious of every sensual opportunity.  His gray, goatish eye, was vigilant and. circumspect, and his under lip protruded in a manner, which, joined to the character of his age, left no one at a loss for the general subject matter of his thoughts.  He always wore top boots, and generally went on horseback, having that part of his hat which rested on the collar of his coat, turned up and greasy.

Squire Deaker’s language was not more moral than his life—­for he not only enforced his principles by his example, but also by his precept.  His conversation consequently resolved itself into a mingled stream of swearing and obscenity.  Ridicule of religion, and a hardened triumph in his own iniquitous exploits, illustrated and confirmed by a prodigality of blasphemous asservations, constituted the staple of his thoughts and expressions.  According to his own principles he could not look forward to another life, and consequently all that remained for him was to look back upon an unbroken line of seduction and profligacy—­upon wealth and influence not merely abused, but prostituted to the lowest and grossest purposes of our worst passions—­upon systematic crime—­unmanly treachery—­and that dishonest avarice which constituted the act of heartless desertion in himself the ultimate ruin and degradation of his victims.  Such was this well known squire of the old school, whose portrait, taken from life, will be recognized by every one who ever knew him, should any such happen to peruse these pages.

At the period of which we write Squire Deaker was near eighty, and although feeble and broken down, he still exhibited the remains of a large, coarse, strong-boned animal, not without a vigorous twinkle of low cunning in his eye, and a duplicity of character and principle about his angular and ill-shaped eye-brows which could not be mistaken.  He was confined to his bed, and for the first time during many years, was unable to attend the Castle Cumber quarter sessions.

It was the second or third day after their close that about the hour of ten o’clock, a.m., he awoke from a heavy and unhealthy doze, which could scarcely be termed sleep, but rather a kind of middle state between that and waking.  At length he raised his head, gasped, and on finding no one in the room, he let fly a volley of execrations, and rang the bell.