The dead body of Mr. Lawrence M’Fadden, whose heart was strong with love of southern democracy, lies upon two pine-boards, ghastly and unshrouded, in a wretched slave-pen.  Romescos, surrounded by admiring friends, has found his way to the gaol, where, as is the custom, he has delivered himself up to its keeper.  He has spent a good night in that ancient establishment, and on the following morning finds his friends vastly increased.  They have viewed him as rather desperate now and then; but, knowing he is brave withal, have “come to the rescue” on the present occasion.  These frequent visits he receives with wonderful coolness and deference, their meats and drinks (so amply furnished to make his stay comfortable) being a great Godsend to the gaoler, who, while they last, will spread a princely table.

Brien Moon, Esq.-better known as the good-natured coroner-has placed a negro watchman over the body of the deceased, on which he proposes to hold one of those curious ceremonies called inquests.  Brien Moon, Esq. is particularly fond of the ludicrous, is ever ready to appreciate a good joke, and well known for his happy mode of disposing of dead dogs and cats, which, with anonymous letters, are in great numbers entrusted to his care by certain waggish gentlemen, who desire he will “hold an inquest over the deceased, and not forget the fees.”  It is said-the aristocracy, however, look upon the charge with contempt-that Brien Moon, Esq. makes a small per centage by selling those canine remains to the governor of the workhouse, which very humane gentleman pays from his own pocket the means of transferring them into giblet-pies for the inmates.  It may be all scandal about Mr. Moon making so large an amount from his office; but it is nevertheless true that sad disclosures have of late been made concerning the internal affairs of the workhouse.

The hour of twelve has arrived; and since eight in the morning Mr. Moon’s time has been consumed in preliminaries necessary to the organisation of a coroner’s jury.  The reader we know will excuse our not entering into the minuti‘ of the organisation.  Eleven jurors have answered the summons, but a twelfth seems difficult to procure.  John, the good Coroner’s negro servant, has provided a sufficiency of brandy and cigars, which, since the hour of eleven, have been discussed without stint.  The only objection our worthy disposer of the dead has to this is, that some of his jurors, becoming very mellow, may turn the inquest into a farce, with himself playing the low-comedy part.  The dead body, which lies covered with a sheet, is fast becoming enveloped in smoke, while no one seems to have a passing thought for it.  Colonel Tom Edon,—­who, they say, is not colonel of any regiment, but has merely received the title from the known fact of his being a hogdriver, which honourable profession is distinguished by its colonels proceeding to market mounted, while the captains walk,—­merely wonders how much bad whiskey the dead ’un consumed while he lived.