WE have a special regard for undertakers. Watching funerals was the first species of dissipation we indulged in in early youth. We have witnessed Shakesperian tragedies since with less satisfaction, and have respected undertakers proportionately in consequence. But for them we should never have known how much of the latent spirit of tragedy there is in horses' tails and feathers, and we especially admire the dramatic style in which they proclaim to the world the fact that another saint has gone to occupy his reserved seat in the celestial dress circle, or another sinner sneaked into his place in that "pit" which is notoriously bottomless, and where the free-list is by no means "confined to gentlemen of the Press."

Holding these views, we were naturally pleased to hear that our friends meditated a pic-nic, and we are still more gratified to be able to lay before the public the only reliable report of the proceedings in existence. The day was everything that could be desired. Huge masses of black cloud lay piled away to the south'ard, imparting a sombre and funereal aspect to everything, and the spirits of the excursionists rose in proportion. The picturesque cemetery of Haslem's Creek was the spot chosen for the celebration of the festivities, and the cheerful recesses of its cypress-shaded labyrinths that day re-echoed outbursts of merriment which must have been particularly trying to misanthropic ghosts. Every available hearse and mourning-coach was pressed into the service to convey the holiday-keepers to the mortuary railway station, from which a special train was to start at nine sharp, and the party in full gala costume—hat-bands, gloves, plumes and feathers—presented quite a lively appearance as the cortÈge moved down Brickfield Hill, the band playing "The dead march in Saul."

Arrived at the scene of the intended festivities, a luxurious al fresco banquet was set forth, the numerous marble slabs in the vicinity making the most delightful substitutes for tables imaginable, and the epitaphs and inscriptions forming an agreeable mental repast after the grosser bodily appetites had been subdued.

Messrs. Compagnoni, on this occasion, surpassed themselves, and the black-puddings, and other funereal delicacies—served on (brass)-plates—were decorated with "In memory of," "Requiescat in pace," and other appropriate mottoes calculated to raise the spirits of the party, and promote hilarity in the highest degree. Old Elmplank said he hadn't had such a lively time, or felt in such good spirits, since the measles were around that time three years. Meanwhile the young folks were: enjoying themselves, and fun and flirtation wore carried on in a decorous manner, out of respect to the emblems of mortality by which they were surrounded.

An amiable young coffin-maker, with the most fascinating hearse-suit appendages, made great inroads on the heart of Miss Grace Bugles. He requested her to enter his heart, which he compared to an unoccupied tomb, and reside there rent free. Should love like his, he asked, be "coffined, cribbed, confined" within the narrow limits of a flannel waistcoat? No; he invited her to come to his arms, shroud herself in his bosom, and stop the process of cremation which was going on in his heart.

Songs and recitations were in the programme. Miss Bugles sang "Those funeral bells," and "The old elm tree," and her admirer gave them a Bacchanalian, or rather a coffin-nailian ditty, with a chorus of "Bier, bier, beautiful bier," and a skull and thigh-bones accompaniment, which provoked thunders of applause; and when old Tassels, of the mourning livery-stables sang,

"But one golden tress of her hair I'll twine

In my hearse's sable plume,"

there was scarcely a dry eye in the assembly.

There were no healths drunk, such a custom being considered out of character with the proceedings, and not conducive to the prosperity of business generally. Undertakers who were sociably disposed took each other's measures, composed epitaphs, and talked about cremation. Old Elmplank, in his speech, said that any allusion to such a mode of disposing of the dead wounded him to the quick. "Introduce that process," he said, "and the whole romance of a funeral was done away with. The invention," he added, "was worthy of a cove as was mean enough to drink another cove's ealth." But even undertakers cannot keep up at the high-pressure pitch of hilarity for ever, and as evening drew on, the rain having been falling heavily for several hours, the cemetery was by common consent voted damp, and a general move was made for the railway station. The party returned to Sydney, well satisfied with their outing, and the number of colds caught must have made business lively for the next six months.