by William Gilbert.
Originally published in The Argosy (Strahan & Co.) vol.2 #7 (Jun 1866).
For the — day in April, 1865, I received three invitations: one to attend the funeral of a wealthy old bachelor, ho had resided in Russell-square, and was to be buried in Highgate Cemetery; the second, to be one of a wedding-party at a house in Baker-street; and the third, to dine with a friend residing in one of the squares in South Kensington. As the wedding and the funeral were to take place about the same hour, and in different parts of London, it was impossible for me to attend both. I was not particularly interested in either. I knew but little of the young couple who were to be married; and I am no admirer of a wedding-breakfast. I do not like champagne in the morning, and have a strong dislike to the stereotyped twaddle—dignified by the name of speeches—of the breakfast-table. The gentleman whose funeral I was invited to attend was little more than a stranger to me; and the sole reason for his executors complimenting me with an invitation was that I had been called upon to witness his will. The turning-point which decided me in my choice between the two invitations was my wish to ascertain whether a distant relation of the deceased, whom I knew intimately, had been left any money. He was at the time a resident in India, and far from being in affluent circumstances.
The invitation, then, for the funeral was accepted; and at the hour appointed, the mourning coach drew up at my door to convey me to the house of the deceased in Russell-square. On arriving, I found two mutes, with the usual scarfs and a singular sort of black banners in their hands, standing at the door. As soon as I alighted from the carriage, one of them gave a prolonged, though subdued knock at the door, and then resumed his original position. I entered the house, and a respectable-looking, middle-aged man, with a white cravat, and a face of great solemnity, took my hat, and in a low solemn tone of voice asked me if I was a relative of the deceased. I told him I was not, and asked him why he made the inquiry. After giving a low sigh of relief (as if it gratified him to hear that my feelings were less likely to be lacerated from the fact that no relationship existed between me and the deceased), he softly replied that he wished to know whether he was to place a silk or a crape hat-band on my hat. Another attendant, with a face as solemn as his fellow's, now ushered me into a large dining-room, from which daylight had been studiously excluded,—the only light being from some candles on the table. In this room were assembled perhaps a dozen gentlemen, and it was easy to perceive that they did not belong to the undertaker's staff, for although dressed in black, there was not the slightest appearance of solemnity about them. They were conversing together in an ordinary tone of voice, about different topics of the day; not one among them even naming the deceased gentleman. Everything seemed to be taken by them in an ordinary business-like way, as if their presence was a compliment they were paying to the deceased, and nothing more.
Among the spectators, two only showed anything more than perfect indifference on the occasion. These were young men, who, while attempting to put on the look of unconcern which characterized the rest of the party, were evidently in a state of satisfactory excitement. I immediately guessed them to be the two presumed heirs of the deceased, and that the principal subject of interest to them at that moment was the amount which would be left to each. My musings were interrupted by the entrance of two of the undertaker's men,—one carrying a large silver tray with glasses on it, filled with different sorts of wine, and the other a similar waiter with cakes. These men were admirable models of funereal propriety. There was a solemn expression upon their countenances, without the slightest tinge of sorrow in it; their faces seemed as inflexible as those we see on marble monuments; nothing, apparently, could either make them laugh or weep. As they handed the waiters round, they asked the guests, in a solemn, sepulchral tone of voice admirably suited to the occasion, whether they would take a glass of wine or some cake. When their duties were over, they again left the room, in the same noiseless way in which they had entered.
The next event was the entrance of two others, as solemn as the rest. One of them carried a large tray with black gloves on it, and the other, taking each gentleman in turn, fitted him with a pair. "Can you tell me your number, sir?" he inquired of me, with great solemnity. I told him I did not know it; and he chose two or three pairs of the size he thought would suit me. This man's face struck me more than any of the others, so rigidly solemn was it. After he had finished his duties with me, he proceeded to the others, and so on till all were provided with gloves, when he and his fellow silently left the room, closing the door after them. The next part of the ceremony consisted in several of the men entering the room, some carrying on their arms long black cloaks, while others carried hats, with the long hatband fixed upon them. As I had suspected, I found there were only two with crape, and these were assigned to the young men whose satisfied expression of countenance had led me to imagine them to be relatives of the deceased. We were now ushered in due form to the mourning coaches, four persons in each. I was assigned a place in the last with the doctor, the solicitor, and another individual, whose appearance and manners made me suspect he had only been invited to make the number complete. What he was I cannot form the slightest idea; he was certainly well dressed, but from the time he entered the carriage, until the body was consigned to the earth, he uttered not a single word; and as soon as the ceremony was over he disappeared, and we saw him no more.
In due time the funeral procession arrived at the cemetery, and the whole proceedings were carried through with the same air of cold, indifferent propriety which had hitherto distinguished the ceremony. On returning to the house, I found myself alone in the carriage with the doctor; the solicitor having entered one of the others, in which were the two heirs. The doctor was a chatty, good-natured, and shrewd little man of about fifty years of age, somewhat of a cynic, and very intelligent. I soon found myself perfectly at home with him; and the body having been consigned to the earth, we both seemed tacitly to admit that there was no occasion for any further solemnity of manner, and conversed fluently together.
"Did you know anything of the deceased?" I inquired; "he seems to have been little cared for, judging from the behaviour of those at the funeral."
"I knew little more of him than as a patient," said the doctor; "he was an ordinary sort of man, possessed of considerable wealth, of which he was very penurious. At the same time, I must say I never heard of an unworthy or dishonest action that he ever committed. His good qualities seemed to be all of a negative description; nothing particularly to admire, and certainly less to object to."
"Are not those two young men with crape hat-bands his heirs?" I asked.
"I believe so," said the doctor, "and they are of the same opinion; however, we shall know more on that subject by-and-by. They were the only persons of the party who showed the slightest interest in what was going forward, and their feelings seemed to be those of pure satisfaction."
"I remarked that," I said. "The money the old gentleman has left them, seems in this case, at any rate, to have neutralized any sorrow they might have felt at his decease."
"Exactly so," remarked the doctor, "and as far as my experience goes, I believe the worst thing a man can do, in five cases out of six, if he wishes for the love and affection of any individual after his decease, is to leave him a large sum of money. I have frequently noticed that a five-pound note given during life is received with far greater gratitude by the legatee, than five hundred pounds left to him by will."
We conversed in this strain till the mourning coach had arrived at the house in Russell-square, where the will was read. As both the doctor and myself had anticipated, the two young men were left the bulk of the property. I was sorry to see that my poor friend in India, with a wife and a large family of children depending on him, had no legacy. My curiosity on that point being now satisfied, I left the house of sham mourning, and proceeded homewards, out of spirits and disgusted with the whole proceeding. The impression made on my mind by the funeral hung over me the whole day,—everything seemed coloured by it; I was gloomy myself, and doubtless that made every object assume the same tint in my eyes.
At last the hour arrived for me to dress for the dinner-party to which I had been invited. When I arrived at the house I found most of the guests assembled, and a very brilliant party they made. I was on terms of intimacy with more than one-half of those present, but still I could not raise my spirits to a point befitting the occasion. The servants and waiters (for several had evidently been hired) particularly attracted my attention as having the same solemn expression of countenance which I had noticed in the undertaker's men at the funeral in the morning. Although their duties were those tending to cause hilarity and good humour, they did not seem to take the slightest pleasure in their task, and had the dinner been in the family vault instead of the well-lighted dining-room, their faces could not have been more serious. Even when they had occasion to speak to any of the guests, when naming the dishes they presented to them, they did it in the sort of conventional whisper used by the undertaker's men in the morning. At last one spoke to me, on offering me some Moselle, in such a funereal tone of voice as to especially attract my attention, and I turned round to look at him. Judge of my surprise when I recognized. the face of the undertaker's man who had fitted on my gloves in the morning. From my surprised manner it was utterly impossible that the man did not notice me, still not the slightest change passed over his countenance. Had his face been a plaster cast his features could not have been more rigid. Several times during the meal I noticed him, and he evidently saw me, yet still the same immobility of feature continued. At last I gave up watching him, and conversed as fluently as I could with the other guests.
The dinner was a perfect success. At length it was time to depart, and one by one the guests left, until I was the last, having been engaged in an earnest discussion with my host, which lasted for some time after all the other visitors had gone. At last, I bade him good-bye, and descended to the lower room to get my hat and coat. Here I found the undertaker's man, and another person with him, who from the expression of his countenance might have followed the same occupation.
"It is a very wet night, sir," said my friend of the morning; "had I not better send for a cab?"
"I should be much obliged to you if you would," said I. "I hope there is a cab-stand near."
"No sir, I am sorry to say there is not; and on a wet night there may be some difficulty in obtaining one. I suspect we must send as far as the stand at Knightsbridge before one can be found. I am afraid you will have to wait pretty well half an hour."
"It cannot be helped," I replied; "and you will oblige me by sending for one immediately."
"Certainly, sir. John," continued he, addressing the other man, "put on your hat, and get an umbrella, and fetch this gentleman a cab as quickly as you can."
John immediately started on his errand, and I was left alone with my friend.
"Did I not see you at the funeral this morning?" I inquired of him.
"Yes, sir," he replied, "and a very nice funeral it was. The house I work for always do things in a capital manner; there is not one in the trade better up to-their business."
"But if you are an undertaker's man, how is it that you can be a gentleman's servant at the same time?" I inquired.
"Tam not a servant, sir," he answered; "I live with my brother, who keeps a greengrocer's shop; and as I can wait well at table, I am a good deal in request one way or another during the season. Before I saw you at the funeral this morning, I assisted in laying out a wedding-breakfast, and this evening, as you see, I am waiting at a dinner-party."
"Where may the wedding have been?" I inquired.
"At No. — Baker-street, sir."
By a singular coincidence, it was the very wedding to which I had been invited.
"You must have seen a good deal of life," I said to him.
"I have indeed, sir, seen a great deal of life; in our way of business one cannot help it. What with waiting at christenings and weddings, performing funerals, and attending at dinner-parties, I assure you we get quite philosophical."
I have written the word philosophical, as I strongly suspect the man intended to make use of it; at the same time I admit it might have been physiological or psychological, or a mixture of the three.
"And pray, which might have been your original occupation," I inquired, "the waiter, or the undertaker's man?"
"The undertaker's man was my original profession, and few men have had more experience in it than I have. I began at the bottom of the ladder and have worked up to the top rung. I have been at parish funerals, and I have also attended at the interment of princes of the blood royal." This was evidently said with the intention of arousing my admiration and respect, and I determined to humour him in his little vanity.
"And pray, which of your professions do you like best?" I inquired.
"Decidedly the undertaker's, sir; there is far more mind in it; waiting at table is all mechanical."
"Do you generally see as little feeling shown at funerals as there was at the one this morning?" I asked.
"It entirely depends, sir, upon who the parties may be, and what may have been their line of life. Among the rich, old bachelors are little cared for, as was the case with the gent we buried this morning. A great deal more of sorrow is shown for old maids than for old bachelors. In some houses I have seen old maids a good deal grieved for, but I never saw a tear dropped for an old bachelor. Generally I find the poor are much more sorrowed after than the rich."
"To what do you attribute the difference?" I inquired.
"Oh, sir, there are many causes. In the first place, those nearest in relationship to the rich are anxious to know what money has been left them; and they are always jealous of more being left to another than themselves. Again, the absence of ladies takes away from the sorrow of the scene, as of course they always cry more freely than the men; still, I understand, even with them, that they do not grieve as much as women of the poorer class do for their relatives. They are also interested in what money has been left, and then there are more people to console them. So what with that, and thinking how they will have their mourning made (as I hear from the ladies' maids, for of course I do not know it myself), their sorrow appears to be considerably softened. I made up my mind on this point when I was employed one day when very young on a heavy job in the country."
"A heavy job?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir, a heavy job."
"And pray what may a heavy job be?" I asked.
"What the newspapers call 'the funeral obsequies of the deceased nobleman.' I noticed there how little any one cared about him. He had lived a very fast life, and had been a very bad husband. His wife did not pretend to the slightest sorrow for him, and he was despised by his children; still it was a magnificent affair, and many hundreds of pounds were spent to do him honour—what for, I do not know, for never was a man less deserving of it."
"But I should have thought, that from the misery and degradation in which a great portion of our poor live, they would neither have the time nor inclination to grieve much for their relatives."
"You are very much mistaken, sir; the poor have far greater respect shown to them at their decease than most people imagine. You would be astonished if you knew how much they subscribed to their burial clubs in order to get a decent funeral for their families. Even amongst the poorest and worst, they will still rather pay for their funerals than have those dear to them degraded by a pauper's burial."
"And pray, what is there so terrible in a pauper's funeral?"
"Upon my word, sir, I don't know, unless it is that they look upon it as a sign that nobody cares for the dead person. This feeling is far more common among the women than the men. A poor man cares very little what becomes of his body after his death; but I have known women almost starving who had two or three pounds sewn up in their linen for the purpose of avoiding a pauper's funeral."
"To what do you attribute this excessive dislike to a pauper's funeral in women?" I asked.
"Well, sir, I have often been much puzzled about it, because a pauper's funeral may be performed as decently as one that you pay two pounds fifteen shillings for. I am half inclined to believe, that to be buried by the parish is held by them to be a sign that nobody cares for them, and this idea is frequently more terrible than death itself, No matter how slight the regard that may be shown, still they like to have somebody who does regret them. Some time since, before I left off attending paupers' funerals, an old woman who had been in the workhouse for some years, finding her death approaching, sent for the matron. 'Mrs, B—.,' she said, 'you have always been very kind to me, and I am very grateful to you for it, but I want you to promise to do me one favour when I am dead. In my stays you will find four pounds sewn up. One I wish to leave to you, as a testimonial of your kindness—the other three I wish to be expended on my funeral. I know the Poor Law Guardians would claim the money if they could, but I have so great a dread of a pauper's funeral, that I have kept it all the time I have been in the house, and I hope you will see my wish carried out.' 'Certainly, Betty, I will. But is there no one you would like to leave the money to? I promise you if you are buried by the parish I will see that every respect is shown you, just as if you paid for a funeral yourself.' 'No, ma'am,' said Betty, after hesitating a moment, 'I have no relations whatever, they're all dead and gone; but I would rather have my own funeral paid for, and that you should superintend it. It will be a great comfort to me to know that when I die there will be one person in the world who will have as much regard for me as to see me decently buried.'"
"Then there is not much kind feeling existing between the inmates of the workhouse?" I said.
"Well, sir, of course they go there as old men and women, and they do not form friendships easily; still a death never occurs in a workhouse ward without leaving a greater effect on those in it than we noticed at that job we were at this morning."
"I should feel obliged," I said, interrupting him, "if you would speak of the interment of my deceased friend in somewhat more respectful terms than calling it a job."
"I beg your pardon, sir, I meant the funeral we performed."
I felt some objection to the word "performed," but after a moment's reflection I found it was so appropriate to the occasion, that I let it pass without observation.
"Then if no friendships are formed in a workhouse ward, how do the inmates show sorrow at the decease of one of their companions?"
"I don't mean to say absolute sorrow, sir, but a considerable degree of respect. If a man dies in the male ward, you generally find on the day of his funeral, all the rest will remain silent and reserved; talk little to each other; and apparently be absorbed in their own thoughts. In the women's ward, they generally cry a good deal, but it soon passes off—far sooner than with the men. I assure you, sir, there is a great deal that is wrong in the song, or piece of poetry, that you have heard—
"'Rattle his bones
Over the stones;
He's only a pauper
That nobody owns.'
"You seem to think," I said, "that women get over their grief sooner than men; is that really the case?"
"Yes it is, sir. Their sorrow is more expressive than the sorrow of men, and their affection is certainly so too; but they do not grieve so long."
"You mean respectable men, of course."
"No, sir. Even among the coarsest men, I have occasionally met with instances of great affection. If you will not be offended at my affability, I will give you a couple of proofs of the truth of what I say."
"So far from being offended," I replied, "you will oblige me particularly by so doing."
"Well, sir, my first case is that of a man, who was the ganger of a party of navvies. He was a fellow of about six feet two inches high, as strong as a horse; and about as ruffianly a brute as ever lived. He was a drunkard, and a bully, and none of his companions liked him, although from the amount of work he did and the order he kept, he was always in full employ, and earned very high wages. He had been married to a very decent sort of woman, whom he treated with indifference when sober, so long as she got his meals ready for him—and with great brutality when he was drunk. The woman died, and left a child, about three years of age. After her death, Bill Storks and his little girl went to reside with his sister, a widow woman, in Rotherhithe. Now Bill, who had not a single particle of affection for any other human being—not even his own sister—had a wonderful fondness for his child. He used to humour her in everything, and nothing was too good for her. One day, when she was about four years old, she was playing near the fire, and knocked over a kettle of water, which scalded her so severely that she died from the effects. Bill was away at the time, and as soon as he60 received his sister's letter, telling him of the accident, he left the job he was on, and came home three parts drunk, and raving mad. His first act was to beat his sister cruelly, and then he burst into tears, and cried like a child over his little daughter. The police were obliged to interfere, and he was informed that if he laid his hand on his sister again, he would certainly be locked up, and taken before a magistrate. As soon as he was sober, however, he begged his sister's pardon for what he had done, and never laid his hands on her again. Our people had to perform the funeral, and I had the management of the job. The mourners consisted of Bill, his sister, and two navvies. With the exception of the woman, they were all pretty well intoxicated. The party lounged along, and in time we reached the churchyard. Bill looked not sorrowful, but defiant, and scowled around him, as if he should like to find somebody to quarrel with.
"'All passed off quietly enough until the sexton threw some earth upon the coffin, when the words 'Dust to dust' were said by the clergyman. Bill then started up, and shaking his fist at the sky, made use of such expressions against God, for having taken his child away, that I should be sorry to repeat them. The clergyman looked astonished, and was evidently upon the point of speaking to Bill, when one of the navvies lurched up to him, and said, 'Don't mind him, sir, he has not got his head; and he don't know what he is saying on. You had better not speak to him, sir, he will be all right presently.'
"The clergyman took the hint and proceeded with the service, and when it was over the party returned homewards. Before they had got outside the churchyard walls Bill turned round, and began making use of the same language as before. The woman, terrified, put her hand upon his mouth and begged him to be quiet, reminding him that God had the rights to take his child if he pleased.
"'She's right, Bill,' said one of the navvies, 'Don't stand making a fool of yourself there.' And the party again turned homewards.
"That evening Bill, as well as his friends, got stupidly drunk upon beer. He returned home about eleven o'clock at night, when he threw himself upon the bed with his clothes on, and slept until the next morning. When he arose he came down stairs and found his sister in the room, and his breakfast spread out for him on the table. He took no notice of her, but seating himself at the table, poured out some tea, and began his meal; he had no appetite, however, and could not swallow a mouthful. He pushed the things from him in a spiteful sort of manner, and folding his arms on the table, he laid his head on them, and there sat quietly for some time.
"At last he arose from his seat, and looking mechanically round the room, his eye fell on a little basket, which had been a plaything of his child's. He took it up and examined it for a minute, and then began looking for other things which had belonged to her. He found a little rag doll which he himself had made for her, and also a coloured story-book he had once given to her. This he opened, and his eye rested on the picture of a lion, on which were the marks of her little fingers, for he had taught her to beat it, and say, 'Naughty lion.' These, with one or two other little things, he placed in the basket, which he tied over with paper, and then hung it on a hook over the chimneypiece. As soon as he had done this he turned to his sister, who had come into the room. 'Don't let nobody touch that there, do you hear?' he said. 'Mind, if they do they shall hear of it again, I can tell you.' Then snatching up his hat he left the house, nor did he return to it again until the evening, and then he was, as usual, drunk.
"He continued this way of life for two or three days, and then resolved on going on a job into the country. When he left the house he gave especial directions as well as threats to his sister, against allowing any one to touch the basket; and then, without saying another word; he took up his bundle and went away. In about a fortnight's time he returned, in consequence of a quarrel he had had with his mates. They had been drinking together one evening at a public-house, when one of his comrades, who had joined him that day said to him, 'I was very sorry to hear about that poor child of yours, Bill' Bill was at that moment drinking from a pewter pot. His eyes glared viciously at the man who had spoken to him, and, saying, with an oath—'What do you speak about her for?' he dashed the pewter pot at the other's head. Fortunately it did not hit him, but struck the wall with such force that the pot was doubled up like a glove. This caused a great row among the other navvies, and Bill was obliged to leave. THis first care on arriving at home was to examine the little basket, and he gave a growl of satisfaction on finding it had not been touched. He now loafed about London for some days, doing no work, and drinking. One morning after breakfast, when he was sitting quietly by the fire, his sister came into the room with her bonnet and shawl on. 'Where are you going to, old gal?' he said, good-naturedly. 'I am going,' she said, 'to get something for dinner, or you will have to go without one.' 'Stop a minute,' he said, 'and I'll go with you; only give me time to put on my boots.' He left the room, and his sister seated herself on a chair to wait until he was ready. She waited for more than half an hour, and then went out to see what he was about. She had hardly got to the door of the room before she gave a loud scream and fell senseless to the floor. Before her, in an outhouse in the yard, she saw her brother hanging by his neck to one of the rafters. As soon as she recovered herself she called for assistance, and they found the wretched man was quite dead. He had never been able to get over the loss of his child, and at last it became so oppressive to him that he put an end to his life.
"The other case is that of a poor widow who, with her two daughters (one of them a great cripple), lived in one room. They had formerly seen much better days, and were respectable. Although very industrious they lived in great poverty, maintaining themselves by any little jobs of needlework they could get. A time of distress, however, came on, and work was not very plentiful, and the poor cripple became worse in consequence of bad living. By way of making their money go further, they gave up the doctor who usually attended them, and obtained a ticket for the dispensary instead. The dispensary doctor was a very kind, humane, and skilful man, and paid them every attention in his power; but still the cripple did not improve, and at last they began to be greatly alarmed about her.
"One day the widow said to him, 'Doctor, I am very uneasy about my child, I wish you would tell me candidly whether there is any danger, 'I am sorry to say I should not be telling you the truth if I said there was not; at the same time she may certainly live a considerable time yet. Everything will depend upon the way we keep up her constitution.' 'I am sure, sir,' said the widow, 'she will willingly take any medicines you may send her? 'Medicine will do her very little good,' said the doctor, 'beyond taking a little cod-liver oil, What she wants is good nursing, good air, and plenty of nourishment; the first, I know she has; the second, I fear she cannot get; and you must make every effort to obtain the third. Meat she must have every day, in some shape or other; beef-tea would be as good as anything for her; and she ought also to have at least a pint of porter, and a glass or two of port wine.'
"The poor woman sighed when she heard the doctor's directions, but made no remark. There was only one way of obeying them; and that was by pawning her things as far as they would go. This, however, was not done without the mother and the other daughter suffering great privation in consequence, I believe they lived upon nothing but bread and water, and very little of that. The poor cripple noticed how little they took, and pressed them to take some of the things they had procured for her; but they made excuse that they had no appetite, and did not care for meat or beer.
"At last the poor cripple gradually got worse, and died, just when their means were nearly exhausted. It was really beautiful to see the attention and kindness shown to the poor girl during her last illness, by both mother and sister. She required a good deal of nursing; and night and day they were unceasing in their attendance on her. One was always on duty, while the other worked hard with her needle, to obtain what little money they could by soldiers' shirt-making, They never appeared to be tired, and the knowledge that they were benefiting the poor girl seemed to keep up their strength. After her death they had, of course, to bury her; but how to do this they did not know, without asking the parish to let them have a pauper's funeral. This, however, the mother and daughter would on no account allow; and they set to work, night and day, with their needle, to earn, if possible, enough to pay the expenses of a funeral of the cheapest sort. They did not, however, succeed; and at last the other lodgers began to complain of their keeping the body so long in the room. They wanted one pound still to make up the required sum; and the mother—in despair—went to the parish officers, and asked whether they would be kind enough to let her have a sovereign in order to bury her daughter. This could not be done; for the Poor Law prohibits it. The clerk told her the Guardians were only allowed to pay the whole or none. What to do now, the poor woman did not know! To submit to a pauper's funeral she would not; and to pay for another she could not. At last our governor came to her help, and he said to her, 'My good soul, I will tell you what I will do. I must send a parish coffin in the day time to your house, that all may seem fair and straightforward; but in the evening I will take it away and leave you another; the Guardians will pay me for a parish funeral, and you can make it up to me after it is over, and I will return them the money.'
"Well, the poor woman thankfully accepted the offer, and paid in advance what money she had in hand. The funeral was ordered to take place the next day,—and a very decent one it was, as I know, having conducted it myself. The mother and daughter were the only mourners; and I never saw greater sorrow than theirs. I noticed the widow, as she stood by the grave, weeping bitterly. I think I see her now,—a tall, pale-faced, thin-looking woman; and when it came to 'dust to dust, and ashes to ashes,' she sank on her knees in a very curious manner. It was not as if she had no strength, but it seemed rather as if some heavy hand had been placed on the back of her neck, against her will, which pressed her down, down, on her knees, at last bending her head almost to the earth.
"The funeral over, we returned to the house. The mother and daughter were sorrowful enough all that day, there was no doubt of it. The next morning they opened the window and commenced cleaning the room; they were silent and sad as they were putting things away—but still there were no tears. As soon as they had got things a little put to rights, they again set to work to earn sufficient money to pay the balance of the funeral expenses to our governor. He was a good-natured man, and told them there was no necessity, as the parish would not ask for the money, 'he was sure.' They told him they were much obliged to him, but it was a mark of respect to the one who was dead; and they were determined to pay every shilling—which they honestly did. When the amount was made up, all sorrow seemed to have left them. Understand me, sir, I do not mean to say that they did not love the poor girl as dearly as ever; but they did not grieve for her. They now managed to get on a little bit in the world; and six months after the death of her sister, the other girl married, and is now doing very well, and her mother still lives with her.
"There was another case I met with —" Here a violent ringing was heard at the door.
"Here's your cab, sir," said the undertaker's man, breaking off suddenly, and hurriedly helping me on with my coat, and putting my hat in my hand, as if he wished to get home as soon as possible. He accompanied me to the street door, where I saw his companion, whom he had sent for the cab.
"I am sorry I have kept you waiting, sir," he said; "but I had a good deal of difficulty in finding a cab; it is such a nasty night, they are very difficult to be had."
"I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken," I replied, slipping at the same time half-a-crown into his hand.
My loquacious friend noticed the gift, and immediately the familiarity of his manner ceased, and he again assumed the solemn aspect natural to the undertaker's man. The two now accompanied me across the pavement to the cab, assisting me as I entered it in the same manner they are accustomed to do on helping persons into a mourning coach. They then closed the cab door, and retreating under the portico, stood watching me on each side of the street door, with the solemn aspect of a couple of mutes. The coachman then drove off, and I threw myself back in the cab,—reflecting during my way home on the mutability of human affairs.