“M.?”
“Yes. Really, though, now I look at you, you don't seem to follow my ideas exactly.”
“Not with that precision which I could wish.”
“Psha! In plain English, then,—the parson being about to kick the bucket—”
“Kick the—”
“Ay,—hop the twig,—or pop off the hooks:—pick and choose, I've a variety.”
“And pray, sir, what may his kicking the bucket be to you?”
“Thirty pounds, at least, if his widow's a trump, and things turn out kindly.”
“I'm quite in a fog!—Pray, sir, who and what are you?”
“Didn't I say I was a professional man—an undertaker?”
“Oh! you're an undertaker, are you?”
“At your service.”
“Thank you. And so you think of seeing M. home, do you?”
“Yes; box him up, as we say;—Ha, ha!”
“And I'm to have five pounds—”
“Exclusive of the usual jollification on the occasion, with the mutes and mourners; and an additional guinea, if you think proper to officiate with a black stick and hat-band. Pull your hat over your eyes, hold a white pocket-handkerchief to your face, and nobody will know you:—that's the way to manage. Ha, ha!”
“Very good; very good, indeed. Ha, ha!”
“Ha, ha! But come—what say you to a cheerful glass on this melancholy occasion? Sorrow is dry, you know;—I'll be a bottle.”
“You're very good. And so you're an undertaker, after all, are you?”
“To be sure I am:—come along.”
“And I'm to smuggle you up to Mrs. M., eh?—Ha, ha!—I must say I admire your mode of doing business much.”
“Tact, my dear fellow,—tact and decorum; I display no other talents.”
“Your gay manner, too—”
“Yes; 'we're the lads for life and joy,' as the song says. I'm naturally cheerful; but when I feel pretty sure of my man—as I now do—oddsheart! I'm as merry as a grig. Take my arm.” The undertaker marched off in triumph with his supposed prey leaning on his arm, towards a neighbouring tavern; but whether the reverend gentleman blighted his hopes by an early explanation, or forgot Mrs. M. for a few moments longer, and partook of the proffered bottle, “the chronicler cannot state.”
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In my little parlour, where,
Seated in an easy chair,
At the dull decline of day,
Oft I doze an hour away;—
Yester-eve I had a dream,
Of such seeming misery,
That, at last, my own loud scream,
Roused me to reality:
And, though strange my say may seem,
Sleep I'd rather never more,
Than hear again what then I bore.
Time, methought, was journeying fast:
Years, like moments, fleetly passed;
Still on they flowed,—behind,—before,
Across what seemed a dismal sea,
To break like billows on the shore
Of measureless Eternity.
From all his leaden clogs releas'd,
Anon, the speed of Time increas'd;
Till even light could scarcely vie,
With the speed of a passing century.
The hills were grey,—the world was old;
Its hour was come, its sands were told;
The knell of a million years had rung;
And I, alone, continued young,
And, now, the work of woe began,
Despair through every bosom ran;
Death stalked abroad in open day,
And, visibly, attack'd his prey:
No more by slow disease he work'd,
Or in the cup of nectar lurk'd;
No host was now in battle slain,
No man set up,—a butt for Pain
To shoot her lingering arrows through;
No more the earth devour'd a town;
But Death walk'd openly in view,
And, with his scythe, mow'd myriads down.
I clos'd my eyes,—I saw no more,
Until a voice close to my ear,—
A voice I ne'er had heard before,
So dismal that I quail'd with fear,
And utter'd that wild horrid scream,
Which rous'd me from my wretched dream!
Bade me awake, methought, and see
Him, whose doom it was to be,
The last of human kind!
An awful form before me stood,
Whose aspect boded aught but good:
His looks were grim, his locks were grey;
He seem'd like one near life's last goal;
And thrice, methought, I heard him say,
That he came to cast my soul!
My sight grew dim, I gasped for breath;—
(For who can brave a sudden death?)—
A moment's fearful pause ensued,
Then he,—the object of my dread,—
Address'd me thus in accents rude;
I listened, less alive than dead.
“I've said it once, I've said it twice,
I've raised my voice, and said it thrice:
My time is short,—I've much to do;—
I've lately lost my brother;—
I cannot wait all night on you,
For I must cast another.
To make your boot fit well, a tree
You've ordered, as I'm told;
And, once again, I say, in me,
The last-man you behold.”
