“We will go round by Warwick-lane,” he added.  “I must call upon Chowles, the coffin-maker.  It will not detain us a moment; and I have an order to give him.”

The mention of this name brought to Leonard’s mind the hideous attendant on the dead-cart, and he had no doubt he was the person in question.  It did not become him, however, to make a remark, and they set out.

Mounting Addle-hill, and threading Ave-Maria-lane, they entered Warwick-lane, and about half-way up the latter thoroughfare, the doctor stopped before a shop, bearing on its immense projecting sign the representation of a coffin lying in state, and covered with scutcheons, underneath which was written, “ANSELM CHOWLES, COFFIN-MAKER.”

“I do not think you will find Mr. Chowles at home,” observed Leonard:  “for I saw him with the dead-cart not half an hour ago.”

“Very likely,” returned the doctor; “but I shall see one of his men.  The coffin-maker’s business is now carried on in the night time,” he added, with a sigh; “and he drives a flourishing trade.  These sad times will make his fortune.”

As he spoke, he rapped with his cane at the door, which, after a little delay, was opened by a young man in a carpenter’s dress, with a hammer in his hand.  On seeing who it was, this person exhibited great confusion, and would have retired; but the doctor, pushing him aside, asked for his master.

“You cannot see him just now, sir,” replied the other, evidently considerably embarrassed.  “He is just come home greatly fatigued, and is about to retire to rest.”

“No matter,” returned the doctor, entering a room, in which three or four other men were at work, hastily finishing coffins; “I must see him.”

No further opposition being offered, Hodges, followed by the apprentice, marched towards an inner room.  Just as he reached the door, a burst of loud laughter, evidently proceeding from a numerous party, arose from within, and a harsh voice was heard chanting the following strains: 

SONG OF THE PLAGUE.  To others the Plague a foe may be, To me ’tis a friend—­not an enemy; My coffins and coffers alike it fills, And the richer I grow the more it kills. Drink the Plague!  Drink the Plague!

For months, for years, may it spend its rage On lusty manhood and trembling age; Though half mankind of the scourge should die, My coffins will sell—­so what care I? Drink the Plague!  Drink the Plague!

Loud acclamations followed the song, and the doctor, who was filled with disgust and astonishment, opened the door.  He absolutely recoiled at the scene presented to his gaze.  In the midst of a large room, the sides of which were crowded with coffins, piled to the very ceiling, sat about a dozen personages, with pipes in their mouths, and flasks and glasses before them.  Their seats were coffins, and their table was a coffin set upon a bier.  Perched on a pyramid of coffins, gradually diminishing in size as the pile approached its apex, Chowles was waving a glass in one hand, and a bottle in the other, when the doctor made his appearance.