There was a stir among the people, who began now to awaken from the lethargy that seemed to have come over them while they were waiting for the moment when it should arrive, that was to place the body under the green sod, against which so much of their anger had been raised.  There was a decent silence that pervaded the mob of individuals who had assembled.

Death, with all its ghastly insignia, had an effect even upon the unthinking multitude, who were ever ready to inflict death or any violent injury upon any object that came in their way—­they never hesitated; but even these, now the object of their hatred was no more, felt appalled.

’Tis strange what a change comes over masses of men as they gaze upon a dead body.  It may be that they all know that to that complexion they must come at last.  This may be the secret of the respect offered to the dead.

The undertakers are men, however, who are used to the presence of death—­it is their element; they gain a living by attending upon the last obsequies of the dead; they are used to dead bodies, and care not for them.  Some of them are humane men, that is, in their way; and even among them are men who wouldn’t be deprived of the joke as they screwed down the last screw.  They could not forbear, even on this occasion, to hold their converse when left alone.

“Jacobs,” said one who was turning a long screw, “Jacobs, my boy, do you take the chair to-night?”—­“Yes,” said Jacobs who was a long lugubrious-looking man, “I do take the chair, if I live over this blessed event.”

“You are not croaking, Jacobs, are you?  Well, you are a lively customer, you are.”—­“Lively—­do you expect people to be lively when they are full dressed for a funeral?  You are a nice article for your profession.  You don’t feel like an undertaker, you don’t.”

“Don’t, Jacobs, my boy.  As long as I look like one when occasion demands; when I have done my job I puts my comfort in my pocket, and thinks how much more pleasanter it is to be going to other people’s funerals than to our own, and then only see the difference as regards the money.”

“True,” said Jacobs with a groan; “but death’s a melancholy article, at all events.”—­“So it is.”

“And then when you come to consider the number of people we have buried—­how many have gone to their last homes—­and how many more will go the same way.”—­“Yes, yes; that’s all very well, Jacob.  You are precious surly this morning.  I’ll come to-night.  You’re brewing a sentimental tale as sure as eggs is eggs.”

“Well, that is pretty certain; but as I was saying how many more are there—­”

“Ah, don’t bother yourself with calculations that have neither beginning nor end, and which haven’t one point to go.  Come, Jacob, have you finished yet?”—­“Quite,” said Jacob.

They now arranged the pall, and placed all in readiness, and returned to a place down stairs where they could enjoy themselves for an odd half hour, and pass that time away until the moment should arrive when his reverence would be ready to bury the deceased, upon consideration of the fees to be paid upon the occasion.