As he grew older he grew graver, sad was his look, sombre the tone of
his voice, and half an hour's conversation with him was a very serious
affair indeed.
Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, was the scene of his infant
sports. Since his failure, his father had earned his _lively_hood,
by letting himself out as a mute, or mourner, to a furnisher of
funerals.
"_Mute_" and "_voluntary woe_" were his stock in trade.
Often did Mrs. Dumps ink the seams of his small-clothes, and darken his
elbows with a blacking brush, ere he sallied forth to follow borrowed
plumes; and when he returned from his public performance (_oft
rehearsed_) Master Sighmon did innocently crumple his crapes, and
sport with his weepers.
His melancholy outgoings at length were rewarded by some pecuniary
incomings. The demise of others secured a living for him, and after a
few unusually propitious sickly seasons, he grimly smiled as he counted
his gains: the mourner exulted, and, in praise of his profession, the
mute became eloquent.
Another event occurred: after burying so many people professionally, he
at length buried Mrs. Dumps; _that_, of course, was by no means a
matter of business. I have before remarked that she was descended from
the Coffins; she was now gathered to her ancestors.
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