THE COFFIN MAKER. 85 



There lay the corpse, stiff and unconscious; there sat the son, 

 in an unconsciousness yet more terrible, since it could not last. 

 There, pale and tearless, stood the wife of him, who, in his 

 dying hour, cursed her child and his. How little she dreamed 

 of such a scene when her meek lips first replied to his vows of 

 affection ! IIow little she dreamed of such a scene when she 

 first led that father to the cradle of his sleeping boy ! when they 

 bent together with smiles of affection, to watch his quiet slumber, 

 and catch the gentle breathing of his parted lips 1 I had scarcely 

 reached the landing-place before the wretched woman's hand 

 was laid lightly on my arm to arrest my progress. Her noiseless 

 step had followed me without my being aware of it. * How 

 soon will your work be done?' said she, in a suffocated voice. 

 * To-morrow I could be here again,' answered I. * To-morrow ! 

 and what am I to do, if my boy wakes before that time ? ' and 

 her voice became louder and hoarse with fear. * He will go 

 mad, I am sure he will; his brain will not hold against these 

 horrors. Oh ! that God would hear me ! — that God would hear 

 me! and let that slumber sit on his senses till the sight of the 

 father that cursed him is no longer present to us ! Heaven be 

 merciful to me ! ' and with the last words she clasped her hands 

 convulsively, and gazed upwards. I had known opiates admin- 

 istered to sufferers whose grief for their bereavement almost 

 amounted to madness. I mentioned this hesitatingly to the 

 widow, and she eagerly caught at it. ^ Yes ! that would do/ 

 exclaimed she; ' that would do, if I could but get him past that 

 horrible moment ! But stay ; I dare not leave him alone as he 

 is, even for a little while : — what will become of me ! ' I offered 

 to procure the medicine for her, and soon returned with it. I 

 gave it into her hands, and her vehement expressions of thank- 

 fulness wrung my heart. I had attempted to move the pity of 

 the apothecary at whose shop I obtained the drug, by an account 

 of the scene I had witnessed, in order to induce him to pay a 

 visit to the house of mourning; but in vain. To him, who had 

 not witnessed it, it was nothing but a tale of every-day distress. 

 All that long night I worked at the merchant's coffin, and the 

 dim grey light of the wintry morning found me still toiling on. 

 Often, during the hours passed thus heavily, that picture of 

 wretchedness rose before me. Again I saw the leaning and 

 exhausted form of the young man, buried in slumber on his 

 father's death-bed : again my carpenter's rule almost touched the 

 clasped' hands of the dead and the living, and a cold shudder 



