86 THE COFFIN MAKER. 



mingled with the chill of the dawning day, and froze my blood. 

 " As I passed up one of the streets which led to the merchant's 

 lodgings, my head bending under the weight of the coffin I was 

 carrying, at every step I took, the air seemed to grow more thick 

 around me, and at length, overcome by weariness, both of body 

 and mind, I stopped, loosed the straps whicli steadied jny me- 

 lancholy burden, and, placing it in an upright position against 

 the wall, wiped the dew from my forehead, and (shall I confess 

 it?) the tears from my eyes. I was endeavouring to combat the 

 depression of my feelings by the reflection that I was the support 

 and comfort of my poor old mother's life, when my attention was 

 roused by the evident compassion of a young lady, who, after 

 passing me with a hesitating step, withdrew her arm from that of 

 her more elderly companion, and, pausing for an instant put a 

 shilling into my hand, saying, * You look very weary, my poor 

 man ; pray get something to drink with that/ A more lovely 

 countenance (if by lovely be meant that which engages love) was 

 never moulded by nature ; the sweetness and compassion of her 

 pale fi\ce and soft, innocent eyes; the kindness of her gentle 

 voice, made an impression on my memory too strong to be effaced. 

 I saiv her once again ! I reached the merchant's lodgings, and 

 ray knock was answered, as on the former occasion, by the widow 

 herself. She sighed heavily as she saw me, and after one or two 

 attempts to speak, informed me that her son was awake, but that 

 it was impossible for her to administer the opiate, as he refused 

 to let the smallest nourishment pass his lips ; but that he was 

 quite quiet, indeed had never spoken since he woke; except to 

 ask her how she felt; and she thought I might proceed without 

 fear of his interruption. I entered accordingly, followed by a lad, 

 son to the landlady who kept the lodgings, and with his assist- 

 ance I proceeded to lift the corpse, and lay it in the coffin. The 

 widow's son remained motionless, and, as it were, stupified 

 during this operation : but the moment he saw me prepare the 

 lid of the coffin so as to be screwed down, he started up with the 

 energy and gestures of a madman. His glazed eyes seemed 

 bursting from their sockets, and his upper lip, leaving the teeth 

 bare, gave his mouth the appearance of a horrible and convulsive 

 smile. He seized my arm with his whole strength ; and, as I 

 felt his grasp, and saw him struggling for words, I expected to 

 hear curses and execrations, or the wild howl of an infuriated 

 madman I was mistaken. The wail of a sickly child, who 

 dreads its mother's departure was the only sound to which I could 



