62 The Mysterious Tailor : [Juty, 
would scorn to trespass on the province of the first; and it would deeply 
affront the sensibilities of the second, were it to find its affliction rivalled 
by the ambitious agonies of the third. The very horses partake abun- 
dantly of this distinction. Those attached to the leading vehicle are 
rendered, through an apt process of starvation, accomplished models of 
suffering, while the remainder, according to their rank in the procession, 
may be excused if they trespass a little upon obesity, provided they do 
not make too ostentatious a display. These ideas suggested themselves 
to my mind as the funeral halted at the entrance gate, where the coffin 
was taken from the hearse, and thence borne into the chancel. This 
ceremony concluded, the procession again set forth towards the home 
appointed for the departed in a remote quarter of the church-yard. 
And now the interest began in reality to deepen. As the necessary 
preparations were making for lowering the coffin into earth, the 
mourners—even those who had hitherto looked on unmoved—pressed 
gradually nearer, and with a momentary show of interest, to the grave. 
Such is the ennobling character of death. It lulls the storm of passion, 
mellows the roughness of hatred, sweetens the bitterness of scorn, and 
even hushes the deep mutterings of envy. No bad feeling can thrive 
within its awful precincts, for it is a charmed and holy atmosphere, 
a Mausoleum of benevolence, in which every hostile passion is 
entombed. 
The preparations were by this time concluded, and nothing now 
remained but the last summons of the sexton. At this juncture, 
while the coffin was being lowered into its resting place, my eyes, acci- 
dentally, it may be said, but in reality by some fatal instinct, fell full 
upon the lid, on which I instantly recognised a name, long and fearfully 
known to me—the name of the Mysterious Tailor of High Holborn. 
Oh, how many thrilling recollections did this one name recal? The 
rencontre in the streets of London—the scene at the masquerade—the 
meeting at Boulogne—the storm—the shipwreck—the sinking vessel— 
the appearance at that moment of the man himself—the subsequent 
visions of mingled fever and insanity: all, all now swept across 
my mind, as for the last time I gazed on the remains of him who 
was powerless henceforth for ever. In a few minutes one little span 
of earth would keep down that strange form which seemed once 
endowed with ubiquity. That wild unearthly voice was mute ; that 
wandering glance was fixed; a seal was set upon those lips which 
eternity itself could not remove. Yes, my Tormentor—my mysterious— 
omnipresent Tormentor was indeed gone ; and in that one word, how 
much of vengeance was forgotten! I was roused from this reverie by 
the hollow sound of the clay as it fell dull and heavy on the coffin-lid. 
The poor sleeper beneath could not hear it, it is true; his slumber, 
henceforth, was sound; the full tide of human population pressing fast 
beside the spot where he lay buried, should never wake him more: no 
human sorrow should rack his breast, no dream disturb his repose ; yet 
cold, changed, and senseless as he was, the first sound of the falling clods 
jarred strange and harsh upon my ear, as if it must perforce awake 
him. In this feverish state of mind I quitted the church-yard, and, on 
my road home, passed by the shop where I had first met with the 
deceased. It was altered—strangely altered—to my mind, revoltingly 
so. Its quaint antique character, its dingy spectral look were gone, and 
ee a 
