But the destination of one and all was the same—the fire of the Bone-House.
No wonder that the cemetery continued to receive so many fresh tenants, although the neighbours knew that it must be full:—no wonder that the stench was always more pestiferous when the furnace of the Bone-House was lighted!
And that man—that grave-digger performed his task—his odious task—without compunction, and without remorse: he was fulfilling the commands of his employers—his employers were his superiors—and "surely his superiors must know what was right and what was wrong!"
And so the grave-digger worked and toiled—and the fire in the Bone-House burnt cheerfully—and the dark, thick smoke was borne over the whole neighbourhood, like a plague-cloud.
Two hours had passed away since the man had commenced his work; and he now felt hungry.
Retiring to the Bone-House, he took a coffee-pot from the shelf, and proceeded to make some coffee, the material for which was in a cupboard in a corner of the building. Water he took from a large pitcher, also kept in that foul place; and bread he had brought with him in his pockets.
He drew a stool close to the fire; and, when the coffee boiled, commenced his meal.
The liquid cheered and refreshed him; but he never once recollected that it had been heated by flames fed with human flesh and bones!
While he was thus occupied, he heard footsteps approaching the Bone-House; and in a few moments Mr. Banks, the undertaker, appeared upon the threshold.
"Mornin', sir," said the grave-digger. "Come to have a look at the size of the grave, s'pose? You've no call to be afeard; I'll be bound to make it big enow."
"I hope it won't be a very deep one, Jones," returned the undertaker. "Somehow or another the friends of the blessed defunct are awerse to a deep grave."
"My orders is to dig down sixteen feet and shore up the sides as I deepens," said Jones. "Don't you see that I shall throw the earth on wery light, so that it won't take scarcely no trouble to shovel it out agin; 'cos the next seven as comes to this ground must all go into that there grave."
"Sixteen feet!" ejaculated the undertaker, in dismay. "It will never do, Jones. The friends of the dear deceased wouldn't sleep quiet in their beds if they thought he had to sleep so deep in his'n. It won't do, Jones—it won't do."
"My orders is sich from the proprietors, sir," answered the grave-digger, munching and drinking at intervals with considerable calmness.
"Now I tell you what it is, Jones," continued the undertaker, after a moment's pause, "not another grave will I ever order in this ground, and not another carkiss that I undertake shall come here, unless you choose to comply with my wishes concerning this blessed old defunct."
"Well, Mr. Banks, there isn't a gen'leman wot undertakes in all Globe Town, or from Bonner's Fields down to Mile End Gate, that I'd sooner obleege than yourself," said Jones, the grave-digger; "but if so be I transgresses my orders—"
"Who will know it?" interrupted Banks. "You have whole and sole charge of the ground; and it can't be often that the proprietors come to trouble you."
"Well, sir, there is summut in that—"
"And then, instead of five shillings for yourself, I should not hesitate to make it ten—"
"That's business, Mr. Banks. How deep must the grave be?"
"How deep is it already?"
"A matter of nine feet, sir," said Jones.
"Then not another hinch must you move," cried the undertaker, emphatically; "and here's the ten bob as an earnest."
Mr. Banks accordingly counted ten shillings into the hands of the grave-digger.
"When's the funeral a-coming, sir?" asked Jones, after a pause.
"At two precisely," replied Mr. Banks.
"Rale parson, or von of your men as usual?" continued the grave-digger, inquiringly.
"Oh, a friend of mine—a wery pious, savoury, soul-loving wessel, Jones—a man that it'll do your heart good to hear. But, I say, Jones," added the undertaker, "you're getting uncommon full here."
"Yes, full enow, sir; but I makes room."
"I see you do," said Banks, glancing towards the fire: "what a offensive smell it makes."
"And would you believe that I can scarcely support it myself sometimes, Mr. Banks?" returned Jones. "But, arter all, our ground isn't so bad as some others in London."
"I know it isn't," observed the undertaker.
"Now ain't it a odd thing, sir," continued the grave-digger, "that persons which dwells up in decent neighbourhoods like, and seems exceedin' proud of their fine houses and handsome shops, shouldn't notice the foul air that comes from places only hid by a low wail or a thin paling?"
"It is indeed odd enough," said Mr. Banks.
"Well, I knows the diggers in some o' the yards more west," continued Jones, "and I've heerd from them over and over agin that they pursues just the wery same course as we does here—has a Bone-House or some such conwenient place, and burns the coffins and bones that is turned up."
"I suppose it is necessary, Jones?" observed Mr. Banks.
"Necessary, sir? in course it be," exclaimed the grave-digger. "On'y fancy wot a lot of burials takes place every year in London; and room must be made for 'em somehow or other."
"Ah! I know something about that," said the undertaker. "Calkilations have been made which proves that the average life of us poor weak human creeturs is thirty-five years; so, if London contains a million and a half of people, a million and a half of persons dies, and is buried in the course of every thirty-five years. Isn't that a fine thing for them that's in the undertaking line? 'cause it's quite clear that there's a million and a half of funerals in every thirty-five years in this blessed city."
"And a million and a half of graves or waults rekvired," said Jones. "Well, then, who the deuce can blame us for burning up the old 'uns to make room for the new 'uns?"
"Who, indeed?" echoed Mr. Banks. "T'other day I had an undertaking, which was buried in Enon Chapel, Saint Clement's Lane—down there by Lincoln's Inn, you know. The chapel's surrounded by houses, all okkipied by poor people, and the stench is horrid. The fact is, that the chapel's divided into two storeys: the upper one is the preaching place; and the underneath one is the burial place. There's only a common boarded floor to separate 'em. You go down by a trap-door in the floor; and pits is dug below for the coffins. Why, at one end the place is so full, that the coffins is piled up till they touch the ceiling—that is, the floor of the chapel itself, and there's only a few inches of earth over 'em. The common sewer runs through the place; so, what with that and the coffins and carkisses, it's a nice hole."
"Wuss than this?" said Jones.
"Of course it is," returned Banks; "'cause at all ewents this is out in the open air, while t'other's shut up and close. But I'll tell you what it is, Jones," continued the undertaker, sinking his voice as if he were afraid of being overheard by a stranger, "the people that lives in that densely-populated quarter about Saint Clement's Lane, exists in the midst of a pestilence. Why they breathe nothing but the putrid stench of the Enon burial-place, the Green Ground in Portugal Street, and the Alms-House burying ground down at the bottom of the Lane."
"All that'll breed a plague von o' these days in the werry middle of London," observed Jones.
"Not a doubt of it," said the undertaker. "But I haven't done yet all I had to say about that quarter. Wery soon after a burial takes place at Enon Chapel, a queer-looking, long, narrow, black fly crawls out of the coffin. It is a production of the putrefaction of the dead body. But what do you