It was in holiday mood, when they were fresh-combed and perked in their
best, that they were cut off from life. It would appear that Jack Ketch the
headsman got them when they were rubbed and shining for the feast. We'll
not squint upon his writ. It is enough that they were apprehended for some
rascality. When he came thumping on his dreadful summons, here they were
already set, fopped from shoes to head in the newest whim. Spoon in hand
and bib across their knees--lest they fleck their careful fronts--they
waited for the anchovy to come. And on a sudden they were cut off from
life, unfit, unseasoned for the passage. Like the elder Hamlet's brother,
they were engaged upon an act that had no relish of salvation in it. You
may remember the lamentable child somewhere in Dickens, who because of an
abrupt and distressing accident, had a sandwich in its hand but no mouth
to put it in. Or perhaps you recall the cook of the Nancy Bell and his
grievous end. The poor fellow was stewed in his own stew-pot. It was the
Elderly Naval Man, you recall--the two of them being the ship's sole
survivors on the deserted island, and both of them lean with hunger--it was
the Elderly Naval Man (the villain of the piece) who "ups with his heels,
and smothers his squeals in the scum of the boiling broth."

And yet by looking on these torsos of the haberdasher, one is not brought
to thoughts of sad mortality. Their joy is so exultant. And all the things
that they hold dear--canes, gloves, silk hats, and the newer garments on
which fashion makes its twaddle--are within reach of their armless sleeves.
Had they fingers they would be smoothing themselves before the glass. Their
unbodied heads, wherever they may be, are still smiling on the world,
despite their divorcement. Their tongues are still ready with a jest, their
lips still parted for the anchovy to come.

A few days since, as I was thinking--for so I am pleased to call my muddy
stirrings--what manner of essay I might write and how best to sort and lay