Often did Mrs. Dumps ink the seams of his small-clothes, and darken his
elbows with a blacking brush, ere he sallied forth to follow borrowed
plumes; and when he returned from his public performance (_oft
rehearsed_) Master Sighmon did innocently crumple his crapes, and
sport with his weepers.

His melancholy outgoings at length were rewarded by some pecuniary
incomings. The demise of others secured a living for him, and after a
few unusually propitious sickly seasons, he grimly smiled as he counted
his gains: the mourner exulted, and, in praise of his profession, the
mute became eloquent.

Another event occurred: after burying so many people professionally, he
at length buried Mrs. Dumps; _that_, of course, was by no means a
matter of business. I have before remarked that she was descended from
the Coffins; she was now gathered to her ancestors.

Dumps had long been proud of gentility of appearance, a suit of black
had been his working day costume, nothing therefore could be more easy
than for Dumps to turn gentleman. He did so; took a villa at Gravesend,
chose for his own sitting room a chamber that looked against a dead
wall, and whilst he was lying in state upon the squabs of his sofa, he
thought seriously of the education of his son, and resolved that he
should be instantly taught the dead languages.

Sighmon Dumps was decidedly a young man of a serious turn of mind.
The metropolis had few attractions for him, he loved to linger near
the monument; and if ever he thought of a continental excursion, the
Catacombs and Père la Chaise were his seducers.