Long after the hours when tradesmen are in the habit of commencing
business, the shutters of a certain shop in the town of Lymport-on-the-
Sea remained significantly closed, and it became known that death had
taken Mr. Melchisedec Harrington, and struck one off the list of living
tailors. The demise of a respectable member of this class does not
ordinarily create a profound sensation. He dies, and his equals debate
who is to be his successor: while the rest of them who have come in
contact with him, very probably hear nothing of his great launch and
final adieu till the winding up of cash-accounts; on which occasions we
may augur that he is not often blessed by one or other of the two great
parties who subdivide this universe. In the case of Mr. Melchisedec it
was otherwise. This had been a grand man, despite his calling, and in
the teeth of opprobrious epithets against his craft. To be both
generally blamed, and generally liked, evinces a peculiar construction of
mortal. Mr. Melchisedec, whom people in private called the great Mel,
had been at once the sad dog of Lymport, and the pride of the town. He
was a tailor, and he kept horses; he was a tailor, and he had gallant
adventures; he was a tailor, and he shook hands with his customers.
Finally, he was a tradesman, and he never was known to have sent in a
bill. Such a personage comes but once in a generation, and, when he
goes, men miss the man as well as their money.

That he was dead, there could be no doubt. Kilne, the publican opposite,
had seen Sally, one of the domestic servants, come out of the house in
the early morning and rush up the street to the doctor's, tossing her
hands; and she, not disinclined to dilute her grief, had, on her return,
related that her master was then at his last gasp, and had refused, in so
many words, to swallow the doctor.