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which mourning coach there was only one mourner, dressed in the
dingy trappings that were considered essential to the dignity of
the position. The position appeared by no means to please him,
however, with an increasing rabble surrounding the coach,
deriding him, making grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning
and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!” with many
compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr.
Cruncher; he always pricked up his senses, and became excited,
when a funeral passed Tellson’s. Naturally, therefore, a funeral
with this uncommon attendance excited him greatly, and he asked
of the first man who ran against him:
“What is it, brother? What’s it about?”
“I don’t know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
He asked another man. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” returned the other man, clapping his hands to
his mouth, nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and
with the greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi-ies!”
At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case,
tumbled against him, and from this person he learned that the
funeral was the funeral of one Roger Cly.
“Was He a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old
Bailey Spi-i-ies!”
“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which
he had assisted. “I’ve seen him. Dead, is he?”
“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can’t be too dead.
Have ’em out, there! Spies! Pull ’em out, there! Spies!”
The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
A Tale of Two Cities 207
idea, that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly
repeating the suggestion to have ’em out, and to pull ’em out,
mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they came to a stop. On
the crowd’s opening the coach doors, the one mourner scuffled out
of himself and was in their hands for a moment; but he was so
alert, and made such good use of his time, that in another moment
he was scouring away up by a by-street, after shedding his cloak,
hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and other
symbolical tears.
These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with
great enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their
shops; for a crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a
monster much dreaded. They had already got to the length of
opening the hearse to take the coffin out, when some brighter
genius proposed instead, its being escorted to its destination
amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being much
needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen
out, while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by
any exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these
volunteers was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed
his spiky head from the observation of Tellson’s, in the further
corner of the mourning coach.
The officiating undertakers made some protest against these
changes in the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near,
and several voices remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in
bringing refractory members of the profession to reason, the
protest was faint and brief. The remodelled procession started,
with a chimney-sweep driving the hearse—advised by the regular
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
A Tale of Two Cities 208
driver, who was perched beside him, under close inspection, for
the purpose—and with a pie-man, also attended by his cabinet
minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a popular
street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand;
and his bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an
Undertaking air to that part of the procession in which he walked.
Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and
infinite caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its
way, recruiting at every step, and all the shops shutting up before
it. Its destination was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in
the fields. It got there in course of time; insisted on pouring into
the burial-ground; finally, accomplished the interment of the
deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and highly to its own
satisfaction.
The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the
necessity of providing some other entertainment for itself, another
brighter genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of
impeaching casual passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking
vengeance on them. Chase was given to some scores of inoffensive
persons who had never been near the Old Bailey in their lives, in
the realisation of this fancy, and they were roughly hustled and
maltreated. The transition to the sport of window-breaking, and
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