Eh? Think a little! Here’s the plumber painter and glazier come to take the funeral order which he is going to give to the sexton, who is going to give it to the clerk, who is going to give it to the carpenter, who is going to give it to the haberdasher, who is going to give it to the furnishing undertaker, who is going to divide it with the Black Jobmaster. “Hearse and four, Sir?” says he. “No, a pair will be sufficient.” “I beg your pardon, Sir, but when we buried Mr. Grundy at number twenty, there was four on ’em, Sir; I think it right to mention it.” “Well, perhaps there had better be four.” “Thank you, Sir. Two coaches and four, Sir, shall we say?” “No. Coaches and pair.” “You’ll excuse my mentioning it, Sir, but pairs to the coaches, and four to the hearse, would have a singular appearance to the neighbours. When we put four to anything, we always carry four right through.” “Well! say four!” “Thank you, Sir. Feathers of course?” “No. No feathers. They’re absurd.” “Very good, Sir. _No_ feathers?” “No.” “_Very_ good, Sir. We _can_ do fours without feathers, Sir, but it’s what we never do. When we buried Mr. Grundy, there was feathers, and—I only throw it out, Sir—Mrs. Grundy might think it strange.” “Very well! Feathers!” “Thank you, Sir,”—and so on. _Is_ it and so on, or not, through the whole black job of jobs, because of Mrs. Grundy and the gen-teel party? I suppose you’ve thought about this? I suppose you’ve reflected on what you’re doing, and what you’ve done? When you read about those poisonings for the burial society money, you consider how it is that burial societies ever came to be, at all? You perfectly understand—you who are not the poor, and ought to set ’em an example—that, besides making the whole thing costly, you’ve confused their minds about this burying, and have taught ’em to confound expence and show, with respect and affection. You know all you’ve got to answer for, you gen-teel parties? I’m glad of it. I believe it’s only the monkeys who are servile imitators, is it? You reflect! To be sure you do. So does Mrs. Grundy—and she casts reflections—don’t she? What animals are those who scratch shallow holes in the ground in crowded places, scarcely hide their dead in ’em, and become unnaturally infected by their dead, and die by thousands? Vultures, I suppose. I think you call the Vulture an obscene bird? I don’t consider him agreeable, but I never caught him misconducting himself in that way. My honourable friend, the dog—I call him my honourable friend in your Parliamentary sense, because I hate him—turns round three times before he goes to sleep. I ask him why? He says he don’t know; but he always does it. Do _you_ know how you ever came to have that board of feathers carried on a fellow’s head? Come. You’re a boastful race. Show yourselves superior to the dog, and tell me!