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Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and

mused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a

public place, but not being a poet, mused as little as possible,

and looked about him.

It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were

few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were

so unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast

that Mrs. Cruncher must have been "flopping" in some pointed

manner, when an unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street

westward, attracted his attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher

made out that some kind of funeral was coming along, and that

there was popular objection to this funeral, which engendered

uproar.

"Young Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, "it's

a buryin'."

"Hooroar, father!" cried Young Jerry.