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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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