I say I
do not know that this presence of death had anything to do with my
trepidation. The death of a child was no very solemn or very uncommon
thing in my master's family. He had many children, and, when death
thinned their ranks, took the loss like a philosopher,--as he was,--a
French philosopher. He philosophized that his utmost exertions could
not do much more for the child than bequeath to him just such a
life as he led, and a share in just such a saloon as he owned; and
therefore, if a priest and a coffin insured the little innocent
admission into heaven without any extra charge, he would not betray
such lack of wisdom as to demur at the proposition. Therefore, very
quietly, since I had been in his employ, (about a twelvemonth,) three
of his children, one by one, had been brought down to that little room
at the end of the saloon, and thence through the long hall, through
the crowded street out to some unheard-of burying-ground, where a pot
of flowers and a painted cross supplied the place of a head-stone.
The shop was not shut up on these occasions: that would have been an
unnecessary interference with the comfort of customers, and loss
of time and money.
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