cross themselves as they pass the house where the unfortunate Frisonnier is at this moment engaged in his never-ending task.

SIGHMON DUMPS.

ANTHONY DUMPS, the father of my hero, (the subject matter of a story being always called the hero, however little heroic he may personally have been,) married Dora Coffin on St. Swithin's day in the first year of the last reign.

Anthony was then comfortably off; but, through a combination of adverse circumstances, he went rapidly down in the world, became a bankrupt, and being obliged to vacate his residence in St. Paul's Churchyard, he removed to No. 3, Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, where Mrs. Dumps was delivered of a son.

The depressed pair agreed to christen their babe Simon, but the name was registered in the parish book with the first syllable spelt "S—I—G—H:" whether the trembling hand of the afflicted parent orthographically erred, or whether a bungling clerk caused the error, I know not; but certain it is that the infant Dumps was registered SIGHмON.

Sighmon sighed away his infancy like other babes and sucklings; and when he grew to be a hobedy-hoy, there was a seriousness in his visage, and a much ado about nothing-ness in his eye, which were proclaimed by good-natured people to be indications of deep thought and profundity; while others, less "flattering sweet,” declared they indicated nought but want of comprehension, and the dulness of stupidity.

As he grew older, he grew graver; sad was his look, sombre the tone of his voice, and half an hour's conversation with him was a very serious affair indeed.

Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, was the scene of his infant sports. Since his failure, his father had earned his livelyhood, by letting himself out as a mute or a mourner to a furnisher of funerals.

"Mute" and "voluntary woe" were his stock in trade.

Often did Mrs. Dumps ink the seams of his small-clothes, and darken his elbows with a blacking-brush, ere he sallied forth to follow borrowed plumes; and when he returned from his public performance (oft rehearsed) Master Sighmon did innocently crumple his crapes, and sport, with his weepers.

The

His melancholy outgoings at length were rewarded by some pecuniary incomings. demise of others secured a living for him, and after a few unusually propitious sickly seasons, he grimly smiled as he counted his gains: the mourner exulted, and, in praise of his profession the mute became eloquent.

Another event occurred; after burying so many people professionally, he at length buried Mrs. Dumps; that, of course, was by no means a matter of business. I have before remarked that she was descended from the Coffins,-she was now gathered to her ancestors.

It was not surprising that Dumps had risen in his profession: he was a perfect master of melancholy ceremonies, and, as a mute proclaimer of the mutability of human affairs, none could equal him. Never did the summer-sunshine of nankeen lie hid beneath the shadows of his "inky cloak;" never, while his countenance betokened "the winter of discontent," was he known to simper-even in his sleeve!

Dumps had long been proud of gentility of appearance; a suit of black had been his working day costume; nothing therefore could be more easy than for Dumps to turn gentleman. dia so; took a villa at Gravesend; chose for his

He