It may be all
scandal about Mr. Moon making so large an amount from his office;
but it is nevertheless true that sad disclosures have of late been
made concerning the internal affairs of the workhouse.
The hour of twelve has arrived; and since eight in the morning Mr.
Moon's time has been consumed in preliminaries necessary to the
organisation of a coroner's jury. The reader we know will excuse our
not entering into the minuti‘ of the organisation. Eleven jurors
have answered the summons, but a twelfth seems difficult to procure.
John, the good Coroner's negro servant, has provided a sufficiency
of brandy and cigars, which, since the hour of eleven, have been
discussed without stint. The only objection our worthy disposer of
the dead has to this is, that some of his jurors, becoming very
mellow, may turn the inquest into a farce, with himself playing the
low-comedy part. The dead body, which lies covered with a sheet, is
fast becoming enveloped in smoke, while no one seems to have a
passing thought for it. Colonel Tom Edon,--who, they say, is not
colonel of any regiment, but has merely received the title from the
known fact of his being a hogdriver, which honourable profession is
distinguished by its colonels proceeding to market mounted, while
the captains walk,--merely wonders how much bad whiskey the dead 'un
consumed while he lived.
"This won't do!" exclaims Brien Moon, Esq., and proceeds to the door
in the hope of catching something to make his mournful number
complete.
Pages:
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562