In that part of London called “the City” are shady little streets,
that look like pleasant retreats from the busy, noisy world; yet are
strongholds of business.
One of these contained, and perhaps still contains, a public office
full of secrets, some droll, some sad, some terrible. The building had a
narrow, insignificant front, but was of great depth, and its south side
lighted by large bay windows all stone and plate-glass; and these were
open to the sun and air, thanks to a singular neighbor. Here, in
the heart of the City, was wedged a little rustic church, with its
church-yard, whose bright-green grass first startled, then soothed
and refreshed the eye, in that wilderness of stone--an emerald set in
granite. The grass flowed up to the south wall of the “office;” those
massive stone windows hung over the graves; the plumed clerks could not
look out of window and doubt that all men are mortal: and the article
the office sold was immortality.
It was the Gosshawk Life Insurance.
On a certain afternoon anterior to the Hillsborough scenes last
presented, the plumed clerks were all at the south windows, looking at a
funeral in the little church-yard, and passing some curious remarks;
for know that the deceased was insured in the Gosshawk for nine hundred
pounds, and had paid but one premium.
The facts, as far as known, were these. Mr. Richard Martin, a Londoner
by birth, but residing in Wales, went up to London to visit his brother.
Toward the end of the visit the two Martins went up the river in a boat,
with three more friends, and dined at Richmond. They rowed back in
the cool of the evening. At starting they were merely jovial; but they
stopped at nearly all the public-houses by the water-side, and, by
visible gradations, became jolly--uproarious--sang songs--caught crabs.
At Vauxhall they got a friendly warning, and laughed at it: under
Southwark bridge they ran against an abutment, and were upset in a
moment: it was now dusk, and, according to their own account, they all
lost sight of each other in the water. One swam ashore in Middlesex,
another in Surrey, a third got to the chains of a barge, and was taken
up much exhausted, and Robert Martin laid hold of the buttress itself,
and cried loudly for assistance. They asked anxiously after each other,
but their anxiety appeared to subside in an hour or two, when they found
there was nobody missing but Richard Martin. Robert told the police it
was all right, Dick could swim like a cork. However, next morning he
came with a sorrowful face to say his brother had not reappeared, and
begged them to drag the river. This was done, and a body found, which
the survivors and Mrs. Richard Martin disowned.
The insurance office was informed, and looked into the matter; and Mrs.
Martin told their agent, with a flood of tears, she believed her husband
had taken that opportunity to desert her, and was not drowned at all. Of
course this went to the office directly.
But a fortnight afterward a body was found in the water down at
Woolwich, entangled in some rushes by the water-side.
Notice was given to all the survivors.
The friends of Robert Martin came, and said the clothes resembled those
worn by Richard Martin; but beyond that they could not be positive.
But, when the wife came, she recognized the body at once.
The brother agreed with her, but, on account of the bloated and
discolored condition of the face, asked to have the teeth examined:
his poor brother, he said, had a front tooth broken short in two. This
broken tooth was soon found; also a pencil-case, and a key, in the
pocket of the deceased. These completed the identification.
Up to this moment the conduct of Richard Martin's relatives and friends
had been singularly apathetic; but now all was changed; they broke into
loud lamentations, and he became the best of husbands, best of men:
his lightest words were sacred. Robert Martin now remembered that “poor
Dick” had stood and looked into that little church-yard and said, “If
you outlive me, Bob, bury me in this spot; father lies here.” So Robert
Martin went to the church-warden, for leave to do this last sad office.
The church-warden refused, very properly, but the brother's entreaties,
the widow's tears, the tragedy itself, and other influences, extorted at
last a reluctant consent, coupled with certain sanatory conditions.
The funeral was conducted unobtrusively, and the grave dug out of sight
of Gosshawk. But of course it could not long escape observation; that
is to say, it was seen by the clerks; but the directors and manager were
all seated round a great table upstairs absorbed in a vital question,
viz., whether or not the Gosshawk should imitate some other companies,
and insure against fire as well as death. It was the third and last
discussion; the minority against this new operation was small, but
obstinate and warm, and the majority so absorbed in bringing them to
reason, that nobody went to the window until the vote had passed, and
the Gosshawk was a Life and Fire Insurance. Then some of the gentlemen
rose and stretched their legs, and detected the lugubrious enormity.
“Hallo!” cried Mr. Carden, and rang a bell. Edwards, an old clerk,
appeared, and, in reply to Mr. Carden, told him it was one of their
losses being buried--Richard Martin.
Mr. Carden said this was an insult to the office, and sent Edwards out
to remonstrate.
Edwards soon reappeared with Robert Martin, who represented, with the
utmost humility, that it was the wish of the deceased, and they had
buried him, as ordered, in three feet of charcoal.
“What, is the ceremony performed?”
“Yes, sir, all but filling in the grave. Come and see the charcoal.”
“Hang the charcoal!”
“Well,” said the humane but somewhat pompous director, “if the ceremony
has gone so far--but, Mr. Martin, this must never recur, charcoal or no
charcoal.”
Mr. Martin promised it never should: and was soon after observed in the
church-yard urging expedition.
The sad company speedily dispersed, and left nothing to offend nor
disgust the Life and Fire Insurance, except a new grave, and a debt of
nine hundred pounds to the heirs or assigns of Richard Martin.
Not very far from this church-yard was a public-house; and in that
public-house a small parlor upstairs, and in that parlor a man, who
watched the funeral rites with great interest; but not in a becoming
spirit; for his eyes twinkled with the intensest merriment all the time,
and at each fresh stage of the mournful business he burst into peals of
laughter. Never was any man so thoroughly amused in the City before, at
all events in business hours.
Richard Martin's executor waited a decent time, and then presented his
claim to the Gosshawk. His brother proved a lien on it for L300 and the
rest went by will to his wife. The Gosshawk paid the money after the
delay accorded by law.