The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 494, June 18, 1831

Of human frailty, so debased in hue,
That he who dares peruse it needs but blush
For his own nature. The poor shrivell'd wretch,
For whose lean carcass yawns this hideous pit,
Had naught that he desired in earth or heaven—
No God, no Saviour, but that sordid pelf,
O'er which he starved and gloated. I have seen him
On the exchange, or in the market-place
When money was in plenteous circulation,
Gaze after it with such Satanic looks
Of eagerness, that I have wonder'd oft
How he from theft and murder could refrain.
'Twas cowardice alone withheld his hands,
For they would grasp and grapple at the air,
When his grey eye had fixed on heaps of gold,
While his clench'd teeth, and grinning, yearning face,
Were dreadful to behold. The merchants oft
Would mark his eye, then start and look again,
As at the eye of basilisk or snake.
His eye of greyish green ne'er shed one ray
Of kind benignity or holy light
On aught beneath the sun. Childhood, youth, beauty,
To it had all one hue. Its rays reverted
Right inward, back upon the greedy heart
On which the gnawing worm of avarice
Preyed without ceasing, straining every sense
To that excruciable and yearning core.
Some thirteen days agone, he comes to me,
And after many sore and mean remarks
On men's rapacity and sordid greed,
He says, "Gabriel, thou art an honest man,
As the world goes. How much, then, will you charge
And make a grave for me, fifteen feet deep?"—
"We'll talk of that when you require it, sir."
"No, no. I want it made, and paid for too;
I'll have it settled, else I know there will
Be some unconscionable overcharge
On my poor friends—a ruinous overcharge."—
"But, sir, were it made now, it would fill up
Each winter to the brim, and be to make
Twenty or thirty times, if you live long."—
"There! there it is! Nothing but imposition!
Even Time must rear his stern, unyielding front,
And holding out his shrivelled skeleton hand,
Demands my money. Naught but money! money!
Were I coin'd into money I could not
Half satisfy that craving greed of money.
Well, how much do you charge? I'll pay you now,
And take a bond from you that it be made
When it is needed. Come, calculate with reason—
Work's very cheap; and two good men will make
That grave at two days' work: and I can have
Men at a shilling each—without the meat—
That's a great matter! Let them but to meat,
'Tis utter ruin. I'll give none their meat—
That I'll beware of. Men now-a-days are cheap,
Cheap, dogcheap, and beggarly fond of work.
One shilling each a-day, without the meat.
Mind that, and ask in reason; for I wish
To have that matter settled to my mind."—
"Sir, there's no man alive will do't so cheap
As I shall do it for the ready cash,"
Says I, to put him from it with a joke.
"I'll charge you, then, one-fourth part of a farthing
For every cubic foot of work I do,
Doubling the charge each foot that I descend."
"Doubling as you descend! Why, that of course.
A quarter of a farthing each square foot—
No meat, remember! Not an inch of meat,
Nor drink, nor dram. You're not to trust to these.
Wilt stand that bargain, Gabriel?"—"I accept."
He struck it, quite o'erjoy'd. We sought the clerk,
Sign'd—seal'd. He drew his purse. The clerk went on
Figuring and figuring. "What a fuss you make!
'Tis plain," said he, "the sum is eighteen-pence"—
"'Tis somewhat more, sir," said the civil clerk—
And held out the account. "Two hundred round,
And gallant payment over." The Miser's face
Assumed the cast of death's worst lineaments.
His skinny jaws fell down upon his breast;
He tried to speak, but his dried tongue refused
Its utterance, and cluck'd upon the gum.
His heart-pipes whistled with a crannell'd sound;
His knell-knees plaited, and his every bone
Seem'd out of joint. He raved—he cursed—he wept—
But payment he refused. I have my bond,
Not yet a fortnight old, and shall be paid.
It broke the Miser's heart. He ate no more,
Nor drank, nor spake, but groan'd until he died;
This grave kill'd him, and now yearns for his bones.
But worse than all. 'Tis twenty years and more
Since he brought home his coffin. On that chest
His eye turn'd ever and anon. It minded him,
He said, of death. And as be sat by night
Beside his beamless hearth, with blanket round
His shivering frame, if burst of winter wind
Made the door jangle, or the chimney moan,
Or crannied window whistle, he would start,
And turn his meagre looks upon that chest;
Then sit upon't, and watch till break of day.