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 droll1, some sad, some terrible. The building had a narrow, insignificant2 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 rustic3 church, with its church-yard, whose bright-green grass first startled, then soothed4 and refreshed the eye, in that wilderness5 of stone—an emerald set in granite6. The grass flowed up to the south wall of the “office;” those massive stone windows hung over the graves; the plumed7 clerks could not look out of window and doubt that all men are mortal: and the article the office sold was immortality8.
It was the Gosshawk Life Insurance.
On a certain afternoon anterior9 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 premium10.
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 jovial11; but they stopped at nearly all the public-houses by the water-side, and, by visible gradations, became jolly—uproarious—sang songs—caught crabs12. 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 ashore13 in Middlesex, another in Surrey, a third got to the chains of a barge14, and was taken up much exhausted15, and Robert Martin laid hold of the buttress16 itself, and cried loudly for assistance. They asked anxiously after each other, but their anxiety appeared to subside17 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 cork18. 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 survivors19 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 afterward20 a body was found in the water down at Woolwich, entangled21 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 r............