I have become quite convinced that the most entertaining man in the world is the undertaker. Now, I do not pretend to say that there is anything original about my observations. Others have in all probability frequently commented on his peculiarities—but I nevertheless feel that it is my duty to give him a little attention in order to repay him, at least in part, for the many favors received at his hands.

Let it be understood that I am no more indebted to the “post-medical profession” than are many other physicians, but I am peculiar in that I always like to express my gratitude to those who have befriended me—and if there is any office that friendship can perform for us, equal to concealing one’s mistakes and hiding one’s failures from the gaze of a carping and cruel world, I don’t know what it is.

Another reason for my determination to devote a little personal attention to the undertaker is that he is a much maligned and misunderstood person. He is supposed to be heartless and unfeeling, and is usually considered austere and unapproachable; some say he has no generosity.

It shall be my pleasure, as well as my duty, to correct these erroneous impressions regarding a noble craft that has always taken a lively interest in its patrons—an interest that has never been reciprocated by those most benefited by the undertaker’s labors.

There may be captious critics who will differ with my belief that the undertaker is the most entertaining man in the world, on the ground that those whom he entertains never give him any encores. This is very easily explained. There are no gallery gods at his entertainments, and the people in the boxes are never demonstrative. They are people of taste and discretion, and rather reserved and sedate than otherwise;—knowing when they have had enough of a good thing, they do not attempt to recall the artist. Unquestionably, the chief patrons of the undertaker are people of refined susceptibilities and not given to demonstration. Even when a clod is rung in upon the boards, they give no sign of anything but courteous and silent attention—although the nerves of others in the audience may be fairly set on edge. It is hardly necessary to expatiate further on my first proposition.

The austerity of the undertaker is more apparent than real, and is the result of association rather than innate acerbity of feeling. Even when he is iciest and most frigid in his ways it is for the benefit of others. By such a demeanor he enables his patrons to maintain their composure even under circumstances the most trying and in all kinds of weather. What though he does shroud his real feelings in an atmosphere of chilling reserve, so long as his heart is warm and true! Were he less calm and philosophic, he might err on the side of sympathy and ere long some of his friends would find that they had unconsciously been placed in a very bad box.

As to his being unapproachable, I believe that the undertaker is misunderstood. It is true that he does not thrust himself forward in a pretentious manner—as do some people of inferior breeding—nor has he ever been known to meet a patron half way, but just let one of your friends hint that you need his services and see how quickly he will put in an appearance. And he will not pay you unnecessarily prolonged visits either, and should you be compelled to entertain him for a time, he is a quite inexpensive guest—he always furnishes his own board. He is even likely to be offended if you force your hospitality upon him. One of my friends once made this mistake, and the undertaker gave him a great laying out, I assure you.

We mustn’t be too hard upon the undertaker, then, even though he is a trifle stiff and conventional in his ways. His work furnishes him with subjects for contemplation which are so serious, and of such monumental importance, that it is small wonder he should acquire a somewhat funereal and solemn demeanor.

I have often marveled at the equability of temper displayed by the undertaker. I never heard of his swearing at, or using rough language to his patrons. He has such a soothing way with him, too; whenever he notices that his patron is inclined to get a little hotheaded he does everything in his power to allay his warmth, knowing full well that the man will get cooled down after a while. And his judgment is rarely at fault—the other fellow always does cool down. You see, it’s a poor quarrel that won’t keep—and the undertaker’s differences with his patrons are no exception to the rule.

It has always been a source of wonderment to me, that any one could accuse the undertaker of being heartless and unfeeling. Why, I have known undertakers who were the acme of tender susceptibility and delicacy of feeling. One mortuary gentleman whom I knew, had such a sympathetic vein in his composition that he used to mix lamp black with his embalming fluid. So considerate and thoughtful of him, was it not? And shall we say of such men, “They are heartless and unfeeling?” Never!

And what shall we say of the “funeral director” who had buried six husbands for a lady, and who, knowing how sensitive she was upon the subject, upholstered her own mortuary receptacle with white satin marked with six delicate bands of heliotrope? Could any human being display a finer intuitive perception of the eternal fitness of things?

No, the undertaker is not unsympathetic, and he is delicacy personified.

Let us cultivate the undertaker—he does all he can to cultivate us. And he is an unselfish cultivator too—he knoweth full well that what he soweth he cannot reap. Let us cultivate him, therefore, and do our best to repay him for his kindness to humanity. And we may possibly profit thereby, for pleasant associations retard the decay of these mortal frames of ours—the remorseless scythe of time blunts upon those fortunate mortals who are favored by the kindly offices of the skillful undertaker. To them we may not inappropriately say, “How well preserved you are!”

How well, indeed!

It would seem unnecessary to say that the popular notion regarding the undertaker’s lack of generosity is wrong—the fact should be self-evident. I feel, however, that my whole duty would not be done, did I not say that in my opinion the undertaker is one of the most generous of men. What merchant would ever dismiss a patron without an endeavor to secure his future patronage? None, I fancy. But not so your undertaker—he is willing, aye, even anxious, to let somebody else have his patrons after he has filled their first order. He is often, apparently, very glad to get his customers off his hands—not caring a whit if some professional rival gets their custom. And the social position of his patron seems to make no material difference—indeed, the “higher” the person, the more anxious the undertaker is to see the case fall into some rival’s hands. Some might say that this is due to a disposition to make game of the customer, but I don’t believe it.

There is one characteristic that distinguishes the undertaker from the common herd of men with mercantile instincts; he is scrupulously honest. He always gives full measure. This is very comforting to his patrons—especially those who like a comfortable fit. There is not a tailoring establishment in this blessed town that can show such a record as my friend Blank, the undertaker. Why, he has been making underclothing most all his life and never yet had a misfit turned back on his hands.

I tell you what, my good friends, the undertaker is the last man in the world with whom we have occasion to find fault.

I shall always entertain a high personal regard for some of the members of the undertaking profession.

If there is any attribute of man especially to be admired, it is a keen sense of humor. One of my undertaker friends—long since dead and gone to a just reward—one Nathaniel Black, had this faculty developed to a preternatural degree.

There was something very impressive in the skillful manner in which Nathaniel used to conceal his humorous impulses while in the presence of death. His air of subdued merriment was, it is true, painful at times,—especially to himself—but this made it all the more impressive, as showing how some spirits can, by exercising will power, rise superior to their immediate surroundings.

When my friend Black was away from the actual presence of a corpse, he would unbend and show the true inward cussedness of the born humorist—with the evident self-sacrificing purpose of making life pleasant for his many friends. I happened to be one of the fortunate individuals who luxuriated in his friendship, and will cheerfully bear testimony to his devotion to the occupation of increasing the happiness of those about him. I feel that I could do no less, without stamping myself an ingrate.

One of the first things I did on entering practice, many years ago, was to invest in a typic doctor’s buggy. This was done in self-defense—my face was as smooth as a pippin, my mustache was a caricature of the real article and, taken all in all, there was nothing about me to inspire confidence. There was consequently but one thing to do, and that was to look and act as professional and prosperous as possible. It was with this end in view that I bought a buggy which looked unmistakably professional. As I had many friends and acquaintances, the moral effect of my turn-out was excellent. Had I been able to live on moral effect life would have been one vast smile of peaceful, well-fed joy and contentment, but I could not dine on any sort of effect, least of all upon the moral variety—which is a delusion and a snare.

Observing the marked attention that was paid to my equipage—and incidentally to the prosperous young doctor—I was well pleased; there were times when even my stomach was forgotten. It seemed to me that it was better to ride on an empty stomach than to walk upon a full one, provided I attracted sufficient attention to warrant my remaining in practice—or the hope of practice.

On some occasions the people I met appeared especially delighted with my appearance. Being self-satisfied with the notion that I was at last beginning to be appreciated, I made no investigations to determine why so much more attention should be paid to me on some occasions than upon others. Such is the blinding power of self-conceit!

The advisability of hiring a colored driver suggested itself to me as an additional bait for popular applause. The idea so impressed me that I consulted one of my friends, Jack T—— about it. He advised me to wait a while, and seemed much entertained by my story of increasing popularity.

“Well, my boy,” said he, smilingly, “you are indeed getting on in the world. Let me see—you lecture at a medical college, are surgeon to a free dispensary, physician to the order of Sons of the Blue Hen, physician to the hospital of the Big Sisters of the Rich, medical examiner for the Knights of the Empty Cupboard, and have the swellest turn-out in town. You certainly are to be congratulated.”

“Yes, Jack,” I said, “I feel that my career is full of promise. By the way, old man, lend me a dollar, will you? This is my day for dining—every third day, you know. I’ll pay you back next week.”

“Certainly, doctor, I am happy to contribute to the comfort of one whose future is so brightly illumined by—promise. But, nevertheless, I still maintain that it is too early in the action for you to think of a colored coachman—every third day is—”

“Well, Jack,” I interrupted, “I must be going. Much obliged for your contribution to the free silver question. And, by the way, I’m just on my way to a meeting of the county commissioners. I’m slated for the County Hospital Staff.”

“Oh—h—h!” groaned Jack. “Has your ambition for wealth no bounds?”

A day or two later I was driving at a “sent for” gait, down Michigan Avenue, enjoying the evident admiring approbation of the people whom I met, when I saw my friend Jack a short distance ahead of me. He caught sight of me, stopped short and walked out to the curb, where he awaited me with a decidedly pleased expression on his handsome face.

“Hello, doctor!” he cried, as I drove up to him and reined in my horse. “You seem to have a bad case on hand.”

I winked and said, “Never mind the case. Come along with me for a ride. You have nothing else to do at this hour of the day.” “Don’t care if I do,” replied my friend, stepping into my buggy forthwith.

My rig continued to attract considerable attention, much to Jack’s edification, apparently. He finally said, “Well, doctor, your turn-out does excite the interest of the public, doesn’t it?”

“So I have already informed you,” I replied.

“Now, see here, doctor,” said Jack, “you know that I am your friend. As a friend it is my duty to prevent you from acquiring that fatal pride which ever precedes a fall. I have hesitated to explain your popularity to you, but for your own sake and to preserve my own health, I must do so.”

“Why, what the deuce do you mean?” I asked, in astonishment.

“Look behind you, doctor.”

I looked through the rear window of my phÆton, and saw, about fifty yards behind me, a long, black, undertaker’s wagon. On the seat, driving the sorry-looking steeds that were drawing the horribly suggestive vehicle, was—my friend, Nathaniel Black!

My undertaking friend was by no means quietly pursuing his gloomy way, but was gesticulating and winking suggestively to the people on the side walk. He would first flirt his knobby thumb in my direction with a “D’ye see him?” gesture, and then, with a “That’s what I’m here for” wink at everybody in sight, would grin all over his ugly face.

“A horrible coincidence!” I said faintly.

“Coincidence nothing!” howled Jack. “He’s been doing that ever since you got your new buggy!”

And I bought wine for Nathaniel, and for Jack, and for sundry of their friends—yea, and for all who were within the sound of their voices in their daily walks.

But, I borrowed the wherewithal to settle from Jack. And, by and by, when practice came, I gave my patronage to Nathaniel’s rivals.

Was the joke on me?

I wonder.

There are some doctors who do not understand the precise relation that the noble profession of undertaking desires to bear to the medical man. I freely confess that I myself was ignorant on this point until quite recently.

In a certain neighborhood of this metropolis dwells an undertaker of more than local renown whose reputation has been built up largely by virtue of certain natural attributes that peculiarly fit him for the practice of his profession;—indeed, I have never met a man more to the manner born as regards fitness for his—shall I say, life work, or would “death work” be more appropriate?

Mr. Weeps is one of those mournful-looking persons, who seem to be constantly on the verge of tears. His expression is of a most sympathetic nature, and his eyes seem ever ready to exude the saline fluid that is so essential to the expression of sincere sorrow and regret. It might be remarked in passing, that there are numerous theories explanatory of the redness and humidity of those bleary orbs. Personally, I repudiate the onion theory altogether, and incline to the view that Mr. Weeps’ ocular peculiarities are dependent upon a combination of catarrh and polypi obstructing the nasal ducts. The “red eye” theory, advanced by one of his homeopathic constituents, is unworthy of consideration—especially as my lugubrious friend has been superintendent of a Sunday school for ten years and has served two terms as alderman.

But, whatever, may be the true explanation, Weeps’ eyes appear to have been especially designed for his vocation. There is no other business—unless it be selling milk—to which those watery orbs could possibly be so well adapted as to undertaking.

I cannot claim to be on terms of intimacy with Mr. Weeps, and therefore do not feel warranted in attempting a detailed description of his many physical peculiarities—it would, however, be manifestly unfair to that most estimable gentleman, did I not dwell upon his eyes.

In the course of my semi-occasional peregrinations into Mr. Weeps’ neighborhood, it transpired that one of my patients, with malice both prepense and aforethought—and consumption—did leave his little lung behind and hie him heavenward.

My kindly and well meant offices being no longer necessary, I naturally supposed that my responsibility had ceased. Not so, however—I was asked to recommend an undertaker. Having heard of Mr. Weeps and his phenomenal skill, I suggested that the family consult him as to the further management of the case. It seems that the family took my advice and was highly gratified with the pleasant and expeditious manner in which he performed his important functions. Indeed, the friends of the party chiefly interested were so well pleased, that they thanked me a few days later, for recommending a gentleman of so much talent and such a sympathetic nature. I, of course, appreciated the family’s gratitude, although the service rendered was quite unusual in my experience. Some unfeeling persons might say that the large life insurance policies left by the deceased were an element in the gratitude the family expressed to me, but, my dear reader, the very thought would be cruel and ignoble. Without confidence in human nature life would be miserable for all of us—and especially for doctors.

A few days after the funeral I received a call from Mr. Weeps. There seemed to be no end to the gratitude which was believed to be due me. Weeps had called to express his. He appeared to be as well pleased with the family as its members were with him.

I had never had the honor of meeting Mr. Weeps before, but his suave and cordial manner of introducing himself put me at my ease at once. The pleasure of acquaintance was of course mutual; it always is, you know.

After thanking me most cordially for my courtesy in referring the case of the late Mr. B—— to him, Mr. Weeps said: “Now, doctor, I shall always be glad to have you remember me whenever you happen to be in my neighborhood.”

I looked at him suspiciously, but saw no murder in his eye; he was as oily and plausible as ever.

“You see,” he continued, “I have never had the honor of serving any of your patients before, and am very glad to have the opportunity of getting at least a small portion of your business.”

The fellow seemed to be getting a little personal, but I made no remark, and he went on with his little piece.

“I will see you again in a few days, doctor—as soon as I have been compensated for my labors in this particular case. You, of course, understand that I will extend to you in this case, as in all future cases, the same courtesies I usually extend to the medical profession.”

“Ah, indeed!” I exclaimed, “and of what do those courtesies consist?”

“Well,” he replied, blandly, “they are quite liberal, considering the hard times—about twenty-five per cent.”

“’Tis strange—but true; for truth is always strange.
Stranger than fiction.”

Among all the undertakers I ever knew my feelings have been seriously disturbed by but one.

The gentleman in question is fat, jolly—when off duty—and a bon vivant of the ideal type. He is a ubiquitous sort of chap, and I find myself stumbling over him quite frequently—in the most unexpected places and under the most embarrassing circumstances. No social gathering seems to be complete without him—much to my discomfiture.

Words cannot express the embarrassment I have suffered at the hands of my fat friend. The worst of the matter is that the fellow really likes me—you needn’t smile, gentle reader; his fondness does not depend upon reasons of a business nature; he likes me for myself alone. It will be seen, therefore, that I cannot afford to say anything which might by any possibility offend him. Aside from his affection for me, there is another motive which impels me to avoid personalities—he is high-strung and sensitive to a degree, and, if report speaks true, an expert boxer. To be sure, those whom he has boxed have said nothing about his proficiency, but where one’s own personal safety is concerned one is justified in giving due weight even to idle rumor. Now, it may seem strange that I should find fault with a man who has so sincere a regard for me as my fat friend, but, you know, even affection may be over done. When a fellow dresses up on Sunday preparatory to calling on his best girl, and his pet dog lavishes caresses with his muddy paws on those eleven dollar lavender trousers, patience ceases to be a virtue—and the comparison is by no means far-fetched.

Whenever I board a crowded street car, that obese mortuary fiend is always aboard—and at the end of the car farthest from me. He never fails to see and recognize me, although I go through as many motions as a professional contortionist in the vain and frantic effort to avoid recognition.

And then you should hear him yell, “Hello, Doc! How are all the folks?”

I assure him that I am greatly obliged for his rather suggestive solicitude for the welfare of my family, and that the folks are all well.

He next asks me how business is, and when I answer, “First rate,” with a tone of sorrowing reproof he informs me that it is “very quiet with him.” As if his business is not supposed to be invariably quiet! The party sitting next me leaves the car; the undertaker pushes through the crowd and with a “How d’ye do, old man?” and an ostentatious pump-handle shake of my hand that almost costs me several fingers, takes the vacant seat beside me.

And now comes a conversation—his part of which is audible to everybody on the car—relative to the “last case we had together.” The brute even mentions the party’s name, which, if it happens to be a well known one, excites the rapt attention of everybody within earshot.

He next proceeds to ask me to dine with him “to-morrow” and comments on the “elegant time we had together last week.”

Finally arriving at his destination, my demon bids me an affectionate good night and starts for the farther door of the car. I breathe a sigh of relief—but too soon. Having reached the platform he re-opens the door and bellows out—

“By the way, Doc! do you think old man Blank is going to pull through? Old friend of mine, you know—I’ll probably be in on the case when the thing’s over.”

I went to the opera the other night hoping—aye, determined to enjoy myself, and feeling that I was entitled to a little enjoyment, for I had had very little opera in my daily routine for some months. My wife was looking very well, and my mirror gave positive proof that my new dress suit was an unexceptionable fit. All things considered I had every reason to feel well satisfied with myself and the world at large.

But how vain are human hopes. We were hardly comfortably seated, before I saw in the box directly opposite mine—the fat undertaker who haunted my dreams!

I endeavored to avoid recognition, but it was no use. He saw me, and gesticulated so wildly to attract my attention that I was perforce obliged to respond in self-defense. The house being crowded, this little episode attracted much attention—especially on the part of numerous friends of the undertaker and myself, who, as luck would have it, happened to be present. These people smiled broadly; some even went so far as to wink significantly at each other.

The fat undertaker is one of those men who succeed in attracting attention at all times and under all circumstances. On this occasion he shone with effulgent brilliancy. He enjoyed the play—there was no doubt about that—and proposed to make me enjoy it also. Whenever the performance especially pleased him, he applauded vociferously, quivering all over like a lump of calf’s-foot jelly and gesticulating furiously in my direction. Having succeeded in attracting my attention, he would jerk his fat thumb in the direction of the artist who was favored with his approbation and nod emphatically at me.

The audience enjoyed my friend’s enthusiasm and seemed quite anxious to know how I was enjoying it. I couldn’t enlighten it as intelligently as could have been wished, so I did the next best thing—I went out between acts to see a man—and found him so highly interesting that I forgot to go back. Suddenly remembering that my wife was still in the box, I sent an usher to inform her that I wasn’t feeling well and was waiting for her at the door. Being a wise woman, she divined the cause of my indisposition and soon joined me. She didn’t feel quite comfortable herself, and was glad to escape from—the opera.

I have forsworn society. I have bought an automobile, and if ever I go to the theater again—may the fat undertaker seize me!