The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton

           Inanoldabbeytown,downinthispartofthecountry,along,longwhileago—solong,thatthestorymustbeatrueone,becauseourgreat-grandfathersimplicitlybelievedit—thereofficiatedassextonandgrave-diggerinthechurchyard,oneGabrielGrub.Itbynomeansfollowsthatbecauseamanisasexton,andconstantlysurroundedbytheemblemsofmortality,thereforeheshouldbeamoroseandmelancholyman;yourundertakersarethemerriestfellowsintheworld;andIoncehadthehonourofbeingonintimatetermswithamute,whoinprivatelife,andoffduty,wasascomicalandjocosealittlefellowaseverchirpedoutadevil-may-caresong,withoutahitchinhismemory,ordrainedoffagoodstiffglasswithoutstoppingforbreath.Butnotwithstandingtheseprecedentstothecontrary,GabrielGrubwasanill-conditioned,cross-grained,surlyfellow—amoroseandlonelyman,whoconsortedwithnobodybuthimself,andanoldwickerbottlewhichfittedintohislargedeepwaistcoatpocket—andwhoeyedeachmerryface,asitpassedhimby,withsuchadeepscowlofmaliceandill-humour,asitwasdifficulttomeetwithoutfeelingsomethingtheworsefor.

           ‘Alittlebeforetwilight,oneChristmasEve,Gabrielshoulderedhisspade,lightedhislantern,andbetookhimselftowardstheoldchurchyard;forhehadgotagravetofinishbynextmorning,and,feelingverylow,hethoughtitmightraisehisspirits,perhaps,ifhewentonwithhisworkatonce.

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