a certain weekly sum secured to him while living; but in robbing
the church-yards there are always many engaged in the rig--for notice is
generally given that the body will be removed in the night, to which the
Sexton is made privy, and receives the information with as much ease as
he did to have it brought--his price being a guinea for the use of the
_grubbing irons_, adjusting the grave, &c. This system is generally
carried on in little country church-yards within a few miles of London.
A hackney-coach or a cart is ready to receive the stolen property, and
there cannot be a doubt but many of these depredations are attended with
success, the parties escaping with their prey undetected--nay, I know
of an instance that occurred a short time back, of a young man who was
buried at Wesley's Chapel, on which occasion one of the mourners, a
little more wary than the rest, could not help observing two or three
rough fellows in the ground during the ceremony, which aroused his
suspicion that they intended after interment to have the body of his
departed friend; this idea became so strongly rooted in his mind, that
he imparted his suspicions to the remainder of those who had followed
him: himself and another therefore determined if possible to satisfy
themselves upon the point, by returning in the dusk of the evening to
reconnoitre. They accordingly proceeded to the spot, but the gates being
shut, one of them climbed to the top of the wall, where he discovered
the very parties, he had before noticed, in the act of wrenching open
the coffin. Here they are, said he, hard at it, as I expected. But
before he and his friend could get over the wall, the villains
effected their escape, leaving behind them a capacious sack and all the
implements of their infernal trade. They secured the body, had ~158~~it
conveyed home again, and in a few days re-buried it in a place of
greater security.{1}

Bob was surprised at this description of the _Resurrection-rig_, but was
quickly drawn from his contemplation of the depravity of human nature,
and what he could not help thinking the dirty employments of life, by
a shouting apparently from several voices as they passed the end of
St. Martin's Lane: it came from about eight persons, who appeared to be
journeymen mechanics, with pipes in their mouths, some of them rather
_rorytorious_,{2} who, as they approached, broke altogether into the
following

SONG.{3}

"I'm a frolicsome