Читать книгу Dealings with the Dead (Vol. 1&2) - Lucius M. Sargent - Страница 37

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Making mourning, as an abstract phrase, is about as intelligible, as making fish. These arbitrary modes of expression have ever been well enough understood, nevertheless, by those employed in the respective operations. Making mourning, in ancient times, was assigned to that class of hired women, termed præficæ, to whom I have had occasion to refer. They are thus described, by Stephans—adhiberi solebant funeri, mercede conductæ, ut flerent, et fortia facta laudarent—they were called to funerals, and paid, to shed tears, and relate the famous actions of the defunct. Doubtless, by practice, and continual exercise of the will over the lachrymary organs, they acquired the power of forcing mechanical tears. We have a specimen of this power, in the case of Miss Sophy Streatfield, so often referred to, by Madame D’Arblay, in her account of those happy days at Mrs. Thrale’s. Making mourning, in modern times, is, with a few touching exceptions, confined to that important class, the dress-makers.

The time allowed, for mourning, was determined, by the laws of Numa. Plutarch informs us, that no mourning was allowed, for a child, that died under three years, and for all others, a month, for every year it had lived, but never to exceed ten, which was the longest term, allowed for any mourning. We often meet with the term, luctus annus, the year of mourning; but the year of Romulus contained but ten months; and, though Numa added two, to the calendar, the term of mourning remained unchanged. The howlers, or wailing women, were employed also in Greece, and in Judea. Thus in Jeremiah ix. 17, call for the mourning women, &c., and let them make haste and take up a wailing for us, that our eyes may run down with tears, &c.

By the laws of Numa, widows were required to mourn ten months or during the year of Romulus. Thus Ovid, Fast. i. 35:

Per totidem menses a funere conjugis uxor

Sustinet in vidua tristia signa domo.

Numa was rather severe upon widows. The tristia signa, spoken of by Ovid, were sufficiently mournful. According to Kirchmaun de Fun. iv. 11, they were not to stir abroad in public—to abstain entirely from all entertainments—to lay aside every kind of ornament—to dress in black—and not even to kindle a fire, in their houses. Not content with stinting and freezing these poor, lone creatures, to death, Numa forbade them to repeat the matrimonial experiment, for ten months. Indeed, it was accounted infamous, for a widow to marry, within that period. As though he were resolved to add insult to injury, he, according to Plutarch, permitted those to violate this law, who would make up their minds, to sacrifice a cow with calf. This unnatural sacrifice was intended, by Numa, to frighten the widows. Doubtless, in many instances, the legislative bugbear was effectual; but it is quite probable there were some courageous women, in those days, as there are, at present, who would have slaughtered a whole drove, rather than yield the tender point.

The Jews expressed their grief, for the death of their near friends, by weeping, and crying aloud, beating their breasts, rending their clothes, tearing their flesh, pulling their hair, and starving themselves. They neither dressed, nor made their beds, nor washed, nor saw visitors, nor shaved, nor cut their nails, and made their toilets with sackcloth and ashes. The mourning of the Jews lasted commonly seven days, and never more than thirty—quite long enough, we should think, for such an exhibition of filth and folly. The Greeks also did much of all this—they covered themselves with dust and dirt, and rolled in the mire, and beat their breasts, and tore their faces.

The color of the mourning garb, among the Romans, was originally black—from the time of Domitian, white. At present, the color of the mourning dress, in Europe is black—in China white—in Turkey blue or violet—in Egypt yellow—in Ethiopia brown. There have come down to us two admirable letters from Seneca, 63, and 99, on the subject of lamentation for the dead; the first to Lucilius, after the death of his friend, Flaccus—the second to Lucilius, communicating the letter Seneca had written to Murullus, on the death of his son. These letters must be read, cum grano salis, on account of the stoical philosophy of the writer. He admits the propriety of decent sorrow, but is opposed to violent and unmeasured lamentations—nec sicci sint occuli, amisso amico, nec fluant—shed tears, if you have lost your friend, but do not cry your eyes out—lacrimandum est, non plorandum—let there be weeping, but not wailing. He cites, for the advantage of Lucilius, the counsel of Ulysses to Achilles, whose grief, for the death of Patroclus, had become inordinate, to give one whole day to his sorrow, and have done with it. He considers it not honorable, for men, to exhibit their grief, beyond the term of two or three days. Such, upon the authority of Tacitus De Mor. Germ. 27, was the practice of the ancient Germans. Funerum nulla ambitio: … struem rogi nec vestibus, nec odoribus, cumulant: … lamenta ac lacrimas cito, dolorem et tristitiam tarde, ponunt; feminis lugere honestum est; viris meminisse: there was no pride of funereal parade; they heaped no garments, no odors, upon the pile; they speedily laid aside their tears and laments; not so their grief and sorrow. It was becoming, for women to mourn; for men to cherish in their memories.

In his letter to Lucilius, Seneca enters upon an investigation, as to the real origin of all this apparent sorrow, so freely and generally manifested, for the dead; and his sober conviction breaks forth, in the words—Nemo tristis sibi est. O infelicem stultitiam! est aliqua et doloris ambitio! No one mourns for himself alone. Oh miserable folly! There is ambition, even in our sorrow! This passage recalls Martial’s epigram, 34, De Gellia:

Amissum non flet, quum sola est Gellia, patrem;

Si quis adest, jussæ prosiliunt lacrymæ.

Non dolet hic, quisquis landari, Gellia, quærit;

Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet.

Arthur Murphy, in his edition of Dr. Johnson’s works, ascribes to that great man the following extraordinary lines:

If the man, who turnips cries,

Cry not, when his father dies,

’Tis a proof, that he had rather

Have a turnip than his father.

Under the doctor’s sanction, for a bagatelle, I may offer a translation of Martial’s epigram:

When no living soul is nigh,

Gellia’s filial grief is dry;

Call, some morning, and I’ll warrant

Gellia’l shed a perfect torrent.

Tears unforc’d true sorrow draws:

Gellia weeps for mere applause.

It is our fortune to witness not a little of this, in our line. We are compelled to drop in, at odd, disjointed moments, when the not altogether disagreeable occupations of the survivors contrast, rather oddly, to be sure, with the graver duties to the dead. A rich widow, like Dr. Johnson’s protègè, in his letter to Chesterfield, is commonly overburdened with help. It is quite surprising, to observe the solicitude about her health, and how very fervent the hope of her neighbors becomes, that she may not have taken cold. The most prominent personages, after the widow and the next of kin, are the coffin-maker and the dress-maker—both are solicitous of making an excellent fit. Those, who, like myself, have had long practice in families, are often admitted to familiar interviews with the chief mourners, which are likely to take place, in the midst of dress-makers and artists of all sorts. How many acres of black crape I have witnessed, in half a century! “Mr. Abner—good Mr. Abner,” said Mrs. ——, “dear Mr. Abner,” said she, “I shall not forget your kindness—how pleasant it is, on these occasions, to see a face one knows. You buried my first husband—I thought there was nothing like that: and you buried my second husband—and, oh dear me, I thought there was nothing like that—and now, oh dear, dear me, you are going to bury my third! How I am supported, it is hard to tell—but the widow’s God will carry me through this, and other trials, for aught I know—Miss Buddikin, don’t you think that dress should be fuller behind?” “Oh dear ma’am, your fine shape, you know,” said Miss Buddikin. “There now, Miss Buddikin, at any other time I dare say I should be pleased with your flattery, but grief has brought down my flesh and spirits terribly. Good morning, dear Mr. Abner—remember there will be no postponement, on account of the weather.”