Читать книгу Dealings with the Dead (Vol. 1&2) - Lucius M. Sargent - Страница 38

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I am sad. It is my duty to record an event of deep and universal interest. On Sunday night, precisely as the clock of the Old South Church struck the very first stroke of twelve, departed this life, of no particular malady, but from a sort of constitutional decay, to which the family has ever been periodically liable, and at the same age, at which his ancestors have died, for many generations, A. Millesimus Octingentesimus Quadragesimus Octavus.

It has been a custom in France, and in other countries, to send printed invitations to friends and relatives, inviting them to funerals. I have heard of a thriving widow—la veuve Berthier—who added a short postscript—Madame Berthier will be happy to furnish soap and candles, at the old stand, as heretofore. I trust I shall not be deemed guilty of a like indiscretion, if I add, for general information, that the business will be conducted hereafter, in the name of A. M. O. Q. Nonus.

I did intend to be facetious, but, for the soul of me, I cannot. It is enough for me to know that the old year is dead and gone, and that the hopes and fears of millions are now lying in its capacious grave. Between the old year and the new, the space is so incalculably narrow, that, if those ancient philosophers were in the right, who contended, that an angel could not live in a vacuum, no angel, in the flesh, or out of it, could possibly get between the two: the partition is thin as tissue paper—thin as that between wit and madness, which is so exceedingly thin, as to be often undistinguishable, leaving us in doubt, on which side our neighbors may be found—when at home.

I see, clearly, in the close of another year, another milestone, upon Time’s highway, from chaos to eternity. Is it not wise, and natural, and profitable, for the pilgrim to pause, and mark his lessening way? He cannot possibly know the precise number of milestones, that lie between the present and his journey’s end; but he may sometimes shrewdly guess from the number he has passed already. There is precious little certainty, however, in the very best of man’s arithmetic, on a subject like this: for, at every milestone, from the very first, and at countless intermediate points, he will observe innumerable tablets, recording the fact, that myriads of travellers have stopped here and there, not for the want of willingness to go forward, but for the want of breath—not for the night, to be awakened at the morning watch, by the attentive host, or the railway whistle—but for a long, long while, to be summoned, at last, by the piercing notes of a clarion, loud and clear, which, as the bow of Ulysses could be bent only by the master’s hand, can be raised, only by the lips and the lungs of an archangel.

Well, Quadragesimus Octavus hath gone to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets—a motley group it is, that band of melancholy followers! Upon this, as upon all other occasions of the same sort, true tears, from the very well-spring of the heart, fall, together with showers of hypocritical salt water. Little children, who must ever refer their orphanage to the year that is past, are in the van; and with them, a few widowers and widows, who have not been married quite long enough, to be reconciled to their bereavement. There are others, who also have been divorced from their partners by death, and who submit, with admirable grace; and wear their weeds—of the very best make and fashion, by the way—with infinite propriety.

It is quite amazing to see the great number of mourners, who, though, doubtless, natives, have a very Israelitish expression, and wear phylacteries, upon which are written three or four words whose import is intelligible, only to the initiated, but which, being interpreted, signify—three per cent. a month. None seem to wear an expression of more heartfelt sorrow, for the departure of Quadragesimus Octavus, during whose existence, being less greedy of honors than of gain, they were singularly favored, converting the necessities of other men into an abundance of bread and butter, for themselves.

In the melancholy train, we behold a goodly number of maiden ladies, dressed in yellow, which is the mourning color of the Egyptians, and some of these disconsolate damsels are really beginning to acquire the mummy complexion: it happened that, as the old year expired, they were just turned of thirty.

There are others, who have sufficient reason to mourn, and whose numerous writings have brought them into serious trouble. Their works, commencing with a favorite expression—for value received I promise to pay, owing to something rather pointed in the phraseology, were liable to be severely criticised, so soon as the old year expired.

The lovers of parade, and show, and water celebrations, and torch-light processions, trumpeting and piping merrymakings, and huzzaings, the brayings of stump orators, and the intolerable noise and farrago of electioneering; the laudings and vituperatings of Taylor, Cass, and Van Buren; the ferocious lyings and vilifyings of partisans, politically drunk or crazy—the lovers of all or any of these things are one and all, attendants at the funeral of Quadragesimus Octavus.

The good old year is gone—and, in the words of a celebrated clergyman, to a bereaved mother, who would not be comforted, but wailed the louder, the more he pressed upon her the duty of submission—“what do you propose to do about it?” I cannot answer for you, my gentle reader, but I am ready to answer for myself. As an old sexton, I believe it to be my duty to pay immediate attention to the very significant command—whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou goest. If good old Samuel had been an undertaker, he could not have said, more confidently than I do, at this moment, whose corpse have I taken, or whose shroud have I taken, or whom have I defrauded, or whom have I buried east for west, or wrong end foremost? Of what surgeon have I received a fee, for a skeleton, to blind mine eyes withal? I have neither the head nor the heart for mystical theology. I believe in the doctrine of election, as established by the constitution and laws of the United States, and of the States respectively, so far as regards the President, Vice President, and all town, county and state officers: and I respect the Egyptians, for one trait, recorded of them, by an eminent historian, who states, that those, who worship an ape, never quarrel with those, who worship an ox. A very fine verse, the thirteenth of the last chapter of Ecclesiastes—“Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.”

Let us try, during the year, upon whose threshold we are now standing, to do as much good, and as little harm, as possible. I respectfully recommend to all old men and women, who are as grey and grizzly as I am, to make themselves as agreeable as they can; and remember, that old age is proverbially peevish and exacting. In the presence of children, do not forget the wise sayings of Parson Primrose, who candidly confessed, when solicited to join in some childish pastime, that he complied, for he was tired of being always wise. Pray allow all you can for the vivacity and waywardness of youth. Nine young ladies, in ten, may find a clever fit, in Pope’s shrewd line—

“Brisk as a flea, and ignorant as dirt.”

All, that can be said about it, lies in a filbert shell, ita lex scripta est, ita rerum natura. You will not mend the matter, by scowling and growling, from morning to night. Can you not remember, that you yourself, when a boy, were saluted now and then, with the title of “proper plague”—“devil’s bird”—or “little Pickle?” I can. Some years ago, my very worthy friend, the Rev. John S. C. Abbott, did me the kindness to give me one of his excellent works, the Path of Peace. The preface contains a very short and clever incident, of whose applicability, you can judge for yourself.

“Mother,” said a little boy, “I do not wish to go to Heaven.”

“And why not, my son?”

“Why, grandfather will be there, will he not?”

“Yes, my son, I hope he will.”

“Well, as soon as he sees us, he will come, scolding along, and say, ‘Whew, whew, whew! what are these boys here for?’ I am sure I do not wish to go to Heaven, if grandfather is to be there.”

This is a short tale of a grandfather, but it is a very significant story, for its length; and calculated, I fear, for many meridians.

Well, here we are, in the very midst of bells and bonfires, screaming for joy, in honor of the new year, with our spandy new weepers on, for the old one.