wed to his tomb by more real mourners than one
carriage can convey. The crape-canopied hearse, the nodding plumes of
woe, the wailing music of the hired bands, the long procession of
slow-moving coaches, the tramp of hundreds, tell only of human vanity:
we make our show of sorrow. One vehicle only holds hearts breaking in
an agony of grief--hearts that know nothing in their woe of the dear
one's greatness; know only that he has gone from their household that
his presence had made so happy. In his death the dear walls of that
home were shattered, the fire upon the hearth is dead, and the hard
world darkened down to desolation's nakedness. Could all who were
favored in knowing this beautiful character, and blessed by her very
presence, been called to form the funeral cortege, real heart-felt
grief would have lived along the entire procession, and sobs, not
strains of mournful music, would have broken on the ear. And in this
procession would have been found not only the rich and well-born, clad
in costly silks and furs, who had received from this gracious lady the
divine influences of the Christian spirit, but the thinly clad poor,
the dependent orphans, and helpless age. It is such a procession that
does not disperse and disappear at the cemetery, but follows in prayer
the mourned-for spirit to its home in heaven.

It is not for us to invade the sacred privacy of this lovely life. We
owe an apology to her blessed memory for even this mention of her
name. We know how she shrank from such while among us, and it is only
as a duty to the living that we venture on this tribute to her
excellence.

What we feel, and what must be felt by all, a pagan poet imbued
unknowingly with the truest Christian impulses has sung in immortal
verse:

"But thou art fled,
Like some frail exhalation which the dawn
Robes in its golden beams;--ah, thou hast fled!
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful,
The child of grace and genius! Heartless things
Are done and said i' the world, and many worms
And beasts and men live on, and mighty earth,
From sea and mountain, city and wilderness,
In vesper low or joyous orison,
Lifts still its solemn voice:--but thou art fled--
Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes
Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee
Been purest ministers, who are, alas