by Miss Pardoe [Julia Pardoe].
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William & Mary Howitt) vol.1 #17 (24 Apr 1847).
I was once visiting in town, when in weak health and depressed spirits, and was slowly pacing to and fro on the broad pavement which extends in front of the proud line of lordly dwellings that overlook Hyde Park on its northern boundary, endeavouring to inhale new vigour from the keen air, and in the pale sunshine of a winter's noon, when my attention was attracted to a modest funeral, which, advancing up Park-lane, was, with less solemnity than is generally observed by such processions, approaching the burial-ground at the termination of St. George's-terrace. The death-bell was already tolling; the grave was awaiting its tenant; and I paused for an instant until the little train of death passed by.
There was a whole history of suffering, penury, and bereavement, beneath my eye. The single ill-clad undertaker who led the way, the coffin of unpolished wood, the faded pall which fluttered gloomily in the chill wind, the bowed and pale-browed man whose mourning-cloak failed to conceal the labouring garb beneath it, as he led by either hand a little girl, to whose shapeless bonnets of rusty straw the charitable care of some kindly-hearted neighbour, perhaps as poor as themselves, had added a bow and a pair of strings of black—the one, a child of about eight years of age, weeping bitterly; and the other, still an infant of some three or four, gazing about her in mute but silent wonder, now looking earnestly towards the coffin, and then lifting her large blue eyes to the face of her father, as if to ask the meaning of so unwonted a ceremony. But the man made no reply to those earnest eyes, neither did he weep; it was easy to see that he was heart-broken; easy to understand that he had been poor before, very poor, but that he had struggled bravely on while he had one to help, and to cheer, and to support him; but that now the corner-stone of his energy and of his hope had been removed, and the whole foundation of his moral energy had given way. That there, in that rude coffin, beneath that squalid pall, lay the wife of his bosom, the mother of his children; and that for him, and the two helpless ones whom he led along, there was no longer a hope of better days in this world.
I felt the tears gush over my heart as the pauper-funeral passed me by; and it had scarcely done so when it was overtaken by a second death-train, consisting of a hearse without plumes, and a single mourning coach, so wretchedly appointed that the struggle between narrow means, and a desire to escape the stigma of a "walking funeral," was clearly apparent. Strange! that human vanity should uprear its paltry crest even upon the death-path—but so it is; and I remarked that as this second funeral passed the one in which I had felt so sudden an interest, the drivers of the two sable vehicles cast a glance that was almost scornful upon the little band of mourners, and the coffin which they followed. It is probable that I alone detected that contemptuous glance, for the soul-stricken man, who was about to give up to the grave all that had been to him the staff and the sunshine of his poor struggling existence, had no perception beyond that of his own misery, no pride with which to combat his despair.
The sad drama of life-in-death upon which I was then looking had not, however, yet reached its close, for the body which was dragged to the grave by a pair of black horses had scarcely left behind it that which was borne to its resting-place upon the shoulders of two of its fellow-men, when suddenly there appeared, round the corner turning from the Edgeware-road, a mute, bearing a plateau of white plumes, and followed by a hearse drawn by four horses, all similarly decorated, and a couple of mourning-coaches, with the usual attendance of undertaker's hirelings. Vile mockery of Almighty God! to whom we cannot even be content to resign our dust, without flaunting—as if in defiance of His holy precepts who bade us be meek and humble if we would gain heaven—our poor and sordid vanity at the grave-side; rendered in this instance the more revolting from the fact, that all the decorations of the funeral were grim with dirt, and tarnished by long use. Nevertheless, they produced their intended effect. Every foot-passenger paused by the grated entrance of the burial-place to await the halt of the procession. Children, who had pursued their walk or their sports, heedless of the bereaved husband, or the solitary coach, suddenly paused in astonishment and admiration; sauntering nursery-maids quickened their pace to participate in the spectacle; reckless butcher-boys pulled up their carts, and almost ceased to whistle as the imposing mockery moved towards them; and when the varnished coffin was followed to the grave-yard by the attendant mourners, the outlay which had been lavished upon the funeral was repaid to the survivors, by the earnest and curious stare of the idle mob that had hastily collected.
I asked the names of the dead. I might have spared the question. The smile with which the first reply was given—for I began with the widowed pauper—was one of pity, which implied some doubt of my perfect sanity: while, on the subject of the unplumed hearse, I was told to "look straight for'erd, and I should see that it war'nt nobody;" and so far my inquiries were unavailing: but, as I glanced towards the bustling officials who were rapidly dismantling the more pretending cortége, and flinging plumes, staves, and pall-trappings into the lugubrious vehicle so lately tenanted by the early dead, I believed that I should be more successful. Not so, however; the undertaker and his myrmidons—and with these I had no desire to be forced into contact—were alone acquainted with the name of the deceased. The crowd, satisfied with the amusement of a moment, cared little to whom they were indebted for its enjoyment.
"Some young person," said a portly man, with a red nose, and a capacious figure.
"So I infer from what are meant for white plumes."
"You may well say meant, ma'am," remarked a decent-looking woman, who stood beside me with a child—and that evidently her own child—in her arms. "Lord help us! here's a waste of money that would gladden many a hungry heart. Miss Some one, they tell me, a rich shopkeeper's daughter—poor thing! She's to have a grand tomb, they say, and of course her name'll be on it; but till that's done, nobody but her own people knows who she is."
A grand tomb! A name graven upon stone! And the pauper-mother will have neither tomb nor name.—But, sleep peacefully in thy long rest, O stricken sister!—The marble that presses upon the breast of the proud, is only so much more that parts them from their God; while thou hast upon thine unlettered grave the rain-drops from above for tears; the wind which rocks the heads of the rank weeds that wave over thy brow breathes thine ever-recurring requiem; and the deep blue vault of heaven is the ETERNAL MONUMENT raised above thee by thy Maker.