THE BUEIAL. 285 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



THiy BUEIAL. 



" They truly mourn who 

 Mourn without a witness.' 



Baron. 



Death is a great truth-teller. He throws ns back on 

 our littleness, and makes us turn about, feelmg for pro- 

 tection, or staring for explanation of his mysteries. We 

 see ourselves divested of reputation, of wealth, and the 

 million little circumstances and forms that clothe us, and 

 in his presence we stand naked to our own eyes. There 

 is nothing m us different from the dead clod beside us, 

 that a moment before was one of us, and that a moment 

 hence we may be. We speak short, and only what we 

 mean; we act fairly, and not for any appearance; we 

 feel the stirring warnings that are of our spirit, and that 

 are taunting our million cares for the flesh, mocking its 

 littleness and its flickering termination. 



In social life, the love of self and dread of others is not 

 shaken ofl" even at the grave. We bury our dead man 

 with pomp and proper etiquette. There are invitations, 

 and crape dresses, hearse, bells, monuments, criticism, 

 and seclusion from society; even in our death we are 

 worldly, draping the dead truth and its morals with Hv 



