There was much to offend the taste in the accompaniments of this
funeral. It was an inconsistent attempt at show, a tawdry imitation of
more expensive funeral observances. About the wasted face of the once
beautiful girl were arranged, not the delicate white blossoms with
which affection sometimes loves to surround what was lovely in life, but
gaudy flowers of every hue. The dress, too, was fantastic and
inappropriate. The mother and little brothers sat in one of the two
small rooms; the mother in transports of grief, which was real, but not
so absorbing as to be forgetful of self and scenic effect. The little
boys sat by, in awkward consciousness of new black gloves, and crape
bands on their hats. Everything was artificial and painfully forlorn;
and the want of genuineness, which surrounded the pale sleeper, seemed
to cast suspicion on the honesty and validity of her late-formed hope
for eternity.
But the first words of prayer, breathed forth, rather than uttered, in
the low tones the speaker was most accustomed to use, changed the aspect
of the poor place. _He_ was genuine and in earnest.
The mother's exaggerated sobs became less frequent, and real tears
glistened in eyes that, like mine, had been wandering to detect
absurdities and incongruities. We were gently lifted upwards towards God
and Heaven. We were taught a lesson in that mild charity which "thinketh
no evil,"--which "hopeth all things, and endureth all things;" and when
the scanty funeral train left the house, I could not but feel that the
ministration of this good man there had been--
"As if some angel shook his wings.
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