Life in the Clearings versus the Bush Part 17

After an hour or so I heard Jonathan tumble upstairs to bed, and while undressing he made the following very innocent remark to his wife,--"Truly, Hannah, I fear that I have used too many words tonight.

My uncle is a man of many words, and one is apt to forget the rules of prudence when arguing with him."

If the use of many words was looked upon as a serious transgression by honest Jonathan, my husband, my friend, and the poet, must have been very guilty men, for they continued their argument until the "sma' hours ayont the twal."

My husband had to pa.s.s through the room occupied by the Friends, in order to reach mine, but he put a bold face upon the matter, and plunged at once through the difficulty, the Quaker's nose giving unmistakeable notice that he was in the land of Nod. The pale sickly woman just opened her dreamy black eyes, but hid them instantly beneath the bed-clothes, and the pa.s.sage, not of arms, but of the bed-chamber, was won.

The next morning we had to rise early to take the boat, and Jonathan was up by the dawn of day; so that I went through as bold as a lion, and was busily employed in discussing an excellent breakfast, while my poor partner was sitting impatiently nursing his appet.i.te at the foot of his bed, and wishing the pale Quakeress across the bay. The steamer was in sight before he was able to join us at the breakfast-table. I had now my revenge, and teased him all the way home on being kept a prisoner, with only a sickly woman for a jailor.

A young lady gave me an account of a funeral she witnessed in this primitive village, which may not be uninteresting to my English readers, as a picture of some of the customs of a new country.

The deceased was an old and very respectable resident in the township; and as the Canadians delight in large funerals, he was followed to his last home by nearly all the residents for miles round.

The use of the hea.r.s.e is not known in rural districts, and, indeed, is seldom used in towns or cities here. The corpse is generally carried to the grave, the bearers being chosen from among the gentlemen of most note in the neighbourhood, who, to the honour of the country be it spoken, never refuse to act on these mournful occasions. These walking funerals are far more imposing and affecting spectacles than the hea.r.s.e with its funeral plumes; and the simple fact of friends and neighbours conveying a departed brother to his long home, has a more solemn and touching effect upon the mind, than the train of hired mourners and empty state-carriages.

When a body is brought from a distance for interment, it is conveyed in a waggon, if in summer, spring, or autumn, and on a sleigh during the winter season, and is attended to the grave by all the respectable yeomen in the township.

I cannot resist the strong temptation of digressing from my present subject, in order to relate a very affecting instance I witnessed at one of these funerals of the attachment of a dog to his deceased master, which drew tears from my eyes, and from the eyes of my children.

The body of a farmer had been brought in a waggon from one of the back townships, a distance of twenty or thirty miles, and was, as usual in such cases, attended by a long train of country equipages. My house fronted the churchyard, and from the windows you could witness the whole of the funeral ceremonial, and hear the service p.r.o.nounced over the grave. When the coffin was lifted by the stalwart sons of the deceased from the waggon, and the procession formed to carry it into the church, I observed a large, buff Flemish dog fall into the ranks of the mourners, and follow them into the sacred edifice, keeping as near the coffin as those about it would permit him. After the service in the church was ended, the creature persevered in following the beloved remains to the grave. When the crowd dispersed, the faithful animal retired to some distance, and laid himself quietly down upon a grave, until the s.e.xton had finished his mournful task, and the last sod was placed upon the fresh heap that had closed for ever over the form he loved.

When the man retired, the dog proceeded to the spot, walked carefully round it, smelt the earth, lifted his head, and uttered the most unearthly howls. He then endeavoured to disinter the body, by digging a large hole at one end of the grave; but finding that he could not effect his purpose, he stretched himself at full length over it, as if to guard the spot, with his head buried between his fore-paws, his whole appearance betokening the most intense dejection.

All that day and night, and the next day and night, he never quitted his post for an instant, at intervals smelling the earth, and uttering those mournful, heart-rending cries. My boys took him bread and meat, and tried to coax him from the grave; but he rejected the food and their caresses. The creature appeared wasted and heartbroken with grief.

Towards noon of the third day, the eldest son of his late master came in search of him; and the young man seemed deeply affected by this instance of the dog's attachment to his father. Even his well-known voice failed to entice him from the grave, and he was obliged to bring a collar and chain, and lift him by force into his waggon, to get him from his post.

Oh, human love! is thy memory and thy faith greater than the attachment of this poor, and, as we term him, unreasoning brute, to his dead master? His grief made an impression on my mind, and on that of my children, which will never be forgotten.

But to return to the village funeral. The body in this case was borne to the church by the near relatives of the deceased; and a clergyman of the establishment delivered a funeral sermon, in which he enumerated the good qualities of the departed, his long residence among them, and described the trials and hardships he had encountered as a first settler in that district, while it was yet in the wilderness. He extolled his conduct as a good citizen, and faithful Christian, and a public-spirited man. His sermon was a very complete piece of rural biography, very curious and graphic in its way, and was listened to with the deepest attention by the persons a.s.sembled.

When the discourse was concluded, and the blessing p.r.o.nounced, one of the sons of the deceased rose and informed the persons present, that if any one wished to take a last look of the dear old man, now was the time.

He then led the way to the aisle, in which the coffin stood upon the tressels, and opening a small lid in the top, revealed to the astonishment of my young friend the pale, ghastly face of the dead.

Almost every person present touched either the face, hands, or brow of the deceased; and after their curiosity had been fully satisfied, the procession followed the remains to their last resting-place. This part of the ceremony concluded, the indifferent spectators dispersed to their respective homes, while the friends and relations of the dead man returned to dine at the house of one of his sons, my friend making one of the party.

In solemn state the mourners discussed the merits of an excellent dinner,--the important business of eating being occasionally interrupted by remarks upon the appearance of the corpse, his age, the disease of which he died, the probable division of his property, and the merits of the funeral discourse. This was done in such a business-like matter-of-fact manner, that my friend was astonished how the blood relations of the deceased could join in these remarks.

After the great business of eating was concluded the spirits of the party began to flag. The master of the house perceiving how matters were going, left the room, and soon returned with a servant bearing a tray with plates and fork, and a large dish of hiccory nuts. The mourners dried their tears, and set seriously to work to discuss the nuts, and while deeply engaged with their mouse-like employment, forgot for awhile their sorrow for the dead, continuing to keep up their spirits until the announcement of tea turned their thoughts into a new channel. By the time all the rich pies, cakes, and preserves were eaten, their feelings seemed to have subsided into their accustomed everyday routine.

It is certain that death is looked upon by many Canadians more as a matter of business, and a change of property into other hands, than as a real domestic calamity. I have heard people talk of the approaching dissolution of their nearest ties with a calm philosophy which I never could comprehend. "Mother is old and delicate; we can't expect her to last long," says one. "My brother's death has been looked for these several months past; you know he's in the consumption." My husband asked the son of a respectable farmer, for whom he entertained an esteem, how his father was, for he had not seen him for some time? "I guess," was the reply, "that the old man's fixing for the other world." Another young man, being asked by my friend, Captain ---, to spend the evening at his house, replied--"No, can't--much obliged; but I'm afear'd that grandfather will give the last kicks while I'm away."

Canadians flock in crowds to visit the dying, and to gaze upon the dead.

A doctor told me that being called into the country to visit a very sick man, he was surprised on finding the wife of his patient sitting alone before the fire ill the lower room, smoking a pipe. He naturally inquired if her husband was better?

"Oh, no, sir, far from that; he is dying!"

"Dying! and _you_ here?"

"I can't help that, sir. The room is so crowded with the neighbours, that I can't get in to wait upon him."

"Follow me," said the doctor. "I'll soon make a clearance for you."

On ascending the stairs that led to the apartment of the sick man, he found them crowded with people struggling to get in, to take a peep at the poor man. It was only by telling them that he was the doctor, that he forced his way to the bedside. He found his patient in a high fever, greatly augmented by the bustle, confusion, and heat, occasioned by so many people round him. With great difficulty he cleared the room of these intruders, and told the brother of his patient to keep every one but the sick man's wife out of the house. The brother followed the doctor's advice, and the man cheated the curiosity of the death-seekers, and recovered.

The Canadians spend a great deal of money upon their dead. An old lady told me that her nephew, a very large farmer, who had the misfortune to lose his wife in childbed, had laid out a great deal of money--a little fortune she termed it--on her grave-clothes. "Oh, my dear," she said, "it is a thousand pities that you did not go and see her before she was buried. She was dressed so expensively, and she made such a beautiful corpse! Her cap was of real thread lace, trimmed with white French ribbons, and her linen the finest that could be bought in the country."

The more ostentatious the display of grief for the dead, the less I have always found of the reality. I heard two young ladies, who had recently lost a mother, not more than sixteen years older than the eldest of the twain, lamenting most pathetically that they could not go to a public ball, because they were in mourning for ma'! Oh, what a pitiful farce is this, of wearing mourning for the dead! But as I have a good deal to say to sensible people on that subject, I will defer my long lecture until the next chapter.

Random Thoughts.

"When is Youth's gay heart the lightest?-- When the torch of health burns brightest, And the soul's rich banquet lies In air and ocean, earth and skies; Till the honied cup of pleasure Overflows with mental treasure.

"When is Love's sweet dream the sweetest?-- When a kindred heart thou meetest, Unpolluted with the strife, The selfish aims that tarnish life; Ere the scowl of care has faded The shining chaplet Fancy braided, And emotions pure and high Swell the heart and fill the eye; Rich revealings of a mind Within a loving breast enshrined, To thine own fond bosom plighted, In affection's bonds united: The sober joys of after years Are nothing to those smiles and fears.

"When is Sorrow's sting the strongest?-- When friends grow cold we've loved the longest, And the bankrupt heart would borrow Treacherous hopes to cheat the morrow; Dreams of bliss by reason banish'd, Early joys that quickly vanish'd, And the treasured past appears Only to augment our tears; When, within itself retreating, The spirit owns life's joys are fleeting, Yet, racked with anxious doubts and fears, Trusts, blindly trusts to future years.

"Oh, this is grief, the preacher saith,-- The world's dark woe that worketh death!

Yet, oft beneath its influence bowed, A beam of hope will burst the cloud, And heaven's celestial sh.o.r.e appears Slow rising o'er the tide of years, Guiding the spirit's darkling way Through th.o.r.n.y paths to endless day.

Then the toils of life are done, Youth and age are both as one; Sorrow never more can sting, Neglect or pain the bosom wring; And the joys bless'd spirits prove, Far exceeds all earthly love!"

CHAPTER VIII

Wearing Mourning for the Dead

"What is death?--my sister, say."

"Ask not, brother, breathing clay.

Ask the earth on which we tread, That silent empire of the dead.

Ask the sea--its myriad waves, Living, leap o'er countless graves!"

"Earth and ocean answer not, Life is in their depths forgot."

Ask yon pale extended form, Unconscious of the coming storm, That breathed and spake an hour ago, Of heavenly bliss and penal woe;-- Within yon shrouded figure lies "The mystery of mysteries!"

S.M.

Among the many absurd customs that the sanction of time and the arbitrary laws of society have rendered indispensable, there is not one that is so much abused, and to which mankind so fondly clings, as that of _wearing mourning for the dead!_--from the ostentatious public mourning appointed by governments for the loss of their rulers, down to the plain black badge, worn by the humblest peasant for the death of parent or child.

To attempt to raise one feeble voice against a practice sanctioned by all nations, and hallowed by the most solemn religious rites, appears almost sacrilegious. There is something so beautiful, so poetical, so sacred, in this outward sign of a deep and heartfelt sorrow, that to deprive death of his sable habiliments--the melancholy hea.r.s.e, funeral plumes, sombre pall, and a long array of drooping night-clad mourners, together with the awful clangour of the doleful bell--would rob the stern necessity of our nature of half its terrors, and tend greatly to destroy that religious dread which is so imposing, and which affords such a solemn lesson to the living.

Alas! Where is the need of all this black parade? Is it not a reproach to Him, who, in his wisdom, appointed death to pa.s.s upon all men? Were the sentence confined to the human species, we might have more reason for these extravagant demonstrations of grief; but in every object around us we see inscribed the mysterious law of change. The very mountains crumble and decay with years; the great sea shrinks and grows again; the lofty forest tree, that has drank the dews of heaven, laughed in the sunlight, and shook its branches at a thousand storms, yields to the same inscrutable destiny, and bows its tall forehead to the dust.

Life lives upon death, and death reproduces life, through endless circles of being, from the proud tyrant man down to the blind worm his iron heel tramples in the earth. Then wherefore should we hang out this black banner for those who are beyond the laws of change and chance?

"Yea, they have finish'd: For them there is no longer any future.

No evil hour knocks at their door With tidings of mishap--far off are they, Beyond desire or fear."

It is the dismal adjuncts of death which have invested it with those superst.i.tious terrors that we would fain see removed. The gloom arising from these melancholy pageants forms a black cloud, whose dense shadow obscures the light of life to the living. And why, we ask, should death be invested with such horror? Death in itself is not dreadful; it is but the change of one mode of being for another--the breaking forth of the winged soul from its earthly chrysalis; or, as an old Latin poet has so happily described it--

"Thus life for ever runs its endless race, Death as a line which but divides the s.p.a.ce-- A stop which can but for a moment last, A _point_ between the _future_ and the _past_."