——Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius,——for he was your
kinsman:
Weed his grave clean, ye men of goodness,—for he was your brother.—Oh
corporal! had I thee, but now,—now, that I am able to give thee a
dinner and protection,—how would I cherish thee! thou should’st wear
thy Montero-cap every hour of the day, and every day of the week.—and
when it was worn out, I would purchase thee a couple like it:——But
alas! alas! alas! now that I can do this in spite of their
reverences—the occasion is lost—for thou art gone;—thy genius fled up
to the stars from whence it came;—and that warm heart of thine, with
all its generous and open vessels, compressed into a _clod of the
valley!_
——But what——what is this, to that future and dreaded page, where I look
towards the velvet pall, decorated with the military ensigns of thy
master—the first—the foremost of created beings;——where, I shall see
thee, faithful servant! laying his sword and scabbard with a trembling
hand across his coffin, and then returning pale as ashes to the door,
to take his mourning horse by the bridle, to follow his hearse, as he
directed thee;——where—all my father’s systems shall be baffled by his
sorrows; and, in spite of his philosophy, I shall behold him, as he
inspects the lackered plate, twice taking his spectacles from off his
nose, to wipe away the dew which nature has shed upon them——When I see
him cast in the rosemary with an air of disconsolation, which cries
through my ears,——O _Toby!_ in what corner of the world shall I seek
thy fellow?
——Gracious powers! which erst have opened the lips of the dumb in his
distress, and made the tongue of the stammerer speak plain—when I shall
arrive at this dreaded page, deal not with me, then, with a stinted
hand.