'WHEN a rich man dies, everybody says: 'Is it possible!' as
though it were quite an impossible thing for audacious DEATH
to grapple with a man of wealth: when a lawyer dies, all the courts
adjourn with complimentary speeches, and Justice sheathes her terrible
left-handed sword and pockets her scales for a whole day; as though
lawyers were so exceedingly rare that the loss of one deserved to be
wept as a public calamity: and when a merchant dies, all the ships in
the harbor hoist their flags half-mast, out of respect to his memory;
as though the business of merchandising was one of such exceeding honor
to humanity that the bare accident of being connected with it conferred
such peculiar merit upon a man that his loss called for a public
demonstration of grief. This last compliment was paid to Mr. Tuck; and
while there was but one pair of eyes that wept a tear at his funeral,
there were hundreds of yards of bunting, of all possible colors
and combinations, drooping from the half-mast-heads of innumerable
sea-going crafts at the wharves, and in the river, and bay, out of
respect to his memory.'