BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY DUTTON AND WENTWORTH,
33 AND 35 CONGRESS STREET:
AND
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
CORNER OF WASHINGTON AND SCHOOL STREETS.
MDCCCLVI.
"THE BURIAL SERVICE."
This is a very solemn service, when it is properly performed. When I was a
youngster, Grossman was Sexton of Trinity Church, and Parker was Bishop.
Never were two men better calculated to give the true effect to this
service. The Bishop was a very tall, erect person, with a deep, sonorous
voice; and, in the earth-to-earth part, Grossman had no rival. I used to
think, then, it would be the height of my ambition to fill Grossman's
place, if I should live to be a man. When I was eight years old, I
sometimes, though it frightened me half to death, dropped in, as an
amateur, when there was a funeral at Trinity.
I am not, on common occasions, in favor of reviving the old way of
performing a considerable part of the service, under the church, among the
vaults. The women, and feeble, and nervous people will go down, of course;
and getting to be buried becomes contagious. It does them no good, if they
don't catch their deaths. But, as things are now managed, the most solemn
part of the service is made quite ridiculous. In 1796, I was at a funeral,
under Trinity Church. I went below with the mourners. The body was carried
into a dimly-lighted vault. I was so small and short, that I could see
scarcely anything. But the deep, sepulchral voice of Mr. Parker--he was
not Bishop then--filled me with a most delightful horror. I listened and
shivered. At length he uttered the words, "earth to earth," and Grossman,
who did his duty, marvellously well, when he was sober, rattled on the
coffin a whole shovelful of coarse gravel--"ashes to ashes"--another
shovelful of gravel--"dust to dust"--another: it seemed as if shovel and
all were cast upon the coffin lid. I never forgot it. My way home from
school was through Summer Street. Returning often, in short days, after
dusk, I have run, at the top of my speed, till I had gotten as far beyond
Trinity, as Tommy Russell's, opposite what now is Kingston Street.
A great change has taken place, since I became a sexton. I suppose that
part of the service is the most solemn, where the body is committed to the
ground; and it is clearly a pity, that anything should occur, to lessen
the solemnity. As soon as the minister utters the words, "Forasmuch as it
hath pleased Almighty God," &c., the coffin being in the broad aisle, the
sexton, now-a-days, steps up to the right of it, and makes ready by
stooping down, and picking up a little sand, out of a box or saucer--a few
more words, and he takes aim--"earth to earth," and he fires an
insignificant portion of it on to the coffin--"ashes to ashes," and he
fires another volley--"dust to dust," and he throws the balance, commonly
wiping his hand on his sleeve. There is something, insufferably awkward,
in the performance. I heard a young sexton say, last week, he had rather
bury half the congregation, than go through this comic part. There is some
grace, in the action of a farmer, sowing barley; but there is a feeling of
embarrassment, in this miserable illustration of casting in the clods upon
the dead, which characterizes the performance. The sexton commonly tosses
the sand on the coffin, turning his head the other way, and rather
downward, as if he were sensible, that he was performing an awkward
ceremony. For myself, I am about retiring, and it is of little moment to
me. But I hope something better will be thought of. What would poor old
Grossman say!