FUNERALS.
When any member of a family is dead, it is customary to send
intelligence of the misfortune to all who have been connected with the
deceased in relations of business or friendship. The letters which are
sent contain a special invitation to assist at the funeral.
An invitation of this sort should never be refused, though, of course,
you do not send a reply, for no other reason that I know of, excepting
the impossibility of framing any formula of acceptance.
You render yourself at the house an hour or two after the time
specified. If you were to sit long in the mournful circle you might be
rendered unfit for doing any thing for a week.
Your dress is black, and during the time of waiting you compose your
visage into a “tristful ’haviour,” and lean in silent solemnity upon
the top of your cane, thinking about— last night’s party. This is a
necessary hypocrisy, and assists marvellously the sadness of the
ceremony. You walk in a procession with the others, your carriage
following in the street. The first places are yielded to the relations
of the deceased.
The coffins of persons of distinction are carried in the hands of
bearers, who walk with their hats off.
You walk with another, in seemly order, and converse in a low tone;
first upon the property of the defunct, and next upon the politics of
the day. You walk with the others into the church, where service is
said over the body. It is optional to go to the grave or not. When you
go away, you enter your carriage and return to your business or your
pleasures.
A funeral in the morning, a ball in the evening,—“so runs the world
away.”