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decease）； the more honourably and piously they grieve for the dead。
The poor people submitting themselves to this conjurer； an
expensive procession is formed； in which bits of stick； feathers of
birds； and a quantity of other unmeaning objects besmeared with
black paint； are carried in a certain ghastly order of which no one
understands the meaning； if it ever had any； to the brink of the
grave； and are then brought back again。
In the Tonga Islands everything is supposed to have a soul； so that
when a hatchet is irreparably broken； they say； 'His immortal part
has departed； he is gone to the happy hunting…plains。' This belief
leads to the logical sequence that when a man is buried； some of
his eating and drinking vessels； and some of his warlike
implements； must be broken and buried with him。 Superstitious and
wrong； but surely a more respectable superstition than the hire of
antic scraps for a show that has no meaning based on any sincere
belief。
Let me halt on my Uncommercial road； to throw a passing glance on
some funeral solemnities that I have seen where North American
Indians； African Magicians； and Tonga Islanders； are supposed not
to be。
Once； I dwelt in an Italian city； where there dwelt with me for a
while； an Englishman of an amiable nature； great enthusiasm； and no
discretion。 This friend discovered a desolate stranger； mourning
over the unexpected death of one very dear to him； in a solitary
cottage among the vineyards of an outlying village。 The
circumstances of the bereavement were unusually distressing； and
the survivor； new to the peasants and the country； sorely needed
help； being alone with the remains。 With some difficulty； but with
the strong influence of a purpose at once gentle； disinterested；
and determined； my friend … Mr。 Kindheart … obtained access to the
mourner； and undertook to arrange the burial。
There was a small Protestant cemetery near the city walls； and as
Mr。 Kindheart came back to me； he turned into it and chose the
spot。 He was always highly flushed when rendering a service
unaided； and I knew that to make him happy I must keep aloof from
his ministration。 But when at dinner he warmed with the good
action of the day； and conceived the brilliant idea of comforting
the mourner with 'an English funeral；' I ventured to intimate that
I thought that institution； which was not absolutely sublime at
home； might prove a failure in Italian hands。 However； Mr。
Kindheart was so enraptured with his conception； that he presently
wrote down into the town requesting the attendance with to…morrow's
earliest light of a certain little upholsterer。 This upholsterer
was famous for speaking the unintelligible local dialect （his own）
in a far more unintelligible manner than any other man alive。
When from my bath next morning I overheard Mr。 Kindheart and the
upholsterer in conference on the top of an echoing staircase； and
when I overheard Mr。 Kindheart rendering English Undertaking
phrases into very choice Italian； and the upholsterer replying in
the unknown Tongues； and when I furthermore remembered that the
local funerals had no resemblance to English funerals； I became in
my secret bosom apprehensive。 But Mr。 Kindheart informed me at
breakfast that measures had been taken to ensure a signal success。
As the funeral was to take place at sunset； and as I knew to which
of the city gates it must tend； I went out at that gate as the sun
descended； and walked along the dusty； dusty road。 I had not
walked far； when I encountered this procession：
1。 Mr。 Kindheart； much abashed； on an immense grey horse。
2。 A bright yellow coach and pair； driven by a coachman in bright
red velvet knee…breeches and waistcoat。 （This was the established
local idea of State。） Both coach doors kept open by the coffin；
which was on its side within； and sticking out at each。
3。 Behind the coach； the mourner； for whom the coach was intended；
walking in the dust。
4。 Concealed behind a roadside well for the irrigation of a garden；
the unintelligible Upholsterer； admiring。
It matters little now。 Coaches of all colours are alike to poor
Kindheart； and he rests far North of the little cemetery with the
cypress…trees； by the city walls where the Mediterranean is so
beautiful。
My first funeral； a fair representative funeral after its kind； was
that of the husband of a married servant； once my nurse。 She
married for money。 Sally Flanders； after a year or two of
matrimony； became the relict of Flanders； a small master builder；
and either she or Flanders had done me the honour to express a
desire that I should 'follow。' I may have been seven or eight
years old； … young enough； certainly； to feel rather alarmed by the
expression； as not knowing where the invitation was held to
terminate； and how far I was expected to follow the deceased
Flanders。 Consent being given by the heads of houses； I was jobbed
up into what was pronounced at home decent mourning （comprehending
somebody else's shirt； unless my memory deceives me）； and was
admonished that if； when the funeral was in action； I put my hands
in my pockets； or took my eyes out of my pocket…handkerchief； I was
personally lost； and my family disgraced。 On the eventful day；
having tried to get myself into a disastrous frame of mind； and
having formed a very poor opinion of myself because I couldn't cry；
I repaired to Sally's。 Sally was an excellent creature； and had
been a good wife to old Flanders； but the moment I saw her I knew
that she was not in her own real natural state。 She formed a sort
of Coat of Arms； grouped with a smelling…bottle； a handkerchief； an
orange； a bottle of vinegar； Flanders's sister； her own sister；
Flanders's brother's wife； and two neighbouring gossips … all in
mourning； and all ready to hold her whenever she fainted。 At sight
of poor little me she became much agitated （agitating me much
more）； and having exclaimed； 'O here's dear Master Uncommercial！'
became hysterical； and swooned as if I had been the death of her。
An affecting scene followed； during which I was handed about and
poked at her by various people； as if I were the bottle of salts。
Reviving a little； she embraced me； said； 'You knew him well； dear
Master Uncommercial； and he knew you！' and fainted again： which；
as the rest of the Coat of Arms soothingly said； 'done her credit。'
Now； I knew that she needn't have fainted unless she liked； and
that she wouldn't have fainted unless it had been expected of her；
quite as well as I know it at this day。 It made me feel
uncomfortable and hypocritical besides。 I was not sure but that it
might be manners in ME to faint next； and I resolved to keep my eye
on Flanders's uncle； and if I saw any signs of his going in that
direction； to go too； politely。 But Flanders's uncle （who was a
weak little old retail grocer） had only one idea； which was that we
all wanted tea； and he handed