CHAPTER VI
A CITY FUNERAL
Thus we lived--humble folk if you please--far from the world of wealthor of fashion.
This happiness was too great to last. We were to be stricken down, yetnot unto death.
The troubles began with the death of my father.
One morning, when he ought to have been at his desk, my old friendRamage came to see me.
'Master Will,' he said, the tears running down his cheeks, 'MasterWill--'tis now too late. You will never be reconciled now.'
'What has happened?' I asked. But his troubled face told me.
'My master fell down in a fit last night, coming home from the Company'sfeast. They carried him home and put him to bed. But in the night hedied.'
In such a case as mine one always hopes vaguely for reconciliation, solong as there is life: without taking any steps, one thinks that areconciliation will come of its own accord. I now believe that if I hadgone to my father and put the case plainly: my manifest vocation: myincapacity for business; if I had asked his permission to continue inthe musical profession: if I had, further, humbled myself so far as toadmit that I deserved at his hands nothing less than to be cut offwithout a shilling: he might have given way. It is a terrible thing toknow that your father has died with bitterness in his heart against hisonly son. Or, I might have sent Alice, with the child. Surely the sightof that sweet girl, the sight of the helpless child, would have movedhim. I reproached myself, in a word, when it was too late.
'Sir,' said the clerk, 'I do not believe that Mr. Matthew, or hisfather, will send you word of this event, or of the funeral.'
'They do not know where I live.'
'Excuse me, Sir, Mr. Matthew knows where you live and everything thatyou have done since you left your home. Believe me, Mr. Will, you haveno greater enemy than your cousin. He has constantly inflamed yourfather's mind against you. It was he who told my master that you wereplaying for sailors at a common tavern with a red blind and a sandedfloor. He told him that you were playing in the orchestra at the Dog andDuck for all the 'prentices and the demireps of town: he told him thatyou had married--a----'
'Stop, Ramage, lest I do my cousin a mischief. How do you know allthis?'
'I listen,' he replied. 'From my desk, I can hear plainly what is saidin the counting-house. I listen. I can do no good. But sometimes it iswell to know what goes on.'
'It may be useful--but to listen--well--Ramage, is there more to tell?'
'This. They do not intend to invite you to the funeral. Mr. Matthew willassume the place of the heir, and his father will be chief mourner.'
'Oh! Do you tell me, old friend, when it is to take place, and I will bethere.'
So he promised, though it was worth his situation if he were found outto have held any intercourse with me. In the end it proved useful tohave a friend in the enemy's camp. At the time, I laughed at danger.What had I to fear from Matthew's enmity?
The manner of my father's death is common among Merchants of the City ofLondon. Their very success makes them liable to it: the City customsfavour feasting and the drinking of wine: the richer sort ride in acoach when they should be walking for health: it is seldom, indeed, thatone may meet a citizen of Quality walking in the fields of which thereare so many and of such a wholesome air round London, whether we go Eastto the fields of Mile End and Bow: or North where, not to speak ofMoorfields, there are the fields this side of Islington: or on the Westwhere are the fields of Westminster and Chelsea: or South where thewhole country is a verdant meadow with orchards. I say that among thecrowds who flock out on a summer evening to take the air (and otherrefreshments) in these fields, one may look in vain for the substantialmerchant. He takes the air lolling in his coach: he feasts every day,drinking quantities of rich and strong wine such as Port or Lisbon: hestays too much indoors: the counting-house is too often but a step fromthe parlour.
The consequence is natural: at thirty-five the successful merchantbegins to swell and to expand: his figure becomes arched or rounded:perhaps his nose grows red: at forty-five his circumference is great:his neck is swollen; his cheek is red: perhaps his nose has become whatis called a Bottle. Soon after fifty, he is seized with an apoplexy. Itis whispered on Change that such an one fell down stepping out of hisCompany's Hall, after a Feast, into the road: that he never recoveredconsciousness: and that he is dead. The age of fifty, I take it, is thegrand Climacteric of the London Merchant.
On the day of the funeral, then, I presented myself, with Alice,properly habited, to take my place as chief Mourner. The house, within,was all hung with black cloth. The hall and the stairs were thuscovered: it was evening at eight o'clock: candles placed in sconcesfeebly lit up the place: at the door and on the stairs stood theundertaker's men, mutes, bearing black staves with black plumes: within,the undertaker himself was busy serving out black cloaks, tying theweepers on the hats, distributing the gloves and the rosemary, andgetting ready the torches.
Upstairs, the room in which my father's body lay had been prepared forthe ceremony. All the furniture--bed, chairs, everything--had been takenout: there was nothing at all in the room but the coffin on trestles:the wainscotted walls had been hung with black velvet, which lookedindeed funereal as it absorbed the light of fifty or sixty wax tapersand reflected none. The tapers stood in silver sconces on the walls:they showed up the coffin, the lid of which, not yet screwed down, waslaid so as to expose the white face of the deceased, grave, set, seriousand full of dignity. I remembered how it looked, fiery and passionate,when my father drove me from his presence. The candles also lit up thefaces of the mourners: in the midst of so much blackness their faceswere white and deathlike. On the breast of the dead man lay branches ofrosemary: on the lid of the coffin were branches of rosemary, of whichevery person present carried a sprig. On the lid of the coffin was alsoa large and capacious silver cup with two handles.
Only one thing relieved the blackness of the walls. It was a hatchmentwith the family shield. Everyone would believe, so splendid is this coatof arms, that our family must rank among the noblest in the land. Butthe time has passed when the City Fathers were closely connected byblood with the gentry and the aristocracy of the country: of our familyone could only point to the shield: where we came from, I know not: norhow we obtained so fine a shield: nor to what station of life myancestors originally belonged. Family pride, however, is a harmlesssuperstition: not one of us, I am sure, would surrender that coat ofarms, or acknowledge that we were anything but a very ancient andhonourable House.
When I entered the house, accompanied by Alice, I found the hall and thesteps, and even the street itself, which is but narrow, crowded with thehumbler class of mourners. There was a whisper of surprise, and morethan one honest hand furtively grasped mine. Well: there would be fewsuch hands to welcome Matthew.
I did not need to be told where the coffin lay. I led my wife up thestairs and so into my father's room, which was the best bedroom, on thefirst floor. I found the various members of the family alreadyassembled, my Uncle Paul as I expected, with Matthew, usurping my placeat the head of the coffin. My cousins, of whom there werefive-and-twenty at least, including my Uncle Paul's wife and twodaughters, showed signs of profound astonishment at the sight of thebanished son. The Alderman, for his part, held up his hands inamazement, and looked up to Heaven as if to protest against thisassertion of filial rights. The girls, who were as amiable as theirbrother Matthew, stared with more rudeness than one would expect evenfrom a Wappineer, at Alice. They knew not, perhaps, that I had taken awife: to a natural curiosity on such a subject they affected a contemptwhich they took no pains to disguise.
There was a man standing behind my cousin whom I knew not: nor did Iunderstand by what right he stood among us at all: a tall thin figuresomewhat bowed with years: a lean and wrinkled face: his appearancefilled me with distrust at the outset--let no one deny that firstthoughts are best thoughts. He stooped and whispered something to mycousin--whose face seemed to show trouble of some kind
, but not grief.Matthew started, and looked at me with astonishment.
I stepped forward, drawing Alice with me. 'Uncle Paul,' I said, 'I takemy place as my father's chief mourner.'
My cousin glared at me, as if threatening to dispute the point, but hegave way and retired to my left hand. Thus, Alice beside me, my UnclePaul at my right, and Matthew at my left, I waited the arrival of thefuneral guests.
Meantime, the ladies moaned and wailed. Outside, the women-servants onthe stairs lifted up their lamentation. The crying of the women at afuneral hath in it little reality of grief: yet it penetrates to thesoul of those who hear it. As each new guest arrived, the wail wasraised anew: the louder in proportion to the rank of the arrival, in somuch that when the Lord Mayor himself walked up the stairs the lamentbecame a shriek.
The undertaker whispered in my ear that all were present.
I looked about me. 'Twas not in human nature to avoid a sense of honourand glory in looking upon so honourable a company. They proclaimed bytheir presence the respect with which they regarded my father. Here,beside our cousins, were the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, the Sheriffs, theTown Clerk, the Recorder, the Common Sergeant, the Remembrancer, theDean of St. Paul's, the Master and Wardens of his Company and many ofthe greatest merchants on Change. They were there to do honour to myfather's memory, and I was there to receive them, as my father's son,despite the respect in which I had failed.
It was not a time, however, for regrets.
I lifted the great cup, I say, and looked around. The wailing ceased.All eyes were turned to me as I drank from the cup--it was hypocras, adrink much loved at City feasts. Then I handed it to Alice, who drankand gave it back to me. Then to my uncle the Alderman, after whom itwent round. Down below, in the hall, there was the solemn drinking ofwine. We drank thus to the memory of the dead: in old times, I amassured, the mourners drank to the repose of the soul just gone out ofthe body. For memory or for repose, it is an old custom which one wouldnot willingly neglect.
After the ceremony the ladies began once more their wailing andgroaning. They make too much of this custom. It is not in reason thatgirls like my cousins Amelia and Sophia should be so torn and laceratedby grief as their wails betokened. Indeed, I saw them after the funeraltalking and laughing as they went away.
We then descended the stairs and waited below while the men went up tofinish their work and to shut out the face of the dead man for ever fromthe world.
They brought out the coffin. The housekeeper with one last wail ofgrief--one hopes there was some sincerity in it--locked the door of thedeath chamber: she locked it noisily, so that all might hear: she turnedthe handle loudly so that all might be sure that the door was shut: shehad before put out the wax candles: out of respect for the late occupantthe room would not be opened or used again for years: it would remain asit was with the black velvet hangings and the silver sconces. This isone of the privileges accorded to wealth--an empty honour, but one thatis envied by those who cannot afford to spare a room. What can the deadman know or feel or care while the black velvet grows brown and shabby,and the silver sconces become yellow, and the sunbeams through theshutters slowly steal round the room, and except for the dancing of themotes in the sunlight there is no motion or sound or touch of life orlight in the solitude and silence of the chamber? It is giving Death toDeath--not the Life for which we pray, for which we hope and trust.
The pall was of velvet with a gold fringe and gold embroidery. I knew itfor the parish pall bequeathed by some pious person for the use ofparishioners. When all was ready the undertaker marshalled theprocession. First marched two conductors with staves and plumes: thenfollowed six men in long black coats, two and two; then one bearing theStandard, with black plumes: then, eighteen men in long black cloaks asbefore, all being servants to the Deceased: then the Minister of theParish: after him an officer of Arms carrying a knight's sword andtarget, helm and crest: with him another officer of Arms carrying theshield, both in their tabards or embroidered coats: then the Body, thepall being borne by six Merchants between men carrying the Shields ofthe City: of the Company: and of Bridewell, Christ's Hospital, St.Bartholomew's and St. Thomas's, of which the Deceased was a Governor.Then I followed as chief mourner with my wife: after me the Alderman myuncle and his lady. Then came Matthew. With him should have walked oneof his sisters: but there stepped out of the crowd a woman in blackholding a handkerchief to her face. Who she was I knew not. After themcame the rest of the cousins. Then followed the Lord Mayor and the CityFathers; and, lastly, the clerks, porters, stevedores, bargemen, andothers in the service of the House. In our hands we carried, as we went,lighted torches: a considerable number of people came out to see thefuneral: they lined the street which by the flames of the torches waslit up as if by daylight. The faces at the windows: the crowds in thestreet: the length of the procession filled my soul with pride, thoughwell I knew that I was but a castaway from the affections of the deadman whom these people honoured.
The procession had not far to go: the parish church, that of St. MichaelPaternoster Royal, is but a short distance down the street: it is thechurch in which Whittington was buried, his tomb and his ashes beingdestroyed in the Great Fire a hundred years ago. The Church, like thehouse, was hung with black and lit by wax candles and our torches. TheRector read the service with a solemnity which, I believe, affected allhearts. After the reading of that part which belongs to the Church wecarried the body to the churchyard at the back--a very small churchyard:there we lowered the coffin into the grave--I observed that the mouldseemed to consist entirely of skulls and bones--and when dust was givento dust and ashes to ashes, we dashed our torches upon the ground andextinguished the flames. Then in darkness we separated and went each hisown way. I observed that the lady who walked with Matthew left him whenthe ceremony was over. The weeping of the women ceased and the whispersof the men: everybody talked aloud and cheerfully. No more mourning formy father: pity and regret were buried in the grave with him: theybecame the dust and ashes which were strewed upon the coffin. He hadgone hence to be no more seen: to be no more wept over. But, as youshall shortly hear, the dead man still retained in his hands the powerof doing good or evil.
Matthew spoke to me as we left the Churchyard.
'Cousin,' he said, with more civility than I expected, 'if you can cometo the counting-house to-morrow morning you will learn your father'stestamentary dispositions. The will is to be opened and read at teno'clock.'