THE extinction of human life causes a kind of paralysis in all within a sphere to be affected by it; and a funeral, especially in the country, is more powerful in calling forth human sympathy than any other event. This is natural; we might expect it; and it is confirmed by experience and observation. How could it be otherwise! For the strong love of life with which man is endowed; the tender affection that binds him to his kindred, and to objects around him; the agency that he may have had in the business of society; and, especially, the changes in his own family, in the body politic, and in the sphere of the productive elements of the community, render his demise, particularly if he has been distinguished in his generation, an occurrence of overpowering influence. For a season, at least, there will be a general and a solemn pause, both in labor and pleasure; for a season, at least, the deep fountains of the soul will be completely broken up; and for a season, the machinery, mental and physical, of which he was a part, seems to stop its revolutions, if not to roll its ponderous wheels backward. This is a component of the philosophy into which everything spiritual, or physical, of the great kingdoms of the world, is resolved. It is not strange, therefore, that from the time of the first recorded annals of human mortality, funeral solemnities should have been characterized by demonstrations of individual and public grief. A full history of such solemnities would form a department in our literature of the most absorbing interest.

With funeral solemnities in our own families we are all familiar. And who has not witnessed them, surrounded by conventional pomp and magnificence, in the high places of our own beloved realm? Who has not read of them in other realms-in ancient as well as in modern times? The noble obsequies of Marcellus by a patriotic people, have been a theme, in all succeeding ages, of admiration and eulogy. But even these do not compare with those of the venerable founder of the Jewish nation, the splendor of which is without a parallel in history. His remains were fol

lowed to the place of their interment, nearly two hundred miles in a distant country, not only by his son Joseph and his brethren and all his father's household, but by all the servants of Pharoah; the elders of his house and all the elders of Egypt conducting the most solemn lamentations, being an itinerant national multitude, resembling in its progress a mighty river or flood. If to this any counterpart can be found, it is in those national demonstrations of honor and homage which have been shown to some of the venerated fathers of our own republic, when their remains have been followed from city to city, and state to state, by the most illustrious of their compeers and by crowds of deeply-stricken citizens. And what pomp and splendor were exhibited when the remains of a renowned Gallic chieftain were brought from the sea girt isle, where for years they had slumbered, to be deposited in the land he once called his own!

And in less imposing exhibitions of the kind, there has often been witnessed a solemnity and a moral sublimity found under no other circumstances. That heart must indeed be hard as marble, and those affections cold as polar ice, which receive no impression and evince no emotion, when, amidst the darkness of night and the howlings of the ocean, the cold and lifeless body of the mariner, or of the female hectic on a voyage for health, is, in the language of the Church Burial Service, committed to the deep. Not less impressive is the burial, by torch light, of the slain of an army under a flag of truce or voluntary suspension of dire conflict: the death-like silence being interrupted only by the clear voice of the chaplain, the funeral dirge of the band, or the well-timed minute discharge of the cannon. That of the British General Fraser, as described by Madame Riedesel, prior to the surrender of Burgoyne, is full of thrilling interest.

Our present purpose, however, is to depict the mute eloquence of funeral solemnities in rural life, where there is no pomp-no extraneous circumstances to impress the mind. The first funeral we ever attended, was when at the age of eight

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years; and the whole scene and the impressions we received, are as fresh and vivid, as though it were yesterday, though more than half a century since. It was of a lady a little past the meridian of life, and belonging to the best class of society in a new country with a sparse population. Our own home was three miles distant; but that was no obstacle to a pedestrian attendance. Seemingly, the members of every family in the town, young and old, male and female, were there. It was in the busy season of May, but the farmers had all left their work. All joined to mingle their sympathies with those of the afflicted, and to share in the moral instruction furnished by the event. Such was the respect then paid in a new settlement to a deceased fellow mortal, although to most present she had been personally but little known; and such was the readiness of all to receive the instruction furnished in a scene there so unusual. Such an awakened sensibility to the grief of others, and to the admonitions of religion to be themselves also ready, presents a feature in society, if old fashioned, truly lovely. It gives character to those who possess it, infinitely better than all the affected indifference and levity in relation to such subjects, now-a-days of no rare occurrence. Now, with one sex, it is too often looked upon as unmanly at least, to give such heed to these admonitions of Providence, and, even in the other sex, it too often appears that there is more regard to the popular conventional exhibitions of what is practiced in fashionable life, than to the indulgence of genuine grief, or the religious culture of their own hearts.

The population of the whole town, as it were, we have already remarked, was there; not only filling the entire house, which was large, but more were collected about the house, than were in it. The lower parts of the windows were all blocked up by human forms-so were the door. ways and the avenues to them. A profound silence pervaded the whole mass. Not a whisper was heard. Every look was downcast, and the pulsations of every bosom denoted sorrow. The funeral services consisted of prayers, a sermon, and singing Dr. Watt's hymn-"Hark from the tomb, a doleful sound !" producing in us a thrilling awe that will never be forgotten, and from the appearance of the crowd each one felt himself a brother or of kindred consanguinity.

To this succeeded the removal of the corpse, on the shoulders of the pall-bearers, to the grave, some distance off, in a corner of the orchard. First followed the afflicted husband, a portly, gentlemanly-looking farmer, pensive and sad, but with

out visible emotion-probably the more oppressed, because his sorrow had no vent in tears. Next to him, in the train, were the two oldest children, a son and a daughter, advanced nearly to adult stature; then a still younger sister, leading by the hand, a little brother of our own age-say eight years. The more distant relatives and the attendants upon the occasion voluntarily joined in a dense and long procession. With what sadness it moved forward! So absorbed were all in deep thought, that nature seemed as if hushed to unwonted stillness and responsive emotion; and it required little effort of the imagination to see the heavens spreading over the whole group a mantle befitting the occasion. It was a clear bright day with spring's genial influences, so that within and without all was harmony.

At length the grave was reached, and the coffin was lowered into it! To us, the scene being an entirely new one, as well as to the stricken family, this was seemingly more than could be sustained. The little fellow named sobbed aloud, trembled like an aspen leaf, and apparently, had it not been for his sister, who held him by the hand, would have fallen or leaped into the grave upon his pulseless mother! We wept too, and almost lost the locomotive power to withdraw from the spot and return to our own home. Such was the impression on us that we ever afterwards cherished for this boy a warm affection. The affection became reciprocal, and then led to personal friendship and great intimacy that continued fifty-two or fifty-three years, when he followed his mother to the bourne whence no one returns. Were we near his final resting place, we should not fail to make a pilgrimage to it, both to indulge in those natural impulses which bind kindred hearts in one bond of affectionate union, and to revive and invigorate those moral impressions received by us on the occasion described. This narrative of the incident here given has no connection with our main design. It is given simply to corroborate by our own experience the influence of a funeral in the country. We believe that incident did materially and permanently change the tone of our social character.

Our intended memoir is yet to be rehearsed. The prominent facts are not unlike those in hundreds of country funerals, denoting the respect that is manifested in a rural population for the memory of a deceased member of it, as well as friendship for surviving relatives. Among all the endearing amiabilities of which we are capable, we know of no one besides so precious. The idea of seeing a whole community make a delib

erate pause when one of their number becomes sick or dies-or suspend their own labors or pleasures in order to administer to the needy or af flicted, shows that our common brotherhood is duly recognized by them; and that there is, in man, a spirit of communion and fellowship, as if we were all the children of the same heavenly Father. Even the tolling of the church bells, at a country funeral, makes an impression on a passing traveler, or the people generally, of more deep seriousness than an ordinary dissertation or sermon on human mortality.

Sometime about the middle of October, 1839, we had occasion to make a journey through one of the best agricultural districts in New England, and to stop a few days at a place, for convenience, we shall call Beemantown. We arrived at the neat village hotel just as the harvest moon was presenting to view her full-orbed disc, in its wonted beauty at that season of the year. The surrounding country denoted a thrift and good taste that usually attend well educated labor applied to agriculture. In the village were several stores, a Gothic church, a capacious academical edifice, and sundry mechanical establishments; all was neatness and simplicity; and nothing was to be seen or heard indicating idleness, poverty, or a lack of good morals. The loveliness of an evening during the season of the harvest moon, especially in rural situations, is too well known to require description, for it has long been the subject of poetic delineation and eulogy. After supper, we took a short walk, to witness the good order and tranquillity with which we were then surrounded; and never had we before experienced from a serene sky, a mellowed atmosphere, and an unbroken quietude, such a mental charm-delightfully in contrast with the emotions arising from the bustle and excitement of the city. We felt as one might be supposed to have felt in Paradise, or in a land of undefiled spiritual existences. Of course we returned to our lodging-place well prepared for sleep. Soon were we lost in gentle slumbers. Never to us was sleep more sweet. The little fatigue of the day's journey and the indescribable effect of metereological and local influences, caused our slumbers to be like those of a healthful infant, without sighing or convulsive throbs or any change of features.

Thus we probably slept two hours. Then the loud striking of the village clock announced the hour of midnight, and we awoke to behold the silvery light of the moon rendering every object about us as distinct as if in the light of day. When nature is thus wrapped in silence, one suddenly aroused in this manner from his slumbers

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imagines himself a unit in the broad expanse; yet his solitude causes no shrinking from existence-no terror from imagined danger; but his breath, like fragrant and gently undulating incense, rises to the great Spirit that shelters and upholds him. When in a kind of waking revery, the death-toned sound of the village church bell was heard, it fell upon us, as might be supposed, like the voice of the archangel, when announcing the end of time, will fall upon the living world; and before its waning cadence was entirely gone, or its echo from the distant hills came back to us, a second one, if possible still more impressively, fell upon us; then a third, and a fourth, till we counted fifty-two, at intervals of about twenty seconds between each ;-then a pause of a few minutes, which was succeeded by still another one, if possible yet louder than those before,-— when all again was dead silence; and we seemed, as it were, lost and alone, although, it might be, hundreds in the village felt as we did.

Had we not known the usage of former times in the country, thus to toll the church bell, commencing as near as possible upon the last breath whenever one dies-the number of strokes being the number of years in the age of the deceased afterwards a single stroke, as in this case, signifying a male, and if two strokes, a female-the above, to us, would have been a mystery; but knowing it, we were apprized that a fellow mortal, a brother, of the age of fifty-two years, had at this still hour of midnight ceased to existbidding a last adieu to the pains and sorrows and disappointments, as well as to friends and relatives and the once-budding hopes and joys in life's panorama. The reader need not be told that our thoughts became pensive and sad, and for the remainder of the night we knew not sleep. Had it not been so, we might rightly have been judged void of those amiable sensibilities which belong to our nature. Far be it from us to be ashamed of them. If the result of weakness we rejoice in it. And it is a matter of course, that on the return of morning we inquired for whom had been made these demonstrations of reverence and respect. The following narrative is the reply to our inquiry :—

In the year 1802, a youth, whose name we shall call Charles Beeman, left the homestead of his father, and took a clerkship in the city of New York. The father was of the third generation who had tenanted the same mansion and cultivated the same farm, thus rendered dear to the family by a thousand cherished associations. The house was indeed ancient, but from its age, its stateliness, and the lofty elms in front of it, was truly

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venerable. The farm, too, was large and productive; and the income of it, under a prudent expenditure, had placed the proprietor in dignified independence and comfort. The family consisted of the parents and three children—two sons and a daughter. Charles was the eldest of the three, and unfortunately had imbibed the idea that the mercantile life was less severely taxed with toil, was more respectable, and, what was more in his imagination, was the only way to affluence. Accordingly he resolved to forsake the residence of his ancestors, and to seek fortune in the city. The resolution might have denoted what is usually looked upon as superior talents and enterprize; but the sequel will show that the determination of the younger brother, who remained with his parents, was attended with far better results.

The memoir of Charles Beeman, with non-essential variations, is that of thousands of young men, who, under similar circumstances, leave the country and repair to the city. From his career thousands may learn wisdom. He thought agriculture a dull and irksome occupation, and that it was beneath the dignity of one of his imagined talents to spend his life in laying up thirty or forty thousand dollars, as his father had done, when he might become a merchant, and obtain five times that amount. He looked at the rich apparel and furniture and equipage of merchants, and at the display of merchandize and cash and stocks in the city; and was completely bewildered with the fascinating picture. Of course, away he went, spent six years as a clerk in one of the most respectable houses in that commercial emporium. The daughter of Squire Beeman, as the father of Charles was generally denominated, soon married a young man of property, talents and character, and lives only a few miles distant; and James, the other son, with less brilliancy but more soundness than his brother, remained on the homestead, married, and became one of the most respectable farmers of his state. He also was several times elected to the Senate of his state; and might have been sent to Congress, but preferred remaining at home. He and his father so labored and managed that, when Charles was ready to engage in business on his own account, he received, as his portion of the paternal estate, ten thousand dollars. At length the parents of James died, and be, of the fourth generation, with a family of children of which a prince might be proud, was left n sole possession of the Beeman homestead. As might be inferred, he was as independent as though he had possessed a million of dollars; and it would be difficult to imagine anything not

within his reach that would have added to his enjoyment or his reputation.

Charles Beeman commenced his career as a merchant under the most favorable auspices. His character was pure, his talents were quite respectable, and he had a cash capital of ten thousand dollars, with unlimited facilities from his mercantile acquaintance. For twenty years his course was most prosperous. Everything, seemingly, on which he placed his hand turned to · gold. He became the president of a large_banking establishment. On the land and on the water he gave employment to hundreds of persons. He married, and, as usual under such circumstances, had a splendid family establishment. His charities, too, were on the most liberal scale. His annual expenses could not have been less than eight or ten thousand dollars. His children, three sons and two daughters, as a matter of course, grew up with the most expensive habits for dress and amusements, without acquiring the habit of doing anything, or having the least reference to the means for a living. The consequence was, two of the sons became dissipated and diseased, and early sunk into the grave. The other son was amiable, and not immoral, but without efficiency for business. The two daughters married young merchants, who, after a few years, were unfortunate, and involved their father-in-law in heavy responsibilities. By the aid of friends both were provided with foreign agencies. The broken-hearted daughters were, in a few years, relieved by death from poverty and mortification. Their days were few: their sun rose in beauty and brilliancy, but was soon overcast, and went down in the darkness of night. Their early hopes of happiness budded in great profusion, but a blighting mildew caused them all to wither and die without fruit. Their fond mother soon joined them in the world of spirits.

The affairs of Charles Beeman were hastening to a perilous crisis. As usual, misfortunes come not singly. His own family expenses had been enormous. Sundry ordinary business losses, which, at former periods, would scarcely have been thought of, but now, in connection with an accumulation of disasters, became insupportable. There was no other alternative-bankruptcy was the unavoidable result. His carriage and horses were first sold; then his furniture and house, and he took lodgings in a hotel. His business being completely broken up, he retired from his office in the bank. The only alleviating circumstance in all this revulsion was that his feeble surviving son was furnished with the office of porter and messenger in the same institution, on a salary just sufficient to give him a decent living. What