The death of Squire Romilly occurred on Tuesday
morning, and the funeral was appointed to be observed
on the Thursday afternoon following. The interval was
not so long, perhaps, as is allowed in some countries,
but is assuredly sufficient to testify respect to the dead
or insure safety to the living.

The time was spent in preparing for the solemnity;
as a full suit of mourning apparel, and every requisite
which can be supposed to express the grief such an occasion
should call forth, is seldom omitted by the Yankees.
But with the present afflicted family it was not a
seeming show; they needed no “inky cloaks” to tell of
the sorrow that was weighing down their almost broken
hearts in the dust, and which would totally have unfitted
them for the necessary preparation, had not their kind
neighbors assisted them to the utmost.

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Everything which could be devised to express regard
for the virtues of the deceased or commiseration for the
mourning relatives, was performed by this compassionate
and friendly people. The services were all voluntary
and gratuitous. There are no undertaker's men necessary,
nor are the funeral expenses of much consequence—
nothing but the coffin is to be procured; the hearse
and grave are provided at the expense of the town, and
every other service is rendered by neighborly affection.

The women and girls in the village came and arranged
the house, prepared the mourning apparel, and endeavored
to anticipate or fulfil every wish Mrs. Romilly
could have breathed. And yet all was done in quietness
and decorum; not a smile was seen, nor was scarcely a
loud word spoken in the house of wo. All felt and
sympathized in the affliction of this worthy family, and
joined in deploring their loss.

Goodness may live without exciting uncommon regard—
it may even meet with ingratitude, and be treated
with neglect; but when death selects such characters for
his victims, their worth is instantly acknowledged, and
they are praised with sincerity by the living when it can
be done without envy or self-reproach.

Thursday morning came, one of those soft, sunny May
mornings, when spring, breathing her sweet influence
over the earth, disposes all nature to love and gayety
and happiness.

Sidney walked forth to try whether the calm and enjoyment
aborad might not tranquilize his tossed mind,
and restore his composure, before engaging in the melancholy
solemnities which duty demanded. Everything
around was breathing of life and hope. The birds
from the thickets, or while winnowing the calm blue
air, poured forth their songs of gladness; and what can
be more expressive of gladness than their spring notes,
when they lift up their voices in concert, to rejoice that
the winter is past and gone?

O, I never listen to their exulting strains without a
feeling of gratitude to the good and glorious Being who

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hath formed all creatures capable of enjoying happiness.

Spring is the season of happiness for all, and Sidney
saw the young lambs and cattle gamboling over the
fields; even the green trees and shrubs looked joyful,
as their young, fresh leaves and buds quivered in the
breeze that came with such gentle breathings that but
for their motion it would have been imperceptible. But
his heart was sick within him, and his fancy could not
dwell on the calm of nature he witnessed abroad, for he
contrasted it with the sorrow which had entered the
abode of his father. Spring could not wake its inmates to
gladness; the morning of their year had been darkened
by an awful calamity—the storm had swept, the sheltering
tree had been prostrated, and dear affections were
sundered, and fond hopes crushed, and warm expectations
blighted.

Such were Sidney's reflections, as he pursued his way
along the banks of the stream where he had walked
with his father and Frankford, endeavoring to reason
and conclude what course he ought to pursue. He could
not endure the thought of leaving his mother while thus
overwhelmed with grief, and saw he must, for the present,
suspend his intention of going abroad; indeed,
from his father's last expressions he could not but infer
he wished him to continue at home. Yet how could he,
without sacrificing every hope of success, and every aspiring
of ambition.

His father had left no will, and after the allowance of
the widow's right of dower, a division of the remainder
of the estate among the children would give but a small
share to each individual. And even this share Sidney
did not feel it honorable to accept. He had never assisted
his parents, and he knew, in permitting his residence
with his uncle, they expected to have secured him an
inheritance far beyond what their other children would
have enjoyed. He had been disappointed, but not by
any fault or miscalculation of his family; and he could
not but consider it unjust now to exert a claim which

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would diminish the small dividends of his brothers and
sisters.

Perhaps there are economists who would have censured
his scruples, and told him he was too regardless
of small gains, and that the most useful lesson he could
learn would be, that farthings formed pounds, and mills
dollars. But such persons will never be corrupted by
his example, for they have not souls to understand his
character. He was generous, perhaps, even to excess;
still he was never extravagant or improvident in his own
expenditure; and the keenest mortification he had yet
experienced from the loss of his property was nothing
so severe, as was now the thought that he could no
longer exercise his beneficence. How he wished he had
his estate, that he might provide for his dear, afflicted
family! His mother should possess everything she could
desire—his sisters should be educated and dressed like
ladies. Silas was amply provided for, but he should
have something as a remembrance; James should be a
physician, he had not the health to labor; Sam and Oliver
might, when they arrived at a proper age, share the
farm between them; and Harvey, “ah! Harvey,” exclaimed
he aloud, “I will always keep him with me.”

The earnestness with which he pronounced the last
words broke his reverie, and he could not forbear smiling
at the absurdity of thus bestowing ideal riches on
others, when he could not provide necessaries for himself.
Sadder thoughts, and images of cold reality soon
arose, and throwing himself on the turf, exactly opposite
the place in the stream where he had once so narrowly
escaped drowning, he melted into tears while he sighed
in bitterness.

“I am nothing, for I can do nothing; I am neither
educated for a profession, nor have I habits of industry
to gain a subsistence by labor—and he is wretched indeed,
who, depending on his fortune alone for support
and a favorable reception in the world, finds that resource
suddenly and unexpectedly withdrawn. O! how
I wish I had perished here—here in this calm stream,

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instead of living to weep the loss of my dearest friends,
and endure the miseries of a life of dependence.”

As he lay thus agitated by a whirl of contending
thoughts, now hoping with all the ardor of youth, and
now abandoned to wild despair, the violence of his emotions
at length exhausted him, and he insensibly yielded
to repose. He slept heavily, and his dreams were confused
and terrific. Many changes came over his visions,
but all were indistinct or disjointed; now the dying
words of his father seemed repeated—then his uncle's
form stood before him—and next he was bidding farewell
to his friends and departing on a journey whence
he was never to return.

At last he thought he was standing on the spot where
he then lay, and gazing on the stream which appeared
whirling and agitated as if some substance had just been
dashed into its waters. Presently a child rose to the
surface and sent forth a terrifying shriek. Sidney
sprung to save it, but found himself rooted to the
ground.

The child sunk—then rose again—another shriek, but
fainter, it was almost spent;—how he strove to rescue
it, and could not move one finger. It sunk again.
“O God!” cried he, in an agony, “should it rise again,
I must save it.”

It did rise, and he saw it gasp—quiver—'tis gone!

No, a man burst through the thicket, and plunged
into the stream—he has caught the child—he has reached
the shore—he presses the little sufferer to his bosom!
Sidney looked up in an ecstacy of joy to thank that generous
man, and beheld his father!

“My son,” said he, mildly, but most impressively;
“it was thus I snatched you from death, and I then
besought my God, that the life so preserved might be
devoted to Him! I could only pray for such a consummation—
you can accomplish it. Wisdom is not shown
in repining at the past, or in planning for the future; but
in improving the present. I know the difficulties surrounding
you; but I also know that energy and

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perseverance will overcome them. But remember, Sidney,
whatever sacrifices it may cost you, and do your duty;
then may you expect happiness. And you will be happy,
happier than you now dare hope, happier than I now dare
reveal; for were we sure of obtaining the reward, one of
the most powerful motives for human exertion would be
rendered nugatory. Think not that to give money is
the only way in which you can express your generosity,
or confer favors on your friends. Your time, your tenderness,
your love, are treasures more valuable than the
mines of Mexico ever produced. In short, let your heart
and not your purse be the object of your solicitude. The
bad may be rich, the good only can be happy.”

As he ceased a strain of music stole by, so soft, sweet,
and ravishing, that, uttering an exclamation of rapture,
Sidney started from the ground, and gazed wildly around,
expecting to see his father, and hardly doubting but he
yet heard his voice.

“It was nothing but a dream after all,” said he; yet
so powerful was the impression of the scene on his mind
that it was long before he could convince himself it was
but a dream. “I will stay with my mother for the present,”
he continued, as he walked towards the house,
“and I will stay cheerfully, and endeavor to assist her
without a single murmur at my altered fortune.”

The funeral services of the deceased were to be performed
in the meeting house, as the numbers expected to
attend would be greater than could conveniently be
accommodated at his late dwelling.

A funeral in the country towns of New England
usually attracts all who can possibly leave their business;
it being considered a duty thus to evince their respect
for the memory of the dead, and testify their sympathy
with the sorrows of the mourners. The inhabitants of
the village, and indeed of many neighboring towns, first
assembled at the house of the deceased, where a fervent,
solemn, and pathetic prayer was offered by the reverend
pastor. The coffin was then placed on a hearse, and

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attended by six of the most respectable church members
as pall-bearers, and followed by a procession consisting
of the mourning relatives, then the members of the
church and society, next of the elderly part of the
assembly, and lastly the youth and children, was carried
to the meeting-house; and there, being taken from the
hearse by the pall-bearers, it was borne into the place of
worship, and set down in the space before the pulpit.

The mourners were respectfully seated in pews as near
it as possible, and the whole congregation having taken
their seats, Mr. Cranfield arose, and after again invoking
the compassionate regard of a God who doth not willingly
afflict, he proceeded to the sermon. In a discourse from
the text, “The memory of the just is blessed,” he set forth
the virtues of the deceased, and the certainty of blessedness
to such humble and heavenly piety. At the conclusion
he pathetically addressed the widow and children,
suggesting so many reasons for their rejoicing, even under
the severe bereavement they had suffered, and so many
considerations which ought to reconcile them to the dispensations
of Providence, that Mrs. Romilly, although
she wept unceasingly during the whole service, was all
the time resolving to repine no more.

When the service was concluded, the coffin was carried
forth and placed on a bier, standing on the green
before the church. Here repaired all who wished to look
upon the face of him they were soon to behold no more.

There was a marshal appointed to order the procession,
and superintend the proceedings; all were satisfied with
the arrangements except Deacon Jones. He could not
forbear secretly lamenting that his connexion with the
Romilly family, in consequence of the marriage of Silas
with his daughter, rendered it fitting he should take his
seat with the mourners, otherwise he might have had an
opportunity of securing the marshal's office to himself.

The mourners at length came forth to take their last
farewell of the remains of their beloved and tender friend.
Sidney supported his mother, and the others followed
and circled around the bier.

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Where is the person who can witness, unmoved, the
sorrow of the widow and the fatherless, when their crushed
hearts are pouring forth the bitter tears of the final separation?
Those who do not pity them can hardly claim
to be allied to humanity. The mourners gazed long,
and wept in silence. There was no loud murmuring, no
passionate exclamation; all was the solemn stillness of
deep, sacred and resigned grief; sorrowing, yet not
despairing: grieving for the wound, yet adoring the
Being who had inflicted it.

“Dust to dust” is the sentence pronounced against all
the children of men. It will be executed. Beauty and
talents, riches and power, wisdom and majesty, all, all
lie down beneath the clods of the valley. No one can
escape; nor can subterfuge, or entreaty, or artifice, evade
or delay the doom.

Look on that clay; it was but now inhabited by a
noble spirit; it lived, it acted—ye saw its smile, ye heard
its voice;—where has that spirit fled?

Could that question be truly answered, death would no
longer be the king of terrors. It is the uncertainty, the
darkness and doubt and shadows resting upon it that
make the terrible in death. Yet who could gaze on that
serene, manly countenance, so pale and so tranquil, and
not feel the grave was a safe retreat from the storms of
life—a resting place for the weary, a refuge for the
oppressed, a place of repose, of sanctity and security?

The coffin was at length closed and borne to the
church-yard, the procession still following; but when
the coffin had been deposited in the earth, the family
withdrew, as it was believed Mrs. Romilly would be too
much agitated should she await the filling up of the
grave.

Deacon Jones, however, remained behind to make the
speech; after the officious assembly had, by taking turns,
filled the grave, and laid the turf, he took off his hat,
and his example being imitated by all the by-standers,
he returned them, in behalf of the afflicted family, his
sincere thanks for the assistance rendered on the

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melancholy occasion; and all then departed to their respective
homes, musing on the solemn scene they had witnessed,
or conversing on the merits of the deceased, and on the
probable consequences that must ensue to his wife and
children.

Most of the speakers joined in opinion that Sidney
would still adhere to his plan of going abroad, as he
could not, should he stay, be of much service to his
family, not having been bred to labor; but Mr. Merrill,
who happened to overhear the conversation, instantly
put his veto on the matter without qualification.

“He'll not go, faith,” said he; “I can tell you so
much. Sidney has too kind a heart to leave his poor
mother in her troubles. And what if he don't know
how to work quite so well, he can oversee the boys;
and while I can lift a scythe or a sickle, I'll lend him a
hand in haying and harvesting with all my heart.”

“And so would I,” said one, “only I should be
plaguey 'fraid he'd think he was driving his negroes
again. Deacon Jones says he don't doubt but all Mr.
Sidney's losses of property, and these troubles are a
judgment from heaven, because his father allowed him
to go and be a partaker in the sin of slavery, that abomination
of the South.”

“Deacon Jones,” replied Merrill, in a very exalted
tone, “had better clear his own eyes of the beam, before he
pulls the mote out of his neighbor's eye. Squire Romilly
was a saint on earth, and he is now a saint in heaven,
and that is a place I guess the deacon will find it pretty
hard to get to. But I don't mean to judge him, though
I do think money is the god he has always worshiped
yet.”

“You speak your mind pretty freely, I think,” replied
the other.

“I tell the truth,” retorted Merrill, “and that is more
than Deacon Jones always does. I could tell of some of
his tricks if I'd a mind; and faith I would, if I handn't
promised the poor Squire not to mention it. I 'spose he

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wanted to keep the deacon's character as fair as possible
after they were connected.”

This intimation of a secret which would affect the deacon's
character, awakened the curiosity of the man whom
Merrill was addressing, and he exerted all his eloquence
to persuade him to reveal it, and to prove that the information
would be perfectly safe with him.

But Merrill was staunch to his word, and fearful of
offending Sidney, whom he adored, and nothing further
could be elicited from him concerning the affair.