O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Good reasoning! When you are dead, you are dead.
Then they picked up this half-human, half-monkey-like object, which had uttered not one word, placed it in a coffin, and put upon it a mask-face. Carrying it out by the rear door, they raised it and set it down on a catafalque, draped in a black velvet pall, and ornamented with tall black funeral plumes.
O vain pomp and grandeur of death! When you are dead, you are dead.
A confused hurry and tramp of many feet was succeeded by a pause, and some one said,—“Ready.”
The procession reached the open avenue and moved slowly down the street to the sound of a funeral march. Solemnly, with measured tread, they advanced, and the people flocked to the doors on every side. There was a cry of surprise and alarm. “What is it?” “Who is it?” ran from lip to lip. The crowd gathered. The procession, with its sable plumes and ribbons of crepe, still continued on its way. There was the sound of lamentation, and at every moment the throng and confusion increased, the multitude thickened, and men, women and children were held off by the guard. Do they go to the great cemetery? No, they turned eastward, and at the Rosenthal halted. There the wondering spectators saw, in its center, a pure white tomb. Before it the catafalque was brought to a stand, and the coffin solemnly lowered.
Immediately a broken shout ran through the crowd, that was taken up and repeated until it grew into a laugh, and men and women, catching up the children, cried,—
“It is Kriss Kringle! Ha! ha! See, child, it is Kriss Kringle! He is dead. Kriss Kringle is dead!”
It was a great relief to the people, so suddenly alarmed, and they good humoredly held up the little ones, saying,—
“See! Kriss Kringle is dead. He will never come any more. He is dead!”
There was a silence; and many little faces, awe-stricken, looked sorrowfully down, and many little arms were stretched out, and many little voices, quivering, sobbed,—