"It was fated, then, that this relic of Roman greatness should come here to die," murmured the ex-President, having partly heard, partly guessed the tidings of Attilio.
"He died like a brave man," said the chief of the Three Hundred.
"And many Italians know how to die so," thought Muzio; "but it is sweeter to die fighting against the oppressors!"
"I will return to our party," said Muzio, "and consult with the General, that he may turn our excursion in another direction, so as not to expose Irene and Orazio to the shock of meeting the remains of their beloved one; I will afterwards rejoin you with Gasparo."
CHAPTER LX. THE BURIAL
Foscolo has these lines—
A stone to mark my bones from the vaut crop
That death soirs on the land or in the sea.
Admiring the mournful poems of this great singer, we are, like him, advocates for honoring the great dead, and truly we believe that doing homage to departed virtue is an incentive to make the living follow in its path. When one thinks, however, of the gaudy pageants with which the priesthood deck the last journey of the dead, one can not help deploring the useless show and the expenditure.
Death that true type of the equality of human beings—death which effectually destroys all worldly superiority, and confounds in one democracy of decay the emperor and the beggar—death, the leveller, must be astonished at so much difference between the funerals of the rich and the poor! He must wonder at so much preparation for the burial of a corpse, and laugh, if death can laugh, at so much mockery of woe, which is frequently the cover for secret joy in the soul of the greedy heir, while in the largest number it is mere indifference. Then the hired weepers—what a pitiful spectacle those are!