In his letter to Lucilius, Seneca enters upon an investigation, as to the real origin of all this apparent sorrow, so freely and generally manifested, for the dead; and his sober conviction breaks forth, in the words—Nemo tristis sibi est. O infelicem stultitiam! est aliqua et doloris ambitio! No one mourns for himself alone. Oh miserable folly! There is ambition, even in our sorrow! This passage recalls Martial’s epigram, 34, De Gellia:
Amissum non flet, quum sola est Gellia, patrem;
Si quis adest, jussæ prosiliunt lacrymæ.
Non dolet hic, quisquis landari, Gellia, quærit;
Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet.
Arthur Murphy, in his edition of Dr. Johnson’s works, ascribes to that great man the following extraordinary lines:
If the man, who turnips cries,
Cry not, when his father dies,
’Tis a proof, that he had rather
Have a turnip than his father.
Under the doctor’s sanction, for a bagatelle, I may offer a translation of Martial’s epigram:
When no living soul is nigh,
Gellia’s filial grief is dry;
Call, some morning, and I’ll warrant
Gellia’l shed a perfect torrent.
Tears unforc’d true sorrow draws:
Gellia weeps for mere applause.
It is our fortune to witness not a little of this, in our line. We are compelled to drop in, at odd, disjointed moments, when the not altogether disagreeable occupations of the survivors contrast, rather oddly, to be sure, with the graver duties to the dead. A rich widow, like Dr. Johnson’s protègè, in his letter to Chesterfield, is commonly overburdened with help. It is quite surprising, to observe the solicitude about her health, and how very fervent the hope of her neighbors becomes, that she may not have taken cold. The most prominent personages, after the widow and the next of kin, are the coffin-maker and the dress-maker—both are solicitous of making an excellent fit. Those, who, like myself, have had long practice in families, are often admitted to familiar interviews with the chief mourners, which are likely to take place, in the midst of dress-makers and artists of all sorts. How many acres of black crape I have witnessed, in half a century! “Mr. Abner—good Mr. Abner,” said Mrs. ——, “dear Mr. Abner,” said she, “I shall not forget your kindness—how pleasant it is, on these occasions, to see a face one knows. You buried my first husband—I thought there was nothing like that: and you buried my second husband—and, oh dear me, I thought there was nothing like that—and now, oh dear, dear me, you are going to bury my third! How I am supported, it is hard to tell—but the widow’s God will carry me through this, and other trials, for aught I know—Miss Buddikin, don’t you think that dress should be fuller behind?” “Oh dear ma’am, your fine shape, you know,” said Miss Buddikin. “There now, Miss Buddikin, at any other time I dare say I should be pleased with your flattery, but grief has brought down my flesh and spirits terribly. Good morning, dear Mr. Abner—remember there will be no postponement, on account of the weather.”
No. XXXIII.
I am sad. It is my duty to record an event of deep and universal interest. On Sunday night, precisely as the clock of the Old South Church struck the very first stroke of twelve, departed this life, of no particular malady, but from a sort of constitutional decay, to which the family has ever been periodically liable, and at the same age, at which his ancestors have died, for many generations, A. Millesimus Octingentesimus Quadragesimus Octavus.