"It was pity,' said I, 'to the singing clerk, who stood near me, 'that Fate has so ordered matters, that this young creature should depart the world in so very extravagant a condition of mind. Though too many pass their whole lives in a state of insanity, it were to be wished, that, towards the evening, the clouds of phrensy might be dissipated, and the sun of reason set clear.'
"The singing clerk looked full in my face, opened his mouth wide, and was about to make some reply, when silence was ordered, that the clergyman might pronounce a speech over the body; but his reverence stumbled at the threshold: he had unluckily forgot his pocket Bible, and could not recollect his text.
"Cannot he say something applicable to the melancholy occasion,' whispered the Indian, 'without the formality of taking a text?'
"Were you to give him three worlds, each as rich as a dozen of the Indies,' replied the clerk, 'you could not get a word out of him on any other condition.'
"The sexton of the parish was then ordered to mount one of the horses, and make the best of the way to the good doctor's house, to bring the Bible.
"After waiting a full and entire hour, he returned with the vexatious intelligence, that the Bible was not to be found—it was stolen—or, it was hid—or it had been neglected—or, it was mislaid—or they knew not what had been done with it.—'More is the pity!' exclaimed the singing clerk.
"The doctor of divinity then mounted the horse himself, apparently with some uneasiness, and set out personally to bring the Bible at all events.
"By this time, however, the sun was set, and the whole company stood waiting in anxious expectation of the clergyman's return, till darkness had taken possession of the earth; but there was yet no appearance of either the divine or his Bible.
"As it is more than probable he cannot find his book,' said the man in the white linen coat, 'I am positive he will not return at all; and, as it is now almost dark, I am of opinion the sooner the funeral ceremonies are finished the better. The body of the unfortunate Marcia ought not to be deposited in these silent retreats of death without some living token of our respect. She was amiable while living, and notwithstanding the misfortune of a disordered brain, and an innocent, unsuspecting confidence in another's honour, is, in my way of thinking, no less amiable when dead.—Our friend, the Indian will, I know, be complaisant enough on this occasion to give us a few sentences, and then the venerable sexton may proceed to close the scene, and we shall be at liberty to return to our respective homes.'
"This man is not in holy orders,' cried the sexton.