the uncommercial traveller-第66部分

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cloth　（of　which　he　is　particularly　fond）；　and　white　and　red　and

blue　paint　for　the　face。　　The　irrationality　of　this　particular

Medicine　culminates　in　a　mock　battle…rush；　from　which　many　of　the

squaws　are　borne　out；　much　dilapidated。　　I　need　not　observe　how

unlike　this　is　to　a　Drawing　Room　at　St。　James's　Palace。



The　African　magician　I　find　it　very　difficult　to　exclude　from　my

Wigwam　too。　　This　creature　takes　cases　of　death　and　mourning　under

his　supervision；　and　will　frequently　impoverish　a　whole　family　by

his　preposterous　enchantments。　　He　is　a　great　eater　and　drinker；

and　always　conceals　a　rejoicing　stomach　under　a　grieving　exterior。

His　charms　consist　of　an　infinite　quantity　of　worthless　scraps；　for

which　he　charges　very　high。　　He　impresses　on　the　poor　bereaved

natives；　that　the　more　of　his　followers　they　pay　to　exhibit　such

scraps　on　their　persons　for　an　hour　or　two　（though　they　never　saw

the　deceased　in　their　lives；　and　are　put　in　high　spirits　by　his

decease）；　the　more　honourably　and　piously　they　grieve　for　the　dead。

The　poor　people　submitting　themselves　to　this　conjurer；　an

expensive　procession　is　formed；　in　which　bits　of　stick；　feathers　of

birds；　and　a　quantity　of　other　unmeaning　objects　besmeared　with

black　paint；　are　carried　in　a　certain　ghastly　order　of　which　no　one

understands　the　meaning；　if　it　ever　had　any；　to　the　brink　of　the

grave；　and　are　then　brought　back　again。



In　the　Tonga　Islands　everything　is　supposed　to　have　a　soul；　so　that

when　a　hatchet　is　irreparably　broken；　they　say；　'His　immortal　part

has　departed；　he　is　gone　to　the　happy　hunting…plains。'　　This　belief

leads　to　the　logical　sequence　that　when　a　man　is　buried；　some　of

his　eating　and　drinking　vessels；　and　some　of　his　warlike

implements；　must　be　broken　and　buried　with　him。　　Superstitious　and

wrong；　but　surely　a　more　respectable　superstition　than　the　hire　of

antic　scraps　for　a　show　that　has　no　meaning　based　on　any　sincere

belief。



Let　me　halt　on　my　Uncommercial　road；　to　throw　a　passing　glance　on

some　funeral　solemnities　that　I　have　seen　where　North　American

Indians；　African　Magicians；　and　Tonga　Islanders；　are　supposed　not

to　be。



Once；　I　dwelt　in　an　Italian　city；　where　there　dwelt　with　me　for　a

while；　an　Englishman　of　an　amiable　nature；　great　enthusiasm；　and　no

discretion。　　This　friend　discovered　a　desolate　stranger；　mourning

over　the　unexpected　death　of　one　very　dear　to　him；　in　a　solitary

cottage　among　the　vineyards　of　an　outlying　village。　　The

circumstances　of　the　bereavement　were　unusually　distressing；　and

the　survivor；　new　to　the　peasants　and　the　country；　sorely　needed

help；　being　alone　with　the　remains。　　With　some　difficulty；　but　with

the　strong　influence　of　a　purpose　at　once　gentle；　disinterested；

and　determined；　my　friend　…　Mr。　Kindheart　…　obtained　access　to　the

mourner；　and　undertook　to　arrange　the　burial。



There　was　a　small　Protestant　cemetery　near　the　city　walls；　and　as

Mr。　Kindheart　came　back　to　me；　he　turned　into　it　and　chose　the

spot。　　He　was　always　highly　flushed　when　rendering　a　service

unaided；　and　I　knew　that　to　make　him　happy　I　must　keep　aloof　from

his　ministration。　　But　when　at　dinner　he　warmed　with　the　good

action　of　the　day；　and　conceived　the　brilliant　idea　of　comforting

the　mourner　with　'an　English　funeral；'　I　ventured　to　intimate　that

I　thought　that　institution；　which　was　not　absolutely　sublime　at

home；　might　prove　a　failure　in　Italian　hands。　　However；　Mr。

Kindheart　was　so　enraptured　with　his　conception；　that　he　presently

wrote　down　into　the　town　requesting　the　attendance　with　to…morrow's

earliest　light　of　a　certain　little　upholsterer。　　This　upholsterer

was　famous　for　speaking　the　unintelligible　local　dialect　（his　own）

in　a　far　more　unintelligible　manner　than　any　other　man　alive。



When　from　my　bath　next　morning　I　overheard　Mr。　Kindheart　and　the

upholsterer　in　conference　on　the　top　of　an　echoing　staircase；　and

when　I　overheard　Mr。　Kindheart　rendering　English　Undertaking

phrases　into　very　choice　Italian；　and　the　upholsterer　replying　in

the　unknown　Tongues；　and　when　I　furthermore　remembered　that　the

local　funerals　had　no　resemblance　to　English　funerals；　I　became　in

my　secret　bosom　apprehensive。　　But　Mr。　Kindheart　informed　me　at

breakfast　that　measures　had　been　taken　to　ensure　a　signal　success。



As　the　funeral　was　to　take　place　at　sunset；　and　as　I　knew　to　which

of　the　city　gates　it　must　tend；　I　went　out　at　that　gate　as　the　sun

descended；　and　walked　along　the　dusty；　dusty　road。　　I　had　not

walked　far；　when　I　encountered　this　procession：



1。　　Mr。　Kindheart；　much　abashed；　on　an　immense　grey　horse。



2。　　A　bright　yellow　coach　and　pair；　driven　by　a　coachman　in　bright

red　velvet　knee…breeches　and　waistcoat。　　（This　was　the　established

local　idea　of　State。）　　Both　coach　doors　kept　open　by　the　coffin；

which　was　on　its　side　within；　and　sticking　out　at　each。



3。　　Behind　the　coach；　the　mourner；　for　whom　the　coach　was　intended；

walking　in　the　dust。



4。　Concealed　behind　a　roadside　well　for　the　irrigation　of　a　garden；

the　unintelligible　Upholsterer；　admiring。



It　matters　little　now。　　Coaches　of　all　colours　are　alike　to　poor

Kindheart；　and　he　rests　far　North　of　the　little　cemetery　with　the

cypress…trees；　by　the　city　walls　where　the　Mediterranean　is　so

beautiful。



My　first　funeral；　a　fair　representative　funeral　after　its　kind；　was

that　of　the　husband　of　a　married　servant；　once　my　nurse。　　She

married　for　money。　　Sally　Flanders；　after　a　year　or　two　of

matrimony；　became　the　relict　of　Flanders；　a　small　master　builder；

and　either　she　or　Flanders　had　done　me　the　honour　to　express　a

desire　that　I　should　'follow。'　　I　may　have　been　seven　or　eight

years　old；　…　young　enough；　certainly；　to　feel　rather　alarmed　by　the

expression；　as　not　knowing　where　the　invitation　was　held　to

terminate；　and　how　far　I　was　expected　to　follow　the　deceased

Flanders。　　Consent　being　given　by　the　heads　of　houses；　I　was　jobbed

up　into　what　was　pronounced　at　home　decent　mourning　（comprehending

somebody　else's　shirt；　unless　my　memory　deceives　me）；　and　was

admonished　that　if；　when　the　funeral　was　in　action；　I　put　my　hands

in　my　pockets；　or　took　my　eyes　out　of　my　pocket…handkerchief；　I　was

personally　lost；　and　my　family　disgraced。　　On　the　eventful　day；

having　tried　to　get　myself　into　a　disastrous　frame　of　mind；　and

having　formed　a　very　poor　opinion　of　myself　because　I　couldn't　cry；

I　repaired　to　Sally's。　　Sally　was　an　excellent　creature；　and　had

been　a　good　wife　to　old　Flanders；　but　the　moment　I　saw　her　I　knew

that　she　was　not　in　her　own　real　natural　state。　　She　formed　a　sort

of　Coat　of　Arms；　grouped　with　a　smelling…bottle；　a　handkerchief；　an

orange；　a　bottle　of　vinegar；　Flanders's　sister；　her　own　sister；

Flanders's　brother's　wife；　and　two　neighbouring　gossips　…　all　in

mourning；　and　all　ready　to　hold　her　whenever　she　fainted。　　At　sight

of　poor　little　me　she　became　much　agitated　（agitating　me　much

more）；　and　having　exclaimed；　'O　here's　dear　Master　Uncommercial！'

became　hysterical；　and　swooned　as　if　I　had　been　the　death　of　her。

An　affecting　scene　followed；　during　which　I　was　handed　about　and

poked　at　her　by　various　people；　as　if　I　were　the　bottle　of　salts。

Reviving　a　little；　she　embraced　me；　said；　'You　knew　him　well；　dear

Master　Uncommercial；　and　he　knew　you！'　and　fainted　again：　　which；

as　the　rest　of　the　Coat　of　Arms　soothingly　said；　'done　her　credit。'

Now；　I　knew　that　she　needn't　have　fainted　unless　she　liked；　and

that　she　wouldn't　have　fainted　unless　it　had　been　expected　of　her；

quite　as　well　as　I　know　it　at　this　day。　　It　made　me　feel

uncomfortable　and　hypocritical　besides。　　I　was　not　sure　but　that　it

might　be　manners　in　ME　to　faint　next；　and　I　resolved　to　keep　my　eye

on　Flanders's　uncle；　and　if　I　saw　any　signs　of　his　going　in　that

direction；　to　go　too；　politely。　　But　Flanders's　uncle　（who　was　a

weak　little　old　retail　grocer）　had　only　one　idea；　which　was　that　we

all　wanted　tea；　and　he　handed　us　cups　of　tea　all　round；

incessantly；　whether　we　refused　or　not。　　There　was　a　young　nephew

of　Flanders's　present；　to　whom　Flanders；　it　was　rumoured；　had　left

nineteen　guineas。　　He　drank　all　the　tea　that　was　offered　him；　this

nephew　…　amounting；　I　should　say；　to　several　quarts　…　and　ate　as

much　plum…cake　as　he　could　possibly　come　by；　but　he　felt　it　to　be

decent　mourning　that　he　should　now　and　then　stop　in　the　midst　of　a

lump　of　cake；　and　appear　to　forget　that　his　mouth　was　full；　in　the

contemplation　of　his　uncle's　memory。　　I　felt　all　this　to　be　the

fault　of　the　undertaker；　who　was　handing　us　gloves　on　a　tea…tray　as

if　they　were　muffins；　and　tying　us　into　cloaks　（mine　had　to　be

pinned　up　all　round；　it　was　so　long　for　me）；　because　I　knew　that　he

was　making　game。　　So；　when　we　got　out　into　the　streets；　and　I

constantly　disarranged　the　procession　by　tumbling　on　the　people

before　me　because　my　handkerchief　blinded　my　eyes；　and　tripping　up

the　people　behind　me　because　my　cloak　was　so　long；　I　felt　that　we

were　all　making　game。　　I　was　truly　sorry　for　Flanders；　but　I　knew

that　it　was　no　reason　why　we　should　be　trying　（the　women　with　their

heads　in　hoods　like　coal…scuttles　with　the　black　side　outward）　to

keep　step　with　a　man　in　a　scarf；　carrying　a　thing　like　a　mourning

spy…glass；　which　he　was　going　to　open　presently　and　sweep　the

horizon　with。　　I　knew　that　we　should　not　all　have　been　speaking　in

one　particular　key…note　struck　by　the　undertaker；　if　we　had　not

been　making　game。　　Even　in　our　faces　we　were　every　one　of　us　as

like　the　undertaker　as　if　we　had　been　his　own　family；　and　I

perceived　that　this　could　not　have　happened　unless　we　had　been

making　game。　　When　we　returned　to　Sally's；　it　was　all　of　a　piece。

The　continued　impossibility　of　getting　on　without　plum…cake；　the

ceremonious　apparition　of　a　pair　of　decanters　containing　port　and

sherry　and　cork；　Sally's　sister　at　the　tea…table；　clinking　the　best

crockery　and　shaking　her　head　mournful