"
Ah, my dear! you are young now and enthusiastic; and your Titmarsh is
old, very old, sad, and gray-headed. I have seen a poor mother buy a
halfpenny wreath at the gate of Montmartre burying-ground, and go with
it to her little child's grave, and hang it there over the little humble
stone; and if ever you saw me scorn the mean offering of the poor shabby
creature, I will give you leave to be as angry as you will. They say
that on the passage of Napoleon's coffin down the Seine, old soldiers
and country people walked miles from their villages just to catch a
sight of the boat which carried his body and to kneel down on the shore
and pray for him. God forbid that we should quarrel with such prayers
and sorrow, or question their sincerity. Something great and good must
have been in this man, something loving and kindly, that has kept his
name so cherished in the popular memory, and gained him such lasting
reverence and affection.
But, Madam, one may respect the dead without feeling awe-stricken at the
plumes of the hearse; and I see no reason why one should sympathize with
the train of mutes and undertakers, however deep may be their mourning.
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