Death-less inexorable than creditors-has signed his release, thrown
back prison bolts and bars, wrested him from the grasp of human
laws, and now mocks at creditors, annuls fi fas, bids the dead
debtor make his exit. Death pays no gaol fees; it makes that bequest
to creditors; but it reserves the keys of heaven for another
purpose. "One ration less," says the warden, who, closing the grated
door, casts a lingering look after the humble procession, bearing
away the remains of our departed.
With Harry as the only follower, they proceed along, through
suburban streets, and soon reach the house of that generous woman. A
minister of the gospel awaits his coming; the good man's words are
consoling, but he cannot remodel the past for the advantage of the
dead. Soon the body is placed in a "ready-made coffin," and the good
man offers up the last funeral rites; he can do no more than invoke
the great protector to receive the departed into his bosom.
"How the troubles of this world rise up before me! Oh! uncle! uncle!
how I could part with the world and bury my troubles in the same
grave!" exclaims Franconia, as, the ceremony having ended, they bear
the body away to its last resting-place; and, in a paroxysm of
grief, she shrieks and falls swooning to the floor.
In a neatly inclosed plat, a short distance from the Rosebrook
Villa, and near the bank of a meandering rivulet, overhung with
mourning willows and clustering vines, they lay him to rest. The
world gave the fallen man nothing but a prison-cell wherein to
stretch his dying body; a woman gives him a sequestered grave, and
nature spreads it with her loveliest offering.
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