Manners and Social Usages - Mrs John M. E. W. Sherwood (mobile ebook reader TXT) 📗
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seem barren to them.
We are often asked whether letters of condolence should be written
on black-edged paper. Decidedly not, unless the writer is in
black. The telegraph now flashes messages of respect and sympathy
across sea and land like a voice from the heart. Perhaps it is
better than any other word of sympathy, although all who can
should write to a bereaved person. There is no formula possible
for these letters; they must be left to the individual’s good
taste, and perhaps the simplest and least conventional are the
best. A card with a few words pencilled on it has often been the
best letter of condolence.
In France a long and deeply edged mourning letter or address,
called a faire part, is sent to every one known to the family to
advise them of a death. In this country that is not done, although
some mention of the deceased is generally sent to friends in
Europe who would not otherwise hear of the death.
Wives wear mourning for the relatives of their husbands precisely
as they would for their own, as would husbands for the relatives
of their wives. Widowers wear mourning for their wives two years
in England; here only one year. Widowers go into society at a much
earlier date than widows, it being a received rule that all
gentlemen in mourning for relatives go into society very much
sooner than ladies.
Ladies of the family attend the funeral of a relative if they are
able to do so, and wear their deepest mourning. Servants are
usually put in mourning for the head of the family—sometimes for
any member of it. They should wear a plain black livery and weeds
on their hats; the inside lining of the family carriage should
also be of black.
The period of mourning for an aunt or uncle or cousin is of three
months’ duration, and that time at least should elapse before the
family go out or into gay company, or are seen at theatres or
operas, etc.
We now come to the saddest part of our subject, the consideration
of the dead body, so dear, yet so soon to leave us; so familiar,
yet so far away—the cast-off dress, the beloved clay. Dust to
dust, ashes to ashes!
As for the coffin, it is simpler than formerly; and, while lined
with satin and made with care, it is plain on the outside—black
cloth, with silver plate for the name, and silver handles, being
in the most modern taste. There are but few of the “trappings of
woe.” At the funeral of General Grant, twice a President, and
regarded as the saviour of his country, there was a gorgeous
catafalque of purple velvet, but at the ordinary funeral there are
none of these trappings. If our richest citizen were to die
tomorrow, he would probably be buried plainly. Yet it is touching
to see with what fidelity the poorest creature tries to “bury her
dead dacent.” The destitute Irish woman begs for a few dollars for
this sacred duty, and seldom in vain. It is a duty for the rich to
put down ostentation in funerals, for it is an expense which comes
heavily on those who have poverty added to grief.
In dressing the remains for the grave, those of a man are usually
“clad in his habit as he lived.” For a woman, tastes differ: a
white robe and cap, not necessarily shroudlike, are decidedly
unexceptionable. For young persons and children white cashmere
robes and flowers are always most appropriate.
The late cardinal, whose splendid obsequies and whose regal “lying
in state” were in keeping with his high rank and the gorgeous
ceremonial of his Church, was strongly opposed to the profuse use
of flowers at funerals, and requested that none be sent to deck
his lifeless clay. He was a modest and humble man, and always on
the right side in these things; therefore let his advice prevail.
A few flowers placed in the dead hand, perhaps a simple wreath,
but not those unmeaning memorials which have become to real
mourners such sad perversities of good taste, such a misuse of
flowers. Let those who can afford to send such things devote the
money to the use of poor mothers who cannot afford to buy a coffin
for a dead child or a coat for a living one.
In the course of a month after a death all friends of the deceased
are expected to leave cards on the survivors, and it is
discretionary whether these be written on or not. These cards
should be carefully preserved, that, when the mourner is ready to
return to the world, they may be properly acknowledged.
CHAPTER XXIII.
LETTERS OF CONDOLENCE.
Probably no branch of the epistolary art has ever given to
friendly hearts so much perplexity as that which has to do with
writing to friends in affliction. It is delightful to sit down and
wish anybody joy; to overflow with congratulatory phrases over a
favorable bit of news; to say how glad you are that your friend is
engaged or married, or has inherited a fortune, has written a
successful book, or has painted an immortal picture. Joy opens the
closet of language, and the gems of expression are easily found;
but the fountain of feeling being chilled by the uncongenial
atmosphere of grief, by the sudden horror of death, or the more
terrible breath of dishonor or shame, or even by the cold blast of
undeserved misfortune, leaves the individual sympathizer in a mood
of perplexity and of sadness which is of itself a most
discouraging frame of mind for the inditing of a letter.
And yet we sympathize with our friend: we desire to tell him so.
We want to say, “My friend, your grief is my grief; nothing can
hurt you that does not hurt me. I cannot, of course, enter into
all your feelings, but to stand by and see you hurt, and remain
unmoved myself, is impossible.” All this we wish to say; but how
shall we say it that our words may not hurt him a great deal more
than he is hurt already? How shall we lay our hand so tenderly on
that sore spot that we may not inflict a fresh wound? How can we
say to a mother who bends over a fresh grave, that we regret the
loss she has sustained in the death of her child? Can language
measure the depth, the height, the immensity, the bitterness of
that grief? What shall we say that is not trite and
commonplace—even unfeeling? Shall we be pagan, and say that “whom
the gods love die young,” or Christian, and remark that “God does
not willingly afflict the children of men?” She has thought of
that, she has heard it, alas! often before—but too often, as she
thinks now.
Shall we tell her what she has lost—how good, how loving, how
brave, how admirable was the spirit which has just left the flesh?
Alas! how well she knows that! How her tears well up as she
remembers the silent fortitude, the heroic patience under the pain
that was to kill! Shall we quote ancient philosophers and modern
poets? They have all dwelt at greater or less length upon death
and the grave. Or shall we say, in simple and unpremeditated
words, the thoughts which fill our own minds?
The person who has to write this letter may be a ready writer, who
finds fit expression at the point of his pen, and who overflows
with the language of consolation—such a one needs no advice; but
to the hundreds who do need help we would say that the simplest
expressions are the best. A distant friend, upon one of these
occasions, wrote a letter as brief as brief might be, but of its
kind altogether perfect. It ran thus: “I have heard of your great
grief, and I send you a simple pressure of the hand.” Coming from
a gay and volatile person, it had for the mourner great
consolation; pious quotations, and even the commonplaces of
condolence, would have seemed forced. Undoubtedly those persons do
us great good, or they wish to, who tell us to be resigned—that
we have deserved this affliction; that we suffer now, but that our
present sufferings are nothing to what our future sufferings shall
be; that we are only entering the portals of agony, and that every
day will reveal to us the magnitude of our loss. Such is the
formula which certain persons use, under the title of “letters of
condolence.” It is the wine mixed with gall which they gave our
Lord to drink; and as He refused it, so may we. There are, no
doubt, persons of a gloomy and a religious temperament combined
who delight in such phrases; who quote the least consolatory of
the texts of Scripture; who roll our grief as a sweet morsel under
their tongues; who really envy the position of chief mourner as
one of great dignity and considerable consequence; who consider
crape and bombazine as a sort of royal mantle conferring
distinction. There are many such people in the world. Dickens and
Anthony Trollope have put them into novels—solemn and ridiculous
Malvolios; they exist in nature, in literature, and in art. It
adds a new terror to death when we reflect that such persons will
not fail to make it the occasion of letter-writing.
But those who write to us strongly and cheerfully, who do not
dwell so much on our grief as on our remaining duties—they are
the people who help us. To advise a mourner to go out into the
sun, to resume his work, to help the poor, and, above all, to
carry on the efforts, to emulate the virtues of the deceased—this
is comfort. It is a very dear and consoling thing to a bereaved
friend to hear the excellence of the departed extolled, to read
and re-read all of the precious testimony which is borne by
outsiders to the saintly life ended—and there are few so
hard-hearted as not to find something good to say of the dead: it
is the impulse of human nature; it underlies all our philosophy
and our religion; it is the “stretching out of a hand,” and it
comforts the afflicted. But what shall we say to those on whom
disgrace has laid its heavy, defiling hand? Is it well to write to
them at all? Shall we not be mistaken for those who prowl like
jackals round a grave, and will not our motives be misunderstood?
Is not sympathy sometimes malice in disguise? Does not the phrase
“I am so sorry for you!” sometimes sound like “I am so glad for
myself?” Undoubtedly it does; but a sincere friend should not be
restrained, through fear that his motive may be mistaken, from
saying that he wishes to bear some part of the burden. Let him
show that the unhappy man is in his thoughts, that he would like
to help, that he would be glad to see him, or take him out, or
send him a book, or at least write him a letter. Such a wish as
this will hurt no one.
Philosophy—some quaint and dry bit of old Seneca, or modern
Rochefoucauld—has often helped a struggling heart when disgrace,
deserved or undeserved, has placed the soul in gyves of iron.
Sympathetic persons, of narrow minds and imperfect education,
often have the gift of being able to say most consolatory things.
Irish servants, for instance, rarely hurt the feelings of a
mourner. They burst out in the language of Nature, and, if it is
sometimes grotesque, it is almost always comforting. It is the
educated and conscientious person who finds the writing of
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