Funeral occasions have been hailed as special seasons for operating upon the nervousness of people. Every poor body is dragged about, and exposed to the public gaze, in the church or meetinghouse, upon the same principle that a recruiting sergeant drums his gaily-attired soldiers about a town. Public men, the property of the people, should be buried publicly, for all are supposed to sympathize in the loss; all feel a personal interest in the ceremony. But it is otherwise with private individuals. Then it is death we see, and not a departed friend. But a still stronger objection lies against this display of corpses, and these _very_ public burials, and it is, that the poor are encouraged to indulge in mourning apparel, which they often can ill afford. The salutary terror upon the wicked is more than counteracted by the want and criminal shifts induced by this unnecessary extravagance. Talk with any man who is not a slave to custom, upon the subject of burning the dead, and he will, with few exceptions, express a liking of it for his own body. If we retain the portraits of our friends as sacred treasures, nay, if a lock of hair, even, be held as a precious memento, why not retain their very ashes embalmed in fire? Who that has beheld the play of Virginius--we are glad to connect a fine feeling with the stage--and seen the urn of Virginia, has not felt a thrill of pleasure that so much is left to the fond father to hug to his bosom? (How Cooper played Virginius!) Who has not felt a wish, then, to have the ashes of some departed friend, to embrace in like manner in his arms? Suppose a father, a brother, a husband, a lover, to return, after long absence; death has cut down his darling child, his saint-like sister, his wife; perhaps, what is hardest to bear, because never thought of as possible, his only love; perhaps pestilence has swept away all of these. He is pointed to their graves, or to the common tomb of his kindred. A slight mound of earth is all that is left him to associate with the loved object; or what is worse, he goes to the tomb, and there is no charm in his sorrow to heal itself, for it has lost all individuality: he looks upon an array of coffins, and they all look alike; he cannot separate his own sacred sorrow from the intrusive presence of that of others. But place in his hands the ashes of those he loved; let him be alone with the embalmed dead. He will kiss the cold urn; imagination will place the cold corse in his arms, and he will take his last embrace, and serenity will begin to dawn upon his mind. As he replaces the urn in its sacred deposit, he will feel, 'She is not dead, but sleepeth!'