Granted that my fancy for Hetty was only a cloud of illusions, still I could not, within a few days of her sudden death, go in cold blood to take part in a grotesque and heathenish mummery over her coffin.

I should have broken out and strangled somebody.

But on every other point I--weakly enough--sacrificed my own feelings to those of Jansenius.

I let him have his funeral, though I object to funerals and to the practice of sepulture.

I consented to a monument, although there is, to me, no more bitterly ridiculous outcome of human vanity than the blocks raised to tell posterity that John Smith, or Jane Jackson, late of this parish, was born, lived, and died worth enough money to pay a mason to distinguish their bones from those of the unrecorded millions.