The pillows which he lays never rumple.

The day of interment is the theatre in which he displays the mysteries of his art.

It is hard to describe what he is, or rather to tell what he is not, on that day: for, being neither kinsman, servant, nor friend, he is all in turns; a transcendant, running through all those relations.

His office is to supply the place of self-agency in the family, who are presumed incapable of it through grief.

He is eyes, and ears, and hands, to the whole household.