I cannot recall all the details, and they are commonplace besides.  The funeral took place at the church.  We all rode thither in carriages, and I, not fancying my place in mine, rode on the outside with the undertaker, whom I found to be a good deal more jolly than he looked to be.  The coffin was placed in front of the pulpit when we arrived.  I took my station on the pulpit cushion, from which elevation I had an admirable view of all the ceremonies, and could hear the sermon.  How distinctly I remember the services.  I think I could even at this distance write out the sermon.  The tune sung was of—­the usual country selection,—­Mount Vernon.  I recall the text.  I was rather flattered by the tribute paid to me, and my future was spoken of gravely and as kindly as possible,—­indeed, with remarkable charity, considering that the minister was not aware of my presence.  I used to beat him at chess, and I thought, even then, of the last game; for, however solemn the occasion might be to others, it was not so to me.  With what interest I watched my kinsfolks, and neighbors as they filed past for the last look!  I saw, and I remember, who pulled a long face for the occasion and who exhibited genuine sadness.  I learned with the most dreadful certainty what people really thought of me.  It was a revelation never forgotten.

Several particular acquaintances of mine were talking on the steps as we passed out.

“Well, old Starr’s gone up.  Sudden, was n’t it?  He was a first-rate fellow.”

“Yes, queer about some things; but he had some mighty good streaks,” said another.  And so they ran on.

Streaks!  So that is the reputation one gets during twenty years of life in this world.  Streaks!

After the funeral I rode home with the family.  It was pleasanter than the ride down, though it seemed sad to my relations.  They did not mention me, however, and I may remark, that although I stayed about home for a week, I never heard my name mentioned by any of the family.  Arrived at home, the tea-kettle was put on and supper got ready.  This seemed to lift the gloom a little, and under the influence of the tea they brightened up and gradually got more cheerful.  They discussed the sermon and the singing, and the mistake of the sexton in digging the grave in the wrong place, and the large congregation.  From the mantel-piece I watched the group.  They had waffles for supper,—­of which I had been exceedingly fond, but now I saw them disappear without a sigh.

For the first day or two of my sojourn at home I was here and there at all the neighbors, and heard a good deal about my life and character, some of which was not very pleasant, but very wholesome, doubtless, for me to hear.  At the expiration of a week this amusement ceased to be such for I ceased to be talked of.  I realized the fact that I was dead and gone.

By an act of volition I found myself back at college.  I floated into my own room, which was empty.  I went to the room of my two warmest friends, whose friendship I was and am yet assured of.  As usual, half a dozen of our set were lounging there.  A game of whist was just commencing.  I perched on a bust of Dante on the top of the book-shelves, where I could see two of the hands and give a good guess at a third.  My particular friend Timmins was just shuffling the cards.