HISTORY OF BROOKLYN. 191

His English failed him; yet conscious of perfect rectitude, and the propriety of a shorter translation, with much solemnity and emphasis, and an appropriate congee, he exclaimed, 'I pronounce you two to be one beef!’

“It was in 1819 that I last heard, or recollect to have seen, the venerable old domine. It was at the funeral of one of his old friends and associates. A custom had very generally prevailed, which, though then very rarely observed, yet in this instance was literally adhered to. The deceased had, many years before, provided and laid away the materials for his own coffin. This one was of the best seasoned and smoothest boards, and beautifully grained. Other customs and ceremonies then existed, now almost forgotten. As I entered the room, I observed the coffin elevated on a table in one corner. The Domine, abstracted and grave, was seated at the upper end; and around, in solemn silence, the venerable and hoary-headed friends of the deceased. All was still and serious. A simple recognition, or a half-audible inquiry, as one after another arrived, was all that passed. Directly, the sexton, followed by a servant, made his appearance, with glasses and decanters. Wine was handed to each. Some declined; others drank a solitary glass. This ended, and again the sexton presented himself, with pipes and tobacco. The Domine smoked his pipe, and a few followed his example. The custom has become obsolete, and it is well that it has. When the whiffs of smoke had ceased to curl around the head of the Domine, he arose with evident feeling, and in a quiet, subdued tone, made a short but apparently impressive address. I judged solely by his appearance and manner; for although boasting a Holland descent, it was to me ‘speaking in an unknown tongue.’ A short prayer concluded the service; and then the sexton taking the lead, was followed by the Domino, the doctor, and the pall-bearers, with white scarfs and black gloves. The corpse and a long procession of friends and neighbors proceeded to the churchyard, where all that was mortal was committed to the earth, till the last trump shall sound and the grave shall give up the dead. No bustle, no confusion, no noise nor indecent haste, attended that funeral.” Domino Schoonmaker died on the 20th of May, 1824, aged eighty-seven years, and with him ceased the regular public and offi-