The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost
coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from
among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I
was seated there one still sunny morning watching two laborers
who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote
and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from the number
of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and
friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the
new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was
meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus
down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the
approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with
which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest
materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of
the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold
indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of
affected woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered
after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased, the
poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar.
She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to
comfort her.
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