A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train,
and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now
shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with
childish curiosity on the grief of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from
the church-porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in
hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere
act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor
was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but
coldly and unfeeling. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps
from the church door; his voice could scarcely be heard at the
grave; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and
touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On
it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased--"George
Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to
kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as
if in prayer; but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the
body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on
the last relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother's
heart.
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