When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in
prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and
failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently
knew by heart; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that
poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk,
the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so
delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on
a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then
wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. 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
church-yard; 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.
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