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. 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
unfeelingly. 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.
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