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 her lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son,
with the yearnings of a mother's heart.
Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was
that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief
and affection; directions given in the cold tones of business: the
striking of spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of
those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle
around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She
raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the
men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she
wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman
who attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from
the earth, and to whisper something like consolation- "Nay, now-
nay, now- don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake
her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.
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