I gazed on the procession till it was out of sight; and when the last
wheeze of the clarionet died upon my ear, I could not help thinking how
happy were they who were thus to dwell together in the peaceful bosom of
their native village, far from the gilded misery and the pestilential
vices of the town.
On the evening of the same day, I was sitting by the window, enjoying the
freshness of the air and the beauty and stillness of the hour, when I
heard the distant and solemn hymn of the Catholic burial-service, at first
so faint and indistinct that it seemed an illusion. It rose mournfully on
the hush of evening--died gradually away--then ceased. Then, it rose
again, nearer and more distinct, and soon after a funeral procession
appeared, and passed directly beneath my window. It was led by a priest,
bearing the banner of the church, and followed by two boys, holding long
flambeaux in their hands. Next came a double file of priests in their
surplices, with a missal in one hand and a lighted wax taper in the other,
chanting the funeral dirge at intervals--now pausing, and then again
taking up the mournful burden of their lamentation, accompanied by others,
who played upon a rude kind of bassoon, with a dismal and wailing sound.
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