Young Henry, though impatient to be gone, would not object to his father’s desire. They walked forward between a shady grove and a purling rivulet, snuffed in odours from the jessamine banks, and listened to the melody of an adjoining aviary.
The allurements of the spot seemed to enchain the elder Henry, and he at length sauntered to the very avenue of the dwelling; but, just as he had set his daring yet trembling feet upon the turf which led to the palace gates, he suddenly stopped, on hearing, as he thought, the village clock strike seven, which reminded him that evening drew on, and it was time to go. He listened again, when he and his son, both together, said, “It is the toll of the bell before some funeral.”
The signals of death, while they humble the rich, inspire the poor with pride. The passing bell gave Henry a momentary sense of equality; and he courageously stepped forward to the first winding of the avenue.
He started back at the sight which presented itself.
A hearse—mourning coaches—mutes—plumed horses—with every other token of the person’s importance who was going to be committed to the earth.
Scarcely had his terrified eyes been thus unexpectedly struck, when a coffin borne by six men issued from the gates, and was deposited in the waiting receptacle; while gentlemen in mourning went into the different coaches.
A standard-bearer now appeared with an escutcheon, on which the keys and mitre were displayed. Young Henry, upon this, pathetically exclaimed, “My uncle! it is my uncle’s funeral!”
Henry, his father, burst into tears.
The procession moved along.
The two Henrys, the only real mourners in the train, followed at a little distance—in rags, but in tears.