no longer able to
restrain their feelings, wept bitterly; and overpowered with grief, were
supported out of the room by Dr. Tatham and Mr. Aubrey.

As soon as it was known that this venerable lady was no more, universal
reverence was testified for her memory, and sympathy for the afflicted
survivors, by even those, high and low, in the remoter parts of the
neighborhood who had no personal acquaintance with the family. Two or
three days afterwards, the undertaker, who had received orders from Mr.
Aubrey to provide a simple and inexpensive funeral, submitted to him a
list of more than thirty names of the nobility and gentry of the
country, who had sent to him to know whether it would be agreeable to
the family for them to be allowed to attend Mrs. Aubrey's remains to the
grave. After much consideration, Mr. Aubrey accepted this spontaneous
tribute of respect to the memory of his mother. 'Twas a memorable and
melancholy day on which the interment took place--one never to be
forgotten at Yatton. What can be more chilling than the gloomy bustle of
a great funeral, especially in the country; and when the deceased is one
whose memory is enshrined in the holiest feelings of all who knew her?
What person was there, for miles around, who could not speak of the
courtesies, the charities, the goodness of Madam Aubrey?

"_When the ear heard her, then it blessed her; and when the eye saw
her, it gave witness to her:_

_"Because she delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless,
and him that had none to help him_.

_"The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon her, and
she caused the widow's heart to sing for joy_.

_"She was eyes to the blind, and feet was she to the lame_.

_"She was a mother to the poor_."----

Pale as death, the chief mourner, wrapped in his black cloak, is
stepping into the mourning-coach. No one speaks to him; his face is
buried in his handkerchief; his heart seems breaking. He thinks of her
whose dear dust is before him;--then of the beloved beings whom he has
left alone in their agony till his return--his wife and sister. The
procession is moving slowly on--long, silent rows of the tenantry and
villagers, old and young, male and female--not a dry eye among them, nor
a syllable spoken--stand on each side of the way; no sound heard but of
horses' feet, and wheels crushing along the wet gravel--for the day is
most gloomy and inclement. As they quit th