The sun was careering brightly in the heavens, and all nature was
rejoicing in its unclouded glory, as the funeral procession of Helen
Hartlington, and Antony Clifford, wound its toilsome and melancholy way to
Bolton Abbey. The sportive Deer were bounding lightly over the hills, and
the glad birds were warbling melodiously in the thickets, as if none but
the living were moving amongst them; and but for the wild dirge, which
mingled with the whispers of the wind, and but for the deep-toned knell
which ever and anon rose slowly and mournfully above it, the lone
traveller would never have conjectured that Death was conveying its
victims through those smiling scenes. As the procession approached the
portals of the Abbey, it was met, as was then customary, by the young men
and maidens of the surrounding villages, in their best array, who hung
upon the hearse chaplets of fragrant flowers, and strewed its path with
rosemary, pansies, and rue. At the same moment the solemn chant of the
Miserere thrilled upon the soul, and was succeeded, as it gradually melted
into silence, by the still more affecting strains of the parting requiem
for the dead--_Ibid._
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