There was that about the sweet, melancholy drone of the funeral hymn which stirred something more than sympathy in the hearts of the listeners.

Imagination of like bereavements for themselves awoke within them, and they wept for their own sorrows in advance.
The minister offered a prayer, in which he made mention of all the members of poor Abel's family, and even distant relatives.

In fact, Paulina Maria had furnished him with a list, which he had studied furtively during the singing.

"Don't forget any of 'em, or they won't like it," she had charged.

So the minister, Solomon Wells, bespoke the comfort and support of the Lord in this affliction for all the second and third cousins upon his list, who bowed their heads with a sort of mournful importance as they listened.
Solomon Wells was an elderly man, tall, and bending limberly under his age like an old willow, his spare long body in nicely kept broadcloth sitting and rising with wide flaps of black coat-tails, his eyes peering forth mildly through spectacles.