KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



301 



comparing my own impressions with those 

 which others have felt when walking alone 

 among the dwellings of the dead. Are, then, 

 the sculptured urn and stone monuments 

 nothing more than symbols of family pride ? 

 Is all I see around me a memorial of the 

 living more than the dead — an empty show of 

 sorrow, which thus vaunts itself in mournful 

 pageant and funeral parade ? 



Is it indeed true (as some have said) that 

 the simple wild flower, which springs 

 spontaneously upon the grave, and the rose, 

 which the hand of affection plants there, are 

 fitter objects wherewith to adorn the narrow 

 house ? No ! I feel that it is not so. Let 

 the good and the great be honored even in 

 the grave. Let the sculptured marble direct 

 our footsteps to the scene of their long sleep. 

 Let the chiselled epitaph repeat their name ; 

 and tell us where repose the nobly good and 

 wise ! 



It is not true that all are equal in the grave. 

 There is no equality even there. The mere 

 handful of dust and ashes — the mere distinc- 

 tion of prince and beggar — of a rich winding- 

 sheet and a shroudless burial, — of a solitary 

 grave and family vault ;— were this all, 

 then indeed it would be true that death is a 

 common leveller. Such paltry distinctions as 

 those of wealth and poverty arc soon levelled 

 with spade and mattock. The damp breath 

 of the grave soon blots them out for ever. 



But there are other distinctions which 

 even the mace of death cannot level or 

 obliterate. Can it break down the distinction 

 of virtue and vice? Can it confound the 

 good with the bad ? — the noble with the 

 base ? — all that is truly great, and pure, and 

 virtuous, with all that is scorned, and sinful, 

 and degraded ? No ! Then death is not a 

 common leveller ! 



Are all alike beloved in death, and honored 

 in their burial? Is that ground holy where 

 the bloody hand of the murderer sleeps from 

 crime? Does every grave awaken the same 

 emotions in our hearts, and do the footsteps 

 of the stranger pause as long beside each 

 funeral stone ? No ! Then all are not equal in 

 the grave ! And as long as the good and evil 

 deeds of men live after them, so long will 

 there be distinctions even in the grave. The 

 superiority of one over another is in the 

 nobler and better emotions which it excites ; 

 in its more fervent admonitions to virtue ; 

 in the livelier recollections which it awakens 

 of the good and great, whose bodies are 

 crumbling to dust beneath our feet ! 



If then there are distinctions in the grave, 

 surely it is not unwise to designate them by 

 the external marks of honor. These outward 

 appliances and memorials of respect — the 

 mournful urn— the sculptured bust— the 

 epitaph eloquent in praise— cannot indeed 

 create these distinctions, but they serve to 



mark them. It is only when pride or wealth 

 builds them to honor the slave of mammon 

 or the slave of appetite, when the voice from 

 the grave rebukes the false and pompous 

 epitaph, and the dust and ashes of the tomb 

 seem struggling to maintain the superiority 

 of mere worldly rank, and to carry into the 

 grave the baubles of earthly vanity — it is 

 then, and then only, that we feel how utterly 

 worthless are all the devices of sculpture, 

 and the empty pomp of monumental brass ! 



After rambling leisurely and for some time, 

 reading inscriptions on the various monu- 

 ments which attracted my curiosity, and 

 giving way to the different reflections they 

 suggested, I sat down to rest myself on a 

 sunken tombstone. A winding gravel walk, 

 overshaded by an avenue of trees, and lined 

 on both sides with richly-sculptured monu- 

 ments, had gradually conducted me to the 

 summit of the hill upon whose slope the ceme- 

 tery stands. Beneath me, in the distance, 

 and dimly discovered through the misty and 

 smoky atmosphere of evening, rose the count- 

 less roofs and spires of the city. Beyond, 

 throwing his level rays athwart the dusky 

 landscape, sank the broad red sun. The 

 distant murmur of the city rose upon my 

 ear ; and the toll of the evening bell came 

 up, mingled with the rattle of the paved 

 street and the confused sounds of labor" 



What an hour for meditation ! What a 

 contrast between the metropolis of the living 

 and the metropolis of the dead ! There is 

 something very grand — something very 

 noble in these reflections, my dear Sir. At 

 a season like this, let us hope they will be 

 read with profit, for, as you justly remark, if 

 any goodness be in us, it must under the sum- 

 mer's influences come out. Aubepine. 



[A thousand thanks, gentle maiden, for 

 this pretty offering. We let it gem our pages 

 with sincere pleasure, and trust it will give 

 rise to many a profitable meditation. YYe 

 must indeed be callous, if we cannot feel the 

 justness and sweetness of the sentiments here 

 recorded.] 



THE JOYS OF MEMORY. 



Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine 

 From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! 

 Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 

 And place and time are subject to thy sway ! 

 Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone — 

 The only pleasures we can call our own. 

 Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, 

 If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; 

 If but a beam of sober reason play, 

 Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! 

 But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power, 

 Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour ? 

 These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 

 Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 

 And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 

 Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest! 



