THE MODERN CEMETERY. 
114 
(i)U^^e^tIon^ to Lot OWner^. 
The appearance of the cemetery as a whole, is 
much more pleasing, where enclosures do not exist. 
The superiority of a clean shaven expanse of lawn 
broken only by paths, trees and monuments, over 
that of grounds covered with railings and other en- 
closures in various stages of decay, requires no 
sophistry to make manifest. Experience, too, has 
demonstrated that even where the greatest vigilance 
is exercised, lot enclosures speedily become dilapi- 
dated. Atmospheric influences invariably produce 
the result. And as the expense incidental to the 
maintenance of the enclosures is very considerable, 
the result being worse than useless, the money thus 
expended, might better have been thrown away. — 
Laurel Grove ^ Paterson, N. J. 
It should be policy to discourage the erection of 
vaults. How much better for the health of the liv- 
ing and the honor of the dead, were the money laid 
out in building vaults, expended on handsome mon- 
uments or an increased space of ground, and how 
much more natural and appropriate to see the grass 
covered graves of a family, side by side, than to 
have them remain unmixed with the earth, depos- 
ited on cold shelves above ground, and forming 
separate portions of preserved corruption from 
which volumes of pernicious gases are continually 
exhaled. — Adolph Stranch. 
“The laws of nature,” observes Oerstea, “are 
the thoughts of nature, and these are the thoughts of 
God.’’ And so the idea followed up in the Lawn 
system is to confine all improvements to imitations 
of nature, thus exhibiting in classical chasteness a 
happy medium between too great simplicity, or 
nature untutored an unadorned, on the one side and 
on the other the excessive ornament usually met 
with where man undertakes to create and not to im- 
itate. Nature’s alphabet consists of only four 
letters, wood, water, rock and ground; and yet with 
these four letters she forms such varied composi- 
tions and such infinite combinations as no language 
with an alphabet of twenty-six letters can describe. 
Nature is always great in design. She is also an 
admirable colorist and harmonizes tints with infinite 
variety and beauty. — Laurel Grove Cemetery, Pat- 
erson, N. J. 
Many lot owners have by introducing flower 
borders around their small burial plats, obtained a 
trifling formality, and disgraced the noble object 
they wished to adorn. In forming new combina- 
tions, rich, perspective, and scenic groupings, we 
should be very cautious in the selection of suitable 
places for monumental structures, as well as plant- 
ing additional trees and shrubs. Fancy shrubber- 
ies and flower borders particularly demand limita- 
tion. No matter how fashionably patronized, for 
if immoderately extended, as they very often are, 
they only ,mark the triumph of luxury over ele- 
gance, and afford a poor compensation for the nat- 
ural advantages of beautiful green grass plats, that 
can always be kept in order at little expense. — 
Adolph Stranch. 
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, at Qarrytown, N. Y., has 
been of late much improved and enlarged. From 
the character of an old burial ground it has been 
emerging gradually into an attractive place of sep- 
ulture. Within a few years, more than $40,000 has 
been expended in enlarging its borders and improv- 
ing the new territory. Forty-seven acres have re- 
cently been added and further improvements are 
contemplated, which will tend to greatly enhance 
the attractiveness of this beautiful and historic spot, 
immortalized by Washington Irving and within 
whose precincts his ashes rest. 
The Gardener’s Burial, 
This is the grave prepared; set down the bier; 
Mother, a faithful son we bring thee here 
In loving ease to lie beneath thy breast, 
Which many a year with loving toil he drest. 
His was the eldest craft, the simple skill 
That Adam plied, ere good was known by ill; 
The throstle’s song at dawn his spirit tuned; 
He set his seeds in hope, he grafted, pruned. 
Weeded and mowed, and with a true son’s care 
Wrought thee a mantle of embroidery rare. 
The snow drop and the winter aconite 
Came at his call ere frost had ceased to bite; 
He bade the crocus flame as with a charm; 
The nestling violets bloomed, and feared no harm. 
Knowing that for their sakes a champion meek 
Did bloodless battle with the weather bleak; 
But when the wealthier months with largess came 
His blazoned beds put heraldry to shame, 
And on the summer air such perfume cast. 
As Saba or the Spice Isles ne’er surpast. 
The birds all loved him, for he would not shoot 
Even the winged thieves that stole his fruit; 
And he loved them — the little fearless wren. 
The red-breast, curious in the ways of men. 
The pilgrim swallow, and the dearer guest 
That sets beneath our eaves her plastered nest; 
The merry white-throat bursting with his song. 
Fluttered within his reach and feared no wrong, 
And the mute fly-catcher forgot her dread, 
And took her prey beside his stooping head. 
Receive him. Mother Earth; his work is done; 
Blameless he lived, and did offence to none; 
Blameless he died, forbidding us to throw 
Flowers in his grave, because he loved them so; 
He would not have them stifle underground. 
But bloom among the grasses on his mound. 
We that have loved, must leave him; Mother, keep 
A faithful watch about him in his sleep. 
H. J., in“Spectator. 
