mourners, whose delicacy would shrink from observation, but whose tenderness would be soothed by secret visits to the grave, and holding converse there with their departed joys?
Why all this unnatural restraint upon our sympathies and sorrows, which confines the visit to the grave to the only time in which it must be utterly useless-when the heart is bleeding with fresh anguish, and is too weak to feel, and too desolate to desire consolation?
It is painful to reflect, that the Cemeteries
in our cities, crowded on all sides by the overhanging habitations of the living, are walled in only to preserve them from violation, and that in our country towns they are left in a sad, neglected state, exposed to every sort of intrusion, with scarcely a tree to shelter their barrenness, or a shrub to spread a grateful shade over the new-made hillock.
These things were not always so among Christians.
They are not worthy of us. They are not worthy of Christianity in our day. There is much in these things that casts a just reproach upon us in the past.
There is much that demands for the future a more spiritual discharge of our duties.
Our Cemeteries rightly selected, and properly arranged, may be made subservient to some of the highest purposes of religion and human duty.
They may preach lessons, to which none may refuse to listen, and which all, that live, must hear.
Truths may be there felt and taught in the silence of our own meditations, more persuasive, and more enduring, than ever flowed from human lips.
The grave hath a voice of eloquence, nay, of superhuman eloquence, which speaks