memory dwells upon the sprightly form, the blooming countenance, the eyes eloquent with feeling, all decked anew with more than lifelike beauty, and where it also recalls the closing eyes, the features pale with death, and the lips silent forever, though parted with the smile which the soul left upon them when catching a glimpse of the glories beyond. The heart thinks not of the cold clay which lies be: neath the sod, but as at some sainted shrine communes with the living, blooming spirit, while kneeling to the lifeless memento.

The companionship of the departed one seems not entirely lost, for love follows its flight, or fancies it a ministering angel, fondly attending upon the steps of its dearest earthly friends; and the active mind often imagines a real interchange of feeling in the silent chambers of the soul, where are breathed forth thoughts more delicate than words have ever uttered. No place is more fitted for awakening these sadly sweet emotions, than the grave which contains all that is left of one whom affection held most dear, and there is no place more visited by the sorrowing friends, or more carefully tended by their unceasing regard.

The grave of the stranger is soon trodden level with the plain, for no railing encloses it as sacred ground, and no marble letters tell of the name that has perished from the earth. The footstep bounds lightly over it, and near it the laugh of gayety rings as merrily as ever; or it stands in some deserted corner, overrun with matted vines, never noticed even by the casual passer, for it is the grave of one who is a stranger in death, as well as a stranger among the living. He struggled through the world without sympathy; he died, perhaps, of a broken heart, and now he lies unwept, in his narrow bed, where the loneliness is more expressive than any epitaph.

How different the grave of the loved! Perhaps only a simple stone stands at the head—a mark of remembrance, which custom has given to all-yet a chaplet of fresh flowers is daily laid upon the green turf-the slight mound is carefully guarded from intrusive footsteps-a weeping willow droops mournfully over it, and bright flowers spring out of it, extracting beauty and fragrance from death and decay. There are a thousand other little marks of affection, which modestly testify the strength of that love which death cannot destroy. Such are the narrow path that leads beside the tomb, where the oft returning footstep permits no grass to spring, and the shrubbery carefully tended, or the simple words, "A Mother's Grave;" and they speak more truly the language of the heart, than costly mausoleums and studied epitaphs.

There is something so indelicate in raising sumptuous monuments, lettered full with lofty encomiums, over the silent dead, that we turn, with a sort of relief, to the unobtrusive head-stone, shaded by a blooming rose-bush, or hung with some simple token of affection. Sincere grief shrinks from attracting notice, and prefers to build a shrine to which it can retire, and render the tribute to departed worth, undisturbed by idle strangers, who come merely to be gratified with architectural beauty.

Wealth can purchase the showy procession and attractive monument, but affection only can bid the tear to start, and prompt to those hundred little acts of love, unseen by the world, which yet give a sweet solace to the heart that contrives them. And when these expressions of regard are really sincere, nothing can exert a more hallowed influence on the character. They develop the innate goodness of the heart, and soften the harsher feelings, more than any appeal to the conscience; for in the grave is buried every fault and dissension, and as the earth closes over the lifeless form, pity suggests many a kind look or lovely trait, undiscovered before.

If the grave of an enemy-anger is disarmed, and perhaps softened into sorrow, since many a bitter word or menacing look now appears foolish, and even cruel; for those eyes closed in death, can no longer return the defying glance, nor those mute, cold lips, retort the words of scorn. And as the thought occurs, even to a bitter enemy, that perhaps his unkind treatment has hastened the death of that prostrate form, a sad emotion will cross the heart, and, it may be, an unbidden tear moisten the eye. Yet if the grave of the enemy be not bedewed with tears, it will seldom be dishonored; for the deepest anger can desire no victory more complete than death has made, and humanity will call for mercy on a fallen foe.

But when it is the grave of a loved friend, whom some hasty word has estranged, or whom some careless jest has wounded, while no opportunity has been found to say it was but an idle, unmeaning remark, what tears of bitter regret must fall, and what emotions choke the soul for utterance! Those calm, reproachful eyes-those loved features, saddened by the seeming slight, and the hasty color that rushed for a moment to the temples, indicating a wounded sensibility-will come back upon the memory with more than truthful vividness, and overwhelm the soul with the deepest anguish. And when it is told that the last prayer of that injured one was breathed out in forgiveness for the wrong that the name half unspoken before the lips closed forever, was that of the faithless friend-that the soul seemed unwilling to quit its earthly tenement, before it uttered words of love and reconciliation to him who had inflicted the cutting injury-the heart must be stung with such a keen self-reproach, as he alone who has felt it, can realize; a sorrow which rankles in the soul, embittering every remembrance of that friend, and cutting the deeper because it can find no sympathy. Scalding tears will fill the eye, and the head will become dizzy, as the cold sod is laid above the grave of alienated affection, and in after years, when different scenes and a busy life have dissipated thoughts of those earlier times, as the step approaches that church-yard, and draws beside that grave, the whole crowd of bitter recollections will come thronging into the soul, and keenly reproach it for its former unkindness. The mourner will turn away with a sadder heart, but with the wise purpose to give never more a cause for such bitter and unavailing tears.

But when standing at the grave of a fondly loved parent, what a chastened and delicate sorrow fills the soul! No remorse harrows up

the feelings, and no acute anguish embitters the recollection, but a pensive sadness steals over the heart, and quiet, unimpassioned tears course down the cheek. The soul will be subdued to an unwonted tenderness, and the knees will bend long at the tomb-stone, while past scenes, with all their little joys and sorrows, come back invested with the freshness of yesterday. When it is time to turn away, the steps will linger about the spot, and at last leave it slowly and unwillingly, for it is a sacred place, where blessings descend upon the soul. And there will be left, too, some little mark of regard for that whose heart were wound the first tendrils of affection.

parent, about

Perhaps it is no more than to cut off from the grave the rank grass, or to tear away the matted vines; yet even the smallest token of love may be an index of a warm and feeling heart. When humanity has so far forsaken some hardened breast, that we are tempted to doubt even its existence there, some testimonial of respect for a parent's memory-a softened tone when speaking their name-a long, sad gaze upon their portrait, or a tear dropped over their graves, will prove that the heart is not entirely callous-that there is one connecting link which binds it in sympathy to its fellows.

If it is the grave of a parent who has been hurried to an untimely end by the ingratitude or disobedience of a child, that child may weep over the cold remains, but his will be feverish tears, which distil no refreshing comfort for the soul. The sighs that make his bosom heave, will deeply lacerate, and allow of no healing balm of consolation.

The winds will heed not his idle prayers for forgiveness, and the more he weeps the less of comfort he will find. That which is the altar of grateful incense to the dutiful child, is to him the altar of Cain, where all his offerings of repentance are rejected, and from whence he is driven by an accusing conscience. We have spoken of the grave of the parent-of those who have been called away when the weight of years comes on, and when life begins to lose its charms. Thoughts of such will not be unmingled with tears, yet in the midst of weeping comes the reflection that they have escaped from a vale of sorrow, and are rejoicing in brighter realms than those of earth. Different are the emotions which rise in the heart, upon standing at the tomb of one called away when just blooming into maturity and loveliness. The beauty and grace and vivacity which made that form so charming, are now wasting away in the coldness and silence of the grave. Death, in such cases, does indeed appear the king of terrors. For when hope is painting bright visions for the future, and the heart is beating with love for all, when the gentleness of disposition has not been ruffled by contact with the world, but yet remains innocent and winning as in childhood, it seems a remorseless stroke, which destroys all the fond anticipations, and consigns to the tomb so much elegance of form and loveliness of heart.

It is well to plant fair flowers upon the graves of such, for they are the fittest type of the delicate beauty that lies cold beneath them-the

best symbol of that form which was as bright, and also as frail and fading.

Few, very few, can say that there is no grave over which they have been compelled to weep. The death of a parent, of a brother, of a sister, or of some more fondly loved one, has left nearly every heart desolate, and proved, by the severest test, the strength of its affection. And that one has stood the trial best, who, notwithstanding the lapse of time and the distractions of life, repairs daily to the grave of the loved one, there to deposit some little token of respect, or to guard the sacred spot from intrusion, and to shed a modest tear for the virtues and loveliness of the departed.

A. H. C.

Heart.

WHATEVER Views we may entertain about equality by nature, we all agree that there is, among mankind, a wide diversity in the development of both the intellect and the affections. While some are so much surface that the first glance discovers the whole man, and some are so deep that the Infinite alone can fathom them; there are others, who keep their treasures of thought and feeling in a safe, accessible to the owner, and transferable to whomsoever he will, but secure against the plundering foe, and the careless friend. While imperfection attaches to the whole race, some rise to an eminence in mental and moral attainments, far surpassing those of the multitudes around them. It cannot be denied that early education has a very important influence in shaping the after-character and career of every The importance of thorough training in the primary schools, and in the higher seminaries of learning, is beginning to be understood and felt, and we look with pride on recent improvements, both in the manner and matter of teaching. But it may well be questioned, whether, in the haste to push the youthful mind forward with the greatest possible rapidity, the importance of training the affections has not been too much overlooked. Why is it that we see many persons of well regulated minds, possessing very narrow hearts? In the midst of beautiful and noble thoughts, they seem to forget that to feel and obey the truth gives to knowledge all its worth. Such persons are like icebergs, gorgeous as they sparkle in the sunlight, yet freezing whatever they touch.

man.

Real sympathy, apart from all considerations of self-interest, is rarely found in such a degree as to make it of any value in heightening pure enjoyment, or mitigating sorrow. Formality is the fashion, and Stoicism the truly worshiped deity. If the external shine, the internal may be black as "ebon darkness," without detracting sensibly, in the view of many, from a man's excellence. Admirers and flatterers are easily gained, but a faithful friend seldom found. There is,

indeed, no want of a certain species of feeling in the multitude, eager for something, it matters little what, provided they are on a race, but it is rather the untrained offshoot of instinct than the outworking of the heart. To see men in a phrenzy of passion, or convulsed with laughter, is nothing uncommon; but to behold the generous spirit, diffusing on all sides an air of joyousness, in which youth's pure affections may expand into a healthy maturity, is as rare as it is delightful. The shallow ferments of an irritable temper, tormenting wherever they are felt, and the boiling floods of a malicious one, scalding every thing within their reach not already petrified, are objects sufficiently familiar. But it is not my purpose here to speak particularly of the moral nature of the affections, but to call attention to the fact, that the sum of natural affection, in even educated society, is so exceedingly small. There is no deficiency in that sentimentalism which weeps inconsolably over impossible miseries, exults immeasurably in the fancied triumphs of smart villains, admires the incredible flights of an unreal genius, and loves the smooth perfection of ideal beauty. From such day-dreamers we must expect little depth of soul. But it must not be forgotten that these are a sort of superhuman existences, and of course must not be expected to come under the plain, matter-of-fact conditions quite natural to those who have not become so sublimed in their speculations as to forget that, being of the solid earth, earthy, air is to them quite unnavigable, who can only aspire to the regions above them, not daring to believe that ethereal floating is equally safe as well as far more blissful than weary marches over earth's rugged ways. But leaving the disciples of fiction to the full enjoyments of the prospect, both immediate and remote, held out to them by their goddess, let us take a more sober survey of the real world, and note some of the causes which operate to deprive natural affection of its legitimate share in it. One of the chief, is the radical defect in parental instruction. Affection is not produced by inculcation. Stern command may secure obedience to the superior, and deter from injuring the equal and inferior, but cannot alone produce respect for the one, nor love to the others. Children of the same family may be told to love one another, on the ground of duty, but it is much easier for them to feel the influence of right affection laid out before them and toward them, than to understand the reasons of this obligation. Children are quick observers, and they observe not to criticise so much as to imitate. But perhaps in most cases less injury is received from noticing defects in the characters they are both inclined and taught to imitate, than from feeling the wounds which are often inflicted on their tender hearts through unthinking carelessness.

Although youthful impressions are so lasting, much may be done in later years to repair the injury thus sustained.

But to specify more particularly some of the moulding influences to which all must be subjected, the almost universal disposition to elevate still higher the already elevated, and to depress still lower the already. depressed, operates to the injury of both. No sooner does a child show marks of unusual talent, than a hundred tongues flatter his van