storied monument nothing more than symbols of family pride? Is all I see around me a memorial of the living more than of 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 wildflower, 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 honoured even in the grave. Let the sculptured marble direct our footsteps to the scene of their long sleep; let the chiselled epitaph repeat their names, 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 distinction of prince and beggar of a rich winding-sheet and a shroudless burial of a solitary grave and a 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 are soon levelled by the spade and mattock; the damp breath of the grave 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 god-like, with all that is scorned, and sinful, and degraded? No! Then death is not a common leveller! Are all alike beloved in death and honoured 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 H another is in the nobler and better emotions which it excites; in its more fervent admonitions to virtue; in the livelier recollection which it awakens of the good and the 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 honour. 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 honour 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 about for some time, reading the inscriptions on the various monuments 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 monuments, had gradually conducted me to the summit of the hill, upon whose slope the cemetery stands. Beneath me in the distance, and dim-discovered through the misty and smoky atmosphere of evening, rose the countless 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 labour. What an hour for meditation! What a contrast between the metropolis of the living and the metropolis of the dead! I could not help calling to my mind that allegory of mortality, written by a hand which has been many a long year cold : Earth goeth upon earth as man upon mould, Like as earth upon earth never go should, And yet shall earth unto earth rather than he would. Lo, earth on earth, consider thou may, How earth cometh to earth naked alway, Why shall earth upon earth go stout or gay, Since earth out of earth shall pass in poor array. Before I left the graveyard the shades of evening had fallen, and the objects around me grown dim and indistinct. As I passed the gateway I turned to take a parting look. I could distinguish only the chapel on the summit of the hill, and here and there a lofty obelisk of snow-white marble, rising from the black and heavy mass of foliage around, and pointing upward to the gleam of the departed sun, that still lingered in the sky, and mingled with the soft starlight of the summer evening. THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. Je ne conçois qu'une manière de voyage plus agréable que d'aller à cheval; c'est d'aller à pied. On part à son moment, on s'arrête à sa volonté, on fait tant et si peu d'exercise qu'on veut. Quand on ne veut qu'arriver, on peut courir en chaise de poste; mais quand on veut voyager, il faut aller à pied. IN ́N the melancholy month of October, I made a foot excursion along the banks of the Loire, from Orleans to Tours. This luxuriant region is justly called the garden of France. From Orleans to Blois the whole valley of the Loire is one continued vineyard. The bright green foliage of the vine spreads, like the undulations of the sea, over all the landscape, with here and there a silver flash of the river, a sequestered hamlet, or the towers of an old chateau to enliven and variegate the scene. The vintage had already commenced. The peasantry were busy in the fields, the song that cheered their labour was on the breeze, and the heavy wagon tottered by laden with the clusters of the vine. Everything around me wore that happy look which makes the heart glad. In the morning I arose with the lark, and at night I slept where sunset overtook me. The healthy exercise of foot travelling, the pure, bracing air of autumn, and the cheerful aspect of the whole landscape about me, gave fresh elasticity to a mind not overburdened with care, and made me forget not only the fatigue of walking, but also the consciousness of being alone. My first day's journey brought me at evening to a village whose name I have forgotten, situated about eight leagues from Orleans. It is a small obscure hamlet not mentioned in the guide-book, and stands upon the precipitous banks of a deep ravine, through which a noisy brook leaps down to turn the ponderous wheel of a thatch-roofed mill. The village inn stands upon the highway, but the village itself is not visible to the traveller as he passes. It is completely hidden in the lap of a wooded valley, and so embowered in trees that not a roof nor a chimney peeps out to betray its hiding-place. It is like the nest of a ground-swallow, which the passing footstep almost treads upon and yet it is not seen. I passed by without suspecting that a village was near, and the little inn had a look so uninviting that I did not even enter it. After proceeding a mile or two farther, I perceived, upon my left, a village spire rising over the vineyards. Towards this I directed my footsteps; but it seemed to recede as I advanced, and at last quite disappeared. It was evidently many miles distant; and as the path I followed descended from the highway, it had gradually sunk beneath a swell of the vine-clad landscape. I now found myself in the midst of an extensive vineyard. It was just sunset, and the last golden rays lingered on the rich and mellow scenery around me. The peasantry were still busy at their task, and the occasional bark of a dog, and the distant sound of an evening bell, gave fresh romance to the scene. The reality of many a day-dream of childhood, of many a poetic revery of youth, was before me. I stood at sunset amid the luxuriant vineyards of France! The first person I met was a poor old woman, a little bowed down with age, gathering grapes into a large basket. She was dressed like the poorest class of peasantry, and pursued her solitary task alone, heedless of the cheerful gossip and the merry laugh which came from a band of more youthful vintagers at a short distance from her. She was so intently engaged in her work that she did not perceive my approach until I bade her good evening. hearing my voice, she looked up from her labour and returned the salutation; and on my asking her if there were a tavern or a farmhouse in the neighbourhood where I could pass the night, she showed me the pathway through the vineyard that led to the village, and then added, with a look of curiosity "You must be a stranger, sir, in these parts." "Yes; my home is very far from here." “How far?” "More than a thousand leagues." The old woman looked incredulous. "I came from a distant land beyond the sea." On "More than a thousand leagues !" at length repeated she; " and why have you come so far from home?" "To travel,—to see how you live in this country." "Have you no relations in your own?" |