The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse tobe divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal- every other afflictionto forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open- thisaffliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is themother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like ablossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where isthe child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents,though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony,would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tombis closing upon the remains of her he most loved; when he feels hisheart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal; wouldaccept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness?- No, thelove which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of thesoul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when theoverwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear ofrecollection; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony overthe present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away intopensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness-who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it maysometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, orspread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchangeit even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, thereis a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembranceof the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh,the grave!- the grave!- It buries every error- covers every defect-extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none butfond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon thegrave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that heshould ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that liesmouldering before him.
But the grave of those we loved- what a place for meditation!
There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtueand gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almostunheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy- there it is that wedwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the partingscene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs- its noiselessattendance- its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies ofexpiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling- oh! howthrilling!- pressure of the hand! The faint, faltering accents,struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! Thelast fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even from thethreshold of existence!
Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle theaccount with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited everypast endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never-never- never return to be soothed by thy contrition!
If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, ora furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent- if thou art ahusband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its wholehappiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thytruth- if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, orword, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee- if thouart a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heartwhich now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;- then be sure thatevery unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action,will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully atthy soul- then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentanton the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailingtear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.
Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties ofnature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, withthese tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by thebitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, andhenceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thyduties to the living.
In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to give a fulldetail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merelyto furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particularrites, to be appended, by way of note, to another paper, which hasbeen withheld. The article swelled insensibly into its present form,and this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a noticeof these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly investigatedin other works.
I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom ofadorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries besidesEngland. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed evenby the rich and fashionable; but it is then apt to lose itssimplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travelsin Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and recesses formedfor retirement, with seats placed among bowers of greenhouse plants;and that the graves generally are covered with the gayest flowers ofthe season. He gives a casual picture of filial piety, which Icannot but transcribe; for I trust it is as useful as it isdelightful, to illustrate the amiable virtues of the ***. "When Iwas at Berlin," says he, "I followed the celebrated Iffland to thegrave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much real feeling. Inthe midst of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a youngwoman, who stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, whichshe anxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. It was thetomb of her parent; and the figure of this affectionate daughterpresented a monument more striking than the most costly work of art."I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I oncemet with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at the villageof Gersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake of Lucerne, atthe foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniaturerepublic, shut up between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible on theland side only by foot-paths. The whole force of the republic didnot exceed six hundred fighting men; and a few miles of circumference,scooped out as it were from the bosom of the mountains, comprisedits territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest ofthe world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had asmall church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of thegraves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixedminiatures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses ofthe deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, somewithering, others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused withinterest at this scene; I felt that I was at the source of poeticaldescription, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offeringsof the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and morepopulous place, I should have suspected them to have been suggested byfactitious sentiment, derived from books; but the good people ofGersau knew little of books; there was not a novel nor a love poemin the village; and I question whether any peasant of the placedreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of hismistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites ofpoetical devotion, and that he was practically a poet.
THE END
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1819-20
