field at eventide to seek, we can have at table, or in the thronged streets at noonday, -opportunity for meditation, one of the chief means of wisdom. If to us the objects of sight are more vivid in their beauty, and more distinct in their suggestions than to others, if to us there is granted more leisure, and stronger inducement to study the movement of the mind within, from us may be expected a degree of certain kinds of attainment, in which it is as much of a sin as a misfortune for us to be deficient.

Finally, we, like all who are placed in uncommon circumstances, are so situated that our mental and moral constitution can scarcely fail of being either very weak or very strong. If we are dull and slow of observation, and indolent in thought, there is little chance of our being much wiser than infants; whereas, if we are acute and quick of observation, (and for us there is no medium,) and disposed for thought, nothing is likely to prevent our going on to be wiser continually. In like manner, there is an awful alternative as to our morals. If we cannot stand our trial, we must become selfish in principle, sour in temper, and disagreeable in manners. If we are strong enough for our discipline, we cannot fail to come out of it with principles strengthened, affections expanded, temper under control, and manners graced by the permanent cheerfulness of a settled mind, and a heart at ease. If you can make this last your lot, you have little more to fear. If you have stood this proof, you can probably stand any which comes in the shape of affliction. If you have brought vigor out of this conflict, you are not likely to be unnerved. If, in your enforced solitude, you have cultivated instead of losing your sympathies, you can scarcely afterwards grow selfish. If, as your enjoyments were failing you, you have improved your serenity, your cheerfulness will probably be beyond the reach of circumstance. The principal check which must be put upon

these happy anticipations, is the fear that while the privation cannot be lessened, the pain of it may disappear too soon and too entirely. I now suffer little or no pain from my privation, (except at moments when comparisons are forced upon me before I am ready for them;) and I cannot help dreading a self-deception, to avoid which I would gladly endure over again all I have suffered. I had infinitely rather bear the perpetual sense of privation than become unaware of any thing that is true, of my intellectual deficiencies, of my disqualifications for society, of my errors in matters of fact, and of the burdens which I necessarily impose on those who surround me. My dependence for being reminded of these things is not on those, who incur trouble and sacrifice for my sake, but on the few occasional mortifications which I still meet with, and which are always welcome for the sake of their office. We can never get beyond the necessity of keeping in full view the worst and the best that can be made of our lot. The worst is, either to sink under the trial, or to be made callous by it. The best is, to be as wise as is possible under a great disability, and as happy as is possible under a great privation. Believe me, with deep respect, Your affectionate sister,

March 16, 1834.

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

ON COUNTRY BURIAL-GROUNDS.

THE feeling which first prompted men to bury their dead in the neighbourhood of their places of worship is natural and universal. If a stranger, an impartial person, unbiassed by our predilections in favor of long-established customs, were asked to point out the spot best fitted for so awful a deposit, he

would say, "Bury your dead in a place where strong, univers sal religious associations may protect their repose. Make their graves in some spot where they will often meet your eyes; but be careful at the same time, by connecting the remem brance of the dead with your religious feelings, to preserve its vividness and strength. Bury your dead in or near your places of worship." A custom thus approving itself to every man's feelings was adopted long ago, and became almost universal: the consequence of which is, that some change has become desirable, if not necessary. The number of dead in our cities has so outgrown that of the living, that the very feelings which first appropriated our churchyards to be the abode of the departed, are daily shocked and disgusted at the scenes which every passer by must unavoidably witness.

If any philosophical reasoner should say that it cannot matter to the dead what becomes of their remains; or to the living, when the immediate relatives and friends are no more, I reply, that when we behold the violations which are often practised, we naturally look forward to the time when the remains of those whom we love, and perhaps committed but yesterday to the tomb, shall be cast out in the same manner. It is not enough that we can now guard their repose, if the suspicion comes across us that when our guardianship is withdrawn, their ashes shall be held in no more respect than the dust of the ground. It is not enough that we can cast our eyes on the hallowed spot as we enter the house of God, and silently pay to it the tribute of our hearts, if we feel the chilling conviction that in time that grave shall be levelled; that the careless step shall tread upon it, and that the sanctity of the place shall be abolished. Neither can it be right that the respect which the heart naturally pays to the remains of the dead, should be discouraged. It cannot be right that children should behold the subservience of this natural re

spect to considerations of convenience and interest. If to the dead it matters not whether their bones crumble by natural decay, or are broken by the tool of the workman, to the gazer it matters much. If no friend be near to shudder at the violation, some delicate spirit may be wounded, and most probably some young mind will receive a hurtful impression, will have some sentiment of natural piety weakened, some emotion of religious awe chilled or destroyed. While this religious awe invests the memory of the dead, and is associated with their remains, it can be no light matter to treat this remembrance with carelessness.

While, in the midst of cities, temptations to violate, sooner or later, the repose of the dead exist, nature will be found a more faithful guardian of their rights than even the vicinity of the sanctuary. If its walls afford but a temporary protection, we shall be wise to seek that which is more durable; and if man may not be trusted with the sacred charge, we should remove it where it may at least be safe from the hand of the spoiler. By depositing our dead in some place removed from the habitations of man, we indeed deprive ourselves of the consolation of visiting their graves, when we go up to worship, and of beholding their tombs as we join in the service of the sanctuary. But the deprivation is more than compensated by the security and the repose of the country burying-place. No rash hand will be tempted to level the heap. Nature will pay her daily tribute to the hallowed spot. The sun will shine upon it every morning; the dews of heaven will visit it every evening, for ever. Where these influences of nature and religion can be united, as in a country churchyard, it is well. It is no small privilege to the survivors to have such a place to resort to, when they pay their tribute of affection. But the larger proportion of our population must forego one or other of the advantages of a country churchyard; and it seems to be high time to point

out to them the desireableness, if not the necessity, of relinquishing their predilections in favor of the old places of sepulture, and of reconciling their minds to the new plan which the increase of numbers will at length oblige us to adopt.

All have heard of the cemetery of Père la Chaise. Its beauty, and the deep and tender interest which pervades the place, are universally acknowledged. Why should not every city in England have such a spot in its neighbourhood? Not, perhaps, as beautiful; but as interesting, as hallowed? That there are no valid objections to such a plan, we know ; for it has been adopted with entire success, in two or three instances in England. They who have attended funerals in the damp and cheerless churchyards of the city, feel the contrast between such scenes, and the shade of trees, where flowers spring, and the sun sheds his earliest and latest rays. They who have known what it is to be deterred from visiting the grave of a friend by the fear of observation, and who find that in the midst of a city they cannot escape sights and sounds uncongenial with their feelings, can best appreciate the retirement and repose of a country burial-ground, where no eye marks the mourner, no step intrudes on his solitude, and no harsh sounds break in on his meditation.

The burial-grounds of a city are exposed to profanations of various kinds, from which those of the country are free. Notwithstanding all that is said of the good moral effects of interring the dead in the sight of the living, we are every day shocked with the levity with which places so sacred are regarded. If now and then an old man may go to meditate among the tombs, and gather from them that "all is vanity," how many busy and careless persons pass by without remembering that they are on consecrated ground! The man of business hurries on, and pursues his calculations, without being reminded that he knows not the measure of his days. The man of learning reflects not, as