each sepulchral stone a small receptacle is hollowed out to collect
the dews of heaven, where the birds, as they flutter past, may slake
their thirst. On each succeeding Sabbath fresh green branches adorn
the headstones, and vailed mourners, seated by them, keep silent
watch, in the fond belief that the lifeless occupant of the tomb is
conscious of their presence there.[4]

The loftier, purer character of our faith leads us to reject such
fancies as gross superstitions; and yet there is something touching
in them! We treasure a lock of hair--a glove--a ribbon--a flower, once
worn by an absent loved one; why should we not more tenderly treasure
the dust that has once been ennobled by enshrining the immortal
spirit of a departed friend, or deem it weakness to watch over these
mouldering relics as fondly as though they were still conscious of
our care? And surely if the enfranchised spirit is permitted to be
cognisant of that which passes upon earth--if, from those blessed
abodes whither it has winged its course, a care can be bestowed upon
the earthly coil it has thrown off, or upon the creatures of clay
who still toil and grovel here below, may we not suppose that it
contemplates with pitying complacency the clinging tenderness which
binds the hearts of the living to the ashes of the dead, the desperate
affection with which we look our last upon the lifeless form which
never more can respond to all our love and all our sorrow, and the
fond fidelity which leads us to hover round the tomb that has forever
shut it from our view?

I love to think that such may be the case; nor can I separate the
idea, weak and idle though it may be, that the souls of the departed
mourn over the neglect and abandonment of their earthly remains, _as
the first step toward forgetfulness of their memory._ To me, the