and teachings of external nature have, practically, very little
effect indeed. And so, when musing in the churchyard, nothing grand,
heroical, philosophical, or tremendous ever suggests itself to me.
I look with pleasure at the neatly cut walks and grass. I peep in
at a window of the church, and think how I am to finish my sermon
for next Sunday. I read over the inscriptions on the stones which
mark where seven of my predecessors sleep. I look vacantly at the
lichens and moss which have overgrown certain tombstones three
or four centuries old. And occasionally I think of what and where
I shall be, when the village mason, whistling cheerfully at his
task, shall cut out my name and years on the stone which will mark
my last resting-place. But all these, of course, are commonplace
thoughts, just what would occur to anybody else, and really not
worth repeating.

And yet, although 'death, and the house appointed for all living,'
form a topic which has been treated by innumerable writers, from
the author of the book of Job to Mr. Dickens; and although the
subject might well be vulgarized by having been, for many a day,
the stock resort of every commonplace aimer at the pathetic; still
the theme is one which never can grow old. And the experience and
the heart of most men convert into touching eloquence even the
poorest formula of set phrases about the tremendous Fact. Nor are
we able to repress a strong interest in any account of the multitude
of fashions in which the mortal part of man has been disposed of,
after the great change has passed upon it. In a volume entitled
God's Acre, written by a lady, one Mrs. Stone, and published a year
or two since, you may find a great amount of curious information
upon such points: and after thinking of the various ways of burial
described, I think you will return with a feeling of home and