ter
trees. I approached, wondering to what house this well-protected garden
appertained; I turned the angle of the wall, thinking to see some
stately residence; I was close upon great iron gates; there was a
hut serving for a lodge near, but I had no occasion to apply for the
key--the gates were open; I pushed one leaf back--rain had rusted
its hinges, for it groaned dolefully as they revolved. Thick planting
embowered the entrance. Passing up the avenue, I saw objects on
each hand which, in their own mute language of inscription and sign,
explained clearly to what abode I had made my way. This was the
house appointed for all living; crosses, monuments, and garlands of
everlastings announced, "The Protestant Cemetery, outside the gate of
Louvain."

The place was large enough to afford half an hour's strolling without
the monotony of treading continually the same path; and, for those who
love to peruse the annals of graveyards, here was variety of inscription
enough to occupy the attention for double or treble that space of time.
Hither people of many kindreds, tongues, and nations, had brought their
dead for interment; and here, on pages of stone, of marble, and of
brass, were written names, dates, last tributes of pomp or love, in
English, in French, in German, and Latin. Here the Englishman had
erected a marble monument over the remains of his Mary Smith or Jane
Brown, and inscribed it only with her name. There the French widower had
shaded the grave: of his Elmire or Celestine with a brilliant thicket
of roses, amidst which a little tablet rising, bore an equally bright
testimony to her countless virtues. Every nation, tribe, and kindred,
mourned after its own fashion; and how soundless was the mourning of
all! My own tread, though slow and upon smooth-rolled paths, seemed to
startle, because it formed the sole break to a silence otherwise total.
Not only the winds, but the very fitful, wandering airs, were that
afternoon, as by common consent, all fallen asleep in their various
quarters; the north was hushed, the south silent, the east sobbed not,
nor did the west whisper. The clouds in heaven were condensed and
dull, but apparently quite motionless. Under the trees of this cemetery
nestled a warm breathless gloom, out of which the cypresses stood up
straight and mute, above which the willows hung low and still; where
the flowers, as languid as fair, waited listless for night dew or
thunder-shower; where the tombs,