ted forms
the supplanter of a ritual carefully and devoutly prepared, listen to one
of their own semi-conversational addresses to the Almighty over a grave,
and then hearken to these venerable rites, and learn humility. Such men
never approach sublimity, or the sacred character that should be impressed
on a funeral ceremony, except when they borrow a fragment here and there
from the very ritual they affect to condemn. In their eagerness to
dissent, they have been guilty of the weakness of dissenting, so far as
forms are concerned, from some of the loftiest, most comprehensive, most
consolatory and most instructive passages of the inspired book!

It was a terrible moment when the first clod of the valley fell on my
sister's coffin. God sustained me under the shock! I neither groaned nor
wept. When Mr. Hardinge returned the customary thanks to those who had
assembled to assist me "in burying my dead out of my sight," I had even
sufficient fortitude to bow to the little crowd, and to walk steadily
away. It is true, that John Wallingford very kindly took my arm to sustain
me, but I was not conscious of wanting any support. I heard the sobs of
the blacks as they crowded around the grave, which the men among them
insisted on filling with their own hands, as if "Miss Grace" could only
rest with their administration to her wants; and I was told not one of
them left the spot until the place had resumed all the appearance of
freshness and verdure which it possessed before the spade had been
applied. The same roses, removed with care, were restored to their former
beds; and it would not have been easy for a stranger to discover that a
new-made grave lay by the side of those of the late Captain Miles
Wallingford and his much-respected widow. Still it was known to all in
that vicinity, and many a pilgrimage was made to the spot within the next
fortnight, the young maidens of the adjoining farms in particular coming
to visit the grave of Grace Wallingford, the "Lily of Clawbonny," as she
had once been styled.

Chapter IX.

"I knew that we must part--no power could save
Thy quiet goodness from an early grave:
Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they cast,
Looking a sister's fondness to the last;
Thy lips so pale, that gently press'd my cheek;
Thy voice--alas! Thou could'st but try to speak;--
All told thy doom; I felt it at my heart;
The shaft had struck--I knew that we must part."

Sprague.