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AN ADDRESS 

BY 

EEV. HENRY NEILL, 



A POEM 

BY 

OLivEH Wendell holmes, 

DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OP THE 

PITTSFIELD (RURAL) CEMETERY, 

September 9tl), 18i50, 

WITH OTHER MATTER, AND 

' A MAP OF THE GROUNDS. 



%\\ \\i (Dniiniiittrr nf ^^ulilirntiaii. 



PITTSFIELD, MASS: 

AXTEL, BULL AND MARSH.... PKINTERS. 

1850. 






*:• -3 . 



421c 







IIISTOllICAL SUMMARY 



At the first meeting of the settlers on the lots iii 
Pontoosue, Sept. 12, 1753, it was voted, That Ileze- 
kiah Jones, Israel Dewey, Elias Willard, Deacon Crow- 
foot, and Charles Goodrich, should manage the whole 
affair of building a meeting-house, and should agree 
on a place or places to bury the dead. For the next 
five 3'oars, no mention is made upon the town records 
of a burial place. The few who died during that time 
were buried in some spot, generally chosen for its 
elevation and dry soil, contiguous to the clustering 
homesteads, that, scattered at wide distances, were to 
be found throughout the township. As population 
increased, and the necessity for a central place of 
gathering, both upon the Sabbath and other public 
occasions, became apparent, measures were also taken 
to secure a place of public burial. After the entire 
completion of the first meeting-house in 1764, — a 
building in size forty-five feet by fifty-five, — the town 
voted " to clear one and a quarter acres near the meet- 
ing-house for a place of burial." This work, for rea- 
sons not specified, lingered on through several years. 
The trees in part had been girdled but not removed ; 



4 HISIOllICAL SUMMAltY- 

the places for Ijurial were cramped and rough ; the 
land was wet and unsightly ; — no headstones had hcen 
reared, — no fences built to enclose the grounds, — no 
sexton appointed to dig the graves. The distant and 
private places of burial were still used in preference 
to the church-yard. So much dissatisfaction in flict 
existed towards what w^e call " the old grave-yard," 
that at the call of the town meeting on the 30th of 
Nov. 1768, the 7th article of- the warrant reads : " To 
know the mind of the town relating to the present 
burying-ground, — whether they will remove it or not ; 
if not, whether they will fence it." That same year 
the town erected a good and suitable fence around it, 
cleared off many of the trees, removed the stumps 
and roots from a considerable space, leveled the ground, 
appointed a sexton, and vot^d " to provide a spade, a 
hoe and a pick, for the use of Aaron Stiles, the sex- 
ton, to dig graves," "every mau having a chance to 
work out Ms proportion of the tax therefor, if he at- 
tended according to David Bush's warning." 

By sundry records of the town, the place of public 
burial seems after this date to have been defmitively 
settled. To a spectator, standing in the centre of its 
present circumscribed limits, its outlines ragged and 
and uneven, and almost every angle it presents un- 
sightly and repulsive, a faint idea only can be formed 
of the original shape and size of the old grave-yiird. 
The foot of progress — not improvement, surely, from 



UISTOIUCAI, SIMMAIIV, 



tiiMi Doint of obser\'atiou — lias Jiei'ii plauteJ ou iiiuro 
than half its original e:^vtcnt. It was, in its iirst ap- 
propriation, ample for ifs purposes, pleasant in its lo- 
cation, intact by biuldings upon its premises, and suit- 
able, quiet and, attractive, to citizens and strangers. 
In its front stood the ru.de, unpainted meeting-house. 
Near by 

" There, wlieve a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose." 

Across the street ^yas the inn. South, and cast, and 
north, as the roads passed from the centre, they 
plunged into the depth o^ the primitive forest Tra- 
dition says, that if one stood in the edge of the. 
church-yard on a week day morning of summer, the 
only noise to be heard was the clank of the first Bea- 
con Crowfoot's mill saw, as it plied its work, or the 
heavy lumbering of the ox carts winding their way 
to the mill. From its frequent mention in the earliest 
records of the town, one is led to suppose the church- 
yard might have been a place of wonted gathering. 
And well it might, for it was then the sightliest spot 
of cleared ground in the whole circuit of the summer 
hills. Reacliing back to nearly the line which marks 
the south side ot the Baptist Church, bounded east 
and north by heavy woodland, embracing in its limits 
all the area occupied by Clough's, Allen's, Walker's 
and West's blocks, and running, with a gentle slope. 



6 HISTORICAL SUMMARY. 

Ijeneath the shadows of maples and ehiis Ihat covered 
the ground where stands the Episcopal C'hureh and 
the adjacent buildings, tiie old grave-^'ard, at that 
early day, was spacious, sightly and convenient, and 
it presented attractions of which the second place of 
public burial provided by the town has ever been 
destitute. 

The front of the first meeting-house was more than 
half the width of the street nearer the centre of the 
park, than is the present one. The streets from the 
east and Avest came up directly towards each other 
until within some forty feet distant, when they divi- 
ded and passed by two narrower semi-circular paths 
into junction. The old elm, 

" Whose limbs outstanJ 
The lightnino-'s brand,' — 
Foi" a brave okl chu is he," 

w'aved his coronal almost directly above the mimic 
spire of the sole place of w^orship. The boundaries 
of the place of burial, marked by a plain fence, ex- 
tended along what is now the street both sides of the 
church, so that beneath the sound of wdieels, the foot- 
steps of men, the hurry of business, and the shouts 
of school boys at play, " the rude forefathers of our 
hamlet sleep." It is safe to say, that every building, 
from the JNledical Institution westward to the new 
corner block, and thence northward to James 11. Dun- 



HISTORICAL SUMMARY. 7 

ham's garden fence, stands upon the place of graves. 
This will hardly be doubted, when it is remembered, 
that the rear of the grave-yard was a dense forest for 
many years after it had been used for burial, — that 
the best lots were those wdiich were contiguous to the 
street., — and that the superstition of ages had made 
the spots where the church cast its shadow the most 
sacred resting places of the dead. 

For nearly seventy years the old grave-yard was 
the accustomed place for burial. About the year 1830, 
the necessities of the tow^n seemed to demand a new 
and more extensive burial ground. After much agi- 
tation of the question, what has always been styled 
the "new burying ground," was purchased, laid out into 
suitable lots, and exclusively used as the town grave- 
yard. The site at that time was eligible ; the access 
to. it convenient and easy ; the soil was of the right 
nature ; and from its highest point, where the hill 
sweeps by gentle declination towards the north-east, 
the view of the distant mountain scenery, the nearer 
lake, the swelling slopes covered by cultivated fields 
and dense woods, was eminently pleasing. However 
unsuitable it may since have become for burial, the 
committee who recommended, and the town who 
purchased it, deserved commendation only. They 
could not foresee the occasions that were to increase 
with such rapidity the population of the village. Nor 
had, at that day, the idea of rural cemeteries, apart 



8 IIISTUEICAL SU^Q[ARV. 

from the liannts of men, secliideJ, beautiful from Na- 
ture's gifts, and susceptible of high adornment from 
classic and cultured taste, found a lodgment in the 
public mind. 

The "new burying ground" lias bden in use iiow sev- 
enteen years. Invaded on the south and east by new 
dwellings ; brought by the increariC of population into 
proximity to many unsightly objdcts ; passing from its 
first seclusion more into the bustle of the village every 
year ; made a thoroughfare for business, a common for 
pasturage, a yard for laundry plirposes, and a play- 
ground for school-boys ; its enclosures brok^Bu down, 
its shrubbery trodden under foot, its motitiments de- 
faced, and every humble memorial planted upon the 
graves of loved ones rudely torn away ; it was seen, 
many months since, that public seiltiment demanded 
another and more secluded covert for the dead. To 
whom the town is indebted for the first idea of a rural 
cemetery, is not known. The suggestion may have 
been simultaneous to many minds. It met with but 
feeble objection in its origin, and even that passed at 
last by quiet transition into approbation. There is no 
purer sentiment of our nature than reverence for the 
dead. There is no tribute of the heart more spontane- 
ous than honor to departed w^orth. And only in that 
community where the better principles of the heart are 
wholly lost will the idea ever fail to be realized, of a 
cemetery that shall be perpetual and that shall grow 



HISTORICAL SUMMARY. 9 

in beauty throiigh the life of eyery generation. 
The committee appointed by the town, at a piiblic 
meeting held on the 13th of November, 1849, to select 
a suitable place for a new cemetery, consisted of Solo- 
mon L. Russell, Thomas F. Plunkett atid Oliver S. Root. 
To these gentlemen many different localities were sug- 
gested, aU of which passed under their examination. 
The place finally selected, reported upon at the meet- 
ing in April, and approved by the town, was the farm 
of George W. Campbell, Esq., lying about one mile 
]iorth-west from the village, comprising within its 
boundaries nearly 130 acres. It is not surprising, 
Avhen it is considered that various interests were to be 
reconciled and many conflicting views conciliated, 
that this selection should have been met with M-arm 
opposition. But it is a matter of great satisfaction, 
a matter that reflects more credit upon the report of 
that committee than a thousand labored encomiums, a 
matter that speaks more than volumes in favor of the 
Pittsfield Rural Cemetery, that, so fiir as is known to 
the persons having charge of this publication, not only 
have all diverse interests been satisfied and all con- 
flicting views been withdrawn, but that public senti- 
ment has given its entire approval to the location as 
under all circumstances the very best that could have 
been found within the limits of the town. It is in 
truth a parcel of ground of rare fitness for the pur- 
poses to which it has been dedicated, and of uncfpial- 

2 



10 HISTORIC:iL SUMMARY. 

ed beauty. Alternate woods and lawns vary the 
scene. The irregularity of its surface, now spread- 
ing the green turf into broad levels, now breaking 
away into gentle inclinations and rounded knolls, adds 
greatly to its attractions. A portion of a neighboring 
stream has been conducted through its niidst, forming 
an aiiificial lake, and again sending its waters by ch- 
cuitous windings, to the parent creek. Fine trees 
dot the landscape. Rural sights meet the eye where- 
ever it is turned. Hidden within the deep shade of 
the woods, the wanderer is shut out from the world, 
but as he emerges from them upon the uplands, the 
spires of the village, the quiet homesteads of the val- 
ley, and the distant mountains, break upon him with 
a beauty almost enrapturing. 

"The lulls, 
Bocli-ribbcd and ancient as the sun,— tlie vales 

Stretclling in pensive quietness between ; 
tThe venerable woods,— complaining brooks 

That make the mcadovrs gi-ecn ; — — * * * 
Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the laattomb of man." 

The Corporation was organized April 8th, 1850, 
At meetings of the Corporation held on the 22d and 
23d days of the same month, by-laws were adopt- 
ed, and the following gentlemen elected officers : — 

President, Calvin Martin. Board of Directors, 
S. L. Russell, M. H. Baldwin, 0. S. Boot, Thomas 



niSTOEICAL SUMMARY. ll 

F. Plunkett, George W. Campbell, N. S. Dodge, 
Henry Clark, Robert Colt, David Campbell. Treas- 
urer, Ja:mes II. Dunham. Secretary, Ellis Merwin. 

To these gentlemen, under the statute defining the 
general powers of corporations, was committed the 
duty of preparing the new grounds for the purpose 
intended by the town. That other similar corpora- 
tions may not be deterred by obstacles from accom- 
plishing the end in view, it may not be out of place 
to state some of the difficulties that were found to 
exist here in the outset. To a Board of Directors 
the Corporation had given the whole matter of prepa- 
ration. But it gave them nothing else. Tools, money, 
instructions, ways and means, experience, laborers, 
artist, — it gave them none. There was the flirm, and 
nothing besides. As if imitating the example of St. 
Peter, the Corporation said virtually to its officers, 
"silver and gold have we none, but such as wo have 
give we thee." 

Under prospects requiring hopefulness and courage, 
the Board of Directors commenced their duties. 
Feeling the responsibility that attached to their doings; 
aware that the alternative for Pittsfield between a 
cemetery of rural beauty and the repulsive hillocked 
grave-yard, rested upon their deliberations ; fully in- 
formed of the conflicting opinions that agitated the 
public mind in relation to the spot selected; they yet 
resolutely and earnestly, with entire confidence in the 



12 HISTORICAL SUMMARY. 

ultimate taste, judgment and public spirit of the peo- 
ple, set about their task. An artist, known for his 
experience and skill in landscape gardening, "whose 
taste had already embellished other cemeteries, Dr. 
H. Stone, of Now York, was employed, first to ex- 
amine the capabilities of the farm for the purpose for 
which it had been purchased, and then to superintend 
its operations. To meet the immediate demand for 
money, a gentleman of the Board advanced five hun- 
dred dollars and pledged three hundred dollars more 
when it should be wanted, relying upon the future sale 
of lots for reimbursement. Upon the same guaranty 
the other members of the Board advanced funds for 
the completion of the work. Meetings of deliberation 
were held every w^eek. Committees of design, of 
farming, of finance, and of inspection, were appointed. 
Visits were made by members of the Board to the 
Cemeteries of Albany, Springfield, New York, Provi- 
dence and New Haven. Correspondence was had 
with the trustees of other similar corporations. Al- 
most daily superintendence was given by some mem- 
ber of the board to the progressing work. Plans were 
suggested, measures discussed, obstacles removed, ob- 
jections answered, theories exploded or adopted, opin- 
ions freely expressed, mistakes rectified, imprudence 
restrained, and economy enjoined, at every casual 
conversation on the way or in the house. And thus, 
jiot without brave example, " in dangers oft, and in 



IIISTOKTCAL SU?>niARY. 13 

perils more abundant/' have the Directors prepared 
the" grounds committed to them fur the reception of 
the dead. 

The dedication of the grounds took phice ^vith 
proper ceremony, under the auspices of a bright Au- 
tumn day, on the 9th of September, 1850. Although 
the plan adopted for adorning the Cemetery was still 
incomplete, so reluctantly were burials made in the 
old grounds, and so earnest was the popular voice for 
an immediate use of the new, that it was determined 
no longer to withold the lots from public sale. Much 
as has been done to develope the capabilities of the 
new Cemetery, very much yet remains undone. Its 
work is just begun. The veil is but half withdrawn 
from its beauty. The features of a landscape rarely 
equalled, and never surpassed, for awakening emotions 
fitting to its consecrated purposes, are yet hardly dis- 
closed. The beech, the oak, the elm, the willow 

" Trailing low its boughs to hiclo 
The gleaming marble," 

the balm-of-Gilead, the maple, the larch and the moun- 
tain ash, shall yet throw their drapery of light and 
shadow over every swelling summit. Our moun- 
tain fir-tree, with the hemlock, — its loftier neighbor, — 
the spruce and the pine, shall lift up from every valley 
their perpetual verdure. The flowering alder, the 
mountain laurel, the creeping ivy, and the climbing 



14 HISTORICAL SUMMARY. 

rose, shall shed their fragrance and scatter their with- 
ered blossoms over the graves of our loved ones. As 
years and generations pass away it shall grow in its 
attractions, until the rural resting place of our dead 
" made sure for a possession forever," shall become a 
garden of beauty, — God's forest-temple to the living. 



THE DAY. 



Monday, Sept. 9tli, tlic clay assigned for the Dedication of the 
pkce selected, to its appropriate Use,— -the burial of the dead, — Avas 
bright and beautiful. The DirectorSj who had for several months 
previous been much engaged in superintending the work of laying 
out the grounds, so beautifully formed by the hand of Nature for 
such a purpose, had looked forward to the day wnth much interest, 
and not a little solicitude, lest the small attendance on that occai^ion 
should discover a want of interest in what they had been so much 
concerned. At an early hour a great number of carriages and pe- 
destrians were moving towards the Cemetery and gathering on the 
public square. At half past ten o'clock, A. M., the procession, 
consisting of the Housatonic and PontoosUc Fire Companies, the 
Officers of the Corporation, invited guests, citizens and strangers, 
in carriages and on foot, was formed on the West side of the Park, 
under the direction of Col. George S. WilLis, as Chief Marshal, 
moved to the grounds, took a short circuit throUgh the avenue lead- 
ing around the lake, and alighted at the spot designated for the ex- 
ercises. There, under the lofty canopy of an ancient wood, and 
amid the venerable columns reared by the Almighty hand, were a 
great number gathered. 

"The groves -n-erc God's first temples," 
And when the voice of supplication and the song of praise were 
lifted up, and swelled among the high arches, it Was deeply realized, 
how sublimely fit they were for the humble adoration of the Su- 
preme Architect of such a sanctuary. The spot commanded a fine 
view of lawn and lake, forest and hillsides, sunlight and shadows. 
Seats had been prepared for two thousand ^ and yet a number almost 



10 THE DAY. 

as largo were un^jnividod for. Great (;|uictnc.?s and good order per- 
vaded the assembly. It was not a funeral. In the proccs.sion there 
had heen no .saljle liearse ; in the tlirong was no group of Ax-iled 
mourners ; no open grave waited its tenant ; still the imagination 
vividly foreshadowing the future gatherings on these grounds, so 
saddened and attuned the feelings to the occasion, that when tlic 
speakers, though with gentle hand, touched those tcndcrest cords 
of human sympatliy, the deep drawn sigh and falling tear told the 
heart's response. The place, the oecasion, even the tasteful adorn- 
ment, all have voices of sadness. The tomb adorned, is still a 
tomb : nature's annual rcstorati(;n of all Ix'autifal forms, but dindy 
lights its dark portals. 

Do vvluU wc may "to mock the hnte 

"Of our arch enemy, Death," 

Ills bony hand will ever hold the sceptre of his terrors over a sinful 
world. The Christian's faith alone has penetrated its dark recesses, 
and heard the angelic assurance, the spuit "is not here, it has arisen." 

" Per TENEBRAS, m hiccm," 
might be fitly inscribed on the gateway of every Cemetery. 

The poet may sing of the sculptured urn — 

Of hope that springs up on the flower-decked grave; 

In vain to the mourner does the spring-time return — 
The briglit forms of beauty o'er the grassy turf wave, 

If faith look not upward with its meek eye of love, 

From the "vallc}' and shadow," to the bright reahns above. 

The solemn and efFective singing of the choir, the judicious and 
eloquent sentiments of all those who took part in the exercises, 
cond)ined to produce deep and solemn impression on the hearts of 
the whole audience. Henceforth this now consecrated ground will 
be delightfully associated with the scenes of this day. The voices 
of the speakers will still be heard, and the notes of those songs of 
praise swell softly through those lofty arches. 

The exercises were opened by the following Introductory address, 
by C.vLvi:; M.\ktjn, Esq., Prcadcnt of the Corporation: — 



MR. rlvrtin's address. 17 

Fellow Citizens: — We have assembled here to- 
day to talk of the dead, to 

" view the ground 



Where we must shortly lie," 

and by solemn and appropriate exercises, devote it 
sacredly, and forever, as a last resting place on earth. 
The provision and preparation of stich a place, is an 
enterprise worthy of our best feeling and soundest 
judgment. Humane in its character, it invites the 
united efforts of the philanthropist and patriot. 

Hitherto our deceased relatives and friends have 
had a decent and a christian burial, and the affection 
of the bereaved has followed them to their resting 
place and lingered there. But few, very few, ever 
thought their feelings would again be harrowed up 
by their disinterment and removal. Yielding to the 
demands of an increased population and business in 
our village, the places heretofore assigned for the 
dead have been encroached upon and appropriated for 
other uses, against the entreaties of surviving friends. 
To changes which such causes produce, it becomes us 
to submit. A few years produce a ndw generation, 
with new thoughts, new actions and new pursuits, 
crowding upon the burying place and calling for a 
removal of the dead, to give place for the living. 

A brief history of this town will show the changes 
that have taken place in the resting places of our 



18 MR. martin's address. 

dead. The scttlementofthis town commenced in 1752. 
As was then the custom, (with but few excei)tions,) the 
graves of the dead were placed near the church. For 
a period of eighty years, the common burying-place 
of the inhabitants of this town and of the stranger who 
died " within our gates," was adjoining the first church 
edifice. Some seventeen years ago, the town pur- 
chased another place for burial ; situated, as was then 
thought, far enough away from the noise of business, 
that the dead might rest in peace in all coming time. 
Many graves in the old burying ground were opened 
and the bodies removed to the new, by the to\va and 
by friends ; yet hundreds or perhaps thousands remain 
there, trampled upon and neglected. Yes, the " dead 
forgotten lie" in that devoted spot, consecrated by the 
prayers and tears of three generations. But the time 
has come to abandon the old burying grounds and 
place our affections on some other congenial spot. A 
few years ago, it became apparent that the burying 
ground now used would soon have to be abandoned, 
a new site purchased, and the graves removed to 
some place still more remote and secure from the lia- 
bility to intrusion. Accordingly, last spring the town 
purchased this land, and placed it in the care of a por- 
tion of its citizens, who formed themselves under and 
by virtue of a law of this State, into a body corporate, 
to take care of and manage the same, for the use and 
benefit of the town as a burial place. 



MK. martin's address. 19 

We are not the first that have aroused from their 
slumbers and awakened to a sense of duty they owed 
to deceased friends. Neither are we the first who 
have sought out a place of refuge for the dead, beyond 
the haunts of the living. So far as I am informed, 
there are six or more rural spots in this State, one in 
Connecticut, four in the State of New York, and three 
in Pennsylvania, that have been dedicated to this 
sacred use. 

And now we have assembled on this ground to 
dedicate these hills and these vales, these groves and 
these streams, as a habitation for the great congrega- 
tion of the dead. And may we not hope that this 
beautiful spot will prove to be an asylum after death, 
where we, our children, and generations yet unborn, 
may repose undisturbed, until the trump of God shall 
summons us i'nto newness of life ? 



The Rev. Mr. Miner, of tlie Baptist Church, addressed the 
throne of grace. 

The Rev. Dr. Chapman, of the Episcopal Church, read from 
the 15th chap. 1 Cor., beginning at the 20th verse. 

The Choirs from the various religious societies of the village, 
united in singing, under the direction of Col. Asa Barb, the fol- 
lowing Ode, composed by a Lady : — 



20 ODE. 



ODE. 



COMPOSED BY A LADY. 



No more the city of tlic dead 

Is wrapped in ghostly gloom, 
No more we meet with hopeless dread 

The horror-haunted tomb. 
But life and warmth and joyous light 

And music's softened tone, 
Surround the pleasant path which seems 

To lead to Heaven alone. 

Oh ! here the spii'it, sorrow worn, 

Of heavenly lore untaught. 
Shall in tliis solitude first find 

The peace it vainly sought ; 
Shall live mthin this holy light. 

And breathe this blessed air, 
And learn the high delight of praise. 

The eloquence of prayer. 

The solemn voices of the wood. 
The murmurs of the stream, 

The sweeping shadows, long and dim, 
That play with breeze and beam, 

The ringing psalm of wild-wood bird. 
The floweret's perfumed breath, 



ODE. 21 

Shall give to life a holier calm, 
A gentler pang to cloatli. 

Then let the solemn tide of song 

Pour through the solitude, 
Until the last, low, lingering tone 

Dies in the silent wood. 
Oh ! may it breathe no sadder sound, 

Nor mount with deeper swell, 
AVhen on the trembling air shall peal 

The first funereal knell ! 

Soon through these groves that tolling bell 

"Will mournfully resound, 
And death his sleepless vigil keep 

Upon tliis holy ground; 
And burning tears must yet be wrung 

From eyes unused to weep. 
For here, beneath this quiet turf. 

Our own lov'd dead shall sleep. 

Our dead shall sleep — but such their sleep 

After the world's wild strife, 
That life shall seem a lingering death. 

And death a glorious life. 
No more to them earth's fading light 

And blighting air are given, 
For they shall see the light of God, 

And breathe the air of Heaven. 






3ltmnnnl3 fnr \\)t Dtn^. 

AN ADDRESS 

By rev. henry NEILL, 

DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OF THE 

September 9tlj, 1850. 



ADDr.ESS, 



Have we been persuaded — an assembly of the liv- 
ing — to look upon the very ground where Ave may 
sleep ? Impelled by a desire to do honor to the dead, 
have "we come witliin the precincts of a spot where 
every shadow seems now to deepen, and where the 
mountains point so significantly to the skies ? 

The sense of an unpaid tribute has summoned us 
from our homes. Affection, in its reverence, and 
depths of tenderness, has longed to give itself expres- 
sion, in some outward, significant and permanent 
form, until it can no longer be denied. Out of the 
hearts of a large community the declaration at length 
has come ; that the remains of departed worth 
shall hereafter find a safe retreat, and pledges of re- 
membrance foretokening their recompense of a higher 
reward. 

Simply to enshrine the dead in our affections, or to 
hold them ever so steadfastly in our memories, does 
not satisfy the exacting and importunate demands of 
a bereaved mind. Grief that is poignant and endur- 
ing, finds a satisfaction in seeing itself inscribed 
around the object for which it lived. It will make 

4 



20 HIEMUKIALS rOR THE DEAD. 

its mark of sorrow somewhere ; if not on tablets of 
stone, then on, the leaves of the forest, or the shifting 
sands. The visible memorial has been thought to 
mitigate, whilst it perpetuates and distributes the 
emotions that are witliin. IMatter and space, flower 
and rock, bending branch and sculptured stone, even 
the murmuring winds and silent skies, seem to share, 
whilst they hold and guard the feelings that are com- 
mitted to them. Nature must record as well as give 
utterance to its abounding gratitude, or its intensest 
woe. Here the angels met me, said Jacob, and called 
the place " Mahanaim." So tAvelvc rude stones from 
the Jordan marked the sj)ot where Joshua crossed 
the ford. 

Now, if it is every where admitted to be fitting 
that men should designate and keep in sight the 
ground where warriors bled, or angels came, or mer- 
cies seemed to go, it may not be irrelcA'ant on this 
occasion, to present some reasons, why living men 
should institute memorials for the dead. 

A memorial is that which brings vividly and appro- 
priately to the mind an object it can never forget. 
An expressive solitude, a withered leaf, a hoary 
mountain, a broken pillar, a speaking image, all, may 
become memorials. Wherever deep emotions have 
expended their strength, ihere men have demanded 
and established tokens of recollection \ and did they 
not do well ? 



MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 27 

But Avliere in all this fallen world does feelino; 
swell and linger as over a well known grave ? The 
heart's great bond of earthly attachment has been 
abruptly sundered there : a mortal life, kindling with 
the glow of strong desire, has been darkly quenched 
there : and the lamentation of the royal monarch has 
been wrung from a stricken band as each lifts up for 
himself the cry, ''I shall go to him, but he shall not 
return to me." 

Some things can be repaired ; lost crowns and 
sceptres may be regained ; the flush of youth may 
be renewed ; even tarnished character may be again 
made good ; but what can replace the treasures taken 
from us by the Great Destroyer ? What can relievo 
the mind's sense of separation from a friend, well- 
loved and true, whose face it shall behold no more ? 
What efiuivalent from this life can make amends for 
such a deprivation ? Tides of affection, recollections, 
an untold history of sorrow^ or of joy, lie buried with 
that dust. The memory of duties not discharged, 
kindnesses withheld, burdens of obligation unrecog- 
nized, and now for the first time appreciated, bind the 
survivor to that silent mound. Horning and noon 
and night his spirit reverts to it. There, on a day 
never to be forgotten, part of his own life went out, 
and mingled with every stone and leaf and particle 
of the clay that fell upon that form. For him, 
all the virtue, all the beauty, all the inspiration of 



28 MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 

the world now dwell in that one narrow house. 
I think I hear him say, ' Will that familiar voice 
speak to me no more ? Shall I never again from 
those hushed lips receive encouragement as I strive 
against temptation or seek the rugged paths of duty ? 
Has that eye indeed ceased to kindle ? Will that 
face never smile again? Is that heart no more to 
throb with joy, as noble deeds are panted for or done? 
Am I alone now ? Alas, my brother ! Deeds of 
heroic self-denial, ministries of mercy, capabilities ol 
sympathy and a willing endurance known only to the 
omniscient, aspirations, influences potent for blessing, 
pleadings for the true, achievements, potentialities, 
active, exliausting, self-relying, and yet greatly up- 
lifting to all around, now sleep beneath the flowers 
that bloom upon thy sod.' 

Shall not such turf be protected ? Shall it 
not be sacredly cherished ? Shall it not have its 
appropriate memorial and investiture ? Shall the 
sands where a vessel Avas wrecked be remembered 
and marked, a vessel, too, laden only with the gay ma- 
terial that must perish in the using ? Shall the 
loss of a gilded crown be mourned over and recorded ? 
Shall stately columns tell where empires fell and 
warriors fought ; and yet the dust of one who carried 
within his heart that which diadems can never pur- 
chase, and whose loss empires can never repair, be 
neglected and unkno\Yn ? Shall all that is left on 



i\IEi\rORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 20 

ancient fields of strife be garnered up and placed in 
costly urns, and cygw a stranger's touib glisten with 
decorations, and not even a lowly shrub bend over 
the spot where a revered and buried friend now 
sleeps ? Shall individual and humble souls, whose 
deprivation in bereavement is, not for a moment only, 
but for life ; not of glory, but of friendship and of the 
heart's best stay, of all that gave them lofty senti- 
ment and high endeavor and tenderness of mind, of 
what to them composed the very fibre and motive 
for existence here, dearer to them than the apple of 
the eye ; shall these be left without a sepulchre which 
they can call their own ? For such, for all, it is a great 
relief as well as a sacred duty, to prepare and hold 
a burial place which speaks of reverence and affec- 
tion still remaining for the dead. So Abraham felt 
when he "came to mourn for Sarah aiid to weep for her." 
He bowed down and entreated Ephron the Ilittite to sell 
him, not to give him, but to sell hiiu a parcel of ground, 
that he might have a safe tenure of Machpelah and 
hold the land forever. " And the field and the cave 
which was therein, and all the trees that w^ere in the 
field, that were in all the borders round about, were 
made sure to Abraham," and there he buried Sarah 
his wife, and there was Abraham buried, and thei-e 
Jacob charged his sons to bury him, for, says he, "there 
Isaac was buried and Rebecca his wife, and there I bu- 
ried Leah." Sacred and attractive spot ! " The cave 



30 MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 

that was ill the field of Epliron," with "trees in all 
the borders round about !" Xo wonder Joseph, when 
he was dying, took an oath of the children of Israel, 
that they should carry him up there, and bury him in 
that beautiful and hallowed cemetery, where all his 
fathers were gathered together. With what grateful 
joy, must Joseph of Arimathea, also, have recognized 
the hand of God in loading him to prepare, in that 
memorable garden, a sepulchre, in which never man 
slept, and thus placing it in his power to deposit the 
body of Jesus in " his own new tomb." With what 
feelings he must have returned to look upon the 
place where the Savior had lain. AVith what ben- 
efit, also. Wliat a sense of immortality ! what cer- 
tainty of the resurrection ! what vivid recollections of 
words that had been forgotten must have come to 
him as he looked upon the grave-clothes, and the 
spices that lay scattered on the cold stone floor. No 
wonder that others besides Peter and John and the 
women who had followed him until they saw him 
die, came often, and in multitudes, and in successive 
ages, to visit the place where the Son of INIan had rest- 
ed. For them, the spirit of the risen one abode there 
still. They felt His presence as they came near the 
ground, and took their shoes from off their feet. De- 
pend upon it, if buried friends ever speak to us in this 
world, they speak in whispers from the grave. It 
was near the sepulchre, very early in the morning, 



MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. oi 

tluit one heard a ^'oice she had heard Lefore, saying 
unto her, " Maiy. I ascend, unto my Frither and unto 
your Father, unto my God, and unto 3'our God." If 
the dead still speak, and there is a sense in which 
they do ; if out of the mouldering cerements, holy 
impulse and unexpected promptings to good, and 
strong presentiments of blessings hitherto withheld, 
shall ever come to us ; it will be, as in some seques- 
tered place, far from the haunts of men and undis- 
turbed, a mourning soul bends over the grave he 
loves and moans his grief to rest. It is in solitude ; 
Avhere no intruder's step or gaze may interrupt the lam- 
entations of the mind, that angels come, and strength- 
en those who are '^exceeding sorrowful." Who can say 
that the spirits of the departed do not watch with the 
bereaved in their "distressful hour," and share the 
ministry of those, who always are looking for direc- 
tion to their Father's face in Heaven? 

Not then in the glare of market-places, nor amidst 
the busy hum of trade, not in some worn-out pasture 
or neglected hill-top, selected only for its cheapness 
and convenience, and where bleak winds rock, and 
clatter on, the coffins of the dead, can the afflicted 
find much solace from communion Avith those who are 
trying there to rest. "Where the living dislike to go, 
we cannot expect much inspiration from any unseen 
source. It is in some carefully adorned and guarded 
enclosure, or amidct some beautiful and extended 



oJ MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 

landscape, Avliere affection- has reared the emblems of 
a better Avorld, that sorrowing ones may expect to hear 
voices that others do not hear, strengthening them 
with might, and see hands that others do not see, point- 
ing them to heaven. 

Well might the early christians worship close to 
the mart}^rs' graves. Homan fathers had an object in 
taking their sons, before the contest, to the tombs on 
the Appian Way. No wonder the Indian returns from 
beyond the mountains to visit the cemetery of the 
ancient tribe ; for him there is mysterious power Avith- 
in those sacred mounds ; for days he sits in silence by 
them ; and as meditation purifies and nerves his spirit, 
and One Avho knew all his wrongs, looks down upon 
him from on high, he goes to the w^ilderness again, 
a stronger and a better man. Reflection on the 
brave and good has taken away his fear ; thoughts 
from an unknown source have pointed to his destiny, 
and the hunting grounds he looks for now, are far be- 
fore him, above the clouds, away in the upper skies. 
If there was no other world than this, it would be a 
source of great consolation and of constant and con- 
stantly increasing strength, to find a home and pre- 
pare memorials for the dead. Grief would find relief 
in an expression ; and sorrow, a world of sympathy. 
I have seen a mausoleum erected by stricken parents 
over a beloved cliild. Neither soul nor treasure have 
been spared in its construction. Skill, and fountains 



MEMORIALS FOR Tlffi DEAD. 33 

of tears, and the toil of artists quickened by the 
breath and glow of Italian skies, have been exhausted 
in its architecture ; angels watch its portals ; a beau- 
tiful form reclines beneath its dome ; and the initials 
of that name which still thrills with an extacy of woe 
the hearts that never speak it now except in prayer, 
is woven into every chaplet and carved on every leaf, 
and minute emblem, that decorates this elaborate and 
splendidly expressive monument of what a pierced 
heart will attempt in attestation and utterance of its 
grief: and yet, that structure is not finished. Each 
year adds some sweeter flower within its borders, 
some costlier symbol upon its gates : and it never 
will be finished. The affection that is ever enduring 
is always concei\ing; and new urns will be added and 
old ones removed, until the last contains the ashes of 
both the parents and the child. 

So, if a sense of wrong, done years ago it may be to a 
departed one, and perhaps in this, world beyond repair, 
adds its poignant element of increase and agony to the 
grief which already rends the heart that is doomed to 
live ; if its exclamation of " Would God I had died for 
thee !" ever breaks in mockery on a self-accusing head ; 
if such an one, reflecting that reparation is now be- 
yond his reach, murmurs low, " Is any sorrow like un- 
to my sorrow?" and anon, there riseth to his lips, a cry, 
akin to that which came from Lear as he bore the 
body of Cordelia; may not even such a wounded spirit 

5 



34 MEMORIALS FOR THE DEiVD. 

find relief, in a quiet spot, amid emblems of a kindred 
sorrow, as he crowds every varied tribute of reverence 
and affection around the place where last he saw the 
form he may never see again. What sympathy, also, 
for suffering, is there in cemeteries thus selected and 
adorned, as the leaves of autumn fall, and flowers wither, 
and sobbing winds come up the valley, mourning for the 
the dead? Thus, if there were no other life than this, the 
strong feelings of our nature would urge the appropri- 
iation of retired grounds and the erection of favorite 
memorials for the friends we cannot bring back. 

But what if there should be amtJier life ? What, if the 
grave is only the entrance to an unhiown and houndless 
world ? What, if those who have left us are still explor- 
ing the domains of an undefined futurity, filled with 
amazement, possibly with rapture, as new develop- 
ments of God and new capabilities of the soul, and 
new wonders of Omnipotence, unfold, to their aston- 
ished sight ? The poet says, 

' ' They are not dead ; but greatly live ; 
A life, on earth unkindled — unconceived." 

Inspiration says, that Jehovah is "not God of 
the dead, but of the living;" that beggars even, 
are transported at their dissolution into scenes of 
greatly bewildering grandeur. 

Now, if at the grave, we are reminded of the 
spirit's astmmding flight across valleys that arc dark, 
into realms unspeakably mysterious and gleaming 



MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 35 

with eternity's portentous lights ; shall not the spot 
significant of such an event be emphatically marked ? 
It is said of Abraham, after he went out from Haran, 
not kno'^dng whither he went, that he often erected a 
token of remembrance as he entered an unknown 
land. So the procession that followed Jacob's body 
to Machpelah, lifted up a great cry as it crossed the 
Egyptian border. Even adventurers place signals on 
the shores of newly discovered territories ; and as- 
tronomers emblazon the records of the place where 
first appeared the discovery of some new Avorld of 
light, as do victors their entrance to those kingdoms 
which they afterwards call their own. Shall all these 
transitory things have their memorials, and a trans- 
action in the history of man which in interest as much 
surpasses them, as infinity transcends the bounds of 
time, be left without an emblem or a sign ? 

Some dying ones have in their last hours testified 
that the Great Creator smiled upon them and gave 
them peace. If in the struggle with a foe more to be 
dreaded than death, our friends come off conquerors, 
and if in their lives they have given some ground to 
hope that afterwards it will be ' weU with them ;' 
then, when such leave their habiliments of clay, it is 
only that they may seek a city which hath foundations 
whose builder and maker is God ; if they have left their 
earthly friends, it is, that they may have more improv- 
ing companions, even * the spirits of the just made per- 



oG MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 

feet -J if they have laid aside the earthly garments, it is 
only that they may assume a more befitting and en- 
during investiture, with vastly augmented capabilities, 
more glorious uses, and infinitely higher delights. 

But if in addition to all this, it should prove to be 
true, that the very dust that has slept for years be- 
neath our feet, shall yet form the bodies of the sliining 
ones ; if, this corruptible shall indeed put on incorrup- 
tion ; if that identical thing which was soAvn in weak- 
ness shall be raised in power ; then, what associations, 
what anticipations, what a history, what a destiny, 
may spring from one narrow grave. Then, in every 
particle of the mouldering clay, there may dwell a ger- 
minant life yet to be unfolded to the eyes of adoring 
men and wondering angels ; then it will be worth 
while for the trump to sound, that it mat/ " wake the 
dead ;" then that which was sown a natural body, will, 
in the words of the exulting apostle, be raised a spir- 
itual body : what a triumphant ultimation for that 
which has groaned so often here on earth, waiting for 
its redemption : with what a halo of splendor such 
an expectation invests a mortal frame. 

If, however, the startling and popular view of what 
is to become of our dust is not to be received ; yet, 
so long as it is admitted, that out of these decaying 
frames there will issue a spirit, carrying with it in 
the hour of dissolution, material sufficient for its 
celestial tabernacle, and receiving every moment deco- 



MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 3< 

ration and power from God, througli its spiiitual con- 
stitution ; if it is but admitted that anything which 
is the subject of an endless life and a momentous 
destiny, resided but a few short years in this house of 
clay ; it consecrates, and renders precious, it allies to 
the Infinite and th.e Unknown, that which our eyes 
have seen, and that which our hands have handled. 
It is a glorious thing for slumbering dust to have 
been associated at aU in the struggles, the aspirations, 
the sorrows, the hopes of a mind that cannot die. If 
it is now a natural body, it is the fore-runner, and 
still more, the progenitor of the spiritual body. If 
we do not sow the literal body that shall be, yet 
we are inclosed, " first, in that wliich is natural, after- 
wards in that which is spiritual." After all j in view of 
every necessity of the case, the inspired writings, and 
the body's laws, w^ho can say that amidst the refining 
fires of the last conflagration, as the old earth yields 
to a new economy, and the dissolving heavens to a 
brighter sky, who can say that in that hour of fear- 
ful fusion and glorious re-organization, this very moul- 
dering dust will not garnish the robes of the saints 
in light ? 

Surely, it is written; in the symbols of creation; in 
the history of empires ; in the constitution of the soul; 
on the tomb of the Redeemer ; and on the leaves of 
the book of life ; " That which is sown in dishonor 
shall be raised in glory. This mortal shall put on 
immortality." 



38 MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 

If such be the reasons for remembering the bodies 
of the dead, are we not now prepared to enquire of 
WHAT KIND shall be the memorials around their silent 
graves ? 

Not mournful ones alone, every Christian heart 
will say. Not such as to make a burial-ground only 

" Creation's melancholy vault, 
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom; 
The land of apparitions, empty shades !" 

The controlling idea of every place, as of every 
thought, must determine the general character of its 
decorations. And what is to be the pervading senti- 
ment of tliis well-selected and singularly beautiful 
spot ? What other than that of simple and heart- 
rending grief, chastened and mitigated by a spirit of 
resignation and Christian hope ? 

Thoughts of the changing, the vast, the suggestive, 
the boundless, the enduring, the infinite, and the un- 
known, will be here ; and they ai'e not inappropriately 
represented in fleeting clouds, falling shadows, dark 
recesses, gliding rivers, everlasting hills, wide hori- 
zons, and the sound of winds, never weary, but always 
coming we know not whence, and going we know 
not whither. Wliilst there may be, here and there, 
a grave wliich must have over it no name and no 
white stone, and no emblem of hope ; yet, thanks be 
unto God, man is not called upon to place even 
there an emblem of despair. Neither can there be 



MEMORIALS FOR THE DEi^. 39 

found anything in the character of Jesus or the en- 
actments of Jehovah, which would prevent a mother's 
woe from uttering even over such a spot through 
some ensanguined flower, " If it be possible let this 
cup pass away." As she raises her weeping eyes 
to heaven, she may be permitted also to believe that 
no tomb is watched with more affectionate vigilance 
by angels, than that of him who, during a death of 
ignominy, exclaimed, * Lord, remember me.' If we 
are often reminded that there is a point in human ex- 
istence which cannot be passed with any hope of 
forgiveness, neither can we forget that there was also 
* an eleventh hour.' 

Since Jesus died, a bow of promise has steadily 
spanned this fallen world. In the darkest nights of 
its sorrow, a star can be seen burning without a mo- 
ment's intermission, over the spot where the young 
child lay. Redemption has now begun its glorious 
work. This 

" Life of mortal bi-eath 
Is but the suburb of the life Elysian, 
Whose portal we call death." 

It is no longer a world of gloom, much less of de- 
spair. ' Siste viator, hie jacet puer,' with inverted 
torches, fading leaves, cypress branches, and muffled 
drums, are no longer the only appropriate epitaphs 
and emblems for a tomb. The grave has now an im- 
mortal, as well as an earthly side. If there is a sun- 



40 MEMOKLiLS FOR THE DEAD. 

(lering of old ties, there is also a formation of new 
ones, infinitely grander and more enduring. If an 
old life has gone out, a new one has begun. If we 
hear from the ground the voice of weeping, we ought 
also to hear from it the sound of exultation. Hence, 
in selecting emblems for the graves of the departed, 
let it ever be kept in the. mind, that they sleep not 
in Egyptian or Greek or Roman, but in Christian 
cemeteries. Let the spirit of the early disciples, as 
they watched their ascending Master, and exclaimed, 
" when absent from the body we shall be present with 
our Lord," be inscribed on all the place. 

It has been truly said, "Christianity did not annihi- 
late the natural feelings of man, but it ennobled them. 
From the very first, the primitive Christians con- 
demned the wild expressions of woe, of unmitigated 
grief, by which funeral processions were accompanied. 
They protested against the shrieks of the liked women 
called " praeficae." " Christianity asks for no stoical 
apathy ; it only softens the poignancy of lamentation 
by the spirit of faith and hope, and of a child-like 
acquiescence in the dealings of eternal love, a love 
which takes away only to give again in greater 
splendor and reality, which divides only to unite 
again those whom it has divided, in a glorified state 
for all eternity."^^ 

If the early Christians, even on their signet rings 
instead of a javelin or a prostrate foe, placed a dove, 

*Neander. 



IVIEMORIALS FOR TIIE DEAD. 41 

a rising sun, a ship sailing towards heaven, an an- 
chor, or an ix^^s, the symbol in an anagram, of 
lrj(^ovs XpitfToj 0?oi> 'uioj 2wTr)p; if even on their 
drinking cups, instead of a revelling eye, they carv- 
ed a shepherd and a lamb upon his shoulders ; with 
what joy ^'ould they have gathered chaplets, ama- 
ranthine flowers, triumphal arches, with every em- 
blem of immortality, and everlasting life, around 
their venerated tombs. "Laurence, to Ms sweetest 
son, borne away by angels," was inscribed by one 
of these Mhers on one of their stones. And on 
another, "Let us restrain our sighs and cease from 
weeping ; Marcus, you have already begun to live 
among the innocent ones." If the words " Suffer 
them to come unto me and forbid them not," still re- 
main for our consolation, we must not be surprised if 
Jesus should often call unto him a little child. Over 
such a grave, a harp with trembKng strings, will say 
with sufficient distinctness, " of such is the kingdom 
of heaven." 

Over all who have fallen asleep in Jesus, and vast 
numbers of such will be in this ground; from the an- 
cient grave-yards I see them coming ; many who once 
were standard-bearers in the army of the Lord's an- 
nointed ; many who fell in illustrious strife ; some who 
died in foreign climes ; many who sat at Jesus' feet ; 
and some who washed them mth their tears ; fathers, 
mothers, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, you and 

6 



42 MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 

they, the living and the dead, all are coming to rest in 
this consecrated ground; over all these what em- 
blems shall he placed ? What inscription shall he 
written ? Nothing indiscriminate or ludicrously in- 
appropriate must he here; no "^ deaths' heads' over 
sweetly sleeping children's graves ; no "^ sic transit 
gloria mundi,' over a most inglorious tomb. Many 
sorrowful tributes of affection will be here, many 
mournful garlands, from the hand of unabated but sep- 
arated love. The cedar of Lebanon, 



"witli fair branches, and a shadowy shroud," 
The jessamine, the rose, 



"And every fiowor that sad embroidery wears." 

But the letter which Cyprian sent to his church at 
Carthage, where multitudes had died, and from the 
pestilence, indicates the spirit which must determine 
the prevalent characteristics of our memorials for the 
dead. " Our brethren are not to be lamented. They 
are not lost, but sent before us ; we may not clothe 
ourselves only in the garments of mourning whilst 
they are clothed in the garb of glory. "We must not 
give occasion to the heathen to reproach us for our 
inconsistency ; we must not lament those as annihi- 
lated whom we declare to be living with God ; Christ 
himself exhorts us, and says Whosoever believeth in 
me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. Why has- 
ten we not to see our country ? to salute our friends ?" 



MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 43 

The day of their death was looked upon as the day 
of then* birth into a glorified existence, and they cel- 
ebrated it in remembrance of the departed warriors. 
As they walked among their graves, they expected to 
be filled with the impression not only that the cry of 
anguish had moderated into articulations of resigna- 
tion, but that resignation had often changed into a 
jubilant song. And they were not disappointed . 

ISIay we not be permitted to say, that here is a 
field in which Art has not yet reached her capabilities. 
The Savior's sepulchre, and the attendant angels, the 
astonished women, the folded clothes, the empty 
tomb, and even the stone rolled away from the door; 
will yet be seen grouped and modeled into one har- 
monious and expressive tribute to Him who is the 
resurrection and the life. Out of liis heart's great 
love for One who died for him, an Italian monk has 
already wrought in ivory a tln-illingly affecting repre- 
sentation of the crucified Redeemer. With advanc- 
ing ages, and the augmented love of beauty, and the 
increased power of execution, which Christianity in- 
spii'es, manifold acts and scenes, drawn from the sa- 
cred and suffering life of Jesus, wiU be made by 
Genius and Devotion, to decorate the grounds which 
now wait for the second appearance of the Son of 
Man. 

The period when any community, impelled by a 
sense of past neglect, or a more just estimate of its 



44 MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 

obligations to the departed, begins to rear for them 
secure and appropriately adorned habitations, is an 
era of no ordinary interest in their existence. It is 
a sign of progress in other directions, than those of 
commercial enterprise, or agricultural thrift. It is 
the index, and the herald of a higher cultivation, and 
in most ennobling lines. It is a token and a means 
ot opening the heart to the love of God and the love 
of man. It is a step towards a better state of society 
than ever known before. That step, my friends, I 
am grateful and proud to say, you have already 
taken. The evidence and the consummation of it we 
have in what is around us to-day. Neither toil, nor 
thought, nor gold, has been spared to effect this ob- 
ject. Aided by the skill and genius of the distin- 
guished artist who has so persevermgly and success- 
fully devoted his life to remodel, dignify, and adorn 
the sleeping-places of the dead, you have set a noble 
example to the county. You have secured a safe, 
permanent, extensive, and beautifully decorated burial 
retreat for yourselves and for coming generations. 
Here, parents and children may rest together without 
danger of removal, or rude separation. This ground 
can never again be bought and sold for any other pur- 
pose, save that for which it is now to be consecrated. 
And you will have your reward. Your own hearts 
have already been uplifted. And it is hazarding no 
rash prediction to say, that here, thousands of minds 



THEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 45 

will receive impressions never to ])e erased. Here, 
aspiring souls will be strengthened for good; here, 
sinning ones will weep over their fierce temptations, 
and returning prodigals relent ; here, at some parent's 
grave, sons that were dead will be made alive again, 
and lost ones will be found. 

If the ground is interesting to us, to-day, because, 
as one great assembly we stand upon it ; thinking of 
our graves, and looking to the skies : how will it yet 
appear ? 

As a great assembly we shall stand upon it, once 
again. The leaves will have ceased to fall. Then the 
grass will no more fade. Memorials will have done 
their work. The last enemy shall have been destroy- 
ed. We shall look towards the mountains, and they 
will move out of their places : towards the graves, 
and they will not be there : towards the earth, and it 
will all be new : towards the skies, and with a great 
noise they will pass away. What then shall we see ? 
Behold He cometh in clouds, and every eye shall see 
Him ; the great men, the rich men, the chief-captains, 
the mighty men, and every bond man, and eveiy free 
man, shall see Him that was dead and is alive forev- 
ermore. 

We shall all see Him. Shall it be as those who 
have pierced Him, or as those who, having come 
out of great tribulation, have washed their robes and 
made them white in the blood of the Lamb. How 



46 MEMORIALS FOR THE DEAD. 

shall we appear? Behold, I shew you a mystery, we 
shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling 
of an eye, at the last trump ; for the trumpet shall 
sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible ; and 
we shall be changed. So, when this corruptible shall 
have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have 
put on immortality, then may there be brought to pass 
for each of us, the saying that is written " Death is 
swallowed up in victory." 



The dedicatory Prayer, and concluding remarks which follow, 
were made by the Rev. Dr. Todd : — 



ADDRESS 



BY THE REV. DR. TODD, 



We seem to be standing between the living and 
the dead. "We are drawn back to the past and con- 
nected with the dust of our fathers, by the fact, that 
we are to remove all the dead who have been buried 
in this town from its first settlement, as far as possible, 
and lay their bones here, to be disturbed no more, w^e 
trust, till the resurrection day. We are solemn, for 
we seem to be looking into our own graves, for though 
now it is " a new sepulchi^e wherein was never man 
yet laid," yet we know that the first graves must 
soon be opened, and that beneath these lofty trees our 
own dust will shortly sleep. We are connected with 
the future, for we know that it will be at least two 
hundred, perhaps five hundred years, in all probabili- 
ity, before these grounds are filled. And we are think- 
ing how we shall be then centuries old ourselves, and 



48 REV. DR. TODD's ADDRESS. 

through how many strange scenes of thinking, acting, 
feeling, hoping, fearing, suffering, and enjoying, we 
shall have passed ere that time comes. The great 
congi^egation gathered to-day, is but a small part of 
that which shall he gathered in the future. This will 
be the spot, not merely where the dead shall rest in 
silence and in peace, but that it will be the place 
where Affection will pour out her tears, where Sorrow 
will mingle her sighs with the moanings of the winds, 
and where the Heart, coming here alone, will com- 
mune, as it were, with the loved spirits who have left 
us, and will lift up the prayer to Him who will one 
day destroy Death and shut up the grave forever. 
"VVe seem to take hold of a chain that draws us back 
to glorious Abraham, who bought the first sepul- 
chre of which we read, and took the first deed of 
land which is recorded. And let me say, in pass- 
ing, that this beautiful Cemetery is an honor to the 
whole town, for though we should expect to find many 
individuals of taste, yet the history of the past shoAvs 
that seldom a whole community can be found who are 
willino; to honor the dead. And do we not read that 
Jesus Christ was himself buried in a garden, as if to 
sanction our adorning the last home of our loved 
ones ? How much hath Jesus Christ done to make 
the burial place light, and hopeful, and beautiful! 
The old Greeks who could only long for immortali- 
ty, though they could never assure themselves of 



EEV. DR. TODD's ADDRESS. 49 

of it; called the grave-yard, noXj«v5pov, fJie place of 
many men — the gathering place, but in later days 
Christians called it Koif^.iirrjpiov, 1]iq sleeping place. 
For they knew that though Doubt and Infidelity may 
look into the grave and see nothing but darkness and 
gloom, and shudderingly call death an eternal sleep, 
yet Christ lifts up the pall that hangs over it, and 
shows us that it is a mere sleeping place, where the 
soul changes its eartlily dress for the garments of im- 
mortality. To the trembling soul who "through fear of 
death, is all lifetime subject to bondage," the angel of 
Hope, pointing to the grave, says, "Come and see the 
place where the Lord lay." 

"Thy Savior hath passed through its portals before thee, 
And the lamp of HLs love is thy guide through the gloom ;" 

And he hath sweetened and blessed our homes, hath 
bound the hearts there together in love, and thus hath 
made the grave more pleasant, because the affections • 
which cluster around it are not the uncultivated feel- 
ings of the savage or the deadened emotions of unbe- 
lief, but the love of hearts that mourned and rejoiced 
together, and which hope to be re-united in a world 
where there are no graves. 

' ' And they tell me I am lonely ; 
To the world I seem so only, 
But I never can be lonely, 

7 



50 REV. DR. todd's address. 

For by clay — in dreams by night 
There's a love-born spirit near mc, 
And it seems to see and hoar me, 
AVhile a soft eye smiles to cheer mc 

"With its pure and holy light. 
Yes, amid my desolation, 
'Tis not fancy's fond creation, 
That a strange, sweet consolation 

Heals my bleeding, broken heart ; 
And it tells me 't will be given 
For our hearts thus rudely riven, 
To unite again in heaven, 

Never, never more to part. 

Christ promises to come and awaken and raise each 
sleeper, and destroy the Last Enemy. The death of 
His saints, terrible and forbidding though it be, is 
"precious in his sight." And thus, over the most fear- 
ful spot upon which we are called to look — the place 
Vv'here we are to lie till the resurrection day, where -we 
moulder back to dust, — has Christ thrown the moral 
grandeur of hope, of expectation, of desire, and of 
certainty. 

From every part of such a Cemetery, will a secret, 
mysterious influence go forth upon the living ; and 
when busy feet shall tread theee v.inding paths, the 
merry whistle and careless laugh will be hushed and 
the lights and shadows of these tall trees will mingle 
and will speak to the heart of the moral light and 
shade which meet here. And we are not thus hushed 



REV. DR. TODD's ADDRESS. 51 

and awed because the grave is before us, but because 
this is to be the place of graves. We are lingering 
around our last home, and who will come here first ? 

It is solemn, too, to think that Time will continue 
to consecrate these grounds, and make them more sa- 
cred and awful till they are all filled up, and the 
mighty congregation now on their way, are all assem- 
bled here. It will take centuries to do it, but oh ! 
how consecrated will the spot be, when the last coffin 
is brought here and the last grave is made ! 

Most of the hushed multitude present, look upon 
the place where their dust -will sleep till the last great 
day ; — 'When the dead, small and great, shall stand 
before God, and these grounds be covered with the 
waiting, anxious, expectant multitude. Oh, do not 
all our hearts echo the words of the poet ? — 

" Our labors done, securely laid 

In this our last retreat ; 
Unheeded o'er our silent dust. 

The storms of life shall beat. 

These ashes poor, this little dust. 

Our Father's care shall keep. 
Till the last angel rise, and break 

The long and dreary sleep. 

Then love's soft dew o'er every eye, 

Shall shed its mildest rays ; 
And the long silent dust shall burst, 

With shouts of endless praise." 



■JZ EEV. DK. TODDS APDKESS. 

These mountains and hills will then be standing 
here, hardly changed; save that the lieautiful valley in 
which we dwell, will be filled up with the homes of 
living men ; and it is not difficult to imagine that the 
hill-sides and the mountain-tops will be covered with 
the living, who will be looking down to see the con- 
gregation of the risen dead in these grounds, and 
they, like ourselves, about to enter upon a state ci 
never-ending progression — in light or in darkness. 
Slowly we shall return from this spot, one of the most 
solemn on which we can ever stand. Scarcely a smile 
will be seen on any face, for "the place is holy," and 
the enduring impression we receive, is, that this great 
congregation believe the Bible — they conne'ct time 
with eternity — they know that they must die, and 
that after death, is the Judgment. 



A POEM 

By OLIVER WEND ELL HOLMES, 

DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OF THE 

PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, 

SEPTEMBER 9, 1S50. 



POEM 



Angel of Death ! Extend thy silent reign ! 
Stretch thy dark sceptre o'er this new domain ! 
jS'o sable car along the winding road 
Has borne to earth its unresisting load ; 
No sudden mound has risen yet to show 
Where the pale slumberer folds his arms below ; 
No marble gleams to bid his memory live 
In the brief lines that hurrying Time can give ; 
Yet, Destroyer! From thy shrouded tln'one 
Look on our gift -, this realm is all tliine ovna ! 

Fair is the scene ; its sweetness oft beguiled 
From their dim paths the children of the wild ; 
The dark-haired maiden loved its grassy deUs, 
The feathered warrior claimed its wooded swells, 
Still on its slopes the ploughman's ridges show 
The pointed flints that left his fatal bow, 
Cliipped with rough art and slow barbarian toil,- 
Last of his wrecks that strews the alien soil ! 



5 6 

30 0. w. holmes' poem. 

Here spread the fields that waved their ripened store 
Till the brown arms of Labor held no more ; 
The scythe's broad meadow with its dusky blush ; 
The sickle's harvest with its velvet flush ; 
The green-haired maize, her silken tresses laid, 
In soft luxuriance, on her harsh brocade ; 
The gourd that swells beneath her tossing plume ; 
The coarser wheat that rolls in lakes of bloom, — 
Its coral stems and milk-white flowers alive 
With the wide murmurs of the scattered hive ; 
The glossy apple with the pencilled streak 
Of morning painted on its southern cheek ; 
The pear's long necklace strung with golden drops, 
Arched, like the banyan, o'er its hasty props ; 
The humble roots that paid the laborer's care 
With the cheap luxuries wealth consents to spare ; 
The healing herbs whose virtues could not save 
The hand that reared them from the neighboring grave. 

Yet all its varied charms, forever free 
From task and tribute. Labor yields to thee ; 
No more when April sheds her fitful rain 
The sower's hand shall cast its flying grain ; 
No more when Autumn strews the flaming leaves 
The reaper's band shall gird its yellow sheaves ; 
For thee alike the circling seasons flow 



0. w. holmes' poem. 57 

Till the first blossoms heave the latest snow. 

In the stiff clod below the whirling drifts, 

In the loose soil the springing herbage lifts, 

In the hot dust beneath the parching weeds 

Life's wilting flower shall drop its shrivelled seeds ; 

Its germ entranced in thy nnbreatliing sleep 

Till what thou sowest mightier angels reap ! 



Spirit of Beauty ! Let thy graces blend 
With loveliest Nature all that Art can lend. 
Come from the bowers where Summer's life-blood flows 
Through the red lips of June's half-open rose. 
Dressed in bright hues, the loving sunshine's dower ; 
For tranquil Nature owns no mourning flower. 

Come from the forest where the 1)eech's screen 
Bars the fierce noonbeam with its flakes of green ; 
Stay the rude axe that bares the shadowy plains. 
Staunch the deep wound that dries the maple's veins. 

Come with the stream whose silver-braided rills 
Fling their unclasping bracelets from the hiUs, 
Till in one gleam, beneath the forest's mngs. 
Melts the white glitter of a hundred springs. 

Come from the steeps where look majestic forth 
From their twin thrones the Giants of the North 
On the huge shapes that croucliing at their knees. 
Stretch their broad shoulders, rough with shaggy trees. 



58 0. W. nOLMES' POEM. 

Through the wide waste of ether, not in vain 
Their softened gaze shall reach our distant plain ; 
There, while the mourner turns his aching eyes 
On the blue mounds that print the bluer skies, 
Nature shall whisper that the fading view 
Of mightiest grief may wear a heavenly hue. 



Cherub of Wisdom ! Let th}^ marble page 
Leave its sad lesson, new to every age ; 
Teach us to live, not grudging every breath 
To the cliill winds that waft us on to death, 
But ruling calmly every pulse it warms 
And tempering gently every word it forms. 



Seraph of Love ! In Heaven's adoring zone 
Nearest of all around the central throne, 
While with soft hands the pillowed turf we spread 
That soon shall hold us in its dreamless bed. 
With the low whisper — Who shall first be laid 
In the dark chamber's yet unbroken shade ? — 
Let thy sweet radiance shine rekindled here. 
And all we cherish grow more truly dear. 
Here in the gates of Death's o'erhanging vanity 
Oh, teach us kindness for our brother's fault ; 



0. w. holmes' poem. 69 

Lay all our wrongs beneath this peaceful sod 
And lead our hearts to Mercy and its God. 



Father of all ! In Death's relentless claim 
We read thy mercy by its sterner name ; 
In the bright flower that decks the solemn bier 
We see thy glory in its narrowed sphere ; 
In the deep lessons that affliction draws 
We trace the curves of thy encircling laws ; 
In the long sigh that sets our spirits free 
We own the love that calls us back to thee ! 



Tlirough the hushed street, along the silent plain 
The spectral future leads its mourning train, 
Dark with the shadows of uncounted bands, 
Where man's white Hps and woman's wringing hands 
Track the still burden, rolling slow before, 
That love and kindness can protect no more 5 
The smiling babe that, called to mortal strife. 
Shuts its meek eyes and drops its little life • 
The drooping child that prays in vain to live. 
And pleads for help its parent cannot give ; 
The pride of beauty stricken in its flower ; 
The strength of manhood broken in an hour ; 



GO 0. w. holmes' roEM. 

Age in its weakness, bowed by toil and care, 
Traced in sad lines beneath its silvered hair. 

The sun shall set, and heaven's resplendent spheres 
Gild the smooth turf unhallowed yet by tears. 
But ah, how soon the evening stars will shed 
Their sleepless light around the slumbering dead ! 



Take them, Father, in immortal trust ! 
Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust, 
Till the last angel rolls the stone away 
And a new morning brings eternal day! 



The following original OJe was sung ))y the Choir: — 

ODE. 

COMPOSED BY A LADY. 

A resting place for those who sleep, 

A resting place of calm repose, 
Where the dark wood its shadows deep 

O'er sunny lawn and greensward throws — 

Where flows the stream from "hidden urn," . 

Where by its banks the spring flowers wave ; 
From scenes lilve these the heart may learn 

Fit lessons for the silent grave. 

In yonder dark and sombre shade. 
The gloom of death we seem to read ; 

The sunshine Kghting up the glade, 

Our thoughts to brighter worlds shall lead. 

The stream whose waters glide along. 

Till lost amid the rolling sea, 
Shall tell us of the eager throno; 

Fast hurrying to eternity. 

But sweeter, holier is the tale 

Taught by the early flowers of spring ; 
Does not their voice from hill and vale, 

Glad tidings to the mourner bring ? 



G2 ST.mZAS. 

Mourner, who sorrowest o'er the tomb, 
They bid thee dry thy weeping eyes ; 

They too were dead, 'mid winter s gloom, 
So shall thy loved ones wake and rise. 

Then, " AVoodla-wn !" hallowed be thy ground ! 

We consecrate thee to the dead ! 
Rest they, w^here Nature all around 

Her smile of faith and hope hath shed. 



After singing the Dosology, in wliich all the congregation joined, 
the benediction was pronounced by the K-ev. Dr; Humphrey. 



STANZAS. 

BY A LADY. ^ 

Hallow a home for the silent dead ! 

But where is the chosen ground ? 
Not mid the city's echoing tread 

Should their resting place be found. 

They have done wdth the world, its toil and strife. 
They have laid them do^vn to sleep ; 

It is not meet that the sth^ of life 
Should break on that slumber deep. 

It is not meet that their place of rest 
Should be where the crowd pass by, 

And profane wdth a laugh or careless jest 
The spot where the slumberers lie. 



STANZAS. 63 

Be their home amongst the quiet hills, 

Amid Nature's calm repose, 
Let their dirge be sung by mountain rills, 

And the brook as it softly flows. 

The faded leaves that are falling fast. 
The flowers that have lost their bloom, 

The moaning sound of the wintry blast, 
Shall teach us to think of the tomb. 

But a sweeter tale shall be told by the Spring, 

When the trees in verdure wave. 
And the mourner cease Ms sorrowino-. 

As they point beyond the grave. 

Then hallow your home for the silent dead. 

Ye have chosen well the spot ; 
And our footsteps shall tell, as w^e gently tread. 

That its lessons are not forgot. 

STANZAS 

AVRITTEN UPON THE CONSECRATION OF THE RUR.iL 

CEMETERY AT PITTSFIELD. 

BY J. C. H. 

Plant no more the sombre cypress 

Bound the portals of the tomb ; 
Let the downward-pointing willow 

Shroud its roof no more in gloom ; 
Bid the maple and the linden 

Spread their verdure o'er the grave, 



64 STANZAS. 

And around our dear ones' pillow 
Let the vine and laurel wave. 

Turn we from the gray cathedral, 

From the cell of mouldering stone ; 
Fly the teeming, tainted church-yard ; 

These befit the dead alone- 
Those we mourn do slumber only ; 

Then their cheerful couch prepare, 
"Where green earth and bending heaven 

May bestow their kindest care. 



Broad enoudi the realm of soitow, 



Large, full large the share of woe ; 
Then let death no anguish borrow, 

No unneedful shadow throw. 
Let the sorrow-heaving bosom, 

Let the tearful, throbbing eye. 
Drink the balmy breath of beauty, 

Type on earth of truth on high. 

Link the forms of the departed. 

Twine sweet memories of the dead. 
With all living things and joyous ; 

Deck with flowers their grassy bed 
So our love shall ever brighten. 

Ever firmer grow our faith. 
And sereuer hope sustain us 

In the solemn hour of death. 
PiTTSFiELu, Si;rT. 9tii, 1849. 




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