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23 WIST MAIN STREiT

WIBSTit,N.Y. MStO

(716)t72-4S03

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12 3

32X

(

RESPECT FOR THE BURYING PLACE
OF THE DEAD,

A SERMON

Preached in St. Paul's Church in 1848, with the view of arousing
attention to the propriety of establishing a public Cemeteiy
for the city.

« i

:I 1

i
-i

' ^ ■

-i

\ J

« 1

1/'

t i

J M

I !

■

1
i

RESPECT I

Preached in St. Pai
attention to thi
for the city.

And the field of
before Mamre, the 1
the trees that «»cr(
round about were i
the presence of th
the gate of his city

All these are tl
their fialher spake
cording to his blesi
and said unto thei
me with my fathe
Hittite; In the ca
before Mamre, in
with the field of E
place. There the:
they buried Isaac i
—Gen. xlix. 28—8

Read Matt

There are
utilitarian coi
treat with lev
tuated the pa
indisputable 1
of Machpelah
what matter,

RESPECT FOR THE BURYING PLACE
OF THE DEAD.

A SERMON

Preached in St. Paul's CJhurch in 1848, with the view of arousing
attention to the propriety of establishing a public Cemetery
for the city.

And the field of Ephron, which wa» in Machpelah, which toaa
before Mamre, the field, and the cave which was therein, and all
the trees that were in the field, that were in all the borders
round about were made siu-e. Unto Abraham for a possession in
the presence of the children of Heth, before all that went in at
the gate of his city. — Gen. xxiii. 17, 18.

All these are the twelve tribes of Israel : and this is it that
their father spake unto them, and blessed them ; every one ac-
cording to his blessing he blessed them. And he charged them,
and said unto them, I am to be gathered unto my people : bury
me with my fathers in the cave that is in the field of Ephron the
Hittite ; In the cave that is in the field of Machpelah, which is
before Mamre, in the land of Canaan, wliich Abraham bought
with the field of Ephron the Hittite for a possession of a burying-
place. There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife ; there
they buried Isaac and Kebekah his wife ; and there I buried Leah.
—Gen. xlir. 28—31.

Read Matt, xxvii. 60—66, and, Matt, zzviii. 1 — 6.

There are not a few in every unfeeling and
utilitarian community, who might be disposed to
treat with levity, the tender sentiment which ac-
tuated the patriarch in his anxiety to secure an
indisputable title to the burying place in the cave
of Machpelah. The language held by such is,
what matter, where, or in what form, the decom-

■K\

\ •

t A-

posing relics ol mortality are laid ? What sig-
nifies it to them, who can have no feeling of the
dishonour, and can suffer nothing in the event,
whether they are consigned to some hole in an
obscure corner of a stranger's field, where not even
a hillock shall denote their resting place, or on
the highway, or within the sea mark, or in the
bosom of the ocean itself, or still more revolting,
be left exposed to the roving beasts of prey. The
deserted relic of mortality can suffer nothing by
any such fate. It cannot witness the aversion of
the sensitive, nor be conscious of the rudeness
that defaces its form. In any contingency, it is
speedily dissolved, and the elements receiving
what the elements had given, " dust to dust, con-
cludes the noblest name.''

But this coarse disregard of the dead, which
some have mistaken for an enlargement from
popular prejudices, is after all not only at variance
with our natural sentiments, and a correct tasle,
but is not even superficially plausible. Nature
has formed us with a love for relics — whatever
they may be, — when they appertain to objects
which have strongly excited our personal affec-
tions, or when profoundly interesting associations
are connected with them. Why that eagerness
that has displayed itself in so many forms, of
which the results are found in so many private
and public repositaries, to collect memorials of
the past, and to put upon them a value which
bears no proportion to their intrinsic worth? And

why the deej
every corre<
plates some
events and
our bosom
exquisite ii
relic, howe^
history in it
emotion.

Why that I

visiting the

which stan<

the past? Is

of the actioi

" as with ar

And if the t

any objects

or that shall

t, on his rei

emembranc

Dcnefit resu

sentiment, (

ter, — provi(

lightened s

he brought

that on it

rolled dark

— Has he 1

wood fron

should it r

God shut 1

. 79

why the deeper intereiiJi excited in the mind of
every correct thinkinq observer as he contem-
plates some authentic memorials of remarkable
events and persons? Is it not an evidence that
our bosom has a chord within it, fitted to receive
exquisite impressions from such objects ? The
relic, however intrinsically contemptible, has a
history in it, and that history is a fountain of
emotion.

Why that deep interest which man feels in
visiting the scenes of those wonderful events
which stand prominently forth in the annals of
the past? Is it not, that the scene is the memento
of the action, and has its history graven upon it,
" as with an iron pen and lead on the rock ?" —
And if the traveller bring away from the scene
any objects that shall keep it in his remembrance,
or that shall excite in those to whom he may give
t, on his return to his native country, a livelier
emembrance of that scene and its history, some
Dcnefit results from the indulgence o; j- natural
sentiment, even though fancy be a busy promp-
ter, — provided always fancy be chaste and en-
lightened and religious in her sketchings. Has
he brought me a stone from Ararat ? It may be
that on it the Ark rested, while yet the deluge
rolled darkly and sadly over the desolated world.
— Has he brought me a worn fragment of gopher
wood from one of its peaks ? It may be (why
should it not be?) a portion of the ark in which
God shut up with his own hand the stock of a

■fti

■ff^N^^Pi

I?
1^

re-peopled world, of which as concerning the
flesh Christ came? — Has he brought me a sun-
dried brick, or the skeleton of a cormorant, or a
stuffed satyr from the ruins of Babylon? It has
inscribed on it the record of prophetic fulfilment.
And what are the ruins of Nineveh, or Thebes,
or Persepolis, but so many huge relics, consisting
of mounds, and excavated cliambers, and broken
columns, and fallen temples, which no one can
look upon without brighter illuminations of the
past, and sadder reflections on the mutability of
all human grandeur. These are the sepulchral
monuments of nations, and we are summoned by
nature and history, taste and religion, to read
their inscriptions and to moralize on their fate.

But parting from those grander memorials of
nations and great events, there is something still
more touching in some of the humbler monuments
which love and friendship have raised to perpe-
tuate the memory of the departed, at least to
redeem that memory for a time, from alj all de-
vouring oblivion. The Egyptians and the He-
brews were remarkable for the care with which
they protected their dead. They ever parted from
the body with a sorrowing reluctance, and were
unwilling that it should lose a place in their re-
membrance. They kept it long in the death
chamber, ere they carried it away to the sepul-
chre ; and the more opulent tried by the most
ingenious arts to arrest the process of dissolution,
and to preserve upon the lifeless frame all that

could be I
that they
places siti
play to tlu
were pla
spots ami
cut them
face of a
are seen
temples,
the wont
inaccessi
a city of
contempl
slumberi
themselv
monume
their mo
of such f
may con
And>\
of this CI
sity of oi
amidst
Indians
of their i
bay, for
amounc
be viola
driven
that son

»1

could be preserved of ihe litieamentsof the being
that they loved. They cliose for their burying-
places situations mont fitly adapted to give free
play to these tender sentiments. Their sepulchres
were placed in the most retired and beautiful
spots amidst groves of oak and terebinth ; or they
cut them out often with exquisite sculpture in the
face of a mountain rock, where, to this day they
are seen in thousands ; or they built over them
temples, whose magnificent ruins still excite
the wonder of the traveller ; or far up in some
inaccessible ravine, like Petra, they consecrated
a city of the dead, and repaired at intervals to
contemplate amidst its silent majesty and its
slumbering tenants the destiny that awaited
themselves. Time has spared many of these
monuments, but history contains few records of
their moral influence. Yet from the congeniality
of such funeral customs to the nature of man we
may conclude that they were salutary.

And we are not without remarkable illustrations
of this care for the dead, founded in that propen-
sity of our nature to which we have adverted, even
amidst heathen and barbarous nations. The
Indians chose some favoured spot in the solitude
of their forest, or on some beautiful promontory, or
bay, for the sepulchre of their tribe. They raised
a mound over their dust and would not permit it to
be violated. They deem it a sore calamity to be
driven from the region where it lies ; and when
that sore calamity has happened, they have been

! :

Known to disintiT tlie drad imd carry tli<'ir relics
Jilon^ witli llieni. And wln'nwrr we lin<i u con-
duct the reverse of this, and the deud nnciired for,
we find the savage sunk to the lowest point of
debasement. When he can leave, as some tribes
do, the sick or the aged to expire of hunger, or to
become a prey to wild beasts ; — and when he
leaves the corpse of a kinsman unburicd to be
lorn to pieces by the wolves and vultures, — there
we find every human sentiment extinct, and the
brutal in possession of the man. A tribe without
a burying place is always a tribe without the
consciousness of man's dignity, without the hope
of immortality, without the idea of a God. Such
degraded creatures have no relics, no anticipa-
tions ; all that they seek for is the enjoyment of
the present hour. They employ the Epicurean's
maxim, without knowing his philosophy, " let us
eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die" —
die like the beasts tliat perish.

Among the customs of the ancient Greeks and
Romans, funeral rites and the burial of the dead
occupied a very conspicuous place. " To defraud
the dead of any due respect, was a greater and
more unpardonable sacrilege, than to spoil the
temples of the gods.'' " Their mythology led
them to believe that the souls of the departed
could not be admitted into the Elvsian shades
but were forced to wander desolate and without
company, till their bodies were committed to
the earth ; and if they never had the good

I'ortiiiio to obtain limiiau hiiiial, ificy wf^n* r\-
cludcd from llic rfccplaclc.' ol' i^hosts Ibr an
hundred years: — and liencr the severest of
all imprecations was that a person mit^ht died
unbnried.'' And if any nlalive was batrlv-
ward in paying his ch'ad Iriends due respe(;t, or
even sparing in his expenses upon their obse-
(piies and monuments, he was h)oked upon as
void of humanity and natural alleetion, and was
exehtded irom all oiliees of trust and honor.
Henee one speeial encpiiry coneernincf the lives
and behaviour of such as appeared candidates
for the rnatjistracy at Athens, was, whether they
had taken due care in celebrating the funerals
and adorning the rnomunents of their relatives.
Such was the idea of the polished Ci reek, iucorpo-
rated into the system of his Ciovernment, in the
best days of the republic. It was pervaded no
doubt with superstition : but it was a refined su-
perstition, peculiar to the people who had sunk
the doctrine of the soul's imniortalifv and of fu-
ture rewards and punishments into poetical fic-
tions. Even in this deteriorated form these mo-
mentous truths had some moralizing influence.
They shed a phosphorescent light upon th(; s(^-
pulchre which mitigated the gloom it was too
feeble to dispel.

But, if by the dim light which was shed upon
their immortality, they were led to regard wilh
a scrupulous and reverent affection the relics of
the dead, how much stronger should that afl'ection

W-m:-

i I

j (

be in us, to whom immortality is clearly brought
to light. To this as christians we should be mov-
ed both by memory and by faith. Let memory hold
in unfading remembrance all the tender and en-
dearing passages of our by-gone intercourse with
the departed — of whom we may have scarce-
ly any earthly memento except their grave.
Is it a child who lies there ? Make a chaplet of
his smiles, and his childish pastimes, and the
dawn of his reason, and the lisping of his piety,
and go often to place it on his tomb. — Is it a
friend, no matter of what name or relation? Re-
memberthe tokens ofhis affection, his contributions
to your enjoyment ; the evidences of his piety, the
deeds ofhis beneficence that still sweetly scent his
name ; and live conformably to the hope of a reu-
nion in heaven. Yes, every grave may have its
history ; and with a few solitary exceptions, ev-
ery grave will liave some survivors to read
and love that history, and to protect its monu-
ments. Neglecting this, we permit to fall into
abeyance an important principle of our na-
ture, that which prompts us to associate, even
with the frailest memorials, both the past and
the future ; which can build up the fairest vi-
sions of love and friendship, even upon the pairing
of a nail ; which once led a patriarch, and many
in a long line of his descendants, to value the
cave of Machpelah, where the dust of beloved ones
lay, as one of the dearest portions of their earthly
inheritance. " Bury me, said one of them, with

ought
mov-
( hold
id en-
; with
3arce-
;rave.
►let of
d the
piety,
s it a
? Re-
utions
Ly, the
snthis
a reu-
Lve its

s, ev-
read
monu-
11 into
lir na-
even
St and
jst vi-
)airing

many
ue the

dones
earthly

, with

my fathers in the cave that is in the field of Ephron
the Hittite. In the cave that is in the field of
Machpelah, which is before Mamre in the land of
Canaan, which Abraham bought with the field of
Ephraim the Hittite for a possession of a bury-
ing place. There they buried Abraham and Sarah
his wife ; there they buried Isaac and Rebekah
his wife ; and there I buried Leah :" and there
also Jacob *' was gathered unto his people."

Nor let this desire be classed with the puling
and sickly sentimentalism of which this fiction-
loving age presents so many specimens. It ex-
isted long antecedent to these pampering pro-
ductions, in simple and primitive times, when
faith was more powerful than fancy, and before
the manly in man had been emasculated. It
gained strength in the purest times of the Chris-
tian church, for Christianity has this boast, that it
teaches the proper dignity of man. Our Redeem-
er was laid in the grave, and sanctified it, and
rose from it, and hath given the world assurance,
not only of the immortality of the soul, but also
of the resurrection of the body ; and ever since
the grave hath had in it a peculiar sacredness.
It is still a prison indeed ; but the prisoners are
prisoners of hope. It is a bed ; but out of it the
slumberers shall awake. It is a night ; but after
it shall come the dawn of an endless day The
mortality that we commit to it shall put on
immortality, and death shall be swallowed up in
victory. Does it not become the Christian then,

i <

to look upon the graves of the departed with in-
terest, with watchfulness, with affection. It
contains a treasure. True that treasure is for a
time dishonored. We have buried it out of our
sight and death feeds upon it. In its dark abode
it says to corruption, " thou art my father, and to
the worm, thou art my brother and my sister. "
It crumbles away until no vestige of its form and
symmetry is discoverable. But he who gave that
dust mortal life, can quicken it, will quicken it,
into the life immortal. To us, therefore, because
of the destiny that awaits him, the grave of the
believer must always be a hallowed spot. Christ,
who is the resurrection and the life, hath His eye
upon it, however much it be neglected among men.
By true Christians strong in faith and refined
in sentiment, the church-yard should never be ne-
glected. If devout men carry Stephen to his
burial, is it too much to hope that devout men
should protect his grave ?

And here, in remembrance of the customs of
our native land, still deeply imbued with the
sentiments I am endeavouring to awaken, would
I pay a tribute to its country church-yards. It
seems most natural to wish that our last resting-
place should be near that sanctuary, where we are
taught to live well and to die in hope. It must
contribute, one should think, to the deeper so-
lemnity of the Sabbath, and to its sanctified use,
to moralize for a moment ere we enter the house
of God, over the graves of our departed acquaint-

with in-
ion. It
! is for a
t of our
rk abode
r, and to
sister. "
form and
^ave that
icken it,
> because
ve of the
Christ,
I His eye
Longmen.
i refined
ver be ne-
!n to his
rout men

istoms of
with the
in, would
ards. It
}t resting-
ire we are
It must
leeper so-
iled use,
the house
acquaint-

ances and kindred ; to read the simple memo-
rials that affection hath inscribed upon their tomb-
stones ; to observe how many of our co-evals are
slumbering below ; to forecast the hour when the
grass shall be above our dust, as above theirs.
Scenes like these in our devout frames give
widcness to our conceptions, and tenderness to
our heart. Eternity is there brought near ; a freer
intercourse with the invisible world is enjoyed.
We feel as if the spirits of the departed were hover-
ing around us, and the place where their body
sleeps — occasional visitants to that sacred house
where they once worshipped and received the
blessing which Christ dispenses to his people ;
and where some still assemble to whom they are
commissioned as ministering angels. The grave-
yard around, and the church within it, is to our
thoughts a connecting link between death and
immortality. And it is worthy of the legislature
of a Christian and united people to see to it,that this
union shall always be maintained. In rural and
thinly peopled districts it cannot be prejudicial to
the public health, while it is congenial to our
natural sentiments, and conducive to solemn and
devout contemplation.

But in cities generally, and in our own city,
the Protestant places of interment present a very
different condition. They lack order, continu-
ance, retirement, and sacredness. Already has
one Protestant burying ground been given up to
the encroachments of a growing city, and once

more its successor is menaced with a change.
Again the frail monuments are to be demolished;
again the ashes of the departed are to be disturbed
or left behind ; again the noise and bustle of the liv-
ing world is to be let in upon the spot selected for
their long repose. Already its crowded repo-
sitories cannot suffice to receive the dead, and the
unprotected, unclaimed grave, is consigned for
a price to new claimants. And such is the
closeness and confusion that prevails there,
that the visitor can with difficulty find the
narrow house where the remains of his friend
have been laid, — and when found, there is nothing
about it to soothe the eye of taste or of affection.
And yet, break up even this, as expedience or ne-
cessity may constrain to be done, the link is again
broken that connects us with a former generation ;
names are effaced which the hearts of multitudes
desire to be preserved, at least during their own
day, and the lessons are obliterated which the
tombstones of the past might present to the exist-
ing generation. All this, if it be a necessity, is a
necessity to be deplored. It offers violence
to our natural feelings. It prevents our ne-
cropolis from obtaining an antiquity, a circum-
stance which invests such places with a solemn
and impressive charm. It is revolting to our
associations, which leads us to attach a sacred
value to the dust of the saints. It prevents any
one from uttering the words which have in them
a touching pathos — " all my nearest kindred are

iii

a change.

jmolished;

disturbed
J of the liv-
elected for
ded repo-

d, and the
signed for
3h is the
ils there,

find the

his friend
is nothing

affection,
nee or ne-
ik is again
jneration ;
Qultitudes
their own
vhich the
the exist-
ssity, is a

violence

our ne-
a circuni-
a solemn
ig to our
a sacred
^ents any
i in them
idred are

buried there, and there I wish to be gathered to
my people."

It may be taken as one of the evidences of
advancement in the present age — for which,
however, we are indebted to the example of a
very remote antiquity, and to nations whom we
are very much disposed to treat as less advanced
than our own in the progress of civilization, —
that in most of the larger cities of Europe, better
arrangements for the burial of the dead have been
adopted, and more agreeable to the sentiments
which Christianity fosters. Cemetries of suffi-
cient extent, combining where it can be attained,
a variety pleasing to the eye, and such decora-
tions as are congenial with the design, are pro-
jected and laid out, to which the population of
the district, or the casual visitor may freely repair to
spend an hour in those solemn meditations upon
the fate of man by which the heart may be made
better. In these, several important subsidiary
objects are sought to be attained. They are lo-
cated beyond the centre of population, but at
some convenient distance from it ; areas are laid
out, far larger than can ever be required for ac-
tual interment. Localities are selected, where
practicable, that admit by their inequalities some-
thing of the picturesque. The art of the landscape
designer is called in to create ornaments suitable
to the scene, and the tasteful disposition of its
paths and seclusions. Designed for this special
object in perpetuity, all guarantees are secured

I i

1 I
1 \ !•

\\\

for the purpose. It is made attractive to the
friend and visitor : for why should not the sepul-
chre of the Christian, containing as it does relics
so precious, be placed in the fairest spot of earth,
where nature is clothed in her most beautiful
forms, where everything around may remind
however faintly, of the renovated world, where
" the storm of wintry time shall all be past, and
one unbounded spring encompass all." Abra-
ham bought the fairest field in the plain of Mamre
for a burying place ; he sought it because a cave
was there to protect the dust he had not ceased
to love ; he preferred it because the oak and the
evergreen grew there, to soothe by their shade
those whose affection might prompt to yisit
their tomb. And when the humanity of Chris-
tendom shall become hallowed and refined like
that of the old Hebrews, places shall be selected
for the repose of the dead, which will allure, and
not repel, the reminiscent and contemplative visits
of those who loved them while alive, and who
cannot forget them in their temporary separation.
And were the population of this city, who are
united in the fundamentals of a common faith,
and who profess to be actuated by the lively hope
of the same blessed resurrection, only possessed of
the patriach's affectionforthe dust of their departed
kindred, they could easily find in its environs
a spot as lovely as the field of Ephron the Hit-
tile ; and the tenderness of the old Hebrew, and
the sumptuous taste of the ancient Egyptians

'■-im^-

ive to the
the sepul-
does relics
3t of earth,
beautiful
y remind
id, where
past, and
." Abra-
of Mamre
ise a cave
lot ceased
c and the
eir shade
to risit
of Chris-
ined like
J selected
llure, and
tive visits
and who
paration.
who are
on faith,
vely hope
sessed of
departed
environs
the Hit-
ew, and
gyptians

would conspire with the purifying hopes of the
Christian in stirring them without reluctance,
" to weigh out the price, four hundred shekels of
silver, current money, with the merchant." On
some spot of the neighbouring mountain, from
which the spectator could look down on the busy
world below, and meditate on the brevity of its
cares and disappointments, its sorrows and joys ;
where the eastern sun sheds its earliest beams —
emblem of that morn when all who sleep in the
dust of the earth shall awake ; where nature with
the helping hand of taste, could easily be persuaded
to give every variety of walk and terrace, of pros-
pect and seclusion ; where trees as branching and
verdant as the oaks and terebinths of Palestine,
could soon be made to spread their shade ;
whither the thoughtful one who courted solitude
and the aid of affecting mementoes, might with-
in an hour transport himself; whither parents
might within an hour lead their children to see
how green the turf is upon the grave of their
slumbering play-mate, and to inculcate upon them
the solemn soothing lesson that to the good
" death is gain ;** whither the wronged and the
care-worn might repair and obtain solace, by the
contemplation of the scene where the wicked
cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest ;
which being within the view of all classes of the
citizens might often give energy to the principles
of rectitude, assuage the animosities of rivalship,
and invigorate the pulsations of benevolence.

t [

And a period might arrive, after this moun-
tain necropolis had received the tenants of a cen-
tury or more, when among its many monuments
some would be found, inscribed with names still
cherished in hallowed recollection, and a simple
and unboastful memorial of their excellence,
" strewed with many a holy text, which teach the
rustic moralist to die." From all which the then
existing generation might derive impressive les-
sons of wisdom and virtue ; and strong incite-
ments to follow in the path of those who have left
behind them an honorable name. The obelisk of
the patriot might be erected there, which multi-
tudes might gaze on with grateful homage,
when Canada shall have reached its higher poli-
tical destiny. The tablet of the philanthropist
might be erected there, to mark the spot where
his ashes repose whose large and munificent li-
berality continues to sustain the institutions that
with him originated. The humbler grave-stone
of the Christian minister may be there, to remind
a race that knew him not, that their forefathers
were profited by his teaching and* his prayers.
And there, upon all allotted points, would be
found the family-burying-place, a spot of solemn
interest to the surviving lineage, as shortly to be-
come that, where they also, shall rest with their
fathers. — It might thus become not only the place
of secure protection to the mortal remains of the
dead, whom we love and reverence, but of im-
pressive admonition to the living whose moral

WgWWWr

er this moun-

nants of a cen-

ny monuments

^ith names still

1, and a simple

ir excellence,

which teach the

which the then

impressive les-

strong incite-

se who have left

The obelisk of

which multi-

ateful homage,

its higher poli-

3 philanthropist

the spot where

i munificent li-

institutions that

t)ler grave-stone

there, to remind

;heir forefathers

Lnd*his prayers.

oints, would be

I spot of solemn

as shortly to be-

. rest with their

3t only the place

1 remains of the

nee, but of im-

ng whose moral

well-being we are required to promote by all the
means adapted to our nature.

The theme on which I have now allowed my-
self to expatiate, would be deemed by you neither
trivial or unimportant, did you set yourself to re-
alize the certainty, that within no distant period,
the dearest of those that are now entwined in your
affections, and are the delight of your homes,
will die ; and that, a day or two after, you will
be constrained to say to some one in the lan-
guage of the Father of the faithful, " give me a
possession of a burying place with you that I
may bury my dead out of my sight. " And sure
I am, if nature in that hour of sorrow were al-
lowed its fair scope, and if the heartless negli-
gence of the community did not trammel you,
you would bear out your dead, not to the cram-
med and slovenly and ill-adorned receptacle
into which this city's dead are now cast and
forgotten: a place which you could not re-
visit without the laceration of every feeling;
— where you could not plant and tend the flower
above their dust. Ah ! yon is not the place of
flowers, though the turf that covers the Christian
might well and properly be garnished with them;
— where you could guide a friend in the hour
of your tender remembrance to commemorate the
virtues that never perish. No— this is not the
place which in the hour of your grief you would
select; — but you would choose one like that
which Abraham selected for his Sarah in

?SS«SSSE^S?5

■jmmjmMm

another clime, in which the oak and ever-
green spread the solemnity of their shade, where
the flowers springs up on the sward, and
the balmy air breathes freely around ; whither
you could be allured in your thoughtful moods ;
— and where full security was given to you and
to your children, that their last resting place
would never be violated. These sentiments are
sanctioned alike by nature and religion ; and the
man who in the hour of a sore bereavement can
freely indulge them, is blessed with that which
will mitigate his sorrow, and assist his prepara-
tion for our common fate.*

* Since the first publication of this discourse, the Protestant
inhabitants of Montreal have purchased in the rear of the Moun-
tain, 76 acres, for a public cemetery, possessing all the qualities
which could be desired — the seclusion, the declivities, the shelter
of woods, and a wide prospect from the summit elevation. One
might wish, and as respects the locality it is the only wish which
remains ungratified, that the present purchase were extended to
the ridge beyond Mount Hope, commanding a full view of the
city ; and that there were a shorter and easier access. This, it
is said, will yet be attained. The grounds are already laid out
with skill. Ta^te and time will accomplish the rest.

ak and ever-
P shade, where
sward, and
und ; whither
ghtful moods ;
en to you and
resting place
sentiments are
gion ; and the
eavement can
h that which
t his prepara-

le, the Protestant
rear of the Moun-
' all the qualities
vities, the shelter
t elevation. One

only wish which
were extended to

full view of the
access. This, it
ah-eadylaid out
rest.