"THERE THE WEARY ARE AT REST."

THERE seems a sweet repose about the place where rest the dead. The very air seems hushed, or breathes, if it breathe at all, a low, plaintive sound, that appears like soft music. Whether I visit the graveyard on a bright summer day, or in the depth of winter-in spring or in autumn-at early morn, at noon, or at twilight-the same quiet, peaceful spirit seems presiding there. I love to ramble alone among the graves. To me there is something inspiring-something holy about the place. Especially are peculiar emotions excited, while standing by the graves of those who, while living, occupied a high rank in usefulness or fame. I recollect the vivid emotions I felt, when, many years ago, wandering about an old graveyard, on the banks of the Connecticut, I unexpectedly found myself by the grave of M'Donough. I had read of the terrible battle of Champlain, and heard much of M'Donough, but I knew not that the warrior was buried there, till I stood before the stone that marked his resting-place. Similar emotions were excited, on looking at the spot where lie the remains of Whitefield. But my feelings were never, on such an occasion, more highly excited, than when of late I visited the graveyard of a neighboring city-a small, but beautiful and retired city, stretching over a lovely plain, on the banks of one of our picturesque rivers. It was an evening of springtime, when all was green, and quiet, and beautiful. Proceeding some distance from the city, on a street unfrequented, save by the hearse and the funeral train, I came

to the place of rest-the city of the dead-already rivaling in population the living city near by. Here was spread out an area of considerable extent, laid out in beautiful order, in family lots, and tastefully ornamented with shrubbery and flowers. Here is the home of the dead. On this sequestered spot nature bestows her gifts of beauty and her cheering influence, as well as on the homes of the living, in the city of cottages and of gardens, whose inhabitants are now inhaling the sweet odors of spring, and enjoying the mild sunshine of a beautiful May day. The same zephyr that whispers through the trees of the garden, breathes mildly here, but revives not the dead. The same flowers that bloom before the cottage door, disclose their beauties and shed their perfume here, but not for the dead. The same sun that pours his morning beam into the cottage window, awaking beauty from her slumbers, shines here, but brings no morning to those who sleep in these graves. And there is music here, too-the sweet, plaintive music of nature-the music of bird, and of insect, and of gentle breeze, mingled with the lowing of cattle from the green pastures, and the merry peal of the bell in the city; but those who lie here heed it not.

I passed on among the avenues, by the neat mounds raised over the dead, and read the names inscribed on the stones. But to me few of the names were familiar. I was a stranger here in this city of the dead. Far away from this spot are the graves of those whom I have known and loved, and who have loved me, as I may never hope to be loved again. They lie, some beneath the ocean wave, and some on foreign coasts. The grave of one is made on the plain of evergreens, beneath the spreading branches of the pine, and of another by the side of the mountain stream; and I stand here, a stranger among the living, and may lie here, a stranger among the dead.

I

The grave of a stranger never fails to affect me. can not stand over it, without suffering the deep fountains of feeling to be broken up, and wave after wave of sadness to flow over my soul. Many years ago, when a mere child, I was rambling in the populous graveyard of the city near my native home; I read the names of hundreds familiar to me, with no peculiar emotions; but I happened on one grave which made my young heart bleed. It was that of a foreigner, a young and gallant officer, who fell in a naval engagement in the harbor of the city. True, he fell fighting against my country, in a desperate battle in the last war, and by his side there lies his antagonist, the brave captain of the American ship, who fell at the same time; and they lie side by side, as quietly as if they had been in life brothers, instead of enemies. But while standing on such a spot, I could not think of him as a foe and a warrior, but as a man and a stranger—one who had a mother yearning for his return, and whose sisters had been long looking, with aching eyes and bursting hearts, for him to come home. There he lies among strangers, far away from his home; and no mother—no sister will ever look on his grave. No friend may ever plant a shrub or train a flower on the sod that covers him. The skeptic may deride me, the philosopher may smile at me, and the Christian may pity my weakness; but yet I would not that my last resting-place should be among strangers. I would sleep, during the long, moonless, starless night of the grave, by the side of those whom I have known and loved while living. I would that when the night is gone, and the shadows and darkness of the tomb are dispersed, and the resurrection morning breaks, my opening eyes may meet the eyes of friendship and love. I would that the faces on which I may then look, may be those familiar to my childhood and youth. I would not, then, that my grave should be

the watery deep, though Ocean might wind her funeral shell in a requiem over the spot; nor on a foreign shore, though my countrymen might erect the monument of marble or of granite to commemorate my name; nor even here, where I now stand, though the spot be beautified, and many a friend of former years might, as he wends his way toward the west, turn aside to look at the place where I might rest. But let my grave be made in some. rural, quiet spot, where may lie also my companions and friends, my wife and my children. No matter, though, in the long lapse of ages, our names be obliterated from the decaying stone on which they may be recorded, and the very place where we lie be neglected and forgotten. Let us lie there together in peace, and in the morning of the resurrection, let us together awake, together arise, and together meet our blessed Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.

Near this neat and orderly cemetery, over which I was rambling, and which gave rise to these desultory reflections, is another of more ancient date, if any thing can be called ancient in this youthful country. This latter was even more populous than the former. Multitudes of graves, unknown and undistinguished, were all around me. Little order seemed observed in the location of the graves, and little attempt to ornament the grounds. Most of those who sleep here were early settlers of the country. Their surviving friends, if any survive, have moved away, and the old burying-ground is left to be overgrown by the wild luxuriance of nature. Near the center of this old graveyard is an area of a few square rods, inclosed by a plain rural fence. Within the inclosure are native shrubs and wild flowers, growing in all the freshness and vigor of this climate-a climate better adapted to variety and strength of vegetation than any other on the globe. In this green spot is a grave, at whose head is an upright

slab of sandstone, on which is the following plain and simple inscription:

"In memory of

REV. JOHN STRANGE,

who died

Dec. 2d, 1832,

In the 44th year of his age, and the 22d of his
itinerant ministry.

'They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of

the firmament, and they that turn many

to righteousness as the stars for-
ever and ever.””

Here, then, lies that remarkable man, whose face I never saw-whose voice I never heard, but whose name is one of the first and the last which the stranger hears in Indiana. In every part of the state, from the valley of the White Water to the Wabash-from the Ohio to the shores of Michigan-in the populous city and in the obscure hamlet-the name of Strange is but another word for eloquence. The old men will sit down in their rude cabins, and talk of him by the hour, and relate anecdotes of his eccentric genius and irresistible eloquence.

As I stood over the grave of Strange, and thought of the glowing and animated descriptions I had heard of his eloquence, I could but regret that it had never been my happiness to listen to those thrilling tones which had so often fell on many a delighted heart. His eloquence must have been unique, peculiar, inimitable, and irresistible. Indeed, some have told me that it could not be described. But death heeds not the "voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely;" and Strange has gone-gone in the prime and vigor of life, and in the full career of his power and usefulness, to the grave, "even to the land of darkness and the shadow of death." Nor may any Orphean lyre call him back. Rest thee here, then,