Earth has some sacred spots where we feel like looseing the shoes from
our feet, and treading with holy reverence; where common words of
social converse seem rude, and the smile of pleasure unfitting; places
where friendship’s hands have lingered in each other’s; where vows have
been plighted, prayers offered, and tears of parting shed. Oh, how the
thoughts hover around such places, and travel back through unmeasured
space to visit them. But, of all the spots on this green earth, none is
so sacred as that where rest, waiting the resurrection, those we once
cherished and loved—our brothers, our sisters, or our children. Hence,
in all ages, the better part of mankind have chosen and loved spots for
the burial of their dead; and on these spots they have loved to wander
at eventide, to meditate and weep. But, of all places, even among the
charnel-houses of the dead, none is so sacred as a mother’s grave.
There sleeps the nurse of our infancy—the guide of our youth—the
counselor of our riper years—our friend, when others deserted
us—she, whose heart was a stranger to every other feeling but love,
and who could always find excuses for us when we could find none for
ourselves. There she sleeps, and we love the very earth for her sake.
With sentiments like these, I turned aside from the gayeties of life,
to the narrow habitations of the dead. I wandered among those who had
commenced life with me in hope. Here distinctions were forgotten; at
least, by the quiet slumberers around me. I saw the rich and the great,
who scorned the poor, and shunned them as infected with the plague,
quietly sleeping by their side.