northern sea that it is to be shut out from all those beautiful thoughts which are suggested through the medium of outward images? Is it because it is a mercantile and busy nation, because it prides itself upon being free from the frivolities of France and the romance of Germany, that its churchyards, instead of being "God's-acre,"—thought of and remembered as consecrated ground, and looked upon as the home of the dead,—should be allowed to run wild, uncared for and neglected; often overgrown with nettles and thistles; often considered and used as a lawful sheep-fold by the neighbouring farmers? Above all, is it for this reason that, after wading through a thicket of briars and a bed of nettles, you come to a tomb, where the words, which should, if possible, give comfort, which should certainly teach a lesson to those who look upon it, should only tell
"How pale consumption
Gave the fatal blow:
The stroke was certain,
But the progress slow."
And then, as if these details of the sufferer's last illness were not sufficient, proceed to describe, in bad spelling, how
"With wasteing pain
Death found me sore oppress'd,
Pityed my sighs,
And surally gave me rest."
