Egypt carpets and cushions are spread around the various tombs it contains, and once in every week the wives and daughters of the dead repair thither and pass the greater part of the day in contemplation and self-communion.  In the public cemeteries alms are distributed at the graves of the pious:  even the winged wanderers of the air find refreshment there, for on each sepulchral stone a small receptacle is hollowed out to collect the dews of heaven, where the birds, as they flutter past, may slake their thirst.  On each succeeding Sabbath fresh green branches adorn the headstones, and vailed mourners, seated by them, keep silent watch, in the fond belief that the lifeless occupant of the tomb is conscious of their presence there.[4]

The loftier, purer character of our faith leads us to reject such fancies as gross superstitions; and yet there is something touching in them!  We treasure a lock of hair—­a glove—­a ribbon—­a flower, once worn by an absent loved one; why should we not more tenderly treasure the dust that has once been ennobled by enshrining the immortal spirit of a departed friend, or deem it weakness to watch over these mouldering relics as fondly as though they were still conscious of our care?  And surely if the enfranchised spirit is permitted to be cognisant of that which passes upon earth—­if, from those blessed abodes whither it has winged its course, a care can be bestowed upon the earthly coil it has thrown off, or upon the creatures of clay who still toil and grovel here below, may we not suppose that it contemplates with pitying complacency the clinging tenderness which binds the hearts of the living to the ashes of the dead, the desperate affection with which we look our last upon the lifeless form which never more can respond to all our love and all our sorrow, and the fond fidelity which leads us to hover round the tomb that has forever shut it from our view?

I love to think that such may be the case; nor can I separate the idea, weak and idle though it may be, that the souls of the departed mourn over the neglect and abandonment of their earthly remains, as the first step toward forgetfulness of their memory. To me, the grave of a friend possesses an attraction, which, although tinged with deepest sadness, is wholly distinct from the horror with which the imagination so often invests it.  My heart yearns to look upon the last resting-place of those I have loved.

I would shelter those sacred spots from the beating rain, screen them from the wintry winds, plant around them the flowers that were once preferred by their unconscious tenants, and inscribe over the entrance of every cemetery the beautiful line of Koerner’s

  “Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht!”
  “Forget not the faithful dead!”