have found their last resting-place, and where in the twilight the owls hoot from the tower of the ivy-covered church.  There is the bare enclosure, surrounded by four walls, and without a tree, far up the lonely Highland hill-side; and more lonely still, the little gray stone, rising above the purple heather, where rude letters, touched up by Old Mortality’s hands, tell that one, probably two or three, rest beneath, who were done to death for what they firmly believed was their Redeemer’s cause, by Claverhouse or Dalyell.  There is the churchyard by the bleak sea-shore, where coffins have been laid bare by the encroaching waves; and the niche in cathedral crypt, or the vault under the church’s floor.  I cannot conceive anything more irreverent than the American fashion of burying in unconsecrated earth, each family having its own place of interment in the corner of its own garden:  unless it be the crotchet of the silly old peer, who spent the last years of his life in erecting near his castle-door, a preposterous building, the progress of which he watched day by day with the interest of a man who had worn out all other interest, occasionally lying down in the stone coffin which he had caused to be prepared, to make sure that it would fit him.  I feel sorry, too, for the poor old Pope, who when he dies is laid on a shelf above a door in St. Peter’s, where he remains till the next Pope dies, and then is put out of the way to make room for him; nor do I at all envy the noble who has his family vault filled with coffins covered with velvet and gold, occupied exclusively by corpses of good quality.  It is better surely to be laid, as Allan Cunningham wished, where we shall ‘not be built over;’ where ’the wind shall blow and the daisy grow upon our grave.’  Let it be among our kindred, indeed, in accordance with the natural desire; but not on dignified shelves, not in aristocratic vaults, but lowly and humbly, where the Christian dead sleep for the Resurrection.  Most people will sympathize so far with Beattie, though his lines show that he was a Scotchman, and lived where there are not many trees:—­

    Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down,
    Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
    With here and there a violet bestrown,
    Fast by a brook, or fountain’s murmuring wave;
    And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave!

But it depends entirely upon individual associations and fancies where one would wish to rest after life’s fitful fever:  and I have hardly ever been more deeply impressed than by certain lines which I cut out of an old newspaper when I was a boy, and which set out a choice far different from that of The Minstrel.  They are written by Mr. Westwood, a true poet, though not known as he deserves to be.  Here they are:—­

        Not there, not there! 
    Not in that nook, that ye deem so fair;—­
    Little reck I of the blue bright sky,
    And the stream that floweth so murmuringly,
    And the bending boughs, and the breezy air—­
        Not there, good friends, not there!