"There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor,
"and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when
the daies are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no
more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten;
the hurrying succession of new intimates and new pleasures effaces him
from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved
are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are
solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in the
village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of
rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear; it steals
with its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all
the landscape.
The fixed and unchanging features of the country also perpetuate the
memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them; who was the
companion of our most retired walks, and gave animation to every
lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm of nature; we
hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken; his
spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented; we think of him in
the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty of the
valley.
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