Port Tobacco times, and Charles County advertiser. (Port Tobacco, Md.) 1845-1898, 1850-07-10
S E ELECT MISCELLANY.
THE GRAVE OF THOSE WE LOVE.
BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

1t is there the divine passion of the soul
manliests its superiority 10 the instructive
impulse of mere animal attachment. The
latter must be continually refreshed and
kept alive by the presence of its object; but
the love tha, is seated in the soul can live
on long remembrance. The mere inclina-
tons of sense languiSh and decline with the
charms which excited them, and turn with
shuddering and disgust from the dismal pre-
clncts Of the tomb but it is hence that tru
ly spiritual affection rises purified from eve
ry sensual desire, and returns, like holy
flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of
the survivor.
The sorrow for the dead is the only SOL
row from which we refuse to be divorced
Every other wound we seek to heal-every
other affection to forget; but this wound
we consider it duty to keep open--lhis
affection we cherish and brood over in soli-
tude. Where is the mother who would
willingly forget the infant that pershed like
blossom from her arms, though every re-
collection is pang? Where is the child
who would willingly forge. the most tender
of parents, though bu. TO remember, be but
to lament? Who, even in the hour Of ago
ny, would forge. the friend over whom he
mourns? Who, even when the tomb is
closing upon the remains of her mos. loved,
when he feels his heart as it were, crushed
in the closing of its portal, would accept of
consolation that must be bought by forget
fulness
No--the love which survives the tomb is
one Of the noblest attributes of the soul. If
II has woes, 1t has likewise its delights; and
when the overwhelming burst of grief Is
calmed into the gentle tear of recollection
when the sudden anguish and the convul-
slve agony over the present ruins Of all that
we most loved, is softened away into pen
slve meditation on all that it was in the days
of its loveliness-Who would root out such
a sorrow from the heart? Though it may
sometimes throw passing cloud over the
bright hour OF galety, or spread deeper
sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who
would exchange it even for the song OF
pleasure, or the burst Of revelry? No
there is voice from the tomb sweeter than
song. There is a remembrance of the dead
to which we turn even from the charms of
the living. Oh, the grave! It burries every
error-covers every defect, extinguishes
every resentment! From its peaceful bosom
spring none but fond regrets and tender re-
collections. Who can look down upon the
grave even of an enemy, and not feel COM
punclious throb, that he should ever have
warred with the poor handful of earth that
lies beneath him.
But the grave Of those we lovc-what
place of meditation !. There it is that we
call up in long review the whole history of
virtue and gentlencss, and the thousand en-
dearments lavished upon us almost unheed
cd in the daily intercourse of intimacy;
there ii is that the tenderness, the solemn,
awful tenderness of the parting scene, the
bed of death with all its stiilcd grief! its
noselcss attendance its mute, watchful
assiduities the last testimonial of expiring
love! the feeble, fu!lering, thrilling oh
how thrlling-pressure of the hand the
last fond look Of the gazing eye, turning
upon us even from the threshold of exist
ence the faint, lallering accents, struggling
in death to give one more assurance of af-
iection.
Ay, 60 to the grave of buried love, and
mediate There settle the account with
thy conscience for every past benefit unre-
quilted, every past endearment unregarded,
of that departed being, who can never, never
return to be soolhed by the con,rllon.
II thou art child, and hast ever added
sorrow TO the soul, or furrow to the sill
vered brow of all afieclionate parent-if
thou art husband and hast ever caused the
fond bosom that ventured its whole happi-
ness i'll thy arms, to doubt for one moment
Of thy kindness or thy truth If thou art a
friend that hast ever wronged, in thought,
or word, OF deed, the spirit that generously
confided in thce--if thou ART a lover, and
hast ever given one unmcrlted pang to that
true heart which now lies cold and still be-
meath thy feet, then be sure tina! every un-
kind look, every ungracious word, every
ungentle action will come thronging back
upon thy memory, knocking dole(uIIy at
thy soul-then be sure that thou wilt lie
down, sorrowIng and repcntant, ,on The grave,
and utter the unhcard groan, and pour out
the unhcard and unavaIing
Then weave the chaplet Of flowers, and
slrcw the beauties of nature about the grave,
console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with
these tender, yet futile tributes Of regret
and take warning by the bitterness Of this,
thy conlritc afllction over the dead, and
henceior,h be more faithful and alcctionate
in the discharge of thy duties to the living.
There is only one thing worse than ig-
norancc. and that is conceit. Ofall Intract-
able tools, an ovcrwIse man is the worst
on may cause idiots TO phIlosophlsc you
may coax donkcys to io,eeo thlstles--but
don't ever think Of driving common scna"
into the head cl d conccItcd person.