So in another ancient drama we have these lines:
"Let no man fear to die-all ages

And all hours call us; 'tis so common, easy,
That little children tread those paths before us."

Indeed, as another poet beautifully says,

"Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth, that soonest pass away.
The rose, that lives its little hour,

Is prized beyond the sculptured flower *."

The very grave too, "that earliest boon of love," as a poet, perhaps not with strict justice, calls it, has its bright side when common things are chosen, and better antidotes accepted than the frigid promise that we shall lie down with kings and emperors in death, which can yield, as Charles Lamb humorously remarks, but poor satisfaction "to a man who in his lifetime never greatly coveted the society of such bed-fellows." The brother of Cardinal Richelieu, the minister, had other views when writing his own epitaph, which ended with the words, "inter pauperes sepeliri volo." Hood, writing during his last illness, says, "There is the smell of the mould, but I remember that it nourishes the violets." They who under all circumstances love what is common, "need no urn for their ashes, to take the offence of mortal loathsomeness from the eye." The earth supplies all that is wanting to them who go to the grave bewept with true love showers.

"And many an honest tear and heartfelt sigh

Have followed those who now unnoticed lie."

"There," one may say with the poet,

"He shall grow again,

And, in the sweet disguise of a fair garden,

Salute the spring that gave him green and odours."

"Death is the poor world's asylum. There is peace;

Destruction's quiet and equality."

Cassiodorus was no pagan, no romantic writer, and he called the cemetery "ager somni," the field of repose. But remark what the

* Bryant.

poet just cited says, "there is equality." Let us recur to a theme with which, under any form, we at the Lover's seat can never be satiated. Yes, death and the grave are both excellent by this gift of equality which they include, conferring it on those who through life, perhaps, have in vain yearned for it. In spite of insane attempts by persons whose thoughts are all turned towards the love of distinction and superiority to rob those connected with them of this great boon by means of pompous obsequies, extraordinary tombs, family mausoleums, as if they held that considerations of economy were disrespectful to the memory of the departed, as if they did not feel with mankind that, as Cicero says, "The sanctity of graves is not in the statues over them, which fall by force or antiquity, but in the soil itself,"-death and the grave will restore us to nature, and place us all at last on a level with that sweet humble common humanity, in mental communion with which much of the happiness of our life consisted, while by social necessities, perhaps, we found ourselves externally like aliens in regard to it.

Sister-spirit, strangers perhaps would set us both down as dreamers for saying all this or listening to it; and yet the matter is very substantial as far as we are concerned. A great poet was struck with the epitaphs at Ferrara which ended with "implora pace "—implore eternal quiet. "Can any thing," he says, "be more full of pathos? All that the dead wanted was rest, and this they implore. There is all the helplessness, and humble hope, and death-like prayer that can arise from the grave-'implora pace."" The persons we allude to will hope that their survivors may see in addition another word put over them-union, implore union, eternal union.

But let us dwell for a moment on the excellence of what is common even in respect to a grave. Crabbe's gentle sexton, when he looked around and marked the tombs within and without the consecrated pile, though not presuming to judge any or utter doubts respecting the end of the former so pompously inurned, concluded with saying that he for his part would "join the party who repose without.' "Of course here the association of ideas was every thing. So, perhaps in consequence of it, would most reflecting persons, loving what is common,

* Phil. ix.

while still admiring the thought of him of whom we read that he chose his burial under the threshold of St. Mary's Church, ordering these words to be inscribed for epitaph, "Ni dedans par respect, ni dehors par amour." The kind of grave that indicates the love of equality which once animated its tenant, most men would choose if they had observed the folly, even in life, of being ambitious of distinctions. The common cemetery has this advantage. There, without having read Scott's epitaph on Helen Walker, whom he painted in his Jeannie Deans, every one with a heart is sure to say with him, "Respect the grave of poverty, when combined with love of truth and dear affection.' There one thinks of sweet Alice under the cold stone; and, as a great author says, "Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves some good is born, some gentler nature comes up. In the destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to heaven." Yes, without in the least being dreamers, we may say that of union and equality, though it were only to be found in the grave, the common human heart is amorous; and with the sound of those words in our ears I would conclude this chapter. We need only name them again, however, for enough has been already whispered respecting the excellence of things which conduce to so desirable an end as this. It will suffice, then, to repeat that death and the grave accomplish it; they break down the barriers of distinction which were placed between us and our common brothers and sisters in Adam. The earth is a common mother, which receives our bodies along with theirs to its bosom; our spirits depart with their spirits to Him in whose love every loyal heart may confide. The proposition, I think, has been demonstrated. Do you find that the task of ascribing excellence to these last common things was insurmountable? But come, listener mine, courage; for now, passing from the subject of death, a glance at which suffices for our purpose of showing its bright side as one of the common things in regard to virtue, let us proceed to the last division of the whole inquiry provided for us at the Lover's Seat, and from that point of view survey the excellence of common things in relation to truth.

CHAPTER XVI.

WELL, I am glad that the subject is to change, though what you propose does not promise much; for I think by this time, mate, you must yourself need variety; and you have certainly of late drawn me on to listen to matters very grave, to say the least of them. Exactly so; I only wonder at the attention with which you have listened, though perhaps making up that dear little posy all the while contributed somewhat to this great result. Well, now the inquiry does change; and as the sun, you perceive, is still far from setting, let us rouse ourselves up and put off our next nap till we get home, where you may indulge your fondness for keeping alternately both late and early hours.

Having considered the excellence of common things in regard to beauty first, and then to virtue, it remains for us to complete our enterprise by looking at them in relation to truth ;;-a theme, let me tell you, very appropriate to this bower; for all lovers, you know, love truth. It is a word ever on their tongue; and, laugh who will, the desire of it sways their heart. It cannot, therefore, be unsuitable to them to propose a view of common things in that relation, already so familiar to them, and involving in fact, as it does, their sum of hope.

The subject, therefore, which is not so unpromising as you thought it, need not frighten you much; and besides, the graver it becomes, the more I am resolved from time to time to be merry. Do you remember how solemn we looked when we heard about kindness and love, the poetry of life and even pleasure? It was as if we both of us had put on the cap of wisdom. Well, it was all the better; for perhaps there was no knowing what we might not have rambled to otherwise; but now that we advance towards things that are really very serious, I am decidedly of opinion that it will be much more proper for us, after reading grave extracts, to prattle away like children, though at the risk of wounding the pride of all prosy strangers that would wish to take part in our discussions.

The subject presents itself in a twofold order, as including the intellectual character of common persons and the value of

common thoughts. The popular understanding and way of thinking, that is, our way of thinking, may be contrasted with that of the learned and distinguished classes as far as we are capable of appreciating the latter; and, in fine, the common thoughts themselves that actuate the unobserved masses of the community to which both of us belong, may be compared with those of the professed intellectual and philosophic classes, as far as they are pleased to let us know them; in other words, we may consider how far common persons intellectually considered, persons that have nothing to distinguish them, excepting perhaps good looks and amiable manners-come, don't turn away so, though I did look at you-persons who keep their best clothes for Sundays, dine when they are hungry, go out when they like, lodge in ordinary houses, in any street or quarter of the metropolis that suits them, and live, in short, like the majority; how far, I say, such persons possess any characteristic excellence in consequence precisely of their minds being undistinguished from what is common in the world. We shall find, perhaps, as we pursue this inquiry, that the view of these mental regions which is obtained from the Lover's Seat, for they are by no means shut out from it, has a beauty and an extension which the lightest may behold with a certain pleasure, and which the wisest need not disdain.

How stand common persons generally in regard to intellectual merit or to truth? Is the common mind generally constituted so as to be in harmony or in antagonism with the latter? Is there any thing to admire in the many petty common thoughts on which we daily, as it were, feed? To answer these questions, whatever we may think of ourselves, we must return to our late companions of the professedly popular class, and attend to what may be advanced generally in favour of the intellectual character of the common people, for-may we be pardoned for saying so?-as distinguished from the studious and learned mind, and forming an intermediate link between it and that of the common herd of us, nothing exists that is worthy of mention or even of a passing thought.

Proceeding thus to the last division of our subject and to the relation of what is common to truth, we shall find that the same conclusions with which we are already familiar meet us every where. "Mankind," says Aristotle, without making any dis