T H E   L A D I E S '   R E P O S I T O R Y .

CINCINNATI, JANUARY, 1843.

      HOW soothing is the thought of death to earth's weary traveler, when life's gayest scenes have departed, and the gloom of years hangs heavily over the past. Yes, the thought falls softly upon us, when in life's decline, as dew on the earliest flowers of spring, or the memories of childhood on the heart-stricken wanderer; as calm too and refreshing in its kindly influences.

      In such moments, when we read on the page of memory those things we vainly strive to forget, how often do we turn to the grave for consolation, pleased with the reflection that grief enters not the tomb. When the heart is tired of the sorrows which beset our path, when the generous feelings of youth are chilled by the frosts of time, death is shorn of its terrors; and we look to the grave as the mansion of a friend.

      In early life we deem this world beautiful--its scenes are those of pleasure and delight. Hope, the fair deceiver, springs up in the breast, and whispers her flattering tale. By her skillful lures we seem what we are not; but experience soon teaches that all our fancied enjoyments, in their very nature, are transitory and unsatisfying. Such thoughts as these are but too well calculated to cast a shade over our brightest hours; and even in youth to impress upon our imaginings the seal of age, to blight the promising harvest of expectation, and cause the buds of hope to wither e'er they blossom.

      The dim realities of the past seem to be brought nigh; the present is beclouded by the remembrance of happier hours; and all the bright illusions of the future seem formed but to fade. Pleasure, the object of our fond pursuit, has ever eluded our grasp--promise has ever ended in disappointment; and weary of life, its turmoils and cares, we look forward with complacency to that period when the tomb shall receive us, and close its no longer gloomy portals over humanity's pale wreck. The grave! how peaceful its rest! how congenial its silence. There the head is softly pillowed at last--the brain no more sends forth the busy legions of fancy--the voice of dreams cannot penetrate its recesses; for there the reveries of the dreamer shall cease for ever. Reader! art thou familiar with thy last resting place? Does the contemplation excite no bitter emotion? Or have you drunk deeply of the cup of sorrow, and feel that the bitterness of death is past? Have you been the sport of passion, the mock of wayward fortune? Here is rest. Child of oppression here is your refuge. The crowding recollections of the past intrude not here--the fleeting chimeras of the present, and the "thick-coming fancies" of the future are alike unknown--silence deep and universal holds here its unbounded sway. And yet the grave is not terrible--we should not shrink from its chill embrace; for there we may find the tranquility which has been the object of our fondest desires, the rest for which we have so often yearned.

      It is true, there is something appalling in the preparations for our last journey. The sombre hues of the mourning garb, the sound of the deep-toned bell, breaking on the still air as a requiem for the departed spirit; the sobs of those we love, the measured step of friends in the funeral train, are all calculated to make the soul shrink back to its citadel; and the desire of life to be again renewed. Yet why start! When we become the cause of this solemn pomp we shall heed it not--not a single emotion will be awakened by the sorrows of those who mourn. The grave-yard will soon be deserted, the tear of affection will soon pass from the cheeks, and amid our silent companions we shall soon be forgotten. The dead are all around us--the garrulous tongue of age is as silent as that of the infant at his side, who passed to the tomb e'er the tongue knew its office; the husband rests listlessly near the wife of his youth; and even the lover has forgotten the charms of her whom he adored, whose dust now unconsciously mingles with his own. The solitary is now a recluse among thousands--the retirement of his cell is now exceeded by the silence which broods over him. Pride has forgotten its dignity, and humility its reserve. Wealth asks not the homage of thousands, but seeks as lowly a bed as poverty itself--no clamor for place or distinction--all here is equality, silence and gloom. All earth's myriads are fast thronging that path--its portals are thrown wide to receive the travelers who are pressing their way to its dreary mansions. Time flies, earth fades, and they sink into its cold recesses. The aged man, leaning on his staff, looks wistfully for his long-sought rest; sprightly youth and manhood's prime all tend thitherward; and the grave is the last gaol of human attainment. O grave! thou art a solemn teacher, thy warnings far transcend all other voices--the slumbering past is awakened at thy call, and its hallow reverberations fill the future with uncertainty. Yet welcome, thrice welcome; we die but to live--we slumber but to wake in a cloudless day; for the death of the body is but the birth of the soul.

[The Ladies' Repository 3 (January 1843): 25.]

      William Baxter's "The Grave" was first published in The Ladies' Repository, and Gatherings of the West: A Monthly Periodical Devoted to Literature and Religion, Vol. 3, No. 1, January 1843, p. 25. This volume, edited by L. L. Hamline, was published in Cincinnati by J. F. Wright and L. Swormstedt for the Methodist Episcopal Church.

      Addenda and corrigenda are earnestly solicited.

Ernie Stefanik
Derry, PA

Created 31 March 2000.
Updated 28 June 2003.