In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray
over the graves of their deceased friends for several Sundays
after the interment; and where the tender rite of strewing and
planting flowers is still practised, it is always renewed on
Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the season brings
the companion of former festivity more vividly to mind. It is
also invariably performed by the nearest relatives and friends;
no menials nor hirelings are employed, and if a neighbor yields
assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer compensation.
I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because as it is
one of the last, so is it one of the holiest, offices of love.
The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the
divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the
instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be
continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its
object, but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long
remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline
with the charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering
disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb; but it is thence
that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual
desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify
the heart of the survivor.
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