Maternal affection, too, is strong as adamant. There are mothers here,
among us, who might have been in heaven fifty years ago, if they could
forbear to cherish earthly joy and sorrow, reflected from the bosoms of
their children. Husbands and wives have a comfortable gift of oblivion,
especially when secure of the faith of their living halves. Jealousy,
it is true, will play the devil with a ghost, driving him to the bedside
of secondary wedlock, there to scowl, unseen, and gibber inaudible
remonstrances. Dead wives, however jealous in their lifetime, seldom
feel this posthumous torment so acutely.

Many, many things, that appear most important while we walk the busy
street, lose all their interest the moment we are borne into the quiet
graveyard which borders it. For my own part, my spirit had not become
so mixed up with earthly existence, as to be now held in an unnatural
combination, or tortured much with retrospective cares. I still love my
parents and a younger sister, who remain among the living, and often
grieve me by their patient sorrow for the dead. Each separate tear of
theirs is an added weight upon my soul, and lengthens my stay among the
graves. As to other matters, it exceedingly rejoices me, that my
summons carne before I had time to write a projected poem, which was
highly imaginative in conception, and could not have failed to give me a
triumphant rank in the choir of our native bards. Nothing is so much to
be deprecated as posthumous renown. It keeps the immortal spirit from
the proper bliss of his celestial state, and causes him to feed upon the
impure breath of mortal man, till sometimes he forgets that there are
starry realms above him. Few poets--infatuated that they are!--soar
upward while the least whisper of their name is heard on earth. On
Sabbath evenings, my sisters sit by the fireside, between our father and
mother, and repeat some hymns of mine, which they have often heard from
my own lips, ere the tremulous voice left them forever. Little do they