It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tendered kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet.

There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity that never dreads contact and communion with others however humble.

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevate the mind.

Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture.

The youthful freshness of a blameless heart.

It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave.