POST…MORTEM　POETRY　＇1＇
  In　Philadelphia　they　have　a　custom　which　it　would　be　pleasant
  to　see　adopted　throughout　the　land。　　It　is　that　of　appending　to
  published　death…notices　a　little　verse　or　two　of　comforting　poetry。
  Any　one　who　is　in　the　habit　of　reading　the　daily　Philadelphia
  LEDGER　must　frequently　be　touched　by　these　plaintive　tributes
  to　extinguished　worth。　　In　Philadelphia；　the　departure　of　a　child
  is　a　circumstance　which　is　not　more　surely　followed　by　a　burial
  than　by　the　accustomed　solacing　poesy　in　the　PUBLIC　LEDGER。
  In　that　city　death　loses　half　its　terror　because　the　knowledge
  of　its　presence　comes　thus　disguised　in　the　sweet　drapery　of　verse。
  For　instance；　in　a　late　LEDGER　I　find　the　following　（I　change
  the　surname）：
  DIED
  Hawks。On　the　17th　inst。；　Clara；　the　daughter　of　Ephraim
  and　Laura　Hawks；　aged　21　months　and　2　days。
  That　merry　shout　no　more　I　hear；
  No　laughing　child　I　see；
  No　little　arms　are　around　my　neck；
  No　feet　upon　my　knee；
  No　kisses　drop　upon　my　cheek；
  These　lips　are　sealed　to　me。
  Dear　Lord；　how　could　I　give　Clara　up
  To　any　but　to　Thee？
  A　child　thus　mourned　could　not　die　wholly　discontented。
  From　the　LEDGER　of　the　same　date　I　make　the　following　extract；
  merely　changing　the　surname；　as　before：
  Becket。On　Sunday　morning；　19th　inst。；　John　P。；　infant　son
  of　George　and　Julia　Becket；　aged　1　year；　6　months；　and　15　days。
  That　merry　shout　no　more　I　hear；
  No　laughing　child　I　see；
  No　little　arms　are　round　my　neck；
  No　feet　upon　my　knee；
  No　kisses　drop　upon　my　cheek；
  These　lips　are　sealed　to　me。
  Dear　Lord；　how　could　I　give　Johnnie　up
  To　any　but　to　Thee？
  The　similarity　of　the　emotions　as　produced　in　the　mourners　in　these
  two　instances　is　remarkably　evidenced　by　the　singular　similarity
  of　thought　which　they　experienced；　and　the　surprising　coincidence
  of　language　used　by　them　to　give　it　expression。
  In　the　same　journal；　of　the　same　date；　I　find　the　following
  （surname　suppressed；　as　before）：
  Wagner。On　the　10th　inst。；　Ferguson　G。；　the　son　of　William
  L。　and　Martha　Theresa　Wagner；　aged　4　weeks　and　1　day。
  That　merry　shout　no　more　I　hear；
  No　laughing　child　I　see；
  No　little　arms　are　round　my　neck；
  No　feet　upon　my　knee；
  No　kisses　drop　upon　my　cheek；
  These　lips　are　sealed　to　me。
  Dear　Lord；　how　could　I　give　Ferguson　up
  To　any　but　to　Thee？
  It　is　strange　what　power　the　reiteration　of　an　essentially　poetical
  thought　has　upon　one's　feelings。　　When　we　take　up　the　LEDGER
  and　read　the　poetry　about　little　Clara；　we　feel　an　unaccountable
  depression　of　the　spirits。　　When　we　drift　further　down　the　column
  and　read　the　poetry　about　little　Johnnie；　the　depression　and　spirits
  acquires　and　added　emphasis；　and　we　experience　tangible　suffering。
  When　we　saunter　along　down　the　column　further　still　and　read
  the　poetry　about　little　Ferguson；　the　word　torture　but　vaguely
  suggests　the　anguish　that　rends　us。
  In　the　LEDGER　（same　copy　referred　to　above）　I　find　the　following
  （I　alter　surname；　as　usual）：
  Welch。On　the　5th　inst。；　Mary　C。　Welch；　wife　of　William　B。　Welch；
  and　daughter　of　Catharine　and　George　W。　Markland；　in　the　29th　year
  of　her　age。
  A　mother　dear；　a　mother　kind；
  Has　gone　and　left　us　all　behind。
  Cease　to　weep；　for　tears　are　vain；
  Mother　dear　is　out　of　pain。
  Farewell；　husband；　children　dear；
  Serve　thy　God　with　filial　fear；
  And　meet　me　in　the　land　above；
  Where　all　is　peace；　and　joy；　and　love。
  What　could　be　sweeter　than　that？　　No　collection　of　salient　facts
  （without　reduction　to　tabular　form）　could　be　more　succinctly　stated
  than　is　done　in　the　first　stanza　by　the　surviving　relatives；
  and　no　more　concise　and　comprehensive　program　of　farewells；
  post…mortuary　general　orders；　etc。；　could　be　framed　in　any
  form　than　is　done　in　verse　by　deceased　in　the　last　stanza。
  These　things　insensibly　make　us　wiser　and　tenderer；　and　better。
  Another　extract：
  Ball。On　the　morning　of　the　15th　inst。；　Mary　E。；　daughter　of　John
  and　Sarah　F。　Ball。
  'Tis　sweet　to　rest　in　lively　hope
  That　when　my　change　shall　come
  Angels　will　hover　round　my　bed；
  To　waft　my　spirit　home。
  The　following　is　apparently　the　customary　form　for　heads　of　families：
  Burns。On　the　20th　inst。；　Michael　Burns；　aged　40　years。
  Dearest　father；　thou　hast　left　us；
  Hear　thy　loss　we　deeply　feel；
  But　'tis　God　that　has　bereft　us；
  He　can　all　our　sorrows　heal。
  Funeral　at　2　o'clock　sharp。
  There　is　something　very　simple　and　pleasant　about　the　following；
  which；　in　Philadelphia；　seems　to　be　the　usual　form　for　consumptives
  of　long　standing。　　（It　deplores　four　distinct　cases　in　the　single
  copy　of　the　LEDGER　which　lies　on　the　Memoranda　editorial　table）：
  Bromley。On　the　29th　inst。；　of　consumption；　Philip　Bromley；
  in　the　50th　year　of　his　age。
  Affliction　sore　long　time　he　bore；
  Physicians　were　in　vain
  Till　God　at　last　did　hear　him　mourn；
  And　eased　him　of　his　pain。
  That　friend　whom　death　from　us　has　torn；
  We　did　not　think　so　soon　to　part；
  An　anxious　care　now　sinks　the　thorn
  Still　deeper　in　our　bleeding　heart。
  This　beautiful　creation　loses　nothing　by　repetition。　　On　the　contrary；
  the　oftener　one　sees　it　in　the　LEDGER；　the　more　grand　and　awe…inspiring
  it　seems。
  With　one　more　extract　I　will　close：
  Doble。On　the　4th　inst。；　Samuel　Pervil　Worthington　Doble；
  aged　4　days。
  Our　little　Sammy's　gone；
  His　tiny　spirit's　fled；
  Our　little　boy　we　loved　so　dear
  Lies　sleeping　with　the　dead。
  A　tear　within　a　father's　eye；
  A　mother's　aching　heart；
  Can　only　tell　the　agony
  How　hard　it　is　to　part。
  Could　anything　be　more　plaintive　than　that；　without　requiring　further
  concessions　of　grammar？　　Could　anything　be　likely　to　do　more　toward
  reconciling　deceased　to　circumstances；　and　making　him　willing　to　go？
  Perhaps　not。　　The　power　of　song　can　hardly　be　estimated。　　There　is
  an　element　about　some　poetry　which　is　able　to　make　even　physical
  suffering　and　death　cheerful　things　to　contemplate　and　consummations
  to　be　desired。　　This　element　is　present　in　the　mortuary　poetry
  of　Philadelphia　degree　of　development。
  The　custom　I　have　been　treating　of　is　one　that　should　be　adopted
  in　all　the　cities　of　the　land。
  It　is　said　that　once　a　man　of　small　consequence　died；　and　the
  Rev。　T。　K。　Beecher　was　asked　to　preach　the　funeral　sermon
  a　man　who　abhors　the　lauding　of　people；　either　dead　or　alive；
  except　in　dignified　and　simple　language；　and　then　only　for　merits
  which　they　actually　possessed　or　possess；　not　merits　which　they
  merely　ought　to　have　possessed。　　The　friends　of　the　deceased　got
  up　a　stately　funeral。　　They　must　have　had　misgivings　that　the
  corpse　might　not　be　praised　strongly　enough；　for　they　prepared
  some　manuscript　headings　and　notes　in　which　nothing　was　left
  unsaid　on　that　subject　that　a　fervid　imagination　and　an　unabridged
  dictionary　could　compile；　and　these　they　handed　to　the　minister
  as　he　entered　the　pulpit。　　They　were　merely　intended　as　suggestions；
  and　so　the　friends　were　filled　with　consternation　when　the　minister
  stood　in　the　pulpit　and　proceeded　to　read　off　the　curious　odds
  and　ends　in　ghastly　detail　and　in　a　loud　voice！　　And　their
  consternation　solidified　to　petrification　when　he　paused　at　the　end；
  contemplated　the　multitude　reflectively；　and　then　said；　impressively：
  〃The　man　would　be　a　fool　who　tried　to　add　anything　to　that。
  Let　us　pray！〃
  And　with　the　same　strict　adhesion　to　truth　it　can　be　said　that　the
  man　would　be　a　fool　who　tried　to　add　anything　to　the　following
  transcendent　obituary　poem。　　There　is　something　so　innocent；
  so　guileless；　so　complacent；　so　unearthly　serene　and　self…satisfied
  about　this　peerless　〃hog…wash；〃　that　the　man　must　be　made　of　stone
  who　can　read　it　without　a　dulcet　ecstasy　creeping　along　his　backbone
  and　quivering　in　his　marrow。　　There　is　no　need　to　say　that　this
  poem　is　genuine　and　in　earnest；　for　its　proofs　are　written　all
  over　its　face。　　An　ingenious　scribbler　might　imitate　it　after
  a　fashion；　but　Shakespeare　himself　could　not　counterfeit　it。
  It　is　noticeable　that　the　country　editor　who　published　it　did
  not　know　that　it　was　a　treasure　and　the　most　perfect　thing　of　its
  kind　that　the　storehouses　and　museums　of　literature　could　show。
  He　did　not　dare　to　say　no　to　the　dread　poetfor　such　a　poet
  must　have　been　something　of　an　apparitionbut　he　just　shoveled
  it　into　his　paper　anywhere　that　came　handy；　and　felt　ashamed；
  and　put　that　disgusted　〃Published　by　Request〃　over　it；　and　hoped
  that　his　subscribers　would　overlook　it　or　not　feel　an　impulse　to　read　it：
  （Published　by　Reque