cities, by a building called the Sarcophagus.
"Thither the corpses of both rich and poor
should be conveyed, and laid out on a metallic
tablet, which, sliding by an instantaneous
movement into a concealed furnace, would
cause the body to be consumed in the space
of a few minutes."  Like a true Frenchman,
he urges the bearing of his plan on the
interests of art, "for who would not wish
to preserve the ashes of his ancestor?  The
funeral urn may soon replace on our consoles
and mantelpieces the ornaments of bronze
clocks and china vases now found there."
"This may seem a misplaced pleasantry to
English minds," says the Edinburgh Medical
Journal, "but we cannot help being startled
at reading the sanitary report leading to
it."

The surgeon then dwells briefly on the one
valid objection to the burning of the dead.
It destroys evidence in case of secret murder.
Now, the dead speak under the spells of the
chemist. If cremation be adopted, greater
accuracy in the registration and closer
scrutiny into each doubtful case of death will
be imperatively called for.  While we write
this, a man lies sentenced to death against
whom the condemning witness was the
disinterred corpse of his mother.

The surgeon in his next chapter shows
what the pollution of a graveyard is.  Over
this familiar ground we do not follow him,
except to take up the testimony of the
French Academy of Medicine that  "no
matter from what quarter the wind blows,
it must bring over Paris the putrid
emanations of Père la Chaise, Montmartre, or
Montparnasse, and the very water which we drink,
being impregnated with the same poisonous
matter, we become the prey of new and
frightful diseases of the throat and lungs, to
which thousands of both sexes fall victims
every year.  Thus a dreadful throat disease,
which baffles the skill of our most experienced
medical men, and which carries off its victims
in a few hours, is traced to the absorption of
vitiated air into the windpipe, and has been
observed to rage with the greatest violence
in those quarters situated nearest to
cemeteries."  There need not be foul smell in
poisoned air.  The deadly malaria of the
Pontine marshes, we are reminded, blows
soft and balmy as the air of a Devonshire
summer.  In his last chapter, the surgeon
shows how cremation of the dead would give
even increased solemnity to the funeral service,
and increased truth to the words, "ashes
to ashes, dust to dust." In the centre of the
chapel used for burials, he would erect a
shrine of marble, at the door of which the
coffin should be laid—so constructed and
arranged that at the proper time, by unseen
agency, the body should be drawn from it
unseen, into an inner shrine, where it would
cross a sheet of furnace-flame, by which it
would be instantly reduced to ashes.  Within
the chapel, nothing would be seen; outside,
there would be seen only a quivering
transparent ether, floating away from the chapel
spire.  At the conclusion of the service, the
ashes of the dead would be reverently
brought, enclosed in a glass vase, which might
be again enclosed in a more costly urn for
burial, for deposit in a vault, or in a
consecrated niche, prepared for it after the
manner of those niches for the urns of the
departed which were called, from their
appearance, columbaria—dove-cotes—by the
Romans.  The ashes of those who loved each
other tenderly might mingle in one urn, if
we would say:

           Let not their dust be parted,
   For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.

There is nothing irreverent to the dead
in cremation.  Southey expressed very
emphatically why a man might desire it for his
friends: "The nasty custom of interment,"
he says, "makes the idea of a dead friend
more unpleasant.  We think of the grave,
corruption, and worms.  Burning would be
much better."  The true feeling is that with
which the surgeon ends his pamphlet, using
the words of Sir Thomas Browne: " 'Tis all
one where we lye, or what becomes of our
bodies after we are dead, ready to be
anything in the extasie of being ever."

THE LEAF.

I.

THOU art curl'd and tender and smooth, young leaf!
With a creamy fringe of down,
As thou slippest at touch of the light, young leaf,
From thy cradling case of brown.

Thou art soft as an infant's hand, young leaf,
When it fondles a mother's cheek;
And thy elders are cluster'd around, young leaf,
To shelter the fair and weak.

To welcome thee out from the bud, young leaf,
There are airs from the east and the west;
And the rich dew glides from the clouds, young leaf,
To nestle within thy breast.

The great wide heaven, and the earth, young leaf,
Are around, and thy place for thee.
Come forth! for a thread art thou, young leaf,
In the web-work of mystery!

II.

Thou art full and firmly set, green leaf,
Like a strong man upon the earth;
And thou showest a sturdy front, green leaf,
As a shield to thy place of birth.

There is pleasant rest in thy shade, green leaf,
And thou makest a harp for the breeze;
And the blossom that bends from thy base, green leaf,
Is loved by the summer bees.

The small bird's nest on the bough, green leaf,
Has thee for an ample roof;
And the butterflies cool their wings, green leaf,
On thy branching braided woof.