There is something very touching in the deaths of little children, but many consolations grow like sweet flowers from their graves. In the Rev. R. C. Waterston's essay on this subject, he says with equal truth and beauty, 'It is worthy of remembrance that children who are taken away by death, always remain in the memory of the parents as children. Other children grow old; but this one continues in youth. It looks as we last saw it in health. The imagination hears its sweet voice and light step, sees its silken hair, and clear bright eyes, all just as they were. Ten and twenty years may go by, the child still remains in the memory as at first-a bright, happy child.'

On little Emily's' tomb is the following verse:

'Shed not for her the bitter tear,

Nor give the heart to vain regret ; 'Tis but the casket that lies here;

The gem that filled it sparkles yet.'

I am a great admirer of simple epitaphs. In an old churchyard in South Wales, I once met with one on a simple stone, which affected me deeply. It told more about the parents' sorrow for their lost infant, than the

most labored epitaph could possibly have done. In the old quaint spelling, on a plain slab, was carved in rude letters only the words

'Weere Childe!'

What could be more pathetic, excepting perhaps the following, which I saw in Kensal Green Cemetery, in the Harrow Road, London

"TO THE MEMORY OF LITTLE Kate.'

At the Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, I also noticed one of those touching inscriptions. A white marble slab has on it a simple word,

'WILLIE.'

That was all-it told plainly enough to thoughtful hearts, that bright, golden-haired, wee WILLIE,' in spite of love, had gone down in life's young spring, to darkness and the worm.

There are many plots of ground laid out which are as yet untenanted-many sepulchres built whose portals have not as yet opened to receive the silent guests. I looked into one of these latter, and actually shuddered as I beheld the brick recesses all in readiness to receive those who were now living, healthy, life-enjoying people. There was a wealthy looking personage giving directions about the structure as calmly as if it had been a grotto. He entered the gloomy place, examined the brick-work, made business-like remarks upon the mortar, and actually measured one of the coffin recesses. It was his own family receptacle. The bare idea of the spot where I may be deposited after death is horrible to me, and how any one can criticise the cavern of mortality I cannot imagine. I

have, and always have had, more horror of the grave than fear of that which will compel me to become its tenant.

Here is a noticeable monument- an elegant but plain oblong marble sarcophagus, erected, I am informed, at the expense of Hon. William Sturgis, of this city. There is no labored epitaph upon it; no foolish attempt to laud the unconscious sleeper below and it is well. Nothing excites my contempt more than those graven and gilded sentences sometimes to be found over rich men's graves, and which make their subjects seem almost divine. The name of‘SPURZHEIM' is the only inscription on the beautiful and beautifully situated monument.

This true Philosopher, and really great man, needs no eulogy of mine. His name and fame is world property. Far from home, but surrounded by friends, he drew his last breath in the neighboring city, whilst engaged in the search after Truth. A worshipper at the shrine of Science, he persisted in the ardor of his devotion until he sank a martyr on its altar.

'From the bright home that gave him birth,

A pilgrim o'er the ocean wave,

He came, to find in other earth,

A stranger's grave.'

Near Spurzheim's monument is one of those emblems, now so common in our cemeteries, of death in youth, a broken shaft, and I know of few more graceful and appropriate; but unfortunately, so many bereaved friends have chosen this style of monument, that its very commonness detracts from the impressiveness intended to be produced. One or two emblematic memorials of this kind, are quite enough in a cemetery, for where there are many they do

not group well, and a stiff and formal effect is produced. The one I now particularly refer to is exceedingly well executed, and bears the name of Mary A. Coleman. On three sides of the base are some elegiac lines.

On the brink of GARDEN POND, a quiet and lovely spot, is a plain Sarcophagus, of freestone, with the name of WILLIAM GALLAGHER inscribed on it. It seems to have been erected by some friends, who although connected with him by no ties of kindred, loved and honored him.' Some well meaning but indifferent lines, eulogized

the deceased.

Let us set down for awhile, and beneath the grateful shadow of these trees, read the THANATOPSIS. It is just the place to peruse that fine poem of the first Poet of America William Cullen Bryant! for

S

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware.'

6

But we have much yet to see; many a grave is yet unvisited many a record of the lost and the loved, yet unread. Let us move onward through these verdurous glooms' and amidst the foliage, where monumental marble gleams with lustrous purity, in search of eloquent teachings; and, by the time we have, through circuitous paths reached the Egyptian gateway, we shall have gathered sufficient material for the conclusion of this reverie at MOUNT AUBURN.

A VISIT TO MOUNT AUBURN.
[CONCLUDED.]

'Here the lamented dead in dust shall lie,

Life's lingering languors o'er, its labors done,
Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky,
Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.

Here the long concourse from the neighboring town,
With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in,
To lay the lov'd in tranquil silence down,
No more to suffer, and no more to sin.

And in this hallowed spot, where nature pours
Her sweetest smiles from fair and stainless skies,
Affection's hand may strew her dewy flowers,

Whose fragrant incense from the grave may rise.'
WILLIS GAYLORD CLARKE.

SOMEWHAT refreshed by a short interval of rest, let us resume our wanderings amongst the tombs, and read on the various monuments, Mortality's title page-the history of life written in but two chapters BIRTH and DEATH!

Gleaming in all its lustrous purity through the light foliage, rises a tall marble obelisk, on whose shaft are carved floral emblems, and the names of four individuals, Lieut. Underwood, Midshipman Henry, and Messrs. Reid and Bacon. It is a monument without a tomb, for those