Chapter IV: The Grave Yard (8)

Yet, was she ever modest and unassuming. She was far from that vain haughtiness that is the common characteristic of narrow and superficial minds, and which, too often, displays itself in persons of cultivated intellect, where there is not a corresponding goodness of heart. It seemed to be her aim to render those with whom she associated, pleased with themselves rather than to impress upon them a sense of her own superiority. This trait in her character had in it nothing allied to sycophancy, which quickly disgusts persons of sense and refinement; neither did it originate merely in the desire to please, but had its source in an inherent principle of her nature, which prompted her to seek to promote the happiness of others.

She possessed an intuitive knowledge of human nature, which, together with her extreme delicacy, with regard to the feelings of others, formed the keystone which unlocked to her the secret recesses of hearts, which, to a less careless observer, would have been veiled in impenetrable coldness and reserve.

In early life she had given her heart to the Saviour, and had consecrated herself to the service of God; and she sought to follow the example of the meek and lowly Jesus.

The poor, the sick, and the sorrowful, were objects of her peculiar care and attention. Many a poor, crushed and broken-hearted being, borne down by poverty and affliction, was made glad by her sympathy and kindness. She possessed that sweet, graceful way of offering a benefit which rendered a favor from her doubly acceptable. Among the gentlemen of her acquaintance, there were many who, fascinated by the charms both of her mind and person, sought to win her heart, but of all her numerous admirers, there was but one whose affection was reciprocated, and that one was well worthy the love and confidence of such a being as Annie Howard. He possessed those noble qualities of heart and mind which command the admiration of the great and good, and which render man, in the true sense of the term, the noblest work of God. Gifted with strong powers of mind, which had been disciplined by a thorough education, possessing principles of the strictest integrity, and an elegant and prepossessing exterior, he was beloved and esteemed by all who knew him. He was a physician, and had the reputation of being a skilful practitioner. He had resided in the same village with Annie some two or three years, and being of congenial dispositions, and thrown much into each others' society, a strong attachment had sprung up between them, which was sanctioned by the friends of both parties.

But brilliant intellect, beauty of person, sweetness of disposition, goodness of heart, nor love of friends could save her from death's relentless dart. In her case, the words of the poet Wordsworth were verrified,

"The good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket."

Ere nineteen summers had passed over her head, consumption had fastened upon her vitals. At first the symptoms were so slight that her friends felt little alarm, but soon the hollow cough, which sounds so much like a funeral knell, the unnatural brilliancy of the eye, the hectic glow upon the cheek, and the short, labored breathing, told but too plainly that death was not to be cheated of his prey. It has been said that death loves a shining mark, and it is true that he often passes by the loathsome form, shriveled by age, and want, and lingering disease, to feast upon the sparkling eye, the ruby lips, and glowing cheek of youth and beauty.

Annie soon became fully sensible that she was not long for this world, but was perfectly calm and resigned. She possessed that hope that alone can sustain the soul in sickness and suffering, when we feel that our hold upon earth is each day growing weaker, and eternity, vast, boundless, with all its untried scenes, with all its deep mysteries, and overwhelming interests, lies stretched out before us, when the soul feels that it must soon be called upon to enter upon those untried scenes, and to fathom the deep mysteries of that endless existence, and that it must go alone and unattended into the presence of its Maker, there to render up its account. She felt that, although she was unworthy of God's favor, yet Christ had shed his blood for her, and she trusted that her sins had been washed away by that blood, and her soul made meet for the heavenly inheritance. She strove to console the grief of her parents, who were almost heartbroken at the thought of parting from their child. She pointed them to that home beyond the grave, where they should be reunited never more to part; never more to suffer pain, or sorrow, or care; where tears are wiped from all eyes, and the ransomed spirit will be permitted to join with the heavenly host in singing praises to the Redeemer.

She bore her sufferings with sweet resignation. As her bodily strength failed her mind seemed to expand, and her intellectual powers to grow higher. Her love of the beautiful seemed also to increase. The deep blue sky, when studded by a countless host of brilliant stars; the soft, fleecy clouds when reflecting the gorgeous hues of sunset; the music of the birds; the whispering of the breeze, making mysterious melody as it mingled with the rustling of the leaves; these, with a thousand other sweet but incomprehensible charms of nature, seemed to form the link that bound her soul to earth.

Gradually her strength failed; each day her fragile form became more attenuated, and her thin hand more transparent. There was nothing terrible in the approach of death. Nothing that was revolting to the most sensitive mind; but when we were summoned to stand around her dying bed, there was something so calm, so heavenly, so peaceful, in the expression of her countenance, that we all felt that it was indeed a privilege to witness the departure of her soul to the world of spirits, and we involuntarily exclaimed, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."

We All Do Perish Like the Leaf.

One rosy cloud lay cradled
In the chambers of the sky;
Rock'd gently by the autumn winds,
As they came sighing by;

Touching, oh, so lightly,
Each leaf on ev'ry tree,
Yet wafting them in tinted show'rs,
O'er mountain, hill, and lee.

For autumn's chilling finger
Has touch'd them, by decay;
And now the slightest zephyr's wing
Bears their frail form away:

And strews them o'er the barren glebe,
In withered heaps to lie
The sport of many a wintry storm,
As it comes surging by.

So man, with earthly honor,
Stands proudly forth, to-day,--
To-morrow Death's untimely frost
His glory sweeps away.

And down in Death's dark chambers,
With folded hands he lies;
The things of earth excluded
Forever from his eyes.

Life Compared to the Seasons.

Loud blows the stern December blast;
The snow is falling thick and fast;
And all around so cold and drear,--
Proclaims the winter of the year.
Touched by the finger of decay,
Summer beauties passed away--
Her fragrant flowers forgot to bloom,
And slept within their winter tomb.
The butterfly, that airy thing,
That floated on its gilded wing,
And birds that with their music rare,
Warbling filled the summer air;
Dewdrops that gemm'd the morning flower,
All--all were pageants of an hour,--
The trappings of a summer day,
That sank with her into decay.
But though bleak winter reigns around,--
Nor fruit, nor flower adorns the ground,
We know that Spring will wake again
All the pageant Summer train.
And Winter has its store of mirth,
Its studies and its social hearth,
And by nature seems designed
To elevate the human mind.
The seed committed to its trust
Will not decay, and sink to dust,--
It will not with the summer die,
And dormant through the winter lie;
But ever fruitful, it will be,
Even through eternity.

Writing Composition.

Well, here I am, sitting down with inkstand, pen and paper all before me, to write a composition. And what is composition? It is thought drawn from the resources of the mind, and portrayed upon the unsullied page. The mind, that mysterious, unfathomable, undying, immortal part of man; that immaterial essence, which contemplates upon past and future scenes, from which emanates all our thoughts and passions--and all our happiness or misery. If we would have our composition correct, the mind must be well cultivated, for that, like a well cultivated garden, will produce fine fruit and beautiful flowers, where no noxous weed should be allowed to intrude, or delicate plant wither and die for want of culture. The mind should be strengthened and nourished by solid reading, well digested. The rich volume of nature lies open before us, where all who will read, may improve the intellect.

Do we seek for the beautiful? we see it around us in the gently sloping hill, the verdant vale, the fragrant flowers, and the whispering rill, and the ten thousand varied beauties with which nature is decked. Or seek we for the sublime, we must contemplate the whirlwind in its fury, the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep toned thunder, reverberating peal on peal, the mountain torrent, dashing down the stupendous height, and hurrying to embosom itself in the ocean below; or the forest, standing unbroken in its silent majesty, till the thoughts instinctively rise from the sublimities of nature, to nature's God, the maker and former of them all.

Composition is said to be the index of the mind, if so, how necessary it is that there should be no improper word or idea expressed, no blot or tarnish should be upon the fair page; how chaste and elegant should be the diction, how pure and refined the idea, how simple and concise the expression. It should be like the glassy lake that reflects an unclouded sky--the mirror of a spotless mind.

Lines, Written in Answer to the Question "Where Is Our Poet?"

Ask you for the poet lyre?
What can touch his soul with fire,
When from ev'ry passing cloud
The storm-king whistles shrill and loud,
And nature shrieks her requiem wild,
O'er summer, her departed child.
When through the shortened winter day
The languid sun sheds sickly ray,
And struggling moonbeams seem at most,
Dim meteor forms of Ossian's ghost.
Then shall not I, a feeble maid,
Of the Muses be afraid?
When poets sleep with talents fine,
Shall I approach the "sacred Nine?"
But when I heard the vesper bell
Mournful peal its sad farewell;
And murmuring through the evening air,
Echo only answered, "where?"
I thought I'd chase my fears away,
And conjure up a simple lay.
Ye poets who have talents ten,
Excuse the errors of my pen;
The best I could do I have done,
For reader I have scarcely one.

My Husband's Grave.

In looking over the foregoing pages, I feel that sad indeed have been my wanderings in the shady paths of life. The aged friends of my childhood have been buried over again. The last sad parting from many dear friends has been noted down; the deaths of sister, brother and mother, have been noticed in sad rotation; grand-children have sprung up, beside the way, flourished for a little season, then faded like the pale, withering leaves of autumn, and passed away from earth forever.

O, Memory, thy garland has indeed been entwined, with many a withered flower, whose leaves though faded, emit a sweet fragrance to the heart, and lead it to a purer, holier trust in heaven.

But there is a deeper shadow, a gloomier shade, a sadder spot upon earth, than we have yet visited. It is the recently made grave of my husband--the father of my children, who passed suddenly away, leaving his afflicted family, bereft of his counsel, his watch care, and his support.

As I stand in this sad spot, and gaze upon that lone grave, with tearful eyes and a bursting heart, memory comes like a tide, throwing over my soul the remembrances of the many--many years we have journeyed on together, since our first acquaintance in academic halls (for our intimacy first commenced in school), and all the sad loneliness of the present presses like a weight upon me, crushing me to the earth, and obscuring all the sunshine of earthly bliss.

How sad and desolate is the home from which some loved one has been borne suddenly away, with the firm assurance that "the places that once knew them shall know them no more forever."

The vacant seat at table, the return of their usual hour of arrival, all places and all things remind us of the departed one, and bring up harrowing remembrances of the past, that add deeper pangs to our sorrow, and fill our hearts with more unendurable anguish, and suffuse our cheeks with more scalding tears, as the stern reality presses upon us, that it always must be thus.

Companion of my youth, can it be possible thy manly form is hid beneath this grassy mound at my feet? that I never again shall hear the sound of that voice, whose endearing tone won me to thy side, to unite my destiny with thine, and float with thee over life's tempestous ocean?

Rough, indeed, has been the passage, and many the adverse storms we have encountered, during our thirty-two years companionship, and now, way-worn and weary, the grave--the greedy grave claims thee for its occupant. How sweet is the assurance "that the graves shall give up their dead, and this mortal shall put on immortality." Yes, this dear dust shall rise again, and be clothed in undying youth.

O, how stealthily the stern messenger came, laying low the form of the strong man, ere we were aware of his danger. One week--one short week, and yet to him a week of agonizing suffering, and all was over. Yet, in that week, what a volume might be written, of deep, intense thought and feeling, of fervent prayer and supplication, and tearful, childlike submission to the divine will. Might be written did I say? Is it not written--even in the book of God's remembrance? Neither sigh or tear were unnoticed, or prayer unheard, by that God who careth for us, and numbereth the very hairs of our heads. How often the prayer ascended from the lips of the dying man, "O my Father, help me in this my extremity," and it was indeed his hour of extreme necessity, for he was wrestling with his last enemy.

A smile sat upon his countenance, even while struggling for that frail life that was so soon to end, and it is now very evident to those that were in attendance upon him, that he was more fully aware of his situation than they. Every arrangement and every observation plainly shows now that he had little, if any hope of recovery.

But still the attending physician spoke very encouragingly to him, and to others, and so we hoped and believed he would yet be well.

He was grateful for every attention. Ere the disease (which was pneumonia) assumed its most fearful aspect; a daughter, who was watching by the bed, hearing him whisper, thought he was addressing her; but bending over the pillow, she heard him say,

"Oh, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me."

Then raising his clasped hands, said, fervently, "Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done." Towards morning, reason became dethroned, and the bewildered imagination wandered in the land of shadows. There was an extremely anxious expression of countenance, and he would look earnestly upon his attendants, as though he thought we could relieve him. He was incessantly springing from his bed in his struggles for breath, and trying every new position that the extremity of his case could possibly suggest, but all to no avail.

But why dwell upon the fearful scene? We have seen the little child contending with the strong arm of the destroyer, and felt it was a fearful thing for it to yield up its little life and pass forever away from earth. But when we see the strong man cut suddenly down, the man who has scarcely passed the meridian of life, we "feel how dreadful 'tis to die." The love of life is strengthened by years. There are cords of association binding him to it, the rolling, restless tide of business, with its fluctuations and its cares, sweeps over him, and seems binding him to earth. The love of children, for whose welfare a kind father has so long been mindful, and all the fond endearments of home and kindred, are so many sacred ties binding him to life. But all must be severed before the ruthless tyrant who conquers conquerers, and has justly been styled, "the king of terrors."

And so it was in this case. Nature yielded reluctantly every advantage gained by the fearful foe, 'till her energies were exhausted, and sinking down in quiet slumber, she yielded the contest without a struggle.

About eight o'clock on Thursday evening, a heavy stupor came over him, and the fearful death-rattle warned us of the approach of the grim messenger. We watched his failing breath with agonizing emotions. But we turned from him one little moment, and when we turned again, the lamp of life was extinguished. O, the fearful agonizing cry that arose by that death bed, when we realized that the husband and father had passed away, forever away. But while we wept and mourned, he slept on unheeding. Death made little change in his countenance, and when he was dressed in his accustomed clothing, and laid in his coffin, he looked like a weary man taking rest in sleep.

It was a pleasant day in mid April that we bore him to his grave, and laid him down beneath the green branches of the arbor vitae tree. How many mournful thoughts pressed upon the heart, almost crushing out the very life, as the mournful train followed him to that sacred spot. Who that has looked into an open grave, and seen the coffin of the dearly loved lowered into it, but has felt an indiscribable agony filling the heart, and blotting out all the prospect of future earthly happiness? And who that listens to the sound of the heavy, damp earth as it falls upon the coffin, but will say, "oh, has earth another sound like this?" And there we left the husband and the father reposing beneath the tree his own hand had trained, and in the yard where he had spent so many hours laboring to beautify the spot where he was so soon to lie down in his last long sleep. By his side are the graves of the two dear grand-children, who were wont to share in his caresses, and his smiles. Silent now is their greeting, as the weary grandfather lays down with them in the place of graves: But eternity! oh eternity! how is the meeting there? Have they met? There are father, mother, brothers, sister, and a long train of relatives from whom he has been long separated. Have they recognized each other? O, bewildering thoughts, be still, and cease your restless longings; "secret things belong to God," and "what we know not now we shall know hereafter." But now, while the soft winds of summer are gently sighing through the branches of the arbor vitae tree that stands at the head of the grassy mound that rises over the form of my buried husband, I see by his side, the spot where, in all human probability, this frame will soon be deposited, to sleep with him in death's silent halls, even as I have journeyed with him through life. 'Till then, let me turn to my mission, and endeavor by a faithful discharge of every duty, to prepare for that time, and strive by a holy life and godly conversation, to so influence my children, that they may all seek a city not made with hands eternal, and in the heavens. And thus shall be answered my daily prayer, that we may be a united family in heaven.

So we returned to the house beneath the mild radiance of a Sabbath sun, to experience that awful void that death makes in the domestic circle to which so many bereaved hearts can respond.

Lines, Written upon the Young Who Have Recently Died in Our Village.

Why are the young and beautiful
Call'd so early to the tomb?
Death surely loves a shining mark,--
And sweetly feeds on youthful bloom!

Go, wander in the place of graves,
When softly steals the autumn's sigh,
And on the sculptured marble read,
How many in life's morning die.

Beauty may bloom upon the cheek,
And brightly sparkle in the eye;
But soon the fatal hectic streak
Proclaims that stealthy Death is nigh.

Maria, by her mother's side,
So young, in Death's dark chambers laid,
And Lottie, soon to be a bride,
Have seen earth's fairest vision fade.

A lovely vision floating fair,
In Memory's chambers now is seen,
With sparkling eyes and glossy hair,
A radiant brow, and gentle mien.

She stole by fond and winning ways,
Into many a loving heart;
And with a sweet and childish grace,
Well performed her little part.

But death soon laid her beauty low,
Like spring flowers fading on the stem,
And, blighting all her youthful bloom,
Laid Clara, mould'ring now with them.

Dear Willie too, that child of prayer,
So suddenly has pass'd away,
And enter'd those bless'd mansions where
All is bright, eternal day.

Here, many a loving name is found,
Of those who in life's pathway trod;
Who slumber now, beneath the mound,
Their spirits summon'd to their God.

Some by long disease confin'd,
Have slowly wasted day by day;
Health, strength and beauty--all declin'd,
And Youth's bright visions pass'd away.

But wander on; the sculptured stone
In thunder tones is speaking here;
The name--the age--it loudly tells,
To eye and heart, if not the ear.

They sleep when winter's winds are loud,
And snow and sleet come drifting by;
And when light sails the rosy cloud,
And Spring's sweet gales around them sigh.

They sleep--ah, yes--that dreamless sleep,
That never shall know waking more;
They've cross'd the icy steam of death,
And pass'd unto the viewless shore.

Conscience.

Conscience, and what is conscience? Is it not that silent but powerful monitor within that weighs our every motive? is it not the small still voice that whispers its approval when we have acted right, but bursts like the crashing thunder peal or the terrific earthquake, when we have acted wrong? She stands with extended finger a silent though faithful friend, and points us onward in the plain path of duty. We have only to follow her dictates, and all will be well. But many gaudy flowers are blooming here and there beside the path, to tempt the thoughtless one to step aside and pluck; but though they are beautiful to the eye, and their fragrance borne to us by the breeze, seems to woo us temptingly, yet, concealed within their leaves is a deadly scorpion or poisonous asp, whose sting is instant death, or some, perhaps, contain a more slow and sluggish poison, that creeps into the mind, and instilling its venom by slow degrees, corrupts the whole. Conscience has well been called the tell tale of our breasts.

How does it harrow up the mind at the still hours of midnight, when all nature sleeps around, and depict crimes that no eye has witnessed but God and their perpetrators; how does the murderer toss from side to side beneath her lash, and see his victim for the thousandth time in the agonies of death; over and over again, she acts the bloody scene, and, while he turns restless and feverish upon his pillow, still holds the picture bleeding fresh to fancy's wearied gaze, and as in Macbeth, presents the dagger, while "on its blade and bludgeon are drops of blood that were not so before." Crimes of dye not so deep, are conjured up to harrow up the breast and rack the brain, and render the victim of a disapproving conscience a miserable wretch indeed.

Truly she is placed within us as a friend, warning us of danger and pressaging good. If we would listen to her dictates, we must be happy, for she never argues wrong. And superlatively happy are they who can lay calmly down on the bed of death cheered by her approving smiles, for a "death bed is a detector of the heart;" here tired dissimulation drops the mark that through life's grimace has kept up the scene.

Lines, Written in an Album.

The autumn winds are sighing loud,
And wither'd leaves come flitting by,
And slowly sails the gath'ring cloud,
Across the bleak November sky.

The flow'rs have perish'd on the stem,
Their brilliant beauty all decayed,
And many golden hope like them,
In disappointment's tomb is laid.

But yet, far sinking to his rest,
The golden king of day behold,
The crimson curtains of the west
Are richly fring'd with molten gold.

Thus brightly may your life decline,
Though youth may fade upon your brow,
May Truth and Virtue radiant shine,
E'en like yon sinking sun beam now.

Letter, from the Pen of My Husband, Now Deceased.

_Pawtucket, June_ 20, 1852.

Mrs. M. M. Bucklin:

My daughter in affliction, I would that, like Paul on Mars Hill, I could enter at once, with eloquence and persuasion, on a subject that might have the influence of restoring or bringing back your natural buoyancy and elasticity of spirit. I need not tell you that I feel earnestly, sensibly and deeply for you; and any mortal effort or sacrifice within my power should not be wanting to effect an object so desirable by your friends. But Malvina, an arm of flesh is not to be relied upon; no human ken can reach the mysterious windings and wonderful intricacies of a mother's love for her offspring. That is, as yet, the unrevealed handiwork of Omnipotence, who in wisdom conceived the beautiful mechanism, and brought to perfection the refinements of our nature; and to his almighty fiat are we indebted, both for the boon of death and the glorious hope of the resurrection. How peculiarly adapted to our consolation is the doctrine of the resurrection. The angel of mercy has withdrawn from your boson a beloved child. O, how sweet the consolation of hope through the very life-giving words of Him who cannot lie, as so beautifully and so tenderly expressed to Martha, "Thy brother shall rise again." And, my daughter, be assured that your little Emma shall rise again, for said the same Almighty Comforter, "of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Therefore it would be wise in us not to sorrow for her who is asleep. I know you believe that Jesus died and rose again. And so, also, of them who sleep in Jesus, will God bring with him.

The question by the afflicted man of Uz might once, with some degree of propriety have been asked, "If a man die shall he live again?" But we believe in the resurrection of the dead, because He who has promised is able to perform, and no science however new, nor speculation however magnificent, should be allowed to rob us of this beautiful and life-giving hope. I know that it is hard for us to concieve the mighty power of transformation or to demonstrate the great principle of a spiritual ascension from our decayed bodies, of those seraphic hosts, who are to stand as ministering angels around the majesty of Heaven, through all the never ending cycles of eternity, no matter what objections skepticism may urge of the impossibility of conceiving how the dead can be raised up to a newness of life. Our faith receives it as a revealed fact, and our hearts rejoice in the glorious hope, because we know that our Redeemer liveth, and that he will again stand upon this earth. And though these our frail bodies may be destroyed by death, yet shall we see God. Marvellous as may be the transition, at death and the resurrection, we shall all preserve our own identity, and see and know the beloved companions of our earthly pilgrimage.

Blessed be God for this sweet hope in the resurrection of the dead, that so clothes the far off and unseen world with ecstatic anticipations of the renewed presence of our friends, to whom, even in their glorified appearance, we shall be no strangers. We must not persuade ourselves that the preservation of little Emma's sacred dust is a mere tribute of affection to her memory; but rather a prophecy of that precious hope, that she shall awake from this sleep and meet us again, and that we shall know her again, and that we shall be together, and unitedly hear that voice, sublime and almighty, yet tender and soothing, saying, "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live."

The resurrection of the dead is the crowning act of the Redeemer's power, and the consummation of his work. How beautiful to contemplate the spiritual import and eternal grandeur of his mission:

"We may be blest, but Emma's glorious--
O'er all the stings of death victorious."

Dear M.M.:

"You feel like Eve, when Eden's gate
Had closed on her forevermore;--
You feel that life is desolate,
And Paradise is o'er.
No tears be yours, for tears are vain;
Your heart and not your robe is rent:
If God who gave did take again,
'Tis folly to lament.
Then drop the curtain, fold by fold,
O'er her consecrated bower;
And veil from curious eyes, and cold,
Your dead, yet living flower."

Affectionately, your

Father.

Hope.

A little skiff on time's dark stream,
With silken sail and golden oar,
Is floating like a fairy dream,
And pointing to some distant shore,
Where brighter bloom more fragrant flow'rs,
Perfuming amaranthine bow'rs.

The oar that dips the sullen wave,
Throws up some diamond rich and rare,
Striving the sinking soul to save,
From the dark shadows of despair;
And though the night be e'er so dark,
Light hovers o'er this little bark.

'Tis Hope unfurls that silken sail,
And dips her oar in life's deep tide;
And dancing on before the gale,
Throws sparkling diamonds far and wide,
And paints in brilliant rainbow dyes,
Onward to some radiant prize.

Visit to Mount Auburn.

It was a beautiful day in autumn, when the mellow sun shed his subduing rays Over the face of decaying nature, that we entered the elegant carriage of an esteemed friend, and pursued our way towards Mount Auburn, that quiet resting place of the dead.

As we pursued our way from East Boston, the water in the harbor, whitened with many a sail, sparkled in the morning sun, and glittered like ten thousand diamonds.

It was Saturday, busy, bustling Saturday, when all the world seemed hurrying on as if to make amends for any deficiency in the other days of the week.

The white sea-gulls were floating through the air, often stooping as if to dip their wings in the ocean waves, that murmured gently upon the winding shore.

There was scarce a cloud to be seen in the sky, and the calmness of nature whispered peace to the weary spirit.

As we crossed the ferry and entered the city, and witnessed the moving tide of human life that was surging through the city mart jostling against each other in their eager chase; and as we looked out upon the motly group, human life was to be seen in almost all its forms.

Wealth hung out his golden trappings, and rolled by in all the splendor of ease and luxury The children of poverty trudged on in tattered garments, stung by pinching want, bearing heavy burdens upon their heads, and weighed down by oppression.

These scenes awoke many reflections in the mind, and presented the contrast of life.

Passing through the city with its tumults and its changes, we pursued our way through Cambridge to the Cemetery.

The scenery was beautiful, and as we passed the elm tree where Washington stood to give command to his army, how many associations rushed upon the mind, filling it with remembrances of our country's early struggles.

We entered the quiet shades "where rest the dead," sleeping beneath the sober shadows of the forest trees that were scattering now and then a withered leaf upon the grassy mounds that lay at their feet. Here still, even here too, is the same contrast so visible in the moving, active life of the city.

Wealth here has the splendid monument, embellished with all the sculptor's art, while the poor sleep as sweetly beneath the simple sod.

Our first visit was to the Chapel. You are struck upon your entrance with the hollow sounds that reverberate at every footfall, reminding one of the emptiness of all earthly things.

There was a coffin within the paling, covered with a black pall, speaking to us of death and decay; but as we raised our eyes to the stained glass windows, through which the autumnal sun was pouring his mellow rays, and casting such a subdued and peculiar light upon all things in the Chapel, and saw the heavenly expression of the angels as they took their upward flight, the soul seemed big with immortality, and the Christian's hope teeming with a better life, was cheering to it, lifting it up till the things of earth looked dim, distant, shadowy.

The beautiful statue, too, touched so nicely by the hand of art, as to look like breathing marble, points the beholder upward to the skies. This Chapel, standing as it does at the entrance of the Cemetery, is well calculated to solemnize, the mind, and prepare it for the contemplations of the surrounding scene.

As we left its quiet retreat and pursued our onward way, sad thoughts came stealing over the mind, as we reflected how many aching hearts and tearful eyes had passed over that road to deposit the dearly loved, and lost in their last resting places.

How proper it seems that a navigator should stand at the entrance to pilot the way, and we can but think Spurzheim is taking his scientific observations, as his bust stands as though looking upon the passers by as they pursue their way to the city of the dead.

We passed on our way through the winding avenues, presenting their striking and varied emblems, speaking so forcibly to the mind. The white dove with open beak and half spread wing; the harp with the broken string, and the broken column, are all beautiful and significant representations, preaching loudly for the silent dust that slumbers beneath them.

As we ascended to the tower, we passed the yard enclosed with the beautiful bronze fence. Looking from the tower you witnessed life with its struggles, its comforts and luxuries; but the graves beneath us say, "we must leave all, and come and make our beds with them."

How striking is the anxious expression of the faithful dog, keeping patient watch over the grave of his young master, through summer's sultry heat, and winter's pinching cold, never betraying his trust. How beautiful, and yet how simple is the touching inscriptions, "My Father," "My Mother." Neither name or age are mentioned to the stranger, yet what a volume is spoken directly to the heart. The white lambs reposing upon the grassy mounds represent the innocence that slumbers beneath.

Many little tokens are scattered round here and there, as mementoes of fond affection. As we gazed upon the fresh boquets, wet with the dew of night, we felt that love lingered around those places, and the tears of affection often fell there.

The flowers, beautiful though they are, either at the tomb or the bridal, give us no name or trace of former days, but lay scattered round in rich profusion, telling us of love and affection that cannot perish, because they are amaranthine flowers that have their root in the mind, and bear the impress of immortality; and as we gaze upon the beautiful, either in nature or art, it becomes daguerreotyped upon the soul, and thus lives forever, coming up at the touch of memory's wand, with all the vividness of a first impression.

The forest trees standing in solemn grandeur, the winding avenues, the sloping hills, the deep dells, with the placid waters sleeping in their bosoms, with the bright red flowers contrasting with the white polished marble monuments, all conspire to render the place one of extreme beauty and interest. But when we compare this with the descriptions we have read of Westminster Abbey, covered with the mouldering dust of ages, as generation after generation has been added to it, we can picture to the imagination the change passing years will make here. The silent hand of time will steal by degrees, the freshness and beauty from the polished marble, effacing their beauties, one by one, 'till all are obliterated, and green mould and moss occupy their places, and the monument shall cease to be a memorial.

Such is time with its changes, and yet the thoughtless race of man pass on, unheeding the destiny that awaits them, slow to learn the lessons these solemn places are calculated to teach.

The birds as they sang in the branches, seemed breathing a dirge-like melody over the departed, and even their thrilling notes sounded solemn in this sacred place, so strong is the power of association over the human mind.

After spending some hours in this shady place, and drinking in its beauties and its solemnities, 'till the mind became softened and subdued by surrounding influences, we left it, bearing in the memory all the rich variety of landscape, we had been gazing on.

We visited Fresh Pond, where so many go for amusement. Thus it is ever, the living sport upon the very graves of the departed. The scenery here, though beautiful and picturesque, has not the touching influences of the Cemetery, and so we lingered not there, but returned again to the busy city to contrast its bustle, and its stir, with the deep quiet and silent shades of Mount Auburn.

Lines, From Mary to Her Father in California, with Her Daguerreotype.

Papa, I have hither come,
To cheer you in your lonely home;
No wealth of mind to you I bring,
But I would touch the secret spring
That can your best affections move,
The fountain of a father's love.
My perfect likeness here you see,
In infantile sobriety;
But then I jump, and laugh, and play,
And call on mamma all the day;
And though you distant are so far,
I'm calling ever on papa.
If I a hoe or spade could hold,
I'd dig for California gold:
Or wash your clothes--prepare your bread,
Or sweep your room, or make your bed.
But many a year must pass away
Ere I one kindness can repay;
For I can only have control
O'er the deep currents of the soul;
I feel I have a kindly part
Within many a human heart.
Should life be spared as years pass by,
To win approval I must try.
Perchance in passing o'er life's stage,
That I may soothe your weary age;
And then in part the debt repay,
That now increases day by day.
But papa, dig your heap of gold,
That we may soon your face behold;
But to be patient we will try,
One kiss, papa, and now good by.

A Reminiscence.

Early in the evening of a beautiful summer's day, I stood, with thousands of my fellow creatures, on the dock of one of our northern cities, to witness the departure of a noble steamer, which sat upon the blue waters like a sea bird at rest, freighted with the wealth and beauty of the land. The golden sun had sunk behind the curtains of the west, bathing the earth with a flood of crimson glory; and the noisy hum of busy life was hushed, as the quiet shades of twilight fell upon the tired citizens of the great metropolis.

Here and there among the crowd could be distinguished a group of kind friends, gathered around some loved companion, who would soon be

"Far out o'er the ocean blue."

Here a careless, merry set of fellows were trying, with their bright wit and lively sallies, to cheer a young companion who was about to leave the home of his boyhood, to seek a name and a fortune a far distant land.

There stands a pale, care-worn, yet lovely woman, with a tear which she cannot restrain, coursing down her cheek, as with a convulsive pressure of the hand and a murmured, "God bless you," she parts with her son. He is her only son, and she is a widow.

In yonder proud city a home awaits him, where he can earn a slight pittance, to keep them from starving.

The grey-haired sire, the blooming youth, the middle aged, are all here, parting with their friends, while yonder gay throng, with light laugh and bandied jest, are offering the congratulations and the parting salutations to a fair young bride, arrayed in all the gorgeousness of wealth and beauty.

The last word is spoken, the last fond pressure of the hand, and the last farewell kiss are all given, and amid the cheers of the multitude, and the whistle of the engine, the ringing of the bell, and the puff of the steam, the noble ship leaves the wharf, and ploughs her way on the billowy deep, and the busy throng seek their homes, their hearts beating high in anticipation of a coming day, when they shall again welcome the absent friends, scarcely a thought of pain or death mars their bright hope.

* * * * *

The hours pass on. The full orbed moon rides forth, enthroned among her retinue of stars, in a clear cerulean sky, bathing all things beautiful in a mellow light. Far out upon the blue waters rides the noble steamer, like a thing of life, leaving a long wake of white foam behind. Her numerous passengers had laid down to dream of home and happiness. The gay youth is with his companions, the poor boy with his widowed mother, the bride in the home of her youth--all are living over again the scenes that are past.

As they thus lie, lulled in security, the startling cry of "Fire! fire?--the ship is on fire!" breaks in an appalling sound on the ear. Every one springs instantly to their feet, and every possible means are resorted to, to quench the flames, but all in vain; the flames rush on, and in agony the passengers and crew await their doom. The man of God, with his white hair streaming over his shoulders, is calling upon them to make their peace with God; and anon he kneels and commends them to his kind care. The voice of prayer, the hymn of praise, the groan of agony, the silent tear, the piercing shriek, are alike in vain. The destroyer speeds on; the awful announcement is made that there is powder on board! Oh, the untold misery of that hour, as in speechless agony they watch the flames. It came at last--and with one shriek of despair, the doomed victims were hurled into eternity, and far and wide over the waters were scattered the remains of the steamer and her crew.

Morn came. The waves sparkled merrily in the sunbeams, and not a trace of the fell destroyer remains; but far--far down in the depth of the ocean, on a bed of green sea flowers, reposes the form of that fair young bride--the friend of my youth.

Letter of Resignation, from Mrs. Hanna to The Maternal Association

_February, 11th_.

Dear Sisters in Christ:

We have journeyed on together, through another year, until we have reached that elevated period, where it has been our wont to pause and take a retrospective view of the past, and lay plans for the future.

Has the progress of our Association been satisfactory? I feel, my dear sisters, that while we have some things to deplore, we have much to be thankful for. No mother has been taken by death from our circle, and we have been called to part with but one darling child; and while God has taken from us one immortal spirit to bloom in his paradise above, he has in his rich mercy bestowed upon us another to claim our sympathies and our prayers.

Another year is gone--solemn thought! As we glance at the record of its events, and contemplate its changes, we can but feel a realizing sense of the shortness of time, and the necessity of improving the present to the best possible advantage. One after another has dropped from our little circle, till we are left but few in number; but enough to claim the precious promise of the blessed Saviour, that he will be with us if we meet in his name. And, my sisters, has he not verified his promise unto us? for have we not felt our hearts burn within us, when we have knelt together before a mercy seat, and poured forth our prayers into the ear of that pitying Saviour, beseeching him to have compassion upon us and our children. Have not the hours we have spent together, conversing upon the things that pertain to the kingdom of God, and the moral and spiritual improvement of our children, been to us like the oasis in the desert to the weary traveller? and may we not look back upon them as the spots where we rested beneath the shadow of the Almighty, and drank from the healing waters of salvation. And my sisters, though we may not see the immediate results of our labors, let us rely upon the rich promises of God, that in due time the seed shall spring up and bear fruit, some ten, twenty, thirty, sixty--perchance some an hundred fold. Then let us be encouraged to do with all our might what our hands find to do.

As we see the vacancies the past year has made, we can but feel, with Job, "that when a few more years are come, I shall go the way whence I shall not return." And truly we may adopt the language of Paul, "Seeing these things are so, what manner of persons ought we to be, in all holy conversation and godliness."

My dear sisters, it now devolves upon me to resign the office necessity rather than choice compelled me to accept, and I feel that in so doing, I shall best promote the interests of the Association. I thank you for your kind forbearance toward my short comings, which have been many. I regret that I have served you so inefficiently, and hope the better offices of the succeeding year may tend to the greater promotion of the holy objects of your Association. And while we meet together, and pray together, and together wait for the harvest, may we be bound together in the love of Christ, and each succeeding year add new supplies of grace.

Yours, affectionately, in Christ,

A. S. Hanna.

Improvement of Time

There is nothing more necessary for our future welfare than the improvement of time. Our time is too valuable to be spent in idleness. If we wish to be respected, we must be industrious; and to be industrious we must know how to value our time. Every moment must be spent as we should wish it had been when we come to years of discretion. There are many things that we can busy ourselves in doing that will fill up a few leisure moments, and perhaps it will do some good. If we are poor, we can relieve our parents in trying to assist them in the daily labors and toils of life, for hard must be the lot of that toil-worn father, and care-worn mother, who have a numerous family to maintain by their daily labor, all careless and indifferent of their hardships and fatigues. If we are rich, we can make those happy around us by the thousand nameless attentions which the hand of industry alone can supply. Therefore, whatever our situation in life may be, the good improvement of our time will not only tend to promote our usefulness, but our happiness. Take for instance a man who has indulged in habits of indolence from his childhood, and see what it has brought him to. He has been in the habit of lounging about the streets unemployed, or perhaps watching for opportunities for mischief; step by step he descends in his moral degradation; vice succeeds folly, till a dark catalogue of crimes brings him to a drunkard's grave. State prison, or the gallows. While, on the other hand, take a man who has been accustomed to labor and toil for his daily food, and see how much more he is respected, and what a difference there is in the lives of those two men. The one is beloved and respected, and the other is miserable and degraded.

The industrious man begins life, and perhaps has no better prospects before him than his companion; but see how much better he ends life than the other. He begins to climb the ladder of science, and by perseverance, he will soon reach the top round, and he can not do this unless he improves his time.

We have ample proof that unless we improve our time we can not be happy or respected, and when we have a feeling of indolence come over us, we must shake it off and try to arouse our energies, and we must bear in mind that for every idle moment we must give an account at the bar of God on the judgment day, before God and man.

Lines, Written on the Death of Frank.

For their darling boy they weep,--
For their beautiful and bright,
Who sweetly fell asleep,
One mild, autumnal night,
And the wind his requiem sang,
As his spirit passed away,
From this world of toil and pain,
To the realms of endless day.

They bore him to the grave,--
To his long and silent home,
Where the trees in summer wave.
And the birds and blossoms come;--
Where the sunlight faintly creeps,
And the autumn breezes moan,
There the loved one softly sleeps,
In his chamber dark and lone.

Now vacant is the chair,
At the table and the hearth,--
They miss him everywhere,
With the voice of joy and mirth.
They seek for him in vain,
In the chamber where he lay,
Through weary months of pain,
Wasting slowly, day by day.

He sweetly fell asleep,
As an infant sinks to rest,
When sunlight shadows creep.
Along the rosy west.
Gently as falls the rose,
Fanned by the zephyr's breath,
So his eyelids softly closed,
In the quiet sleep of death.

He has gone to his rest;
Oh! weep not for the dead,--
For the loved and the lost
Let no bitter tears be shed.
We trust that he has gone.
With the glorified to dwell,
And say, "God's will be done--
He doeth all things well."

The Pleasures of Memory.

Memory is a choice gift bestowed on man. It is a boundless source of pleasure to most all persons, unless their lives have been fraught with crimes of so daring a nature, that it makes the the heart revolt at the very thought of them. It is pleasant at times to revert to the scenes of by-gone days, and recall one beloved companion and another, that have passed away, and to think of the many happy interviews we have held with them.

It is necessary for the scholar to improve his memory, that he may retain what he learns; that it may be of use to him at some future time; that he may receive the reward he has anxiously sought for. It is pleasant to the aged to recall the scenes that have long since slumbered in oblivion, and awaken from the hallowed precincts of the dead, thoughts of friends with whom they were wont to associate in their early days, and retrace the sports of their childhood, when health and activity nerved their limbs, and happiness filled their bosoms.

It is pleasant to look back upon past pleasures, to recall the beautiful scenes we have once witnessed, the smile of friendship, the tear of sympathy, the glance of affection, the tone of love, or to listen again to the thrilling sounds of soul-enrapturing music, that has once delighted us. But so varied is our pathway of life, that a thorough retrospection must ever be fraught with sad as well as pleasing reflection. Is memory thus faithful to her trust? Then how necessary that we should improve each moment, as it glides along into the unbounded ocean of eternity, that it may bear a good record to the future hour. And, O, how necessary that we should so spend our lives, that when we come to be laid upon our death-bed, in the last agonies of expiring nature, if reason does not forsake her throne, and memory still proves true to her trust, it may bring up the pleasing recollection that life has been well spent.

The Song of the Weary One.