After a number of meanderings that brought us to the same spot from whence we started, we essayed toward an object that appeared like a pyramid of fresh-blown flowers. It was the monument to the memory of 'Hannah Adams, Historian of the Jews, Reviewer of the Christian sects, &c.' It appears by the inscription that this monument was erected by her female friends;' and it is a delightful testimonial to the gratitude of those who have drunken deep at the fountain of her intellectual well-spring, and who have raised this memento, as well as a substantial memorial of the intellectual and moral worth of the subject of its epitaph. The monument had been visited early in the morning, and had been decked with garlands of flowers and willow-boughs. I could not but reflect upon the eloquence of flowers when associated with funereal emblems. Their language is almost heard in the gentle breeze that bears their fragrance to the thoughtful spectator. And here especially, amid a wide range of land cultivated only by the hand of nature, tastefully yet without formality -gathered from the gardens of a people stigmatized for worldliness and money-getting, and placed upon the monument to the 'first tenant of Mount Auburn,' they seemed to speak with redoubled pathos.

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As we stood enchained at this altar of affection, I could recount many a pleasant interview

that I had held with the aged and venerable matron in literature, whose body lay beneath it. My friend knew her by reputation, (as every American should) and was so affected by the unexpected result of his pilgrimage to Auburn, in finding opportunity to do homage to her departed excellence at the appropriate shrine, that he gathered a few fragments of the Sienite that had been hewn from the wall-stones of the tomb, and carefully wrapped them in paper, to be deposited in his collection of geological specimens not so much as curiosities, or to supply needed variety in his cabinet, as to serve as a talisman of a cherished reverence for the spot and its associations.

But a few days after, I visited the Cemetery alone. I repaired to the lonely monument of Miss Adams, and sat down upon a stone to meditate. A voice seemed to come from the marble as from a sentinel at the gate of death, whose benevolence compelled him to hold colloquy with one who had never trodden the vale which he had walked, and who wished to say something to awaken a concern for the preparation that is necessary, in order to track its avenues in peace to the heavenly Jerusalem. I listened. The sentiments uttered were those of the immortal Shakspeare, as expressed in the motto of this piece. I listened again. The trees also seemed indeed vocal. Every one partook of the general disposition to apothegmatise. There was

a melancholy pleasure in listening to many of their revelations. Many were the declarations respecting individuals who would soon repose in death beneath their shades—some high, some low, some rich, some poor, some young, and some old, some good, and some bad. Shall I tell the community who the particular persons are of whom these things were uttered? No—it is not necessary; it would not be wise. Reader! go there now, and sit where I sat. Give up yourself to the purifying reflections which will naturally arise from the scenes there presented. Mark how the predictions have been fulfilled, and see what a multitude have been gathered into the garner of death. Examine the numerous monuments that have been erected. Especially, (I trust the advice may not be deemed invidious) note those of Spurzheim, Hannah Adams, Colburn, Durgin, McLellan, and Edwin Buckingham. Read their inscriptions. Note the occasionally falling leaves, which, like the tears of sorrowing nature, descend to fertilize the verdant sod which covers these bright ones from among her noblemen. Trace out all the avenues and paths. Mark the family squares laid out for the graves of those who are now in the bloom of health. Inhale the fragrance from the leaning rose, that is just scattering its lingering petala upon the turf that covers departed worth paying its sad tribute to the hand that cultivated it. Retrace your steps.

And tell me, if, when you step over the threshhold of the gateway, you are not overwhelmed with the conviction, that one must be profited by a visit to Mount Auburn.

TO MY SABBATH

SCHOLARS.

"Without holiness no man shall see the Lord."

WHEN We have put aside, for a little time, the feverish hurry of business and pleasure with which we are accustomed to surround ourselves, and consider that the Almighty has declared that without holiness no man shall see the Lord,' it becomes us, each one for himself or herself, to inquire, ' Have I this indispensable requisite for future happiness?' 'Am I holy?' 'And were I to die to-day or tonight, have I that purity of character which entitles me to, and would secure for me, everlasting bliss and glory?'

But, alas! when we do ask ourselves such questions as these, how apt are we to mistake in the estimation of our characters. How prone we are to look around upon the circle of our acquaintance, and select one and another from their number, and analyzing their characters rather than our own, and fixing our attention upon the inferior traits, and

upon the blemishes and flaws, to console ourselves with the the reflection that we are not addicted to their vices, their weaknesses, their follies

surely, then we are in a pretty good condition. John hears Thomas tell a lie; he is startled, and has a secret conviction that Thomas is a very bad boy; but that he is himself free from such baseness. Thomas hears James swear and take God's name in vain; and this being a step beyond lying to a playmate, he forgets his own sin, and is entirely absorbed with the consideration, what a wicked boy James is. And perhaps, if we could follow this young profaner of God's holy name to his home, we should find him telling his father or mother, with expressions of astonishment, of some awfully great sin which some other boy had committed. Again; Charles, who conducts himself with the utmost decorum at home, and has always preserved a becoming exterior deportment, in his turn tells a doleful tale to his parent or teacher, about Joseph, who has, perhaps for the first time, broken the Sabbath by the crime of 'pitching coppers' during its sacred hours, upon a retired wharf, while he smothers in his own bosom the sin of wandering and loitering about, as he often does, during holy time, with the consideration that he only went to take a walk. And so I might go on and picture to you instances involving the breach of every one of the commandments of the decalogue, by little boys and girls,