nor in the crowded city, where my body, hurried by the hired sexton through the busy streets, must be consigned to the grave, where the idle passer-by may disturb the loved one, that comes at night-fall to drop the tear of affection on the turf that covers me. When I am dead, let me be borne from my cottage home on the shoulders of sympathizing neighbors to the church where I was accustomed to worship. From thence let me be carried to the rural burying-place. Let there the beautiful burial-service be said over my poor body, and a hymn. be sung by voices that have loved me. There let me rest, where the sparrow may build her nest unscared, save when the foot of an affectionate wife, or a beloved child, or a valued friend, may press down the wild flowers that grow on my grave.

There is something peculiarly interesting to me about the old graveyards of New England. You will sometimes, in traveling through the country, unexpectedly pass a graveyard, strangely populous for the place where it is located. It may be near a small village, or it may be away from the present population, surrounded on every side by a forest of pines. There lie successive buried generations. The old, dilapidated, moss-covered stones, in many a quaint inscription, tell the story of some old pilgrim of a generation long since past.

will often find in these ancient cemeteries many a name familiar to you—many a name highly honored in the history of the country-many a name that is handed down from generation to generation, associated with noble. deeds. But it is not so at Mount Auburn. You find there the names of few known to the country. There is little there to associate the present with the past. The proprietors, with few exceptions, appear to be the merchants of Boston, known only in their own business circles. There are, however, a few monuments erected

by societies and benevolent individuals over the remains of those whose memories will long be cherished. I noticed particularly a neat little monument erected by the scholars of one of the Boston schools in memory of their teacher, one erected by the ladies of a neighboring town over their pastor, one to Hannah Adams, by her female friends, and one by the Massachusetts Agricultural Society to Thomas G. Fessenden, who has done. more, perhaps, for the promotion of scientific agriculture. than any other man.

I looked in vain among these memorials of the dead for the name of one dear to myself-a name associated as it was in my mind with many recollections of the past, and with such genius and goodness as rarely fall to the lot of man-the name of B. B. THATCHER. I know not as he was buried here. I felt, however, disappointed; for I had reason to hope the world would not let such a man as Thatcher pass from among us without a stone to tell where he lies. I know not, however, but his friends interpreted literally, and sacredly obeyed his "last request," published a short time before his death.

Bury me by the ocean's side

O, give me a grave on the verge of the deep,
Where the noble tide,

When the sea-gales blow, my marble may sweep;
And the glistening surf

Shall burst o'er the turf,

And bathe my cold bosom in death as I sleep.

Bury me by the deep,

Where a living footstep may never tread;

And come not to weep

O, wake not with sorrow the dream of the dead!
But leave me the dirge

Of the breaking surge,

And the silent tears of the sea on my head.

And grave no Parian praise;

Gather no bloom for the heartless tomb,
And burn no holy blaze

To flatter the awe of its solemn gloom;

For the holier light

Of the star-eyed night,

And the violet morning my rest will illume;

And honors more dear

Than of sorrow and love shall be strown on my clay,
By the young, green year,

With its fragrant dews and crimson array.
O, leave me to sleep

On the verge of the deep,

Till the skies and the seas shall have passed away."

but Thatcher can not soon be forgotten. His genius, his modesty, his goodness, his purity of character, have embalmed his memory in the hearts of all who ever knew him.

While I was thinking of Thatcher, I wandered along over many a ridge and many a dale, and unexpectedly came upon a scene that touched my heart more keenly than any thing my visit had yet presented. On a neat little mound rested a granite slab, surmounted by a marble table, standing on four small columns. On the granite, protected from the weather by the table over it, rested a sculptured marble couch, on which was reclining the perfect figure of a child, a little girl perhaps four or five years old, with her little hands folded on her breast, in all the sweet loveliness and melancholy beauty which often so strikingly appear in the early dead. The face was apparently beautiful by nature, but rendered still more interesting by the silent beauty of death. The smile of innocence was on the lips-the smile that death could not remove-the smile that appeared as if some angel had a hand in forming it-the smile that spoke of heaven. On the monument was simply inscribed the name, EMILY. I know not when I have met with any thing that so touched my heart. The scene brought up before me the image of many a lovely one whom I had seen in youthful beauty deposited in the grave. The emotions, the thoughts of that hour can not soon be for

gotten. I lingered over the picture, nor minded the lapse of time, till the sun of a long summer day was gone down, and the shades of evening were falling around me. I looked up and found that the numerous visitors who had been wandering, as well as myself, among these haunts of melancholy interests, had all departed, and the gates were shut.

"I felt like one who treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead,

And all but me departed."

Slowly and sadly I retired. The keeper observed me approaching, and uncomplainingly, and even kindly, opened again the gate for me. Alone I returned to the city, where I arrived just as the last lights of evening were disappearing.

PROVIDENCE.

THERE is, in the constitution of the world, a wonderful relation of things, which can only be referred to Providence. The atmosphere surrounds the earth, and extends some distance from it. The water covers a large portion of its surface. Heat, drawn mostly from the sun, but modified by collateral influences, is constantly active. The combined action of these agencies induces and maintains the condition of things indispensably necessary to the existence of living beings. The absence of either of these agencies would be fatal to every man, and every animal, and every insect, and every plant on this globe. The undue preponderance of either over the others would be equally fatal. No human power could so combine these agencies, and mete out their several influences, as to produce the required result. The heat causes the winds to blow, while the winds temper and distribute the heat. The heat causes the water to rise in vapor. The air supports the vapor. The heat rarifying the air, the vapors descend in showers, tempering the heat as they descend. Thus is kept up an eternal round of action, in which each agent alternately acts on the others, and is itself acted on by each of them. It is in the managing and the controlling of these distinct and antagonistic agencies in the effecting, from their combined action, a determinate result, and in the providing against disturbances that might arise from the undue influence of any one, that we see the wisdom of Providence.

The earth, however, forms but a small part of the material universe. There are known to be, in the solar