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the city was so immensely populous that it contained no less than six-score thousand persons who were so young that they could not discern between their right hand and their left hand, and also much cattle. Other examples to the same purpose might be brought forward, if necessary; but this may suffice.

stated fast-days, to which they most religiously adhered. || lamity which was thus averted, when we reflect that And in modern times the same may be said of the Bramins and the Chinese and numerous other nations that have never been favored with the superior blessings of Christianity. And, in addition to all this, we are told that so much importance was ascribed by Mahomet to the observance of the duties of this description, that he was accustomed to say that fasting was the very gate If, then, solemnities of this kind may be rendered of religion, and that the fragrance of the mouth of him so highly beneficial to those who observed them, how that fasted was more grateful to God than that of musk. important is it that we should distinctly understand We mention these examples to show, that when the with what spirit, and in what particular manner they human mind is not entirely destitute of a sense of re- ought to be attended to, that God himself may condeligious obligation, it is naturally led to express its sor-scend to look favorably upon them, and to crown them row, in times of great public distress, by having re- with his heavenly bendictions. course to such solemn exercises as those in which the people of this country are now engaged. And I am strongly inclined to believe that no one, that is not a professed or practical atheist, can look upon such a scene as this with indifference, or sullenly refuse to participate in those acts of piety and patriotism by which it is characterized.

From a careful examination of the sacred Oracles, we may safely conclude that the duties appropriate to such a day as this are the following: First, abstinence from food, as far, at least, as the state of our health will permit; secondly, devout and penitential confessions of our manifold sins and transgressions, both as individuals and as a nation, with a full purpose of mind, But when we go to the sacred Volume, that "sure through Divine assistance, to reform what is wrong in word of prophecy, unto which we do well to take heed ourselves, and, as far as possible, to use our influence as unto a light that shineth in a dark place," we are for the suppression of vice and irreligion, and for the furnished with the most conclusive evidence, that such diffusion of good morals and genuine piety throughout demonstrations of national grief are highly acceptable the land; thirdly, reverential acknowledgements of the in the sight of God, and, if performed in a proper spirit, wisdom and rectitude of the divine Being, in any afflicwill be instrumental in averting his judgments, and in se- tive dispensation that he may have been pleased to send curing a bestowment of his richest blessings upon those upon us, united with earnest supplications that his who thus humble themselves under his gracious and righteous judgments may not be continued and multiall powerful hand. A very remarkable example to this plied against us; and, fourthly, expressions of our hearteffect is recorded in the book of the prophet Jonah, in felt gratitude for past mercies, with fervent prayers that the following language: "And the word of the Lord God would graciously bestow upon us and our families, came unto Jonah a second time, saying, Arise, go unto and upon the whole country, such temporal and spirNineveh, that great city, and preach unto it the preach-itual blessings as may be most conducive to our weling that I bid thee. So Jonah arose and went unto fare, and the advancement of his glory. There is still Nineveh, according to the word of the Lord. Now another duty connected with such a day as this, which Nineveh was an exceeding great city of three days jour- I must not omit to mention, and that is, the cultivation ney. And Jonah began to enter into the city a day's of charitable feelings towards our neighbors, and, as far journey, and he cried, and said, Yet forty days, and our means will permit, and opportunity serves, contriNineveh shall be overthrown. So the people of Nine-buting a portion of our substance, for the relief of the veh believed God, and proclaimed a fast, and put on poor and the destitute. sackcloth, from the greatest of them even to the least of them. For word came to the king of Nineveh, and he arose from his throne, and he laid his robe from him, and covered him with sackcloth, and sat in ashes. And he caused it to be proclaimed and published through Nineveh by the decree of the king and his nobles, saying, Let neither man nor beast, herd nor flock, taste any thing: let them not feed, nor drink water. But let man and beast be covered with sackcloth, and cry mightily unto God: yea, let them turn every one from his evil way, and from the violence that is in their hands. Who can tell if God will turn and repent, and turn away from his fierce anger, that we perish not?" In the conclusion of this account we are told that "God saw their works, that they turned from their evil ways, and God repented of the evil that he had said that he would do unto them, and he did it not." And we may form some idea of the magnitude of the ca

The further indulgence of the audience is respectfully requested, while we offer a few observations, and only a few, upon the several topics just enumerated, the first of which we have stated to be abstinence from food, as far, at least, as the state of our health will permit. Those who are deeply and sincerely grieved, on account of any thing that may have befallen themselves, or their country, have no disposition, at such a time, to indulge their appetites to the same extent that they ordinarily do. And hence it is that abstinence from food is very properly recommended as one of those external signs by which we are expected to manifest our sorrow, on occasions such as the present. This may be done by abstaining from one or more of our usual number of repasts, in the course of the day, or by taking a much less quantity at each of our meals, than we are generally in the habit of doing. Nothing has a greater appearance of inconsistency than for a per


son to profess to be deeply grieved at any calamitous || is that our papers are filled, to an extent never before event, and yet, at the same time, to manifest as much known, with instances of the most astounding and hueagerness as ever in the gratification of his appetites. miliating frauds, both of a public and private character, But without detaining you in reference to this particular,|| plunging individuals and whole families from the most I will only add, that by restraining ourselves in this re-respectable walks of society into the lowest depths of spect, we bring our minds into a much better state for wretchedness and infamy, and illustrating, in the most serious and profitable contemplations, and thereby give deplorable manner, the truth of the Scriptural declaraan ostensible proof of our reverence for the memory of tion, that "he that maketh haste to be rich shall not be departed worth, and above all for the authority of God, innocent." And much to be lamented as are the pecuwhich cannot fail to prepare us to engage more accep- niary embarrassments of our country, I have frequently tably in the other and still more important duties to thought that these very embarrassments will be made which we are called on such an occasion as this. to operate as a salutary check upon that extravagant An idea seems to prevail with many persons that all thirst for gain, which, for the last few years, has pervathat is requisite in the way of confession, on such a ded all classes of society, amounting to little less than day as this, is, that there should be a general acknowl- a national monomania. And much as may be done by edgment, on the part of the assembled multitudes, that wise legislation on the part of our state and general they are very sinful and unworthy in the sight of God, governments, towards the disinthrallment of the counwithout adverting, even in their own minds, to their try, I am fully persuaded that still more may be done by individual or personal delinquencies. But this, my a thorough reformation in the habits of the people. Let friends, is a very great and a very deplorable mistake. industry, economy, frugality, and an undeviating morThe aggregate or sum total of our guilt, as a nation, is al integrity more extensively prevail among the people, made up of the accumulated sins of all the various in all their various professions and avocations, and we individuals of which it is composed. And, therefore, may rest assured that the times will change for the beton such a day as this, each one should enter into a ter, as if by enchantment. Here, in my opinion, is the strict and important examination of his own manner principal seat of the disease-the habits of the people; of life, with an inflexible purpose to abandon, hence- and unless there is a radical reformation in this quarforward and for ever, whatever he may find to be in-ter, it is to be feared that the wisest legislation will not consistent with his obligations to himself, to his Ma- be sufficient to accomplish an effectual cure. Retrenchker, and to that country to which he is indebted for so ment and reform are, I doubt not, as much needed in many and such invaluable blessings and privileges. the habits of the people, as in the affairs of governSuch a course as this, connected with a devout and ment; and instead of continually asking ourselves, as humble acknowledgment of our past misdoings, could heretofore, what do we want? what do we want? the not fail to secure to ourselves, individually, and to the great question should now be, what can we dispense whole nation, the benignant smiles of that almighty with? what can we do without? and benevolent Being, "whose favor is life, and whose (To be concluded.) loving kindness is better than life." But if, on the contrary, we come before him in a cold, heartless, meaningless manner, making confession with our lips, while our hearts are cleaving, every one to its own evil ways, we may rest assured that our offerings will be spurned and frowned upon, as nothing better than a solemn mockery, and will only serve to increase the black catalogue of personal and national sins that may now be registered against us in the book of God's remembrance.

ALL the poets are indebted more or less to those who have gone before them; even Homer's originality has been questioned, and Virgil owes almost as much to Theocritus, in his Pastorals, as to Homer, in his Heroics; and if our countryman, Milton, has soared above both Homer and Virgil, it is because he has stoBut when I speak of our national sins I refer more len some feathers from their wings. But Shakspeare especially to those which are the most prominent and stands alone. His want of erudition was a most happy prevalent among us, and to those also which are prac- and productive ignorance; it forced him back upon his ticed under the sanction, or, at least, under the culpable own resources, which were exhaustless. If his literary indulgence of the constituted authorities of the land. qualifications made it impossible for him to borrow from And here permit me to observe that, in my opinion, the ancients, he was more than repaid by the powers of one of the most crying sins of the nation, is an all- his invention, which made borrowing unnecessary. In grasping avarice-a morbid ambition to accumulate, all the ebbings and the flowings of his genius, in his which, with an appetite as insatiable as the grave, is storms, no less than in his calms, he is as completely constantly saying, give! give! but never says, it is separated from all other poets, as the Caspian from all enough. An unwillingness to be satisfied, as our fath-other seas. But he abounds with so many axioms apers were, with the gradual but certain and substantial plicable to all the circumstances, situations and varieavails of patient and persevering industry, but hurry- ties of life, that they are no longer the property of the ing on from one acquisition to another, until, like a des- poet, but of the world; all apply, but none dare approperate gamester, we determine to make our fortune or priate them; and, like anchors, they are secure from consummate our ruin at a single throw. And hence it thieves, by reason of their weight.-Lacon.










Mother. James, since your father has permitted you to attend the course on phrenology, I shall expect of you more close attention to your lessons to make up the time spent there. What was the particular topic last evening? Robert went, too, did he?

James. Ma, 'twas about those great lumps top o' the ears-that is, of some people.

M. Tell what the lumps mean, son.

Robert. Ma, they mean that a person's very cross and ugly humored.

M. Did they show you any lump of interrupting your brother and taking the words out of his mouth. R. No, ma, I only wanted to tell you.

M. Perhaps so, son; but it's not polite nor proper to interrupt your brother or any other person when speaking, especially in a tete-a-tete.

R. And what's that, ma?

M. I used the expression, to see if you recognized the French. Tete-a-tete means a conversation betwixt two persons only. The literal of the word means head to head, indicating a more close and interesting conversation than a more general talk, and also more impertinence in a third person to interrupt it.

J. Ma, 'twas the organ of combativeness that Mr. C. lectured about, and he says those persons are sub-into a blaze, and that is your perseverance, and your ject to anger and revenge that have the mark.

hope, and your purpose-some skill in the construction of your pile, and that is the cleverness which is always the result of sufficient attention and observation; also, docility, and endurance, and many more unshining qualities, which shall yet make a bright blaze-a fire that shall warm and cheer yourself, and extend to others—

wrong which a more powerful man would throw upon a weaker one. And to the impositions, either public or private, which the rich. would put on the poor, excite him at once-the antagonist spirit moves him, and he claims, by the force of nature, to be their defender and their advocate. This he can do in his profession, without the imputation of impertinence or intermeddling. His earnestness and quick conception of wrong, which, in phrenological language, is called combativeness, makes him eloquent and convincing. He is admired and respected, and he gains a great many suits.

R. O, how I wish I was a grown man, and had a profession!

M. What, to show out and be admired, hey, son! R. O, mother, no! to help. Hav'n't I been well educated?

considered him a very fine, amiable man.
J. O! yes, ma, so he is. Ponto is very fond of him,
and often the kitten sits on the arm of his chair, and
he lets her stay; and he is kind to all the boys, too.

M. Still he has large lumps above his ears, has he? that's conclusive, is it, Robert?

R. Well, ma, what else shall we make of it?

M. I tell you, Robert, it is conclusive, perhaps, that by nature he is quick of anger, and inclined always to resent; but mark me, both of you, it shows, in connection with the outward character, the effect of education in managing and directing the strong points of nature. Mr. Pleadwell has naturally the disposition which you mention, but he gives his reason the first place in his mind; and whilst piety directs his soul, that shows him what use he can make of these strong tendencies. Instead of being a ruffian and a bravado, Mr. Pleadwell is liked and valued for his justice and goodness. He is a lawyer, you know, as well as your teacher of logic. And in his profession he illustrates himself. He is not cruel or malignant, even to the smallest animals that can make no resistance. But he is keenly alive to the

M. Yes, son, so far you have; and I am happy that you intend to respect your education. If you choose to do it, after a good many years of study, you may do as well as Mr. Pleadwell, and be as much regarded.

R. Could I? O, mother, is it possible!

M. And what did you think about it?

R. Please, brother, let me speak. Ma, when we went to the logic lesson, I looked all around the room, and Mr. Pleadwell, the tutor, is a very bad, spiteful man. J. Why, brother?

M. Not so fast, Robert. I thought you and James will surely make it, if rightly evolved.

M. Yes, I know you could; but it depends altogether upon your own efforts. You know I always tell you all our strength is in God, and we have it for the asking. At present you compare with Mr. Pleadwell only in capability, and that, though you cannot do without it, is almost the least thing in education. It is but the spark of fire to combustion. What is that, unless you have the fuel which piles the hearth-that is, your intellectual industry, your lessons-and the activity which blows it

R. Mother, don't we earn every thing we have?

M. Yes, son, our physical life is provided for by the necessity of its own condition. But every thing that is left to our own choice-all that is desirable in life, we do earn; and the occupation of earning it is almost the best part of the gift. But God gives us all the materials, and if we are not obstinate and willful, he shows us how to use them all this of his free and excellent grace, only requiring us to live in this world, as if we thanked him for them.

R. Mother, I love to talk with you-I mean for you to talk to brother and me.

J. But, ma, Robert has beautiful lumps on his head, hasn't he? I hav'n't got any, have I?

M. No, little son, you hav'n't; but I care more for lessons than for lumps; and if you are bidable and diligent, you shall be just as smart a man as your brother. You know that if you can do all that he can do, you may be as smart, though your head be as prominent as the camel's back. But it is time to go to school; and if you do well all day, we shall feel very happy this evening when we again talk together.





On a late visit to the east, being detained a day or two at Boston, and being tired of the heat and dust and noise of the city, I made an excursion to Mount Auburn, the city of the dead. The distance from Boston is about five miles, through a succession of villages of the New England style, with their neat shaded streets, fine gardens, white cottages, and steepled churches. The most important village on the way is Cambridge, the seat of the venerable Harvard University, rich in the associations of the past. About a mile west of Cambridge I came to a large gateway, opening into a beautifully wild and romantic inclosure, containing about one hundred acres. Over the gate is written in conspicuous characters, these words: "Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it." Entering by the gate, I passed down an avenue between rows of pines and firs, to a small lake bordered by willows. Leaving the lake, I passed on a few rods, and saw before me a natural mound, surmounted by a neat monument of very beautiful Italian marble. Being the first monument we meet on entering the Cemetery, it naturally arrests attention and excites curiosity. We readily suppose it may in many words record the history, describe the character, and extol the virtues of him who sleeps beneath. On approaching, however, this beautiful monument, I found inscribed on it but a single word-the name of the philosopher and philanthropist, who came from a far country to visit our own fair land; who died here suddenly, far from his home and his friends, and for whom strangers had made a grave in this beautiful spot. It was SPURZHEIM. How expressive appears that simple inscription, that single word, Spurzheim. His name alone is sufficient to recall to the mind the history and the virtues of that great and good man, who held so distinguished a rank in philosophy. At the invitation of his friends and admirers in America, he had left his native land across the ocean, bringing with him a reputation as a lecturer on science and philosophy, such as few men had ever attained. He had been in this country but a few days when he fell ill of a fever, and died amidst the regrets of all who had ever heard his name. The following lines, written for the occasion by the Rev. Mr. Pierpont, were sung at his grave. "Stranger, there is bending o'er thee

Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who that knew thee can forget?

Who forget what thou hast spoken?
Who thine eye, thy noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,

In the greatness of thy fame. Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither, On the place where thou shalt rest; 'Tis in love we bear thee thither,

To thy mourning mother's breast. For the lessons thou hast taught us, For the charm thy goodness gave,

For the stores of wisdom brought us, Can we give thee but a grave ?"


Leaving this spot, I passed on over the grounds, Avenues and paths intersecting each other at various angles run in every direction over this city of the dead. Their names are derived from the vast variety of trees and shrubs with which nature has adorned this remarkable spot. There is Larch Avenue, Beech Avenue, Oak Avenue, Hazel Path, Catalpa Path, Jasmine Path, Hawthorn Path, Vine Path, Iris Path, Linden Path, and so on through all the vegetable vocabulary. Of all places I ever visited, this is the most remarkable for its diversified surface, and for its variety of vegetation. There are hills, vallies, horse-back ridges, lakes, glens, dells, and brooks, of every possible shape and variety. On the small space of one hundred acres may be found growing spontaneously nearly every variety of tree, shrub, and wild flower common in the north, with most of the exotics cultivated in the gardens of the vicinity. The mingling of wild and cultivated shrubbery, of indigenous and exotic flowers in so rural and romantic a spot, produces a fine effect. I ascended a hill which commanded a view of the grounds, and much of the surrounding country. Here you may see, through the openings of the trees, Cambridge, Brighton, Brookline, Charlestown, Roxbury, Dorchester, and I know not how many more of the beautiful villages in the vicinity of Boston, and beyond them the towers and steeples of the great city itself, with the blue waters of the ocean stretching away in the distance. Looking west you may see the green fields, and orchards, and gardens, and white farm cottages, which form so distinguishing a feature in a New England landscape. The scene was enlivened by the cheerful sounds of melody which nature was pouring forth from the forest, the earth and the air. The robin was practicing his plaintive song from the top of a beech-the wren was twittering by her nest in a hollow stump-the cuckoo was uttering her monotone at a distance—the sparrow was adding her modest notes to the general symphony-the bobolink was fluttering round full of music, and the northern mocking-bird was imitating them all from a willow by the brook. To this was added the chirp of the cricket in the grass, the ceaseless hum of the bee in the air, and the sighing of the summer wind through the pines. It was a lovely summer day as I stood on this hill, and cast my eye over this scene of beauty, and listened to these sounds of nature mingled with the faint hum of the distant city. The interest of the scene was heightened by the associations of the neighborhood. I was in the early home of the pilgrims. I could almost step on the rock of Plymouth where they landed. Harvard University, founded by them, was in plain sight. So also was Bunker Hill, of glorious memory. Lexington and Concord were close at hand. In the midst of so much beauty, and so many associations of the past, I could hardly believe myself in the city of the dead. But a glance through the trees exhibited in every direction the monuments which the living had erected over the departed.



The ground is laid out in lots of sufficient size for|| of their teacher—one erected by the ladies of a neighcontaining the graves of a family. The proprietor, boring town over their pastor-one to Hannah Adams each for himself, incloses his lot with an iron fence, and by her female friends-and one by the Massachusetts ornaments it with shrubbery and flowers. In the centre Agricultural Society to Thomas G. Fessenden, who has of the lot is a monument on which are inscribed the done more, perhaps, for the promotion of scientific agrinames of those whose graves are made in the inclosure. culture than any other man. There is great variety exhibited in the style of the monuments, each proprietor consulting his own taste. Some are of marble, some of sand-stone, and some of granite. Their shapes and sizes vary, some being plain and neat, others gorgeous and extravagantly expensive. Some of the inscriptions are simple and beautiful, others labored and in bad taste.

Though nature has formed this place the most variedly beautiful that can well be imagined, and the resources of ancient and modern taste have been freely expended in adding to it the decorations of art, yet I would not desire to be buried here. There is too much pomp, and show, and circumstance about it. There is an apparent effort to carry the artificial distinctions of this world to the grave. Let me not be buried in so public a place, 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 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 grave-yards of New England. You will sometimes in traveling through the country unexpectedly pass a grave-yard, 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. You 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 memory will long be cherished. I noticed particularly a neat little monument erected by the scholars of one of the Boston schools in memory

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 cannot 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. He died in the vigor of youth, before the public had fully learned or appreciated his worth. May our young men imitate his virtues.

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.

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