The picturesque pocket companion, and visitor's guide, through Mount Auburn

[83]

Monuments.

Probably one of the first objects of the stranger's attention in approaching Mount Auburn, will be the Egyptian gateway at the principal entrance. Of the design of this we have spoken before. It has met with general favor; but the material has not escaped criticism. Many persons are dissatisfied with even a good wooden imitation of stone; they would like stone itself much better; and we do not hesitate to adopt that opinion. For certain strictures on the inscription which will be noticed over the porch of the entrance, we entertain less respect. “Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return to God who gave it,” is the verse;--a selection, we need not remind the reader, from the Old Testament, and a happy illustration, it seems to us, (as has been remarked) of the fact that the holy men of old were no strangers to the consolations and hopes of the doctrine of the soul's immortality. It has been said that the inscription has not enough in it of that cheerfulness with which the christian should look to the future, and which the gospel is so eminently adapted to encourage. It appears to us, on the contrary, that the import of these words looks obviously enough to the great distinction, that while the body of man must moulder into dust, his soul shall survive the grave, and live forever. [84]

On another point, the author of an elaborate and beautiful essay in one of our quarterly publications, throws out some intimations, respecting the justice of which there may be various opinions. He suggests that the appearance of cultivated flowers in the enclosure is not at first entirely in keeping with the associations of the place. Every thing that is not indigenous to the spot, seems as though it must be of an unnatural or sickly nature. There may be some reason, he says, for placing a particular flower or shrub at the grave of a friend; but the rearing of flowers for mere ornament, or for any other purpose than the one just specified, seems like life amidst corruption, or the intrusion of art amidst the wildness of nature. Whatever exception may be taken to these strictures by any admirers of floral cultivation, controversy respecting it may well be spared, since the plan of any considerable or conspicuous Botanical establishment, to be connected with the Cemetery, (as the reader of the history of Mount Auburn will have noticed was the design,) has, as we understand, been long since abandoned.

One of the most remarkable in every respect of the monuments at Mount Auburn will be likely to attract the visitor's notice-notwithstanding the charms of sweet little Garden Pond which he leaves on his left-before he has advanced far up the principal avenue leading from the gate-way into the midst of the grounds. This is the tomb of Spurzheim ;--an elegant but plain oblong sarcophagus, erected by subscription, and bearing no other inscription than the simple name.

The location, as well as the beauty of this monument, is well adapted, as it was proper it should be, to attract [85]

Garden Pond.

[86] [87]

Spurzheim's tomb.

[89] attention. The writer whom we have already quoted thinks there is also something in its situation, between two of the walks, not far from the entrance, to excite in the minds of some a classic recollection, though more perhaps in fancy than in true correspondence with the passage in question;--referring to Virgil's Ninth Eclogue:

Hinc adeo media-est nobis via; namque sepulchrum,
Incipit apparere Bianoris.

Verg. Ecl. 9.59-60

In the minds of few observers, however, will musings of this nature be uppermost as they contemplate the resting-place of the remains of a man like Spurzheim. All who have made themselves acquainted, even superficially, with the character and career of this distinguished individual will feel, at the sight of the name on the marble, a mingled emotion of admiration and sorrow. Whether they may believe, or not, in the theory of which he was the advocate, they will not deny him the tribute due to those signal virtues, talents, and labors, whose merit was in no degree dependent on either the soundness or success of the system to which he was so much devoted. Of this, various opinions are and will be entertained, but not of his professional accomplishments, of his spirit as a philosophical enquirer, or his excellencies as a man. Many undisputed services he rendered also to the cause of science, and to that, at the same time, of humanity at large. He gave, for example, wherever he went, a fresh impulse to just and liberal views of education, and of the vast importance of its general diffusion. In all his studies, in all his pursuits, he aimed, indeed, at the utmost good [90] of his species. He was a philanthropist, no less than a philosopher,--a lover of his race. Truly was it said of him, at the time of his decease, by one who knew him well-“There was one thing which he thought most needful for us, and for all men to learn and study; and another, which of all things he deemed the most important to accomplish or to strive after. If we sum up all that he taught us of the harmony and variety of our physical organization, of the temperaments, the animal, intellectual, and moral faculties, was not all this instruction given for a single object to teach us, or rather, induce us to study, the nature of man And if we think over all he taught of education, of natural morality and religion, we find that the practical end of all his inquiries was the improvement and happiness of man.”

From the same authority we learn that, being asked what peculiar effect he thought his system had had on his own mind-he said, that without it he would have been a misanthrope; that the knowledge of human nature had taught him to love, respect and pity his fellow-beings. Those, adds this writer, who attended his lectures will never forget how his countenance was lighted up with joy whenever he spoke of a trait of kindness evinced by any being, whether he was looking up at the noble head of Oberlin, or pointing at the skull of a little dog that had been remarkable for his kindly disposition; and how the light of his countenance suddenly changed into darkness, and his voice almost failed him, when with averted looks and hand he pointed at the portrait of the man who murdered his own mother.

That this kindliness was eminently characteristic of [91] Spurzheim, is well known to all who enjoyed his acquaintance. A warm and wide-embracing benevolence was at the foundation of all his philosophy. His views were intended at least to be practically useful. Nor was it in sentiment alone that this spirit appeared. Spurzheim was not one of those philanthropists whose goodness evaporates in lectures,--who satisfy their consciences and their hearts by talking and writing, and gaining some reputation, and giving an impulse perhaps to other men. His was a character full of energy and execution. He was restless to do the good he thought of and talked of. He was anxious for actual reform wherever it was needed, and willing to lead himself in the work, cost what it might. No appeal, indeed, of any description, where the heart was concerned, was ever made to him in vain. “He always,” continues his biographer, “chose for himself, in preference, the performance of that duty which required the greater effort and self-denial. It is certainly not going too far if we say that his anxious desire to fulfil his engagements in Boston and in Cambridge, was the chief cause of his death. Though oppressed by indisposition, and contrary to the entreaties of his medical friends, he continued to lecture; and once in his last sickness, he started up with the intention to dress himself, to go to Cambridge. All who have attended his course remember the unwearied kindness with which he was wont to hear and answer any question that was put to him at the close of his lecture by any one of his hearers, even when he was quite exhausted.” It is an interesting trait, added in another connection to this account of him, that he never would allow any one [92] who was truly desirous of studying his system, to be excluded from his lectures by poverty; and was always glad in such a case to give tickets. He intrusted several of his friends, we are told, with a number of tickets for such persons as they knew to be desirous of studying Phrenology, and too poor to attend his lectures; and he added the special request that their names might not be mentioned to him, lest their feelings should be hurt by the favor he had bestowed.

We have alluded to his spirit as a philosophical inquirer. In this respect it may be that justice is not universally rendered him. It was his fortune to encounter prejudice of various kinds. Some, who gave him credit for benevolent intentions, yet considered him almost a mono-maniac, in regard to phrenology at least. This mistake arose from ignorance. Spurzheim was an enthusiast. He could not have endured or encountered a tithe of what he did but for this. A sober enthusiast, however a candid, reasonable enthusiast, he certainly was. As the grand end he aimed at was man's good, so the grand means to that end, in his estimate, was truth.

In one of his works he proposes the question, “What should be the aim of every description of study?” He answers, “The establishment of truth, and the attainment of perfection;” and he quotes the saying of Confucius, “Truth is the law of heaven, and perfection is the beginning and end of all things.” Dr. Follen reminds us of the words with which he began one of his lectures: “I do not want you to believe what I propose to you; I only want you to hear what I have to say; and then go into the world and see and judge [93] for yourselves whether it be true. If you do not find it true to nature, have done with phrenology; but if it be true, you cannot learn it one minute too soon.”

Of the particular denominational tenets of Spurzheim we are not informed, but his biographer has much to say of the general religious temper of his mind. This was infused, too, into his philosophy as well as his conduct. We are told that the great aim of all his inquiries into human nature, was, to search out the will of God in the creation of man. Obedience to His laws he considered as the highest wisdom, and most expansive freedom. In speaking of theories of man's invention, he remarked, “We say a great deal, and we think we do a great deal; we would be wise above what is given, and work upon the works of God; but it is all nothing. Thy will be done! The Father is always overlooked. We look to him perhaps amid great trials and on great occasions; but not in smaller things. We say, “they are too little.” It is this in which we err. Can anything that concerns his children, be too little for a Father .”

It is in every way characteristic of this illustrious man that while he resided in Boston, he spent a great part of his time in visiting our public institutions, our hospitals, prisons, house of industry, churches, and schools. He was also present at the public exhibitions of our university, and showed a hearty interest in every effort at improvement, in individuals and in the community. His heart was with us in every attempt at improving our laws, at keeping up the purity of morals in the community, reforming the vicious, raising the condition of the poor, and particularly in the [94] education of the young, in which he was desirous of aiding us by the results of his own observation and reflection. At the same time “his modesty and his habits of patient investigation prevented him from judging hastily of what he noticed.”

We have been led, almost inadvertently, into these sketches. The subject has a charm in it. It is the contemplation of human nature in its best estate. If any other apology than this were necessary for such a tribute, the reader might be reminded of Spurzheim's celebrity as a public man. Hence no little curiosity concerning him,--a curiosity not always gratified by an impartial statement of facts. Nor can we forget that he came among us an advocate, however mistaken, for great and sacred interests. In these he labored. To these he devoted himself as a victim. We are told that the great exertions which Dr. Spurzheim made during his residence in Boston, proved at last too powerful even for his strong and vigorous constitution, which seemed more energetic in proportion to his labors, while it was actually sinking under them. Besides his course on the anatomy of the brain, which he delivered at the Medical School, he lectured every day, alternately, at the Boston Athenaeum, and at Cambridge. His great physical and mental effort during the delivery of his lectures, was obvious from the large drops that rolled down his face, forming a striking contrast with the easy, calm, systematic, persuasive and sportive character of his delivery. But these efforts brought on an exhaustion of his system, which was rendered dangerous by his frequent rides at night, when returning home from his lectures. At one of his last lectures in Boston (the [95] beautiful discourse on charity and mutual forbearance) while he was diffusing light and warmth among his hearers, he was seen suddenly shivering. From that time his illness increased. lie grew more feverish, but he continued to lecture, contrary to the entreaties of his friends, saying, that he would not disappoint his hearers, and that the exertion would help him to throw off his indisposition. From the beginning of his course the number of his hearers had been continually increasing with every lecture; at last he exchanged his lecture-room at the Athenaeum for the large hall in the Temple. He had finished his course in this city with the exception of one; and in order to prevent any uncertainty with regard to the place where he was to give his concluding lecture, and desirous of consulting the wishes of his hearers, before he left the hall, he inquired of them, “In what place shall we meet next time?” He knew not that there was no human voice which could rightly answer that question. He returned from this lecture to his lodgings,not to leave them again.¹

And so Spurzheim was destined to end here his labors and his life together. There is something touching in the thought of his situation:

No sacred voice of Father-land,
Like home familiar sooth'd his bed,
Nor ancient friend's best welcome hand
Raised his sick head.

From the bright home that gave him birth,
A pilgrim o'er the ocean wave,
He came, to find in other earth
A stranger's grave. [96]

In his meridian blaze of fame,
With mind and heart and courage high,
Man's good his hope,--God's praise his theme,--
He came to die!

Lunt.

Such was the character of this early and most celebrated occupant of the grounds of Mount Auburn. Of his history it is proper to add something, for the satisfaction of such of our readers as may have been less familiar with it than the inhabitants of this vicinity are presumed to be. And here we shall still be indebted to his friend and countryman, Dr. Follen.

Gaspar Spurzheim was born on the 31st of December, 1775, at Longvich, a village near the city of Treves, on the Moselle, in the lower circle of the Rhine, now under the dominion of Prussia. His father was a farmer,--in his religious persuasion, a Lutheran. Young Spurzheim received his classical education at the college of Treves; and was destined by his friends for the profession of Theology. In consequence of the war between Germany and France, in 1797, the students of that college were dispersed, and Spurzheim went to Vienna. Here he devoted himself to the study of medicine, and became the pupil, and subsequently the associate of Dr. Gall, then established as a physician at Vienna, and whose attention had long before this been deeply engaged in the investigation of what was afterwards commonly known as Craniology, or the doctrine of the skull:--one of the later improvements of Spurzheim was to entitle it Phrenology, or the doctrine of the mind. [97]

It was at Vienna, in 1800, that he first attended a private course which Dr. Gall had repeated during the four preceding years, in order to explain to I. select audience his new theory. The dissection of the brain itself still remained imperfect until 1804, when Spurzheim became his associate, and undertook especially the anatomical department. From that time, in their public as well as private demonstrations of the brain, Spurzheim always made the dissections, and Gall explained them to the audience.

The great interest excited by these lectures roused the fears of the government of Austria; and an imperial decree, which prohibited all private lectures unless by special permission, silenced the two teachers, and induced them, in 1805, to quit Vienna. They travelled together through Germany, explaining their discoveries in the chief universities and cities. Their anatomical demonstrations were regarded with much applause. Their peculiar views on the connection of the external brain with the character met with many opponents. In 1807, they began lecturing in Paris, and large and learned audiences sometimes listened to their expositions. Cuvier is said to have received their system favorably at first, but to have been afterwards swayed by the haughtiness of the First Consul, who had seen with displeasure that the French Institute had awarded a prize medal to Sir H. Davy for his galvanic experiments, and at a levee rated the wise men of his land, for allowing themselves to be taught chemistry by an Englishman, and anatomy by a German.

In Paris the two lecturers began publishing. They remained in that city until 1813. The next year, Spurzheim went over to England, and thence to Scotland, [98] lecturing in various places, London included. To Edinburg he devoted seven months, the Edinburg Review having come out very strongly against him. He procured but one letter of introduction for that city, that was to the reputed author of the essay. He visited him, and obtained permission to dissect a brain in his presence. He succeeded in convincing some of his hearers of the truth of the results of his researches. A second day was named. The room was crowded, and the result, in a word, was, that the city from which the anathema had issued against phrenology, became the principal seat of it, for there, in 1820, a phrenological society was formed, (at the head of which stands Mr. G. Combe,) and there a phrenological journal still continues to be published.

Spurzheim returned, in 1817, to London, where his doctrine lad meanwhile made converts, and where be was chosen Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians. During, the three years of his residence in England, he published several works on Phrenology. I-e then returned to Paris, and resumed his medical practice to some extent. There also he married a lady, who deceased only a year or two previous to his visiting America. Meanwhile his publications proceeded.

He also visited England again, and then Scotland, in 1828. It is stated that in London (1826) when he now lectured, “not only the large lecture-room of the London Institution, but all the staircases, corridors, and passages leading to it, were filled with hearers.”

It was in 1832 he first saw America, landing in August, at New York, (during the prevalence of the cholera) whence he came on, making a brief stay at [99] New Haven on the way, to this city, with which he felt already familiar, through a number of Bostonians, whom he had become acquainted with in Europe. He intended to stay in this country about two years, to lecture in the principal towns, then to visit the different tribes of our Indians; and at last to return to Paris. How these plans were frustrated, we have already seen. He died November 10th, 1832, in his 56th year.

The proceedings in relation to his funeral sufficiently indicate the estimation in which his character was held. On the day following his decease a number ot his friends assembled to determine what honors should be rendered him. At this meeting, the Hon. J. Quincy, President of the University, in the chair, it was voted, that the arrangement of the funeral obsequies of the deceased, and of the measures proper to be adopted to express a sense of the public loss by the death of Dr. Spurzheim, and the respect entertained by the inhabitants of this city and its vicinity for his talents and virtues, be committed to the Hon. J. Quincy, Dr. Nathaniel Bowditch, Hon. J. Story, Dr. J. Tuckerman, Dr. Follen, Professor Barber, Professor Beck, Dr. William Grigg, George Bond and Charles P. Curtis, Esqrs.

Other committees, of equal respectability, were appointed, including one, consisting of Hon. J. Pickering and three other learned gentlemen, to whom all the papers and other property of the deceased were entrusted. On the 17th the funeral services took place at Park Street Church, and a Eulogy was delivered by Dr. Follen. The remains of Spurzheim were not permanently interred on this occasion, but deposited in the

“Strangers tomb,” (belonging to these grounds,) and [100] the following order taken by the Committee first above named, viz: “That a place for the permanent deposit of the body of Dr. Spurzheim be prepared at Mount Auburn, in case it should not be requested to be sent to Europe by his friends and relatives; and that a monument be erected over his tomb; and for this purpose that a subscription be opened among those who are willing to pay this tribute to his memory.” Hence the origin of the monument which has detained us so long. We may add that the Medical Association of this city voted to attend the funeral obsequies as a body, and at the same time “resolved,” unanimously, that, “we view the decease of Dr. Spurzheim and the termination of his labors, as a calamity to mankind, and in an especial manner, to this country.”

The following Ode was written for the funeral by the Rev. Mr. Pierpont:--

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 spot where thou shalt rest;
'Tis in love we bear thee thither,
To thy mourning Mother's breast.
For the stores of science brought us,
For the charm thy goodness gave,
For the lessons thou hast taught us,
Can we give thee but a grave? [101]

Tremont or strangers tomb.

[102] [103]

Nature's priest, how pure and fervent
Was thy worship at her shrine!
Friend of man,--of God the servant,
Advocate of truths divine,--
Taught and charmed as by no other,
We have been, and hoped to be;
But while waiting round thee, Brother,
For thy light-'tis dark with thee!-

Dark with thee!-no; thy Creator,
All whose creatures and whose laws
Thou didst love,--shall give thee greater
Light than earth's, as earth withdraws.
To thy God thy godlike spirit
Back we give, in filial trust:
Thy cold clay-we grieve to bear it
To its chamber-but we must.

In the immediate neighborhood of Spurzheim's tomb may be seen the monuments of “Benjamin Fiske,” and “Gedney King,” both on Central Avenue, but before advancing farther in this direction, the visiter will probably be induced to turn aside a moment to notice, at a little distance from the brink of Garden Pond, a plain modest sarcophagus of freestone, with the name of William Gallagher inscribed on it,--well known for a long period in Boston and its vicinity as the Landlord of the “Howard Street House.” He died in 1834, and this monument was erected over his remains “by a few friends who, although connected with him by no [104]

Fiske.

Gedney King.

[105] ties of kindred, knew, loved, and honored him.” On one side of the stone we read these lines-

Pause in thy onward way; one resteth here,
Who claims the simple reverence of a tear.
Single in heart, in conduct firm and pure,
Direct in purpose, in affection sure,
He graced, what few can grace, a humble path;--
This sod his body holds, but God his spirit hath.

William Gallagher.

This monument is on the visiter's left as lie walks up Central Avenue from the gateway. If lie turn aside a short distance into the thin woods on his right,--a comparatively sequestered, but highly attractive part of the grounds,--he will soon find himself in Green-briar Path. Here stands a sarchophagus marked with the [106] name of “Curtis,” and not far from this it is understood a memorial is about being erected over the remains of one, the late sudden termination of whose useful career demands from us something more than a passing notice.

James Freeman Curtis was born in Boston, the son of a merchant, well known as a member of the firm of Loring & Curtis, one of the oldest in the country. Educated in the Latin School of this city, at the beginning of the last war with England, in June, 1812, being fourteen years of age, he obtained his father's consent to enter the naval service of the United States, and made his first voyage as a Midshipman on board the frigate Chesapeake, which cruised many months under the command of Captain Samuel Evans. In June, 1813, the frigate sailed again from Boston under a new commander, the brave but unfortunate Lawrence, and was captured the same day by the Shannon. Mr. Curtis, in that bloody battle, in which the Captain, first Lieutenant, Master, Boatswain, Marine Officer, and an acting Lieutenant, comprising almost all the deck-officers, were killed or wounded, served as aid-de-camp to the Commander. He was carried to Halifax, and was one of the officers selected by the British as hostages for the lives of certain Englishmen imprisoned by our Government. Afterwards he served as Midshipman in the Constitution when, under Commodore Stewart, she captured in the same action the frigate Cyane and the Levant; he was sent home by the Commodore second in command of the Cyane, and arrived with the prize at New York. In 1815, after peace with England, he joined the fleet sent, under Decatur, to [107] chastise the Algerines, then in power in the Mediterranean. His next service of importance was as first Lieutenant of the brig Porpoise, which was ordered to the West Indies to protect our commerce from pirates. Mr. Curtis personally destroyed, by leading his men in boats up a deep lagoon at the imminent risk of his life, one of the most considerable establishments of these miscreants. After these duties were performed he obtained a furlough, and made several voyages to India and Europe in the merchant-service, during which period, as captain of a brig, it fell to his lot to rescue the lives of eight fellow-beings, left in the midst of the Atlantic, their ship having foundered.

Curtis.

[108]

Such was the activity of the youth of Curtis. Nor was it less signal in after years, though, having resigned his commission in the Navy in 1824, (at the time of his marriage) it displayed itself in another sphere of usefulness and duty. His fellow-citizens were familiar with him particularly as Superintendant of the Boston and Worcester Rail Road, in which office he remained till his decease.²

Somewhere in the vicinity of Green-briar Path, it is understood that a monument is to be erected, by the subscriptions of friends, to the memory of the late lamented Thomas G. Fessenden, author of several popular works, and for many years Editor of the New England Farmer.

Resuming now our walk up Central Avenue, and passing a monument which bears the name of “Stillman Lothrop,” we come to a handsome white marble column on the left, inscribed thus: “To Hannah Adams, Historian of the Jews, and Reviewer of the Christian Sects, this is erected by her Female Friends. First tenant of Mount Auburn, she died Dec. 15th, 1831, aged 76.”

On Beech Avenue will be seen a monument erected by “S. F. Coolidge,” with the inscription, “The gift of God is eternal life.”

On the same Avenue is Dr. J. Bigelow's,--a round unfinished column of marble, with a festoon of olive leaves hung about it near the top; and farther onward two granite obelisks, with the names of “Stone,” and “Stephens.” [109]

This brings us to Cedar Avenue, where we find the name of “Melzar Dunbar” on one stone, and that of “Lienow” on another,--the latter an unfinished column, like Dr. Bigelow's.

Stillman Lothrop.

Peacefully shaded by this oak, sleeps Eliza Ann Lothrop, who died Dec. 7th, 1835, in the 19th year of her age.

Her life was free from guile,
Her trust was in Christ.

On Poplar Avenue, the stranger's eye will be arrested by the monument of “McLellan,” railed in (as are many others) with an elegant iron fence. Among the names on the tablets, each side of the door of the tomb [110] [111]

S. F. Coolmdge.

[112] [113]

Dr. Bigelow.

[114] [115]

Lienow.

M. Dunbar.

[116] [117]

McLellan.

beneath, appears that of Henry Blake McLellan, who died in 1833, at the age of 22, to which the inscription adds that he was “graduated at Harvard University in 1829, commenced the study of divinity at Andover, spent two years at the University of Edinburg, and on the continent of Europe, in the completion of his Studies.” He returned home, but a fever closed his life in three months afterwards. The writer of the article on Mount Auburn (already cited) in the Quarterly Observer,³ alludes to him in these feeling terms:--

There is one at rest in his tomb in this enclosure, [118] who was known to a large circle of friends, and whose bright prospects were early shut in by death. Having enjoyed every advantage for the improvement of his mind, and of preparation for future usefulness by visiting foreign lands, he returned to the bosom of his family, to die. He came forth as a flower, and was cut down. Here he sleeps in the neighborhood of that seminary where he spent four of the most important years of his life, and in which he formed attachments of peculiar strength, and where he afterwards loved to come and in the spirit of faithfulness and affection converse upon subjects which had assumed an infinite importance in his mind. Should we now express for him the feelings of anxiety upon the subject of religion with which he left college, his convictions that he had not found a satisfactory and permanent resting place for his hopes for eternity, and his subsequent acquaintance with evangelical truth, and the divine Savior who is its distinguished glory and chief corner stone, we should write upon his tomb,--

I was a stricken deer that left the herd Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by one, who had himself Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts,

He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live.

The author of the Memoir of McLellan, attached to the Journal of his Travels in Europe, which was [119] published soon after his decease, states that not long previous to leaving this country he wrote, in one of his letters, the following passage in relation to the Cemetery at Mount Auburn. It is justly remarked that the coincidence of that passage with the event of his death was certainly striking; and that the sentences possess a peculiar interest, when we remember that he himself was the first member of the family laid to rest in that Rural Cemetery, and that there he is now, according to his own wish, “sleeping his long, cold sleep.”

You speak of the Rural Cemetery at Sweet Auburn. I am pleased with the project. It will undoubtedly succeed. I am happy to learn that father contemplates taking a spot there; with those pleasant places my college days are tenderly connected, and I would love there to sleep my long, cold sleep. To such a place there is a permanence which is wanting to the common church-yard; the bodies there deposited rest quietly forever; besides, to such a spot we are led by our best sympathies, to shed tears, or scatter flowers. I am glad too that my dear father is about to make arrangements for our common burial-place, that, as we have been united in life, we may not be separated in death.

The circumstances of McLellan's brief history, and still more his character, possessed such interest for all who knew him, that we feel no necessity of apologizing for borrowing from the memoir mentioned above the following lines, relating to the subject of this sketch. The reader will doubtless trace in them the pen of a writer whose productions have gained for him no little reputation:-- [120]

Soon the pale scholar learneth that the star
That lured him onward leadeth to the grave;
And that full many a dull and sombre stain,
Is with life's gayer tissues deep inwrought.
And thou, my brother, o'er thy human lore
Hast ceased to cast the student's thoughtful eye!
Thou saw'st the sparkles in life's golden cup,
And fain wouldst of its various sweets have quaffed,
But never lived to taste the poison of the draught.

I oft have sat, at that still hour, when slow
From her dim hall, the purple twilight came,
And shut the shadowy landscape from the view,
To mark the picture thy warm fancy drew
Of coming life-its triumphs and its joys.
Alas, fond dreamer, all thy earthly hopes
Are buried low beneath the church-yard stone,
The crumbling mould is now thy narrow bed,
And the tall church-yard tree waves mournfully o'er thy head.

And can it be that on life's flinty way
No more thy happy voice shall cheer me on!
Yes, the kind tones are smothered in the grave;
The gentle heart hath ceased fore'er to beat;
The healthy cheek hath lost its ruddy bloom,
And the pale brow hath yet a paler hue;
The beaming eye is darkened in decay;
And the pure breath hath left its mortal frame,
As from the extinguished hearth-stone fails the living flame!

Thy parents hoped, through many a long bright year,
To walk with thee adown the vale of time,
And from thy filial love support receive;
They hoped, around the cheerful winter fire, [121]
To hear thee tell thy foreign wanderings o'er,
By Tweed's green shores, and down the golden Rhine;
They hoped to hear their youthful preacher raise
His suppliant voice within the house of prayer,
And lead unto their God the erring sinners there.

I lately mused beside thy peaceful grave,
In Auburn's sweet and consecrated shades;
'T was Autumn, and a mellow sunset cast
Its trembling smile along the golden woods,
And silence waved her tranquillizing wing.
There rose the beech-tree in its dying pomp,
The maple and the sumach clad in gold,
The sycamore, in princely garments drest,
And the pale silvery birch, kissed by the glowing west.

As there I mused, methought how fit a spot
To rest, when life's brief fitful fever ends!
There can the living stand with chastened minds,
And, in the vast cathedral of the woods,
Pour forth their sorrows o'er the dead around.
As the dry leaves fell thickly round my feet,
They seemed fit emblems of man's dying lot;
And solemn thought of mortal's common doom
Sank deeply in my heart, beside man's silent tomb!

As long I traced the tablet o'er thee raised,
The big tear came unbidden to mine eye,
And thoughts of other times swept o'er my mind,
I thought, dear Henry, of our boyish years,
When life to us seemed all a merry day,
--One round of joy, from morn till closing eve.
Youth's rosy bloom, and childhood's gay delight,
Each careless ramble, and each rural sport,
Thronged in successive crowds, in memory's busy court! [122]

“Friend of my youth! with thee began my love
For sacred song,--the wont, in golden dreams,
'Mid classic realms of splendors past, to rove
O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams,”
Now, though thy mortal harp no more shall sound,
Nor yield response to my fraternal strain,
Yet sweet the thought, that, in a better world,
Thy sainted spirit strikes the seraph lyre
In worship of thy God, with all the angelic choir!

On one side of the marble which has led to this somewhat extended notice, is an inscription

To the memory of a much-loved Father, General William Hull, who died at Newton, Mass., Nov. 29, 1825, aged 74 years: also of an only Brother, Captain Abraham Fuller Hull, who fell at the Battle of Bridgewater, Lundy's Lane, July 25, 1814, aged 24 years.

Before leaving Poplar Avenue the monument of “Choate,” surmounted by an urn, will be noticed. In Oak Avenue we find that of “Prichard.” That of “Martha Ann Fisher” is not far distant, on Willow Avenue,--bearing the inscription, “She is not hereshe is risen.” The two next, on the same Avenue, show the names of “Williams” and “McLeod.” On the latter is the verse,

She pleased God, and was beloved of him,
So that she was translated; yea,
Speedily was she taken away.

And an inscription follows :--

In memory of Harriet D. McLeod, who died June 20th, 1834, aged 19 years, this monument of surviving affection, and of hopes long cherished, and suddenly destroyed on the eve of [123]

Choate.

Prichard.

[124] [125]

Martha Ann Fisher.

[126] [127] their fulfilment, is erected, with faith in God, and submission to his will, by her nearest friend:

She died, and left to me
This spot, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.

Next in this direction will be seen the monuments inscribed “Cushing” and “Thayer.” On the latter is an inscription

in memory of Amasa Thayer, born in Braintree, March 26, 1764, died in Antigua, Oct. 18, 1813; and of Elizabeth, his widow, born in Boston, May 5, 1760, interred here May 23, 1834:--

They meet
To part no more,
And, with celestial welcome, greet,
On an immortal shore.

Following this is the obelisk of “Wyman and Howe,” bearing the date of 1834, and the single word, round the base, “resurgemus.”

The pannelled monument with plinths, which we now come to, will suggest many reflections similar to those awakened by one already noticed. The Observer calls the object of it truly “a young man of talents and great promise.” The inscription reads thus: “Edwin Buckingham.
Boston Mechanics placed this Cenotaph here.
Born, 1810; died, 1833. “The sea his body, Heaven his spirit holds.
”” [128]

The following lines, occasioned by the decease of Buckingham, and the authorship of which is ascribed to Mr. Sprague, appeared, not long after that event, in the New England Magazine, of which highly respectable publication he was a proprietor, as well as the editor of it, in connection with his father, for several years:--

Spare him one little week, Almighty Power!
Yield to his Father's house his dying hour;
Once more, once more let them, who held him dear,
But see his face, his faltering voice but hear;
We know, alas! that he is marked for death,
But let his Mother watch his parting breath:
Oh! let him die at home!

It could not be:
At midnight, on a dark and stormy sea,
Far from his kindred and his native land,
His pangs unsoothed by tender Woman's hand,
The patient victim in his cabin lay,
And meekly breathed his blameless life away.
...

Wrapped in the raiment that it long must wear,
His body to the deck they slowly bear:
How eloquent, how awful in its power,
The silent lecture of Death's sabbath hour!
One voice that silence breaks — the prayer is said,
And the last rite man pays to man is paid:
The plashing waters mark his resting place,
And fold him round in one long, cold embrace;
Bright bubbles for a moment sparkle o'er,
Then break, to be, like him, beheld no more; [129]

Cushing.

Thayer.

[130] [131]

Wyman and Howe.

Edwin Buckinghan.

[132] [133]
Down, countless fathoms down, he sinks to sleep,
With all the nameless shapes that haunt the deep.

Rest, Loved One, rest-beneath the billow's swell,
Where tongue ne'er spoke, where sunlight never fell;
Rest-till the God who gave thee to the deep,
Rouse thee, triumphant, from the long, long sleep.
And You, whose hearts are bleeding, who deplore
That ye must see the Wanderer's face no more,
Weep-he was worthy of the purest grief;
Weep — in such sorrow ye shall find relief;
While o'er his doom the bitter tear ye shed,
Memory shall trace the virtues of the dead;
These cannot die — for you, for him they bloom,
And scatter fragrance round his ocean-tomb.

“Of all the burying places for the dead,” says the writer just quoted,

there is no one to be compared to the sea. Such multitudes are gathered together there, that in the apostle's vision of the resurrection, one of its scenes could not fail to be this: “And the sea gave up the dead which were in it.” The sea is the burying-place of the old world; to them have been added thousands from the new, out of every clime and generation. The loss of a friend at sea, occasions peculiar affliction, not only because of the separation from the sympathy and care of friends in the trying hour, but because the imagination is left to picture distressing events attending the death and burial;the slowly sinking form; the ship that had paused to leave it in the deep, sailing on; the under-currents taking it into their restless courses, till perhaps it is brought to the shores of its own home, or cast upon [134] the rocks of a foreign land, or upon some lone island, or sunk to rest at the bottom of the deep, “with the earth and her bars about it forever.” At the family tomb and the frequented grave, sorrow can make a definite complaint; but to weep through sleepless nights when the storm carries the accustomed thoughts to the sea, which had long detained the expected friend, and now is known to have his form somewhere in its unrelenting holds, is affliction that receives new poignancy each time that the excited imagination presents a new image of distress or terror. But could we divest ourselves of the natural disposition to dwell upon the sad associations of such a burial, we might feel that there is much attending it to awaken sublime and pious emotions. No remains seem to be so peculiarly in the care of God, as those of one that is buried in the sea. The fact that “no man knoweth of his sepulchre,” leads the thoughts directly to God as the guardian of the dead, and makes us feel that as He only knew his lying down, He has taken him into his peculiar protection. “The sea is his;” its graves are all before him, and the forms which sleep there are as safe for the resurrection, as any that repose in the monumental tomb.

On the marble marked with the name of “Mason” will be found the following inscription:--

“I am the resurrection, and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die.”

Alfred Mason, born March 24, 1804, died April 12, 1828, at New York. His remains were here deposited Nov., 1835. [135]

James J. Mason, born June 13, 1806, married Jan. 22d, 1835, died June 13, 1835. “He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.” “I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

The monuments of “Howard,” and of “Cooke and Whitney,” are among the last on this Avenue. We copy the inscription of the former, though long, as an interesting illustration of a class of family memorials of a similar description:--

We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. 1 Cor., 15 chap., 51, 53 v.

Here are deposited the remains of Elizabeth Howard, wife of the Rev. Simeon Howard, D. D. She died April 13, 1777, aged 43 years:

Algernon Sidney Howard, youngest son of Simeon Howard, D. D., who died April 19, 1796, aged 19 years:

Simeon Howard, D. D., who died Aug. 13, 1804, aged 71 years:

John Clarke Howard, M. D., first son of Simeon Howard, D. D., who died Aug. 11, 1810, aged 36 years:

Christiana R. S. Howard, youngest daughter of John Clark Howard, who died May 27, 1812, aged 14 months:

James Swan Howard, second son of John Clark Howard, who died June 28, 1814, aged 5 years:

Hepsebah Clark Swan Howard, relict of John Clark Howard, who died Sept. 14, 1833, aged 55 years.

On Locust Avenue the stranger's eye will be attracted by a modest column of free-stone, surmounted by an urn, and bearing, in gold letters, an inscription to the [136] memory of one with whose name he will probably be familiar. Warren Colburn, the Arithmetician, died in 1833, at the age of forty.

Simple in manners, guileless in heart, educated by his own genius, he has left to the world a new avenue to mathematical science. His friends, that his memory may be honored, and his example cherished for imitation, have erected this monument.

The wide circulation of the standard treatises for schools, particularly those on Algebra and Arithmetic, produced by Mr. Colburn, renders it unnecessary to do more than allude to them. At the same time it is but justice to mention his great zeal in behalf of education at large. Many important improvements in machinery are also due to his ingenuity and scientific research, the fruits of which are especially visible in the manufacturing establishments of Lowell, where he resided, an exceedingly useful and highly respected citizen, about ten years. It is doubtless true to all practical and substantial purposes, as stated in the inscription above quoted, that Mr. Colburn was “educated by his genius.” It may be proper to add, however, that he was graduated at Harvard College in 1820. His private character was most exemplary. A writer, about the time of his decease, remarked of him justly, that “his study through life seemed to be to do good.”

On Locust Avenue a handsome sarcophagus shows the familiar and ancient name of “Cheever.” The inscription reads thus:--

Bartholomew Cheever was born in Canterbury, County of Kent, England, in 1607; came to America 1637; died in 1693, aged 86. [137]

Mason.

Howard.

[138] [139]

Whitney and Cooke.

Warren Colburn.

[140] [141]

Pilgrim Father, one of a handful God hath multiplied into a nation!

Richard, Bartholomew, Daniel, William Downs, Eleanor and Elizabeth, who now likewise rest from their labors, were of the generations who have risen up to bless thy name. Caleb Davis was born in Woodstock, Conn., in 1739, was educated a merchant, resided in Boston; died July 6, 1797, aged 58. He was Speaker to the first House of Representatives under the constitution of the Commonwealth, distinguished alike for piety and patriotism. Eleanor Cheever, daughter of William Downs Cheever and Elizabeth Edwards, was born Feb. 1, 1749-50--married to Caleb Davis, Sept. 9, 1787--died Jan. 2, 1825, aged 75 years. The records of the Boston Female Orphan Asylum, tell of her associated labors in the cause of suffering humanity.

Not far from the tomb of the Cheevers, on Mountain Avenue, the visiter will hardly fail to notice the beautiful plain cross, of white marble, which bears the name of “Swett.”

“The strangers' tomb,” already mentioned, appears on Hawthorne Path. This establishment, belonging to the Proprietors of Tremont House, (Boston) was built in 1833, for the interment of strangers who might decease in the Hotel, and intended as a place of either permanent or transient deposit. Its construction is somewhat peculiar. A vault is dug in the earth, of a pentagonal shape, on one side of which are the steps for entrance, and on each of the other four sides are three rows of horizontal cells, three in a row, one above another; making thirty-six cells in all, radiating from the centre. [142] Each cell is seven feet long, two feet broad, and eighteen inches high at the aperture. They are composed of mica slate, and calculated to contain each one coffin of an adult. If the remains are permanently deposited, the aperture of the cell is closed with a marble tablet, bearing the name, &c. of the deceased. A pentagonal building, of Quincy granite, about six feet high, is erected over this spot.

The interments in this tomb have been those of Sidney Hayes of Smyrna, deceased October 20, 1832; and Jasper Macomb, of New York, an officer in the United States Army, deceased December 15, 1833.

On Hawthorne Path also, is the monument of “Z. B. Adams,” and not far from this, on Jasmine Path, that of “Hildreth,” an elegant ornamented sarcophagus, surmounted by a cross. On Sweet-briar Path are the tomb and obelisk of “George W. Coffin,” bearing inscriptions to the Hon. Peleg Coffin, who died in 1805, and to his widow who died in 1838, at the age of 81. The monument of “Andrews,” an oblong-square sarcophagus, will be found on Hazel Path; and in the same neighborhood that of “Hoffman,” a cenotaph, with an inscription as follows:

In memory of a beloved and only son. Frederick William, son of David and Mary Hoffman, of Baltimore, Maryland.

His early piety, rare talents, great industry, gentle and graceful manners, endeared him to the aged and the young. His studies in Harvard University were terminated by sudden illness. Accompanied by his parents for Italy, he died at Lyons, France, on the 30th November, 1833, aged 17 years.

[143]

Cheever.

Swett.

[144] [145]

Z. B. Adams.

Hildreth.

[146] [147]

George W. Coffin.

Andrews.

[148] [149]

Hoffman.

John Hooker Ashmun.

[150] [151]

His remains rest in the vault of his family, in his native place.

On the same Avenue a handsome white marble monument, of somewhat peculiar style, is marked with the well-known name of “John Hooker Ashmun,” a man of whom much might be said, but the ample inscription (ascribed to the pen of the late lamented Charles Chauncey Emerson) will doubtless be deemed a sufficient notice:--

Here lies the body of John Hooker Ashmun, Royal Professor of Law in Harvard University, who was born July 3, 1800, and died April 1, 1833., In him the science of Law appeared native and intuitive; he went behind precedents to principles: and books were his helpers, never his masters. There was the beauty of accuracy in his understanding, and the beauty of uprightness in his character. Through the slow progress of the disease which consumed his life, he kept unimpaired his kindness of temper, and superiority of intellect. He did more sick, than others in health. He was fit to teach at an age when common men are beginning to learn, and his few years bore the fruit of long life. A lover of truth, an obeyer of duty, a sincere friend and a wise instructer.

His pupils raise this stone to his memory.

On Hazel Path also will be seen the most sumptuous and costly erection in the Cemetery, the monument of “Samuel Appleton,” constructed, in fine Italian marble, after the beautiful model of the tomb of Scipio Africanus, disinterred some years since at Rome. On Ivy path, most of those who see the name of “Francis Stanton,” on a plinth, supporting the faustum of a [152] column and an urn, will scarcely need to be reminded of his virtues-even by these few lines:--

An upright merchant, a useful citizen, a valued friend, died July 30, 1835, aged 50 years. This monument is raised by his associates and friends, who knew his worth and cherish his memory.

On Vine Path, a monument hears the name of

John Murray, Preacher of the Gospel: born in Alton, England, Dec. 10, 1741; died in Boston, Sept. 3, 1815; re-entombed beneath this stone June 8th, 1837.

Erected at the recommendation of the United States General Convention of Universalists.

On Vine Path is a round marble supported by a square pedestal. The name inscribed on it, will call to mind another of that multitude who have been called off from among us in the apparent prime at once of their usefulness and their promise. The inscription makes record only of one, whose decease has been said to have hastened his own — that of his wife, at the age of 20 years;--it still remains that justice be rendered to Frederic P. Leverett. As Superintending Teacher, for many years, of that important institution, the Boston Latin School, he gained an enviable reputation, and deserved it. Still more, perhaps, his memory as a scholar will owe to some of his school-books. His Latin Lexicon, particularly, merits a place among the first class of works of the kind, wherever produced. We here allude to it specially the rather because it was specially characteristic of the author. His life was identified with this labor, indeed, in a sense worthy of notice. It is said that, after the years which were spent in its preparation [153]

S. Appleton.

[154] [155]

Francis Stanton.

Murray.

[156] [157] for the public eye, the last sheet finally went to press on the very morning of Mr. Leverett's decease. The established standing this work has attained throughout this country, and in the highest of our seminaries of education among the rest, is a sufficient evidence of its merit; but it ought to be added that it has done something too — as such works always must do-for American scientific and literary reputation abroad. We agree with one of our principal critical authorities that it reflects honor not only on the persons engaged in its preparation, but on our country; and that we have all “a just right to feel proud that a work so learned, so correct, so elaborate, is the result of American ability and industry, and American enterprise.” “Wherever,” adds this writer, “the Latin language is studied, and the English language spoken, it will be received with grateful acknowledgments.” Thus much of eulogy on a book will be excused, by Bostonians at least, for it is in fact a eulogy, and a just one, on a man; one which we fear there will not be very frequent occasion to repeat in other cases, renowned as Boston is for its treatises for schools, for the age is not of a character often to produce, in this department, what Leverett's Lexicon has been truly entitled, “a monument of patient toil.”

The visiter, in full view of the beauties of “Consecration Dell,” will probably now wander into Violet Path, where the monument of “Hicks” will arrest his attention; and into Alder Path, where that of “Wetmore” appears.

That of “J. S. Savage” is seen also in this last-named direction; and then, at no great distance, in one [158] of the loveliest situations which the grounds afford, the beautiful column marked with the name of “Story ;” --a name never to be mentioned without honor, but especially noticeable to those who have taken a deep interest in the designing and decoration of this Cemetery from its first beginning to the present day. The inscription on this marble runs thus:--

Of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Caroline, born June, 1810, died February, 1811.

Joseph, born June, 1811, died October, 1815.

Caroline, born April, 1813, died April, 1819.

Mary, born April, 1814, died March, 1815.

Louisa, born May, 1821, died May, 1831.

No comment can add anything to the sad impressiveness of the tale these lines disclose, all simple as they are, did the delicacy of the subject admit of our attempting to make any. We adopt, as an expression more suitable in every point of view, the “Lines on the death of a daughter,” which appeared not far from the date last above mentioned, and have since been embodied with the miscellaneous works of the distinguished author:--

Farewell, my darling child, a sad farewell!
Thou art gone from earth, in heavenly scenes to dwell;
For sure, if ever being, formed from dust,
Might hope for bliss, thine is that holy trust.
Spotless and pure, from God thy spirit came;
Spotless it has returned, a brighter flame.
Thy last, soft prayer was heard-No more to roam; [159]

Leverett.

Hicks.

[160] [161]

Consecration Dell.

[162] [163]

Wetmore.

Savage.

[164] [165]

Story.

Faxon.

[166] [167]
Thou art, ('t was all thy wish,) thou art gone home.⁴
Ours are the loss, and agonizing grief,
The slow, dead hours, the sighs without relief,
The lingering nights, the thoughts of pleasure past,
Memory, that wounds, and darkens, to the last.
How desolate the space, how deep the line,
That part our hopes, our fates, our paths, from thine
We tread with faltering steps the shadowy shore;
Thou art at rest, where storms can vex no more.
When shall we meet again, and kiss away
The tears of joy in one eternal day?

Most lovely thou! in beauty's rarest truth!
A cherub's face; the breathing blush of youth;
A smile more sweet than seemed to mortal given;
An eye that spoke, and beamed the light of heaven;
A temper, like the balmy summer sky,
That soothes, and warms, and cheers, when life beats high;
A bounding spirit, which, in sportive chase,
Gave, as it moved, a fresh and varying grace;
A voice, whose music warbled notes of mirth,
Its tones unearthly, or scarce formed for earth;
A mind, which kindled with each passing thought,
And gathered treasures, when they least were sought;--
These were thy bright attractions; these had power
To spread a nameless charm o'er every hour.
But that, which, more than all, could bliss impart,
Was thy warm love, thy tender, buoyant heart,
Thy ceaseless flow of feeling, like the rill,
That fills its sunny banks, and deepens still.
Thy chief delight to fix thy parents' gaze,
Win their fond kiss, or gain their modest praise. [168]

When sickness came, though short, and hurried o'er,
It made thee more an angel than before.
How patient, tender, gentle, though disease
Preyed on thy life!-how anxious still to please!
How oft around thy mother's neck entwined
Thy arms were folded, as to Heaven resigned!
How oft thy kisses on her pallid cheek
Spoke all thy love, as language ne'er could speak!
E'en the last whisper of thy parting breath
Asked, and received, a mother's kiss, in death.

But oh! how vain, by art, or words, to tell,
What ne'er was told,--affection's magic spell!
More vain to tell that sorrow of the soul,
That works in secret, works beyond control,
When death strikes down, with sudden crush and power,
Parental hope, and blasts its opening flower.
Most vain to tell, how deep that long despair,
Which time ne'er heals, which time can scarce impair.

Yet still I love to linger on the strain-
'T is grief's sad privilege. When we complain,
Our hearts are eased of burdens hard to bear;
We mourn our loss, and feel a comfort there.

My child, my darling child, how oft with thee
Have I passed hours of blameless ecstasy!
How oft have wandered, oft have paused to hear
Thy playful thoughts fall sweetly on my ear!
How oft have caught a hint beyond thy age,
Fit to instruct the wise, or charm the sage!
How oft, with pure delight, have turned to see
Thy beauty felt by all, except by thee;
Thy modest kindness, and thy searching glance;
Thy eager movements, and thy graceful dance; [169]
And, while I gazed with all a father's pride,
Concealed a joy, worth all on earth beside!

How changed the scene! In every favorite walk
I miss thy flying steps, thy artless talk;
Where'er I turn, I feel thee ever near;
Some frail memorial comes, some image dear.
Each spot still breathes of thee-each garden flower
Tells of the past, in sunshine, or in shower;
And, here the chair, and, there the sofa stands,
Pressed by thy form, or polished by thy hands.
My home, how full of thee!-But where art thou?
Gone, like the sunbeam from the mountains brow;
But, unlike that, once passed the fated bourn,
Bright beam of heaven, thou never shalt return.
Yet, yet, it soothes my heart on thee to. dwell;
Louisa, darling child, farewell, farewell!

In the close vicinity of Forest Pond, another of the most charming of those ornaments which it would seem nature had provided with express reference to the present use of these grounds, will be noticed a simple Egyptian pedestal, surmounted by a short obelisk, erected by Mr. “Faxon;” and beyond this a monument, the taste of which is attributable to Professor “Webster,” whose name it shows, together with the following records:--

John R. Webster, obt. 1820, aged 18 months.

Harriet W. Webster, obt. 1833, aged 10 years.

Grant Webster, obt. 1797, aged 80.

John White, obt. 1805, aged 80.

Sarah White, obt. 1807, aged 77.

Elizabeth Davis, obt. 1812, aged 76.

Redford Webster, obt. 1833, aged 72.

Hannah Webster, obt. 1833, aged 67.

[170]

The next monument we come to, a plain free-stone pedestal, surmounted by an urn, belongs to a class of which we have already noticed several interesting specimens-those erected by the subscription of friends. They naturally lead us to look for something of rather special interest in the character of the subjects of such attentions; and the case before us is one in which those to whom the name of Clement Durgin has been familiar will be by no means disappointed in this expectation. The inscription speaks for itself:--

Associate Principal of Chauncey Hall School, Boston, born Sept. 29, 1802, died Sept. 30, 1833.

A student and lover of nature, in her wonders he saw and acknowledged, and through them adored, her beneficent Author. His life was a beautiful illustration of his philosophy; his death of the triumph of his Faith. His pupils have reared this monument as an imperfect memorial of their grateful affection and respect.

Passing, not far from this monument, one which bears the name of “Thaxter,” and another, on Indian Ridge Path, marked with that of “Williams,” we come in the same direction to Mr. Bond's, an obelisk distinguished at once by its elegance and its simplicity. No chisel has yet disturbed the marble's surface, else might one perhaps exclaim with the poetess,

There is a name upon the stone;
Alas! and can it be the same-
The young, the lovely, and the loved?
It is too soon to bear thy name,
Too soon!

[171]

Forest Pond.

[172] [173]

“We would avoid,” says the writer for the Quarterly Observer, cited so often,

even an apparent intrusion upon the privacy of grief, but cannot forbear to speak of one who has found a grave in this enclosure, whose person and accomplishments and amiable character, and her endeared relation to a large circle of acquaintances and friends, together with her opening prospects of life and happiness, made her lamented even by those who were comparatively strangers. Some of the circumstances attending the close of her life, well known to many who did not need relationship or intimacy to make them exquisitely touching, gave an affecting interest to the event. Her sudden and mournful removal was like tearing out a slender but far-spreading tendril that had wound itself about beneath a deep and rich vine on the side of a dwelling, and leaving, as it came away, its place of repose disfigured and torn beyond the help of future suns and showers. It seems sometimes that death is commissioned to seek out a victim whose departure, more than that of any other, will mock at the sympathies and endearments which make dying seem, for a season at least, impossible. How like a ruthless enemy, glad, if the sufferings which he can occasion may be aggravated by private and peculiar circumstances, does the last enemy frequently appear!

The next stone we shall notice would appear to be the joint property of “Fairfield” and “Wadsworth,” both which names it shows. Beyond this, on Indian Ridge Path, are those erected by “Nathaniel Francis,” “Greenleaf,” and “Martin Brimmer.” In the same neighborhood we find also one raised to the memory [174] of David Patterson, a young merchant of Boston, who died at sea in 1834:--

Erected by his commercial friends and associates as a memorial of their affection and respect for his elevated moral and religious character.

He sleeps beneath the blue lone sea,
He lies where pearls the deep.
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

David Patterson.

[175]

Webster.

Clement Durgin.

[176]

I [177]

Thaxter.

Williams.

[178] [179]

Bond.

Fairfield. Wadsworth.

[180] [181]

Greenleaf.

[182] [183]

Martin Brimmer.

In looking back over this ramble among the monuments of Mount Auburn, we cannot but see how far our sketches must be, at the best, from conveying a complete conception of either the natural beauties, or the artificial decorations of the grounds, to one who has never paid them a visit. We are confined to a selection (instead of a collection) of the monuments, and that upon principles, necessary to the design of this work, but leaving some of the most beautiful of them for the visiter to discover and describe for himself; and besides this, we must leave all the details of minor ornament equally to him. Much might be said in honor of the taste which many of these exhibit; we refer to the style of laying out lots, the fences, hedges, flowers, foliage, and other matters of the kind, [184] and still slighter ones, not to be described, but by no means to be disregarded. Our engravings, though intended to represent all the principal classes of monuments at least, are hardly of a nature — it is not in the power of the art, indeed — to do what may be called poetical justice to these things. They do not even convey the effect of certain arrangements of conspicuous decorations; as, for example, of the family groups of tombs, which, in several signal instances, are reared with reference to each other, and enclosed together. Those of Waterston, Watts, and Hayes, on the charming slope which overlooks Consecration Dell,⁵ are a specimen of this sort; and the monument of Francis Stanton, already mentioned, in the same vicinity, is supported in like manner by those of Messrs. Blake and Hallet. We should commend attention to the general taste of many of the enclosures, but the one which shows the name of “Lawrence,” wrought into the gate, merits a special mention.

Some of our readers, who feel an interest other than that of mere strangers in these grounds, may perhaps miss in our descriptions, something which they would gladly have seen noticed. This must needs be so. The humblest stone, the “meanest dust” is justly dear, we know, to some survivor, but we could [185] not introduce them all. It is easy to see how the list might have been extended, even by adding only those cases on the surface of which appears some claim to public or general, rather than mere personal interest. The memorial which stands over the remains of the Hon. Edward D. Bangs, Secretary of the Commonwealth from 1824 to 1836, is one of these. Those of Dr. “Gerard Dayers,” a Belgian, who, after many years' service in the American navy, deceased at Roxbury, aged nearly 70 years,--of James L. Whittier, (1838) over whose dust, at the age of 21, a marble was raised by his class-mates of Brown University,--of Mrs. “Hannah Atkins,” of Boston, (on Willow Avenue) who, born in Cambridge in 1750, was buried here in 1838, at the age of more than 88 years,--these are various illustrations in point.

The monument proposed to be erected to T. G. Fessenden, as we have stated, has been set up (on Yarrow Path) while these sketches were passing through the press, and the following inscription graven upon it:--

Thomas Green Fessenden died November 11th, 1837, aged 65. This monument is erected by the Massachusetts Society for promoting Agriculture, by the Horticultural Society of Massachusetts, and by individuals, as a testimony of respect for the literary talents and acquirements of the deceased, and for his untiring labors in promoting the objects of the above institutions.

Another monument, on which the inscription has been engraven since this description was commenced, is that of “Putnam,” on Beech Avenue, a column of [186] snow-white Italian marble, ornamented with Egyptian emblems on one of the sides, and over-shadowed by one of the finest oaks in the Cemetery. The inscription reads thus:--

Jesse Putnam.

Jesse Putnam, long known as the Father of the merchants of Boston; a distinction not claimed by himself, but accorded by others, in consideration of the intelligence, energy, and integrity, with which, for more than half a century, at home and abroad, he followed and adorned his profession. He died 14th April, 1837, aged 83 years.

Here, amid scenes familiar to her childhood, and grateful, alike, to her advancing and her declining years, repose, with those of her husband, the remains of Susannah, more than sixty years wife of Jesse [187] Putnam. Having discharged, with unwearied fidelity and devotion, the duties of this relation, as well as those of a daughter and mother, she sunk into the sleep of death, “with a hope full of immortality,” 8th April, 1839, aged 84 years.

His youth was innocent; his riper age,
Marked with some act of goodness every day;
And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage,
Faded his late declining years away.
Cheerful he gave his being up, and went
To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

We might well have noticed, while in this vicinity, a monument possessing, for many observers, an interest which forbids our omitting it. This is amply explained by the inscription:--

Here rest the remains of Rev. Samuel H. Stearns. He was born at Bedford, Sept. 12, 1802; was graduated at Harvard University, 1823; studied theology at Andover; was ordained over the Old South Church in Boston, April 16th, 1834; was dismissed, at his own request, on account of broken health, March, 1836, having preached but three Sabbaths after his ordination. He died at Paris, on his return from Rome to his native country, July 15th, 1837, in the 36th year of his age. Discriminating, tasteful, magnanimous, devout, uniting uncommon eloquence with fervent and confiding piety, he strove for many years against sickness, to be useful in the church. His last hours were characterised by serenity and blissful anticipation. A full believer in the doctrines of grace, he died, as he lived, in the faith of his fathers.

[188]

In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. John, XVI, 33.

Samuel H. Stearns.

The remains of Mr. Stearns were transiently deposited, we believe, in the Cemetery of Pere la Chaise.

The name in this case reminds us that it is understood some memorial, other than yet exists, will be erected over the remains of Asahel Stearns, of Cambridge, who died in February, 1839, aged 64 years; not unknown in political life, for he was a Member of Congress during one session of that body, but more distinguished by professional ability and success. During two years he was Professor of Law in Harvard University, and for nineteen years he was County Attorney for Middlesex. In 1824 he published [189] the first edition of a work which gained him great legal reputation,--that on “Real actions.” The writer of an obituary notice of him, in the Law Reporter, giving an account of the origin of this work, states that in the winter of 1824, during the session of the Court at Cambridge, when the Bar were accustomed, more than at present, to spend their evenings together, and when their habits of social intercourse did much to soften the many asperities which the practice of the law seems calculated to call forth and strengthen, Mr. Stearns was one evening lamenting that he had so little to do. It was then vacation in the University; he had but few actions in court, and his time seemed likely to hang heavily on his hands, for several weeks. “I will tell you what to do,” was the answer of Mr. Hoar, who was a very intimate friend of the deceased, “you shall write a work on Real Actions.” The advice was received with acclamation by all present, and Mr. Stearns immediately commenced the work: he had more than half completed it before the close of the vacation, and it was published in less than six months.

In addition to memorials already referred to as proposed, may be mentioned those which are said to be in preparation for doing honor to Dr. Bowditch of Boston, and Dr. Noah Worcester, of Brighton, the “Friend of peace,” both of them names which speak sufficiently for themselves. The accomplishments, virtues, and services of men like these deserve a conspicuous commemoration, not for their own sake only, or chiefly, but with a view to the world's welfare. “One good deed dying tongueless slaughters a thousand hanging upon that.” [190]

End.