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have been indulging one of those musing, dreamy abstractions in which we become posthumous. I have been fancying that my faded body lay beneath the turf, at the foot of the hill there; that the sun was going down, and that a friend was just plucking a flower from the grave of the Perambulator.

A gravel walk is the only barrier between the consecrated and unconsecrated parts of the ground; and as a spectator gazes on the broad acres in the centre, unbroken by a grave, and studded over with myriads of daisies, he can hardly persuade himself that he is in a place of sepulture. Seventy thousand pounds have already been expended to render the place worthy the patronage of the public, and certainly great praise is due to both architect and landscape gardener. But pleasant as this place is, the thought intrudes, what chequered scenes are yet to be passed through by those whose bodies will here be deposited! what hopes and fears! what joys and sorrows! Will they thoughtlessly live and die without God in the world? or will they finish their course with joy, and find the end thereof eternal life? There is no peace to the wicked; but the humble Christian, whose faith is in lively exercise, has peace at the last.

A thousand fears of dreadful name
Ungodly men surprise;

But oh, in what a peaceful frame
The pardoned sinner dies!

With glory shining round his head,
And sunbeams on his breast,
He lays him calmly on his bed,

And smiling sinks to rest.

The episcopal-looking chapel, with its octagonal towers, on the brow of the hill, fronting the west, has a fine effect, and that facing the north-west is little inferior to it. They are built with the Suffolk white brick, and have a chaste and cleanly appearance. The high boundary wall and palisades that enclose the cemetery must have been very costly. Here is a heap of clayey soil, recently thrown up from a depth of twenty feet, and yet it is stiff and dry. We carry with us our notions of comfort even in thinking of the grave, and thus a dry soil is indispensable for a burial ground. I have passed through the chapels, and descended to the vaults below them, the silent receptacles of the dead. The chapels are plain, but in excellent keeping. Many would like some stained glass in the large window, and I should have no objection to a little drapery

round it, to increase the solemnity of the place; but these things are not important, and can be dispensed with. The manner of lowering the coffins into the vaults, (by means of a piston working in water underneath the chapel,) must have a striking effect on those who have never witnessed any thing of the kind. While the mourners, who have attended the solemn service for the dead, are yet gazing, with eyes half blinded with tears, on the coffin that contains the body of the departed, the elevated bier, or stand, on which it lies, begins slowly and noiselessly to sink, without any apparent agency. The astonished spectator can hardly believe his senses; yet lower and lower the coffin descends, until it altogether disappears. The service is very solemnly and impressively performed. I am told, that at a funeral, a few days ago, in an assembly of at least a hundred persons, scarcely was a dry eye seen in the chapel.

While walking in the grounds, the sound of youthful voices reaches me. The boys of the neighbouring school, near the entrance of the cemetery, have rushed into their play-ground, and all is liberty, and life, and merriment. Happy boyhood! The cares of the world light not on thy joyous brow, nor do its manifold sorrows rest more than a moment on thy heart.

Thy life is all to-day, and in thy gladness,

Thou canst not see nor feel to-morrow's sadness.

As I leave the cemetery, a flood of light is pouring down from the southwest on the place, and crimson and gold, and an unbearable blaze of glory, marks where the declining sun is careering along the skies. Let me bear in mind, that whether the last house is shrouded with gloom or gilt with glory, the heritage of the righteous is a life of peace, a death of hope, and a resurrection to eternal joy.

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I am now at Highgate, having had a pleasant walk here from Highbury with a friend. Part of the road has been along retired lanes, and the other part mostly across green fields; the pure breath of heaven has blown around us, the clouds have sailed along majestically over our heads, and varied conversation has made a ramble, agreeable in itself, yet more agreeable. The North London cemetery is before us; and erected on its entrance, facing the south-east, stands

an abbey-like kind of edifice, of minia- | landscape gardener, have united their
ture size, with an octangular and orna- talents in a very successful manner to
mental dome. In this building, which decorate the cemetery; while the church
possesses every accommodation for the above the grounds, a chaste Gothic
purpose, with a large room and private building, from designs of Vulliamy, ren-
gallery for infirm mourners and invalids, ders the picture complete.
the solemn service is performed; a win-
dow of painted glass, representing the
ascension of our Saviour, adorns its ex-
tremity, with another compartment on
each side of it executed in colours of
great beauty. But where is the artist
whose hand so recently called into ex-
istence these trophies of his skill?
Alas! he lies motionless: his dust is
now reposing in the cemetery. He has,
no doubt, stood where I am standing.
Doubtless, his eyes have sparkled with
unwonted lustre while gazing on the lu-
minous exhibition before me; but now
he is returned to the dust. Thus, at
the very threshold of the cemetery,
and while looking at the bright emblem
of immortality, I am once more reminded,
that "there is but a step between me
and death."

The solemn procession of a funeral, with hearse, coaches, coal-black horses, and nodding plumes, gliding along the winding avenue of Swain's lane, shaded with overhanging trees, must have an imposing effect as it approaches the cemetery. Swain's lane runs along that part of Highgate hill called Traitor's hill, from the circumstance of the confederates of Guy Faux having assembled there to await the expected explosion of the gunpowder placed under the Parliament house, on the memorable 5th of November, 1605.

The cemetery, for the most part, is spread out before us. It is a steep acclivity, of some nineteen or twenty acres, with a surface beautifully varied, now rising into swelling hills, bedecked with shrubs and flowers, and now exhibiting, on every hand, the monuments of the dead. Column, pyramid, sarcophagus, tomb, vase, and sculptured stone arrest the eye, with a gigantic mound, canopied with a goodly cedar; while Highgate new church, crowning the brow of the hill, with its "heavendirected spire," stands above the upper verge of this place of graves. Beauty and death seem to have entered into a

compact together; for while the latter delves freely beneath the ground, the former takes undisputed possession of its surface.

Geary, the architect, and Ramsey, the

We have gained the rising ground
approaching the cedar tree, and the
beauties of the cemetery are more fully
unfolded. Flowers in profusion are
blooming in all directions. Mountain
ashes, laburnums, sycamores, acacias,
laurel, and rose trees, are mingled with
others of longer growth. The decorated
resting places of the dead, set forth the
attention of their surviving friends; and
the gay colours of the rose, the geranium,
and the poppy, contrast-the dark hue of
the cypress: hearts-ease has been freely
planted in the shadow of the tomb, and
its deep purple flowers are grateful to
the gaze. These flowers spread cheer-
fulness around them, and breathe of hope
and expectation.

What though my flesh, beneath the sod,
Awhile shall moulder in the dust;
Yet wakened by the trump of God,

The grave shall then resign its trust.
Though clouds and darkness now may lower,
My Saviour's glory I shall see;
His wisdom, love, and mighty power,
From sin and death shall rescue me.

As I glance around, I see workmen,
(for the place is yet unfinished,) lying at
full length on the earth, enjoying a tem-
porary cessation from labour. Strangers,
young, middle aged, and old, are visiting
the different parts of the cemetery; and
yonder is a matron habited in sable,
musing over a graven stone. Not only
do the sculptured stones remind me of
the brevity of life, but other symbols of
mortality are numerous. Sere leaves
sprinkle the pathway; faded flowerets
are drooping in the sunshine; and at my
feet lies a hillock of withered grass, that
the scythe of the mower has cut down in
its prime.

In the north-west part of the heavens, a thunderstorm seems brooding in the air, for the dark clouds are rolled together, in heavy masses, clothing with solemnity the clear azure beyond them, while gleams of sunshine only render the frowning sky more awful. My companion is gazing upwards at the burdened heavens with some anxiety; it becomes doubtful whether we shall escape the drenching deluge. What varied emotions enter the mind in such a scene as this, dividing our thoughts between the living and the dead.

Y

The thundercloud has dispersed itself, and travelled onwards. We must now enter the Egyptian avenue; the ponderous cornice, the obelisks and pillars, the angular entrance, and the flying serpent, are all in excellent keeping with the place. We are now among the cedars of Lebanon, talking of ancient Egypt; of the Pharaohs of old; of the custom of embalming; of Belzoni, and the mummy pits of Gournou. This is a striking scene; the catacombs below, the dark resting places of the dead, are in strong contrast with the roses seen on the circular garden above them; the cedar is fresh and beautiful, and spreads its flat, flaky foliage luxuriously abroad.

Now, if it was necessary, but it is not, I would put it on record, for the guidance of those who may survive me when I go the way of all flesh, "Lay not my body in the catacombs, but place it among kindred dust, and cover it with the green sod."

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Be humble, and think on the truth that the grave,
Proclaims to the fool and the wise,
Proud man is at best a poor handful of dust,
That the beggar may pass and despise.

We have mounted to the brow of the hill, and are standing between the church and the cemetery, looking down on the Gothic terrace, the Egyptian avenue, and the cedar circle catacombs. The garden of death is now plainly seen in its length and its breadth, masses of elms and other trees beautify the surrounding fields, and London in the distance, stretching itself right and left, with Greenwich and the country towards Gravesend far beyond.

The public buildings of the city, the travelling steam-carriages of the neighbouring railroad, and the arriving visitors at the cemetery, all speak of busy life, while every foot of the broad acres in the foreground is dedicated to death.

The cemeteries of the metropolis may be said to mingle the character of the

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British churchyard, with that of Père la Chaise in Paris; being neither so monotonously solemn as the former, nor so artificial, sentimental, and romantic as the latter. They are entitled to the Perambulator's consideration, providing, as they do, suitable resting places for the dead, sufficiently removed from the habitations of the living. It is almost impossible to muse among these flower gardens of the grave, without connecting them with some undefined emotions of our approaching dissolution.

We are now quitting, with some reluctance, a spot that death will render doubly dear to many a mourner as the sun runs his annual career. And shall the dead indeed be raised incorruptible? Shall the disunited atoms of the departed again assume form and comeliness? Yes!

God formed them from the dust, and He once

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How cheering, how animating, how heart-reviving are the words of the Redeemer, "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!" John xi. 25, 26. Happy indeed is he who can say, in the language of exultation, nothing doubting, "I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth and though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another," Job xix. 25—27.

IMPROVIDENCE.

ON our quitting England, our assistant surgeon, poor Mac- was left behind, in consequence of going to Portsmouth in search of our cow. He is now among the passengers on board a vessel which is just arrived, and the narrative of his adventures, with and without the cow, has diverted us exceedingly. He is a little, fat, sturdy man, of short, punchlike figure, between thirty and forty years of age, with a vast deal of good humour and willing activity about him; bustling, well-intending, and officiously

desirous to be useful. He is confident, he was defeated in all his attempts to and presumptuous, yet possesses a de- return on board. First, he neglected gree of personal timidity, bordering up- to secure a boat at the time he went on on superstition. Abruptly familiar with shore; next, he forgot the address of those he seeks, he grows importunate, the person from whom the cow was and attaches himself even to annoyance; purchased; afterwards, he lost time in being one of those people who have cavilling with the man for not sending more of freedom than good manners, her off according to his engagement; are perfect masters in ease, and as per- then, he delayed by sitting down to fectly ignorant in politeness. He is of take refreshment; and when, at last, that class which possesses more of wil- the poor animal was led to the water's lingness than judgment-more of haste edge, it proved that every boat was than order; one of those who engage absent, and Mac- was compelled to with bold confidence, in whatever pre- wait in great anxiety for the return of sents itself, without looking to the event, one from Spithead. He now began to or observing any thing of method in discover that he had proceeded rashly, the execution; who are ever ready to and without calculating the means of plunge into difficulties, without a thought success; but he unjustly blamed his how to subdue them. fortune, and abused the quiet, unconscious cow.

The same sanguine feelings which lead him into troubles, tend to support him through them. Not being of a disposition to brood over his distresses, he is seldom the subject of dismay, or the victim of sombre reflection. Involved in one dilemma, he commonly escapes from it by rushing headlong into a greater, and often blunders on to his object, overcoming every impediment by forcing circumstances, through all hazards, to the end proposed; then, forgetful of the new difficulties which he has created, piques himself upon the merit of having accomplished his design. It being an essential comfort to have plenty of milk on the passage, we had purchased a cow to take on board; but owing to some neglect on shore, our valued animal had not reached the Lord Sheffield at the time the signal was made for sailing. We applied to the captain to know how we could proceed with the greatest probability of procuring her; who, telling us that it was not an object for which he could delay the ship, observed that the only chance of having our milk was by sending off some person instantly to Portsmouth, who would bring the cow, without a moment's loss of time. Mac hearing this, immediately volunteered his services. A boat, returning to the shore, was accordingly hailed, and away hurried Mac- for the cow; not for once dreaming of the possibility of failure, or that there could be any risk of his being left behind. In the same unthinking haste in which he left the ship, did he bustle on when he reached the town; and from a thoughtless blundering in every step of his proceeding,

Thus it ever is with the improvident, whether regarding his time, his purse, or his pursuits. The errors of imprudence he never fails to attribute to misfortune; and he unfairly accuses the fates with what is only the result of his own folly or neglect. When a lugger arrived, it was too late to overtake the fleet; but he impulsively jumped into it, insisting on making a trial, and after remaining at sea for a considerable time, was obliged to return to Portsmouth; both himself and the cow having lost their passage.

Now he hastily determined to go to the Isle of Wight, and try from thence to get on board the Lord Sheffield; and after failing in this, he hurried to Plymouth, idly fancying that he might succeed from thence. Here he was alike defeated. He then travelled to Milford Haven, and embarked for Ireland; and happened to arrive at Cove in time for the Cork convoy, and applying to the captain of one of the vessels for a passage, related his adventures with and without the cow, as his passport.

From the frankness of his manners, and the willingness he expressed to put up with all the inconveniences which might present themselves, as well as from his companionable familiarity, the master of the vessel became interested in his behalf, and soon adopted him as his principal associate. The ship met with an accident at sea; but afterwards made a favourable passage, and Mac is arrived in safety at Barbadoes, where he relates, with great delight, all his perils by sea, and his troubles on shore.

Pinchard's Notes on the West Indies.

BETHLEHEM.

THE neighbourhood of Bethlehem produces the olive and the fig, in comparative abundance, with the trees planted in terraces. The situation of the place would be agreeable, if the country over which it looks were brought under cultivation, or planted with trees. The valley around it is not large, nor is the hill elevated upon which it stands, as it is in the hill country;" and the summits of many other hills are seen from it, at nearly the same elevation.

i. 6.

The poetry

the heathen oppressor!"
of the land has gone; but the voice of
instruction has taken its place, and seems
to say to the Christian, in whose heart
the Redeemer of Bethlehem again taber-
nacles in mercy, "Let him that thinketh
he standeth, take heed lest he fall.”

The town is situated upon the summit of a hill, stretching from east to west, and may contain about twelve hundred inhabitants, a good proportion of whom are Christians. The convent, built over the supposed birth place of our Lord, is the most conspicuous object in the view; and with its strong walls and massy buttresses appears to be little in accordance with "the peaceable fruit of righteousness," intended to be the consequence of the Messiah's advent. I visited it with little interest, having no faith in its pretensions.

The interesting transaction, related with so much simplicity in the book of Ruth, took place in this neighbourhood. It was in the gate of Bethlehem, that Boaz sat, when his kinsman came by, unto whom he said, "Ho, such a one! turn aside, sit down here. And he turned aside, and sat down," Ruth iv. 1; and then before ten men, elders of the city, The Bethlehemites are often at vahe redeemed the possession of Naomi, and riance with the reigning power, which received with it the hand of Ruth, the af- renders it impossible at times for travelfectionate Moabitess, who had said unto lers to visit the place; but they were her mother-in-law, "Thy people shall be then happily at peace with the men of my people; and thy God, my God," Ruth Jerusalem, and we returned in safety. The sweet singer of Israel upon The country to the south of Bethlehem these hills tended his flocks; and here is well worthy of attention; but it was have been heard the soft tones of the in too disturbed a state to be visited harp, and the glad breathings of his without danger. In this direction, are voice, as he called upon all creation to the pools of Solomon, Hebron, the plain praise the name of the Lord. It was of Mamre, the cave of Macpelah, and in one of these valleys that the glory other places of interest. It is said by of the Lord appeared unto the shep- a recent traveller, that the water ascends herds by night, when they heard the in the water-courses of Solomon; though rapturous music of the heavenly host, it has been supposed that the principle as they ushered in the Saviour's birth in hydraulics, by which fluids find their with a song, the appropriate burden of own level, was unknown to the ancients. which was glory, and peace, and good From Bethlehem to Beersheba, the will. In all these coasts, mothers have southern extremity of the promised land, wept over their murdered infants, re- is a distance of about thirty-four miles. fusing to be comforted, when the sword-Hardy's Notices of the Holy Land. of Herod was red with blood, and every stain was from the blood of innocence.

It is almost impossible to visit these scenes without referring back to the period, when they afforded materials for some of the most beautiful compositions ever written by man, even when under Divine inspiration. The heavens, as before, declare the glory of God, and the firmament, in characters as clear as ever, showeth his handiwork: but it would be like a mockery of mirth, to call upon these barren hills, or desolate valleys, or deserted streams, now to rejoice; for if it were in their power to take to themselves words and reply, they would answer, "How shall we sing the Lord's song under the rule of

CONFIDENCE IN GOD.

ever

GOD is himself the highest object to which the soul in all its powers can be directed. None ever trusted in him, without increasing in spiritual strength; none ever trusted in him, without discovering more and more of the plans of his providence, and of the depth of his unsearchable wisdom; none trusted in him, without tasting largely of his bounty. To trust in God, in its more advanced state, is to have the image of his perfection ever before us, to live in his continual presence, encircled, as it were, by the visible forms of his majesty and goodness.Bowdler.

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