ty,
and the Christian's hope teeming with a better life, was cheering
to it, lifting it up till the things of earth looked dim, distant,
shadowy.

The beautiful statue, too, touched so nicely by the hand of art, as to
look like breathing marble, points the beholder upward to the skies.
This Chapel, standing as it does at the entrance of the Cemetery,
is well calculated to solemnize, the mind, and prepare it for the
contemplations of the surrounding scene.

As we left its quiet retreat and pursued our onward way, sad thoughts
came stealing over the mind, as we reflected how many aching hearts
and tearful eyes had passed over that road to deposit the dearly
loved, and lost in their last resting places.

How proper it seems that a navigator should stand at the entrance to
pilot the way, and we can but think Spurzheim is taking his scientific
observations, as his bust stands as though looking upon the passers by
as they pursue their way to the city of the dead.

We passed on our way through the winding avenues, presenting their
striking and varied emblems, speaking so forcibly to the mind. The
white dove with open beak and half spread wing; the harp with
the broken string, and the broken column, are all beautiful and
significant representations, preaching loudly for the silent dust that
slumbers beneath them.

As we ascended to the tower, we passed the yard enclosed with the
beautiful bronze fence. Looking from the tower you witnessed life with
its struggles, its comforts and luxuries; but the graves beneath us
say, "we must leave all, and come and make our beds with them."

How striking is the anxious expression of the faithful dog, keeping
patient watch over the grave of his young master, through summer's
sultry heat, and winter's pinching cold, never betraying his trust.
How beautiful, and yet how simple is the touching inscriptions,
"My Father," "My Mother." Neither name or age are mentioned to the
stranger, yet what a volume is spoken directly to the heart. The white
lambs reposing upon the grassy mounds represent the innocence that
slumbers beneath.

Many little tokens are scattered round here and there, as mementoes of
fond affection. As we gazed upon the fresh boquets, wet with the dew
of night, we felt that love lingered around those places, and the
tears of affection often fell there.

The flowers, beautiful though they are, either at the tomb or the
bridal, give us no name or trace of former days, but