It was a beautiful day in autumn, when the mellow sun shed his subduing rays Over the face of decaying nature, that we entered the elegant carriage of an esteemed friend, and pursued our way towards Mount Auburn, that quiet resting place of the dead.

As we pursued our way from East Boston, the water in the harbor, whitened with many a sail, sparkled in the morning sun, and glittered like ten thousand diamonds.

It was Saturday, busy, bustling Saturday, when all the world seemed hurrying on as if to make amends for any deficiency in the other days of the week.

The white sea-gulls were floating through the air, often stooping as if to dip their wings in the ocean waves, that murmured gently upon the winding shore.

There was scarce a cloud to be seen in the sky, and the calmness of nature whispered peace to the weary spirit.

As we crossed the ferry and entered the city, and witnessed the moving tide of human life that was surging through the city mart jostling against each other in their eager chase; and as we looked out upon the motly group, human life was to be seen in almost all its forms.

Wealth hung out his golden trappings, and rolled by in all the splendor of ease and luxury The children of poverty trudged on in tattered garments, stung by pinching want, bearing heavy burdens upon their heads, and weighed down by oppression.

These scenes awoke many reflections in the mind, and presented the contrast of life.

Passing through the city with its tumults and its changes, we pursued our way through Cambridge to the Cemetery.

The scenery was beautiful, and as we passed the elm tree where Washington stood to give command to his army, how many associations rushed upon the mind, filling it with remembrances of our country’s early struggles.

We entered the quiet shades “where rest the dead,” sleeping beneath the sober shadows of the forest trees that were scattering now and then a withered leaf upon the grassy mounds that lay at their feet. Here still, even here too, is the same contrast so visible in the moving, active life of the city.

Wealth here has the splendid monument, embellished with all the sculptor’s art, while the poor sleep as sweetly beneath the simple sod.

Our first visit was to the Chapel. You are struck upon your entrance with the hollow sounds that reverberate at every footfall, reminding one of the emptiness of all earthly things.

There was a coffin within the paling, covered with a black pall, speaking to us of death and decay; but as we raised our eyes to the stained glass windows, through which the autumnal sun was pouring his mellow rays, and casting such a subdued and peculiar light upon all things in the Chapel, and saw the heavenly expression of the angels as they took their upward flight, the soul seemed big with immortality, 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 lay scattered round in rich profusion, telling us of love and affection that cannot perish, because they are amaranthine flowers that have their root in the mind, and bear the impress of immortality; and as we gaze upon the beautiful, either in nature or art, it becomes daguerreotyped upon the soul, and thus lives forever, coming up at the touch of memory’s wand, with all the vividness of a first impression.

The forest trees standing in solemn grandeur, the winding avenues, the sloping hills, the deep dells, with the placid waters sleeping in their bosoms, with the bright red flowers contrasting with the white polished marble monuments, all conspire to render the place one of extreme beauty and interest. But when we compare this with the descriptions we have read of Westminster Abbey, covered with the mouldering dust of ages, as generation after generation has been added to it, we can picture to the imagination the change passing years will make here. The silent hand of time will steal by degrees, the freshness and beauty from the polished marble, effacing their beauties, one by one, ’till all are obliterated, and green mould and moss occupy their places, and the monument shall cease to be a memorial.

Such is time with its changes, and yet the thoughtless race of man pass on, unheeding the destiny that awaits them, slow to learn the lessons these solemn places are calculated to teach.

The birds as they sang in the branches, seemed breathing a dirge-like melody over the departed, and even their thrilling notes sounded solemn in this sacred place, so strong is the power of association over the human mind.

After spending some hours in this shady place, and drinking in its beauties and its solemnities, ’till the mind became softened and subdued by surrounding influences, we left it, bearing in the memory all the rich variety of landscape, we had been gazing on.

We visited Fresh Pond, where so many go for amusement. Thus it is ever, the living sport upon the very graves of the departed. The scenery here, though beautiful and picturesque, has not the touching influences of the Cemetery, and so we lingered not there, but returned again to the busy city to contrast its bustle, and its stir, with the deep quiet and silent shades of Mount Auburn.