spot and in this view we regret that the title by which it has long been known, Sweet Auburn, should have been changed to Mount; for we fear that word has been a mote to trouble the mind's eye'—and it must be conceded that the spot has no legitimate or just title to be so denominated. Public opinion, however, certainly favors the design, which, as the North American Review justly remarks, 'is to teach the community to pay more respect to the dead.'

It is well known that the Massachusetts Horticultural Society have obtained a grant from the legislature, which secures through perpetuity the spot selected, for the purposes of a rural cemetery. This spot has been consecrated by appropriate religious ceremonies, and is now forever sacred to the dead.

Mount Auburn Cemetery is situated chiefly in Cambridge, but extends into Watertown. It contains between seventy and eighty acres, and is distant from the city about four and a half miles. Each lot, appropriated for a family tomb, is to contain two hundred square feet.

An

This extent of land comprises a great variety of soil and situation. There is the rich loam formed by the decomposition of leaves, annually deposited, through successive years, the sandy soil which generally nourishes the pine, and the wet earth, created by pools collected in the valleys. elevated summit crowns the spot, from which in a clear day a beautiful panaramic view of the city and surrounding country may be obtained. A deep glen is on one side of this eminence, and there are numerous little mounds where, 'far retired from the turmoil of life,' the body may repose,' and violence and change pass lightly over it, and the elements beat and the storm sigh unheard around its lowly bed.' Mount Auburn is one of those spots abounding in native trees, which are so frequent in New England. The principal which we noticed, were the oak, walnut, chesnut and cedar; and the pine predominates sufficiently to render the spot beautiful, even in the depth of winter, when all other trees have shaken off their green glories.' These groves are a favorite resort of the feathered tribe, both from their commodiousness as localities for nests, and also from the abundant food they supply. From this imperfect description of Mount Auburn, it is evidently a spot peculiarly adapted to horticultural purposes, and affords an appropriate and beautiful location for a rural cemetery.

Among the ever-varying objects of interest which are continually agitating, and to a greater or less degree engrossing:

society, there is none of recent attraction more delightful to contemplate, in a moral and religious point of view, than the appropriation and consecration of Mount Auburn to the purposes of a rural cemetery. In this remark, we do not only allude to the felicitous influences afforded for holy and improving meditation, or to the affecting admonitions which breathe in the voice of the departed,' rising with renewed energy amid the decay or renovation of nature-but rather to the evidence thus given of an improving sentiment on a subject alike solemn and important.

We must, indeed, penetrate the surface of character, to form a just estimation of the influence exerted by christianity; but, as in individuals we witness the result of long established principles, not only in ordinary life, but in every habit, manner and feeling, so we naturally expect to find the manners and customs of a community deeply imbued with the spirit of its religion, and, like the human countenance, affording an index of the inward influence of principle, and a criterian by which to judge of its moral energy and efficiency. A superficial observation would suffice to convince us of the glaring inconsistency of many of the customs of christendom. Our subject, however, confines us to the consideration of those attending the last offices of humanity.

Of all the doctrines revealed and established by the christian religion, none was calculated, from its very nature, to produce more magnificent moral results than that of human immortality. It not only gave a new and most powerful impulse to the principle of virtue in the soul, but shed around man's final resting place a light effulgent enough to illumine the dark valley of the shadow of death, and reflect upon the bereaved spirit the beams of peace and consolation. And yet this moving and inspiring doctrine has failed almost totally to render the cities of the dead improving and attractive resorts, or to place the tomb of man amid those beautiful scenes of nature which give to its silent eloquence an augmented and touching power. We are aware that many christians consider this neglect of the body, after death, as perfectly consistent with religious belief, because, by so doing, we testify our superior regard to the higher and nobler parts of our nature. Whatever truth there may be in this argument, it will not be denied, that christianity has for its object, to spiritualize our natures, and that consequently it behoves christians to multiply and create influences to favor this result. Such an influence we deem Mount Auburn Cemetery capable of exerting. There is, too, something conge

nial with the power and destiny of the soul, that when we have shuffled off this mortal coil' it should repose amid those sublime scenes which, during life, ministered to the improvement of the ascended spirit. In this view we rejoice that the spot selected possesses such natural advantages that little art will be required to beautify it. We trust, and we have too much confidence in the taste of the committee to doubt, that as far as possible the natural beauties of Mount Auburn will be preserved; and while flowers and exotics are, as far as practicable, introduced and cultivated, they will, in no degree, supersede those native American trees which now adorn the spot.

"The hills,

Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods-rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brook,

That make the meadows green, and poured round all
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-

Are but the solemn decorations, all,

Of the great tomb of man.'

THOUGHTVILLE.

TRICKS UPON TRAVELLers.

ON a pleasant evening in August, I was set down at a hotel, in one of the large inland towns of New England. Every room and bed were occupied; and it was with difficulty that I extracted a promise from the host to give me sleeping accommodations when the passengers should depart in the two o'clock stages. The town, if possible, was more full of visitors than usual. The attractions, as well of the place itself, as of its immediate vicinity, rendered it, during the summer months, a place of resort for those persons who preferred a pure atmosphere to the dust and heat of a crowded city. It was, besides, a great thoroughfare for the passage of that superfluous part of a city population, who must travel, and who, at stated periods, at a great expense of wealth and comfort, course over the hills, in crowded stages, in continual jeopardy of life and limb. The Court was, also, in session; and a capital trial, then pleading, increased, to a vast degree, the number of aspirants to empty beds. Stage after stage drove up, in rapid succession, and received the usual reply to applications for accommodation- we can't possibly receive you!'

There was, however, one gentleman, who appeared nothing daunted at the unwelcome intelligence. He ordered his baggage to be taken from the stage, and, with his companion, entered the house. In a few moments, this extraordinary guest became unnoticed in the confusion; when, catching the knight of the shoe-brush by the collar, and crossing his palm with a bright quarter, he whispered to him, patted him upon the shoulder, and after a moment's hesitation on the part of blackey,' the hopeful trio disappeared up stairs.

The clock had just struck eleven; and, wrapped in my cloak, I had stretched myself upon the table in the bar-room, to snooze away the long interval between that time and 2 o'clock, when a young medical student, an inmate of the hotel, returned from an ineffectual attempt to procure an old college friend who accompanied him a resting place for the night. As a last resort, he invited him to share his single bed; and after nodding to each other over a glass of port wine punch, at the bar, they retired to their apartment. When, lo! there lay two portly, whiskered personages, quietly ensconced beneath the bed-clothes. The doctor spake to them; but received no answer. He shook them; they still snored on lustily. His repeated efforts to arouse them, were attended by repeated defeats, for Morpheus seemed to have bereft them of the sense, not of hearing only, but of feeling also.-The impudence of one of them was not, however, sufficient to bear him out in the part he was to act. He burst out, at last, into a loud laugh-apologized for his mistake, as he called it, and promised to yield up the bed to the quiet use and occupation of its rightful occupants. The doctor and his friend retired; but, after a few moments, upon re-entering the room, they found that, although he had kept his promise, there still remained the imperturbable sleeper, whose somnolency had defied all their efforts to awake. The same exertions were repeated; but the same monotonous sounds of his nasal instrument, and his long-drawn and deep breathings, were the only reply. Discouraged, at last, and defeated-lie there, like a brute, as you are!' exclaimed the irascible doctor. Again was repeated the same unearthly snore; and, slamming the door after them, they returned to the bar-room, to take counsel in the emergency.

Now, there is no doubt, but that to a man who had bounced over hills and mountains in a carriage with eight inside passengers, from two of the clock in the morning until evening, a bed is a comfortable thing to lie upon, even if he is compelled to sleep double; and the more especially so, when the alter

native is to sleep upon the floor. But it is equally certain, that although a man may be disposed to yield it to a lady, or an invalid, or to share even a narrow one with a gentleman upon a civil request, yet it is with considerable reluctance he submits to the deprivation of it by fraud, or by forcible intrusion. And further, it is obvious, that when he has invited a friend to share it with him, the reluctance is heightened into an unwillingness, that ordinarily will not be controlled. This was the very situation of the doctor; but, to render it still more aggravating, his companion began to rally him upon the subject, and to thank him for the rest and sleep his narrow bed was likely to afford him. The doctor determined to make one effort more; and accordingly charging the barkeeper with having placed him there, he ordered him instantly to remove the interloper from his bed. The quiet, inoffensive soul denied the charge-lamented the occurrence of the accident, excused himself from performing an act which, he said, even the doctor himself had found to be impracticable, and consoled him with the reflection that the intruder was a passenger in a stage which would leave in a few hours. Upon this hint' the doctor acted; and,

'With a withering look,

The driver's tin stage-horn he took,'

and going to the door, he blew a blast so loud and dread' as to fill the ears of the deepest sleepers, with 'sounds of wo.'

After a short consultation, the indefatigable doctor gave the obsequious bar-keeper his directions; and, accompanied by his friend, returned again to the scene of operations. With the lamp in his hand, he ascended the stairs with a quick and heavy step-entered the room, placed the lamp upon the table, and exclaiming hastily-the stage is waiting for you, sir! the driver has just blown his horn! are you awake, sir?' he retreated, affording to the sleepy gentleman no opportunity for question or reply. They then placed themselves in a situation to observe the result.

In a few moments, the door opened; and the impertinent intruder sallied forth, completely dressed, carrying with him his trunk, valice, cloak, umbrella and the lamp. But in his haste to reach the stage, lest he should be left behind, his feet became entangled in his cloak, and he fell headlong down the stairs!

'Is the stage gone?' he exclaimed, to a half dozen lodgers who, alarmed by the noise, rushed out, undressed, to his assis