A NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARD.

THERE is a certaiu New England village, not two hours' journey from Boston, chiefly composed of wooden houses and cottages, and crossed in its straggling width by the iron rails of both trolley-cars and steam-cars, boasting a large and modern Congregational church and an old and silent long-grassed graveyard. In no way is the village noted. It bears the name of an English village in Essex, but has nothing of industry, curiosity. or romance to attract atten- tion. It is there as a memory of the older America,—the sure and strong foundation on which the new and happier country stands. I visited it neither out of curiosity nor convention. It chanced once to make the turning-point of an autumn day's excursion.

We left Boston in the brilliant sunshine of a September morning—my charming American companion and I—board- ing a little white steamer called the Mayflower,' and sailing for an hour on a blue, sunlit sea till a little wooden pier opposite a huge wooden hotel received us, and we there mounted one of those wind-creating, rushing electric trolley- cars which are so characteristic a feature of American life, so novel an experience to the British sightseer. And we passed many little stations bearing such queer theatrical names as " Waveland," " Surfside," and " Silverstrand," till we came to the most important of these summer resorts, which is for- tunate enough still to keep one of those ancient Indian names which are musical with a poetry only too rare in the titles of a later day—" Nantasket Beach." Then we left the newer world behind us, and passing through woods and over little salt ponds, came to older regions,—villages whose houses nestle closer together and bear all the pathos of age which this New England can bestow on them.

We descended from the car at the oldest of these little grey villages, and following the instinct of the European, turned our steps towards the church. It stood on the opposite side of the road from the graveyard, rearing a high and modern tower to cast a shadow on the ancient graves. In the church there was nothing (save the palm-leaf fans stuck behind the cushions in every pew) to remind us that we were not in a Presbyterian church in my native Scotland, yet something seemed to keep me in continual remembrance that we were in a New England Congregational church, where worshipped the descendants of the old Puritans. " Here abideth a principle, a dogma, a code. Our fathers upheld it. We uphold it too." That was what this great, high-roofed, pulpit-headed place said, just as the little incense- scented chapels of the old faith in the Old World seem to sob, "Mystery of wonder and of love, have pity upon us."

From the church we went to the graveyard across the road. The long grass covers the mounds, the headstones and foot- stones are weather-worn and moss-grown. Here the graves go back more than a hundred years, and were dug for a people who looked forward to a tombstone and an epitaph as one of the reasons for living. The sunshine that seemed to glint harshly on the dusty village was softened here as the dew-drenched grass, the trees, and the grey stones of this little" God's acre " caught it. My pretty companion, in a pale-blue linen dress, hatless and gloveless, as the American girl loves to be in the summer days, knelt on a grave trying to decipher the fast- vanishing letters on the grey stone,—the picture of dainty life in this region of shadow and past. We felt we were peeping into that past as we read the little inscriptions telling their history to the passer-by. And how sure they were that there would be a passer-by!—

" Behold and see as you pass by : As you are now, so once was I; As I am now, so you will be,— Prepare for death and follow me."

This was a favourite. We found it on four or five stones, varied by " Come hither, friend, and cast an eye " for the first line.

Does the following tell a story of a martyr's suffering and oppression ?—" Here reposes the mortal part of Mr. James Maxon, who left this state of suffering June 21st, 1797;

Blest in the promised Seed, supremely blest, His ransomed soul has entered into rest. Now insolence of pride and priestly spight Shall strive in vain to rob him of his right.'"

And does.the faith of the epitaph come near to the quiet con- viction that prompted the words above it, this " state of suffer- ing " ? Was that comment on life the best he could leave his followers, and did the hope he rhymes of on his tombstone have no power to brighten the years that went before ?

There is a touch of "nasty temper" in the young man who desires to say for as many years as his tombStone shall last,—

" Youth, think on me who in due, sleeping lie, Where you must shortly be as well as I."

A poor legacy to the passer-by after all, and not calculated to dignify life if taken too deeply to heart. Nor is that of Elihu Maxon, who calls to you,—

" Come hither, mortal, cast an eye, Then go your way and learn to die."

Better the farewell of Amass. Penniman :- "Farewell, my friends, dry up your tears : Here I must lie till Christ appears."

And that of another who is happy enough to chant

" Weep not for me, I have no cause for tears : Cease then your cries and banish all your fears."

A stern and hard-minded old Puritan it must have been who set himself to compose the following message to - his unknown readers :-

" You live, but you must die ; you die, but you must live :

Grim death will come to all, the Grave will all receive.

You all must come to us, You all must feel the rod, And from the grave once more I say,' Prepare to meet your God.'"

But at last in our wanderings we came across one optimist,— one departed friend who had a kind word to say of the world,

an affectionate endearment for those he was leaving, and a tender regret for the sweetest joy of life :-

" Indulgent world, I bid adieu - Farewell, dear friends, farewell to you. No more kindness can I show To any creature here below. I am mortal in my tomb, To sleep awhile till Jesus come."

I longed to thank the gentle heart that could frame those words, " indulgent world," and who had the courage and the discernment to extol the greatest indulgence of that world. Who knows but this bright spirit may have sown some of the

seed to be reaped by a later, happier generation, so rich • in glad and cheerful thought !

Lieutenant David Holbrook and his sons Caleb, Moses, and Jonathan have one epitaph, and reading it, we were obliged to return to the relentless and material gloom of those times :-

" Come, listen and attend, the father and his friend

Lie sleeping in the dust.

Both young and old forsake your sins, For you must follow us."

Surely they were days of continual reproof and everlasting counsel that tempted men to compose such epitaphs for their gravestones. Did people then stroll through a graveyard as we turn over the leaves of a book, seeking advice, consolation, rebuke, and guidance ? These long-dead Puritan people did indeed express an idea,—of mingled sternness and humility.

It was very well, in this country of all things new, to spend an hour where all is old. " We are unhampered by custom, we are unfettered by tradition. Ghosts do not bar out way or frighten our advances," say those of this New World. But if it is free, it is lonely too, and bewildering. The old ghosts say : " We helped to make this land. The responsi- bility is ours as well as yours ; our work is all around you. Follow us, and do your best." The New World is glad that it has not to stay and undo evil work before it may begin to build up good. The Old is glad that it has foundations to build on. Both are probably true. In these broad-minded days we grow tired of bearing it said that people see different facets of the same crystal. Perhaps it is so; but certain it is that when we gaze out with far-seeing eyes into the far distance we see truth; while when we catch the elements within our reach, weld them together, and give them form, behold! we have fashioned a lie.

I sailed back to Boston alone. The sunshine had vanished, a strong rain had beaten on the cars, but held off in a grey mist as the `Mayflower' steamed up. Sky and sea were grey, and the coast itself was grey. And Boston Harbour, wrapped-in-a pale mist, with a ghost of white steam rising into it from one wharf, and all the slender black masts springing sharply out of it, and the cobwebby rigging mingling with it, was a symphony in grey worthy of Whistler.

F. D.