round every object of interest. This was very provoking: we desired to see what He had seen; but we remembered how, out of this good man's naturally irritable temperament, he had become gentle, modest, and patient. We could almost fancy the measured yet dulcet tones of his sweet, eloquent voice reproving our unthankfulness for what we had already enjoyed. Considering the unostentatious and righteous nature of the man, we could not agree with Dr. Johnson in thinking it at all wonderful that he condescended to lay aside the scholar, the philosopher, and the wit, to write little devotional songs, poems, and systems of instruction, adapted to the wants and capabilities of children; the more he combated with Locke, the greater necessity he perceived for making a Catechism for children of four years old.

The chamber upon whose walls hung the parting breath of this benevolent man might well be an object of the deepest interest to all who follow, however humbly, the faith of Jesus. We were told of a little child who, knowing every hymn he had written, was taken into his room, having some vague but happy idea that she should meet him there. Learning, as she eagerly looked round, that the author of "Watts's Hymns" was dead, she burst into bitter tears, which did not cease while she remained in the house. Many of his works are said to have been produced in this room, which, though small, was lofty and pleasant. The greater number of his poems are devotional. His nature and education both prompted him to employ his talents in the service of his Creator. Poetry with him was but the giving a more delightful and inviting dress to that which is naturally grand, dignified, and beautiful. We remember in his preface to his "Lyric Poetry" he seems to think it almost necessary to apologize for spending the time thus. He says, if he seized these hours of leisure wherein his soul was in a more sprightly frame, to entertain himself or his friends with a divine or moral song, he hopes he shall find an easy pardon. These "Divine Songs for Children" seem

to have achieved the perfection of their intent. To this hour, when fretful, or in pain, or indisposed for occupation, a line, as we have said, a verse of those hymns, learned in our childhood, sets us "all right again." No wonder, then, that we *class the "Divine Songs for Children” among the rarest and most valuable works to which genius has given existence. If the earliest impressions are of the greatest importance, because the most effective and the most enduring, how essential is it that the bias of the young mind should be toward virtue, honesty, industry, humanity, and moral courage? There is no lesson in either which Dr. Watts has left untaught. Children lisp his verses long before they can read them-the moral fixes upon the mind through the active medium of the imagination, and is retained for life. The "Divine Songs" are neither too high nor—what is less easy of attainment—too low for the comprehension of a child; and they tempt perusal and thought by the graces of easy rhyme. They are simple without being weak, and they reason without being argumentative; they are just of sufficient length to be committed to memory, without being long enough to become wearisome as tasks. We do indeed regard their author as one of the great benefactors of the human kind, and have searched in vain among the tomes of poets of far loftier pretensions for so many golden verses as are to be found in the "Divine Songs for Children."

• Doctor Southey, in his "Life," says that he composed rhyming lines for copy-books, containing moral instruction, and beginning with every letter of the alphabet; copies composed of short letters, for teaching to write even; and others, each line of which contained all the twenty-four letters.

Eight years have passed since this visit was paid to the dwelling-place of Dr Isaac Watts. Eight years! which, as they rolled on, have left us much, and taken much from us! And it is good and right to be able to bless God both for what he took and what he left, knowing that the bitter has become sweet, and our foolish repinings have been silenced into wisdom. One, tried and trusted, who was with us then the heart-friend of our youth, the dear companion of our thoughts and hopes

has been perfected in heaven; and we never missed her ever-cheerful voice, or sunny smile more, than when we revisited Abney Park but a short time ago. Our very affections become selfish when not tempered by the spirit of charity and love; the most acceptable homage we can render to the righteous dead, either in the sight of God or man, is by walking to our own graves in their footsteps!

STATUE IN THE CEMETERY.

Abney Park is now part of a large cemetery. The iron gates by which we entered the drive leading to the house in 1842, are still there; and the trees, the avenues, preserved with a most delicate respect to the memory of the poet, are so well kept-there is such an air of solemnity, and peace, and positive "beauty" in the arrangement of the whole-that if spirits were permitted to visit the earth, we might hope to meet his shade amid his once favorite haunts. There is nothing to offend us in such receptacles for the perishing away of humanity, but everything to soothe and harmonize the feelings of the past and present. A statue in pure and simple character of this high-priest of charity, stands, we were told, upon the "exact spot" where the house stood; but we think it has been placed rather further back than was the dwelling. Perhaps the site is more ostentatious of display

The inscription on the pedestal of the statue to Watts, which was executed by E. H. Bailey, R. A., and " erected by public subscription, September, 1845," is as follows: "In memory of Dr. Isaac Watts, D. D., and in testimony of the high and lasting esteem in which his character and writings are held in the great Christian community, by whom the English language is

than would have met the doctor's taste had he been consulted; and had it been hid away in a wilderness, where the nightingale sung to the rose, and the cushat converted melancholy into music, he might have liked it better. But all honor to those who honored the teacher of their childhood; he would pardon them this genuine homage. "The mound," too, from whence he loved to overlook the green and fertile country, (for London at that period had not escaped from Shoreditch,) is walled in, fenced round, and guarded as a sanctuary. We have said that one dreamy tradition affirms that the bones of Cromwell sleep beneath the tablet which records the love of Isaac Watts for that which was in his time lovely and solitary-looking over a large pond, where the heron sat musing by

"the sedgy shallow;"

and commanding, beyond, extensive views of the surrounding country. The cemetery is also ornamented by a picturesque little church, from which a funeral procession was passing as we entered.

Many of the monuments are remarkable for truth and simplicity, and numbers of the graves were enriched by early flowers in full bloom. The old trees are invaluable to the Abney Park Cemetery, and so suggestive of memories of Dr. Watts, that his home seems still there; though, in reality, his remains-now a mere handful of ashes-are interred in the buryingground of Bunhill Fields, opposite the

spoken. Of his Psalms and Hymns it may be predicted in his own words:

"Ages unborn will make his songs The joy and labor of their tongues." "He was born at Southampton, July 7th, 1674, and died November 25th, 1748, after a Sir Thomas Abney, Bart., then standing in these residence of thirty-six years in the mansion of grounds.

"Few men have left behind such purity of character, or such monuments of laborious piety; he has provided instruction for all ages, from those who are lisping their first lessons, to the enlightened readers of Malebranche and Locke. He has left neither corporeal nor spir itual nature unexamined: he has taught the Art of Reasoning and the Science of the Stars; such he was, as every Christian Church would rejoice to have adopted."-DR. JOHNSON.

chapel where John Wesley preached, when past the age of eighty, to the many missionaries who have since carried his name over the universe.

We visited this crowded place of interment for Dissenters: the walk through its thickened tombs is literally paved, like the chancels of old cathedrals, with tombstones; and our feet frequently recoiled as our eyes caught the name of some timehonored Gospel minister.*

Such a brotherhood of graves is full of profit! The city din sounded like distant thunder; but yet, though the rain splashed on the tombs and sunk into the thicklymatted grass, all seemed silent. We thought upon the memorable words of the old man, "Waiting God's leave to die!" how he had said, "that the most learned and knowing Christians, when they come to die, have only the same plain promises of the Gospel for their support as the common and unlearned; and so," he added, "I find it."

The tomb is square. Southey calls it "handsome." He could hardly have seen it; for it is humble, unpretending, even Quaker-like in its plainness. The epitaph, written by himself, is an index to his humility. He does not tell his age, but counts his years by the length, as it were, of his Gospel ministry

Bunhill Fields was known as the city burialground in the reign of Charles I., and here was buried the son of his successful opponent-the mild Richard Cromwell. General Fleetwood, Cromwell's Lord-Deputy of Ireland from 1651 to 1654, was also buried here. The ground was walled in at the expense of the city during the great plague of 1665, and was some time afterward purchased by Mr. Tindal, who appropriated it as a burial-ground for persons of any religious persuasion who choose to avail themselves of it. It has hence become the favorite "restingplace" of eminent Protestant Dissenters; and here rest John Bunyan, Dr. Watts, Dr. Price, Dr. Lardner, Dr. A. Rees, author of the "Cyclopædia," and a host of others celebrated for their learning and piety. An avenue of trees adds to the appearance of this Cemetery, which has been recently enlarged by the removal of some houses at the further extremity. An idea of the immense number of dead here deposited may be formed from the fact, that in the twenty four years previous to 1821, no fewer than thirty-five thousand bodies had been interred in it.

VOL. VIII.-28

THE MOUND IN THE CEMETERY.

Hartopp, Bart., and Dame Mary Abney: having been "replaced in 1808 by a few of the persons who met for worship where he so long labored."

The tomb is on the right-hand side of this great burying-ground, which doubtless, when first inclosed, was in the country, but now is surrounded by houses. It is well and carefully kept, but lonely and uncheerful, though the sun came out and turned into crystal the rain-drops which hung from the leaves of the young trees. One man was giving a date and a name to a fresh tombstone; and another told us, when we said how full of death was the inclosure, that there was room enough for many more. We could not avoid wishing that Dr. Isaac Watts had been buried amid the stillness of the groves he loved so well.

GOOD ADVICE.-Among the many good things in the variegated memoirs of Rev. Sidney Smith is the following: "When you meet with neglect, let it rouse you to exertion, instead of mortifying your pride. Set about lessening those defects which expose you to neglect, and improve those excellences which command attention and respect." This is excellent advice.

I SEE a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race! They pick their fuel out of every hedge, Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd

The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide Their fluttering rags, and shows a

Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound.
Such health and gayety of heart enjoy
The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;
And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering
much,

Need other physic none to heal the effects
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

*

God made the country, and man made the town.

What wonder, then, that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught

bag,