Lucy (Chapter_20)

After a weary walk, they reached the carriage, and on enquiring, found the driver knew of the cross-road across the country. It was however a very rugged one, through a thickly wooded country, without any signs of civilization, except one or two {little} log-cabins they saw at a {little} distance, surrounded by little patches of corn--not with out some dangers to their carriage, did they at last get into the public road--Still they were encompassed with woods, with only here and there a cleared field, a patch of corn, and a log cabin--But the scenery was picturesque, and to a lover of nature, more interesting than views of a cultivated country.--It was not without surprise; that Mrs Fairley saw, in a turning of the road, a large and venerable pile of building rising in the midst of these woods. She roused Lucy from the reverie into which she had sunk, who started at the sight, and told her, that was Rock-Creek Church.--It was imbosomed in lofty and wide spreading oaks

lofty and wide spreading oaks, whose aged trunks, seemed to speak them older than the venerable building they shaded.

The old school house to which she had gone in the days of her childhood--the trees under which she had so often played and other well known objects, were now passed unnoticed while she eagerly sought for the heap of earth, under which her mother was laid. Leaning on Mrs Fairely's arm, she led to a lonely spot, where near a clump of trees, and almost hidden with bushes and briars, she knew {her} an infant brother had been buried, and as she expected, found by its side a fresher grave, which she felt assured was that of her mother. It was marked only by the initials of her name, rudely carved on a rough stone, placed at the head of the grave. Lucy threw herself on the ground, spreading her arms over the grave, as if she hoped to have embraced its insensible inmate.

Mrs Fairely, left her to her sorrows, while she wandered about, to examine a scene so new to her--She was a woman of extensive reading, and of refined taste, tho' of perverted principles, and the beauty and solitary grandeur of the scene awaken'd solemn thoughts, in ever her unthinking bosom. She had seen West-minster abbey, and many a gorgeous and magnificent monument raised over the rich and great, but the noblest works of art, can never so sublime the mind, and touch the soul, as the works of nature; and she was much more solemnly impressed by the sight of the { ?} {irreparable?} oaks, {which spread their} which rose majestically over these humble graves, than she had ever been by the most laboured mausoleum. How high they towered above the last low dwelling of man? They were the growth of ages,--and the storms of many winters, had strewed their leafy honors on the ground, to mingle with the dust of the children of men, And the sun's of many summers', had sweeping arrayed them in brighter robes and repaired the ravages of winter!

But the rays of that renovating sun, could not pierce the cold grave! How sweet the fragrance of the sweet wild-rose! --sweeter, tho' not so costly as the spices which burn round the tombs of the rich and great--and the harmonious strains of the robin are better attuned to the sorrowing heart, than the sound of many instruments.--What chaplet of greater beauty would be entwined around an urn, than the simple wild-briar, with its wreath of snow-white flowers?--Yes, nature, in its simplest form; is more magnificent and more beautiful than all the pride of art.--["What," exclaimed Mrs Fairely, stepping over the large marble tombstone, "do Hero's too, lie in this secluded spot?" and she read the Epitaph of Genl Jackson of Georgia, who died while he was in the Senate--Beside him, were the tombs of two other members from that state, and several other persons of distinction.

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Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the he fleeting breath Can Honor's voice, provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery sooth the dull cold ear of death? The boast of Herald'ry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour, The paths of glory, lead but to the grave. "But to the grave" repealed she--"Yes, here the rich and poor, the wicked and the good, must all lie,--here their dust must mingle,--will they ever rise?--is there a life beyond?--Would that I could believe the tales told by priests, life in a heaven? no there is no heaven, and luckily no hell either. but no--they are false, when we die, we die,--we moulder into dust like the leaves of these trees--to rise again perhaps--but like them, to rise in new forms, of flowers, or fruits." [A still small voice, would make itself

note written on side of page--some one has drawn her pen across this--but I wish it restored as I do not think it out of character and it is naturally suggested by the scene