It was a calm autumnal evening. The late bright green that had clothed the forests, had given place to a rich and almost endless variety of colors. In other lands the fairy pencillings of fancy may have pictured beauties like these, but in our own American woods there is a charm art and genius may strive in vain to imitate or describe. And who is it that can gaze on such a scene without a soft, delicious melancholy? It has a voice to the contemplative mind impressive yet sweet. The rustling of the fallen leaves—the murmur of the breeze through the thinly clad boughs—the gay and almost magic hues of the richly variegated foliage—more lovely as it approaches more nearly to its fall—all conspire to still the troubled passions of the mind—to elevate the spirit above the transitory things of time, and remind us of the solemn truth, that all the beauties and pleasures of this world are fleeting as the summer flower—transient as the splendor of an autumn wood. Ten years had passed since last I stood beneath the lofty oaks that cast their shade over the silent sepulchres of the dead. Tired of the greetings of friends and gaze of strangers. I sought the spot where rested the ashes of those that once had been among the friends of my youth. I strolled from tomb to tomb, and sought on the pages of memory the history of many I had once known and loved, but often did I inquire of my companion, to gather more fully the recollection which time had partially obscured. At length a simple, yet elegant tomb attracted my attention. Near it stood one of an imposing appearance, in which art and munificence seemed to have exerted their skill, to make it tower above the rest. On the first was this simple, but affecting inscription— SACRED To the memory of MATILDA WILLIAMS. On living tablets of the heart, Her virtues are engraved; Then seek not on the works of art, The record of her praise.