I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion.  Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, tho I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold.  What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty of oblivion!  It is, indeed, the empire of death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes.  How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name!  Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten.  The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow.

“Our fathers,” says Sir Thomas Browne, “find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors.”  History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription molders from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal.  Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust?  What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment?  The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum.  “The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams.” [Footnote:  Sir Thomas Browne.]

What, then, is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums?  The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower—­when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column; and the foxglove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead.  Thus the man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.

The houses of Parliament [Footnote:  From “English Note Books.”  By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers of Hawthorne’s works, Houghton, Mifflin Co.  Copyright, 1870-1898.]

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE