after night-fall, we stopped at the inn, and determined to lodge there.

Leaving my companion to arrange our accommodations with the landlord, I strolled on toward the meeting-house. Its situation had attracted my notice. There was much It did not more taste and beauty in it than is common. stand, as I have seen some meeting-houses stand, in the most frequented part of the village, blockaded by wagons and horses, with a court-house before it, an engine-house behind it, a store-house under it, and a tavern on each side; it stood away from all these things, as it ought, and was placed on a spot of gently rising ground, a short distance from the main road, at the end of a green lane; and so near to a grove of oaks and walnuts, that one of the foremost and largest trees brushed against the pulpit window. On the left, and lower down, there was a fertile meadow, through which a clear brook wound its course, fell over a rock, and then hid itself in the thickest part of the grove. A little to the right of the meeting-house was the grave-yard.

I never shun a grave-yard-the thoughtful melancholy which it inspires is grateful rather than disagreeable to meit gives me no pain to tread on the green roof of that dark mansion, whose chambers I must occupy so soon-and I often wander from choice to a place, where there is neither solitude nor society-something human is there-but the folly, the bustle, the vanities, the pretensions, the competitions, the pride of humanity, are gone-men are there, but their passions are hushed, and their spirits are still-malevolence has lost its power of harming-appetite is sated, ambition lies low, and lust is cold-anger has done raving, all disputes are ended, all revelry is over, the fellest animosity is deeply buried, and the most dangerous sins are safely confined by the thickly-piled clods of the valley-vice is dumb and powerless, and virtue is waiting in silence for the trump of the archangel, and the voice of God.

I never shun a grave-yard, and I entered this. There were trees growing in it, here and there, though it was not regularly planted; and I thought that it looked better than if it had been. The only paths were those, which had been worn by the slow feet of sorrow and sympathy, as they followed love and friendship to the grave, and this too was well, for I dislike a smoothly rolled gravel-walk in a place like this. In a corner of the ground rose a gentle knoll, the

top of which was covered by a clump of pines. Here my walk ended; I threw myself down on the slippery couch of withered pine leaves, which the breath of many winters had shaken from the boughs above, leaned my head upon my hand, and gave myself up to the feelings which the place and the time excited.

The sun's edge had just touched the hazy outlines of the western hills; it was the signal for the breeze to be hushed, and it was breathing like an expiring infant, softly and at distant intervals, before it died away. The trees before me, as the wind passed over them, waved to and fro, and trailed their long branches across the tomb-stones, with a low, moaning sound, which fell upon the ear like the voice of grief, and seemed to utter the conscious tribute of nature's sympathy over the last abode of mortal man. A low, confused hum came from the village; the brook was murmuring in the wood behind me; and, lulled by all these soothing sounds, I fell asleep.

But whether my eyes closed or not, I am unable to say, for the same scene appeared to be before them, the same trees were waving, and not a green mound had changed its form. I was still contemplating the same trophies of the unsparing victor, the same mementos of human evanescence. Some were standing upright; others were inclined to the ground; some were sunk so deeply in the earth, that their blue tops were just visible above the long grass which surrounded them; and others were spotted or covered with the thin yellow moss of the grave-yard. I was reading the inscriptions on the stones which were nearest to me-they recorded the virtues of those who slept beneath them, and told the traveller that they hoped for a happy rising. Ah! said I—or I dreamed that I said so this is the testimony of wounded hearts-the fond belief of that affection, which remembers error and evil no longer; but could the grave give up its dead-could they, who have been brought to these cold dark houses, go back again into the land of the living, and once more number the days which they had spent there, how differently would they then spend them! and when they came to die, how much firmer would be their hope! and when they were again laid in the ground, how much more faithful would be the tales, which these same stones would tell over them! the epitaph of praise would be well deserved

by their virtues, and the silence of partiality no longer required for their sins.

I had scarcely spoken, when the ground began to tremble beneath me. Its motion, hardly perceptible at first, increased every moment in violence, and it soon heaved and struggled fearfully; while in the short quiet between shock and shock, I heard such unearthly sounds, that the very blood in my heart felt cold-subterraneous cries and groans issued from every part of the grave-yard, and these were mingled with a hollow crashing noise, as if the mouldering bones were bursting from their coffins. Suddenly all these sounds stoppedthe earth on each grave was thrown up-and human figures of every age, and clad in the garments of death, rose from the ground, and stood by the side of their grave-stones. Their arms were crossed upon their bosoms-their countenances were deadly pale, and raised to heaven. The looks of the young children alone were placid and unconscious— but over the features of all the rest a shadow of unutterable meaning passed and repassed, as their eyes turned with terror from the open graves, and strained anxiously upward. Some appeared to be more calm than others, and when they looked above, it was with an expression of more confidence, though not less humility; but a convulsive shuddering was on the frames of all, and on their faces that same shadow of unutterable meaning. While they stood thus, I perceived that their bloodless lips began to move, and, though I heard no voice, I knew, by the motion of their lips, that the word would have been-Pardon!

But this did not continue long-they gradually became more fearless-their features acquired the appearance of security, and at last of indifference-the blood came to their lips-the shuddering ceased, and the shadow passed away.

And now the scene before me changed. The tombs and grave-stones had been turned, I knew not how, into dwellings-and the grave-yard became a village. Every now and then I caught a view of the same faces and forms, which I had seen before-but other passions were traced upon their faces, and their forms were no longer clad in the garments of death. The silence of their still prayer was succeeded by the sounds of labor, and society, and merriment. Sometimes, I could see them meet together with inflamed features and angry words, and sometimes I distinguished the outcry of violence, the oath of passion, and the blasphemy of sin.

And yet there were a few who would often come to the threshold of their dwellings, and lift their eyes to heaven, and utter the still prayer of pardon-while others passing by would mock them.

I was astonished and grieved, and was just going to express my feelings, when I perceived by my side a beautiful and majestic form, taller and brighter than the sons of men, and it thus addressed me-Mortal! thou hast now seen the frailty of thy race, and learned that thy thoughts were vain. Even if men should be wakened from their cold sleep, and raised from the grave, the world would still be full of enticement and trials; appetite would solicit and passion would burn, as strongly as before-the imperfections of their nature would accompany their return, and the commerce of life would soon obliterate the recollection of death. It is only when this scene of things is exchanged for another, that new gifts will bestow new powers, that higher objects will banish low desires, that the mind will be elevated by celestial converse, the soul be imbued with immortal vigor, and man be prepared for the course of eternity.' The angel then turned from me, and with a voice, which I hear even now, cried, 'Back to your graves, ye frail ones, and rise no more, till the elements are melted. Immediately a sound swept by me like the rushing wind-the dwellings shrunk back into their original forms, and I was left alone in the grave-yard, with nought but the silent stones and the whispering trees around

me.

The sun had long been down-a few of the largest stars were timidly beginning to shine, the bats had left their lurking places, my garments were wet with the dew, and I was chilled by the breath of evening. I arose, and returned to the inn.

INTEGRITY, FORTITUDE, AND HOPE.
THE man, whose firm and equal mind
To solid glory is inclin'd,

Determin❜d will his path pursue,
And keep the godlike prize in view,

His calm, undaunted, manly breast,
Of virtue, honor, truth possest,
Will stem, the torrent of the age,
And fearless tread this mortal stage.

Amidst th' assailing ills of life,
Pride, passion, malice, envy, strife;
He'll act his part without disguise,
Intrepid, gen'rous, just, and wise.
In conscious rectitude secure,
This man, unshaken, shall endure
Of human woes the num'rous train,
Oppression, bondage, sickness, pain.

And when, at last, th' eternal Pow'r
Shall fix th' irrevocable hour;
That solemn hour which none can fly,
Since 'tis decreed that all must die:
Conscious of sov'reign mercy near,
Its voice shall banish ev'ry fear;
While faith and hope in joys to come,
Waft him to realms beyond the tomb.

THE TRUE PRIDE OF ANCESTRY.

It is a noble faculty of our nature, which enables us to connect our thoughts, our sympathies, and our happiness, with what is distant in place or time; and, looking before and after, to hold communion at once with our ancestors and our posterity. Human and mortal although we are, we are, nevertheless, not mere insulated beings, without relation to the past or the future. Neither the point of time nor the spot of earth, in which we physically live, bounds our rational and intellectual enjoyments. We live in the past by a knowledge of its history, and in the future by hope and anticipation. By ascending to an association with our ancestors; by contemplating their example and studying their character; by partaking their sentiments, and imbibing their spirit; by accompanying them in their toils; by sympathizing in their sufferings, and rejoicing in their successes and their triumphs,— we mingle our own existence with theirs, and seem to belong to their age. We become their contemporaries, live the lives which they lived, endure what they endured, and partake in the rewards which they enjoyed. And in like manner, by running along the line of future time; by contemplating the probable fortunes of those who are coming after us; by attempting something which may promote their hap