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The Village Grave-Yard.-GREENWOOD

"Why is my sleep disquieted?

Who is he that calls the dead ?"-BYRON

In the beginning of the fine month of October, I was travelling with a friend in one of our northern states, on a tour of recreation and pleasure. We were tired of the city, its noise, its smoke, and its unmeaning dissipation; and, with the feelings of emancipated prisoners, we had been breathing, for a few weeks, the perfume of the vales, and the elastic atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes before the sunset of a most lovely day, we entered a neat little village, whose tapering spire we had caught sight of at intervals an hour before, as our road made an unexpected turn, or led us to the top of a hill. Having no motive to urge a farther progress, and being unwilling to ride in an unknown country after night-fall, we stopped at the inn, and determined to lodge there.

Leaving my companion to arrange our accommodations with the landlord, strolled on toward the meeting-house. Its situation had attracted my notice. There was much more taste and beauty in it than is common. It did not 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 me-it 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 therebut 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 sothis 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 trem ble 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 stopped-the 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, 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 labour, 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 inen, 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 endued with immortal vigour, 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 cheek was wet with the dew, and I was chilled by the breath of evening. I arose, and returned to the inn.

Influence of the Habit of Gaming on the Mind and Heart.-NOTT.

Ir an occupation were demanded for the express purpose of perverting the human intellect, and humbling, and degrading, and narrowing, I had almost said, annihilating, the soul of man, one more effectual could not be devised, than the one the gamester has already devised and pre-occupied. And the father and mother of a family, who, instead of assembling their children in the reading-room, or conducting them to the altar, seat them, night after night, beside themselves at the gaming-table, do, so far as this part of their domestic economy is concerned, contribute not only to quench their piety, but also to extinguish their intellect, and convert them into automatons, living mummies, the mere mechanical members of a domestic gambling machine, which, though but little soul is necessary, requires a number of human hands to work it. And if, under such a blighting culture, they do not degenerate into a state of mechanical existence, and, gradually losing their reason,

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