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 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 tomos 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 Taces, and their forms were no longer clad in the garments The silence of their still prayer was succeeded inds of labor, and society, and merriment. Someould see them meet together with inflamed features words; and sometimes I distinguished the outcry e, the oath of passion, and the blasphemy of sin. there were a few, who would often come to the of their dwellings, and lift their eyes to heaven, the still prayer of pardon; while others, passing by, ck them. astonished and grieved, and was just going to exfeelings, when I perceived, by my side, a beautiful stic form, taller and brighter than the sons of men, is addressed me: "Mortal, thou hast now seen the thy race, and learned that thy thoughts were vain. nen should be wakened from their cold sleep, and ■m the grave, the world would still be full of enticed trials; appetite would solicit, and passion would strongly as before; the imperfections of their nature company their return, and the commerce of life on obliterate the recollection of death. It is only s scene of things is exchanged for another, that new bestow new powers, that higher objects will banish es, that the mind will be elevated by celestial cone soul be endued with immortal vigor, and man be I for the course of eternity." ngel then turned from me, and, with a voice which ven now, cried, "Back to your graves, ye frail ones! no more, till the elements are melted." Immediately swept by me, like the rushing wind; the dwellings back into their original forms, and I was left alone rave-yard, with nought but the silent stones and the ing trees around me. sun had long been down; a few of the largest stars nidly beginning to shine, the bats had left their lurking my cheek was wet with the dew, and I was chilled by ath of evening. I arose, and returned to the inn. LESSON XXIV. Consumption.-J. G. PERCIVAL. THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay, Or ever was steeped in fragrant dew,— Oh! there is a sweetness in Beauty's close, And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays, Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye, And there is a blending of white and blue, In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling,-When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing Its silent steps through a flowery path, And all the endearments, that Pleasure hath, Are poured from her full, o'erflowing horn, When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song, The maiden may trip in the dance along, think of the passing moment, that lies, e a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, yield to the present, that charms around h all that is lovely in sight and sound, ere a thousand pleasing phantoms flit, h the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, I the music that steals to the bosom's core, I the heart, in its fulness, flowing o'er h a few big drops, that are soon repressed; short is the stay of grief in her breast:— his enlivened and gladsome hour, = spirit may burn with a brighter power; dearer the calm and quiet day, en the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away. nd when her sun is low declining, d her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, d giving a tinge to her icy lips, So fondly the panting camel flies, here the glassy vapor cheats his eyes, 1 And though her dying voice be mute, With a woman's love and a saint's desires, LESSON XXV. The Wife.-WASHINGTON IRVING. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude, with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters, which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that, at times, it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. |