servation, will frequently occasion. He walked on for some time, until he came to a break in the trees, where a vista opened upon the narrow houses of the dead in the church-yard

he then stopped, and stood with the book between his hands, which were clasped he was at this time about ten yards before me, with his side towards the direction in which I stood; I could therefore at that distance, mark the varied shades of feeling as they passed over his countenance. The disk of the setting sun was just sinking behind the mountains. He looked for some time towards the grave-yard, so much in the silent abstraction of sorrow, that I could not help concluding, that some one who had been dear to his heart, now slept within its precincts. He then raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing them on the setting sun, exclaimed in the emotion of the moment, "Here is a prospect from which the man of grief may draw a moral, capable at once of exciting and allaying the severity of his suffering-here is death," said he, pointing involuntarily to the cemetery," and there is life," he continued, looking towards the sun: "here is despair, there is hope-here is

;

mortality, there is immortality-here is sor. row, there is joy. In that grave on which my eye rests, lies the mortal part of her, on whom this heart was so irrevocably fixed-in that grave sleeps Ellen-oh! how many broken hopes, how many sorrows crowd into that word!-Ellen-who would have been but in yonder sky-behind those palaces of beauty, her spirit, guiltless and innocent-." He here checked himself, and recoiled like a man who finds his foot on the edge of a precipice. "No, no, no," said he, flinging the book to the ground, and clasping his hands in bitterness of soul, "there is the impassable limitation-there is the line drawn, beyond which, neither the charity of the Christian, nor the affection of the heart can go.-There has the Almighty said, so far shall my mercy go, but no farther: there has the dark and stern decree of his unfathomable will interposed; and this heart must contemplate the spirit of her who was young, beautiful and virtuous; of her whose hand fed the hungry mouth, whose lips instructed the young mind, or consoled the helpless in the hour of affliction,-of her whose charity was so bound

less, whose hope was so strong, whose faith

"Here he stopped again; but apparently so much distracted by the conflict of his feelings, that he became unconscious of his own motions. He rushed immediately towards the church-yard, leaving the book, which in the agitation of his mind he had flung on the ground, behind him. I walked on and lifted it, being determined to present it to him: on looking at the title-page, I found it to be a Roman Breviary. 1 now approached the church-yard, and when I arrived there, he was sitting beside a tomb, apparently absorbed in profound grief. When he rose up, he wiped away the tears which were fast falling, and frequently turned his eyes to heaven, like a man who would have addressed a prayer thither but dared not. I stood at a distance with the book in my hand, and as soon as he turned round I approached him. When he saw me, he seemed to feel both mortification and embarrassment at my presence; but there was an air of modesty and diffidence in this young man, which prevented him from exhibiting impatience for what a man, more conversant in society, might have been disposed

to consider an indelicate intrusion on the privacy of sorrow. "I believe, Sir," I said, "this book, which I have just found under the trees, is yours. I followed you with the intention of presenting it, but seeing you under the influence of strong feeling, I forbore to do so until I thought you were sufficiently calm not to be startled by the interruption." "You are very obliging, Sir," he said, " to take such trouble; the book is mine, and I thank you not less for your kindness than for your delicacy." He then, bowing, wished me a good evening, and in a hurried manner walked from the church-yard by a different path from that which led him to it. When he was gone, I went to the monument over which he had poured his sorrows; for I felt, I must confess, an indefinable curiosity to know who it was that he had deplored so bitterly; I read on the tombstone the following simple inscription:

This Tomb containeth the Remains of

ELLEN UPTON,

Who died on the 11th of May, 18—,

Aged 19 years;

Also, of her Mother,

ELIZABETH UPTON,

Who followed her on the 15th of August, 18—,

Aged 63.

"Alas!" thought I, as I ran my eye over the inscription, "here lie perhaps all that life contained for him of that which constitutes the sweetest and most delightful enjoyment of the heart. Cut off as he is by the condition of his office from the cultivation and exercise of the tenderer affections, deprived of all that fills the parent's eye with joy, and his soul with gratitude-shut out by the force of an ecclesiastical regulation from the sweetest sympathies of life-from the pure emotions and privileged enjoyments of humanity—repulsed from the hallowed paradise of domestic life, which the sacred characters of father, mother, wife, and child, are permitted to enter; is it any wonder that he should, concentrated as his affections must be by the nature of his situation, stand over the grave of a mother and a sister, and weep with the violence of a strong man's grief? How clearly can I fancy that sister, perhaps his only one-the beloved companion of his childhood and his youth, equal partaker of his joys and sorrows pining away, day by day, and hour by hour, until the lightness of her foot, the benignity of her smile, or the melody of her voice, is