breathless attention, but all was silent; the same awful stillness reigned; and, by degrees, the feverish heat which had rushed through my system subsided to a regular temperature. Scarcely, however, had I regained my composure, before a second, and a third expression of grief or agony, from some unknown being, fell upon my ear, and entered my very soul. I felt disposed to move from my seat, but an invisible chain bound me to the spot. The unexpectedness of the sounds had deprived me of the proper exercise of thought: I gazed, with strained eyes, and listened, with distended ears, but could neither see nor hear any living thing. It required no effort on my part to believe, that the tomb-stones nodded at me, in mockery, or, moving from their stations, paced to and fro in the pale beams of the now clouded moon. A nervous sensation crept over me,-a cold, clammy sweat, hung upon my forehead,―my hair stiffened,—and my very breathing became difficult. A soft, thrilling, indistinct voice, of the wildest harmony, and yet of the most melodious cadence, arose upon the breathless æther: the notes were sadly soothing, and, like Shakspeare's Ferdinand, when surprised by the singing of Ariel, I was ready to exclaim, "Where should this music be? i' th' air, or the earth?" A few broken expressions were all I could gain, except at its termination, which became more full and plaintive, when the words "Tis even so, 'tis even so," were distinctly audible.

My head had mechanically turned towards the point whence the sounds appeared to proceed,and scarcely had they died away, before, as if rising from one of the graves, a figure, of vestal whiteness, glided airily along. Its head was enveloped in a snowy kerchief, barely leaving the face uncovered, presenting a countenance more in sorrow than in anger;" while a long plain dress covered its slender form, and trailed carelessly upon the ground. As it receded from my view, I rose, scarcely conscious of what I did, and attempted to follow it. I reached the spot where I last saw it,-it had exhaled! I could discover no trace of its existence. Where, or how it had gone, I could not conjecture. I stood, fear-bound, like a petrified statue. I did not, or I thought I did not, believe in supernatural appearances. I have again and again laughed at the idle gravity of some lovers of the marvellous; but I now was half-way-scarcely half-a sceptic. I felt unwilling to believe, and yet I dared not, circumstanced as I then was, deny. It might be possible, spirits might walk;-still I determined to combat the point. I inquired, with the son of Anchises,

"Can it be, that souls sublime

Return to visit our terrestrial clime;

And that the gen'rous mind, releas'd by death,
Can covet lazy limbs, and mortal breath ?"

My soliloquy was of short duration. An undefinable sensation of fear, doubt, shame, and

terror, strangely mingled, possessed me. The beauties of the moonlight scene faded away. An instinctive horror, as with the claws of a harpy, fastened upon me,—and, "'Tis even so,―'tis even so," with the unearthly tones in which the words were uttered, rang in my ears. The unknown figure seemed again to pass before me ;-the illusion became oppressively powerful. With hurried steps I took the turning which appeared to lead to my inn, and in a few minutes found myself seated in the parlour, from which, three hours before, I had started in search of an adventure.

As I entered the house, I found my appearance excited some surprise in the portly hostess, who, with a long side glance, eyed me somewhat sagaciously; and well she might, for, while reviewing my own loved figure in a diamond-cut mirror, which decorated the chimney-piece of my room, I scarcely knew it. The paleness of the mysterious stranger seemed to have been transferred to my own face, while my panting bosom heaved most piteously. I rested for a few minutes in my easy chair, and then rung for my supper. My pretty waiting-maid appeared, and kindly inquired, "Pray, sir, are you not well?" I felt ashamed to confess the fact, although I longed to do so; and, therefore, thanking her for her attentions, dismissed her in the best way I could; awkwardly complaining that I had taken a longer walk than I had intended, and felt somewhat fatigued ;—which was in all its parts, although a lame tale, a literal truth.

An excellent supper, served up in the best style of village accommodation, made almost delicious by a mug of super-excellent home-brewed ale,-the best, the very best, as the old lady herself (who, as she with humility confessed, ought not to have said it) assured me, most seriously, that could be procured for ten miles round, operated considerably to tranquillize and refresh me; and after taking a small glass of rum-grog, I retired to sleep, and to dream of the inexplicable circumstance I had met with.

To describe the character of my chamber, the size and quality of my bed, the furniture with which it was garnished, the grotesque figures which bestudded it, how I slept, and, if I did dream, of what I dreamed-would be too tiresome a task for my ardent feelings to attend to; nor would it, I apprehend, be more interesting or welcome to my readers: suffice it to say, that the strong excitement of the evening had so far fatigued nature, that the cuckoo-clock in the kitchen was repeating its monotonous sound ten successive times, as I entered the parlour the next morning.

Some of the best Turkey-that is a decoction of it-the house afforded, highly enriched by a plentiful supply of lucious cream and new-laid eggs, with a number of et-ceteras, afforded me a good breakfast, and I began to think about pushing onwards to the metropolis of our country, when, as I paced round my boudoir, and gazed at the splendid illustrations of that chef d'avre of

comic description, "Gilpin's Journey," which adorned the walls, my eye fell upon a paper which lay on the mantel-piece, which contained, in a neat hand-evidently a female's-some writing of a metrical order. Although, as I have stated, I am no poet, nor have the happiness to be able to decide, like some favoured critics of the day, who can do so even without reading a line, upon the merits of the productions of that illustrious race, yet, like most other people with little sense, I know when I am pleased with what I read, and have been since first I conned over Homer and Virgil, as tasks, at school, enamoured of the lyre. Acting under this feeling, mingled with a spice of curiosity, and judging it could be nothing out of order to read what had so been left, I took up the paper, and to my almost overwhelming astonishment, read the following stanza

""Tis even so,-'tis even so;
Hope whispers no relief.—

Those cannot help, who cannot know,

Or comprehend my grief:

Too deep, too deep for mortal ken,

My cureless sorrows flow.

The world may doubt my grief; but then

'Tis even so,-'tis even so."

On finishing the lines, my mind immediately reverted to the church-yard scene, on the preceding evening; and I was now enabled to connect in my mind that of which I then could only distinguish