but my mind perfectly calm. The old floor groaned under every tread, but the noise excited in me no alarm; I did not even turn when the planks sprung and cracked behind me long after my foot had left them. But, good God! what were my feelings when I heard distinct footsteps following my own! the light tread of naked feet-I stopped instantly, just as I had made a step-the tread ceased, and a moment after I heard a foot brought up as if to support the walker in this unexpected pause-Could it be echo?I struck my foot upon the floor-the sound was short and sullen, and was not repeated-I walked on, but the steps did not follow-I turned, and paused again—all was still. I walked back, and as I reached the spot where the sounds had ceased-whether I heard or saw it I cannot tell-but something passed me, and a soft sigh floated along with it, dying away in distance like the moaning of a gentle wind. It was indistinct as it passed, but as I listened to catch its last lingering, I knew the voice of Gertrude!" Hermann!" it said, in a tone so tender and mournful, that my eyes filled with tears, and I seemed to hear it long after it had ceased. "Gertrude !" I cried aloud-the same sweet sigh answered me, and for an instant I caught the dark beam of her eye-there was no form, but I saw her own look-that deep melancholy gaze-it was but a moment, and it was gone. "Gertrude!" I cried again, "if it be thou, do not fly me come to me, beloved!" A pause of deeper silence followed; my eyes were fixed on the air where I had lost her, when the shadows at the extremity of the chamber began to move like the waving of a garment; their motion at first was indefinite and hardly perceptible, but gradually increased till they parted and rolled away, leaving a brighter space in the middle. This had at first no determinate form, but soon began to assume the outline of a human figure. I shall never forget the sensation of that moment-my hair rose, my flesh crept, and drops of sweat rolled fast down my cheeks; yet it was not fear I cannot describe the emotion with which I watched the figure growing more and more distinct; and even when I saw the face of my own Gertrude, all thoughts of earth were swallowed up in those of eternity-I stood in the presence of a spirit, and felt myself immortal! The

triumph was short-it was too like herself the eyes were closed, but it was her own graceful form, though attenuated and almost transparent-her own face-pale and lan guid, but oh, how beautiful!—at last the eyes opened→→→ they alone were unchanged, and they gazed on me with a tenderness I could not bear-1 sunk on my knees, and hid my face-I felt her approach-I did not raise my eyes, but I knew she was near me by a glow of more than human happiness-a hand was laid upon my head-Hermann!" said the same sweet voice," dear Hermann! but one year more!"—and the sound floated away. I looked up—→ she was already disappearing-she smiled on me, and the form faded, and the shadows gathered over it.

I had sunk on the floor exhausted; the first feeling I remember was one of unutterable grief and loneliness; but the next was joy at the thought that I was not to endure it long" but one year more, ard I shall be with thee forever"-I could not feel more certain of any fact of my own experience, than that Gertrude was dead, and I should soon follow.

I paced the chamber till day-break, and then watched the sky till the sun rose. I was in no haste to be gone, for I had but a short day's journey before me, and did not wish to arrive before night. I remained in my chamber till the morning mists were dispersed, and then began my journey. I rode slowly all day, musing and abstracted, and hardly noticing the objects around me, till I reached the brow of a hill beneath which lay the village of Underwalden a few simple buildings gathered close round the church whose spire just rose above the trees; beyond was the gentle slope of green hills parted only by hawthorn hedges; and still further on, the home of my Gertrude, canopied by tall ancient elms, and gleaming in the yellow light of the setting sun.

If I had had no other reason, I should have foreboded evil from the silence of the hour-it is always a quiet time, but it has a few sounds that harmonize with its solemnitythe lowing of the cattle, the whistle of the returning labourer, or the distant merriment of the children released from school, come naturally with the close of day--but now the cattle were gathered home, and the labourer had

left the field before the usual hour, the school was shut, and the village green silent and solitary. A few of the better class of villagers, in their decent sabbath dress, were walking over the hill toward the mansion; others, with their wives and children, were standing round the gate of the church-yard, and there was something mournful in the motions and attitudes of all. I knew well what all this meant, but I gazed on it with a vacant mind, and without any new conviction of my desolate lot. I even saw with a sad pleasure the beauty of a landscape, which, like all the world, was nothing now to me. But this did not last long -suddenly there was a hum of voices, and a stir among those who had been waiting at the church-the bell tolled, a faint chant swelled from behind the hill, and the procession came slowly in sight. Then the truth fell on me with an overpowering weight; I threw myself on the ground, and looked on with a bursting heart, till all I had loved was forever hidden from sight.-Farewell, my friend! I am going to Rome for a few months, for it is the seat of my religion, and I would look once more before I die on the mightiest remains of earth. I have watched the fall of the last leaves in Underwalden; I shall return to see them put forth once more, but when they fall again, they will cover the grave of HERMANN.

Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of Devotion.-BUCKMINSTER."

No situation in life is so favourable to established habits of virtue, and to powerful sentiments of devotion, as a residence in the country, and rural occupations. I am not speaking of a condition of peasantry, (of which, in this country, we know little,) who are mere vassals of an absent lord, or the hired labourers of an intendant, and who are therefore interested in nothing but the regular receipt of their daily wages; but I refer to the honourable charac ter of an owner of the soil, whose comforts, whose weight in the community, and whose very existence, depend upon his personal labours, and the regular returns of the abun

dance from the soil which he cultivates. No man, one would think, would feel so sensibly his immediate dependence upon God, as the husbandman. For all his peculiar blessings he is invited to look immediately to the bounty of Heaven. No secondary cause stands between him and his Maker. To him are essential the regular succession of the seasons, and the timely fall of the rain, the genial warmth of the sun, the sure productiveness of the soil, and the certain operations of those laws of nature, which must appear to him nothing less than the varied exertions of omnipresent energy. In the country we seem to stand in the midst of the great theatre of God's power, and we feel an unusual proximity to our Creator. His blue and tranquil sky spreads itself over our heads, and we acknowledge the intrusion of no secondary agent in unfolding this vast expanse. Nothing but Omnipotence can work up the dark horrors of the tempest, dart the flashes of the lightning, and roll the long-resounding rumour of the thunder. The breeze wafts to his senses the odours of God's beneficence; the voice of God's power is heard in the rustling of the forest; and the varied forms of life, activity, and pleasure, which he observes at every step in the fields, lead him irresistibly, one would think, to the Source of be ng, and beauty, and joy. How auspicious such a life to the noble sentiments of devotion! Besides, the situation of the husbandman is peculiarly favourable, it should seem, to purity and simplicity of moral sentiment. He is brought acquainted chiefly with the real and native wants of mankind. Employed solely in bringing food out of the earth, he is not liable to be fascinated with the fictitious pleasures, the unnatural wants, the fashionable follies, and tyrannical vices of more busy and splendid life.

Still more favourable to the religious character of the husbandman is the circumstance, that, from the nature of agricultural pursuits, they do not so completely engross the attention as other occupations. They leave much time for contemplation, for reading, and intellectual pleas ures; and these are peculiarly grateful to the resident in the country. Especially does the institution of the Sabbath discover all its value to the tiller of the earth, whose fatigue it solaces, whose hard labours it interrupts, and who

feels, on that day, the worth of his moral nature, which cannot be understood by the busy man, who considers the repose of this day as interfering with his hopes of gain, or professional employments. If, then, this institution is of any moral and religious value, it is to the country we must look for the continuance of that respect and observance, which it merits. My friends, those of you, especially, who retire annually into the country, let these periodical retreats from business or dissipation bring you nearer to your God; let them restore the clearness of your judgment on the objects of human pursuit, invigorate your moral perceptions, exalt your sentiments, and regulate your habits of devotion; and, if there be any virtue or simplicity remaining in rural life, let them never be impaired by the influence of your presence and example.

Reciprocal Influence of Morals and Literature.—
FRISBIE.

IN no productions of modern genius is the reciprocal influence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than in those of the author of Childe Harold. His character produced the poems, and it cannot be doubted, that his poHis heroes ems are adapted to produce such a character. speak a language supplied not more by imagination than consciousness. They are not those machines, that, by a contrivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own; but instruments, through which he breathes his very soul, in tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sympathetic impulse to those who hear. The desolate misanthropy of his mind rises, and throws its dark shade over his poetry, like one of his own ruined castles; we feel it to be sublime, but we forget that it is a sublimity it cannot have til. it is abandoned by every thing that is kind, and peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready to become the haunts of outlaws and assassins. Nor are his more tender and affectionate passages those to which we can yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness. It is not that we can here and there select a proposition formally