emotions of grief: we cannot, however, deny its tendency to revive the drooping spirits, and elevate the mind to the participation of those blessed sensations, which are more nearly allied to heaven than to earth.

Soon after an individual's dissolution, a short but beautiful dirge is performed upon some elevated position, commonly on the chapel, the solemnity of which is finely adapted to strike upon the susceptible chord of the heart, which is wont to respond to the most casual object of tender inspiration.

This music is of a low and lengthened tenor, suited to the most solemn occasion, and calculated to heighten the general impressions of sorrow, which pervade the precincts of death.

It often breaks upon the stillness of morning, and calls the mind for a moment from its daily avocations, and leads it into a train of reflections least congenial with the scenes around us.

There appears to me something peculiarly striking in this custom of announcing the departure of another to his long home; and I have often listened, as if bound by a sacred spell, to catch the last melting tones of the melody, dying away in the distance. Whence is it, we may inquire, that

the breast heaves under such a powerful impulse? It cannot - be the melody itself, which upon other occasions would fail to delight, but the associations hereby revived, which relate so nearly to the object of our former love, and which, as the music of Caryll, are like the memory of past joys, pleasant yet mournful to the soul."

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This manner of announcing a death, is a regular observance, and seems to have been designed by the original founders of the sect, to be productive of a general expression of mourning, by inspiring all with an equal share of sorrow for the loss of a friend.

Upon the day of burial, and previous to interment, a solemn dirge is once more performed within the church, accompanied by vocal music, after which a discourse is given on the subject most appropriate to the occasion. The mourners and friends then assemble around the bier; a hymn is sung, accompanied by instruments, when the remains of the deceased are raised and carried towards the place of burial, preceded by musicians, who play the same dirge, during the procession to the graveyard. After the usual forms of interment are over, and the funeral attendants retire, the final dirge is sounded, until the earth is once more

levelled with the surface, and all that was mortal is finally consigned to the dust.

Yet this simple but beautiful ceremony of interment, cannot be said to bear any similarity to those funeral rites occasionally met with, and which, though innocent and touching in themselves, are still marked with superstition. The observances at rural funerals in England, so exquisitely sketched by the pen of Washington Irving, present us with an instance of those remaining traditional customs of the rustic class, who adorn the grave with chaplets of flowers.

We have heard, too, of Indian burials, - of the doleful lament, and the train of virgins, who bear to the rude sepulchre the lifeless clay; while, as the last token of innocent affection, they lay near the body the implements of the chase, to serve it on its distant journey!

But deep and lasting affection makes a direct appeal to the finer feelings of human nature; and these, when severed from their object by the stroke of death, are most powerfully worked upon by recollections, by favourite associations, and the revival of those incidents which remind us most forcibly of past enjoyments.

The force of sincere attachment extends its influence

beyond the grave;· - it hovers in anguish over the silent tomb, and lingers there long after it has ceased to feel the ties of corresponding sympathy and mutual fondness.

That there is something peculiarly impressive in a Moravian funeral, an air of pensive melancholy pervading the whole ceremony, none who have witnessed it can deny. The effect of melody on the heart is powerful, and particularly so when employed in the solemn chant, the devotional hymn, or low dirge that becomes the knell of death. It is by a sort of eloquence, therefore, that musical rites address the soul, and lead it to indulge in moods of sadness, by their tender and irresistible charms.

I have frequently witnessed scenes calculated to melt the soul, and draw the tear of compassion; but I have never observed a more sublime, solemn, and affecting ceremony, than that of a Moravian burial.

EXERCISE CLXXII.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

Longfellow.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night

Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms, grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more:

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine;
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

THOUGH there are many authors who have written on dreams, they have generally considered them only as revelations of what has already happened in distant parts of the world, or as presages of what is to happen in future periods of time.

I shall consider this subject in another light, as dreams may give us some idea of the great excellency of a human soul, and some intimations of its independency on matter.

In the first place, our dreams are great instances of that activity which is natural to the human soul, and which it is not in the power of sleep to deaden or abate. When the man appears tired and worn out with the labours of the day, this active part in his composition is still busied and unwearied. When the organs of sense want their due repose and necessary reparations, and the body is no longer able to keep pace with that spiritual substance to which it is united, the soul exerts herself in her several faculties, and continues in action until her partner is again qualified to bear her company. In this case, dreams look like the relaxations and amusements of the soul, when she is disencumbered of her machine; her sports and recreations, when she has laid her charge asleep.

In the second place, dreams are an instance of that agility and perfection which is natural to the faculties of the mind when they are disengaged from the body. The soul is clogged and retarded in her operations, when she acts in conjunction with a companion that is so heavy and unwieldy

veniently to the purposes of disguise. After having deliberately weighed the chances for and against detection, I resolved to run the risk, and accordingly stained my eyebrows with some of the dye common in the harem; concealed my female attire beneath a magnificent pelisse, lined with sables, which fastened from my chin to my feet; pulled a fèz low upon my brow; and preceded by a servant with a lantern, attended by the bey, and followed by the kiära and a pipebearer, at half-past ten o'clock I sallied forth on my adventurous errand.

We had not mentioned to either the wife or the mother of the bey whither we were bound, being fearful of alarming them unnecessarily; and they consequently remained perfectly satisfied with the assurance of the old gentleman, that I was anxious to see the Bosphorus by moonlight, though a darker night never spread its mantle over the earth.

I am extremely doubtful whether, on a less exciting occasion, I could have kept time with the rapid pace of my companion over the vile pavement of Constantinople; as it was, however, I dared not give way, lest any one among the individuals who followed us, and who were perhaps bound on the same errand, should penetrate my disguise.

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If we escape from Santa Sophia unsuspected," said my chivalrous friend, we will then make another bold attempt; we will visit the mosque of Sultan Achmet; and as this is a high festival, if you risk the adventure, you will have done what no Infidel has ever yet dared to do; but I forewarn you that, should you be discovered, and fail to make your escape on the instant, you will be torn to pieces."

At

This assertion somewhat staggered me; and for an instant, my woman-spirit quailed; I contented myself, however, with briefly replying: "When we leave Santa Sophia, we will talk of this," and continued to walk beside him in silence. length we entered the spacious court of the mosque, and as the servants stooped to withdraw my shoes, the bey murmured in my ear: "Be firm or you are lost!"—and making a strong effort to subdue the feeling of mingled awe and fear which was rapidly stealing over me, I pulled the fèz deeper upon my eyebrows, and obeyed.

On passing the threshold, I found myself in a covered peristyle, whose gigantic columns of granite are partially sunk in the wall of which they form a part; the floor was covered with fine matting, and the coloured lamps, which were suspended in festoons from the lofty ceiling, shed a broad light