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charities. What a picture I have drawn Maria! and none of all these things may ever come to pass.



CONTINUE to write to me, my sweet

Many good thoughts, resolutions, and proper views of things, pass through the mind in the course of the day, but are lost for want of committing them to paper. Seize them, Maria, as they pass, these Birds of Paradise, that show themselves and are gone,-and make a grateful present of the precious fugitives to your friend.

To use a homely illustration, just rising in my fancy,-shall the good housewife take such pains in pickling and preserving her worthless fruits, her walnuts, her apricots, and quinces—and is there not much spiritual housewifery in treasuring up our mind's best fruits,-our heart's meditations in - its most favoured moments?

This said simile is much in the fashion of the old Moralisers, such as I conceive honest Baxter to have been, such as Quarles and Wither were, with their curious, serio-comic, quaint emblems. But they sometimes reach the heart, when a more elegant simile rests in the fancy.

. Not low and mean, like these, but beautifully familiarised to our conceptions, and condescending to human thoughts and notions, are all the discourses of our LORD-conveyed in parable, or similitude, what easy access do they win to the heart, through the medium of the delighted imagination! speaking of heavenly things in fable, or in simile, drawn from earth, from objects common, accustomed.

Life's business, with such delicious little interruptions as our correspondence affords, how pleasant it is! why can we not paint on the dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as they rise up?


-I HAD meant to have left off at this place; but, looking back, I am sorry to find too gloomy a cast tincturing my last page-a représentation of life false and unthankful. Life is not all vanity and disappointment-it hath much of evil in it, no doubt; but to those who do not misuse it, it affords comfort, temporary comfort, much much that endears us to it, and dignifies it—many true and good feelings, I trust, of which we need not be ashamed-hours of tranquillity and hope. But

the morning was dull and overcast, and my spirits were under a cloud. I feel my error.

Is it no blessing, that we two love one another so dearly-that Allan is left me—that you are settled in life—that worldly affairs go smooth with us both-above all, that our lot hath fallen to us in a Christian country? Maria! these things are not little. I will consider life as a long feast, and not forget to say grace.


ALLAN has written to me-you know, he is on a visit at his old tutor's in Gloucestershire -he is to return home on Thursday-Allan is a dear boy-he concludes his letter, which is very affectionate throughout, in this manner—

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Elinor, I charge you to learn the following stanza by heart—

The monarch may forget his crown,

That on his head an hour hath been;

The bridegroom may forget his bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;

The mother may forget her child,

That smiles so sweetly on her knee :
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And all that thou hast done for me.

"The lines are in Burns-you know, we read

him for the first time together at Margate-and I have been used to refer them to you, and to call you, in my mind, Glencairn-for you were always very good to me. I had a thousand failings, but you would love me in spite of them all. I am going to drink your health."

I shall detain my reader no longer from the narrative.


THEY had but four rooms in the cottage. Margaret slept in the biggest room up stairs, and her grand-daughter in a kind of closet adjoining, where she could be within hearing, if her grandmother should call her in the night.

The girl was often disturbed in that manner— two or three times in a night she has been forced to leave her bed, to fetch her grandmother's cordials, or do some little service for her-but she knew that Margaret's ailings were real and pressing, and

Rosamund never complained - never suspected, that her grandmother's requisitions had any thing unreasonable in them.

The night she parted with Miss Clare, she had helped Margaret to bed, as usual-and, after saying her prayers, as the custom was, kneeling by the old lady's bed-side, kissed her grandmother, and wished her a good night-Margaret blessed her, and charged her to go to bed directly. It was her customary injunction, and Rosamund had never dreamed of disobeying.

So she retired to her little room. The night was warm and clear-the moon very bright-her window commanded a view of scenes she had been tracing in the day-time with Miss Clare.

All the events of the day past, the occurrences of their walk, arose in her mind. She fancied she should like to retrace those scenes-but it was now nine o'clock, a late hour in the village.

Still she fancied it would be very charmingand then her grandmother's injunction came powerfully to her recollection-she sighed, and turned from the window-and walked up and down her little room.

Ever, when she looked at the window, the

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