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ger agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel ; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in filent despair watched for his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion.

The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only attended to Mary-Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; the whispered him, " Thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her”. -“ My mother, thy son blesses thee.”—The oppressed parent left the room. And Mary waited to see him die.

She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips -he opened his eyes again ; the spreading film retired, and love relumed them—he gave a look-it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted ?

Yes, yes, the exclaimed in a firm voice ; you go to be happy-I am not a complete wretch! The words alınost choaked her.

He was a long time filent; the opiate produced a kind of ftupor. At last, in an agony, he cried, " It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up. Where is Mary! did the not say she delighted to support me? let me die in

Her arms were opened to receive him ; they trembled not. Again he was obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned towards her: the soul seemed Aying to her, as it escaped out of its prison. The breathing was interrupted; the heard distinctly the last figh-and lifting up to heaven her eyes, “ Father, re. ceive his spirit,” the calmly cried.

The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor bt v.d the clamour; the hand seemed yet to press hers;

Chrwas warm. of light from an opened winthe way wvered the pale face. good dispothe room, and retired to one very near it ; foil; but ho'own on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door though conviment which contained the body. Every

her arms.

A ray

event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful rapidity-yet all was still-fate had given the finishing stroke. She sat till midnight.-Then rose in a phrenly. went into the apartment, and desired those who watched the body to retire.

She knelt by the bed side -an enthusiastic devotion overcame the di&tates of despair. She prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands the had committed the spirit the almost adored-again-and again, -the prayed wildly-and fervently—but attempting to touch the lifeless hand-her head swum-lhe sunk

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the country,

CONCLUSION. Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then retired to her house in

established manufactories, threw the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way to diffipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young

These occupations engrossed her mind ; but there were hours when all her former woes would return and haunt her. Whenever she did, or said any thing the thought Henry would have approved of—the could not avoid thinking with anguish of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to her heart-a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for resignation; and the former rendered life supportable.

Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind—She thought she was hastening to that world where there is neither marrying, nor giving in marriage. VOL. IV.

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(From

(From the WRONGS of WOMEN).

ON MADNESS.

Maria contemplated the most terrific of ruins-that of a human soul. What is the view of the fallen column, the mouldering arch of the most exquisite workmanship when compared with this living memento of the fragility, the instability of reason, and the wild luxuriancy of noxious passions? Enthusiasm turned adrift like some rich stream, overflowing its banks, rushes forward with destructive velocity, inspiring a sublime concentration of thought. Thus thought Maria—these are the ravages over which humanity must ever mournfully ponder with a degree of anguish not excited by crumbling marble or cankering brass, unfaithful to the trust of monumental fame. It is not over the decaying productions of the mind embodied with the happiest art we grieve most bitterly. The view of what has been done by man produces a melancholy yet aggrandizing scene of what remains to be atchieved by human intellect; but a mene tal convulsion, which like the devastation of an earthquake, throws all the elements of thought and imagination into confusion, makes contemplation giddy, and we fearfully ask on what ground we ourselves ftand. Thinking it selfi th to dwell on her own sufferings when in the midst of wretches who had not only lost all that endears life, but their very felves, Maria's imagination was occupied with melancholy earneftness to trace the mazés of misery through which so many wretches must have passed to this receptacle of disjointed souls, the grand source of human corruption. Often at midnight was she waked by the dismal shrieks of demoniac rage, or of excruciating despair, uttered in such wild tones of indescribable anguish, as proved the total absence of reafon, and roused phantoms of horror in her mind far more terrific than all that dreamivg fuperftition ever drew. Besides, there was frequently something fo in

conceivably

conceivably picturesque in the varying gestures of unreftrained paffion, so irresistibly comic in their fallies, or so heart-piercingly pathetic in the little airs they would fing, frequently bursting out after an awful filence, as to fascinate the attention and to amuse the fancy whilst torturing the soul. It was the uproar of the passions which she was compelled to observe ; and to mark the lucid beam of reason like a light trembling in a socket, or like the flash which divides the threatening clouds of angry heaven only to display the horrors which darknels shrouded.

A VISIT TO MY NATIVE VILLAGE.

It was the first time I had visited my native village fince my marriage. But with what different emotions did I return from the busy world, with a heavy weight of experience benumbing my imagination to scenes that whispered recollections of joy and hope moft cloquently to my heart! The first scent of the wild flowers from the heath thrilled through my veins, awaking every sense to pleasure. The icy hand of despair seemed to be removed from my bofom ; and the nurtured visions of a romantic mind bursting on me with all their original wildness and gay exuberance, were again hailed as sweet realities. ì forgot with equal facility that I ever felt sorrow or knew care in the country, while a tranfient rainbow stole athwart the cloudy sky of despondency. The picturesque form of several favourite trees, and the porches of rude cottages with their finiling hedges, were recognized with the gladsome playfulness of childish vi. vacity. I could have kissed the chickens that pecked on the common, and longed to pat the cows, and frolic with the dogs that sported on it. I gazed with delight on the windmill, and thought it lucky that it should be in motion at the moment I should pass by; and entering the dear green lane which led directly to the village, the sound of the well-known rookery gave that sentimental tinge to the varying sensations of my active foul, which

only

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only serve to heighten the lustre of the luxuriant scenery. But spying, as I advanced, the fpire peeping over the withered tops of the aged elms that composed the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the church-yard, and tears of affection, such was the effect of my imagination, bedewed my mother's grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional feelings. I wandered through the church in fancy, as I used sometimes to do on a Saturday evening; I recolleted with what fervour I addressed the God of my youth: and once more with rapturous love looked above my sorrows to the Father of Nature! I pause--feeling forcibly all the emotions I am describing: and (reminded as I register my sorrows of the sublime calm I have felt, when in some tremenduous solitude my soul rested on itself, and seemed to fill the universe), I insensibly breathe soft hushing every wayward emotion, as if fearing to fully with a sigh a contentment fo extatic.

(From her ANSWER to BURKE.)

ON RELIGION.

That civilization, that the cultivation of the under. standing, and refinement of the affections, naturally make a man religious, I am proud to acknowledge. What else can fill the aching void in the heart that human pleasures, human friendship can never fill ? What else can render us resigned to live though condemned to ig. norance? What but a profound reverence for the model of all perfection, and the mysterious tie which arises from a love of goodness? What can make us reverence ourselves but a reverence for that Being of whom we are faint images ? That mighty fpirit moves on the waters, confusion hears his voice, and the troubled heart ceases to beat with anguilh, for trust in Him bade it be still. Conscious dignity may make us rise superior to calumny, and sternly brave the winds of adverse for. tune-Raised in our own esteem by the very storms of which we are the sport. But when friends are unkind,

and

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