reverence, and submit to it with resignation. There is something, too, in real sorrow, that tends to enlarge and exalt the soul; but the imaginary evils of our own creating, can only serve to contract and depress it."

Mrs. Lennox shook her head-" Ah! Charles, you may depend upon it your reasoning is wrong, and you will be convinced of it some day."

"I am convinced of it already. I begin to fear this discussion will frighten Miss Douglas away from us. There is an evil anticipated! Now, do you, my dear mother, help me to avert it; where that can be done, it cannot be too soon apprehended."

As Colonel Lennox's character unfolded itself, Mary saw much to admire in it; and it is more than probable the admiration would soon have been reciprocal, had it been allowed to take its course. But good

Mrs. Lennox would force it into a thousand little channels prepared by herself, and love itself must have been quickly exhausted

by the perpetual demands that were made upon it. Mary would have been deeply mortified had she suspected the cause of her friend's solicitude to shew her off; but she was a stranger to match-making in all its bearings-had scarcely ever read a novel in her life, and was, consequently, not at all aware of the necessity there was for her falling in love with all convenient speed. She was, therefore, sometimes amused, though oftener ashamed, at Mrs Lennox's panegyrics, and could not but smile as she thought how aunt Jacky's wrath would have been kindled, had she heard the extravagant praises that were bestowed on her most trifling accomplishments.

"You must sing my favourite song to Charles, my love--he has never heard you sing. Pray do you did not use to require any entreaty from me, Mary! Many a time you have gladdened my heart with your songs, when, but for you, it would have been filled with mournful thoughts!"

Mary finding, whatever she did or did not, she was destined to hear only her own praises, was glad to take refuge at the harp, to which she sung the following ancient ditty:

"Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky,

Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to night,

For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shews you have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber, never gives;

But when the whole world turns to coal,

Then chiefly lives.”

"That," said Colonel Lennox, "is one of the many exquisite little pieces of poetry which are to be found, like jewels in an Ethiop's ear,' in my favourite Isaac Walton.

The title of the book offers no encouragement to female readers, but I know few works from which I rise with such renovated feelings of benevolence and good-will, Indeed, I know no author who has given, with so much naïveté, so enchanting a picture of a pious and contented mind. Here," taking the book from a shelf, and turning over the leaves, " is one of the passages which has so often charmed me:- That very hour which you were absent from me, I sat down under a willow by the waterside, and considered what you had told me of the owner of that pleasant meadow in which you left me that he has a plentiful estate, and not a heart to think so; that he has at this time many law-suits depending -and that they both damped his mirth, and took up so much of his time and thoughts, that he himself had not leisure to take that sweet comfort, I, who pretended no title to them, took in his fields; for I could there sit quietly, and, looking in the water, see

some fishes sport themselves in the silver streams, others leaping at flies of several shapes and colours. Looking on the hills, I could behold them spotted with woods. and groves; looking down upon the meadows, I could see, here a boy gathering li lies and lady-smocks, and there a girl cropping culverkeys and cowslips, all to make garlands suitable to this present month of May. These, and many other field-flowers, so perfumed the air, that I thought that very meadow like that field in Sicily, of which Diodorus speaks, where the perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it to fall off and lose their scent. I say, as I thus sat joying in my own happy condition, and pitying this poor rich man, that owned this and many other pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did then thankfully remember what my Saviour said, that the meek possess the earth—or, rather, they enjoy what the others possess and enjoy not; for anglers and meek-spirited men