make more noise: I would not tell her why I cried out, nor would I go away with her; but I seemed as if her presence only gave me the liberty of crying more violently. I would not be pacified, when Elizabeth came into the room. She spoke to me: I turned round, taking away Jenny's apron, behind which I had hidden my face. I minded all Elizabeth told me directly, for she spoke just like my mother. "Act like a

manly boy, my dear Charles," she said; " and tell me calmly why you are so frightened." "Oh! there it is, there it is," I cried loudly, for, during the time my sister had spoken so quietly, I heard the loud fluttering again. Elizabeth guessed instantly what had frightened me; she went up to the window, and, coming again to me, took my hand, to lead me to the window. "Oh! no, no," I cried out, but at last I let her draw me forward. I kept my eyes covered at first by my hands, but at last I opened them, finger by finger, and saw a large moth, beating its wings against the window, and seeming quite as terrified as I had been. Elizabeth sat by my bedside that night (she always heard me say my prayers after my mother died), and talked to me till I fell asleep. When I woke the next morning, I went up to the window; the first thing I saw was the church; I remembered that my mother's body had been lying out all night, and ran as fast as I could to the churchyard. The dark pit was not to be seen, nor could I find where it had been for some time. On the spot was a sort of mound raised up, like many others in the churchyard, covered with fresh turf, and bound together with

osiers. One little cowslip was growing up among the grass; the soft pale green stem of this flower was no longer than a long blade of grass; but I was quite glad to see it, and every morning I went to look if the buds were blown, and when the weather was very dry I always watered it. After it left off blowing I never forgot it; but loved its little crumpled half-hidden leaves better than all the brightest summer flowers: now there are more than thirty cowslips on my mother's grave. A cowslip was her favourite flower.

ANONYMOUS.

ON OUR PASSAGE THROUGH LIFE.

A REVERIE.

I Do not much love the tribe of dreaming writers. There is something very unnatural in supposing such products of understanding, such a regular series of ideas, generally abstruse and allegorical enough to put the comprehension of a waking reader upon the stretch, to be the effects of wild imagination, at those hours when she is most unassisted by reason and memory. Yet it is pity a lively fancy should be balked, and confined to the dull road of essay writing, merely to avoid such a trifling absurdity in the phrase. It might certainly be changed, with great propriety, into that of a reverie, which, by people that indulge their imaginations, is often carried on a very considerable time, with as gay a variety of circumstances and as lively colouring as the poppydipped pencil of Morpheus could ever produce.

Be it allowed me then to say, that one afternoon this summer I fell into a deep reverie, lulled by the whispering of groves, the soft descent of a refreshing shower, and the musical repetitions of a thrush; the air around me was perfumed with jessamines and woodbines; and I found myself perfectly in a poetical situation. The volume I had in my hand should of right, to be sure, have been Ovid or Petrarch; but it was Sunday, and the genteel reader must excuse me if I own that it contained the book of Ecclesiastes.

The soothing scene about me had at length suspended my reading; but my thoughts were still filled with many beautiful images of the nothingness and vanity of human life. There is something so bounded and so shadowy in our existence that the celestial beam of understanding, which shows us what it is, must give us almost a disgust of life itself, were not our affections attached to it by so many tender ties, as call back our proud thoughts every moment. "Most miserable state!" continued I, in a melancholy soliloquy," what wretchedness are we conversant in, to what mean objects are we bound down, how little a way can we see round us, how much less can we comprehend through what a wild of errors lies the narrow path of truth! Narrow and long! Long? Why then it is not, methinks, so strange that one should not step to the end of it at once. Well, suffice it that our progress be gradual, but what a thick dark hedge is here on either side! How much pleasanter would it be to break through it, and view the fair varieties of the universe as we pass along! Suppose it quite

away. In the midst of this vast trackless plain how will you now distinguish your path? This brink of a precipice that you are to pass along, does not your head turn at it? Do not you wish again for your safe boundary? Well, but here the path is safe and open: amuse yourself, look around you. I do not like my own path. Yonder is one much fairer, passing over a much nobler eminence. I like my own path less than ever. I do not yet see far enough. O thou spirit of disorder and confusion, canst thou not be contented to move in the way allotted thee? Deviate then into ruin. Many a winding walk presents itself on each hand; art thou willing to venture?-No, let us pursue this safer vulgar path. Must we have dirt and cloudy weather too?—You must: it belongs to this portion of the universe. This rain that displeases you here, is nourishing sweet herbs and delicious fruits, that will refresh you a few furlongs hence. Behold now the advantage of these despicable things you are hedged in with; these thorns that sometimes pull you back, are often crowned with gay and fragrant blossoms, to make the tedious journey seem less irksome ; those thick trees, that bar your wandering view, are dressed in a soft verdure that relieves your eye, and enables it sometimes to take a better glimpse through the branches on objects that it could not dwell upon till it becomes stronger. Beneath a cypress lay a gloomy philosopher, who called out in a dismal tone, "Whoever you are, foolish passenger, know your own misery: it is impossible to have any rational enjoyment in this your despicable state: banish the thought of

comfort. You are a parcel of wretches: to be happy is none of your business; to be cheerful is an absurdity. These blossoms are transient as the spring; those vile fruits you gather as you pass along ought not to detain your attention one moment from those gems that glitter on your heads, which are your only real treasure. Those wretched fruits what are they?" "They are what support us from one state to another," said a plain man, who passed by; "and our stock of gems is gradually decreasing if we keep but steadily in the right path, and gently and patiently remove the thorns and briers that molest us as we move towards the country of diamonds." Immediately my reverie transported me into a fair. Long streets of booths, crossing each other at right angles, formed very regular squares, of which some were handsome, and some very ugly, from the different structures of the booths. Several market-women were carrying away bundles and baskets marked with the names of the various proprietors. I met a hag of a very untoward look, bent almost double with the weight of years, her brow wrinkled, and her complexion weather beaten. The sight of her displeased me, but she was not to be avoided. "Here," said she, offering me a filthy basket, covered at the top with thorns, "take your purchase, and make much of it." "My purchase," said I, stepping back. "Nay," said she, "even take it," and flung it at my head. But as she turned away, a smile, that began to brighten on her solemn face, discovered to me that she was the good fairy Experience. I sat down with the encouragement