the trials of the Almighty? I am not sorry for myself; but for those dear friends who will lament me. Do not let any one, my dear father, give way to excessive grief; bid them, at least, to check their sorrow, by telling them it was my last request. I am so resigned to death, that I would not wish to live now; my soul seems already to have begun its last journey; all the pain of leaving this world is over; it would not return again, without regret; for (I speak as a humble sinner) it seems already exalted and purified; every one is so kind to me here; I almost feel as if you were all with me. Lady Falkland has, in a manner, supplied the place of my dear father; she joins with me daily in prayer and thanksgiving. I have often spoken to you about her: she calls herself my fellow traveller in this last journey. My dear, dear father, let me conjure you not to come to England; I shall be miserable if you do. Pray stay and comfort my mother and Sophie, and all my dear brothers and sisters. Without you, what would they all do? what would all the village do without you? besides, who is there that would, who is there that could, do your duty in your absence? If you will grant your Rosine's last request, and make her quite, yes, quite happy, you will stay and pray for me at your own church. M. du Mercie will remit you ten guineas, to be given among the poor villagers; you are the best judge, dear father, of the worthiest objects; but pray remember my poor old widow. I am sorry that I cannot send any money, as I meant to send it; but I am afraid my illness and my funeral will con

sume the little I have left; it was proper to say this; it appears a little dismal: but all that concerns the body in death seems mournful: all that concerns the soul seems, to me, very joyful. -Tell dear Sophie, if she wishes to know my favourite spot, it is that part of the mountain, about our cottage, which we used to name 'our thinking retreat.' When quite alone, I always sat down at the foot of the two weeping birches there. I was very fond, too, of a bed of gentians, which I had almost cultivated (for I had transplanted many roots to that spot) near those trees. This is very fanciful; but I think it will please Sophie to know exactly my most favourite haunt; it would have pleased me, had she been destined to send such a message to me. Tell her I name the spot The home of memory.' My dearest father, my dearest mother, I thank you from my soul for your affection and care, which has never failed and I thank dearest Sophie, and all my beloved brothers and sisters. I think of every body whom I love :-I pray for them.-I cannot write any more; I am a little fatigued now. On my knees I implore God to bless you all. We shall soon meet again.-Be assured that I am quite happy. ROSINE ST. ALME.”

6

"The mercy and goodness of the Lord never faileth; in him have I put my trust; he will wipe the tears from off all eyes. Glory be to God."

Rosine enclosed a few lines to her cousin Adrien, in the letter to her father. She thanked him for his affection, and told him, that the best proof of

it, after her death, would be to wrestle against immoderate grief. She concluded in these words: "I would not, my dear Adrien, have the false pride of denying that I would have chosen you for my husband, rather than any one I knew. While I live I shall be sensible of your love, and grateful, truly grateful, for it. Nor would I have the false shame of concealing one sentiment of my heart from you at this time. Prove, my dear friend, that affection for me has not weakened your mind; and bear, like the child of God, the afflictions of our heavenly Father. I could have been so happy with you! but must I wish to choose between the state to which it pleases God to remove me, and this world's best happiness, when we meet, also, never to be separated in heaven?-In my prayers you have never been forgotten: I can never forget you, my dearest Adrien. The love of soul will not, surely, be changed by death. Ever watch and pray then (partly for my sake) that you may pass through things temporal, so that you lose not things eternal.' The pain of parting, death's worst pain, is over;-rejoice with me, my belovedyes, I may now say, beloved husband."

M. du Mercie arrived at the house of Mr. Stanley the day Rosine finished the above. letters. He forwarded them immediately; writing, at the same time, himself to M. St. Alme.

Rosine became gradually weaker : death made every day some visible advance; but its effect on her mind was like that of the summer's sun on the snows of Siberia; the dazzling surface was vanishing, but flowers, already budding into

colour and beauty, appeared amid the bright verdure beneath. She had seemed a simple girl before her character now seemed exalted;—she had been loved (and respected too) before; she was now looked up to as a superior creature. All her actions had something unearthly in them; her conversation displayed the same humble spirit; but she spake almost as one inspired. All the gentle virtues of Christianity were more gentle and lovely, and the passions of the world seemed spiritualized in her. She seemed like one who is about to take a journey, and had arranged every thing for his departure: she was anxious for nothing, she waited for nothing, but death; and death came at last very gently, as if it looked upon her with affection, and feared to disturb her. She had just received the sacrament with Lady Falkland: M. du Mercie was still with her, and Miranda was seated near the couch where she was lying; the hand of the quiet child was clasped in hers, and her head was reclining on a pillow. Lady Falkland was gazing at her lovely countenance, and fearful even to stir; for Rosine's eyes were closed (she supposed) in slumber. Miranda felt her hand more fondly pressed for an instant.-Lady Falkland beheld an expression of angelic rapture beam over the countenance before her.-The hand droppedthe face was calm again-something had vanished there-the soul had filed.

ANONYMOUS.

THE DANGER OF INDULGENCE OF THE

IMAGINATION.

METHOUGHT, as I was sitting at work, a young woman came into the room, clothed in a loose green garment: her long hair fell in ringlets upon her shoulders: her head was crowned with roses and myrtles: a prodigious sweetness appeared in her countenance; and notwithstanding the irregularity of her features, and a certain wildness in her eyes, she seemed to me the most agreeable person I had ever beheld.

When she was entered, she presented me with a little green branch, upon which was a small sort of nut, enclosed in a hard black shell, which, she said, was both wholesome and delicious; and bade me follow her, and be not afraid, for she was going to make me happy.

I did as she commanded me, and immediately a chariot descended, and took us up: it was made of the richest materials, and drawn by four milkwhite turtles. Whilst we were hurried, with a rapid motion, over vast oceans, boundless plains, and barren deserts, she told me that her name was Imagination; that she was carrying me to Parnassus, where she herself lived.

I had scarce time to thank her before we arrived at the top of a very high mountain, covered with very thick woods. Here we alighted; and my guide taking me by the hand, we passed through several beautiful groves of myrtle, bays, and laurel, separated from one another by little green alleys, enamelled with the finest