THUS, for years, passed life most sweetly away-our affection and comfort, if possible, increasing hourly. The long imbecility, and the death of his maternal grandmother; and the continued bodily infirmities of a most beloved aunt, were the only domestic evils he was called, for a considerable time, to witness. His grandmother, who had been for more than fifty years of her life distinguished for her great good sense, hospitality, and christian piety, died in February, 1817, at the advanced age of 79. His aunt, (who, though afflicted, yet in such beloved society, and blest with the richest consolations of religion, still enjoyed life)-his mother and myself felt a growing delight in our dear and common treasure, who was all that the fondest, the proudest, or even the holiest relatives could wish. Amidst the ten thousand conceivable possibilities or probabilities of his future life, I had, notwithstanding her ill health, generally associated his aunt, and always his mother, in my dreams of earthly bliss. But God, whose "thoughts

"He

are not as our thoughts," had intended far different scenes for them and for me. hath chosen," and let Him choose " my inheritance for me." "Not as I will, but as Thou wilt."

At the close of 1817, his mother's health became impaired. Her vivacity, her general benevolence, her tender affection for us, remained unimpaired. We passed the winter in some comfort, with our two dear invalids; who, however, were sometimes incapable of seeing each other for nearly a week together. But though we had long considered Miss Friend's as a hopeless case, we had no serious apprehensions for Mrs. Durant. Her ceaseless animation deceived us. And her mind was never more alive; her heart was never so intent on doing good. In her various weak nesses, which rendered personal exertion in the cause of humanity and religion impossible, she would often say, "My only grand wish for health is, that I might not be so useless as I am in the world:" and some of her very last hours were spent in contriving to promote the

happiness of her fellow-creatures. While we were dreaming of her recovery,-scarcely suspecting, even for a moment, the slightest danger-our friends, it seems, who saw her less frequently than we did, and could mark, with greater precision, her decays; whispered to each other the fears which their tenderness forbade them to communicate to us.

On Monday, the 4th of May, 1818, she and her sister went as far as Wilton, on their way to Melksham Spa. At the house of our dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bristowe, they met, for a week, with all the attention which affection could devise and supply. William and I followed them, on the next Monday, with an intention of accompanying them to their ulterior destination. We had hoped that the waters, air, and scenery of Melksham, would have restored to us, in perfect health, our dearest sufferer; and that even her sister would return improved. We left Poole, by coach, in higher spirits than any with which we had ever quitted home before: for we were going to those who had always rendered that

home what it had been. We talked by the way of meeting them; his heart was peculiarly delighted; and every scene through which we passed for nineteen miles, seemed to present charms undescried before.

Alas! our joy was but of short duration. Soon after our coach arrived at Fordingbridge, where it stopped a short time, we saw a postchaise approaching us with almost incredible speed. "Are Mr. Durant and his son in the coach?" roused us from our dreams of pleasure, and forced upon us a melancholy presentiment of the evil that awaited us. " Is she alive?" burst instantly from our lips. 'She was,' said the messenger, when I left Wilton.' We entered the carriage; I fell upon my dear son's neck in agony; he was thunderstruck and speechless. We passed repidly on with a silence interrupted only by our sighs and occasional bursts of grief. In three hours from the moment that the messenger left Wilton, during which he had ridden thirty miles, we arrived at the house of our friends. "Is she yet alive?" 'She is.' We were

ready to rush to her bed-side; but prudence, in her dying state demanded caution. At length I saw her, restless in body, and almost struggling with the final attacks of her malady; but, in soul, “calm as summer evenings be." She conversed as readily and as sensibly as ever. As it would have been dangerous to have greatly excited her, I sat by her bed-side, silently musing, suppressing my sighs, and shedding my unobserved tears: but at length ventured to ask, whether she would see her beloved William. She answered, "I shall, I hope, be better prepared to see him to-morrow morning: at present it would, I fear, too much agitate me." Alas! she was destined to see him no more till they should meet in heaven! About nine that evening, she was suddenly seized with convulsions, which were, in a few minutes to terminate her mortal career. I called up my dear boy, and he had the melancholy satisfaction of witnessing her last struggle. I fell upon her lifeless corpse; and loosing, for a moment, all selfcontrol, uttered my piercing cries; while he fell on his knees near her bed-side,—and, pale