diate departure. In eight days or fifteen at farthest, I shall return, pay our debts, and retire to whatever retreat you shall think proper."

I believed him implicitly, and I consented with cheerfulness. He set out and the house was closed. I did not wait for my complete recovery to busy myself in setting everything in order, and to check the accounts of our tradesmen. I expected Leoni would have written to me from Milan, as indeed he promised. He was more than eiglit days without letting me hear from him. At length he wrote that he was sure of getting a much larger sum than we required; but that his absence would be prolonged to twenty days.

I was resigned. I waited twenty days. A fresh letter announced to me that he would be obliged to wait for his receipts until the end of the month. I became discouraged. Alone, in the immense palace, where I was obliged to hide to escape from the insolent visits of Leoni's companions, consumed by uneasiness, sick and weak, abandoned to the gloomiest reflections and to all the remorse which the sting of misfortune is sure to awaken. But I was not at the end of my sufferings.

(To be Continued.)



I WOULD I were the slight fern growing
Beneath my Highland Mary's tread;
I would I were the green tree throwing
Its shadow o'er her gentle head:

I would I were a wild flower springing
Where my sweet Mary loves to rest,

That she might pluck me while she 's singing,

And place me on her snowy breast!

I would I were in yonder heaven,
A silver star, whose soft dim light
Would rise to bless each summer even,
And watch my Mary all the night:

I would beneath those small white fingers
I were the lute her breath has fanned--
The plaintive iute, whose soft note lingers,
As loath to leave her fairy hand,

Ah, happy things! ye may not wander
From Scotland to some darker sky,

But ever live unchanging yonder,
To happiness and Mary nigh;
While I at midnight, sadly weeping.
Upon its deep transparent blue
Can only gaze, while all are sleeping,
And dream my Mary watches too!

JANUARY, 1840.




But I have that within which passeth show.


MR. PARKINSON, a London merchant, had for some years been doing business to considerable advantage, when a sudden check was put to his prosperity by the unexpected failure of a house for which he had endorsed to a very large amount. There was no alternative but to surrender everything to his creditors; and this he did literally and conscientiously. He brought down his mind to his circumstances; and as, at that juncture, the precarious state of the times did not authorize any hope of success if he recommenced business (as he might have done) upon borrowed capital, he gladly availed himself of a vacant clerkship in one of the principal bankers in the city.

His salary, however, would have been scarcely adequate to the support of his family, had he not added something to his little stipend, by employing his leisure hours in keeping the books of a merchant. He removed with his wife and children to a small house in the suburbs; and they would, with all his exertions, have been obliged to live in the constant exercise of the most painful economy, had it not been for the aid they derived from his sister. Since the death of her parents, this young lady had resided at Uxbridge with her maternal aunt, Mrs. Warner, a quakeress, who left her a legacy of two thousand pounds.

After the demise of her aunt, Miss Parkinson took private lodgings; but on hearing of her brother's misfortunes, she wrote to know if it would be agreeable to him and to his family, for her to remove to London, and to live with them-supposing that the sum she would pay for her accomodation, might, in their present difficulties, prove a welcome addition to their income. This proposal was joyfully acceded to, as Fanny was much beloved by every member of her brother's family, and had kept up a continual interest with them by frequent letters, and by an annual visit of a few weeks to London.

At this period, Fanny Parkinson had just completed her twenty-third year. She had a beautiful face, a fine and graceful figure, and a highly cultivated mind. With warm feelings and deep sensibility, she possessed much energy of character—a qualification which, when called forth by circumstances, is often

found to be as useful in a woman as in a man. Affectionate, generous, and totally devoid of all selfish considerations, Fanny had nothing so much at heart as the comfort and happiness of her brother's family; and to become an inmate of their house was as gratifying to her as it was to them. She furnished her own apartment, and shared it with little Louisa, the youngest of her three nieces, a lovely child about ten years old. She insisted on paying the quarterly bills of her nephew Frederick Parkinson, and volunteered to complete the education of his sisters, who were delighted to receive their daily lessons from an instructress so kind, so sensible, and so competent. Exclusive of these arrangements, she bestowed on them many little presents, which were always well-timed and judiciously selected; though, to enable her to purchase these gifts, she was obliged, with her limited income of eighty pounds, to deny herself many gratifications, and indeed conveniences, to which she had hitherto been accustomed, and the want of which she now passed over with a cheerfulness and delicacy which was duly appreciated by the objects of her kindness.

In this manner the family had been living about a twelvemonth, when Mr. Parkinson was suddenly attacked by a violent and dangerous illness, which was soon accompanied by delirium; and in a few days it brought him to the brink of the grave.

His disease baffled the skill of an excellent physician; and the unremitting cares of his wife and sister could only effect a slight alleviation of his sufferings. He expired on the fifth day, without recovering his senses, and totally unconscious of the presence of the heart-struck mourners that were weeping round his bed.

When Mr. Parkinson's last breath had departed, his wife was conveyed from the room in a fainting-fit. Fanny endeavoured to repress her own feelings, till she had rendered the necessary assistance to Mrs. Parkinson, and till she had somewhat calmed the agony of the children. She then retired to her own apartment, and gave vent to a burst of grief, such as can only be felt by those in whose minds and hearts there is a union of sense and sensibility. With the weak and frivolous, sorrow is rarely either acute or lasting.

The immortal soul of Mr. Parkinson had departed from its earthly tenement, and it was now necessary to think of the painful details that belonged to the disposal of his inanimate corpse. As soon as Fanny could command sufficient courage to allow her mind to dwell on this subject, she went down to

send a servant for Mr. Brooks (an old friend of the family), whom she knew Mrs. Parkinson would wish to take charge of the funeral. At the foot of the stairs she met the physician, who, by her pale cheeks, and by the tears that streamed from her eyes at sight of him, saw that all was over. He pressed her hand in sympathy; and perceiving that she was unable to answer his questions, he bowed and left the house.

In a short time Mr. Brooks arrived; and Mrs. Parkinson declaring herself incompetent to the task, Fanny saw the gentleman, and requested him to make every necessary arrangement for a plain but respectable funeral.

At such times, how every little circumstance seems to add a new pang to the agonized feelings of the bereaved family. The closing of the window-shutters, the arrival of the woman whose gloomy business it is to prepare the corpse for interment, the undertaker coming to take measure for the coffin, the removal of the bedding on which the deceased has expired, the gliding step, and half-whispered directions-all these sad indications that death is in the house, fail not, however quietly and carefully managed, to reach the ears and hearts of afflicted relatives, assisted by the intuitive knowledge of what is so well understood to be passing at these melancholy moments.

In the evening, after Louisa had cried herself to sleep, Fanny repaired to the apartment of her sister-in-law, whom about an hour before she had left exhausted and passive. Mrs. Parkinson was extended on the bed, pale and silent; her daughters Isabella and Helen were in tears beside her; and Frederick had retired to his room.

In the fauteuil, near the head of the bed, sat Mrs: Bleden, who, in the days of their prosperity, had been the next door neighbour of the Parkinson family, and who still continued to favour them with frequent visits. She was one of those busy people, who seem almost to verify the justly-censured maxim of Rochefoucault, that "in the misfortunes of our best friends there is always something which is pleasing to us.'

True it was, that Mrs. Bleden being a woman of great leisure, and of a disposition extremely officious, devoted most of her time and attention to the concerns of others; and any circumstances that prevented her associates from acting immediately for themselves, of course threw open a wider field for her interference.

"And now, my dear friends," said Mrs. Bleden, squeezing Mrs. Parkinson's hand, and looking at Fanny, who seated herself in an opposite chair, "as the funeral is to take place on

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Thursday, you know there is no time to be lost. What have you fixed on respecting your mourning? I will cheerfully at tend to it for you, and bespeak everything necessary." At the words "funeral" and "mourning,' tears gushed again from the eyes of the distressed family; and neither Mrs: Parkinson nor Fanny could command themselves sufficiently to reply.

"Come my dear creatures," continued Mrs. Bleden, "you must really make an effort to compose yourselves. Just try to be calm for a few minutes, till we have settled this business. Tell me what I shall order for you. However, there is but one rule on these occasions-crape and bombazine, and every thing of the best. Nothing, you know, is more disreputable than mean mourning."


'I fear then," replied Mrs. Parkinson, "that our mourning attire must be mean enough. The situation in which we are left, will not allow us to go to any unnecessary expense in that, or in any thing else. We had but little to live upon-we could lay by nothing. We have nothing beforehand: we did not -we could not apprehend that this dreadful event was so near. And you know that his salary-that Mr. Parkinson's salary, of course, expires with him."

"So I suppose, my dear friend," answered Mrs. Bleden; "but you know you must have mourning; and as the funeral takes place so soon, there will be little enough time to order it, and have it made."

"We will borrow dresses to wear at the-to wear on Thursday," said Mrs. Parkinson.

"And of whom will you borrow?"

"I do not know. I have not yet thought."

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"The Greens family are in black," observed Isabella; no doubt they would lend us dresses."

"Oh! none of their things will fit you at all," exclaimed Mrs. Bleden. "None of the Greens have the least resemblance to any of you, either in height or figure. You would look perfectly ridiculous in their things.'

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"Then there are Mrs. Patterson and her daughters,” said Helen.

"The Pattersons," replied Mrs. Bleden, " are just going to leave off black; and nothing that they have looks either new or fresh. You know how soon black becomes rusty. You certainly would feel very much mortified, if you had to make a shabby appearance at Mr. Parkinson's funeral. Besides, nobody now wears borrowed mourning-it can always be detected

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