emotion, the scenes of pleasure I have enjoyed with them but we shall meet again, my friend, never to be separated. There are some feelings which perhaps are too tender to be suffered by the world. The world, in general, is selfish, interested, and unthinking; and throws the imputation of romance, or melancholy, on every temper more susceptible than its own. I cannot but think, in those regions which I contemplate, if there is any thing of mortality left about us, that these feelings will subsist; they are called - perhaps they are weaknesses, here; but there may be some better modifications of them in heaven, which may deserve the name of virtues." He sighed as he spoke these last words. He had scarcely finished them, when the door opened, and his aunt appeared, leading in Miss Walton. My dear," said she, "here is Miss Walton, who has been so kind as to come and inquire for you herself." I could perceive a transient glow upon his face. He rose from his seat. "If to know Miss Walton's goodness," said he, "be a title to deserve it, I have some claim." She begged him to resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa beside him. I took my leave. His aunt accompanied me to the door. He was left with Miss Walton alone. She inquired anxiously after his health. "I believe," said he, "from the accounts which my physicians unwillingly give me, that they have no great hopes of my recovery." She started as he spoke; but, recollecting herself immediately, endeavored to flatter him into a belief that his apprehensions were groundless. "I know," said he, “that it is usual with persons at my time of life to have these hopes which your kindness suggests; but I would not wish to be deceived. To meet death as becomes a man, is a privilege bestowed on few: I would endeavor to make it mine; nor do I think, that I can ever be better prepared for it than now; 'tis that chiefly which determines the fitness of its approach." "Those sentiments," answered Miss Walton, are just; but your good sense, Mr. Harley, will own that life has its proper value. As the province of virtue, life is canobled; as such, it is to be desired. To virtue has the supreme Director of all things assigned rewards enough, even here, to fix its attachments." The subject began to overpower her. Harley lifted up his eyes from the ground. "There are," said he, in a low voice, “there are attachments, Miss Walton." His glance met hers. They both betrayed a confusion, and were both instantly withdrawn. He paused some moments. "I am," he said, “in such a state as calls for sincerity; let that alone excuse it—it is, perhaps, the last time we shall ever meet. I feel something particularly solemn in the acknowledgment; yet my heart swells to make it, awed as it is by a sense of my presumption by a sense of your perfections." He paused again. "Let it not offend you," he resumed, " to know their power over one so unworthy. My heart will, I believe, soon cease to beat, even with that feeling which it shall lose the latest. To love Miss Walton could not be a crime. If to declare it is one, the expiation will be made." "Let me I know your Her tears were now flowing without control. entreat you," said she, " to have better hopes; let not life be so indifferent to you; if my wishes can put any value úpon it-I will not pretend to misunderstand you worth; I have long known it, I have esteemed it. What would you have me say? I have loved it as it deserved! He seized her hand: a languid color reddened his cheek, a smile brightened faintly in his eye. As he gazed on her, it grew dim, it fixed, it closed; he sighed, and fell back on his seat. Miss Walton screamed at the sight; his aunt and the servants rushed into the room; they found them lying motionless together. His physician happened to call at that instant. Every art was tried to recover them. With Miss Walton they succeeded; but Harley was gone forever. MACKENZIE 110. Passing away. "The things we enjoy are passing, and we are passing who enjoy them." ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON. I ASKED the stars in the pomp of night, "We have no light that hath not been given; "We shall fade in our beauty, the fair and bright, From the stars of heaven and the flowers of earth, From the pageant of power and the voice of mirth, From the mist of the morn on the mountain's brow, From childhood's song and affection's vow, From all save that o'er which soul bears sway, There breathes but one record "Passing away." 'Passing away," sing the breeze and rill, As they sweep on their course by vale and hill • Through the varying scenes of each earth 111. Story of Le Fevre. Ir was some time in the summer of that year in which Dendermond was taken by the allies, when my uncle Toby was one evening taking his supper, with Trim sitting behind him at a small sideboard. I say sitting; for, in consideration of the corporal's lame knee, which sometimes gave him exquisite pain,- when my uncle Toby dined or supped alone, he would never suffer the corporal to stand; and the poor fellow's veneration for his master was such, that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could have taken Dendermond itself with less trouble than he was able to gain this point over him; for many a time, when my uncle Toby supposed the corporal's leg was at rest, he would look back, and detect him standing behind him with the most dutiful respect. This bred more little squabbles betwixt them than all other causes for five-and-twenty years together. He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when the landlord of a little inn in the village came into the parlor with an empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of sack. ""Tis for a poor gentleman - I think of the army," said the landlord, "who was taken ill at my house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste any thing—till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a bit of thin toast. I think," said the landlord, "it would comfort the poor fellow." If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy such a thing," added he, "I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, de is so ill. I hope he will still mend," continued he; we are all of us much concerned for him." "Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee," cried my uncle Toby; "and take a couple of bottles, with my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more, if they will do him good. Though I am persuaded," said my uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the door, "he is a very compassionate fellow, Trim, yet I cannot help entertaining a high opinion of his guest too; there must be something more than common in him, that, in so short a time, should win so much upon the affections of his host." "And of his whole family," added the corporal; "for they are all much concerned for him." "Step after the landlord, Trim," said my uncle Toby, "and bid him come back to me. Say to him, I should like to know the gentleman's name." Trim did so. 66 "I have quite forgot it, truly," said the landlord, coming back into the parlor, with the corporal; "but I can ask his son again." Has he a son with him, then?" said my uncle Toby. “A boy," replied the landlord, "of abou eleven or twelve years of age; but the poor creature has tasted almost as little as his father. He does nothing but mourn and lament for him night and day. He has not stirred from the bedside these two days." My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the 'account; and Trim, without being ordered, took it away, without saying one word, and, in a few minutes after, brought him his pipe and tobacco. 66 Stay in the room a little," said my uncle Toby. "Trim!" said my uncle Toby, after he lighted his pipe,, and smoked about a dozen whiffs. Trim came in front of his master, and made his bow; my uncle Toby smoked on, and said no more. "Corporal!" said my uncle Toby. The corporal made his bow. My uncle Toby proceeded no further, but finished his pipe. "Trim!" said my uncle Toby, "I have a project in my |