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that my mother's memory should be deprived of its peculiar adornment - I would not have another steal her graces. They are a treasure accessible only to me- which none can enjoy with me-none can dwell upon but myself. Yet I may anticipate some kindness. Courtesy occurs naturally in this rank of life: it is habitual to us ;-the worst of us exercise it towards each other; we only fail

the dregs of us, I mean in the exhibition of it towards our inferiors.

The mansion is in sight a fine stately place just what might be wished, but scarcely imagined. The red setting sun is gleaming on the windowpanes, and they reflect its golden glittering sometimes shining through dark groves of evergreen -then coming full on the sight as the road winds. It is embosomed in verdure; nature seems to have furnished around it appropriate decorations for the theatre on which the deeds of the noble of many past ages

have been performed. Fine oaks are to me full of chivalrous associations state

ly elms speak of royal guests bending shrubs and velvet lawns afford saloons for dark-browed maids of gentle blood. But the vision of fancy fades we ap

proach

- I close my tablets.

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Here then within the sanctuary of my own dressing-room, I once more feel the sovereign of myself. Wherever I am, an apartment thus appropriated affords me all the privileges of home. I want not the blaze of these wax lights, or the glittering of the embossed silver candelabra. I would rather not be reminded that I belong to the privileged classes of society, whose modes are artificial whose luxuries laborious. They are extinguished; and my old friend my travelling companion

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lamp -streams upon my paper. I have been a solitary being during so many years, that I could never have enjoyed the outpourings of the heart, but for my journal. Here I can talk of feelings, and hopes, and undigested imaginings, and crude speculations, fearless of encountering scorn, or dulness, or heartlessness. I can describe my first impressions unapprehensive of being accused of inconsistency, when experience shall have wrought the natural change. even find gratification in looking back and tracing, link by link, the chain of thought and feeling which has led to the difference between the present, and the strongly felt past. It is interesting to me to observe the discrepancy of opinion between this month and the last how I have been affected by the same objects viewed at remote intervals how loveliness has disappeared on examination, and deformity become interesting on inti

mate association. No education is so effectual as that afforded by well-employed time.

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I always choose to have the drapery drawn aside from my windows. I like to view the places around me under every possible aspect. There is a bright moon in the western heaven "a lovely star is at her side, and reigns with her." It is a beautiful marriage-union, in which "the greater glory does not dim the less," but each shines delicately in its separate sphere, mutually imparting and receiving splendour, and pouring the effulgence of their mingled radiance upon others. How white and curled is yonder crisp wave! - how finely it contrasts with the shadow of the dark mass of foliage, by the roots of which it glides. That element is familiar to me as "a horse that knows its rider." It recals much folly-much waywardness— much suffering - much that I would forget, if I remembered not how salutary has

the discipline been to my proud heart and impatient imagination! I know not how it is with others; but I confess, for myself, that the moonlight always seems to awaken in me holy thoughts and heaven-ward aspirations. Beneath the beams of its pale light, as material objects lose their colouring, so do earthly passions. All that is thought or remembered, appears with a purer hue spread over it, as all the objects now visible are brought forwards by the white splendour streaming over them. I have often wondered how the man who resolutely trammels the boundless imaginings of the spirit in the coil of mortality, listens in vain to the voice which, if the catachresis may be pardoned, seems to swell through creation in the silence of this hour. If there were not omnipotence to repose upon, where would the wearied soul gather strength to meet the next rude shock of disappointment? If there were not eternal truth to confide in, where

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