of mourners; but the wounds which are not inflicted by ourselves will heal, and the dispensations of Providence, meekly submitted to by the patient, humble mind, are followed by the blessing of resignation.

Jane, now disengaged from domestic cares, was, nevertheless, fully employed: her benevolence and observation had instructed her in the diseases of the human frame, and she became the doctress of the neighbouring poor, for whose use she kept a large assortment of medicines, and to whom she devoted the most part of an ample income, Her attentions were not confined to these: all her friends experienced them, and found her sympathy and assistance consoling and efficient. Thus employed, her mind recovered its usual tone, and in her surviving relatives she found her affection returned, and was comforted. Not only by them, but by all who knew her, was Jane beloved; for they were conscious that her heart expanded with kindness to all. That heart had another trial to encounterto share in paying the tender, unavailing attentions which the lingering and fatal illness endured by the father of the family in which she resided, long required before his pure and patient spirit was released from mortality. He was scarcely less dear to her than a brother: her loss and her grief were great; but she was accustomed to stem the tide of her own sorrows to support others under theirs. The mournful widow and her young family needed the succour of such friendship as affluence could not purchase, and Jane remained with them till the family became dispersed von account of marriages and removals. She then left the

country, to which her habits were conformed, and the scenes associated with early recollections, and took lodgings in a country town some miles distant. Her departure was lamented by all ranks; but the poor would scarcely let her leave them. A mason offered to build her a house without fee or reward; and an ancient man, in the hope that at least her bones would rest among them, assured her, that though he was too feeble himself to dig her grave, he would stand by, and see it properly done. Another brought a present of potatoes to her lodgings she thanked him, but determined to pay for them, and accordingly had them weighed they weighed eight stone. Disappointed in his first intention, the poor man begged her servant to say that they weighed but four, and hoped Jane would not detect the deception. This good woman loves society, and the company of young persons, yet contentedly submits to the solitude of her lodgings, and to deafness; amusing herself with her needle, or strengthening her mind by the perusal of her Bible, and the works of pious writers; visiting the sick or afflicted; receiving her friends with cordial hospitality; and now, in her 78th year, exposing herself to cold, and fatiguing journeys, in the discharge of those duties which she is called upon to perform.

The pedigree of several persons who once happened to be in company together, being made the topic of conversation, it was inquired of Maria, who was her ancestor ? "He was," answered she, "an Irish Scollogue.” If her

cheerful and unembarrassed reply was heard with a smile, it was the smile of love and approbation, which acknowledged that a rich and generous soil alone could produce fruits of such peculiar and excellent flavour as were enjoyed in the friendship and conversation of Maria. Her ancestor was an Irish farmer, in comfortable circumstances, as the title Scollogue denotes. Maria and her sister, industrious, independent, and unassisted, pursued the business of shopkeeping: their integrity, their punctuality, their fair and honourable dealing, gained them sincere respect, and they were even more beloved than respected, because of their total freedom from selfishness; their native politeness, which seemed to receive while it conferred a favour; their quick perception of, and scrupulous attention to, the feelings of others; and their genuine compassion, which gave relief with secrecy and discrimination. Yet a poor woman who knew their family, declared they deserved no credit for their good nature-they could not avoid possessing it-they inherited it from their grandfather and grandmother; and, branching from such a stock, their virtues were hereditary. Prudence, engrafted on this precious stock, was cherished by that high sense of independence, which prevents impositions on generosity, quickens discernment, without contracting the mind. They were very regular and neat in their habits, yet the little children of a friend, their nearest neighbour, were freely admitted at all times to them. They reproved their misdemeanours with gentle firmness; while, sensible of their affection, the children fondly loved them. When these

children were indisposed, their mother flew to Maria, depending on her skill, and experiencing the good effect of her judgment. They were her consolers in sickness or sorrow; in her domestic concerns she found them able advisers and willing assistants; but if her gratitude confessed to others what she owed to them, they were grieved, and somewhat displeased, wishing to perform their good acts in secret, and jealous, lest the merit of their friend should suffer through their means. The children seemed a joint stock, and carried with them to maturity the love which attached them to their excellent friends. Thus the two families lived twenty-five years under one roof; they had shared the joys and sorrows of each other, and hoped to descend the hill of life together, when the younger of these worthy maidens sunk into a languishing state of health. Maria, ever attentive to the sick, neglected nothing to restore or comfort her sister; and sometimes oppressed by her fears, again enlivened by hope, she continued her pious offices for six years, with unremitted, with increased attention; while the drooping sister often repressed the expression of her feelings when Maria was present, to avoid rousing the sorrow which the beloved sufferer lamented to witness. She glided gently from this world of trial, and left to her bereaved sister the consolation of reflecting on her virtues, and on her own tender cares.

THE CHANGE.

BY THE REV. HENRY STEBBING.

My spirit was sad when evening fell
Around my infant home;

There was a voice that seemed to tell
Of griefs that were to come-
Of friends whose parting word should be
A long and last farewell to me-
Of change, forgetfulness, and woe,
Blighting what hearts were left to glow.

I stood where years before I stood-
Before that early home;

The winter's whelming torrent flood,
Had flung not there its foam;

Nor there had war, with crimson hand,
Hurled in his wrath the flaming brand;
Nor pestilence nor famine raved,
Nor tyranny the land enslaved.