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on Miss Edwards's behalf, for a year, and made arrangements for her immediate removal thither. Before quitting the Infirmary, unknown to me, the grateful girl slipped a £50 note-much more than she could afford with comfort into the poor-box of the institution; and no remonstrance of mine could make her recall it.

I shall not soon forget the day selected for removing Miss Edwards from the Infirmary; and I cannot help telling it a little particularly. We had a large glass-coach at the Dispensary door by eleven o'clock, in which were my wife, and two of my eldest children, to whom I had granted a holiday, for the purpose of accompanying us in this happy little journeyso different, thank God, from a former one! Miss Edwards, with her nurse, filled up the inside, and I rode upon the coach-box. Oh, that happy-that bright, beautiful morning! That moral harvest-home! Never did I feel the sun shine so blessedly, the summer-breeze richer, or the country more charming. Again I say that happy morning! Heaven! then indeed was thy smile upon us, shedding into all our hearts peace and gladness! That five miles' drive was such an one as I may never have again

When the freshness of heart and of feeling were mine,

As they never again may be.'

I wonder what the coachman must have thought of me? for I could scarcely check the exuberant spirits which animated me.

As for Miss Edwards, I learnt from my wife that she spoke but little all the way. Her feelings could scarce content themselves with the silent tears which perpetually forced themselves into her eyes-the tears of ecstasy. When my wife spoke to her, she often could not answer her.

The cottage was very small, but sweetly situated, at some little distance from the high-road. Its little white walls peeped from amid honey-suckle and jessamine, like a half-hid pearl glistening between the folds of green velvet. As my two children trotted on before us with the basket of provisions, and my wife and I followed, with Miss Edwards between us, and the nurse behind, I felt that I was living months of happiness in a few moments of time. My good wife, seeing the difficulty with which Miss Edwards restrained her feelings, woman-like, began to help her fortitude, by bursting into tears, and kissing her. This quite overcame the poor girl. As we neared the cottage, she grew paler and paler-leaned more and more upon our arms-and as we entered the parlor door, fainted. She soon recovered, however; and gently disengaging herself from my wife and the nurse, sunk upon her knees, elevated her trembling hands towards heaven, looked steadfastly upward, in a silence we all felt too sacred to disturb; and the tears at length flowing freely, relieved a heart over-charged and breaking with gratitude. That was a solemn-a blessed moment; and I am not ashamed to acknowledge, that I felt so overpowered myself with my feelings, that I was compelled to quit the little room abruptly, and recover myself presently in the garden.

Sneer, ye ignorant of the human heart! Laugh, ye who have never known the luxury of being an instrument chosen by Heaven to assist in relieving the wretched, and bringing back the contrite mourner to peace and happiness; smile, ye whose hearts are impervious to the smiles of an approving Providence; sneer, I say-smile, laugh on-but away from such a scene as this! The ground is holy-oh, profane it not!

My heart is so full with recollections of that happy day, that I could spend pages over it; but I leave the few touches I have given as they are.

I add not a stroke to the little picture I have here sketched, in all the humility of conscious imperfection.

We did not quit till about eight o'clock in the evening. Miss Edwards lay on the sofa as we took leave of her, exhausted with the fatigue and excitement of the day.

Doctor, if you should ever write to me, whispered the poor girl, as I held her hands in mine, 'call this-Magdalen Cottage!'

*

*

*

We paid her frequent visits in her new residence, and I found her, on each occasion, verifying our most anxious hopes of her permanent recovery. The mild summer-the sweet country air-a mind more at ease, and supported by the consolations of religion-did wonders for her. It was refreshing to one's feelings to be with her! She got worshipped by the few poor in her immediate neighborhood-for whom she was daily engaged in little offices of unassuming charity-and who spoke of her always as 'the good lady at the cottage.' She was always dressed in a simple species of half-mourning; and her pale and interesting features looked more so, by contrast with the dark bonnet and veil she wore. I understand that she passed for a widow among the poor, and others that concerned themselves with inquiring after her; and the nurse-now rather her servant-kept up

the notion.

I do not wish to represent Miss Edwards as being always, as it were, on the stilts of sentiment, or perpetually in ecstasies-no such thing. She was placid, peaceful, humble, contented, pious; and all this is consistent with a pervading tone of subdued pensiveness, or even occasional sadness. Heart's ease-sweet flower! is not less heart's ease, because it may occasionally bloom in the shade!

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Three years, nearly, did Miss Edwards reside at Magdalen Cottage, as she touchingly styled it: her health, though extremely delicate, was on the whole satisfactory. The nurse was a perfect treasure to her. I was almost tired of expressing to her my approbation and thanks. In the beginning of the second winter, however, I regretted deeply to hear from her, that Miss Edwards, in coming from evening service at the church, about a mile off, to which, though the weather was most inclement, she had imprudently ventured-caught a severe cold, which soon revived several slumbering and startling symptoms. She had received, in short, her deathblow. Alas! alas! how soon I began to hear of profuse night-sweats-of destructive coughing—and all the other fearful train of consumptive symptoms! Her appearance, too, soon began to tell of the havoc that disease was making with her constitution-already too much shattered to resist even the slightest attacks! I cannot pain the reader with dwelling on the early progress of her last symptoms. She soon left off her daily walks to the poor, and very soon took to her bed. Disease did indeed stride apace; and by the malignant intensity of suffering he inflicted, seemed revenging himself for his former defeat! The victim was indeed smitten; but it lay calmly awaiting the stroke of dismissal. She bore her last affliction with extraordinary meekness and fortitude. I thought she was really-unaffectedly rejoiced at the prospect of her removal. The poor nurse was infinitely the more distressed of the two: and the most serious reproofs I found necessary, to check the violence of her feelings. I must now, however, content myself with a few hasty entries from my Diary.

Wednesday, January 18th. I called on Miss Edwards about four o'clock

in the afternoon, and found, from the nurse, that she was sitting up in bed, hearing three little girls, daughters of a neighboring peasant, their catechism. I was remonstrating in the parlor with the nurse for permitting Miss Edwards to act so imprudently, when a little girl came clattering hastily down stairs into the room, with a frightened air, saying, 'Come! come! I hastened up, and found that the poor girl had fainted in the midst of her pious task; and the two terror-struck children were standing by in silence, with their hands behind them, staring at the ghastly paleness and motionlessness of their preceptress. The book had fallen from her hands, and lay beside her on the bed. I sent the children away immediately, and addressed myself to my sweet, suffering, but imprudent patient. When I had succeeded in recovering her from her swoon, the first words she uttered, were, in a faint tone-Go on, love'-'My dear EleanorEleanor-It's I,-Doctor- -,' said I, gently.

'Well, then, you must try it, Mary,' she continued after a pause, in the same soft tone. Poor lady! she thinks she's got the children-she's not sensible,' whispered the nurse, in tears. What a lovely expression was there in Miss Edwards's face, blanched and wasted though it was!

'I'm afraid, my dear,' she commenced again-her head still running_on the pious duty from which she had been surprised by her swoon-I'm afraid you've been playing, instead' Come, Eleanor,' said I, gently.

'No, love, I'm better, now! Go on-that's a good girl!' My vinaigrette served at length to dispel the illusion. With a faint start, she recovered herself.

'Oh! Doctor ! How are you? But' where are the children?'

she added, after a pause,

They are gone, Eleanor! Really, really, my dear, you must not do so again! It is much more than your strength can bear! Forgive me, Elea nor, but I have forbid them to come again,' said I, kindly, not peremptorily. She looked at me with a little surprise, and in silence.

"Poor things!' she at length exclaimed, how little they thought it was the last time!'

The tears came into her eyes.

'Nurse,' said she softly, please did you give them the little cakes I told you of?'

The poor woman shook her head in silence.

*

'How do you feel to-day, Eleanor?' I inquired, feeling her pulse. 'Very, very weak; but so happy! I am sorry I heard the children, if you thought I did wrong—but her face brightened, HE that loved little children seemed with me!'

'My dear Eleanor, I don't wish to hurt your feelings, but you miscalculate your strength! Indeed, indeed, you don't know how weak you are! Now promise me not to do so again!'

'I will, dear Doctor, I will! For my flesh is weak! But how is Mrs. -?' (my wife.)

'She is well, and begs her love to you. I have brought with me some calves'-foot jelly; she made it herself for you, and hopes you will relish

it.'

'She's very good to me-very,' sobbed the poor girl. 'I'll try to take a little this evening. But-I shall not want it long, Doctor,' she added, with a sad smile; ' I am going, I hope-to Heaven !

She paused. I spoke not.

'If,' she resumed, 'such a poor guilty thing as I, shall be permitted to do so-dear Doctor-I will-I will always watch over you and your '

Her emotions were becoming too violent, and I thought it best to take my leave, promising to be with her the next day. Alas, I saw her sweet sad spirit was not long to be excluded from that blessed place, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest! Indeed, it was

hard to part with her!

January 19th to the 24th inclusive. During this interval Miss Edwards declined rapidly; but her sufferings never once seemed to shake her firm confidence in the mercy of God. She was occasionally elevated, partly through hysteric excitement, to a pitch of inspiration; and uttered such eloquence as I have seldom heard from female lips. The clergyman of the parish administered the sacrament to her once or twice, and it was consolatory, he said, to see the spirit in which she received it.

On one day during this interval, my wife (herself indisposed) accompanied me to Miss Edwards's bed-side; and the poor, fond, grateful girl's feelings got quite uncontrollable. I was obliged to remove my wife, almost fainting, from the room; and I fear the shock of that interviewwhich I afterwards blamed myself much for allowing-hurried Miss Edwards more rapidly to her end. On one of the days in question, she calmly arranged about the disposal of her little property; leaving the interest of £1000 to the nurse for her life; £200 to the poor of the parish; a trifle to me and my wife, for rings-if they will wear them;' and the rest to the Magdalen Hospital, on condition that it was given anonymously, and no attempt made to discover from what quarter it proceeded beyond me. I put the whole into the hands of my solicitor, and he got her will duly drawn and executed.

Wednesday, January 25th. Miss Edwards was sweetly calm and composed on this visit. She spoke to me of her funeral, begging it might be in the simplest way possible-followed by the nurse, three poor women, to whom she bequeathed black dresses for that purpose-and, if I would honor her poor unworthy dust,' by myself; that there should be no name, no plate upon the coffin-lid, and no grave-stone in the church-yard. She repeatedly and solemnly enjoined me to observe her wishes in this respect.

Let me not leave my stained name behind me! No one would feel pleasure in seeing it-but, I believe I humbly hope, it is written in the Books of Forgiveness above! Let me go gently, and in silence, into my mother Earth, and be thankful for so peaceful a resting-place!' The tone in which she uttered this, echoes yet in my ear!

I am happy, Eleanor,' said I, much affected-I am very happy to see you so composed in the prospect of death! Rely upon it, Heaven is very near you.'

'Yes-the Friend of Publicans and Sinners-I think He will not refuse to receive me!' she replied, the tears dropping from her eyes.

'How bright-how clear is all before you!'

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In a solemn, slow whisper, she looked upwards with an air of awful confidence in the truth of what she was saying, and quoted the sublime language of Scripture. "I know that my Redeemer liveth-and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the Earth: And though, after my skin, worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God!"'

'Amen, Eleanor!' I exclaimed, taking her hand in mine-we may meet again, my love,' said I, but paused abruptly. I felt choked. 'Oh, Doctor, yes!' she replied, with thrilling emphasis, gently compressYou must not, Doctor, when I am gone, quite forget me!

ing my hand.

Sometimes, Doctor, think of the poor girl you saved from ruin-and believe she loved you!' Our tears fell fast. I could not open my lips. I know I am not worthy to be in your thoughts-but, dear Doctor! you will be among the last thoughts in my heart! Will you-kiss me, and promise that you will sometimes remember poor Eleanor!'

Almost blinded by my tears-unable to utter a word-I bent over her and kissed her. 'God bless thee, Eleanor,' I faltered. She spoke not, but shook her head with unutterable emotion. I could bear it no longer; so I faltered that she should see me again within a very few hours-kissed her with a second solemn-it might be final kiss, and left the room. I had ridden half way home before I could at all recover my self-possession. Every time that the pale image of Eleanor B- came before me, it forced the tears afresh into my eyes, and half determined me to return instantly to her bedside, and continue there till she died.

Thursday, January 26th.-As I hurried up, about twelve o'clock, to the cottage, I saw an elderly woman, a stranger, in the act of closing the parlor shutters. Then my sweet patient was gone! I stepped into the parlor.

'She is dead, I suppose?' I inquired with a faltering voice.

'Ah, poor, good lady, she is gone! She's hardly been dead five minutes, though! Poor nurse is in a sad way about it.'

At that moment the nurse came down stairs, wringing her hands, and crying bitterly. 'Oh-I wish I had died with her! Poor Miss EleanorI have lost you! I shall never'-and she cried as though her heart were breaking.

'I hope she died easily?' I inquired when she had grown calmer.

Yes yes, sir! She had been going fast ever since you left yesterday, though she tried, poor, dear thing! to do something for you which she had long been about-and-she died with it in her hands !'

Without uttering a word more, I went up into the bedroom. I cannot describe the peculiar feelings of awe with which I am struck on seeing a very recent corpse-before it has been touched-before anything has been stirred or altered in the room about it. How forcibly I felt them on the present occasion !

'Did she say anything before she died?' I inquired of the nurse, as we stood watching the remains.

'She sighed and said softly-" Kiss me, nurse !—I'm leaving you!"and died in a few minutes after, as if she was falling asleep!' replied the

nurse.

She lay on her left side, her black hair half-concealing her face; and in her hand was a sampler, which she had been working at, I found, frequently during her illness, with a view of having it given to me after her death -and which was not yet finished. I gently disengaged it from her insensible grasp and let the reader imagine my feelings, on secing nothing but the letters

'MARY MAGDALEN—

E'

The other letter of her initials-B.'-the finger of death had prevented her adding.

I shall never part with that sampler till I die!-Oh, poor Mary Magdalen! I will not forget thee!

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