MARY ANNE. I AM now very much advanced in age, my eyes are dim, my face is wrinkled,-I have few teeth left,—and my mouth is fallen in. Through the infinite goodness of Almighty God I do not suffer pain; but my limbs tremble, and I can with difficulty walk to the bottom of my small garden, or stoop to gather a flower from the little plot once belonging to my beloved Mary Anne. I can scarcely now see to read a chapter in a Bible of the largest print, with my glasses on; and in addition to all these infirmities, I possess a very small portion of worldly goods, and have no one to wait upon me but a little orphan girl, who, being left upon the parish, and quite friendless, was glad of such a home as I could give her, on condition that she should give me such assistance as a child of nine years old might be able to afford. From this account, I suppose my young readers are already persuaded that I must be a very unhappy creature, being so destitute, helpless, and poor as I have described myself to be; and, perhaps, they will hardly believe me, when I assure them, that there is not one among them with whom I would change places, for my journey is nearly finished, while theirs is hardly begun. And, although there is not one action of my life which has not been in some degree infected by sin, yet I have an assured hope of happiness in the world to come, through the sufferings and merits of that precious Son of God, who laid down his life for me, and for all such as through grace have been brought to place their dependence on him. But I have said enough, and perhaps too much, already of myself. It was with the view of giving my young friends some account of my beloved Mary Anne that I took up my pen, and I must not be diverted from this object by entering into my own affairs any farther than may be necessary for this purpose. It little matters who were my parents, or what was my husband, or how many were my children: it is sufficient to say, that I have long survived all those whom I loved, and by whom I was beloved in the earlier periods of my life; and although I entertain the delightful assurance that one and all of these are now in glory, yet I will forbear to expatiate on their histories, or even to recall the names of those whose memories are engraven for ever on my heart. At a former period of life, my condition was superior to that of the lower classes, and might, in fact, have been not improperly denominated genteel; yet, at the age of sixty, after having experienced various reverses, I was thankful to find a refuge in a cottage, where I had only a sufficient income to free me from the necessity of servile labour. I did not consider my little domestic duties, as long as my strength enabled me to perform them without fatigue, otherwise than pleasing and healthy occupations, which varied the sameness of my days, and rendered my rest more sweet. My cottage, too, was a pleasant resting-place, standing in the corner of a wood which seldom heard the axe, and so little removed from a place of worship, that an easy walk of twenty minutes would always bring me to it, as well as to a little village, where I could purchase all that was necessary to my support. My house is surrounded by a small garden, richly adorned in the season of flowers, and well stored with fruit-trees; through this garden runs a clear stream, the murmurs of which, when I sit at my door, in a summer's day, mingled with the hum of bees, the song of birds, and the rustling of the leaves in the neighbouring woods, produce a harmony that can scarcely be equalled by any thing which human art can produce. I have four rooms in my house; a neat kitchen, a large pantry or store-room, and two sleeping apartments. My kitchen is, for the most part, furnished in the humblest manner; yet, amid the wreck of my property, I have been enabled to preserve a clock, which was my grandfather's; my little mahogany tea-table, with its carved border, which belonged to my mother; my chest of drawers and book-case, some few of my best books, and an easy-chair, which last has lately |