ABSTRACT
If I dared wish away time, I would wish for February and the Book [Southey’s Colloquies]. In my happier days I was but too prone to long that the hands on the dial would move faster than my eager anticipations, but I was affectingly and awfully cured of the pre sumptuous folly, and never now, under any circumstances, dare I wish for the morrow. It was twelve years ago last week since a well-remembered night, that on parting with my mother before we went to rest, after spending the evening merrily with our large family, I said to her O h, Mother! how I wish this day fortnight were come.’ ‘Do not wish that,’ she replied in a tone that startled and made me look round at her as I was leaving the room, and yet in my obstinate impatience I repeated, ‘but I must wish it, Mother dear, and I will wish it.’ ‘You have wished away your time,’ she said, ‘and a fortnight hence how you may repent your impatience - you may have no mother then.’ She looked as I had never seen her look before, and spoke as I had never heard her speak; but she was in excellent health, and afterwards, when she saw how I was struck and affected, laughed at my superstition, and said she did not know why she had spoken thus - ‘It was without thought or meaning,’ and she seemed to forget it. That day fortnight she was in her grave.
