"Well, well, my Grinling, I hope to have one some day, and to love her too. Now just let me see you take a few drops of this winecordial for you know you have scarcely tasted food to-day-and let me go, or your father will be as impatient as Frisker has been."

She waited till he had sipped the restoring cordial and eaten a fragment of the biscuit; then when she had pressed her lips down once more upon his thoughtful face, she went her way as she had come, and left him to his earnest work, to the lingering beauty of the setting sun, and to the deep old-fashioned pur of dear old Sweep, tucked up in pincushion-stateliness an inch beyond his pencil.

In five minutes more the good couple were on their way from Hatton Garden, the old gentleman's irritability much softened, now his wife was by his side, and Frisker proceeding onwards with a vast alacrity, that, with his glossy coat, and pricked-up ears, and tiny fetlocks, made many and many a passer-by turn round; to say nothing of Ben and Trim, perched up on the seat behind.

Avoiding the ordinary road to Hampstead, the rich working-silversmith of Hatton Garden drove his good wife_along Oxford-street, by Baker-street and the Regent's Park; and when they were off the stones and could hear themselves speak, they commenced a pleasant chat of their young days; of Hampstead as it was then —a pleasant place amidst green fields, and not as now-a mere suburb of London. To this discourse the good silversmith added divers enriching points of information; for he was well read, as a citizen of London ought to be, in its ancient history; and he told her of Hampstead Heath, and its old Roman road from Verulam, and its manor and seat of Bellsize belonging to the Abbey of Westminster, and the connexion of that manor and seat with the name of Vane the younger, who thence from its fine avenue was taken to the Tower; and of the judges who at the time of the great plague came hither to the shadowed terrace on the Heath, to try the assize prisoners; and of Richardson, and of other great literary names since his day; and lastly, the good old citizen spoke of the view which lay from Hampstead to the vale of Harrow; that Norden, writing in the days of Queen Elizabeth, said of its fields, that at the time of harvest the husbandman who waited for their fruits "could but clap his hands for joy to see this vale so to laugh and sing."

From the Finchley or rather the Barnet road they turned up a real old English lane, which leads by Child's Hill to the Heath. Here the good silversmith went off from antiquarianism to love in his discourse, and brought to his

their days of courtship, when in this very lane he had asked her to be his, and she had not said "nay." At this, matron and mother as she was, the good gentlewoman bent her face; for to it stole a tender shame worthy of our human nature and her woman's heart.

At this point Ben and Trim were permitted to descend, and to run off with wild barks of delight; whilst Frisker, it must be confessed somewhat reluctantly, went more moderately onward, past strips of roadside common rich in tender greenness, past dipping trees and clumps of fern and gorse, past runnel and broad-spread hedge-row, till he came out on the wide, solitary gorse-clad heath, bathed partly in the glory of the setting sun. As was their custom, Mr. and Mrs. Gibbons descended from the gig, and leading Frisker to a point of greensward, threw the reins on his neck; thus leaving him at perfect liberty to nibble the short sweet grass, or rub his nose in the fresh greenness of the fern. When they turned round to proceed on a short walk up and down beneath the lovely sweeping hedge-row and its evening shadows, they were surprised to see that Ben and Trim had made cheerful acquaintance with a little Isle of Skye dog that evidently belonged to a lady—a young lady sitting on a seat commanding a sweet point of the broad landscape. She sat very still; so very still, and looking away across the wide sweep of fern and gorse, as evidently not at first to be aware of passers-by; but this, rather than otherwise, excited the observation-almost curiosity-of the good couple; of little Mrs. Gibbon especially, who had a fine sense of what was peaceful and modest in the behaviour of her sex. In keeping with such demeanour was the young stranger's dress; very plain, very simple and unexpensive, yet clean and fresh and excellently contrasted-each thing suiting the other with rare fitness, from shoe and stocking, and gown and glove, to the crowning bonnet. Yet the good couple did not see her face; but when they had retraced their steps, returned again, and approached near enough, the tasteful eye of the good old gentlewoman was struck by a little sight-very simple, as all exquisite nature is, yet very beautiful. The waning, yet richly flooding sun lay partly on the sward at the young girl's feet, and partly on her dress of a dark brown hue, amidst the folds of which drooped downward from her crossed right-hand a spray of the common meadow butter-cup, turned back at about half its length upon its own long stem. The flowers were unusually fine, as though the root had grown in a moist rich soil; and as the fine sun played upon their yellowness, and upon the rich greenness of the shining leaves, nothing could exceed the exquisite grace and contrast of the whole. It was a little gem of nature worthy the most skilful fingers of imitative art. large and glittering leaf hung below the stem; and the simple beauty of the whole attracting for the instant the old gentlewoman's gaze, she did not see till she looked up, that the young girl was also regarding the flower, as though

One

suddenly struck by the singular beauty of the little golden buttercups and buds thus lying amidst the russetness of gown and leaves, as stars rest still at night upon an emerald sea. But the young girl lifted up her face, and buttercup and bud and leaf were in the instant forgotten by the good little old gentlewoman who saw only that, the human flower, in all its youth, its touching look of tenderness, its earnestness and self-repose. There was a look too in it of depth and power-a sort of acute earnestness in its expression, as though some congenial thought on which it was pleasant to dwell had been suddenly aroused. This might be so; for nothing of spirit that is pure and divine but what will betray its presence in the human face. Their eyes met; the trim little gentlewoman longed-irresistibly longed-to speak; but her fear of rudely trespassing restrained her. However, Ben and Trim, that by this time were on a footing of most companionable friendship with the little thick-coated stranger, would have brought about a speedy acquaintanceship, there is little reason to fear, had not a loud call from a distance interrupted, at this precise moment, the first preliminaries. Looking round, the little old gentleman and her husband beheld, on a gate in the distant hedgerow, a boy of about twelve, dressed in the quaint garb of the Bluecoat School, and who, waving a large bunch of luxuriant wild-flowers, jumped off and came quickly running to where they stood. Judging, and rightly, that this was the young lady's companion, the good couple bowed slightly and passed on. When they reached the end of their grassy walk, and turned again, they saw that the stranger had quitted the seat, and, passing away amidst the fern, was gradually climbing the grassy hill towards Hampstead, her arm round the schoolboy's neck, and the little dog frisking wildly on before. The old silversmith and his little wife were much disappointed-the old gentlewoman especially; and it was not till they had watched the strangers out of sight that they continued their walk or disturbed Frisker from his nibbling pastime.

Through such fields as are yet left, the young lady and the schoolboy made their way to Camden Town; there they took an omnibus to Islington, and prepared to alight at the Angel. They were alone in the vehicle; and just before it stayed, the young lady took a purse from her pocket, and drawing from it a bright fourpennypiece, slid it into the schoolboy's hand.

"I would give you more, dear Frankland," she said, as though apologetically, "I would indeed, my darling; but I am not rich just now." "I ought not to want any, Luce," was the frank laddish reply; "but- Here the boy hesitated, as though there was warfare between his love of sweetmeats and his better love for his gentle sister-for his sister she was.

"There, there," she said, as she bent her face down to his fair one; "keep it, and you shall have more next week. I know your weakness, Franny, for sweetmeats; and I would have you just as honourable about the payment of a tart

or lollipop as about a larger thing. Now goodbye, my darling, or you will be late. Come and see me next holiday afternoon, and by that time ask good old dame Carden what we talked about as we crossed Hampstead Heath."

"Yes, Luce, that I will. Dame Carden will do it, I'm sure; for she knows those rich silversmiths of Hatton Garden so well. Her little dead grandson was a blue-coat till he went to be their apprentice. Now, good-bye, pet; take care of my gold-fish, and recollect, as you finish the gooseberry-pie, that I thought it a special one.'

In a minute more he had kissed this fond sister, pinched the dog by way of good-bye, slid from the omnibus, and was off with the speed of boyish feet. More gently and thoughtfully his pretty sister took her way towards Canonbury, which it was just dusk before she reached. Indeed the silvery moon had risen above the tall poplars which skirt the New River as she unlatched the little garden-wicket of one of a row of pretty secluded cottages that had on the other side a larger sweep of garden running to the water's edge. This lesser garden, as she entered, smelt as though newly watered-which it had been by a tall, pale-faced man, looking like a clerk or warehouseman, who, kneeling by a little border near the door, was trimming away the dead flowers and leaves. It was plain to see that he was a lover of flowers. The young girl stayed a minute to speak to him, and to admire the beauty and freshness of the little plot of ground.

"Yes, ma'am," said the man, rising and speaking with the utmost respect, "the garden is a great comfort to me. Many and many a time through the toilsome day the thought of it cheers me on. Nor do I ever think of it without blessing God that I came here, and for the change wrought in me; nor without thinking that you counselled what saved me to my wife and children."

"It is always pleasant, John Laurence," replied Lucy Bassett (for such was her name), "to find that given counsel has proved good, as it has in your case. You were certainly very ill when I first knew you, and could not have recovered-at least for a permanency—if you had not moved away from the town. Now good night! The garden looks charming, and will have its usual admirers in the Sunday passersby to-morrow, I am very sure."

She was passing into the house; but the man stayed her, to add some carnations he had gathered to her posy of wild flowers, and to tell her that Miss Moggs (from whom he had brought a note) was coming by-and-bye to make a call, as his master, Mr. Bowyer, had come up from Margate unexpectedly that afternoon, and had bought a basket, which she wished to deliver in person.

The young girl said she should be glad to see so kind a friend as Miss Moggs. Then she went in, and staying for a minute by a cheerful open doorway that looked into one of the trimmest, prettiest kitchens imaginable, was met by a good

looking matronly young woman, the mother of five or six children, and the wife of the careful gardener.

"I am glad you are home, ma'am," she said, with kind, yet respectful interest, "though it is a bright night and not yet late. But we shall eat our supper the better for your being safe. And see, ma'am, how nicely I've got on-the❘ children all in bed save Nelly here, supper ready, and everything done-even to the brightening up of your plate as usual-which Nelly did not put into the basket, but laid upon the table."

As she spoke she moved her hand, as though to show the exquisitely neat parlour-like little kitchen, with its row of newly-cleaned tiny shoes, its store of Sabbath linen airing by the fire, the large family gooseberry-pie just home from the baker's, and the cloth laid neatly for the humble supper. It was altogether the picture and pattern of a humble English household. Expressing her pleasure at this pretty homely sight of cleanliness and good management, Lucy was passing onward to the staircase, when Mrs. Laurence bethought her to say that Miss Moggs would take supper before she came, and therefore Miss Bassett was not to prepare any for her. "If that is the case," said Lucy, gladly, “you shall bring me my usual cup of chocolate, Mary. This I will take, and then sit down to draw till Miss Moggs comes, for I must make use of my dear Franny's pretty wild flowers, whilst they are fresh and with their bloom on them."

So saying, she passed up the neat carpeted stairs, into such a pretty sitting-room, with a bed-room opening from it, as to be quite a little fairyland of freshness, taste, and comfort. Its broad open window, with trim muslin curtains, looked out upon the larger garden and the tall poplars, through whose green leaves the little river bathed in moonlight shone on its silvery way. There were little old-fashioned oil-paintings about the room, an oval glass in a filigreed frame, modern prints principally of objects of sculpture, old china, a bird-cage, a piano, and a profusion of thriving plants. Beyond was seen, through the airy open door, the lesser room all clad in white-a little room most exquisite and both were richly lighted by the silvery flooding moon.

Putting her flowers down, as it were carelessly for the instant, on the table, Lucy's first thought, when she had removed her scarf and bonnet, was tiny Penn, the dog; the little untiring, honest friend, through good and evil fortune as she had proved, young thing; and finding him, as she suspected, already gone to bed on his little mat, she brought his saucer of water, let him lap, then gave him pretty coaxes and soft words; whereupon, after many grateful caresses that proved his grateful heart, though tiny dog he was, he curled himself up anew, and went off forthwith into an amazing sleep.

When Lucy had read good Miss Moggs' note, which was but a line or so, she drew her table towards the window, intending to take her supper before she lit her lamp. As she did this, she suddenly stopped, arrested by the

beauty that lay beneath her gaze. The buttercups that had lain so golden in the sun, and had already made her ponder as to their practicability for an artistic purpose, lay cast by chance from amidst the other meadow-flowers upon one of the newly-burnished spoons; the stem upon its handle, the green leaf below the stem within the bowl, so as in fact to be a floral spoon resting on the scintillating silvery ore, as though for garniture. But fashion it in silver, and art and nature will be one!

With the intuition of genius, the young girl saw all this. Yes, here was the lovely purpose. She would draw the design for a cream-ladle; the flower and stem should form the handle, the drooping leaf the bowl; it should be the BUTTERCUP SPOON-the one that should go by other hands to the great silversmiths in Hatton Garden.

Oh! go and show the hand of genius, little cups and buds! Rocked by the summer wind, cherished by the evening dew, fed by the balmy air, your simple, graceful, natural loveliness must be transferred by art; for touching consequences lie with thee, oh! simple, little, tender flowers! (To be continued.)

THE CLOSED-UP CHAMBER.

BY ADA TREVANION.

The skies of spring-tide are beaming o'er us,
The hills are mantled with rosy sheen;
The brook is dimpling in smiles before us,

The whispering woodlands are budding g
And Morn, with her wreaths of pearl and a

Is turning the waves to a flood of light, And gilding the panes of the closed-up chamber, Of whose dreary depths we have dreamed all night.

When last 'twas entered, we all remember:

We know where the still form shrouded lay; And the breeze sighed round with its farewell tender, In the azure hours of a bygone May. We each recall how the bowers were dreary,

The summer-boat was a useless thingHow we felt the silence grow all too weary,

Yet loathed the voice which could laugh or sing. But now there is sunshine in the dwelling;

The grass on the grave is green and long; And no sad tones of the lost are telling,

Whose steps were once listened for, like song. We might almost forget his mournful story, Who passed from the earth in youth's first bloom, Were it not for the tale of vanished glory Which is whispered low from that silent room.

We must quit, ere long, this antique mansion,
With its many legends and one closed door,
For the body's toil, and the mind's expansion,
But do we not bear about us ever
The commerce with busy life once more.

Though our lips may reveal the secret never,
The moral drear of its lore a part?

Have we no sealed chamber within the heart?
Ramsgate, March 11, 1854.

THE GEM.

What is that gem all earthly gems excelling, Choicer than pearl, than ruby richer farSweet as the tear of love, from Beauty welling, Soft as the ray of Evening's silver star? First worn in Eden-land, ere Eve rebellingAh, then it was as pure as angels are

THE CRAFTY MAN.

He is known by his looks, and his uncouth ways; He is sternly harsh and proud:

He is always absorbed in the getting of wealth, And at pleasure rails aloud.

He gloats on the downfall of men of the world, And is mad to see them rise;

Though dimmed, not lost; although no longer gleaming

With that ethereal ray that once it wore!

As with their heads bent down, and sad eyes streaming

Regretful tears, they wandered from the door Of Paradise, before the fiery beaming

Of that fierce sword-Eve still that jewel bore, And turned its sadden'd ray on Adam's face; And straight, Despair to cheering Hope gave place!

And still, to every child of Eve descending,

It shines the sunbeam of this gloomy world: A halo to the darkest run lending,

Like rainbow on the tempest's brow unfurled. Full oft with tears of love and pity blending,

It turneth wrath, arrests the venom hurled By Slander's lip. Sweet Charity well knows Its virtue, too, to soothe all human woes.

High-born and low-born maid alike adorning,
It forms to each an element of power:
But they, alas! can use it too in scorning,
When proud lips curl, eye flash, and eyebrows
lower.

Full oft it covers but deceitful fawning.

Pale Malice wears it with an aspect sour; And Hate beneath it masks his deadly gallThese are the blots it gathered from the Fall!

None can disown its power, resist its charming;
More potent than magician's fabled spell!
Full many a heart of many a sting disarming,
It speaks a language words can never tell!
Now, with bewitching brightness, heart-alarming,
It starts like fairy from its dimpled cell:
And now, with meaning soft as eye of dove,
It wears the blushes of sweet maiden love.

The fond youth feels it through his bosom burning, And falls enraptur'd at his lady's feet:

The careworn husband, with a bosom yearning

For wife and home, its presence there doth greet: The weary peasant, from a field returning,

Raises his latch, and straight its gleam doth meet. The child, too, cradled on its mother's breast, Sees it, and crows with joy, then sinks to rest.

Token of love, joy, friendship, peace, and pleasure;
Cream of the heart, sweet sunshine of the face!
It adds to beauty, beauty without measure,
And to the plainest brow imparts a grace.
In Woman's casket 'tis her choicest treasure,
Man's sweetest comforter in every place.
You, perhaps, fair reader, wear it all the while!
What is it? guess; ha, yes-'tis Woman's smile!
ALBERT TAYLOR,

And dazzles his crafty eyes.