mother, and Alicia has been heard more than | Ha, ha! alive! 'Tis a Sensitive Plant, once to exclaim, "Thank God, my daughter will not be an heiress!" OXFORD. Glorious and beautiful! still, still ye stand, Proving you, still, stern chroniclers of Time. Deep thoughts surround me of the dreams that come M. S. T. THE SENSITIVE PLANT. How sweet the plants in this greenhouse smell! Do you call it sweet-this sickening smell- And look at those strange outlandish things, They are strange, indeed; but they bring to me I fancy I hear them mourn and sigh, And but smile here to cover their woe. But a wonder now! here's a plant alive! I only brush'd it in passing by, And it curl'd up its leaves, and look'd all awry; Just come now, and see how it grieves. A poor little delicate sprite; By far has more worth in my eyes For they may attract both the touch and stare And a Christian from her may learn and take, ALBERT TAYLOR. Wouldst thou plant fresh and beautiful flowers Where the frost has gone forth? Wouldst thou turn back the course of a stream Whose old channel is dry? Wouldst thou build thy fair home in the waste Where the simoon swept by? Beware! if the flame should be lit, It is thee it would burn; If thou plantest the flowers, 'neath thine eye If the stream once flow back, it will whelm If the blast come once more, thou wilt die D. M. M. FAUT L'OUBLIER. Oh! name them not, those bygone daysThe golden days of yore: Why linger o'er lost happiness, That can return no more? 'Tis wiser, better to forget, Oh! name them not-the spell is o'er Nought will bring back the joys we prov'd, Oh! name them not; in this cold world When Memory but inspires regret. A. T*, THE BRIDAL AND BURIAL. (Founded on Fact.) BY M. A, Y. This world is full of strange contrasts; we cannot stir abroad without meeting them, albeit we note them not. Affluence and poverty, joy and misery, virtue and vice, jostle each other at every step; but it is seldom that we remark them. The peeress rolls by in her luxurious equipage, and the beggar crawls along in rags, followed by a train of starving children, and we behold both, but it is with our eyes alone; we may admire the one and pity the other at the instant, but the impression is evanescent, the contrast does not strike upon our feelings as it should do, does not awaken deep and solemn thoughts; we are too apt to regard the passing scene as we would some moving panorama, forgetful that all the actors in it are fellow-creatures, were once helpless babes, are now all equally weak and fallible, and are all journeying on towards one common bourne-the grave; that to all is the same blessed promise of immortality given of another and a better world, in which there shall be no meretricious distinctions, no rank or wealth, to cloud man's reason, and blind his eyes to the truth as it is. Illness, and an intense longing to breathe the pure air of heaven, uncontaminated by all the miasma with which this great city's atmosphere is ever laden, led me to quit the metropolis, and establish myself for a while in the pretty and sequestered village of S- , a sweet rural spot, where no railway station and hotel is as yet reared to mar the beauty and romance of its neat cottages and fine old country seats, and no engine goes shrieking and panting through its quiet valley, blighting the herbage and woods, poisoning the balmy air with its smoke and steam, and dragging away our thoughts from the purifying and ennobling influences of nature, to speculate on the world of human passions which animate the crowd of beings whirled along in the train of that huge monster. While wandering by the side of a crystal stream which glides murmuringly over the smooth pebbles, reflecting in its pellucid mirror the trees, the wild flowers, and the cattle on its borders; while reclining beneath the shade of luxuriant trees, the leaves of which seem holding some mysterious whispering converse together, while every breeze comes laden with delicious perfume, and the glad song of the birds now swells into a full chorus, now dies away into low flute-like chirrupings; while gazing over a field of green corn, which the breeze wantonly waves into ripples or flowing billows, every one varying in light and shade, my thoughts ever seem to expand, my mind to soar above the mere things of earth, to penetrate into a new and brighter world. Perhaps scarcely a feeling which passes through it at these times is tangible; they are all, like the subject which inspires them, solemn, mysterious, undefinable, but they are happy; they are as it were the breathings of the purer portion of human nature, the whisperings of an immortal soul, the aspirations of the spirit half freed from the world and its bonds. But, alas! such feelings are but as dreams, they are not the habit of the mind; a word, a sound, the least event, will disperse them, as the wind disperses the silvery vapours of morn, and recall us back to this world, and render us once more " of earth earthy." Among other beauties possessed by Sits church was paramount; this unpretending gothic edifice, with its quaint porches, and heavy mullioned windows, was almost shrouded in ivy; before the chief entrance was a fine old yew tree, several large weeping willows bent their graceful branches over the graves, which were kept with the utmost neatness, and many of them decorated with simple flowers. I had sallied out one morning for my customary ramble, when an unusual stir in the quiet village, and the chiming of the bells, attracted my attention, and determined me to bend my steps towards the church. Groups of twos and threes were clustered together at the cottage doors; but I fancied there was an air of gloom on their faces, a tone of sadness in their conversation, little in accordance with the merry chimes. I crossed the low stile which led to the back of the church, and was slowly making my way round to the porch, when my eyes fell upon an open grave, dug alongside of one which had evidently been lately filled up, and which had often attracted my attention, and excited my curiosity, from the beauty of the pale blush rose which bloomed upon it. "Is it not for a wedding they are ringing?" I said to the sexton, who stood looking into that narrow pit which suffices for the mortal remains even of the most ambitious. unfit me, maybe, for my duties, and God's service must not be marred by man's passions. Another time, if ye wish it, I'll try :" he passed his hand rapidly across his eyes, murmuring something about "the sun being so very dazzling," and hurried away. I walked on towards the sacred edifice. A few groups were scattered about, but the same lowering cloud was on their brows which I had before observed; several children were playing at leap-frog over the graves, and then running out into the lane to see if they could catch a glimpse of the bridal party; and the church was half filled with what appeared to be chiefly servants and tradespeople. I found a seat near the altar, and had fallen into one of my fits of musing, when the stir and hum without, and the sound of horses' feet and carriage wheels bespoke the arrival. The bride was the daughter of the lord of the manor, young, lovely, and amiable; every lip breathed a blessing on her as she passed up the aisle, leaning on the arm of her proud father. The bridegroom was a model of manly beauty; I saw nothing in him to justify the old sexton's fears; his bearing was frank and manly; the smile and glances he threw on his bride beamed with affection. The bridesmaids were the same as bridesmaids usually are, and the party in attendance consisted of the customary bevy of elegantly dressed men and women, who smiled, and flirted and glanced, and whispered, with perfect nonchalance throughout the ceremony, as if it had been a farce got up for their special amusement, instead of a solemn engagement involving the life-long happiness of two fellow-creatures. The service was over, the bells once more pealed forth a joyous peal; I had quitted the church, and involuntarily my steps had turned towards the open grave. How almost impossible it seemed that the bright fair creature who, leaning on her bridegroom's arm-her soft brown eyes half raised with trustful affection to meet his gaze, half veiled in their long silken fringe moved towards where I stood, how almost impossible it seemed to believe that she, or one as young as she, as fair, as loving and loved, might speedily be lowered into that cold dark pit, to hold company with the worms alone! "Look at the rose-tree on Lucy Merton's grave!" some one audibly exclaimed. The bridegroom's half-uttered words seemed to die upon his lips, and a sudden paleness overspread his countenance; but it was so momentary, that I fancied my eyes had deceived me. The gay cortège were departing as quickly as their carriages could be brought to the gate. group was left. But one "I remember gentleman who stood by her. we used often, when shooting on Sir Henry's property, to make all sorts of excuses, in order to look in upon her and her pretty children." "Aye, that were her," continued the old man; "she is dead, this open grave waits for her! and her husband is dying maybe o' the brain fever, and those pretty babes are orphans." "Sir Frederick, we will walk on!" exclaimed Lady Inson, placing her arm in his, and impelling him forwards. I The bells had already ceased to chime, and now the mournful tolling fell at intervals upon the ear; the children's glad voices were hushed, and they stood huddled together with an expression of mingled awe and curiosity. The simple funeral soon appeared, so soon that it must have passed the gay bridal cortège. have seen all the pomp and circumstance with which wealth surrounds death; the armorial bearings, plumed hearse, velvet trappings, and long train of carriages; but none of these ever affected me as did the simple funeral of Ella Norris. Here were no hired mourners, nothing indebted to art was it; but those who followed were evidently impelled by deep sympathy. Two of the little orphans were there; the poor children wept, from a vague sense of their loss, from awe and wonder. One screamed out as the coffin was lowered, and I fancy cried, "Not put poor mother in that dark pit-hole!" The other sobbed and shuddered, as with an ague fit. I withdrew to some distance, and sat down on a grave-stone. Why should I feel thus affected, such scenes occur every day? The tender mother, the loving husband, the young bride, the first-born-the heir of wealth, rank, and honour, or the heir of love and industryare daily, hourly, snatched away, entombed in the earth, wept over, regretted, and forgotten. But we heed it not! we scarcely seem conscious that similar bereavements can break into our own dear circle; we listen to these accounts as to an "oft-told tale;" but the period will arrive when we too must feel the reality of such griefs. It was some days afterwards before I gathered the whole history of the persons and events which had excited my curiosity; and the reader must permit me to narrate it in my own words, in preference to giving the diffuse and exclamatory narratives of my informants. At the extremity of the village stood the old school-house, a long low cottage-like building, vine-covered, with quaint lattice windows, and a deep porch, festooned with eglantine, wild honey-suckle, and monthly roses. I had often Why does not the carriage come up?" ex-noted it for its picturesque appearance, and linclaimed a fair aristocratic-looking woman, whose gered near, to listen to the hum of the children's satin-shod foot was impatiently beating the ground. 66 "Belike 'tis Ella Norris's funeral is in its way, my lady!" observed an aged man. "Ella Norris! Was not that your lodgekeeper's pretty wife, Lady Inson?" said the voices, which mingled so pleasantly with the song of the birds, the rustling of the leaves, and the murmurs of a little brook; or to watch them come trooping forth with glad shouts, springing hither and thither, like wild birds trying their pinions, and then straggling away in groups towards their homes, plucking fieldflowers by the way, and pausing ever and anon to watch the flight of some glittering insect, or to point out where there was a bird's-nest. In former years, the village school had been kept by an old couple of the name of Mertonpeople who had been born in the village, and spent their lives there; who were respected and beloved by all around, and pointed out as models by the pastor and by the lady of the manor. Two children blessed the union of Mr. and Mrs. Merton (or as they were commonly called, Dame and Maister Merton), and a peeress might have been proud of so lovely an offspring. Ella and Lucy were the flowers of the village; they grew up among the other children, joined in their sports and tasks, shared their toils and their pleasures, were ever ready to rejoice or weep with the gay or the sad; and yet were so alone in their simple beauty, so one in their love for each other, that they were as beings of another sphere, mingling but for a time with mortals. The clergyman's lady took great notice of them, and often had them up to the parsonage, and conversed with them, and opened to their inquiring minds knowledge beyond the power of their parents to impart. The squire's lady, too, would have them up to the Hall; but, less judicious in her kindness, she would sing and play to them while they danced, bestow on them old flowers and ribbons, praise their beauty, and teach them how they should move and walk. Ella was more serious in disposition, more quiet in her manners than Lucy: the one was as a fair stream gliding smoothly along, reflecting the hue of heaven in its placid bosom; the other more resembled a sparkling brook, rippling and breaking into tiny wavelets, turning aside every here and there to wash some flowery nook, and dashing over each obstacle with foaming impetuosity. Ella was happiest at the parsonage, where she might listen to explanations of things which puzzled her, or stray into the dairy or housekeeper's room, and become initiated in the mysteries of churning, pickling, preserving, &c. Lucy loved best to deck herself with flowers at the Hall, and dance like some fair sprite; to imitate the gait and manners of the squire's pretty wife; to watch the tasteful fingers of the femme-de-chambre, as she manufactured some piece of feminine finery; and above all, to peep into the books which lay about, and lose herself in the interest of some thrilling tale. Time flew on, but no change marked his flight for some years, save that the children grew into girlhood, that their distinctive dispositions grew also; all else was the same; the school continued as of old, though the scholars were changed; but the new comers loved Ella and Lucy even as the others had done, and continued to do. The old couple daily and hourly thanked heaven for having bestowed on them such children; the ladies at the Parsonage and the Hall forgot not their protégées. But a sickly season came: old Merton fell ill first, and a few weeks afterwards the dame was | laid on a sick bed. Their children were devoted nurses, and the neighbours were kind and sympathizing, but there was scarcely a house in the village that had not its own share of sorrow and illness to attend to. The children were one by one withdrawn from school; some because their parents feared the infection, some because they were falling ill, others because their services were needed at home, and many because the expenses caused by illness rendered the parents unable to afford to let them continue there. The hoarded savings of the Mertons, which they had fondly laid aside for their children, were now obliged to be broken in upon; and lingering months of illness soon reduced these to did all they could for the Mertons, as well as for a very low ebb. The clergyman and his wife the other suffering families; but that all was little, especially when divided among so many; for the pastor of S was not one of those members of the church who rejoice in a " pluhad fled before the fear of infection, and amid rality of benefices." The squire and his lady the pleasures of a fashionable watering-place uttered words of pity for the sufferings of the poor, or forwarded the indefinite order to their agent to do whatever he saw requisite," and and most charitable people," by subscribing meanwhile acquired the character of "excellent handsomely to a fund then collecting for one of those quixotic missions of charity which are so frequently got up for the special benefit of the relief of the people of some remote island on the projectors, and patronizing a fancy fair for the Atlantic, which had suffered from an earthquake; at which fair the lady presided at one of the stalls. Yet all this was done, as by so many, with little real thought or feeling; for the word poverty was to her an empty sound, something of which she had no conception. Lapped in luxury from her very birth, having had but to express a wish to see it gratified, she would have been very likely to exclaim with the would eat dry bread.” "Sooner than starve, I young queen of France, Again summer came; but now there was a change. Ella and Lucy were among the tribe of mourners-they were orphans: the schoolhouse had other occupants; the home of their childhood, of their innocent happiness, of their first sorrow, was tenanted by strangers; and the girls, who had grown up together like twin roses on one stalk, who had been so united in heart and action, in wish and purpose, were separated. Ella had been taken at the parsonage to wait upon the clergyman's wife; and the squire's lady, who had now returned, had engaged Lucy, and placed her under the tuition of her French maid. The sisters met now only on Sunday, and then, as they walked to and from church, they related to each other all that had befallen them in the week, or spoke of the past, or lingered by the graves of their parents in silence, more full of thought than any words. Ella was very happy; her employments were such as she loved; her mistress was kind as ever; and there was one who had been a boy at her father's school, who had even then been her shadow, had shared the lessons and sports of the sisters, who was now grown to manhood, and wooed her with earnest truth, and had won her promise to become his bride as soon as he had a home and some prospect of comforts to offer to her. Lucy was gayer, but not so happy; her spirit was less contented; ambition found place in her heart; and she was ever striving for something beyond what she had attained toperhaps because the vacuum created in her affections by the loss of her beloved parents, and her separation from Ella, was as an aching void, which craved something to fill it; for Lucy was far more dependant on affection than her sister; the regard, the caresses, the approval of those she loved, formed the very breath of life to her; and now cast in a manner among strangers, she sought to stifle those longings in other interests. Naturally quick, tasteful, and obliging, she soon learned to rival even Felicie in her business; and the French woman, jealous of the favour with which her mistress viewed the young orphan, looked about to find some means of getting rid of her. These soon offered them-ploringly to Felicie; but the femme de chambre selves. The Hon. Mrs. Cavendish was in want of a maid, and Felicie suggested to her lady what an excellent situation it would be for Lucy, and filled the girl's mind with her praises of the place. not be made so comfortable by them as to induce her to bear with her lady's hauteur for any considerable length of time. But youth is ever sanguine, and Lucy went on diligently attending to her duties, and studying all her mistress's wishes and habits, and hoping that in time she should win her favour; and bearing with quiet gentleness the petty annoyances of her fellow-servants; in all which course of conduct she was supported and encouraged by the affectionate letters of her sister Ella, by the kind advice frequently sent her by the clergyman's wife, and by the hopeful consolations of Robert Norris, who was to her a brother, and never let a week pass without coming over to tell her how his beloved Ella and he had spent the previous Sunday talking of her. The summer passed away, and winter came, cold, bleak, and inclement; and now that there was no kindly ray from without to brighten the gloom, the atmosphere of Ellcombe Park seemed doubly chilling. Lucy felt her very energies frozen within her, her light step became heavy and listless, her once glad and bird-like voice was hushed. Entreat your lady, my kind benefactress, to take me away!" she wrote im had no desire to see the young girl return, and accordingly replied by a pretty sharp lecture given in her mistress's name. Even Ella preached patience, for she could not understand the feelings engendered in a warm young heart by the icy breath of cold-hearted pride, and the intrigues and malice of disappointed domestics. She was happy and comfortable; and however we may love another, and, to a certain extent, sympathise with them, we cannot fully understand them, because we cannot place ourselves exactly in their position. Truly is it said, “The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and the stranger intermeddleth not with its joy:" nor strangers, nor even our most intimate friends or nearest relatives, can ever comprehend the depth of our sufferings, the sweetness of our in-joys; they look but on the surface, and cannot discern the hidden volcanos or springs which wither up or fertilize the heart. Mrs. Cavendish agreed to try the young person recommended by her friend; and Lucy, delighted with the splendours of Elcombe Park, prepared to quit her native place. It is true it was only some ten miles off she was going, but that was too far for a walk, and therefore, amid all her delight at the anticipation of her new position, she grieved to part from Ella, and from all the familiar faces and voices of her friends. To be sure, Robert Norris would be near her, and had promised often to come over and bring her all the news. Our young heroine had not been long stalled amid those splendours which had caught her eye, before she would gladly have exchanged to the poorest cottage in S for them. Her But suddenly all these complaints and remistress was a cold, proud woman, who regarded pinings ceased; Ella rejoiced again to trace the her domestics as beings of inferior mould; ex- glad spirit of past days in her sister's letters; acting their services to the utmost, as a right Robert Norris once more found her bright and due to herself; scanty and few were her expres- blooming. And what had wrought this change? sions of approval, haughty the words and tones Was Mrs. Cavendish more kind and affable? in which her commands were expressed; and Had the sub-tyrants of Ellcombe Park relaxed poor Lucy-with her affectionate heart and their spite and annoyances? No! the one still lively disposition, accustomed too, as she had regarded her maid as a human machine, created ever been, to such different manners, to the to minister to her comforts, and the others commendations of her former patroness, and to viewed her as an interloper. But Mr. Henry so much sympathy and regard-felt like some Cavendish had come down to spend his Christhot-house plant would do, if suddenly removed mas with his mother, and not having any parfrom its genial atmosphere, and exposed to the ticular amusement, thought it would be an blast of a keen easterly wind. Nor was her agreeable pastime to flirt with the pretty lady'sposition better among the servants; the butler maid. He was his mother's idol, therefore all and housekeeper, a brother and sister, who had his whims were laws; hence he found it no been in the family for many years, had destined difficult matter to spend half his time with that place for a niece of theirs, and in their dis- Lucy. He would read to his mother while she appointment resolved that the intruder should I had her hair dressed; and then the works were |