in the island of Java, where the circumstances of soil and climate were found to to be highly favourable. From Java the Dutch carried the cultivation to Surinam in South America. This was about the year 1718. From Surinam the plant soon found its way to our West Indian islands--to Cuba, St. Domingo, and other regions. A great branch of commerce was thus created at no remoter period than the beginning of the eighteenth century; and nearly all the coffee which now comes to Europe is the produce of trees propagated from those first carried by the Dutch from Mocha to Java. Even in the East, in Turkey, Persia, Syria, and Egypt itself-nearly all the coffee consumed is of West Indian growth, conveyed to the Levant in English, American, Dutch, or French ships, and sold by our merchants at Constantinople, Smyrna, Beirout, Alexandria, and other ports. Except in visiting a pasha, or other very great personage, one never gets a cup of real Mocha at Constantinople, or in any other part of the Ottoman empire.

The production of coffee in the regions to which it was not indigenous, and into which it was introduced by Europeans, is now enormous, amounting in dead weight to above 120,000 tons annually. A few years ago the following statement was drawn up, as exhibiting as near an approximation as could be made to the quantities which, on an average, were annually shipped from the different places of its production :

Brazil

Cuba

Hayti (in St. Domingo)

Java

British West Indies

lbs.

72,000,000

64,000,000

40,000,000

32,000,000

25,000,000

Thus we see that the country of its original production, and from which alone we derived our supplies down to the year 1725, now furnishes the smallest of the quantities we annually import. These are curious facts in the history of the coffee trade, and such, we believe, as are not found in the history of any other commodity, except sugar and cotton.

It was a fine morning in the early part of the year when Mrs. Seymour and her daughter, Mrs. Hartwell, were seated in an elegant apartment of the splendid mansion belonging to the husband of the latter.

"Mrs. Monckton," said a servant, throwing open the door. The

VOL. II.

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lady entered, followed by a respectable-looking woman bearing an infant. Mrs. Hartwell rose to meet her. "I am very glad to see you out again," said she, taking her by the hand.

"And I, too," exclaimed Mrs. Seymour, "very glad indeed." Mrs. Monckton, on whose pleasing countenance the utmost good humour was expressed, with a smile, bowed her thanks.

"It is my first call," said she, as she placed herself on the sofa near Mrs. Hartwell. "I should not be happy if I did not come here before I went anywhere else; you have been so very kind to me, both in your inquiries, and in the presents from the garden, which you have sent us. I have brought my babe for you to see. Such a boy! Mine are always large children, but this

"Lovely children, you mean," interrupted Mrs. Hartwell. Mrs. Monckton's bright eyes looked brighter still, and a gratified smile played round her full and glowing lip.

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Seymour, "yours is the sweetest family I ever saw; your little girl, in particular, is beautiful." "Do you think so?" cried she, not that she had the slightest doubt of such being the case. "But to fancy that she is the only girl out of six children!"

"Six children!" repeated Mrs. Hartwell, " is it possible?" "It is very true," replied she; "baby makes up that fearful number-bring him, nurse, to Mrs. Hartwell."

The female advanced, carefully removing the folds of the mantle in which the babe was enveloped.

"Did you ever see such a little monster?" exclaimed Mrs. Monckton, as both ladies continued to gaze on the infant.

"You lovely little thing," cried Mrs. Seymour, taking it out of the nurse's arms, and raising it to her lips.

"Anything but little," observed Mrs. Hartwell, with a half

smile.

"Certainly," returned Mrs. Seymour; "but the word 'little' has a meaning of its own which no other so well conveys. Do feel its weight," and she laid the babe in her daughter's arms.

Mrs. Hartwell coloured, as if taken by surprise at having done that which she would rather have avoided. She hastily kissed the child, exclaiming, "Oh! take it, nurse; I shall drop it."

"Then you will not envy me," said Mrs. Monckton, with a laugh, "the nursing of him continually, for come to me he must very soon. What I shall do when nurse is gone I know not-it is frightful to think of." (Mrs. Seymour cast a glance at her which seemed to infer there was a contradiction in her words.)

"If promotion, or increase of pay, kept pace with our increasing expenses, all else would be as nothing; the trouble of a family would not give me a thought. But that is not the case, nor likely to be."

"I am very sorry to hear you say so," said Mrs. Hartwell. "I understood from Captain Monckton that the Board had half promised to do something for him."

"Ah, no!” replied she, "that hope has been crushed by a letter which he received this morning." The tears started into her eyes as she spoke; but either feeling themselves strangers there, or being dried by the bright eyes behind them, they almost as quickly vanished as they had appeared.

Both ladies expressed sincere regret at the disappointment.

"You are very kind," returned she, looking gratefully. "It is indeed a serious disappointment; but we must make the best of it. It is nothing while the children are young; but what is to be done with them hereafter is another thought. Monckton says, he must educate them himself as well as he can; and if he can provide for them in no other way, they must enter the service as privates, and earn their commission by merit."

She spoke gaily, but it was easy to perceive that her heart was not quite so light as her words. Her cheerfulness, however, was only interrupted, not destroyed. She continued to chat in her usual lively manner, occasionally reverting to her family as the one subject uppermost in her thoughts, and as often playfully turning the conversation. At length she took her leave. Mrs. Hartwell thanking her for the pleasure of her visit, and for having brought her baby, whose beauty was again extolled by herself and her mother.

For some minutes after the departure of Mrs. Monckton neither of the ladies spoke. The silence was broken by Mrs. Seymour. "That really is a most lovely babe!" exclaimed she.

"It is too large," returned Mrs. Hartwell. "It is almost unnatural."

"Oh! I don't think so," said her mother. "But what a family to be sure! I am afraid Captain Monckton has no private fortune."

"None whatever," replied Mrs. Hartwell; "he has nothing but his half-pay and his staff appointment, and she had nothing, or next to nothing. It is marvellous how they manage to live

at all."

"Poor things!" sighed Mrs. Seymour. "It is impossible not

to like her, she is so very good-humoured and cheerful. What excellent spirits she was in."

"Unreasonably so, in my opinion," said Mrs. Hartwell. "She can think little of the future, one would imagine. What a time she stayed! I thought she never meant to go. And to bring the child for me to look at-what nonsense!"

"She is naturally proud of it," returned Mrs. Seymour.

Mrs. Hartwell hastily took up the scissors which were lying before her.

"Charlotte," exclaimed her mother, "mind what you are doing; you will spoil that beautiful border if you cut so near." The warning at first seemed lost upon her, then conscious that she was observed, she more composedly proceeded with her task. Again the conversation dropped. "Captain Monckton goes very rarely into company, I think," said Mrs. Seymour, resuming it. "I miss him exceedingly, for he is a very agreeable man.” "How can he?" repeated Mrs. Hartwell. "How is it possible for him to keep up any degree of society? It must be a great mortification to him, for he very much enjoys company." "And shines in it," said Mrs. Seymour. thing, she

"As to her, poor

"She is a perfect slave to her family," said Mrs. Hartwell, quickly. "Mrs. Steele, who knows more of them than I do, often says she believes that, with all the boast of their fine children, they would very willingly spare half of them.”

"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Seymour, fixing her mild but expressive eyes upon her daughter, the tone of whose voice, as she uttered her last words, had not been lost upon her mother, nor had given her satisfaction.

Mrs. Hartwell coloured deeply. "It is not a fair question," answered she, and silence once more succeeded. Both were occupied with their own thoughts. A profound sigh from Mrs. Hartwell drew her mother from her reverie. Mrs. Seymour directed a look towards her daughter, and saw a tear stealing down her cheek. She comprehended the cause, and forbore to notice it. Presently, Mrs. Hartwell buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed almost convulsively.

"Charlotte, my dear!" cried Mrs. Seymour, soothingly, "endeavour to command yourself. Do not give way in this manner. Be assured that all is ordered for the best. I hoped you had overcome poignant regret at least, and were reconciled to having no family."