offer; not willing, however, to make her consent too cheap, she said, "You must allow me, my dear sister, to consult Mr. Musgrave; should he consent to part with the children, I assure you that your wish shall receive no opposition from me." "You have my free leave to go through the form of consulting Mr. Musgrave," said Madame de Meronville, with a slight curl of her lip. "I cannot doubt what his answer will be: you and he are completely engrossed by Althea, and as she has now attained the age at which nobody will feel very eager to rob you of her society, you may enjoy it, unbroken by the intrusion of your poor slighted younger daughters." This speech, notwithstanding its truth (or perhaps because of its truth), occasioned my mother to feel rather indignant; but she quitted the room in silence, not to ask my father's consent to the arrangement, but to claim his congratulations on the great saving of expence that it would be to them when the education of Dora and Katherine was paid for by their aunt." "Their school accounts were certainly extremely high," said my father. "And they have been very expensive to us in many other ways," added my mother. blond trimming round my morning cap was widened; but all would not do: I could not persuade either myself or other people into the belief that I was still the blooming, dazzling Althea Musgrave. I was about five-and-thirty, when my mother one morning, bending over me to inspect a landscape that I was sketching, beheld a grey hair in my head: no one was present but a lad of seventeen, a cousin of my father's; and she gave free vent to her lamentations over her unfortunate discovery, seeming to regard it quite in the light of a plague-spot: I pulled it out, to oblige her-an operation in which I was not quite a novice, for I had pulled out several privately. "How very annoying!" said my mother; "I detest the sight of grey hairs!" "Now there I differ from you," said my young cousin, who was studying logic, and therefore took occasion to differ from everybody on every subject. "There is something very poetical in grey hairs." "So there may be," said my mother, "when they belong to old people; but not when they make their appearance at Althea's age." "Nay," said my cousin, "that is the very time I like to see them. I can't bear to hear old people complaining about their sons and daughMy father was silent; the " many other ters, nephews, and nieces disregarding and ways" did not present themselves to his mind; despising their grey hairs. I quite agree with but he had given his acquiescence, and my an observation in one of Mrs. Gore's tales, that mother eagerly conveyed it to her sister. In a 'people never allude to their grey hairs except few days, Dora and Katherine left us; they were for some canting purpose.' At Althea's age it in high spirits, delighted with the company of is different; she will say nothing about them their aunt, and elated with the thought of visit- herself, but leave it to other people to apostroing Paris. I wept as I took leave of them; Iphise them. I remember once reading some felt some compunction for not having been more pretty lines, addressed by a gentleman to the attentive to them. My mother held her hand- first grey hair in his wife's head." kerchief to her eyes, therefore it is candid to conclude that she had occasion for it; but the young travellers did not shed a tear. quite right in saying that they had no affections," remarked my mother, removing the handkerchief from her eyes, as the carriage drove away; "it is a comfort, poor things, to think that I have never done them injustice!" "I was The ensuing few years afforded no incident worthy of remark; my share of the world's admiration became smaller and smaller, and I had daily occasion to feel that "Time, who steals our years away, Will steal our pleasures too." My mother, however, lamented the "decline and fall" of my reign of beauty far more deeply than I did myself. The observations of Madame de Meronville had opened her eyes to the fact that I was no longer in the season of girlhooda period which she had hitherto seemed to think had been magically prolonged for my sake, and she now endeavoured, by every means in her power, to revive and renew my faded beauty: she had rose-coloured curtains to the drawing-room windows, and exquisitely painted blinds, which were never to be drawn up; the blond fall of my bonnet was deepened, and the "He might have found a more agreeable subject to write on, I think," said my mother. "The only fault that I find with his poem," pursued my cousin, "is that the title of it is untrue: there is no such thing as a grey hair." "No such thing as a grey hair!" exclaimed my mother in surprise. "I will prove to you that there is not," replied my cousin. "There is many a grey head of hair, and the effect arises from the intermingling of white with dark hairs; but no single hair can be grey. Look at that which Althea has just taken out; it is decidedly white." "I wish it had never appeared," said my mother, looking pensively at it, and evidently too much vexed with the sight of it to give any praise to the logic of her young guest. "Never mind, Althea," said he, turning to me; "I am sure that, with or without grey hairs, you look much prettier than many who are younger than yourself. There is Araminta Marsden, who has quite got an air of oldmaidish stiffness and uprightness; my friend Harry Lloyd says that she looks as if she had lived all her life on 'ramrod-broth!'" I did not laugh at Harry Lloyd's wit; a lady of thirty-five seldom sanctions a joke on the oldmaidism of one two years her junior. "And after all," pursued my tormen tor, "an old maid may make herself extremely useful and agreeable in a family, if she thinks proper; and there is no fear of the race of the Musgraves coming to a termination; Dora and Katherine are sure to get husbands. Harry Lloyd has a friend in Paris, and he wrote him word that he had seen them, and that they were both perfect beauties, in a different style; so you see, Althea, your future duties may be safely predicted: you will be a notable, kind-hearted spinster-aunt, bestowing sweetmeats and spelling-lessons, lollypops, and lectures on a numerous train of curly-headed nephews and nieces!" Fortunately visitors now entered, and the young gentleman took his leave, thereby saving himself from a storm of indignation on the part of my mother, who now contented herself with remarking at intervals during the remainder of the day, that "boys were insufferable nuisances!" About three years after this time I met with an incident which caused me to sigh, but will probably cause my readers to smile. (To be continued.) THE FACTORIES. BY GRACE AGUILAR. "Let none dare say the picture is exaggerated, till he has taken the trouble to ascertain, by his own personal investigation, that it is so. It is a very fearful crime, in a country where public opinion is found to be omnipotent, for any individual to sit down with a shadow of doubt respecting such statements in his mind. If they be true, let each in his little circle raise his voice against these horrors, and these horrors will be remedied; but woe to those who supinely sit in contented ignorance of the fact, soothing their spirits and their easy consciences with the cuckoonote exaggeration,' while thousands of helpless children pine away their miserable lives in labour and destitution, incomparably more severe than any ever produced by negro slavery."-MICHAEL ARM 6 STRONG. And is it so? and can our land, The beautiful, the free, Which nobly shrunk from slav'ry's brand, She, who once bade her trumpet-voice Will she not look at home? She who, with stern resolve, o'erweigh'd Will she not mark the murky cloud Where all so lovely in a child, Is but a name, a breath, What little hands obtain ; She dures not feel, for deeper woe England, my country! wilt thou rest Foster'd and cherish'd on the breast Canst thou permit such things to be, Canst thou not hear the harrowing cry, And will thy sons no effort make To wash out this foul stain, If thus her children feel, A poison'd blot, that on their swords Voices on earth that vainly plead, But pierce unto God's throne; Oh! if this charge be true, awake! Rise all, on whose ancestral land Prove that the charge is false, and oh! Her power and might we send, Arise! ere other nations see, And hold us up to shame. Now lightly draw thy breath, A SPRING SONG TO MARY. BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ. The snow-flower blooms on Wensley's banks, The spring will soon be in her prime- A song to suit this merry time? It is not oft my strains are glad, Except thy charms they strive to tell; When Nature laughs on strath and fell? The verse I dedicate to thee. Look, love, across the cloudless sky, My heart still deems the sweetest song. Whene'er your soft low voice I hear, That moment's raptures I recall ; The willing vows you pledg'd to me. Not yet the rose unfolds its flowers, Whose tints can scarcely match thy bloom; The lilies wait refreshing showers To raise them from their wintry tomb : And such thy love for me has been. Then whilst on Wensley's verdant banks, This song to suit the cheerful time. LAY OF THE CONVENT BELL. Turn from the world, Thou of the heavy brow and weary heart : Which foolish mortals in their pride call "Life :" Turn, turn thee thence-depart! Enter these cloistered walls, Where calm, yet smiling, ever dwells "Repose;" Gaze on the holy beauty of her face: No passions there to mar the tranquil grace, That Peace around her throws. And smile again, as when thy heart was young: All, all are passed and gone; Calm beats the pulse that fluttered even now, Rejoice, thou child of earth, And look above, for Heaven is smiling there; Then happiness to thee, And bliss divine, even whilst waiting here, TO E. C. C. JUSTINA L. BY ONE WHO ESTEEMS HER LOVER AS A FRIEND. Fair one, on this oft changing earth, And avarice is love A proud, conceited, peevish thing, Such is the world. Too oft, alas! For silliness and folly ; As sweetest flowers neglected fade, Some blessed spot is given; Some beauties prate of pretty names, Link Frederick oft with Emma. And while you kindly, sweetly smile Is centred in your bliss, Like angel smiling from above May choicest flowers strew thy path, Thy fairy footsteps shun; That linked your souls in one. W. THE HISTORY OF MARY AND HER FLOWER. BY ELIZABETH YOUATT, AUTHOR OF THE BLIND MAN AND HIS GUIDE," ETC. The first scene of our little romance in real life, as we may truly term it, is laid in a spot which common and everyday associations have so familiarized to many of our readers as to divest it in their opinion of all claim to the poetical or picturesque-Covent Garden Market. But then there are others, those of the dreaming heart and the kindly spirit, ever ready to go with us in our sweet faith of the universality of the poetry of human life, haunting and pervading not only the green valley and the silent plain, but every crowded nook and alley of this vast metropolis. Leigh Hunt, in his new work, "Imagination and Fancy," the freshness and beauty of which no one can either fancy or imagine unless he be won into reading it, has devoted seventy pages to the consideration of a question few are better fitted to solve-"What is Poetry?" But viewing the subject, as we do, in a very different light, the answer is plain and simple enough: "All good deeds are acted poetry!" And, thanks be to God, we can turn over but few pages in the volume of human life, without finding it scattered up and down, even amidst its darkest episodes, and histories of crime and suffering half blotted out with tears, like a blessing-but it must be sought in faith! And now, for the sake of illustration, we shall copy out a few stanzas, reducing them into plain prose as we proceed. It was a bright spring morning; the air was heavy with perfume, although, truth to say, not always equally agreeable. The fruit and flowers looked so fresh and tempting, one scarcely knew which to desire most; the people all busy and active, buying and selling, or appearing very much as if they would like to do so if they had but the money or the chance. Two merryeyed girls, accompanied by their mamma, are singling out flowers for the evening bouquet, laughing and talking the while of a thousand anticipated pleasures; and a third, quite as young and pretty, as far as we can judge from the deep crape veil which she wears over her face, is watching through the window for them be suited, and then goes in timidly for a blossom of some token-flower, which is placed in an envelope ready prepared, and sent away, while it is yet fresh and pure as her own loving heart, to one who will know well how to prize the simple offering. A tall, thin woman, clad in widows' weeds, has just paused, to ask the price of some early fruit; the owner of which answers her question without even turning towards her, or quitting his present employment, and, in a tone of voice that said almost as plainly as his words, "Too dear for such as you!" "Why it's like eating so much gold!" exclaimed a bystander. The widow sighed, but lingered still.• "Better give the money to the poor," said the speaker again, as he turned away, while a little ragged girl who stood near, catching the import of his words, threw aside the remainder of a decayed apple which she was trying to eat, and looked up pitifully in the woman's face. But sorrow had made the poor widow selfish, and passing by the little suppliant, she entered the shop, and actually purchased a small quantity of that tempting looking fruit, which the man had truly said was like eating so much gold. Telling the person who served her, that it was for a sick child, and that it was only the night before he had been wishing for some, it being his favourite fruit, but she had not thought to be able to gratify him so soon. Whereupon the man, who had grown somewhat more civil, hoped it would do him good, and that he would get quite well as the summer came on. His mother hoped so too; but she feared also, and long after the smile had passed away from her pale face, the lingering traces of tears were still discernible. The poor widow had got almost out of sight with her purchase, when she turned back, as though impelled by a sudden and irresistible impulse, to give the change to the little ragged girl, before mentioned, and the child's grateful blessing was well worth all the money, and did her heart a world of good. There is a whole volume of poetry in this simple incident! And now we pass on at once to the subject of our little history. At the time of which we write, Mary Ashton was scarcely nineteen. No one would have imagined it, to gaze on the deep, sunken eye, and thin faded cheek, from which all traces of youth and health had almost entirely passed away. But then it was no marvel, considering how the girl toiled, sometimes as many as sixteen hours out of the four-and-twenty, and for all that was so poor that it very frequently happened she knew not exactly where the next meal was to come from. But Mary had a sweet faith of her own, that God would provide; and was wont to notice with thankfulness, that when matters seemed worst, something was sure to turn up, very often in the most strange and unexpected manner. Poor Mary! she was used to working hard; she never complained of that; the only difficulty was to find work to do. On the morning to. which we refer, she had been to take home some, the owners of which not only commended her neat sewing (for she did sew very neatly when she had time), but had given her a whole week's employment beside: and the girl, in happy mood-a very little thing made her happy-had come a full quarter of an hour's walk out of her way, in order to pass through the market, and treat herself with the sight and smell of the flowers-it was a treat to her. Suddenly she started, and paused before one in a pot, placed for sale along with several others, gazing at it like a person in a dream. Many years ago she had had one given her just like it, but it was dead now; and maybe Mary had been simple enough to imagine that there was no other in all the world. Still half doubting, she inquired its name; and the gardener, seeing that she only shook her head with a bewildered air when he mentioned the Latin, added the common English signification, in pity to her ignorance; upon hearing of which, she burst into an exclamation of joyful surprise"It was the very same!" "Do you want to buy anything, young woman?" asked the mistress of the shop, in an imperious tone, as some moments elapsed, and she still continued bending over her newly found treasure; while the idea flashed across Mary's mind for the first time, that such a luxury might indeed be hers once again. There were tears on her face when she lifted it up to inquire the price. The woman asked eighteenpence. It was a great deal of money to be sure for a flower; but then what a comfort it would be, what a sweet companion during the many long hours when she sat sewing all by herself. She should only have to work the harder, and go without her tea for a few evenings, or she would save it up in a thousand ways; and meditating thus, Mary drew out her little stock, a third of which would be consumed in the purchase, and laying down the price in silence, held out her arms for the flower. "Is it for yourself?" asked the woman, who had been attentively regarding her. "Yes, ma'am," replied Mary, timidly, and blushing as she spoke, at the thought of her own extravagance. "But what are you about? You have given me sixpence too much." "You said eighteenpence, ma'am." "A shilling-are you deaf, child? or have you so much money that you do not know what to do with it?" "No, indeed," replied Mary, taking up her sixpence with a cheerful air. After all, she was right in thinking that the old woman did not look half so cross as she spoke, it was only her manner that seemed harsh. God had given her a kind heart. Mary hurried home, feeling rich indeed. The room in which she lived, and worked, and slept, was situated on the ground floor of a small house, in an obscure and crowded part of the metropolis, and was meanly and scantily furnished. But somehow, when she had placed her treasure in a struggling gleam of sunlight on the window ledge, it seemed on a sudden to have assumed quite a gay and cheerful appearance; so much so that the girl could not help calling in one of her neighbours, who occupied the adjoining apartment with her husband and children, and worked at the shoe-trade, to admire it with her. "Ah! it's what we don't often see now," said Mrs. Brown, "and does one's heart good to look at; but would it not have been better to put by the money towards something more useful? and you do want a great many things, you know." "Yes, there is no end to my wants, I am afraid; but does it not look fresh and beau tiful?" "Very; and yet I have heard somewhere that flowers are not good in a room.” 66 I am sure I can't tell what harm they can do," replied Mary, as she drew a chair, and sitting down opposite her new purchase, began to sew very busily; and whether it was fancy or not, her work seemed to go on twice as fast as usual. Thinking of pleasant things does. make the hours speed on at a most unaccountable rate, and many a sweet reminiscence of by-gone days was connected with Mary Ashton's flower. times when she had possessed just such another, It seemed almost like a dream, those happy for that she would have forgotten when her the gift of one far away in a foreign land; but birth-day was, for she had never kept one since. How merry they were then! Mary, and her parents, and her bright-eyed, frank-hearted cousin, Tom Overton. She could remember the very songs she sang on that particular night, and him praising them; but her voice thought what the future held in store for them! Oh, they little Six months afterwards, our poor heroine was a desolate and friendless orphan. And he who loved her so truly, what could he do, boy as he was then? Nothing, but accept the offer of a distant relative, and accompany him to India, from whence he confidently expected to return in an incredibly short space of time, loaded with a portion of that fabled wealth which was to was hoarse and broken now. |