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beneath. I loved to go there at high tide, and watch the waves best ing and tumbling, and the sea-weed floating fringe-like from the frete! stone below, and in the wildest storms they told me the salt som actually dashed right upon the mossy stone terrace, that was favourite promenade in all that large and half-neglected garden!

Several years ago, being in Easthambury, I went to look once na on the house and garden of Abbeylands. I wanted to see the ci terrace, and one walk in particular, where in spring time the apple blossoms met overhead : I wanted to stand again in the large dining room and in the pleasant sunny library- for all those places were me hallowed ground! No crusader of old ever approached the bar city with greater reverence than I re-visited Abbeylands,-it to me a grave, an altar, the shrine of memories most precious ani inextinguishable.

In the glorious May evening I set out on my journey alone, fal needed no companionsbip, and indeed wished for none. I came dor: to the noisy, busy quay. I crossed the river, and landed once more at the ferry, as in olden time. But the ferry-house was strangely altered and every step I took showed me the lapse of years that had inte vened since the days when those streets and lanes were to me family ground. On I went as in a dream, confused and surprised; for tà ancient landmarks had all disappeared, and I could scarcely find a way, direct as it was, and well as I remembered it. Where was tā old house? Where the green field at the side ?

There was the river, and there were the ruins of the Abbey, there was the church, and some very peculiar trees, that I recognised on the instant; but the house in which I had lived with the Misa Capel, the garden where I had roamed and mused, and listened to the river's swell, and wished, like the loiterer on “ The Bridge,"

“That the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom, O'er the ocean wild and wide:"

Where were they indeed? At last I found in a high wall, a la strong gate standing open : I looked in, and there was a portion the house, -only a portion,-yet standing ; but the dining-room turned into a counting-house and a private office; and the garden swept away bodily; for dock-basins were in process of formatica where once I had felt the apple-blossoms fluttering about me in the never-to-be forgotten May evenings, that I shall tell you about sently: and on the very spot where the poor peacock had loved trail his sweeping plumes, men were hard at work on ironsteamers !

Alas! alas ! how rime hurries us all on : how change and deca eal over that which we could cherish intact and unaltered for ever! ut the world goes on, and from its changes i; born progress; and om the ruins of that which one generation mourns rises up the ately edifice, in which men of a later day glorify themselves, and iile with complacent sense of superiority at the weak and childish stes and tendencies of the century that is past. I suppose Tennyson was right when he said that it was –

“Better, men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze, like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!"

ren he wrote

“Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

But all this has nothing to do with the Abbeylands of my youth. It s quiet enough then. The steam ferry boats came near sometimes, I the stately ship giided up and down the broad river when the tide ; at the full; but we heard little of the din and "confusion of great busy world across the sparkling, heaving waters; we heard y the murmur of the waves on the weed-fringed rocks, the rustling the trees, the moaning of the winds in the damp ruined cloisters d by, and sometimes the peaceful music of church bells, coming to oftly and pleasantly across the river. The autumn faded around us very slowly, and very fairly. I gave h time to my literary labours, and was quietly, comfortably happy.

distress of mind that had hung upon me like a heavy cloud had d away-I knew not whither, and a great peace filled my heart, 1 as I had never known before. I cared more for Clement in his nce than I had ever cared for him when present. I did not wait urously for the day of his return; but I was glad to think, as time away, that very soon I should see him again. I made my prepara

tranquilly, but thought little about my marriage ; yet I was ent, quite content, that things should be as they were. h! little, little did I dream what was awaiting me! Little thought that which even then was slowly, quietly on its way! I rejoiced e present calm, and it was well : a little longer, and I was tossed wilder and more perilous sea than any I had yet encountered. fated Abbeylands ! swept away by the ruthless hand of progress, lways the same to me!-always, always, in watches of the night, ay-dreams of the noon, in solemn retrospections of that eventful d of my life, the same dim, grey, peaceful, thrice-hallowed ylands, as of yore! me, the old secluded Abbeylands is the reality, and the “Abbey

lands Dock and Steam Ship Company's Offices" are only grim myths of a disordered fancy. In the imperishable records of a most faites memory the old plan still lives, unchanged, untouched, unforgotte even in its lightest and smallest details; the place where came to me my life's crowning bliss and its mightiest sorrow!- the place so dear, so sacred, so mingled with all that seems now a part of myself, that it associations are with me still, and will never leave me, till the powers of remembrance fade away in the hush of life's latest hour.

(To be continued.)

A TRAVELLER on a dusty road

Strew'd acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,

And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,

To breathe its early vows,
And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,

To bask beneath its boughs.
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,

The birds sweet music bore
It stood a glory in its place,

A blessing evermore,
A little spring had lost its way

Amid the grass and fern-
A passing stranger scoop'd a well

Where weary men might turn.
He wall'd it in, and hang with care

A ladle on the brink,
He thought not of the deed he did,

But judged that toil might drink.
He passed again, and lo! the well,

By summer never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues,

And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid the crowd,

That throng'd the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love,

Unstudied, from the heart.
A whisper on the tumult thrown,

A transitory breath,
It raised a brother from the dust,

It saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount. 0 word of love !

o thought at random cast ! Ye were but little at the first,

But mighty at the last.

I've something I want to tell you, mother,

of a dream I had last night;
I can never agaiu forget it, mother,

It was so wondrous bright.
I dreamt that an angel took me, mother,

Up some long winding stairs;
I felt frightened at first, dear mother,

But his kind voice quelled my fears.
He bade me hold his hand, mother,

And promised I should not fall; So on and on we went, motber,

Till the earth looked like a bail. He smiled so kindly on me, mother,

And told me I should see The place Our Saviour came from, mothe,

To set His people free!
And when we had reached the top, mother,

It was such a dazzling sight,
I was forced to shut my eyes, nother,

I could not bear the light.
I saw our little Mary, mother,

Among the angel throng, i
I can hear her voice e'en now, mother,

Joining in that glad song.
She sent a message to you, mother-

That she's waiting for you to go; She says, in that glorious place, mother,

There's no more pain or woe! Dear father, too, is there, mother,

Dressed in a robe of white,
With a golden harp in his hand, mother-

He looked so strangely bright.
I awoke; and I cried at first, mother,

To find it was but a dream;
I was so happy there, mother

Happier than e'er I have been.
But why do you weep, dear mother?

Hark! what is that I hear!
Father's dear voice is calling, mother-

He tells me not to fear;
Then good-bye, darling mother

Oh! cannot you, too, come!
I'm going; yes, going again, mother,

To that bright and starry home .**

A BOY, of some seven summers,
Lay watching the sunset red:
His hours on earth seemed numbered,

When he called to his mother, and said “Come and sit down beside me, mother

Yes! close to my pillow, so-
I want to feel your hand, dear mother,

While the shadows come and go.

The day broke in all its glory,
On this earth the bright sun smil'd.
But it found the mother still watching

By the corpse of her last-left chill

bright as though it had been but just W TO MAKE A HERBARIUM.

dried. White flowers are too apt to fade long the many interesting studies into a dirty brown, though, in some cases, h are open to our notice, there is not they seem easy of preservation. Blue vhich is' more easily acquired than flowers are also liable to the same disof Botany. This science, the im colouration, particularly when they are nce of which is now generally ad- of light tint; and red will probably d, is not only useful and interesting, become brown or, at best, purple. The lso ornamental; for a collection of best preventive against this discolouration Iried plants is always a pleasing is extreme carefulness in the handling t. The simplest way in which a of the blossoms ; indeed, they should arium (or hortus siccus) may be scarcely be touched; and such as appear d is briefly as follows :- Take the in the least bruised must be at once to be dried, and spread it out in its rejected. Do not leave your plants too al position on a sheet of blotting or long in the drying-paper, or they will g paper; then place upon it two or become brown; but, on the other hand, more sheets of the paper, and put do not take them out too soon, or they large flat-irons, or any other heavy will shrivel. The fern tribe I have found ,, on the top. In a few hours you to be very easy of preservation; if carecarefully remove the weights and fully arranged their beauty, when dried, pper blotting paper, when you will | is scarcely inferior to that of their growour plant pressed flat, in all pro- ing state. In drying a plant all parts, sy, however, some of the leaves will from the root upwards, should be taken, become bent; if such be the case, if possible; nothing is more ridiculous the best time for carefully smooth and absurd than to see a Herbarium em out. In some plants this simple consisting only of detached leaves and ion requires the greatest care and blossoms. y of handling, as in the adoxa itellina, or common moschatell, the e leaves of which roll up and

THE DEPARTURE OF THE BRIDE. e useless if carelessly touched. The beauteous bride comes forth; adown the stair your plant is thus spread out, you stands back enraptured, gazing on the fair

She sweeps in lustrous beauty; and the guest ace some dry blotting paper upon With flushing cheeks and brow with garlands before, and replace the weights. dress'd. e or four days your specimen

will on. lovely heart! which many sued to wear,

But all in vain. Upon a stranger's breast roughly dry, and may then be Her head lies pillowed. Laggards ! did on paper, or in a book kept for To let a stranger crop that lily fair ? rpose. This may be done in three

He comes with gracious manly bearing, 1. By cutting slits in the paper Aud hath, in truth, a noble port | insertion of the plant; 2. By

And flashing eyes; 'a man, in short,'

Maiden would not leave despairing, ng slips of paper over the stems,

However bluntly he might court. By gumming the specimen all

How pale and wan she looks! Yet, oh! how fair nd then fixing it to the paper. Her marble forehead, and her breast slow heaving, vantage gained by employing the Her eyelids drooping, while the ambient air o of these means is, that the speci- Causes her cheek to flush while leaving in easily be removed, if occasion Her home and kindred. Oh! who

would dare

To cherish this strange passion when such require; while the third prevents grieving pping off of various fragments of Attends its consummation, and the tear-drops dim ats so fixed. A very great diffi. The happy hour which yields her all to him.

the preservation of specimens is Oh! fold her gently to thy breast, n the retention of their different

For how much hath she left for thee?

Be all to her! by thee caressed, Yellow flowers, as a rule, are Float down life's valley pleasantly. to keep their colour very well. I and now, farewell! The chariot on doth glide,

dried buttercup, gathered five Aud Lauderdale hath lost its sweetest bride. nce, the yellow of which is as


yon dare

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