in the wall, with its heavy sash-windows, probably the first of their kind in England, was but little set off with the only attempt at ornament in the jagged border of stone, which, large and small alternating, supported the sides of the windows, and arched with a keystone over the top.

"Woe to that taste which prescribes the old-fashioned red-brick house, even though it may have nothing Elizabethan about it, which stands on a smooth English lawn of variegated flower-beds, with the word Comfort' written over its portal!

"But the instance before me was certainly an exception. Staunton Priors could boast of no such adjuncts; nor did it exhibit any such SALVE" on the architrave. The overgrown shrubs which had stretched themselves so as to usurp the space formerly allotted to the flowers, the ill-mown turf, and the straggling creepers, the weight of whose unpruned luxuriance had reft them the wall, gave an air of discomfort and melancholy to the whole abode, which a happier culture would in great measure have dispelled. Yet the house seemed in keeping with the master.

"Let me introduce you to my uncle,' said the elder Townshend; and let me introduce him—”

At this moment the chapel bell began to toll, some steps were heard shuffling along the cloister outside, and there seemed a mutual understanding that the party was to break up. The Reader rose from his chair. "You may as well allow me to finish my sentence," interrupted the speaker, in a tone which seemed to imply a doubt whether his audience had much cared to listen.

"Assuredly," answered the Reader; "I was only fearful lest you should hurry up your story to an end,

"You

or go on with a part of it while I was away." had better," suggested the Usher, "keep the conclusion of it till our next meeting." "By all means," responded the rest. The Preacher assented. There was a screaking of chairs in a retrograde movement; the Schoolmaster and Usher unhooked their caps and gowns, and the rest, assisting to their proper owners their hats and sticks, filed out into the cloister, sat benè pleased with their evening's recollections *.

[To be continued.]

THE MERCHANT'S BARK.

LAUNCH'D in pride from her sea-girt home
A gallant vessel ploughs the foam,
With fanning breeze and cloudless skies,
To the new shores of Enterprise †,
Where wealth in wild profusion smiles
Upon the far Atlantic isles.

And never on the waves before

Had merchant launch'd so rich a store;
The one last venture, doubly dear,

That crowns and closes his career.

* [Truth to tell, the Preacher had proceeded much further in his story, and the reporter had sent us several pages more of copy; but certain other articles having fallen in rather late, his tail was docked of its fair proportions by the Procrustean experiment of cutting off the extremity to square in with the prescribed limits of No. I. Therefore the steps heard outside, as the text expresses it, were mere shuffling, unless indeed it was "my uncle" cooling his heels at the door while he waited for an introduction.-N.B. I insert this in spite of the Editors, and when it will be too late for them to erase it.-PRINter's DEVIL.]

+ In Sutton's time America, recently discovered, was become the scene of commercial enterprise.

And staunch and true the gallant crew
As ever bade their land adieu;

And tight each plank, and stout each sail,
As ever dared the western gale.

But none can tell what horrors brood
Upon old Ocean's solitude;

When skill and courage cannot save
From the unconquerable wave,

At once the prison and the grave!

Time wears; and had that good ship sped, Not half those moons had idly fled,

Ere she had won in safety back

O'er the wide wave her welcome track.

Then first his friends would seem to share
The anxious merchant's load of care,
And augur'd that each wind would bring
His venture home on eagle wing.

But when all hope had ceased to be,
Then ceased, I ween, their sympathy:
They told him what they ever knew,
And from his fate a warning drew,
That fortune oft hath left undone,
When urged too far, her fav'rite son;
And maxims that friends ne'er refuse
When time has robb'd them of their use.

That merchant's soul, whate'er befell,
Nor doubt nor fear could ever quell,
But with that blow he could not cope,
For it hath crush'd his earthly hope:
Thoughts of renown and honour high
Are founder'd with his argosy.

Then rife the ready slander grew
Of former deeds as strange as true,
And darker grew the cloud of shame
Round blighted hope and ruin'd name.

And what has wealth to do with woe;
And why should grandeur stoop so low
As bid the tear of pity flow?

Contemptuous now the voice was grown That ne'er till then had changed its tone; And kinsmen heeded not the call

That bade them stay a kinsman's fall:

And he whose wealth had known no bound, But lent a grace on all around,

Whose barks had roved from pole to pole,
Far as old Ocean's waters roll,

Whose riches from each rifled scene
Had deck'd in pride the Island Queen,
And over earth's wide regions bore
The fame of Albion's distant shore,
Was now forsaken and forlorn,

For friends to blame, and foes to scorn.
Yet not all baneful was the blow
That laid his budding honours low;
It forced the grasping thoughts to rest
That oft invade the purest breast,
And seem'd as though in kindness sent
To lull his spirit to content.

Joy! joy! the long lost bark is nigh, E'en now she meets the merchant's eye; With wealth beyond hope's wildest dream, With gems that mock the ruby's beam, With stones on Cuba's breast that glow, And the rich ores of Mexico;

Treasure, that commerce ne'er till then
Had open'd to the sight of men.
Yet old experience had taught

That greatness is with danger fraught;
Though fortune now was fair to view,
Her gifts were transitory too;
And age he knew was scant of aid
Whene'er by adverse fate betray'd;
And youth uncultured cannot 'scape
Deceit and folly's varied shape.

Then by the consecrated cell*,
Where cloister'd study loved to dwell,
He rear'd the mansion of repose,

Where busy life's last scene should close;
Where purer faith than theirs of yore
Should shed on youth its healthful lore,
And knowledge pour its golden rays
To cheer and glad the world's dark ways;
Content to win his glorious aim,

And heedless of the voice of fame,
To virtue consecrate his name.

CHRYSANTHEMUMS.

"Consider the lilies of the field."

"There's not a flower but bears its moral sculpt

By Nature's graver."

Love's Lily.

WHAT quaint flowers are Chrysanthemums! (A pedant would call them Chrysanthema.) They are the old maids of the garden, still wearing their summer clothes, when all their neighbours are in drabs and browns. They have fallen from the last generation into a new one, but must needs dress in the embroidery and tambour-work of the past age. How their prim, staid, body-colours contrast with that poor, pale, frost-bitten rosebud, that has in vain endeavoured to break out in rivalry, but is cankered at the core; the leaves of its calyx are curled back and yellowy, and it has burst itself in its effort! How contemptuously they wave their heads when the biting wind sweeps along the border! Pink, and buff, and yellow, how gaily they toss them

Charterhouse, corrupted from Chartreux, was formerly a mo

nastery.