direction in which all life and motion proceeds upon earth. This great movement, no doubt as old as the globe itself, and yet the last known to man, is still going on; and whilst history furnishes us with a vast number of well-authenticated facts, the present day verifies and substantiates them more and more clearly. All good things, it has been truly said, come from the Orient.

Plants also seem to have their common home in the East, from whence they have travelled and scattered in all directions, far and wide. We mean not to speak here of the first epoch in the history of the earth, when islands rose out of a vast chaotic ocean, covered with plants which thence spread over the globe, wandering from the equator to the poles, and from high mountains to humble valleys. We speak not of the days when palm-trees and ferns were buried under the eternal snows of northern seas. Of those grand movements we have as yet too little positive knowledge. But we can follow, in comparatively modern times, the migrations of some plants, step by step, and we always see them travel from the rising towards the setting sun. Coffee and tea, sugar and cotton, bananas and spice, all were first known in the far East, and have, from thence, slowly followed the apparent light to the West. Alexander the Great brought from his expeditions the broad bean and the cucumber to Greece, and flax and hcmp are of Indian birth.

HOW MAY WAS FIRST MADE.

As Spring upon a silver cloud

Lay looking on the world below, Watching the breezes as they bow'd

The buds and blossoms to and fro,

She saw the fields with hawthorn wall'd;
Said Spring, 'New buds I will create.'
She to a flower-spirit call'd,

Who on the month of May did wait,
And bade her fetch a hawthorn spray,
That she might make the buds of May.

Said Spring, "The grass looks green and bright;
The hawthorn hedges, too, are green;
I'll sprinkle them with flowers of light,
Such stars as earth hath never seen;
And all through England's girded vales,
Her steep hill-sides, and haunted streams,
Where woodlands dip into the dales,

Where'er the hawthorn stands and dreams,
Where thick-leaved trees make dark the day;
I'll light each nook with flowers of May.
Like pearly dewdrops, white and round,
The shut-up buds shall first appear,
And in them be such fragrance found
As breeze before did never bear-
Such as in Eden only dwelt,

When angels hover'd round its bowers,

And long-hair'd Eve at morning knelt
In innocence amid the flowers;
While the whole air was every way

Fill'd with a perfume sweet as May.

And oft shall groups of children come,
From many a peaceful English home,
Threading their way through shady places,

The sunshine falling on their faces;
Starting with merry voice the thrush,

As through green lanes they wander singing, To gather the sweet hawthorn-bush,

Which homeward in the evening bringing, With smiling faces, they shall say, "There's nothing half so sweet as May !"'

BARROW AND ROCHESTER. The celebrated Lord Rochester one day met Dr Barrow in the Park, and, being determined, as he said, to put down the rusty piece of divinity, accosted him by taking off his hat, and, with a profound bow, exclaimed, 'Doctor, I am yours to my shoe-tie.' The doctor, perceiving his aim, returned the salute with equal ceremony: 'My lord, I am yours to the ground.' His lordship then made a deeper congee, and said, 'Doctor, I am yours to the centre.' Barrow replied, with the same formality, 'My lord, I am yours to the antipodes;' on which Rochester made another attempt, by exclaiming,, 'Doctor, I am yours to the lowest pit of hell.'-'There, my lord,' said Barrow, 'I leave you;' and immediately walked away.

THE OTHER WIFE.

Mrs Elton was a very remarkable woman. She had a faculty of making everybody lose their tempers, while she kept her own; she ruled her family with unlimited sway; kept a sharp eye upon her daughter Grace; worked a little, visited a little, read a little, and talked a great deal. She was withal a decided man-hater. Whoever proved rash enough to bestow a glance upon the pretty daughter, was directly nearly annihilated by a terrible look from the watchful mamma. So terrible, that twenty smiles from the young lady could hardly compensate for it.

Grace was very pretty-so said every one who had seen her face-so thought many who had only heard her voice in the psalm on Sunday; and when she was eighteen, her dear mamma groaned in her secret soul, that she should be the mother of so bewitching a creature. Her papa began to grow fidgety. It was time for his sweet flower to unfold to leaves, he thought: but how venture to propose to mamma to send forth her beautiful child to be spoiled in the wicked world? Mr Elton meditated long upon a subject which lay near his heart. At last, even as a cat pounces upon the mouse, which it has been long marking for its own, so Mr Elton pounced upon the matter in question.

'My dear, I shall bring home with me a young man whom I am determined shall marry Grace.'

'My dear,' replied Mrs Elton, colouring slightly, from the surprise caused by the sudden flash of spirit in her meek husband, he shall not see her.'

Mr Elton gave up quietly. He had watched his mouse in vain.

Grace was fortunately a very quiet sort of a girl. She loved papa and mamma, her books and her flowers. Moreover, she loved her pretty friend Mary, and, for aught I know, might have fallen in love with the only man of her acquaintance, Mary's tall brother, had it not been for a great pair of eyes of a fiery colour, stealIng out from under a mass of stiff hair of the same fiery hue. Mrs Elton was not afraid of Daniel Hartly. To be sure he had even hinted that if she were a little taller, had a little more colour, and wore prettier bonnets, he might condescend to take pity upon her forlorn state; but Mrs Elton feared him not.

Mamma was convinced that Grace

would never fall in love with any one, until the proper moment when she should desire her to do so. And to tell the truth, Grace would as soon have thought of stopping to admire the very stones by the wayside as the young men whom she met everywhere. Great, therefore, was Mrs Elton's astonishment, when, one morning at church, she detected her daughter's eyes in the very act of gazing in another direction than the pulpit, and a pair of doubtful hue returning the compliment! Her movement of surprise called poor Grace to her senses. She turned seriously to the preacher, resolved not to move her eyes from his face again through the morning. Yet, when her mamma, a few moments after, glanced at her face to see that all was right, the blue eyes were absolutely directed towards another part of the church. The look of indignation which Mrs Elton thought proper to assume, was not lost upon Grace. She did not again venture to lift her eyes from the glove which she had been pulling to pieces. Jerk the first-off came the button; jerk the second-a great rent through the length of the glove; jerk the third-a finger amputated.

'Mercy on me! What is the child. about?' mentally ejaculated Mrs Elton, as she rapped the knuckles of the offender with her fan—'a bran new pair of gloves!'

Grace felt that her mamma was displeased with her, but she tried to persuade herself that it was on account of the gloves. 'I'm sure I've done nothing else,' said she to herself again and again

yet somehow she anticipated a lecture, and trembled at the thought.

The next evening, Mr Elton, with_his wife on one arm, and Grace on the other, set off upon their usual walk. The re-. tired lane to which they bent their steps was a favourite of Mrs Elton's, because nobody else ever thought of setting foot there. Grace liked it because mamma never ordered her to draw her thick green veil over her face while there; and Mrs Elton was satisfied, because there was nothing in it to call for especial like or absolute disgust.

In the midst of this green lane there was an old house, and on the gardengate there sat a man, busily engaged in drawing. On hearing footsteps, why should not he turn? and on seeing pretty Grace, why should he not look pleased? and when thus looked upon by a handsome young man, why should not Grace blush?

snatching a well-worn volume from the shelf, sat down to the twenty-sixth reading. The poems were never half so beautiful before-she was sure of that--but somehow she could not help feeling a little uneasy sensation, as she gathered from certain odd lines that the poet certainly loved somebody with all his heart. Who could it be? What a happy creature his sister

The next night Mrs Elton debated whether it would be expedient to go where he of the eyes might also choose to wander; but at last, concluding that no one save herself would take so dismal a walk more than once, she entered it without reluctance. There sat the young man upon the post, and again his eyes met those of Grace. 'I'll never set foot here again,' secretly vowed Mrs Elton.

The next evening Grace came down more becomingly attired than usual. She had evidently been enjoying a private interview with her dressing-glass-perhaps it had said to her, 'My love, you look prettily in your last new dress,' but I can't positively assert that it had said anything.

'Shall we walk to-night, mamma?'

'No.' And Grace ran back to her room, and fastened her door. Presently she heard her mother's voice, and flew to unlock it.

'Why was your door fastened, Grace?' 'For nothing in particular, mamma.' 'Nothing in particular! People do not fasten their doors for nothing,' said Mrs Elton, looking suspiciously at Grace. At this moment she started suddenly, and closed the blind with no gentle hand. Grace started, too, and had time to see that the young stranger was in the street.

'Grace! don't let me find your blinds open again for a month,' cried mamma.

'My love,' said her father, one night at tea, 'do you remember that we saw a gentleman sitting upon the gate of the old house in the lane, a few nights ago?' 'Yes, papa,' answered Grace, colouring in spite of herself.

་

Well, I have found out to-day that he is the author of those poems which you admire so much. His name is Lawrence Norton.'

she saw the poet at church. When she felt quite sure that he did not know it, she looked at him because he was a poet. Certainly he had a fine intellectual head and face; and his eyes were so dark and expressive! But then it was not right to have such thoughts on a Sunday, so Grace ordered all vain and foolish ones to depart from her mind.

One evening, as they sat together at tea, Mr Elton said to his wife, 'My dear, do you remember your old friend Lucy Lawrence?'

'Oh yes! but it is many years since I have seen her. She married-who was it? -odd that I can't remember.'

'There is a son of hers in town, and as I knew you would like to see him, I invited him to spend an evening with us. His name is Lawrence Norton-the same of whom I spoke to you, Grace.'

Well,' said Mrs Elton-but her countenance expressed anything but pleasure. She seemed absorbed in thought several minutes; at last, suddenly starting, she addressed Grace. 'My dear, I quite forgot to tell you that your friend Mary is not well, and I think you had better go this evening and see her.'

'What if he should come while I am gone,' thought Grace; and she thought it expedient to drink half a cup of scalding tea.

་

Why, what's the matter with the child?' cried Mrs Elton, seeing her eyes full of tears.

'The tea is so hot, mamma!'

'Hardly worth crying about, however.' Grace set off on her visit to Mary. On her return home she danced into the parlour singing-what do you think she was singing?-one of Lawrence Norton's songs |—and who should be there but the poet himself, and probably he knew that those words were his own. How should Grace recover from the confusion into which she had thus danced! It was rather late, and she knew that he must stay only a few minutes longer. The few minutes, however, were well improved by the young

man, for he lost no time in getting acquainted with the beautiful one who had | sung his song. It was natural enough that Grace should be pleased when she heard him invited by papa to come again-it was right for the young poet to be glad to come again.

Grace could think of nothing else for a whole week. She read his poems, she could not help hoping she should meet him if she walked out-she ran to the window many times a-day when some tall personage was passing. How delightful it will be,' thought she, 'to hear him talk a whole evening! I hope he will not send mamma word when he is coming again! If he does, wo be unto me-I shall be sent away.' ,

Strange to tell, the poet did take pains to let Mrs Elton know that he was about to honour her with his company again. Grace was directly desired to spend the evening with her friend Mary.

'How provoking,' she thought. 'Why am I sent out of the house in this style every time any one comes into it?' Grace was not in a very good humour. She walked slowly along the street, with her eyes cast to the ground-vexed with herself, because she couldn't help thinking of Mr Norton-and vexed with her mamma, for denying her his delightful society.

However,' thought she, 'I have always admired him ever since I have seen his poems, and there's no harm in thinking of a poet.' At this moment her foot caught itself in a string which lay tangled in her path: to save herself from falling, she caught at the nearest post, which post proved to be no other than Lawrence Norton! In her haste to release the astonished poet from her embraces, she fell, and the young gentleman imagining that she had fainted, took her unceremoniously in his arins, and carried her into the house that seemed nearest. Great was his mortification when he found that the lady had not fainted; and if he might judge from the colour of her face at the moment, had no thought of doing so. It was happily the home of kind Mary Hartly, and she had a faculty of making everybody at ease in her presence. It was soon ascertained that Miss Grace had sprained her ankle, and that her walking home was out of the question. Mary was very sorry; but neither papa nor brother was at home, so Lawrence Norton went off very cheerfully for a carriage. Grace was assisted to creep into it by the poet

he could not do less than accompany her, and in a few minutes the gentle, uncomplaining girl was lying comfortably upon the sofa at home, with papa, mamma, and Lawrence Norton around her. What could mamma do? Could she send the young man out of the house? Could she forbid his looking extremely handsome? Could she order him to become tedious, commonplace, 'prosy dosy' in his conversation?

The next day, however, Mrs Elton took good care to confine Grace to her own room. 'It will never do,' said she, 'for you to stay down-stairs, where we are constantly in danger of having visiters.' Moreover, the dear mamma, anxious to ascertain, if possible, the state of her daughter's heart, began to talk of Lawrence Norton. But how should she discover that which Grace knew not herself? A serious address on the evils of falling in love followed this examination, and so deep was the interest of the subject, that Mrs Elton did not perceive the approach of the dinner hour, nor the well-known ring of her husband. At last a forcible entrance was made into the room by the dear little man himself.

'Why, what's the matter?' cried he; here I've been waiting for dinner this half-hour-dinner growing colder and colder, and I hotter and hotter. Then I come and knock at your door till my knuckles are black and blue-no answer; call till my lungs are sore-no answer; and now I should like to know the meaning of all this.' By this time Mr Elton's wrath had evaporated, and he threw himself into a chair, and burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, when the astonished mamma made known to him the subject of her morning's lecture.

'And all because you fancy that poor Grace may be smitten with the perfections of Lawrence Norton, or the poet with hers! Did I not tell you, my dear, that the man has a wife? and Mr Elton ran down to the parlour.

Mrs Elton followed her husband, and Grace, with the blood rushing away from cheek and lip, threw herself back upon her pillow in an agony of contending emotions. She had learned that of her heart, which is not often easily taughtwhy should she not with wonder and with shame own to herself that she loved? Poor Grace! How her mamma wondered at the feverish flush of her cheek, as she returned to her side-how she instantly sent for Dr Morton, and how anxiously

she watched his face as he sat by the pillow of his patient! The doctor was a wise as well as a good man. He did not attempt to administer a dose to the sick heart, but simply recommending quiet in a significant tone, he withdrew. Alas! to what quiet was Grace now condemned? The servants went about with listed slippers; papa was obliged to part with his boots the moment he entered the house -and the really kind mamma flitted noiselessly about like a spirit. At last Grace contrived to convince her papa that she should die if imprisoned in this room in profound stillness; so, while Mrs Elton had gone down to scold a servant for slamming a door, Mr Elton took Grace in his arms, and safely bore her to the sofa in the parlour. When Mrs Elton entered the room, there lay the poor invalid, with a brighter colour in her check than had been seen there for a week. She was decidedly better. What had papa whispered in her ear when her head lay on his shoulder in the way down-stairs? Oh, he only told her that Mr Lawrence Norton had been there every day to ask respecting her that he thought him a fine fellow-that he wished he had a son exactly like him. That evening he came again. Why should not Mrs Elton receive him graciously? was he not a married man? Why should not Grace frankly acknowledge that she was very glad to see him again? Why should he not stay as late as he chose, and be urged to come as often as he liked? Delightful married man! Grace had never liked anybody half so well; and she could not help thinking that nobody had ever thought so well of her. As he was taking leave, Mrs Elton smilingly asked if his wife were in town.

'My wife, madam!' cried the poet, looking as surprised as if he had never heard of such a thing before. 'Oh, ah-I understand-she is in town;' and Lawrence Norton looked at Mr Elton half laughing, and added, 'I did not know that I had told you about my wife, or at least I had forgotten her for the moment.'

'Well!' cried Mrs Elton, the moment Je had taken leave, 'a fine husband, truly! Really he looked as much astonished as if I had asked the most ridiculous question in the world! But all men are alike, I believe. So you see, Grace, what you may expect if you are ever married.'

I don't want to be married,' said Grace.

'That's a good girl; and now we'll have you up-stairs and to bed. Poor child! you must be sadly tired! That man has asked you so many questions, and made you talk so much! I could see that you wished him out of the house all the time!'

What could Grace say? She satisfied her conscience with a faint 'Oh no, indeed,' which her mamma did not hear.

The poet came so often, that Mrs Elton began to get out of patience. 'He comes at all sorts of odd hours,' said she, 'and what vexes me is, that he never mentions his wife, never asks us to go to see her, never brings her to see us. Poor thing! how much she is left alone!'

'My dear,' answered Mr Elton, seriously, 'I could give you a hint of something;' and he glanced significantly at Grace.

'Oh, I see now,' said Mrs Elton to herself. Why didn't I think of it sooner? Of course it's not odd that she is not to be seen.'

It became quite evident that the young gentleman 'had something upon his mind,' as the phrase is. Once or twice, when Grace had been alone with him for a minute, he had begun to say something which had never been finished. Grace wondered what it could be. One morning papa insisted upon taking her out for a ride. It was a fine day, and there was nothing to prevent-yet Grace seemed somewhat reluctant. She was thinking how the poet might come during her absence. Papa, however, would not allow her to decide for herself, and they set off. Presently they saw Lawrence Norton coming down the street. 'He's going to our house, I daresay,' thought Grace. Papa must needs get out of the chaise to speak to the young man. In a few minutes he returned-declared that he had business that required attentionthat Norton had nothing to do, and would like to take his place, if Grace were willing. Why should she not be willing? The poet, in a happy mood, exerted himself to entertain his companion, and the ride proved a delightful one.

At last there came a pause in the conversation. All pauses are awkward, and rather than say nothing, Grace said something about Mrs Norton.

'You refer to my mother, I presume?' said he.

་

'Oh no-to-to-you mentioned your wife some weeks ago, I think.'

'My wife! oh-I remember. Is it pos