beheld the being who has inspired me with the presumptuous desire to swell the list of contemporaries, who, with their trembling, withered fingers, take up the pen to recall some young life into being-to raise up the shadow of some sweet flower whose crumbling relics are so fondly treasured in their memory. Yes, Aline! you too shall take your place amidst "the old man's darlings," shall have your story written, shall speak to the hearts still open to the kindly sympathies of our nature, and crave your meed of love, interest, and pity.

I sat then that summer's evening at my window, looking into the little garden which lay behind the house I occupied. occupied. I had but

risen that day from a bed of sickness, to which I had been confined during the latter part of the week.

The air in this quarter, more free from the smoke of the metropolis, seemed this evening balmy and refreshing to my languid senses, the

flowers grateful and pleasing to my eye.

I love flowers, and not only for their scent

and beauty.

"They bring me tales of youth, and tones of love," and remind me of all that is fresh, pure, innocent, and healthful.

I need not the "violet 'neath its mossy stone," "the primrose stars in the shadowy grass," to awaken romantic, fresh and pleasing associations; the scent, even of the parched wallflower, adorning the mechanics' bits of garden ground in the crowded outskirts; the pale mignionette, from its confined tenement on the sill of some humble window, has often caused me to pause, and feel such enchantment, as did Wordsworth's poor Susan, when in the silence of morning, she passes the corner of Wood Street, and hears the loud song of the thrush.

"She looks-and her heart is in heaven, but they fade,

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes."

It is the most familiar, home-bred Eng

lish flowers, that I love the best, which wake up pleasant memories of old friends, old scenes, old delights-whilst, I know not how it is, the languid, voluptuous odours of the exotics exert over my heart, in its weak, morbid moods, a very contrary influence, of pining memories, vain regrets, and restless longings. But to return to my window,-I felt almost irritated that the fresh scent of roses, carnations, sweet briar, and other such like favourites, appropriately adorning my landlady's neat little plot, should be eclipsed by the richer, heavier incense, exhaled upon the evening air, by some choice hot-house plants, ranged on a stand at the entrance of the garden of the neighbouring house.

"Who lodges next door?" I enquired of a servant-maid, who brought me in a paper which I had sent for to beguile the evening.

Signor Angelo," she answered; "the great singer at the opera ;" and the woman looked as proud as if she had announced our proxi

mity to the divine Michael Angelo or Michael the archangel himself, whilst I turned away in wrath and proportionate discontent, for I had a true John Bull's prejudice against foreigners; and an especial grudge against that class who annually monopolize so large a portion of British wealth, interest and patronage, to the prejudice of national merit, industry, and talent.

I turned away, looking upon the perfumed intruders of the garden with small increase of favour.

"And these are the Signor Angelo's flowers, I suppose?" was my enquiry.

"Yes, sir, they are come from Knight's Gardens, for the signor's lady."

"The signor's lady? hum! and is she a singer too?"

"No, sir, they say not; she lives very quiet here and does not go to the opera with the signor. But then she has only lodged here some six weeks, and in that time has been con

fined, and is but only just about again. You'll see her, mayhap, in the garden, sir; she has come out these two or three evenings for a bit, to look at her flowers, and breathe the air."

My informer then departed, leaving me to the perusal of my paper, and the expectation of this promised gratification, a sight of the fierce-eyed, dark-haired signora, I had in a moment imaged to myself as the Italian's lady-handsome and bold, a style of woman I abhor, and to crown all, essentially foreign.

It was then, just as I had completed this portrait in my fancy, that you, Aline, appeared before me.

Fairest, purest, sweetest of English flowers, how had I maligned you!

Gentleness, delicacy, modesty, all that I love most in woman, seemed before my view, in the person of that tender, graceful girl, who, in her white dress, a shawl thrown over her person, stepped forward into the garden.

Before I saw her face, I felt fully persuaded