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must be cheerful; second, roomy; third, warm and wholesome. A good supply of water is essential; and a bit of garden ground attached to it, in the country, is a great blessing to a poor man. Mr. Stevenson, in his little book, gives many designs for such cottages, which we should like to see generally adopted. They are not picturesque, so much as comfortable and wholesome, and that is, after all, the grand desideratum.

The Tea Manufacture.

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THERE are two kinds of green tea, glazed and unglazed. The former is coloured with a mixture of Prussian blue and gypsum. It is so manufactured by the Chinese to suit the capricious taste of foreign buyers, who judge of an article used as drink by the eye instead of the palate. The China manufacturer has to give his article such a face as will suit our buyers' fancy. Both the black and the green teas in common use are obtained from the same plant,— the Thea Bohea,--their difference depending altogether on the manner in which they are prepared and dried. The green tea, which in some constitutions is so apt to produce nervous irritability and sleeplessness, is the leaf carefully dried,—its glazing being a matter of manufacture to suit the market. The black tea, on the other hand, is subjected to heating and a kind of fermentation, accompanied with oxidation by exposure to the air, during which process, much of the essential oil or other active principle which characterizes the green tea, becomes dissipated, or, at least, greatly diminished in amount. The same results are observed in the drying of ordinary medicinal herbs in this country, by different methods. In the preparation of black teas, the leaves are always allowed to remain exposed to the air in mass, before being roasted. During this exposure, they undergo a process of spontaneous heating, or slow fermentation, until a certain degree of fragrance is developed. The leaves are said to wither and give, and they become soft and flaccid. Great skill and experience are required to conduct these operations nicely, and when the proper point is arrived at, the leaves are immediately removed to the roasting pan. After being roasted and rolled two or three times, they are placed in a cylinder of basket-work, open at both ends, to dry over a small charcoal fire. The cylinder is so arranged that a stream of heated air passes through the leaves, and by this means the watery vapours are finally expelled. It is during this process that the leaves assume their black colour; afterwards they are rolled, twisted, and sifted carefully. In drying and roasting green tea, the freshly-picked leaves are roasted at once without delay, and without any exposure or fermentation; and hence the sole cause of difference between the two kinds of tea. This important necessary of life is often sold in an adulterated state. There is a smallsized tea of the gunpowder kind which is very much adulterated with scented caper. This manufacture has been extensively carried on at Manchester; it leaves a profit to the adulterator of about one shilling a pound, which is a strong inducement to the commission of the fraud. Some of the bright green teas are manufactured by covering inferior kinds of tea with Prussian blue, turmeric, and sulphate of lime. And black teas are, in like manner, extensively manufactured by coating inferior leaves with blacklead. Sand and dirt are often detached in considerable quantities from such leaves, after they have been infused in hot water, as much as 35 in 100 parts. Many of these teas consist of tea dust held together by gum; and they have no leaves to uncurl. There are also adulterations of unglazed tea, very cun

ningly got up, and some of them have been found to contain as much as 34 per cent. of ash, sand, and dirt. Of these adulterated teas, it has been ascertained (as the Edinburgh Philosophical Journal informs us) that 750,000 lbs. have been imported into England during the last eighteen months! and the attempt has been made to get them passed through the Custom-house as "manufactured goods." The Chinese, however, sell them as teas, but they honestly call them "lie teas," a name which they well deserve; the Chinese merchant manufacturing them to meet the price offered by the English merchant. The black is called by the Chinese "lie flower caper," and the green "lie gunpowder." The tea-brokers of this country designate them by the names of "gum" and "dust" teas.

OUR MUSICAL CORNER.

WE were sitting lately in our snuggery one evening, gossiping away the hours with two eminent musicians, who seemed to think our enthusiastic insanity on certain matters of melody a very agreeable symptom of aberration. We mixed up a strange medley of composers and compositions in our desultory talk. The "Fugue in G,' ""Sebastian Bach," "Lucy Neal," "Handel," "Love not," "John Blockley," "Battle Symphony, "Beethoven,' "The Creation," and "The Light of Other Days," were all jostled together in the oddest manner imaginable.

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We ran up and down the gamut of great names with all the rapid ease of John Parry's "Indefatigable Young Lady," -from Jubal of ancient celebrity, to Jullien of modern notoriety; we touched all "instruments of sweet sound," from the first Conch Shell to the last " Sommerophone"-Madrigals and Marches, Glees and Gregorian Chants, National Anthems and Nigger Songs, Bishop's Glees and Balfe's Solos, Mozart's everything and Meyerbeer's somethings, were treated of with vigorous discussion. We had just jumped from one of Mendelssohn's glories, to express our unlimited admiration of Shield's genius, and half lamenting that we were not born in the days of "Inkle and Yarico," and Rosina," when one of our guests rather startled us by exclaiming, "I say, why don't you have a Musical Corner in your Journal? You ought," and forthwith our qualifications were detailed, and we were installed into the high and responsible office of "critic" at once. It was decided that we should give our honest opinion of the new music that might come in our way. So, when our friends were gone, we seriously sat down and inquired how we stood as to the said qualifications. "We ought to be very musical, certainly, said we, if tools make the artizan," as we counted up the number of instruments in our domicile :-two pianos, a flute, two violins, two flageolets, and an accordion, are within reach, and we are sure of the existence of a very tolerable drum-if such a thing can be tolerable in private life; a triangle-with a slight twist in its Euclidian arrangement; a venerable double-bass, and a most brazen cornet-a-piston in some of the remote cupboards of the establishment. Then we have a detestably fine ear, that can pick out a false fiddle in one of Costa's grandest "crashes;" then we can 'play a little "as people generally do chess-only, we confess, that in some of the "florid" passages, where the fall of an avalanche, or an electric telegraph message is intended to be conveyed, we are puzzled, and hardly "know the moves," frequently "giving it up," as many have the old-fashioned riddle,

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"It goes with a coach, it stops with a coach, 'tis of no use to a coach, and yet a coach can't go without it"-thinking the conundrum question and chromatic

scale would both be solved by the same word. Moreover, we can manage to make ourselves intelligible on more instruments than one-beginning with the organ, and ending with the Jews' Harp; indeed, we love music to such an excess, that we once discarded an unexceptionable admirer, because he thought proper to denounce dear "Auld Robin Gray," as a stupid old thing;" and when we own to even having attempted to soothe ourselves at a country inn, during a wet day, with an ancient hurdygurdy, our musical weakness may be imagined, and perhaps pitied. Be it understood, that we are not about to become scientific "cutters-up" of "heavy operas" and "light ballads;" we are not purposing to sit in judgment, as though the godship of Apollo himself were invested in our puny form; we have no notion of becoming terrible or important in our mission; we intend simply to play over the new music that we often find on our table, and inform our young friends as to what pleases our fancy. We are somewhat eccentric in our taste at times, and never ashamed of owning a vulgar admiration, and should we offend a purely classic ear by our recommendation of something unrecognized by any "school," and untraced by any opera score, please to remember, gentle reader, that we hereby propitiate your toleration; and, moreover, we promise that if our young friends write to us, and say that our musical opinion is not wanted by them, why, we will not intrude it, but go on strumming in our own unsystematic fashion, and put our notes and notices along with the damaged triangle, up in the garret cupboard.

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Now to begin with this heap before us. Let us take those published by R. Cocks & Co., New Burlington Street. First, we have No. 1 of Recollections of Wales, which is an arrangement of that exquisite old air, "Poor Mary Ann," by Brinley Richards. We have never heard this air so admirably rendered; there is a power, delicacy, and finish about the variations, which must charm all who hear it. The composer has judiciously avoided all extreme difficulties and elaborate fingering, so that a moderately skilled performer may here achieve a brilliant and sweet effect, without heavy practice. We long to see more of Mr. Richard's "Recollections." Here is a ballad, "The Desert Flower," composed by George Barker, the well-known source of " Mary Blane," "Why do Summer Roses Fade," &c. The melody, in four flats, is very sweet; the second part is particularly adapted to the words, and shows that the composer studies his author to some purpose. Another ballad by the same composerI'm thinking o'er the days, Mary"-partakes of the same pleasing character; and, moreover, both the ballads have respectable words-an essential material, which Mr. George Barker eminently deserves. "When the Swallows Hasten Home," is a very elegant German air, arranged as a fantasia, by Theodore Oesten; but we question whether the introduction or the variations are in keeping with the theme. We imagine the composer intended to carry out the motif with bird-like variations, but they present little more than a series of exercises for the hand, and those not of an over novel character; however, it has the advantages of being showy and short. "La Brabanconne" is a national Belgian air, made into a "brilliant impromptu," by Oscar Cometant. If his Majesty of the Belgians complimented this composer on his management of "La Brabanconne," as stated in the first page, it must have been from its reviving some old recollections; or else M. Cometant, by his very superior style of playing, won the gracious terms in which his Majesty noted it. We can see very little in the air itself to recommend it. It is a "march," certainly, with the usual

amount of dotted notes, semi-quavers, rests, and strongly marked passages, but it is not to be compared to many of the same class. The introduction is by far the best part, being spirited and beautifully modulated. "Petra Camara," by Paul Henrion, is a very pretty Spanish waltz-easy, light, and flowing, with considerable originality about it. "Hamilton's Modern Instructions for the Pianoforte,' is one of the very best elementary works we have ever seen. How much better they manage these things now, than they did in the olden time! Even in our days of "musical study," we were fagged and tired with the dry, difficult method of imparting the necessary rudiments, and to this day we have a dreamy, nightmare sort of remembrance of "Clementi's Exercises," and that dreadful "Battle of Prague," wherein "Go to Bed Tom" made us very sleepy, and the "Cries of the Wounded" nearly killed us. In the work before us, we have sound instruction blended with pleasant harmony, and we have been thinking how amazingly we should have "got on," had such assistance been then afforded to the developing talent of "remarkably clever children." We can give this work our strongest recommendation. Here is a ballad, "The World is a Fairy Ring"-Purday, 45, High Holborn, the words being written by ourselves, why, of course, our kind friends will not expect a mother to point out the rickets of her own child; but of the composer, Philip Knight, we can speak freely. Those who know his melodies, and admire them as they cannot fail to do-may add this to their folio. The air is flowing, expressive, and within the general compass of voice-carrying a degree of originality not often met with in the thousand and one "songs" issued monthly. We can heartily commend this to our young friends that is, if they have no particular prejudice against the author. Now, we have the "Bloomer Polka, by J. J. Blockley-Cramer, Beale & Co., Regent Street. This is a very graceful Polka-one of the best of the season, and very pleasant to dance to. The "Clipper Quadrille," by the same author-is an admirable arrangement of sea-song tunes, which gladden the heart and tickle the feet to spontaneous locomotion. Then we have the "Bloomer Schottische, the "Bloomer Waltzes," and the "Oberon Polka,”—all light and joyous, as the most "fantastic toe" could desire. But come, we must wish Apollo good morn ing for the present, promising him another "consultation" at an early opportunity, for a very juvenile friend has found his way to our elbow, and insists on our affording some specimens of the "vulgar classic." "Drops of Brandy," and "The Young May Moon," have been strongly hinted at, and we know from experience, that if we decline to oblige the curlyheaded petitioner, we shall have a voluntary accompaniment in the extreme treble, which might confuse our judgment slightly; and as to smacking those dear dumpy little fingers (albeit they are rather dirty) why, the thing is not to be done by any being with more of human kindness in them than a Haynau. Thus we postpone our "duty to the public,” to gratify a private individual of some three feet perpendicular; but as history informs us that smaller affairs have influenced greater matters, we submit with a grace; and now for a presto jig, and an extemporaneous hornpipe round the table.

THE GEORGIAN WOMEN,

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In Europe, by a Georgian female is usually understood a tall, slender creature, of voluptuous figure, wrapped in ample rich apparel; with thick black hair, long enough to entwine its glossy fetters round all

hearts of men; with an open forehead, and a pair of eyes within whose dark, mysterious magic circle the secrets of all delights of sense and soul lie spell-bound. Her gait is luxury. Joy goes before her, and admiration follows her. The flowers on which she treads look upwards, trembling with delight as they die, and exhale their fragrance as an offering to the beauty. With such ideas do strangers usually come to Georgia, and-find themselves singularly undeceived. Travellers who, with expectations raised so high, set foot on a land surrounded by history and tradition with a nimbus of wonder, either obstinately abide by their previously formed opinion, or hastily pass to the other extreme, and find, to their amazement, everything filthy, ugly, loathsome. The truth lies in the midst. The people of Georgia, taken as a whole, are undeniably one of the most beautiful races of people on the earth; but although I am a great adorer of woman, I must in this case give, with unconditional preference, the palm to the male sex. Herein all those cultivated inhabitants of Georgia who have eye, taste, and an impartial judgment agree with me. Nay, I must add to this, that of that higher beauty which exists where spirit, heart, and mind are reflected in the eye, there are in the whole Caucasus few traces to be found, among women as well as among men. I have had a fair chance of seeing all that Georgia contains of womanly beauty, but have never beheld a face that has fully satisfied me; although the graceful costume of the fair inhabitants of this land (the headdress excepted) contributes very much to the heightening of their charms. The face is altogether wanting in that nobler spiritual expression which lends to our fair Europeans an enchantment all their own. These

can still awaken love and gain hearts even when the time of their bloom is long since past; in a fair Georgian, on the other hand, with the freshness of youth fades everything away. The eye which always, notwithstanding its seeming fire, has breathed nothing but repose and inactive voluptuousness, acquires a faint expression; the nose, already in itself somewhat overstepping the bounds of beauty, appears, in consequence of the early sinking cheeks, of so unnatural a size, that many imagine its dimensions actually grow with years; and the bosom, which in this land plays certainly no hidden part, acquires too soon a Haccid character-mere appearances, which, among Europeans, occur more seldom, more imperceptibly, and in far more limited proportion. If we put to this account the custom, so prevalent in Georgia among young and old, of laying on white and red paint, it is easily seen that such and similar arts of the toilette, too striking as they are to the eye, can only tend to lessen the good opinion of the beholder. -Bodenstedt's Travels.

THE BUSINESS OF LIFE.

We recollect walking with Mr. Thomas Carlyle down Regent Street, when he remarked, that we poets had all of us mistaken the argument that we should treat. "The past," he said, "is all too old for this age of progress. Look at this throng of carriages, this multitude of men and horses, of women and children. Every one of these has a reason for going this way rather than that. If we could penetrate their minds, and ascertain their motives, an epic poem would present itself, exhibiting the business of life as it actually is, with all its passions and interests, hopes and fears. A poem, whether in verse or prose, conceived in this spirit, and impartially written, would be the epic of the age." And in this spirit it was that he conceived the plan of his own "French Revolution, a History."-Monthly Magazine.

RHYMES FOR YOUNG READERS.

ANGER.

OH! Anger is an evil thing,
And spoils the fairest face,-
It cometh like a rainy cloud
Upon a sunny place.

One angry moment often does

What we repent for years;

It works the wrong we ne'er make right
By sorrow or by tears.

It speaks the rude and cruel word
That wounds a feeling breast;
It strikes the reckless, sudden blow,—
It breaks the household rest.

We dread the dog that turns in play,

All snapping, fierce, and quick;
We shun the steed whose temper shows
In strong and savage kick :

But how much more we find to blame,
When Passion wildly swells

In hearts where kindness has been taught,
And brains where Reason dwells.

The hand of Peace is frank and warm,
And soft as ring-dove's wing;
And he who quells an angry thought
Is greater than a king.

Shame to the lips that ever seek
To stir up jarring strife,
When gentleness would shed so much
Of Christian joy through life.
Ever remember in thy youth,
That he who firmly tries
To conquer and to rule himself,
Is noble, brave, and wise.

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Grown persons are apt to put a lower estimate than is just on the understandings of children; they rate them by what they know, and children know very little, but their capacity of comprehension is great; hence the continual wonder of those who are unaccustomed to them at the "old-fashioned ways " of some lone little one who has no playfellows, and at the odd mixture of folly and wisdom in its sayings. A continual battle goes on in a child's mind between what it knows and what it comprehends. Its answers are foolish from partial ignorance, and wise from extreme quickness of apprehension. The great art of education is so to train this last faculty as neither to depress nor over-exert it. The matured mediocrity of many an infant prodigy proves both the degree of expansion to which it is possible to force a child's intellect, and the boundary which Nature has set to the success of such false culture.-Hon. Mrs. Norton.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

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THE LAND OF BLACKBERRIES.

What tho' no charms my person grace,
Nor beauty moulds my form, nor paints my face?
The sweetest fruit may often pall the taste,
While sloes and brambles yield a safe repast.

BLACKLOCK'S Plaintive Shepherd.

TALK not of the luscious land of vines; sing not the praises of blue heavens and rivers which flow through vintage banks; of Rhines, and Moselles, and Rhones, and Danubes; forget that there are regions of towering palms, and fruitful bananas, and golden prairies reaching to the sea,-lands all fragrant with magnolia blossoms, and jungles where the richest fruits rot, untouched, upon the mould; sigh not for Grecian vales and isles of Paphos; nor pine for the rose-gardens of Cashmere, nor for the scented bowers where the bulbul sings. Know that, here in this island of green meadows and luxuriant hedgerows, we speak the tongue of Lydgate; that we are compatriots with Spenser, Chaucer, Shakspere, and Keats; and that it is the land of beechen woods and Druidical memorials; and above all, let us be grateful to the Providence which has placed us in the Land of Blackberries.

Blackberries! rich, juicy, cool, and gushing, which, in the days of boyhood, lured us with their jetty lusciousness, and made us forget old Horace and the Pons Asinorum, and in exchange for the Eton Grammar and the pickled birch, gave us a larger life in the green woods, made our young hearts beat with hopeful enthusiasm, and filled us with the first taste of life's poetry. Who then but would love blackberries, even though less delicious and refreshing to the palate than they really are? Who but would love the simple fruits which recalled the memories of orchard-robbing, school-mischief, April fools, holiday rambles, and frantic dogs with kettles or crackers at their tails? Blackberries,-ah! away we go, the sunshine is still blinking among the trees, and although the air grows chill, autumn is still ruddy, and the hedges are yet fruitful. There is Epping Forest, whither we went from Stepney at eight years of age 'Blackberrying." We knew almost every dell, and cover, and tangled copse, and from any path could lead you direct to the richest garden of blackberries. We knew the haunts of

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Hornsey, and Finchley, and Old Ford, -now, alas! little towns, or appendages to London,-long before we were twelve years of age; and many a dream of Robin Hood and Will Scarlet have we dreamt there among the fern, after having sated ourselves, after the fashion of Justice Greedy,-with the blackest of ripe blackberries. There was always a charm about it, which neither tattered clothes, nor lacerated hands, nor angry looks at home, nor harsh words at school, could ever dispel; and to compensate for all the sorrows and trials of school drudgery and book education, we had the nobler education to be gained in the Land of Blackberries. And now, after having sunned our hearts in the green ways of Saxon poetry, after having held companionship with the forests, and bugles, and green hills of Scott, and luxuriated among the lush and leafy coverts of Endymion Keats, besides many fair-spent hours over Ritson and Robert Herrick, how can we refrain from loving blackberries? Blackberries, which speak so winningly of "yellow-girted bees," and golden honeycombs," and "jagged trunks," and unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness." Love them? ay! and away we go into the thick wood, far from the roar of cities and the tramp of men, far from the soul's prison-house, into the free air of bosky dells, where ragworts and harebells tremble, and the brambles hang their clouds of fruits.

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This time to Cheshunt, fifteen miles from town, in the prettiest part of Hertfordshire. Through the ancient churchyard, glancing at the monuments of the Cromwells and the grassy mounds of many a sturdy Puritan, superseding Hervey's sickly "Meditations," by thoughts which are always better suggested on the spot. Gathering as we go any precious little geni which may add to the herbarium, we reach Cheshunt House, and refresh our memories with the stories of Wolsey's pride and fall; thence to the shadow of a great beech in Cheshunt Park, to dine upon the grass, and discover a new and most "come-again' flavour in the beef and ham, which, despite our worship of the blackberries, makes us feel keenly for the Vegetarians. Dinner over, through the green lanes to Goffe's Oak, gathering berries as we go, the first handful being offered as a libation to the earth, after the manner of school-boys and the ancients. At Goffe's Oak we rest for the night, and enjoy that delicious slumber in a snowy bed which can only be

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enjoyed at a country inn in the land of blackberries.*

The mornings are grey and misty at blackberry time, so before venturing on the great expedition before us, let us be internally fortified with a good breakfast. The fragrant coffee tickles the sense until the nose seems to laugh at the conceit, and the palate, beguiled by the bland richness of the fresh butter and new-laid eggs, threatens to forget the anticipations of more blackberries.

We are away at last, upon the roadside, gathering as we go from the brambles that skirt the pathway. Away with conventionalities; fling away the books; and let us for the present live for blackberries. The berries are as black as death, and as delicious as the first kiss of a fond lover. There they hang like sugary showers of healing and delectable manna; hatless, on tiptoe, forgetting drawing-room and parlour courtesy, scorning etiquette and the doctrine of appearances, and like children in our aboriginal wildness, we gather and eat, we eat and gather. Satiated, we walk on, and take the path to the left, which leads to "Newgate Street " and "Little Berkhampstead." The country, with its woody hills and miles and miles of wheatlands, turnip-fields, and meadows, swells grandly around us. There are copses and forests of pine stems; broad fields of cruciferous blossoms glowing like golden seas with ripples and billows of liquid amber. Up above lie the woods; and the partridges and pheasants whirr away in heavy flight to shelter. The toil up-hill has cooled our energies, so we step in here to a small roadside inn, and seated in the only public room, which serves as kitchen, pantry, and public parlour, regale ourselves with a sweet draught of "Prior's Entire." Here are eight houses and a mud cabin, backed on one side by the splendid park of Squire Ellis, flanked to the left with the richly wooded hills, through which the road rises and falls like an undulating line of foam upon a dark green sea of mountain billows; behind lies the valley we have just left, with its banks of harebells, wild thyme, and yellow ragworts, and on all hands the country lies basking in sunshine, full of fertile promise, beauty, and vegetable exuberance, and dotted and fringed all over with bushy lines of blackberries. Down the steep hill towards the wood, up again, as the road passes over the upland, and a new scene breaks upon us. Down again into the thick of the wood, and feast our eyes on the interminable silvery birch masts, which gleam away into the dark background, like the spars of an anchored fleet all wedged together in a green sea of fern, while a solemn rustling in the green twinkling foliage above, sounds like a chorus of dryads, or the song of liberated fays, which have been imprisoned in the glens since the days of Oberon and Titania.

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berries again, richer, larger, and more pregnant with the cool mulberry flavour of any yet. Appetite grows keen, and we feel that we could eat all the woods contain, they are so grateful and delicious.

* Goffe's Oak stands on Cheshunt Common, overlooking the ancient lands of Guffley, and commanding a splendid pano. rama of hill country beyond. The tree from which the inn takes its name, is an ancient oak planted in the reign of William the Conqueror, and which is now a hollow ruin, though still bearing a head of foliage. The inn is one of the best samples which remain of the "Good Old Time,' and still preserves the English characteristics of female beauty, domestic comfort, and hearty good cheer.

Alternating with blackberries are crab-trees, loaded with fairy fruit; then clumps of willow-herbs, here covered with rich purple blossoms, there powdered with downy seeds; then again, St. John's wort, then blue scabious, and then broad flushing sheets of crimson lythrum. Blackberries again and again, and stomachs and baskets are filled to repletion. The robins, and chaffinches, and willow-wrens, flutter and sing, and chirp about us; and now and then the rabbit limps along through the brown brake, and the partridges run to cover. Between the singing and chirping of the birds, and the flutter of the woodpigeon's wing, there is an occasional pause,—a dead stillness, which is so solemn, so palpable to the sense, which has been all but stunned by the fret and din of cities, that it begets fear, and we tremble lest the rest-harrow which blooms beside should convert its spines into spears, and threaten us; or that the earth should gape and let forth some monster of malignity, such as the knights encountered in the olden time. Silence is new to man, and as strange as it is new; it is the searching and listening of the suspended sense which begets the mysterious feeling which accompanies it, and when it comes upon us in the world of green moss, and crushed leaves, and tangled branches, and blackberries, we feel that we are alone with God, and come nearer to Him in the solitudes, and the silence becomes a new voice, whispering of trust, and faith, and renewing love, and steadfast hope in the promised hereafter.

And here, sitting on the green bank, which is as soft and elastic with the mossy growths of many years as any bed of down, with the smiling face of one whom we love beside us, let us indulge in a soliloquy on the all-absorbing topic of blackberries. Not that the silence of the woods needs to be broken by the voice of man, for he, too often, carries strife and tumult into regions which had else known peace, and blights the fresh face of Nature with his iniquities and feverish impulses. Nevertheless, it seems meet, and the shadows nod a welcome.

Well, this said luscious, jet-black berry, or fruit of the bramble, is a thing of no mean degree, either in its botanical or literary history. Its botanical characteristics ally it closely to the brilliant roses of our gardens, and to the velvet peach, and the apple, and the cherry. It is, in truth, a rose, and its blossom, in shape and arrangement, is a miniature of the rose of the hedges. Its sprays are long and flexible, its juices are wholesome, and its fruit salutary and refreshing. The leaves and stems afford a valuable dye; and its young tops were anciently eaten by the Greeks as a salad. It grows in every country of Europe, and over the broad moorlands of the north it produces abundance of its welcome fruits. Its homely name of bramble, from the Anglo-Saxon bræamble, or bremel (anguis crucians), signifies something furious, or that which lacerates the skin;* and suggests the hirsute nature of its stems. Hence, "Doth the bramble cumber a garden? It makes the better hedge; where, if it chance to prick the owner, it will tear the thief;"+ though in this sense the term is not confined among the Saxon writers to the blackberry plant, but applied to others which are ragged and thorny. instance,

Swete as is the bramble flour That beareth the red hepe, $

For

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