into the water, and every now and then she started up to get a fresh supply; at length almost lost in a reverie, Fanshaw had forgotten all external objects, when he was roused from his dream by a shriek of terror, his eyes immediately sought the place from whence it came, and he saw the lady he had before observed standing alone on the very edge of the bank wringing her hands. In a moment after, he saw some one struggling in the water; with a bounding step he hastened to the spot, and without a moment's hesitation, leaped into the water to save the drowning man. It was with the greatest difficulty he could effect his purpose, for the old gentleman could not swim, and had nearly lost all consciousness; at last he succeeded in dragging him to the bank, and with the assistance of the poor girl, who had been watching the fearful struggle with speechless agony, they managed to place the rescued man in safety on the land, but he was still insensible, and the young lady feared he was dead; she threw herself on her knees and bent over him, exclaiming "speak to me, my dear father, speak to me but one word, let me but hear your voice again." "What can I do," she cried, turning to Alfred with clasped hands and a look of anguish.

He entreated her not to be alarmed, and gently lifted her father from his reclining position, when he heaved a deep sigh, thus showing that life was not gone; they both did what they could to restore him to consciousness, and in a few minutes he was evidently fast recovering.

Fanshaw now consulted with the daughter as to the means of procuring further assistance for the removal of her father. "My horse," said he, "is on the brow of the hill, I will immediately ride wherever you direct me.'

"Thank you a thousand times," she replied in a tone that conveyed the depth of her feelings. "Our carriage is at the little inn in the village; desire if you please the servants of Colonel Graham to bring it here immediately, and give any other orders you may deem necessary, and do return here with them," she added earnestly.

"I will, I will," answered Fanshaw hastily as he ran off in search of his horse, and in less than ten minutes he arrived at the inn door, gave orders for the carriage, and sent a messenger to procure a medical man; hastening their movements, and without thinking of his own dripping garments, he flew back to Colonel Graham and his daughter. He was delighted to find that gentleman so much recovered, that with the assistance

of himself and daughter, he was able to walk the short distance which separated them from the high road where his carriage was waiting

Though Fanshaw had purposed going farther that evening than the little road-side Inn, he now determined on staying there the night, as Colonel and Miss Graham had been obliged to do so, and he thought he could do no less than wait till the next morning to hear how the Colonel was, before he proceeded.

He had hardly finished breakfast when a message from Miss Graham came, requesting to see him. He gladly rose to obey this summons, and found the young Lady alone. Fanshaw had hardly noticed her features the day before, in the agitation of the moment, though the impression left on his mind was that the young Lady was very handsome; but now he beheld in the beautiful girl, a form of the most faultless and exquisite character, (Reader I need not describe her to you, for she was the original of the Portrait in the Library at Milverton Hall.)

When Fanshaw entered the room, she advanced towards him, and offered her hand, but was unable to speak for some minutes from the excess of her feelings; Fanshaw gently led her to a chair, and seating himself by her side, endeavoured to soothe her agitation, and at last with an effort to subdue her emotion, she replied to his enquiries about her Father, by assuring him that he was much better, and that his medical attendant did not fear any ill effects from his accident: "and" she added, "it was his wish that I should send for his preserver to thank him, if I could find words to do so, for his noble conduct; Believe me," she said, and her voice trembled with emotion, "Believe me I feel towards you the deepest gratitude, though I must ever fail in expressing to you its full extent. But when I tell you that you have preserved the life of my only parent, you will know what an inestimable blessing you have conferred upon me, the debt I owe you shall never, never be effaced from my memory.” "I assure you 'said Fanshaw' that it affords me more satisfaction than I can well express, to have rendered any assistance however humble, on such an occasion, and it doubly repays me for any risk I might have incurred, to feel that I possess your gratitude. I shall indeed account it, one of the happiest events of my life."

A summons from Colonel Graham interrupted them, but before they parted, Miss Graham requested that she might have his card to give to her Father, and added with much naïveté that she hoped he would not leave till her Father had seen him.

"I have your promise" she added, "that you will not leave, have I not ?" and without waiting for an answer she ran off.

Fanshaw for want of occupation took his hat, and strolled out-I am wrong it was not for want of occupation, but rather the excess of thought, the tumult of feeling which made him seek the solitude of the silent wood. Strange when the bright vision which has oftentimes floated across the brain with shadowing indistinctness suddenly becomes a tangible reality. strange is it that the glance from another eye like a spark of Promethean fire, has power to kindle into being, a new life,an existence, perhaps dimly dreamed of-but never before felt. The something long sought, but unfound till now, suddenly reveals itself in that untold consciousness of kindred sympathy, which love at first sight inspires.

When Fanshaw returned from his walk to the Inn he was greatly delighted to find awaiting him, a few lines in pencil from Miss Graham, written at her Father's request, and inviting him to partake with them their rustic dinner. As dinners were at a much earlier hour then than now, Fanshaw found he had only just time to send a verbal acceptance, and make a hasty toilette, before the hour arrived.

THIS surpassingly sweet and simple little flower has ever been a favorite with the poets, and its name is associated with, and, as it were, embalmed in, pure thoughts and pleasant memories; a

sense of vernal freshness, and of primeval innocence comes over us when we speak of, much less look upon it,

"Like a meadow gale of spring."

And but to inhale its fragrance refreshes and invigorates the heart, as do

"Chaplets just gathered from the old oak trees,
And smelling of the woods and morning breeze."

which, according to Thomas Powell's happy rendering of Chaucer-see "the Flower and the Leaf"-the company of Knights "wore for their delight."

THE LILY OF THE VALE, too, is a great favorite with those who know nothing of the rich net-work, so to speak, of poetic thoughts and musical numbers, which has been woven around it by the children of song. The simple country people who dwell amid the rural solitudes where it best grows and flourishes, love to look upon its unobtrusive beauty, and to breathe its delicate perfume, and they have called it "the ladder to Heaven." Why? certainly not because it resembles a ladder in its conformation, but surely, on account of its natural association with that period of life, when, as Wordsworth says, "heaven lies about us," and its connection with all pure, and innocent, and holy thoughts and feelings. But this, it may be said, is a mere poetic fancy; well, be it so; we shall cherish it nevertheless, and whether amid the sunshine of prosperity and joy, or the cloudy shadows of adversity and sorrow, this flower will be to us one of the links of the golden chain of love which God, out of pity for our weakness and instability, hath sent down to facilitate the ascent of our souls into his everlasting kingdom. We shall ever look upon it as a manifestation of divine goodness, and a type and an emblem of something prayerful, and elevating to the spirit, even as Dr. Croly appears to do, when he addresses it thus:

"White buds! that in meek beauty so dost lean,
Thy cloistered cheek as pale as moonlight snow,
Thou seemest beneath thy huge, high leaf of green,
An eremite beneath his mountain's brow.

White bud! thou art emblem of a lovelier thing,

The broken spirit. that its anguish bears

To silent shades, and there sits offering

To Heaven, the holy fragrance of its tears."

The name Convallaria given to this plant is derived from the Latin Convallis, a valley; it is a well known and popular flower

וי

in most countries of Europe; the Germans call it Meyen Blumlen, and the Dutch Meyen Bloemkins, which terms are synonamous with that applied to it here, May Blossom. The French say Muguet, Muguet de Mai, as well as Lis des Vallees, and the Italians Mughetto, Giglio Convallio, and Giglio delle Convalli, agreeing with our common names for this plant, Lily, May Lily, Lily of the Valley, and Conval Lily, all of which were applied to it, according to Gerard, several centuries ago; this writer also mentions another term which has a very poetical sound, Liriconfancie. But this flower which so beautifully

"Engems with pendent coronals the shaded vale"

is not properly a Lily at all, and cannot claim any sort of relationship, except a nominal one, with the stately queen of the gardens; or she who floats upon her "moist lush leaves," and reigns supreme over the streams and rivers-" the bright mymphoea of the crystal flood;" neither with the Eastern Lotus, the flame-colored Tiger Lily, the red and yellow Martagons, or Turk's Caps, as they are commonly called, nor any of

"The painted populace

That dwell in fields and lead ambrosial lives."

To which our Saviour referred in those ever memorable words -"Consider the Lilies," &c. As, however, we are not writing a chapter for a new "Flora Historica," nor compiling a laborious commentary, we may well leave this part of our subject to Phillips, and others of the erudite class, and proceed with our culling, and stringing together, of floral beauties from the gardens of the Muses.

"Truth was a Lily once, and in a dell

Of most primeval innocence was born;
But serpent Falsehood with his wily spell

Came to her cloisters green one Summer's morn,
And won the maid-then left her all forlorn ;-
Her eyes that erst wept crystal-now shed tears

Of crimson sorrow that made her the scorn

Of all the young companions of her years!

And hence the blush of shame that yet on Truth appear."

This stanza from J. A. Wade's "Dwelling of Fancy," is a worthy companion to that by Wiffin with which we commence our paper; the comparisons made in both are very apt and beautiful: "Truth was a Lily once ;" and a Lily always; "the Medicean statue of the shade," pure and perfect, modest and retiring, yet formed and calculated to please the more, the more it is scru