selves some masculine mildness not unworthy to possess such a companion, or unlikely to gain her.

Even a few leaves, if we can get no flowers, are far better than no such ornament, -a branch from the next tree, or the next herb-market, or some twigs that have been plucked from a flowering hedge. They are often, nay always, beautiful, particularly in spring, when their green is tenderest. The first new boughs in spring, plucked and put into a water-bottle, have often an effect that may compete with flowers themselves, considering their novelty; and indeed

"Leaves would be counted flowers, if earth had none."

(There is a verse for the reader; and not a bad one, considering its truth.) We often have vines (such as they are, better than none) growing upon the walls of our city houses, or clematis, or jessamine; perhaps ivy on a bit of an old garden-wall, or a tree in a court. We should pluck a sprig of it, and plant it on our breakfast-table. It would show that the cheap elegances of earth, the universal gifts of the beauty of nature, are not thrown away upon us. They shadow prettily over the clean table-cloth or the pastoral milk, like a piece of nature brought in-doors. The tender bodies of the young vernal shoots above mentioned, put into water, might be almost fancied clustering together with a sort of virgin delicacy, like young nymphs, mute-struck, in a fountain. Nay, any leaves, not quite faded, look well, as a substitute for the want of flowers, — those of the common elm; or the plane ; or the rough oak, especially when it has become gentle with its acorn tassels; or the lime, which is tasselled in

a more flowery manner, and has a breath as beautiful. Ivy, which is seldom or never brought in-doors, greatly deserves to be better treated, especially the young shoots of it, which point in a most elegant manner over the margin of a glass or decanter, seeming to have been newly scissored forth by some fairy hand, or by its own invisible quaint spirit, as if conscious of the tendency within it. Even the green tips of the firtrees, which seem to have been brushed by the golden pencil of the sun, when he resumes his painting, bring a sort of light and vernal joy into a room, in default of brighter visitors. But, it is not necessary to a loving and reflecting spirit to have any thing so good as those. A bit of elm-tree or poplar would do, in the absence of any thing rarer. For our parts, as far as ourself alone is concerned, it seems to us that we could not be mastered by the blackest storm of existence, in the worst pass that our pilgrimage could bring us to, as long as we had shelter over our heads, a table with bread and a cup of tea upon it, and a single one of these green smiles upon the board, to show us that good-natured Nature was alive.

Does any reader misgive himself, and fancy that to help himself to such comforts as these would be "trifling"? Oh! let him not so condescend to the ignorance of the proud or envious. If this were trifling, then was Bacon a trifler, then was the great Condé à trifler, and the old Republican Ludlow, and all the great and good spirits that have loved flowers, and Milton's Adam himself, nay, heaven itself; for heaven made these harmless elegances, and blessed them with the universal good-will of the wise and innocent.

trifle is not to make use of small pleasures for the help and refreshment of our duties, but to be incapable of that real estimation of either, which enables us the better to appreciate and assist both. The same mighty energy which whirls the earth round the sun, and crashes the heavens with thunderbolts, produces the lilies of the valley, and the gentle dewdrops that keep them fair.

Of a

To return, then, to our flowers and our breakfasttable: were time and place so cruel as not to grant us even a twig, still there is a last resource, and a rich one too, not quite so cheap as the other, but obtainable now-a-days by a few pence, and which may be said to grow also on the public walls,- a book. We read, in old stories, of enchanters who drew gardens out of snow; and of tents no bigger than a nutshell, which opened out over a whole army. like nature is the magic of a book, a casket, from which you may draw out, at will, bowers to sit under, and affectionate beauties to sit by, and have trees, flowers, and an exquisite friend, all at one spell. We see it now before us, standing among the cups, edgeways, plain-looking, perhaps poor and battered, perhaps bought of some dull huckster in a lane for a few pence. On its back we read, in old worn-out letters of enchantment, the word "Milton ;" and, upon opening it, lo! we are breakfasting forthwith,

"Betwixt two aged oaks,

On herbs and other country messes

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses,"

in a place which they call "Allegro." Or the word on the back of the casket is "Pope;" and instantly a

beauty in a "negligé" makes breakfast for us, and we have twenty sylphs instead of butterflies, tickling the air round about us, and comparing colors with the flowers, or pouncing upon the crumbs that threaten to fall upon her stomacher. Or "Thomson" is the magic name; and a friend still sweeter sits beside us, with her eyes on ours, and tells us with a pressure on the hand, and soft, low words, that our cup awaits us. Or we cry aloud, "Theocritus!" plunging into the sweetest depths of the country; and, lo! we breakfast, down in a thick valley of leaves and brooks and the brown summer-time, upon creams and honey-combs, the guest of bearded Pan and the Nymphs; while at a distance, on his mountain-top, poor overgrown Polyphemus, tamed and made mild with the terrible sweet face of love, which has frightened him with a sense of new thoughts, and of changes which cannot be, sits overshadowing half of the vineyards below him, and, with his brow in tears, blows his harsh reeds over the

sea.

Such has been many a breakfast of our own, dear readers, with poverty on one side of us, and these riches on the other. Such must be many of yours; and, as far as the riches are concerned, such may be all. But how is this? We have left out the milk, and the bread, and the tea itself! We must have another breakfast with the reader, in order to do them justice.

BREAKFAST CONTINUED.

Tea-drinking.

BREAKFAST-TABLE in the morning, clean and white with its table-cloth, colored with the cups and saucers, and glittering with the teapot, is it not a cheerful object, reader? and are you not always glad to see it?

We know not any inanimate sight more pleasant, unless it be a very fine painting, or a whole abode snugly pitched; and, even then, one of the best things to fancy in it is the morning meal.

The yellow or mellow-colored butter (which softens the effect of the other hues), the milk, the bread, the sugar, all have a simple, temperate look, very relishing, however, to a hungry man. Perhaps the morning is sunny at any rate, the day is a new one, and the hour its freshest. We have been invigorated by sleep. The sound of the shaken canister prepares us for the fragrant beverage that is coming: in a few minutes it is poured out; we quaff the odorous refreshment, perhaps chatting with dear kindred, or loving and laughing with the "morning faces" of children; or, if alone, reading one of the volumes mentioned in our last, and taking tea, book, and bread and butter, all at once,