which there were many lights, and which reflected their brightness in so pleasing a manner, in the waters of the river beneath the walls, that I paused to look at the effect, which I thought to place in my sketch-book on the following day. As I stopped, the gentlest voice that I had ever heard met my ears-it was not tuned to notes of music; but was speaking clearly and distinctly, although in a low strain, words of my own native tongue. Surprise and pleasure arrested me. (To be concluded in our next.) A COUNTRY PROVERB. BY MISS MITFORD. SCENE. A stile leading into a village churchyard. Edward sitting on the stile; Robert coming to him. Robert. Why, Edward, what can be the matter with you, that you are sitting here mumchance on the stile in the churchyard, under the shade of the old yew-tree, looking as dismal as that dismal evergreen, instead of standing bat in hand in the merry cricket-ground this beautiful June evening? What ails you? Edward. Nothing. Robert. Nothing! There you sit, pulling the leaves off that twig of hazel, with your eyes fixed on the ground, and a face as solemn as if you were picking out a piece of that wood for your own grave; you that all the village call the jolly young keeper. Nothing! why the very dog, Ranger, that has followed you in all moods and all weathers, the best spaniel that ever beat a covert, sits there whining and looking up in your face, as much asto say "What's the matter?" see how the poor brute is patting your knee with his rough paw. Nothing quotha! I am not so easily to be put off, I promise you. Edward. Nothing to you at all events. Down, Ranger! down, sir! Nothing to either of you. Robert. There's a pretty answer now; when I have come at his own special invitation, leaving the hall garden with nobody but Simon, who's a fool, to water the melons; and Joseph, who's a blunderer, to look after the pines; risking my crops, my place, and my reputation, as one of the best pupils (with all modesty I speak it) that ever left the Horticultural, for no other purpose on earth than to oblige him, and to play at cricket on Aberleigh Green. Edward. Well, go to cricket; nobody hinders you; get along, you know your way. Robert. Ay, but you promised to go with me. You know well enough, Ned, that you're a great man at the cricketground, the best bowler, the prime batsman, and as good a field as any in the county. The East Woodhay men talked of coming to try a game to-night, and what shall we do without you? And all the pretty girls of the parish will be there; your old flirt, Sally Wheeler, and the little laughing lass Patty Ross. Come, come, we know the jolly keeper likes to be looked upon by a pair of bright eyes; come. Edward. Not I, I promise, I hate the very thought of a woman. Robert." Lord! Lord! how this world is given to lying!" as Jack Falstaff says; but I suppose I have not pitched upon the right damsel. Doubtless there'll be all the belles of the pa rish in honour of Whitsuntide and the cricket-match: Betsy Brown, and Mary Webb, and Betty Simmons, and Olive Wilson, and the comely Widow Smith, and pretty Miss Bailey, and Edward. And Miss Judith Giles, the miller's daughter, what do you think of her? Robert. Judith Giles? I don't think of her at all. I was reckoning up the pretty girls, and not the ugly ones. Judith Giles! the lanky, gawky, raw-boned, red-haired, squinting maypole! The veriest fright within ten miles! What could put her into your head? Edward. Listen, and you shall hear. 52 Yesterday, as you know, was Eversley revel. I went there, unluckily; got up at four in the morning, and walked in the heat and dust all the way, to be present at the races, where my cousin John's pony, the Doctor, the clever sorrel pony, that I bred and reared, was to run for the stakes. Well, sir, I got there in time, betted rashly on the Doctor Robert. And lost? Edward. Would to God I had! No, sir; I won. The pony won the stakes, and I pocketed my bets; and then half mad with success, and parched with shouting, and heat, and dust, went into the Red Lion, and drank beer enough to make me madder still. In that mood, whilst boasting of the pony, of my dog here, and my gun, and my shooting, and cricketing, and card-playing, of all, in short, that I can do, and all that I cannot, John Giles, the miller, suddenly took me up in the midst of my bravado, and challenged me to a game at cribbage. Robert. Didn't you know that he was reckoned one of the best cribbageplayers in England? That matches have been made for him in London, and great wagers won upon his head? Edward. Yes! yes! I had heard so often, but I was past thinking of that; and if I had thought of it, it would have made no difference. "Luck's a lord!" said I to myself, in full confidence of my own good fortune; and down I sat. Robert. Well? Edward. Well, sir! at first I won; and then I grew madder and madder, and insisted on doubling and redoubling our stakes and bets. Then suddenly the cards turned; and I lost back all that I had won of the miller, all the bets that I had pocketed on the pony, all the little money that I had saved, all the wages due to me at Michaelmas, the cow on the common, the old horse in the field, my little crop of growing corn, my household furniture, my double-barrelled gun-the very dog at my feet! Get down, Ranger! I can't bear to look at him, poor fellow !-even the hat on my head, and the coat on my back, did I lose to master John Giles, the good miller of Aberleigh. The consciousness came that I possessed in the world, I regained my senses. upon me all at once, and completely sobered me. I walked silently out of the Red Lion, and reached home by midnight. This morning as I was considering whether I should hang or drown myself, Master Giles made his appearance. Robert. The intolerable villain! What say did he say? What could he ? Edward. He came, he said, to set my mind at ease, and to make me a proposal. Somehow or other, his daughter Judith had, he found, taken a fancy to me. He liked me himself, and being pretty well convinced that the lesson of yesterday had cured me of my propensity for gambling, would, if I chose, cancel the debt, and give me Judith, with two hundred pounds left her by her grandfather, for my wedded wife; otherwise he should of course expect to be paid like a man of honour. Thereupon he allowed me till to-morrow to make my decision; assured me that Judith was a good girl, and an excellent manager, and took himself off.-And now that you know the story; what shall I do? Robert. Two hundred pounds and the debt forgiven! Marry her, to be sure! Faith, the old miller's a capital fellow! Marry her! I have no doubt but she's a nice good-natured girl, and an excellent manager, and will make a jewel of a wife. Marry her at once, man! Edward. What! the lanky, gawky, raw-boned, red-haired— Robert. Marry her! Robert. Marry her! What does a Robert. The old rascal! the detestable villain! Well? wedding. Come along, Ned! You're in high luck, my boy! I must go with you to the mill, to pay my respects to the bride-elect, and then I'll leave you together and walk down to the cricketground. Come along, there's a good fellow! Even Ranger knows that something pleasing is going forward-how the rogue capers. Come along, Ned! You are walking as if you were following a funeral! Come along. Two hundred pounds and the debt forgiven! Think of that. Ay! I see you are beginning to have a sense of your good fortune. Edward. Oh, if it were not for the squint! the gawkiness, and the red hair, one might put up with—but, then, squint! Robert. Pooh! you'll soon get used to it. Think of the two hundred pounds and the cancelling of the debt! Edward. Well, if I must Robert. Must! to be sure you must. Come along! The debt cancelled and two hundred pounds in hand! Ay, that's right, mend your pace. Two hundred pounds down, my boy! A little faster, and we shall overtake the good miller. Two hundred pounds down! Now guess the proverb. SIR, THE FLORIST. GARDENERS and Florists are not always scholars; but if, for the sake of a few remarks, dictated by common sense and experience, and some useful directions, founded on practical knowledge, you will admit a humble florist to your pages, I trust I shall be, at least, able to teach something which the most devoted amateur may have to learn, and entertain many who are merely lovers of Floriculture. The expensive works already published afford abundant means of information; some of these I propose to notice, not as literary men criticise literary volumes, but as a practical man notices the proceedings of a fellow-labourer. There are many choice and favourite flowers whose culture interests more or less all who have the faculties of seeing and smelling: some of these may form subjects of occasional remark and embellishments. For the present, I take up the work of Mr. Chandler, of the Vauxhall Nursery. Illustrations and descriptions of the plants which compose the natural order of Camellia, and of the varieties of Camellia Japonica cultivated in the gardens of Great Britain. The drawings by Alfred Chandler, the descriptions by William Beattie Booth, F. L. S. Those who have visited the Vauxhall Nursery cannot fail to take an interest in the beautiful exotic which forms the subject of this interesting work. The gentleman to whose enterprise we are indebted for its origin is one of the proprietors of that nursery; and no one could have better opportunity of doing justice to the subject than he who, if not the most distinguished, is at least one of the three principal cultivators of the Camellia Japonica. The varieties imported form a very beautiful collection, but some of those raised from seed in this country, add greatly to the splendour of the best collections. Mr. Chandler's work professes to give coloured representations of the principal varieties, and the accompanying specimen is an accurate copy of the Camellia Japonica Eximia, or Chandler's Choice-flowering Camellia. From the description annexed by the Editor, the following is an extract: "With its habit we are not sufficiently acquainted as to be able to speak with accuracy; but, from what we have seen, we consider it to be of free growth, resembling, in some respects, the Waratáh, from which it is believed to have been raised. A few years hence, when it shall have become more generally known, we have not the slightest doubt, but it will be found to possess obvious characters peculiar to itself, that will readily distinguish it from any of the other seedling varieties. "The branches are erect, and of a pale brown colour. The leaves are large and flat, about four inches long, and two inches broad; ovate acuminate, sharply serrated, tapering towards the base and point, which is moderately long, narrow, and recurved. They are of a very deep shining green, similar to that of the Waratah, but more marked |