ince, an immense
ivory hunting-horn; and 'Charlemagne's chess-men,' which still exist,
form part of the collection of works of art at Cologne.]

[Footnote 4: See an article on the Aberdeen Combworks, No. 396.]

BLIGHTED FLOWERS.

The facts of the following brief narrative, which are very few and of
but melancholy interest, became known to me in the precise order in
which they are laid before the reader. They were forced upon my
observation rather than sought out by me; and they present, to my mind
at least, a touching picture of the bitter conflict industrious
poverty is sometimes called upon to wage with 'the thousand natural
shocks which flesh is heir to.'

It must be now eight or nine years since, in traversing a certain
street, which runs for nearly half a mile in a direct line southward,
I first encountered Ellen----. She was then a fair young girl of
seventeen, rather above the middle size, and with a queen-like air and
gait which made her appear taller than she really was. Her
countenance, pale but healthy, and of a perfectly regular and classic
mould, was charming to look upon from its undefinable expression of
lovableness and sweet temper. Her tiny feet tripped noiselessly along
the pavement, and a glance from her black eye sometimes met mine like
a ray of light, as, punctually at twenty minutes to nine, we passed
each other near ---- House, each of us on our way to the theatre of
our daily operations. She was an embroideress, as I soon discovered
from a small stretching-frame, containing some unfinished work, which
she occasionally carried in her hand. She set me a worthy example of
punctuality, and I could any day have told the time to a minute
without looking at my watch, by marking the spot where we passed each
other. I learned to look for her regularly, and before I knew her
name, had given her that of 'Minerva,' in acknowledgment of her
efficiency as a mentor.

A year after the commencement of our acquaintance, which never ripened
into speech, happening to set out from home one morning a quarter of
an hour before my usual time, I made the pleasing discovery that my
juvenile Minerva had a younger sister, if possible still more
beautiful than herself. The pair were taking an affectionate leave of
each other at the crossing of the New Road, and the silver accents of
the younger as, kissing her sister, she laughed out, 'Good-by, Ellen,'
gave me the first information of the real name of my pretty