from the form and manner of growth of the seed-vessel, and we will examine some of them by the descriptions in a book of botany. There is one very remarkable seed-vessel, which probably you have observed in the garden. It is a perfectly round, large, flat pouch, which, after it has shed its seed, remains on the stalk, and looks like a thin, white bladder. The plant bearing it is commonly called honesty.

H. O, I know it very well. It is put into winter flower-pots.

T. True. So much, then, for the tetradynamious or cruciform-flowered plants. You cannot well mistake them for any other class, if you remark the six chives, four of them, generally, but not always, longer than the two others; the single pistil changing either into a long pod or a round pouch containing the seeds; the four opposite petals of the flower, and four leaves of the calyx. You may safely make a salad of the young leaves wherever find them; you the worst they

can do to you is to bite your tongue.

THE NATIVE VILLAGE.

A DRAMA.

Scene A scattered Village, almost hidden with Trees.
Enter HARFORD and BEAUMONT.

Harford. THERE is the place. This is the green on which I played many a day with my companions; there are the tall trees that I have so often climbed for birds' nests; and that is the pond where I used to sail my walnut-shell boats. What a crowd of mixed sensations rush on my mind! What pleasure, and what regret! Yes, there is somewhat in our native soil that affects the mind in a manner different from every other scene in nature.

Beaumont. With you it must be merely the place; for I think you can have no attachments of friendship or affection in it, considering your long absence, and the removal of all your family.

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ilarf. No, I have no family connexions, and, indeed, can scarcely be said ever to have had any; for, as you know, I was almost utterly neglected after the death of my father and mother; and, while all my elder brothers and sisters were dispersed to one part or another, and the little remaining property was disposed of, I was left with the poor people who nursed me, to be brought up just as they thought proper; and the little pension that was paid for me entirely ceased after a few years.

Beaum. Then how were you afterward supported? Harf. The honest couple, who had the care of me, continued to treat me with the greatest kindness; and, poor as they were, not only maintained me as a child of their own, but did all in their power to procure me advantages more suited to my birth than my deserted situation. With the assistance of the worthy clergyman of the parish, they put me to a day-school in the village, clothed me decently, and being themselves sober, religious persons, took care to keep me from vice. The obligations I am under to them will, I hope, never be effaced from my memory, and it is on their account alone that I have undertaken this journey.

Beaum. How long did you continue with them?

Harf. Till I was thirteen. I then felt an irresistible desire to fight for my country; and, learning by accident that a distant relation of our family was a captain of a man-of-war, I took leave of my worthy benefactors, and set off to the sea-port where he lay, the good people furnishing me, in the best manner they were able, with necessaries for the journey. I shall never forget the tenderness with which they parted with me. It was, if possible, beyond that of the kindest parents. You know my subsequent adventures, from the time of my becoming a midshipman, to my present state of first lieutenant in the Britannia. Though it is now fifteen years since my departure, I feel my affection for these good folk stronger than ever, and could not

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be easy without taking the first opportunity of seeing them.

Beaum. It is a great chance if they are both living. Harf. I happened to hear, by a young man of the village, not long since, that they were; but, I believe, much reduced in their circumstances.

Beaum. Whereabouts did they live?

Harf. Just at the turning of this corner. But what's this-I can't find the house. Yet I am sure I have not forgotten the situation. Surely it must be pulled down! Oh, my dear old friends, what can have become of you!

Beaum. You had better ask that little girl. Harf. Hark ye, my dear!-do you know one John

Beech of this place?

Girl. What, old John Beech! O yes, very well, and Mary Beech too.

Harf. Where do they live?

Girl. A little further on in the lane.
Harf. Did they not once live hereabouts?

Girl. Yes, till farmer Tithing pulled the house down, to make his hop-garden.

Harf. Come with me to show me the place, and I'll give you a penny.

Girl. Yes, that I will. (They walk on.) Therethat low thatched house-and there's Mary spinning at the door.

Harf. There, my dear. (Gives money, and the girl goes away.) How my heart beats!-Surely that cannot be my nurse! Yes, I recollect her now; but how very old and sickly she looks!

Beaum. Fifteen years in her life, with care and hardship, must have gone a great way in breaking her down.

Harf. (Going to the cottage door.) Good morning, good woman; can you give my companion and me something to drink? We are very thirsty with walking this hot day.

Mary Beech. I have nothing better than water, sir,