mentioned, and thought advantageous, not
only from the open space they present, but the
facilities of water-conveyance for goods and
passengers. Still, the distance is rather against
such a choice. It would probably reduce the
number of times each visitor would go to
the Exhibition, and, consequently, be a check
upon the money taken at the doors.
Hundreds of thousands flock daily to Greenwich
during the Fair; but the argument will not
hold good, in all respects, as regards the
present question. Regent's Park has been
named as more appropriate; but there is a
strong and manifest objection to any
interference with that much-used place of
public recreation. To cut up its green turf,
and gravelled roads, would be even more
monstrous than any spoliation of Hyde Park.
No locality could be selected, perhaps, for
such a purpose that .would be perfectly free
from all objections. Still we are so convinced
of the multitude of inconveniences inevitably
attendant on such an Exhibition in the midst
of the metropolis—and we feel so strongly the
cool, high-handed injustice of parcelling out
the public property at Court, and stopping up
the public breathing-places, for any purpose
—that we urge its removal to some spot out
of the town, easily accessible both by railway
and river.

"I WOULD NOT HAVE THEE YOUNG
AGAIN."

  I WOULD not have thee young again
    Since I myself am old;
  Not that thy youth was ever vain,
    Or that my age is cold;
  But when upon thy gentle face
    I see the shades of time,
  A thousand memories replace
    The beauties of thy prime.

  Though from thine eyes of softest blue
     Some light hath passed away,
  Love looketh forth as warm and true
    As on our bridal day.
  I hear thy song, and though in part
    'Tis fainter in its tone,
  I heed it not, for still thy heart
    Seems singing to my own.

LITTLE MARY.

A TALE OF THE BLACK YEAR.

THAT was a pleasant place where I was
born, though 'twas only a thatched cabin by the
side of a mountain stream, where the country
was so lonely, that in summer time the wild
ducks used to bring their young ones to feed
on the bog, within a hundred yards of our
door; and you could not stoop over the bank
to raise a pitcher full of water, without
frightening a shoal of beautiful speckled trout.
Well, 'tis long ago since my brother Richard,
that's now grown a fine clever man, God bless
him!—and myself, used to set off together up
the mountain to pick bunches of the cotton
plant and the bog myrtle, and to look for
birds' and wild bees' nests. 'Tis long ago—
and though I'm happy and well off now, living
in the big house as own maid to the young
ladies, who, on account of my being foster-
sister to poor darling Miss Ellen, that died of
decline, treat me more like their equal than
their servant, and give me the means to
improve myself; still at times, especially when
James Sweeney, a dacent boy of the neighbours,
and myself are taking a walk together
through the fields in the cool and quiet of a
summer's evening, I can't help thinking of the
times that are passed, and talking about them
to James with a sort of peaceful sadness, more
happy maybe than if we were laughing aloud.

Every evening, before I say my prayers, I
read a chapter in the Bible that Miss Ellen
gave me; and last night I felt my tears
dropping for ever so long over one verse,—
"And God shall wipe away all tears from
their eyes; and there shall be no more death,
neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there
be any more pain; for the former things are
passed away." The words made me think of
them that are gone—of my father, and his
wife that was a true fond mother to me; and,
above all, of my little sister Mary, the clureen
bawn* that nestled in her bosom.

*White dove.

I was a wild slip of a girl, ten years of age,
and my brother Richard about two years
older, when my father brought home his
second wife. She was the daughter of a
farmer up at Lackabawn, and was reared with
care and dacency; but her father held his
ground at a rack-rent, and the middleman
that was between him and the head landlord
did not pay his own rent, so the place was
ejected, and the farmer collected every penny
he had, and set off with his family to America.
My father had a liking for the youngest
daughter, and well become him to have it, for
a sweeter creature never drew the breath of
life; but while her father passed for a strong†
farmer, he was timorous-like about asking her
to share his little cabin; however, when he
found how matters stood, he didn't lose much
time in finding out that she was willing to be
his wife, and a mother to his boy and girl.
That she was, a patient loving one. Oh! it
often sticks me like a knife, when I think
how many times I fretted her with my foolishness
and my idle ways, and how 'twas a long
time before I'd call her "mother." Often,
when my father would be going to chastise
Richard and myself for our provoking doings,
especially the day that we took half-a-dozen
eggs from under the hatching hen, to play
"Blind Tom" with them, she'd interfere for
us, and say,—" Tim, aleagh, don't touch them
this time; sure 'tis only arch they are: they'll
get more sense in time." And then, after he
was gone out, she'd advise us for our good so
pleasantly, that a thundercloud itself couldn't
look black at her. She did wonders too about
the house and garden. They were both dirty

† Rich.