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Dread silence follow'd, and his bold heart sunk.
'Sure those within must be asleep or drunk.'
He first peep'd in,—then enter'd, -but could find
None, save one old man, almost deaf and blind.
* Father !' he cried, the old man answer'd, 'Son !'-

Have you an axe ?'—the sage replied, “Here's one.'-
“The price ?' he ask'd.-Three mace.'—'I'll give you two.
- Enough. He seiz'd it, paid, and on he flew.

Not far from thence-from thence it might be seen-
There grew a tea-tree, of the sort callid green.
To that he bent his flight, and there he found
One branch that grew breast-high above the ground.
He cut it midway through-part fell down plump,
And part was left outstanding from the stump.
The first he dragg'd away, and threw aside,
The last he sharpen'd with the tool, then cried,
Oh worst of all plant-kind! malignant tea!
Since my sweet girl, my all-beloved Bohea,
For whom I have such bitter cause to grieve,
Amid thy lifeless leaves of life took leave;
What better course could be, what wiser plan
Devised for me--oh! most unhappy man!
To leave a world of which my soul is sick,
Than on thy stick thus cut, to cut my stick!'

He said, and moving some few paces back
To gain a run, he made his girdle slack,
And bared his breast—then raising to the skies
His hands, he oped his mouth, and closed his eyes,
Breathed out one last sigh for his love's sweet sake,
Cried 'Oh, Bohea !' and rush'd upon the stake.
The stake went through between his lights and liver-
He gave four kicks, two screeches, and one quiver-
He felt the sharp wood in his vital parts,
And in that quiver seem'd ten thousand darts.
Oh Fo !' he cried, or ere his eyes grew dim-
"Oh Fo! he cried, and Fo gave ear to him—

Oh Fo!' he cried, be not a foe to me,
But draw me hence, yet, yet my love to see.
Since early death thus bliss on earth denies,
Oh! let us meet and mingle in the skies.
And though our parents' hearts have yet been hard,
Whence our fond hearts were each from each debarr'd,
Grant that they now may sorrow o'er our doom,
And lay our bones together in one tomb,
And write our tale, that all our fates may know!'
This said, young Hyson was absorb'd in Fo.

Her parents in the tea-pot found Bohea-
They drew the body thence, and saved the tea;
Rich store, in well-cork'd jars, for livelong weeks.
But tears meanwhile bedew'd their tender cheeks;

And much they wish'd, when every wish was vain,
They ne'er had parted that most faithful twain.
And Hyson's parents found him on the stake-
A sight to make their fond hearts yearn and ache,
Hung up, ah me! in every breeze to spin,
Like windmill's sails, or chafers on a pin.
They moved him thence—they laid him in a shell-
They learn'd the fate of her he loved so well.
They, too, at last relented—but too late ;
And feeling guilty, threw the blame on fate.
Then well-writ notes and courteous messages
Pass'd between Hyson's father and Bohea's.
Old feuds forgot, they clear'd their brows of gloom,
And both subscribed to build one common tomb.
Even on that spot where met those thralls of love,
One half beneath the ground, and half above,
Of tea-pot shape 'twas built, but partly hid,
And the roof fashion'd like a tea-pot lid.
The whole, when lined with finest porcelain clay,
There, in two chests, Bohea and Hyson lay.
A plant of tea was set on either side ;
This green—the sort on which young Hyson died;
That black-a kind since far and wide renown'd,
In whose infusion fair Bohea was drown'd.
The plants grew well, and, rich in leaf and bloom,
The branches mingled o'er the lovers' tomb;
Whence those two species, from those days to these,
Have borne the name of Hysons and Boheas.
Still maids and lovers to that tomb repair
To plight the vows of fond affection there ;
Kneel by the grave, or lift their hands above
To pluck the sprigs as talismans of love ;
And gentle brides, their husbands' hearts to fix,
Of those two kinds the cup of union mix.
Ne'er had the fond pair known that state divine,
Where transport and security entwine;'
But since kind death hath tied them in one tether,
Their namesake leaves full oft are brought together,
In equal chests (with India-paper linings),
In transports, with security, to Twining's.

Then weep no more for that united pair,
Since thus in death one common lot they share;
And, like their trees that high in air embrace,
Fobade their spirits rise from that low place
To meet above ; and Hyson and Bohea
Now mix their essence both in Tieu* and tea.

* Heaven.

The Old Ledger.

No. III.
EDITED AND ILLUSTRATED BY ALFRED CROWQUILL.

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EING, from my long sedentary habits, not much more locomotive than an oyster, it was with some little difficulty that I resolved to take my physician's advice, and seek in change of air and scene a remedy for the blue and yellow melancholy which too close an attention to business had superinduced.

Those who are accustomed to rove from pillar to post,' and, with no other luggage than their cloak, and a widemouthed, all-devouring carpet-bag, take a trip to France or Holland, cannot conceive the feelings of one long pent up in a dingy office, whose personal know

ledge even of the localities of the great city. itself wherein he toils, is almost limited to the particular tract invariably traversed in his diurnal transit from his lodging to the counting-house. Like a bird bred in a cage, liberty to him proves rather a source of nervous apprehension than enjoyment.

This is more especially the case with a single gentleman who has passed his fiftieth year in the mechanical routine of an office, and who carries his confirmed love of order and regularity to that solitary sanctum, his suburban dormitory, where the people of the house,' from long experience, know his chronometrical habits, and where he finds everything as ready to his hand as the knocker of the street.door.

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On the evening of the momentous day I had named as that of my departure, I sat alone in my snug apartment, and contemplated my lares my household gods in silence. I was about to separate from my books, my pictures, and, as I thought in my melancholy mood, from all my earthly comforts. But the die was cast ; although strongly inclined, I was ashamed to retract.

The words of the Earl of Orrery recurred tormentingly to my memory with more than their ordinary force. Whenever we step out of domestic life,' says that nobleman, in search of felicity, we come back again disappointed, tired, and chagrined.' To which consolatory maxim was added the dogma of old James, our book-keeper, who was as great a stayat-home as a snail, for the last twenty years not having walked farther west than St. Paul's Churchyard, and whose usual peregrinations were limited to a stroll on Tower Hill or the wharf at the Custom House, where he declared the air was as fine and fresh as mortal could desire. When a man is rich,' quoth James, there is no pillow so soft as his own; when he is well, he certainly requires no other.

Among other things which disquieted me, strange to say, was the vision of the sweeper of a certain crossing which I daily used, to whom for years I had regularly paid my penny. I thought he might calculate upon the weekly expense in part payment of his miserable lodging --for it had become a sort of certain income,—and I accused myself of selfishness in not having remembered him, and paid the paltry stipend in advance !

The morning came, and at the appointed hour old Smith appeared at the door to escort me, and carry my luggage to the steam-vessel which was to transport me to-Gravesend !

The garrulity of the old man cheered my spirits. He said he was quite sure the jaunt would do me a world of good, and that, for his part, he thought it was wrong to (stew' myself up month after month, and stick so close to the desk as I had done, especially as I had latterly been so 'peaking and queer, and was morally certain that I should come back as fresh as a daisy, and be better than ever. This did encourage me, I must confess, and I followed him as he elbowed through the motley crowd assembled at the wharf, and 'made way for me with something like alacrity, and seated myself as soon as possible on the nearest bench on the fresh-washed deck. Having slipped a crown into his honest palm, with an injunction to drink my health, Smith departed. Presently, as I looked at the spectators who lined the edge of the wharf, I discerned his jolly countenance peering over their shoulders, and watching me intently,

· Foolish fellow!' thought I, in a peevish humour, ‘he will lose his breakfast; for he must be punctual at the office.'

But still I must honestly confess I felt an indescribable gratification in the consciousness that one at least among that mass looked upon me with affection. This feeling became more intense when the vessel was unmoored, and we fairly started ; for then, and not till then, as if he feared to be recognized, I observed his head thrust forward to watch me as far as his eye could reach ; and when at last I lost sight of his close-cropped, muscular head, it seemed as if the link betwixt me and the greatest city in the world,' was suddenly snapped in twain. The cupola of St. Paul's, the Monument, and the Tower soon vanished

HYSON AND BOHEA.

A TALE OF THE TEA-POT.

BY 'T. T. T.'

· The Tea-Tree' of Tee-to-tum is the most celebrated of all Chinese didactic poems, and is one of those great and elaborate works to the production of which the labour of a life is necessary. The story of Hyson and Bohea, of which the following is not a slavish translation, may be considered as perhaps the most pathetic of its episodes.

Tee-to-tum did not misemploy his genius, and his toil was not illrewarded; for “The Tea-Tree' may be considered the great national poem of the Chinese.

The history of Tee-to-tum is somewhat remarkable. It is related that he was cradled in a tea-chest, and that tea not only formed his earliest diet, but that through life he took no other nourishment. He lived in a retired tea-garden in the district of Sing-te; his house and his furniture were formed of tea wood, and the dry branches of tea-trees served him as fuel. He lived to a green old age, and his death was occasioned by an accident similar to that which terminated the days of Anacreon ; only that the Chinese poet was choked, not by a grape-stone, but by a tea-stem.

His poem is very voluminous, being divided into two hundred books, or, as he calls them, branches. Each branch comprises full a thousand • leaves ;' not indeed leaves of two pages each ; but the single verses of Tee-to-Tum are called 'tea-leaves' by the people of the Celestial Land. His industry was remarkable : not a day passed without his adding to or correcting his poem.

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Muse of the Central Land, whose soothing power
Celestial bards drink in at twilight's hour ;
Who, cheerful promptress of discourse and smiles,
Deign'st even to dwell in these barbarian isles,
A household spirit still at hand to serve us,
And make our poets varm, our prosemen nervous ;
Thou from thine oft-filled urn who dost deliver
A stream more potent than Castalia's river,
And even, Great Muse of Tea! canst strength impart
To milk and water ;-hear, where'er thou art !
Perchance e'en now in this my seventh good cup;
Ah! if it be so, let me stir thee up.

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