The Project Gutenberg eBook of Godey's Lady's Book, Philadelphia, Volume 48, March, 1854

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Title: Godey's Lady's Book, Philadelphia, Volume 48, March, 1854

Author: Various

Editor: Sarah Josepha Buell Hale

Release date: November 18, 2017 [eBook #55996]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jane Robins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK, PHILADELPHIA, VOLUME 48, MARCH, 1854 ***

Godey's Lady's Book,
Philadelphia, March, 1854

SELLING THE WEDDING RING OR LOVE TOKEN.

Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by A.B. Walter

GODEY'S UNRIVALLED COLORED FASHIONS.

Note:

The table of contents are extracted from the January edition of this volume.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

VOL. XLVIII.

A Bit of Shopping Gossip, | 282
A Chapter on Necklaces, by Mrs. White, | 213
An Ornamental Cottage, | 268, 269
A Ruling Passion, | 272
Babylon, Nineveh, and Mr. Layard, | 228
Bearded Civilization, | 227
Braided Slipper, | 261
Boardman & Gray's Dolce Campana Attachment Piano-Fortes, | 277
Bonnets, from Thomas White & Co., | 193, 283
Celestial Phenomena, by D. W. Belisle, | 233
Centre-Table Gossip, | 282
Chemisettes, | 264
Chemistry for Youth, | 279
Cottage Furniture, | 263
Deaconesses, | 273
Design for Screen, | 198, 267
Dress of American Women, | 282
Editors' Table, | 271
Editors' Table-Drawer, | 273
Embroidered Antimacassar, | 269
Enigmas, | 280
Fairyland, by Laura M. Colvin, | 260
Fashions, | 283
Feminology, | 273
Godey's Arm-Chair, | 275
Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing, | 216
Influence of Female Education in Greece, | 271
Instructions for making Ornaments in Rice Shell-Work, | 240
Lady's Walking-Dress and Diagrams, | 262
Lay of the Constant One, by Mrs. Corolla H. Criswell, | 258
Letters Left at the Pastry Cook's, Edited by Horace Mayhew, | 247
Literary Notices, | 274
Little Children, | 207
Madame Caplin's Corsets, | 265
Mantillas, from the celebrated Establishment of G. Brodie, New York, | 196, 197, 267
Mrs. Mudlaw's Recipe for Potato Pudding, by The Author of the "Bedott Papers," | 250
O'er Bleak Acadia's Plains, by Clark Gaddis, | 261
Old, while Young, by Mabel Clifford, | 259
Our Practical Dress Instructor, | 262
Patterns for Embroidery, | 270
Pictures from Dante, | 273
Presentiment, by Mrs. Priscilla P. Lompayrac, | 260
Public Liberality, | 272
Reading without Improvement, | 272
Receipts, &c., | 280
Roman Women in the Days of the Cæsars, by H. P. Haynes, | 243
Selling the Love-Token, by Alice B. Neal, | 208
Sleeves, | 264
Sonnets, by Wm. Alexander, | 260
Table-Moving, by Pauline Forsyth, | 235
Taper-Stand, | 266
The Dying Wife, by Phila Earle, | 257
The Embroidered Slippers.—An acknowledgment of a Holiday Gift, | 259
The Life of Man, by C****, | 261
The Manufacture of Paper, by C. T. Hinckley, | 199
The Philadelphia School of Design for Women, | 271
The Toilet, | 281
The Trials of a Needle-Woman, by T. S. Arthur, | 218
The Wreck, by Mrs. E. Lock, | 259
'Tis Gold! 'Tis Gold! by James L. Roche, | 258
To my Brother, by Mrs. M. A. Bigelow, | 258
Vegetable Physiology, by Harland Coultas, | 232
Watch-Pocket.—Broderie en Lacet, | 269
We Parted, by M. A. Rice, | 257

EMBELLISHMENTS, &c.

March.

Selling the Wedding-Ring or Love-Token.

Godey's Unrivalled Colored Fashions.

Embroidered Antimacassar.

Watch-Pocket.—Broderie en Lacet.

Embroidery Pattern.

Model Cottage, printed in tints; and ground-plan.

Fashionable Bonnets.

MUSIC.—Pop Goes the Weasel.

The Arragonese and the Valencia.

Design for Embroidered Screen.

The Manufacture of Paper.

Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing.

Babylon and Nineveh.

Vegetable Physiology.

Instructions for making Ornaments in Rice Shell-Work.

Braided Slipper.

Lady's Walking-Dress and Diagrams.

Cottage Furniture.

Chemisettes and Sleeves.

Madame Caplin's Corsets.

Taper Stand.

Patterns for Embroidery.

Bird's-eye View of Boardman & Gray's Piano-Forte Manufactory, Albany, N. Y.

Little Girl's Sack and Outdoor Dresses.

Oakford's Spring Fashions for Hats, Caps, &c.

EMBROIDERED ANTIMACASSAR.

WATCH-POCKET.—BRODERIE EN LACET.

EMBROIDERY PATTERN.

FASHIONABLE BONNETS.

From the celebrated Establishment of THOMAS WHITE & CO., No. 41 South Second Street.

No. 1.—OPERA BONNET.

No. 2.—SPRING FANCY.

No. 3.—ENGLISH STRAW.

No. 4.—MISS'S FLAT.

POP GOES THE WEASEL.

THE FIGURES.

This is an old and very animated English Dance, that has lately been revived among the higher classes of Society.

It is danced in a line, the Gentlemen opposite the Ladies.

1st. | Top couple down the middle and return. | 8 Bars.
2d. | Cast off outside and return. | 8 Bars.
3d. | The same couple execute hands three with the Lady next them. | 8 Bars.
4th. | Top couple raise their arms and the Lady passes under, at which time all sing Pop goes the Weasel     | 8 B's.
5th. | The same couple repeat the last figure with the Lady's partner. | 8 Bars.

The same couple repeat till down line, after passing three or four couple the top commences till all are in motion.

PRESENTED TO GODEYS' LADY'S BOOK BY THE PUBLISHER,

T. C. ANDREWS, No. 66 Spring Garden Street, Philada.

[See larger version]

[Listen]

THE ARROGONESE

[From the establishment of G. BRODIE, No. 51 Canal Street, New York.]

(For description, see page 267.)

THE VALENCIA.

[From the establishment of G. BRODIE, No. 51 Canal Street, New York.]

(For description, see page 267.)

EMBROIDERY.—DESIGN FOR SCREEN.

(See description.)

PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1854.

EVERYDAY ACTUALITIES.—NO. XVII.
ILLUSTRATED WITH PEN AND GRAVER.
BY C. T. HINCKLEY.

Fig. 1.—PAPER-MAKING BY HAND.

THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.

The advantages which the civilized world owe to the invention of paper are beyond calculation, and almost out of the reach of thought. The great blessing of knowledge which it has conferred on mankind, together with its peculiar mission, renders it a subject of interest to all classes of society. The material of which the sheet of paper which the reader now holds in her hand, a few months ago, perhaps, hung with its ragged fellows from the back of some mendicant, fluttering along the street—or perhaps commenced its career in the lining of some dress, in all its purity of white and stiffening, and gradually descended through the various grades of usefulness, until at last it was fished up out of the gutter and thrust into the rag-picker's bag to meet a host of others that had travelled over the same despoiling scenes of ragdom. Rags have, at times, held no mean position in the political arena, for we read that "the chiffoniers, or rag-dealers of Paris, rose against the police some years ago, because it was ordered, in certain municipal regulations, that the filth of the streets should be taken away in carts, without time being allowed for its examination by those diligent savers of capital."

Many experiments have been made upon substances proposed as substitutes for rags in the manufacture of paper. The bark of the willow, the beech, the aspen, the hawthorn, and the lime have been made into tolerable paper; the tendrils of the vine, and the stalks of the nettle, the mallow, and the thistle, have been used for a similar purpose; and bind of hops; and patents have been granted for making paper of straw. The process of bleaching the coarser rags, so as to render them fit for the purposes to which only those of the finest qualities were formerly applied, will, however, render the use of these inferior substances unnecessary for many years. The advance of a people in civilization has not only a tendency to make the supply of rags abundant, but, at the same time, to increase the demand. The use of machinery in manufactures renders clothing cheap; the cheapness of clothing causes its consumption to increase, not only in the proportion of an increasing population, but by the scale of individual expenditure; the stock of rags is therefore increasing in the same ratio that our looms produce more linen and cotton cloth. But then the increase of knowledge runs in a parallel line with this increase of comforts; and the increase of knowledge requires an increase of books. The principle of publishing books and tracts to be read by thousands, instead of tens and hundreds, has already caused a large addition to the demand for printing-paper. If, therefore, the demand for books in all civilized countries should outrun, which it is very likely to do, the power of each individual to wear out linen and cotton clothing to supply the demand, paper must be manufactured from other substances than rags.

A species of paper was manufactured at a remote period in Egypt, from the papyrus or paper-reed, a plant growing freely on the banks of the Nile. A manufacture of paper from the bark of trees and other substances existed also in China from a very early date; but among the nations of antiquity, before the introduction of paper, such substitutes were used as lead, brass, bricks, and stone, on which national edicts and records were written or engraved; or tablets of wood, wax, and ivory, skins of fishes, intestines of serpents, backs of tortoises, and the inner bark of trees for ordinary purposes. Indeed, there are but few sorts of plants that have not been used for making paper and books, and hence have arisen the terms biblos, codex, liber, folium, tabula, tillura, philura, scheda, &c., which express the several parts of the plant which were written on. The use of these was discontinued in Europe after the invention of papyrus and parchment, but they are still used in other parts of the world. The two early kinds of manufacture above alluded to must first be noticed, before we describe the later invention of making paper from cotton and linen rags, which, in the greater part of the world, has superseded all other methods of producing a material for writing on. The Egyptian papyrus was made by laying thin plates of bark, taken from the middle of the paper-rush, side by side, but close together, on a hard, smooth table: other pieces of the same size and thinness were then laid across the first at right angles; the whole was moistened with the water of the Nile, which was supposed to have some agglutinating property (though this probably resided in the plant itself), and pressure was then applied for a certain number of hours. Thus a sheet of paper was formed which required no other finishing than rubbing and polishing with a smooth stone, or with a solid glass hemisphere, and drying in the sun. This very simple process was rather a preparation of a natural paper than a manufacture—properly so called. The process adopted by the Chinese comes more legitimately under that head. The small branches of a tree resembling our mulberry-tree, are cut by them in lengths of about three feet, and boiled in an alkaline lye for the sake of loosening the inner rind or bark, which is then peeled off, and dried for use. When a sufficient quantity of bark has been thus laid up, it is again softened in water for three or four days, and the outer parts are scraped off as useless; the rest is boiled in clear lye, which is kept strongly agitated all the time, until the bark has become tender, and separates into distinct fibres. It is then placed in a pan or sieve, and washed in a running stream, being at the same time worked with the hands until it becomes a delicate and soft pulp. For the finer sorts of paper, the pulp receives a second washing in a linen bag; it is then spread out on a smooth table, and beaten with a wooden mallet until it is extremely fine. Thus prepared, it is put into a tub with a slimy infusion of rice and a root called oreni; then it is stirred until the ingredients are properly blended: it is next removed to a large vessel to admit of moulds being dipped into it. These moulds are made of bulrushes cut into narrow strips, and mounted in a frame; as the paper is moulded, the sheets are placed on a table covered with a double mat. The sheets are laid one on the other, with a small piece of reed between; and this, standing out a little way, serves afterwards to lift them up leaf by leaf. Every heap is covered with a board and weights to press out the water; on the following day, the sheets are lifted singly by means of the projecting reeds, and are placed on a plank to be dried in the sun. This paper is so delicate that only one side can be written on; but the Chinese sometimes double the sheets, and glue them together so neatly that they appear to be a single leaf.

This manufacture of the Chinese extended also to the making of sheets of paper from old rags, silk, hemp, and cotton, as early as the second century of the Christian era, and is supposed to have been the source whence the Arabs obtained their knowledge of paper-making. The latter people first introduced the valuable art of making paper from cotton into Europe, in the earlier half of the twelfth century, and established a paper manufactory in Spain. In 1150, the paper of Xativa, an ancient city of Valencia, had become famous, and was exported to the East and West. Notwithstanding its fame, this paper was of a coarse and inferior quality, so long as its manufacture was confined solely to the Arabs, in consequence of their employing only mortars, and hand or horse-mills for reducing the cotton to a pulp; but when some Christian laborers obtained the management of the mills of Valencia and Toledo, the different processes of the manufacture were greatly improved. Cotton paper became general at the close of the twelfth and beginning of the thirteenth centuries; but, in the fourteenth century, it was almost entirely superseded by paper made of hemp and linen rags. The paper made of cotton was found not to possess sufficient strength or solidity for many purposes; a very strong paper was therefore made of the above substances, not weakened by bleaching, according to the present mode, which, by removing the natural gum, impairs the strength of the vegetable fibre. Some of these old papers, having been well sized with gelatin, are said to possess their original qualities even to this day.

The manufacture of paper from linen rags became general in France, Italy, and Spain in the fourteenth century; the first German paper-mill was established at Nuremberg in 1390. English manuscripts on linen paper date as early as 1340; but it is believed that the manufacture did not exist in England until the end of the fifteenth century, when the Bartolomæus of Wynkyn de Worde appeared (1496), in which it is stated that paper of a superior kind was made for that work by John Tate, Jr., at his mills in Stevenage, Hertfordshire. In 1588, a German named Spielman, jeweller to Queen Elizabeth, established a paper-mill at Dartford. In 1770, the manufacture of fine paper was established at Maidstone, in Kent, by a celebrated maker, J. Whatman, who had worked as journeyman in some of the principal paper-mills on the Continent. Not long before this, wove moulds had been invented by Baskerville to obviate the usual roughness of laid paper, and these, attracting attention in France, led to the improvements which characterized the vellum paper of that period. Holland, too, contributed its share to the advancement of this manufacture, by inventing cylinders with steel blades for tearing the rags, and thus facilitating their conversion into pulp, which, by the old method of stampers only, was a very slow and defective process.

In 1799, the first attempt to produce paper in an endless web was made in France by a workman in the employ of M. Didot. The invention was brought to England by M. Didot, in 1801, and made the subject of patents, which, in 1804, were assigned to the Messrs. Fourdrinier. Mr. Bryan Donkin, the engineer, carried out the desired plans, and produced, after intense application, a self-acting machine or working model, on an improved plan, of which he afterwards constructed many others for home use and for exportation, which were perfectly successful in the manufacture of continuous paper. In 1809, Mr. Dickinson, the celebrated paper-maker invented another method of making endless paper, the highly ingenious details of which will be noticed hereafter. The Fourdrinier machines have been greatly improved by the inventions of other skilful manufacturers.

At one time there were serious apprehensions that the supply of linen rags would fail, and various researches were entered upon by ingenious individuals to find substitutes. A book written in German by M. Shäffers, so long ago as 1772, contains sixty specimens of paper made of different materials. This ingenious person made paper from the bark of the willow, beech, aspen, hawthorn, lime, and mulberry; from the down of the asclepias, the catkins of black poplar, and the tendrils of the vine; from the stalks of nettle, mugwort, dyer's weed, thistle, bryony, burdock, clematis, willow-herb, and lily; from cabbage-stalks, fir-cones, moss, potatoes, wood-shavings,[1] and sawdust. Paper has been likewise made from straw, rice, hopbind, liquorice-root, the stalks of the mallow, and the husks of Indian-corn. The fear of a failure of linen rags, and the consequent necessity for these experiments, were obviated by the discovery of chlorine. This powerful bleaching agent will restore many varieties of colored linen to their original whiteness, as well as discolored papers and manuscripts, so that the same substances may be used over and over again as a material for paper.

[1] A successful experiment of making paper from this material, as also of reeds, has lately been tried in Baltimore.

SUPPLY OF RAGS—SORTING—WASHING—GRINDING, AND BLEACHING.

The quality of the paper depends greatly on that of the linen worn in the country where it is made. Where that is coarse and brown, the rags and the paper made from them must be so too.

The quality of the rags depends very much upon the state of civilization of the countries which produce them; the lower the degree of civilization, the more coarse and filthy are the rags. When the rags are received at the mill, they are sorted according to their respective qualities; for if rags of different qualities were ground at the same engine, the finest and best parts would be ground and carried off before the coarser were sufficiently reduced to make a pulp. In the sorting of rags intended for the manufacture of fine paper, hems and seams are kept apart, and coarse cloth separated from fine. Cloth made of tow should be separated from that made from linen, cloth of hemp from cloth of flax. Even the degree of wear should be attended to, for if rags comparatively new are mixed with those which are much worn, the one will be reduced to a good pulp, while the other is so completely ground up as to pass through the hair strainers; thus occasioning not only loss of material, but loss of beauty in the paper; for the smooth velvet softness of some papers may be produced by the finer particles thus carried off. The pulp produced from imperfectly sorted rags has a cloudy appearance, in consequence of some parts being less reduced than others, and the paper made from it is also cloudy or thicker in some parts than in others, as is evident on holding a sheet up before the light. When it is necessary to mix different qualities of rags together to produce different qualities of paper, the rags should be ground separately, and the various pulps mixed together afterwards.

The rag-merchants sort rags into five qualities, known as Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. No. 1, or superfine, consisting wholly of linen, is used for the finest writing-papers. No. 5 is canvas, and may, after bleaching, be used for inferior printing-papers. There is also rag-bagging, or the canvas sacks in which the rags are packed; also cotton colored rags of all colors, but the blue is usually sorted out for making blue paper. Common papers are made from rag-bagging and cotton rags.

An operation sometimes required after unpacking the rags, is to put them into a duster, which is a cylinder four feet in diameter and five feet long, covered with a wire net and inclosed in a tight box to confine the dust. A quantity of rags being put into this cylinder, it is made to rotate rapidly on its axis, and thus a good deal of dust is shaken out, which might otherwise vitiate the air of the rag-cutting room.

Fig. 2.—CUTTING RAGS.

The sorting is done by women and children in a large room; each sorter stands before a table frame, covered at the top with wire cloth, containing about nine meshes to the square inch. To this frame a long steel blade is attached, in a slanting position, as shown in Fig. 2; and the sorter divides the rags into shreds by drawing them against the sharp edge of this knife; a good deal of the dust which is shaken out in this operation falls through the wire-cloth into a box beneath. The sections of rag are thrown into the compartments of the frame, according to their fineness. In importing rags, some attention is paid to their quality by the foreign dealers, so that each bale is tolerably uniform. Formerly, this was not the case, and in sorting a bale the woman had a piece of pasteboard hung from her girdle and extended on her knees, upon which with a long sharp knife she unripped seams and stitches, and scraped off any adhering dirt. The rags were sorted, according to their fineness, into the superfine, the fine, the stitches of the fine, the middling, the seams and stitches of the middling, and the coarse. These divisions are more or less observed at the present day. The very coarse parts are rejected or laid aside for making white-brown paper.

The sorted rags are washed with hot water and alkali, in an apparatus formed exactly on the principle of the bucking keirs or puffers, described under BLEACHING (June number, 1852); or the washing is performed at one of the mills or engines described below.

The rags are ground into pulp in mills, now made sufficiently powerful to reduce the strongest and toughest rags. Formerly, before the invention of mills, or when they were of much less power, it was customary to pile the rags in large stone vats, and leave them for a month or six weeks with frequent stirring and watering to ferment or rot, by which means the fibres became sufficiently loose to be reduced to pulp by pounding in wooden mortars with stampers.

Fig. 3.

Fig. 4.

The vats were superseded by what are called engines, a Dutch invention well adapted to the purpose. The engines are sometimes arranged in pairs on different levels, the bottom of one being higher than the top of the other, so that the contents of the higher engine may be let off into the lower. In the upper engine, called the washer, the rags are first worked coarsely with a stream of water running through them to wash and open their fibres: this reduces them to what is called half stuff; they are then let down into the beating engine to be ground into pulp fit for making paper. Each engine consists of a large wooden vat or cistern V V, Figs. 3, 4, of oblong figure on the outside, with the angles cut off; the inside, which is lined with lead, has straight sides and circular ends. Or the vat may be entirely formed of cast-iron. It is divided by a partition P P, also covered with lead. The cylinder C is firmly fixed to the spindle s, which extends across the engine, and is put in motion by the pinion w, which engages other wheels set in motion by water or steam-power. The cylinder is of wood, but is furnished with a number of teeth or cutters attached to its surface parallel with the axis, and projecting about an inch from it. Immediately below the cylinder is a block of wood B, also furnished with cutters, so that when the cylinder revolves its teeth pass very near those of the block, the distance between them being regulated by elevating or depressing the bearings l l, on which the necks of the spindle s s are supported. These bearings are made on two levers l l, which have tenons at their ends fitted into upright mortises made in stout beams bolted to the sides of the engine. The levers l l are movable at one end of each, the other ends being fitted to rise and fall on bolts in the beams as centres. The front one of these levers, or that nearest the cylinder C, can be raised or lowered by turning the handle of the screw; the cylinder is thus made to cut coarser or finer by enlarging or diminishing the space between the two sets of cutters. At one part of the vat is a breasting B', made of boards and covered with sheet lead, curved to the form of the cylinder and nearly in contact with its teeth. An inclined plane I, passes from the bottom of the vat to the top of the breasting which terminates in the block B. The vat is supplied with water from the mill-dam by means of pumps worked by the water-wheel. The water is first discharged by the pipe P, Fig. 4, into the cistern c, the supply being regulated as occasion may require. A grating covered with a hair strainer is fixed across the cistern to prevent any solid impurity from passing into the vat; or the water may be strained through a flannel bag tied over the mouth of the pipe P, as shown in the figure. The vat being full of water and a quantity of rags put in, the cylinder is set in motion, the effect of which is to produce a regular current in the water in the direction of the arrows, by which the rags are drawn between the cutters of the cylinder and the teeth of the block; this cuts them to pieces: they are then thrown over the top of the breasting upon the inclined plane, down which they slowly slide and pass round the partition, and in about twenty minutes are again brought between the teeth of the cylinder and the block. The mode in which the rags are cut will be understood by considering that the teeth of the block are placed somewhat inclined to the axis of the cylinder, while the teeth of the cylinder are parallel to its axis, so that the cutting edges meet at a small angle and pass over each other something like the blade of a pair of shears, and the rags between them are cut up in a similar manner; and as they are brought many times under the action of the cutters, and must necessarily present their fibres each time in different directions, they are reduced to the condition of pulp.

Fig. 5.—BEATING-ENGINE.

The beater, with sixty teeth, and twenty to twenty-four cutters in the block, makes 180,000 cuts per minute, the effect of which is a low musical note or hum, audible at a distance from the mill. In the washing-engine the rags are opened, their fibres separated, and the dirt removed. Any small solid impurities are collected in the trough a, Fig. 4. When first put in the beating-engine, the rags are worked gently, the cylinder is raised some way above the block, so as to rub rather than cut the rags; at the same time a copious stream of water is admitted; after twenty or thirty minutes, the cylinder is let down so as to cut the rags, and the operation is at first so violent that the cylinder is often jerked or heaved up. After three or four hours the engine works steadily; the rags are cut up very small, and form what is called half stuff; this is let out into a basket, which retains it while the water flows off. For some kinds of paper the half stuff is left to mellow, or ferment; but it is usual at this stage to bleach the stuff, which is done by a solution of chloride of lime, in stone vats, or by using this solution instead of water in the engine at the last stage of the washing process, the slides g g being put down in the cover to prevent the loss of the solution. In the course of an hour, the yellow rags or half stuff are converted into a snow white. This is then put into the beating-engine, and in four or five hours it is ground into a fine pulp, a little water being let in from time to time, but none being allowed to escape. The quality of the water has considerable influence on that of the paper; the purest water is of course the best; water from chalky soils introduces lime into the pulp, and this forms a slight incrustation upon the moulds, which is washed off from time to time by vinegar.

In order to prevent common ink from running upon paper, size is introduced at a certain stage of the manufacture; but printing-ink being oily instead of watery, and, moreover, of greater consistence than common ink, is not so liable to run. Hence, for certain printing-papers, the sizing is done in the beating-engine towards the close of the operation. The size consists of finely pounded alum mixed with oil, about a pint and a half of the mixture being thrown into the engine at intervals during the last half hour of the beating. The blue is produced by smalt, or artificial ultramarine.

PAPER-MAKING BY HAND.

When the stuff is properly prepared, it is run out by the pipes o o', Fig. 4, into the stuff-chest, where the different kinds are mixed preparatory to moulding. From this chest it is transferred to vats or tubs, each about five feet in diameter and two and a half feet deep, provided at top with planks inclosed inwards to prevent the stuff from running over during the moulding. Across these planks is a board pierced with holes at one extremity, for supporting the mould. The stuff in the vat is kept at the proper temperature by a small grate placed in a hole lined with copper, at the side of the vat. The fuel is charcoal or coke, or the fire is entirely confined to the other side of the wall, a hole through it being made into the side of the vat. In this way smoke is prevented.

The paper is made into sheets by means of the mould and deckle, Figs. 6, 7. The mould is a square frame, or shallow box of mahogany, covered at the top with wire-cloth; it is an inch or an inch and a half wider than the sheet of paper intended to be made upon it. The wire-cloth of the mould varies in fineness with that of the paper and the nature of the stuff; it consists of a number of parallel wires stretched across a frame very near together, and tied fast through holes in the sides; a few other stronger wires are also placed across at right angles to the former; they are a considerable distance apart, and they are bound to the small wires at the points of intersection by means of fine wire. In several kinds of writing-paper the marks of the wires are evident from the paper being thinner in the parts where the pulp touched the wires. In what is called wove paper, there are no marks of the wires; these are avoided by weaving the wire in a loom into a wire-cloth, which is stretched over the frame of the mould, and being turned down over the sides is fastened by fine wire. The water-mark in paper is produced by wires bent into the shape of the required letter or device, and sewed to the surface of the mould;—it has the effect of making the paper thinner in those places. The old makers employed water-marks of an eccentric kind. Those of Caxton and other early printers were an ox-head and star, a collared dog's head, a crown, a shield, a jug, &c. A fool's cap and bells employed as a water-mark, gave the name to foolscap paper; a postman's horn, such as was formerly in use, gave the name to post paper.

Fig. 6. Fig. 7.

The deckle is a thin square mahogany frame, bound with brass at the angles; its outer dimensions correspond with the size of the mould, and its inner with that of the sheet of paper. The use of the frame is to retain the pulp upon the wire-cloth; it must be quite flat, so as to fit the cloth of the mould, otherwise the edges of the paper will be ragged and badly finished. When the deckle is placed upon the wire of the mould it forms a shallow sieve, in which the paper-maker takes up a quantity of the pulp suspended in water, and, the water draining through, leaves the pulp in the form of a sheet upon the wire. The deckle is not fastened to the mould, but is held to it by the workman grasping the mould and deckle together in both hands at the opposite sides. When the sheet is moulded the deckle is removed, and the sheet is taken up from the wire by laying it on a piece of felt or woollen cloth. These felts prevent the sheets from coming together, and they also serve to imbibe a portion of the water from the damp and loosely cohering sheet.

The wood-cut at the commencement of this article represents the process of making paper by hand.

Upon looking at the cut, it will be seen that one of the two men employed is dipping the deckle into the vat. This vat is supplied with stuff from the chest already described; and that stuff is kept warm by a copper within the vat, to which heat is communicated by a steam-pipe. It is also agitated by machinery within. The workman forming the sheet, who is called a vatman, is provided with two moulds. These are slight frames of wood, covered with fine wire. Fitting to each mould is a deckle, or movable raised edging, which determines the size of the sheet. The vatman, putting the deckle on one of the moulds, dips it vertically into the stuff; and bringing it to the surface horizontally, covered with pulp, shakes it gently. It must be evident that this operation requires the greatest nicety, both in determining the general thickness of the sheet, and in producing it of an uniform thickness throughout. The vatman then pushes the mould with the sheet towards his fellow-workman, who is called the coucher; and, taking off the deckle, applies it to the second mould, and proceeds as before. The coucher, who receives the first mould, having a heap of porous pieces of flannel by his side, called felts, turns the mould over upon a felt, upon which the sheet remains; and, placing a felt on the sheet, he is ready to turn over another from the second mould. Thus the vatman and the coucher proceed, the one moulding a sheet of paper and the other placing it upon felt, till they have made six or eight quires. The heap is then subjected to the action of a powerful press. The sheets, after this pressure, have acquired sufficient consistency to enable them to be pressed again by themselves. The felts are accordingly removed, and one sheet being laid upon another, the heap is subjected to a moderate pressure.

When the paper is taken out of the press, it is separated into small parcels of seven or eight sheets in each, for the purpose of drying. The drying is conducted in extensive lofts in the upper parts of the mill. The sheets are taken up upon a piece of wood, shaped like a T, and hung upon hair lines stretched across large horizontal wooden frames, called tribbles, and as these are filled they are lifted up between upright posts to the top of the room, and retained by pegs put into the posts; another frame is then filled, and put up in its turn, until the loft is filled. Air is admitted to the lofts by means of louvre boards. When sufficiently dry, the paper is taken down, and sleeked, dressed, and shaken, to get rid of dust, and to separate the pages. It is then laid in heaps in the warehouse, preparatory to sizing. The size is made from the shreds and parings of leather and parchment; it is nicely filtered, and a little alum added. A number of sheets are then dipped into the size and separated, so as to expose both surfaces of each sheet; the sheets are taken out, turned over, and dipped a second time. About a dozen handfuls being thus dipped, they are made into a pile, with a thin board or felt between every two handfuls, and pressed to get rid of superfluous size, which flows back into the size vessel. The paper is again transferred to the lofts, and dried. This being complete, it is taken down, carried to a building called the Saul (probably a corruption of the German saal, or the French salle, a hall, or large room), where it is examined, finished, and pressed. The imperfect sheets are removed. The press called the dry-press is a powerful one, or the hydrostatic-press is used. After one pressing, the heaps of paper are parted; that is, they are turned sheet by sheet, so as to expose new surfaces: the press is again used; then there is another parting, and so on, several times. The paper is next made into quires and reams, and once more pressed.

Connected with the sizing of papers is the blueing, which is said to have originated in the suggestion of a paper-maker's wife, who thought that the practice of improving the color of linen while passing through the wash, by means of a blue bag, might also be advantageously applied to paper. A blue-bag was accordingly suspended in the vat; and the effect proved to be so satisfactory that it led to the introduction of the large and important class of blue writing-papers. It was soon found that smalt gave a better color than common stone-blue; and smalt continued to be used for many years; but when artificial ultramarine came to be manufactured at a very low cost, and in a great variety of tints, this beautiful color gradually superseded smalt in the manufacture of writing-paper.

PAPER-MAKING BY MACHINERY.

The slow and difficult process of moulding the separate sheets of paper by hand has, to a great extent, been superseded by the introduction and gradual improvement of the very beautiful machinery of Fourdrinier, referred to in our introductory remarks. By means of this machine, a process which, under the old system, occupied about three weeks, is now performed in as many minutes. Within this brief space of time, and the short distance of thirty or forty feet, a continuous stream of fluid pulp is made into paper, dried, polished, and cut up into separate sheets ready for use. The paper thus produced is moderate in price, and, for a large number of purposes, superior in quality to that which was formerly made by hand. In fact, the machine-made papers can be produced of unlimited dimensions; they are of uniform thickness; they can be fabricated at any season of the year; they do not require to be sorted, trimmed, and hung up in the drying-house—operations which formerly led to so much waste, that about one sheet in every five was defective.

The paper-machine moves at the rate of from twenty-five to forty feet per minute, so that scarcely two minutes are occupied in converting liquid pulp into finished paper, a result which, by the old process, occupies about seven or eight days. If the machine produce ten lineal yards of paper per minute, or six hundred per hour, this is equal to a mile of paper in three hours, or four miles per day of twelve hours. The paper is about fifty-four inches wide, and, supposing three hundred machines to be at work on an average twelve hours a day, the aggregate length of web would be equal to 1,200 miles, and the area 3,000,000 square yards.

Paper is sent into the market in various forms and sizes, according to the use for which it is intended. The following table contains the name and dimensions of various sheets of paper:—

| Inches.
Foolscap, | 14 by 17
Crown, | 15 by 20
Folio Post, | 16 by 21
Demy, | 17 by 22
Medium, | 19 by 24
Royal, | 20 by 25
Super Royal, | 22 by 27
Imperial, | 22 by 32
Medium and Half,     | 24 by 28½
Royal and Half, | 25 by 29
Double Medium, | 24 by 38
Do. Super Royal, | 27 by 42
Do. Imperial,  | 32 by 44

Many of the papers above enumerated are made by hand, of the exact size indicated; but, if made by the machine, the roll of paper has to be cut to the required dimensions. In order to do this with precision and expedition, various cutting-machines have been contrived, in which the paper, as it comes from the manufacturing machine, is cut to any size required.

HOT-PRESSING, GLAZING, AND FINISHING—STATISTICS.

Fine papers are, in some cases, hot-pressed and glazed. In hot-pressing, a number of stout cast-iron plates are heated in an oven, and then put into a screw-press in alternate layers, with highly glazed pasteboards, between which the paper is placed in open sheets; and the hard polished surfaces of the pasteboards, aided by the heat and pressure, impart that beautiful appearance which belongs to hot-pressed paper. A yet more smooth and elegant surface is produced by the process of glazing. The sheets of paper are placed separately between very smooth clean copper-plates. These are then passed through rollers, which impart a pressure of from twenty to thirty tons. After three or four such pressures, the paper is called rolled, and sometimes also hot-pressed; but, if passed more frequently through the rollers, the paper acquires a higher surface, and is then called glazed.

The general introduction of steel pens has increased the demand for smooth papers, and has led to improvements in finishing them.

As an improvement in the manufacture of paper sized by the machines now in use, it is proposed to conduct the web of paper, after it has been either partially or completely dried, through a trough of cold water, then to pass it through a pair of pressing-rolls, and afterwards to dry it on reels, or over hot cylinders. The paper thus treated will be found to "bear" much better, and admit of erasures being made on the surface of such paper, and written over, without the ink running in the way it does when the paper is sized and dried in the usual manner.

It has been found that when paper is dried, after sizing, by the drying-machines in present use, the paper is very harsh; and, until it stands for some time to get weather (as it is technically termed), great difficulty is experienced in glazing the paper. This inconvenience is proposed to be overcome by passing the paper partially round a hollow cylinder, through which a small stream of cold water is made to run. By this means the heat in the paper is carried off, and the paper is rendered more tractable, and brought to a proper state for undergoing the glazing operation.

It is stated that, "in England, writing-papers are sized with gelatin, and are stronger and harder than those of other countries; they are also cleaner, generally better put up, and show greater care in the manufacture, than those of France and of other countries. The old cream-laid papers, now so fashionable, were reintroduced a few years since, and they are still preferred for letter and note-paper. The thinner post writing-papers, however, are much better manufactured in France, Belgium, and other parts of the Continent, than in England. Those exhibited at the World's Fair from Angoulême, in France, and Heilbronn, in Germany, are the best; those made in Belgium are not sufficiently hard-sized. The white of the letter-papers of France, Germany, and other foreign countries is of great purity and beauty; and these papers being sized in the vat with farina, in addition to rosin-soap, instead of gelatin, they are less greasy under the pen, and consequently can be written on more freely than those which are sized with animal size; they do not, however, bear the ink so well. English printing-papers generally maintain a superiority over those of foreign countries; as also drawing-papers and strong account-book blue-laid papers. Tinted printing and drawing-papers, formerly made exclusively in England, are now produced by most foreign paper-makers."

LITTLE CHILDREN.

I am fond of children (says a celebrated author). I think them the poetry of the world—the fresh flowers of our hearths and homes—little conjurors, with their natural magic; evoking by their spells what delights and enriches all ranks, and equalizes the different classes of society. Often as they bring with them anxieties and cares, and live to occasion sorrow and grief, we should get on very badly without them. Only think—if there was never anything anywhere to be seen but great grown-up men and women! How we should long for the sight of a little child! Every infant comes into the world like a delegated prophet, the harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose office it is "to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children," and to draw "the disobedient to the wisdom of the just." A child softens and purifies the heart, warming and melting it by its gentle presence; it enriches the soul by new feelings, and awakens within it what is favorable to virtue. It is a beam of light, a fountain of love, a teacher whose lessons few can resist. Infants recall us from much that engenders and encourages selfishness, that freezes the affections, roughens the manners, indurates the heart, they brighten the home, deepen love, invigorate exertion, infuse courage, and vivify and sustain the charities of life. It would be a terrible world, I do think, if not embellished by little children.

SELLING THE LOVE-TOKEN.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

(See Plate.)

"Very well done!" said my grandmother; "very well done, sir—you have succeeded better than I expected."

The foreign-looking gentleman bowed and smiled, showing his white teeth through a dark overhanging moustache, as my grandmother bent forward again from the easy-chair, and raised her double silver-rimmed eye-glass.

Now, Josephine and myself had been sent to her room on some household errand connected with the coming festivities of Christmas, and were not sorry to find the door slightly ajar. We had seen the strange-looking gentleman, with the large square case, arrive, and knew that it was not his first visit to the sitting-room, which we young people never entered without knocking first for admittance. Everybody said Madam Evelyn was peculiar; but everybody loved her, or rather regarded her with that mingling of trust and respect which we call deference, in its warmest and most grateful sense. This was one of her peculiarities, that her room was held free of all intrusion, except from such visitors as she chose to admit. I do not believe papa, her favorite son, ever broke through the rule of asking audience, though she had made his home her home for many a year. Poor mamma used to declare that she envied her this privilege. Her chamber was a perfect thoroughfare. The seamstress always occupied one corner. The servants were coming for orders incessantly. Maude, my oldest sister, who had her grandmother's name, retreated to mamma's lounge if she chanced to disagree with Elizabeth, and at any hour of the day a little horde of Goths, in the shape of us younger children, were liable to overrun and take possession of this neutral territory between the parlor and the nursery.

Poor mamma! no wonder her favorite expressions were—"I'm sure I shall go distracted some day," and "I am just ready to die." I dare say she was at any time; but there seemed to be no refuge. Grandmother often remonstrated with her, and told her that every person needed some time in the day to collect their thoughts, and balance accounts with themselves. After these talks, mamma would sometimes make the attempt to have an undisturbed five minutes, "sitting with closed doors;" but nurse would come with the baby, Charley with his cut finger, Josephine with her torn frock or hard spelling lesson, and I with a mutilated doll that required instant surgical aid. Maude and Elizabeth were sure to have a dispute about the joint occupancy of some desk or closet; the cook was in want of some receipt, or the newspaper carrier insisted on sixty cents for the "Journal," and could not be put off. No wonder that mamma was always "nervous" and delicate, and that those periods of seclusion were few and far between.

But our grandmother's room, as I said before, was sacred from intrusion. It was a large, cheerful apartment, with old-fashioned, heavy mahogany furniture, and chintz curtains lined with colored cambric in the winter season, as you may see in the bedrooms of old-fashioned English houses. Her bed was in an adjoining "light closet," as she called it, for she never yet could conquer a prejudice against sleeping in a room with a fire; and hence we all of us, from oldest to youngest, esteemed it a wonderful favor to visit her.

And now, thought Josephine and myself, stealing in on tiptoe, we should find out what the errand of the strange gentleman is, and what he has brought to grandmother in the square packing-case.

But, alas for our hopes! she very quietly closed the cover as she discovered us in the background, and the only satisfaction we had was seeing her go to the tall cabinet in the corner, and take out five bright gold pieces, which she gave to the stranger, and which seemed to please him quite as much as her commendation had done. I dare say he needed the gold more than the praise, though both were grateful to the friendless foreigner.

We did not mean to betray our unlawful curiosity, but I suppose we must have done so, for grandmother said—

"All in good time, children," and nodded a little towards the mysterious box. I took Josephine to task, as we hastily retreated in the wake of the strange gentleman, while she, on the contrary, was convinced it was me who had drawn forth the implied reprimand.

We always made a great account of Christmas, much more than any of our friends, to whom Thanksgiving Day was the high festival of the year. I suppose it was on account of our English descent; and then our grandmother always took such an active and happy part in the day's household festivities.

On this day she always came down stairs to dinner, carefully dressed in an old-fashioned brocaded silk, the snowy lawn handkerchief crossed on her breast, fastened with a brooch containing my grandfather's hair, in a setting of alternate pearls and garnets. My uncle John and his family were usually of the party, but she leaned on papa's arm, and always called him "my son."

The evening of the coming Christmas we were to pass in grandmother's room, by special invitation. Chester Adams, who was in papa's counting-house, and indeed always treated like one of the family, was the only stranger present. Our grandmother was always especially kind to him, for he was a frank, modest young man; an orphan, with no home circle but our own. Papa thought him possessed of unusual business talents and integrity, but he had no other fortune; while Robert Winthrop, the next most constant visitor at the house, was the son of a rich man, and member of Congress. We used to wonder, Josephine and I, why Maude always sent us to bed the instant either of them came, and why our favorite, Chester Adams, would sometimes take up his hat and go away again, when he heard young Winthrop was in the parlor, without so much as saying good-evening. However, we are older now, and have visitors of our own.

I think Maude was in hopes Robert Winthrop would be asked to stay, for he called in the afternoon, and brought her a bouquet from his mother's conservatory, one of the few kept up through our rigorous Boston winters. But though he paid a very long call, sitting almost until the candles were lighted, no further invitation was given. Maude consoled herself, however, by coming to the dinner-table with a branch of the scarlet geranium in her dark hair, which suited the coral ornaments, papa's gift, and was wonderfully becoming. Chester Adams moved a little, to make way for her, and then spilled the gravy he was helping grandmother to, as she sat down. We children thought he was very dull—he did not tell one amusing story, or eat philopœnas with us, as he generally did.

Our Christmas dinner was the great feast of the year. On other days, the orthodox two o'clock rule of our neighbors was adopted, but there was a lunch after church on Christmas, and the dinner was not served until it was quite dark. The shutters were closed, lights placed along the table, a great dessert-dish of fruit, ornamented with evergreens, occupied the centre, while the roast beef before papa, and the turkey in mamma's vicinity, were the finest the market could afford. We used to wonder how people could eat beef, when there was roast turkey with dressing!

Then, at dessert, the plum-pudding made from our grandmother's receipt came on all in a blaze, which we thought the most curious thing in the world, and used to excite the incredulity of our schoolmates with describing. Then there were raisins and almonds, figs and apples, and a dish of sugar-plums, which mostly fell to our share. There, too, we could not account for the indifference of our elders and betters, though we were so much the gainers by it. There never will be such dinners as those again—never, never, Josephine and I both agree, though we should live to have houses of our own, and be able to order almonds and raisins every day for dessert.

After we young people had disposed of all we could, and much more than was good for us, I dare say, the whole party adjourned to grandmother's room. Chester Adams had never been in it before, and exclaimed at its cheerful air of comfort, which pleased grandmother—and papa, too, for that matter, for he was still an affectionate and dutiful child. The chintz curtains were let down, the round-table drawn up near the blazing grate, and the brass-headed nails that studded the old-fashioned furniture glowed in the light of the wax candles in the high silver candlesticks on the mantle and table. Our grandmother never took kindly to lamps. I don't know what she would have said to gas.

This was the way we sat—papa on one side of the fire, with Joe on his knee, and Charlie nestling up to mamma's side, already half asleep. Then Uncle John opposite, and quiet Aunt Mary, with Cousin Kate and Ellis, their only children. Elizabeth was on that side, for she and Ellis were great friends; and so it happened that Chester Adams was left the place on the sofa between Maude and myself. Maude drew her dress up carefully when he sat down and put his arm around me. I was only ten years old, and we had always looked upon him as our brother. I thought Maude need not have been so careful, though she did have on her best silk, for Chester was very nice. Maude often spoke of how particular he was.

Grandmother had promised us a story that evening. She and papa often talked about England on Christmas evening, and sometimes of our grandfather. Uncle John was too young when they came to this country to remember much that happened before.

"Tell us about the old stone Grange, grandmother, where you were born," pleaded Josephine.

"Yes—about your tumbling into the moat, like pussy in the well and little Johnny Green," Charlie called out, suddenly rising up from mamma's shoulder.

Grandmother pulled up her black silk mitts, and smiled very kindly. I can see her now, sitting up as straight in her high-backed chair as if she had never known any burden of care, or sorrow, or disappointment. Mamma always stooped much more. Just then, Josephine and I discerned the square case standing on the shelf of the cabinet. We both saw it at the same time, and even papa's eyes wandered curiously in that direction.

He certainly had the best right to solve the mystery—it contained his Christmas present from grandmother; a picture in a bright gilt frame, which he brought forward, at her request, and placed in an excellent light. I never saw my father more affected than when he had the first glimpse of that picture. He did not say one word; but the tears rose to his eyes, and he went directly to grandmother, and, stooping down, kissed her forehead, putting back the silvery hair as he would have done to one of us, and holding his hand there a moment as if he said, "God bless you!" in his heart. It was the only affectionate caress I ever saw him give her, for he was usually self-composed, almost stern in manner, which was her own way.

"But what is it about, grandmother—the story?" asked Josephine.

"What a funny little baby!" commented Charlie. "Not half so pretty as ours. And such an ugly old gentleman! What is he doing with that eye-glass, mamma? It isn't double, like grandmother's."

Maude and Elizabeth seemed interested to know whether it was to be hung in the parlor, and said the frame was very handsome. For myself, I saw in the picture a dark room, not at all like any in our house, with an old gentleman, whose long pointed beard reminded me of the Jewish doctors in the Temple—one of the prints in grandmother's large Bible. He seemed to be examining a ring through an eye-glass, and before him stood a lady with a very sad, anxious face. She wore a dark robe, of a quaint, though graceful fashion, and held a little child in her arms. I thought it was as pretty a picture as any in the annual Chester Adams had given Maude that morning, though I felt almost inclined to cry; the lady's face was so very sorrowful.

"Who will read my story for me?" said grandmother, by and by, when papa had moved away from the back of her chair, and stood looking at the picture again with his hand over his eyes, to get a better light, I dare say. "I have written it, because there are some of these little people who would forget if it was only told them, and I should like to have it remembered as long as the picture is kept in the family; when you do not come to pass your Christmas evenings in grandmother's room," she added, after a little pause. It was the first time I heard her allude to her going from us; not that I think she dreaded death—no one was ever better prepared to meet it—but she was naturally reserved.

I wondered papa did not offer to take the manuscript she held out; but he did not change his position; and Aunt Mary, always kind and thoughtful, volunteered her services. Grandmother said she was afraid the children would not be interested, and that it might trouble Aunt Mary to make out an old lady's crabbed handwriting. "It was not very long, to be sure," and then she straightened herself to listen, holding a little Chinese screen to shade her eyes from the fire, while Aunt Mary read:—

"THE TEMPTATION OF ALICE GRAY.

"It was a long time ago," said my grandmother's story, "that Alice Gray left her English country home, to follow the fortunes of her husband, a generous, kind-hearted sailor. It was hard parting with the old place, though her parents were dead, and she was an only child. She was going to foreign countries, where even the language was strange to her, with no one to turn to but Richard Gray, and, though he was very kind and noble-hearted, she knew there would be hours of loneliness when her heart would travel back to the old haunts of her childhood, yearning for the household faces that were familiar in her cradle. Injustice had made her poor, as well as an orphan, though she had never yet felt the lack of abundant means; nor did she know, until she had been long a wife, what a painful dependence the love and protection of Richard Gray had saved her from. The frank-hearted sailor loved her the better that she needed his care; she tried in turn to be cheerful and brave, in looking forward to their long separations, and to welcome him home with a new happiness and trust. For a time, these partings, which shorten the life of every sailor's wife, were not necessary. She had a bold heart, and went with him to many strange countries, seeing more wonderful things than she had ever dreamed of in her old home in Devon. So their first parting was very hard; and while she could scarcely close her eyes to rest, for fear of the hour that was to take him from her, he stole away from her side as she lay asleep. He never trembled at the wildest gale; but he could not bear the agony of parting with one he loved better than life. You can imagine how weary and desolate that waking was to Alice Gray, and how she tried to shut out the daylight, and put away for a time all comfort that was offered to her. It was not as now, when letters can come from those in distant lands almost with the swiftness of a loving thought—it was months, and sometimes years, before any tidings could arrive. The dangers of the sea were little understood, but greatly dreaded, and loss and shipwreck far more frequent. So Alice Gray shut up her sorrows in her own heart from the strangers around her, and listened to the sobbing wind and moaning sea through the long dreary nights, until her child, her first-born son, was given to her arms. There was pain even in that new happiness; for there was no father's blessing for her little one, and no kiss of tenderness for herself, as she pressed her child to her heart.

"But the boy grew so like his father. The same curly rings of hair lying on his broad forehead, though many shades fairer, and the clear blue eyes, haunted her with a well-remembered look. She had need of all comfort, for she passed through many trials, sickness, loss, and at last poverty, still among strangers, though not where her husband had left her. She could not stay so far from the sea, where it would be many days after he landed before he could reach her. So she came to the little seaport from which his vessel had sailed for the far-off Indian Ocean, and there watched for the first glimpse of its white sails. Months passed on in sickening, harassing anxiety; and then came news of disaster, shipwreck, death; an awful certainty for the fear that had haunted her day and night. She and her child were doubly orphaned.

"Midwinter, and death, and pressing poverty! She could not give up all hope at once, but, through the long autumn, paced the rocky line of coast day after day, her child cradled warmly in her arms, and looking out with straining eyes towards the horizon. She thought she must go mad, and almost prayed for it, if forgetfulness came to—but, then there was her child—there would be no one to care for him, and she could not abandon him with the new mother-love growing up in her heart. Many pitied the 'poor English lady,' as they saw the chill sea-breeze tossing her thin garments, she standing on the very verge of the bleak rocks, with the cold, black waves breaking sullenly beneath her. There was one who did more than pity. She welcomed him as a friend first, for he came with sympathizing looks and kind words, and would have relieved the pressure of her poverty. But Alice Gray was still too proud for that, and she parted one by one with the few treasures, costly toys, her husband had gathered in foreign lands, to keep away starvation. She had no idea of toiling for a subsistence, as the poor creatures around her did, and was too much wrapt up in her grief to think or plan any lighter task. He saw it all, rich and prosperous as he was, and patiently waited his time. It came at last, when, with a shudder, she drew off her ring of betrothal, scarcely dearer or more sacred than the wedding-ring itself, and offered it in exchange for gold, to buy bread for herself and child. Heaven help her when that was exhausted! It was all she had. It was very late when she hurried through the narrow street, to offer it, where all her trinkets had gone before. They were celebrating Christmas night in her own land, with its blazing fires, and tables spread with plenty. She hurried as if to put aside such goading memories, past low wine-shops, and groups of fishermen, and common sailors, until she came to the house of the Israelite, who exchanged whatever was brought to him, without questions, so he could get it at half its worth. The dingy shop was closed, but she was admitted for the first time into the inner apartment, which the broker had fitted up with the spoils of his hard trade. Pictures, goblets, and vases, musical instruments, and embroidered cushions, and antique carved chairs, gave it a novel, but curious air, this cold, wintry night. There was no light save the broad glare of the brands on the hearth, and of the lamp that burned still in the outer room, and fell through the casement, by which all visitors were reconnoitred. A heavy curtain of velvet, a little faded, but once the hangings of a palace-like mansion, concealed the rough wall on one side, as she stood there noting all these things with a strange, minute interest she did not feel, and wondered at even then. It seemed as if he would never name the value of the ring. She could not bear to see him handle it so carelessly, when it was so dear to her.

"Outside the gusty wind was sweeping the narrow streets, and coarse songs and jests, hard trampling feet went by, and she had yet to go out and encounter these perils of darkness and storm: she, who had been so tenderly reared as a child, and so closely sheltered as a wife. She had removed the brown braided tress that filled the centre of the ring; but it was of virgin gold, massive and antique in design, as suited the sailor's fancy, with a circlet of precious stones. She knew little of its real value; to her it was beyond all price as the first love-token from her husband, who was gone forever. The careful dealer saw this, and noted the indifference of her manner as she stood before him in her dark robes and linen coif, for she had thrown down the coarse mantle that had wrapped herself and child at the entrance of the outer apartment. He did not anticipate much wrangling as he slowly drew forth the key of his treasury, and as slowly counted out the price at which he valued the token. He was right; for the sacrifice had cost her too much for words, and she went out slowly from his presence with that same fixed, hopeless expression. When that small sum was exhausted, she had no other earthly resource.

"Still pressing his child to her bosom, Alice Gray passed along the dingy street to her miserable home, though it was no home, with its blank walls and fireless hearth; but it served to shelter her when night came, as she was driven from her lonely watch on the beach. But, before she reached it, a roving band of sailors, landed that day from a ship she had seen enter the harbor, filled up the narrow path, shouting and rolling with the wine they had quaffed, and singing a wild bacchanalian song. She shrank aside to let them pass; but the foremost seized her with an oath and rude grasp, and would have torn the mantle from her face in another instant, had not a blow struck him breathless against the wall. The strong arm of her deliverer set aside the assailants, and conducted her safely on her way. It was the one friend who seemed always to mark her movements, and to whom she was indebted for many kindnesses.

"He, too, was a stranger; and, wandering on the cliffs, had first noted the pale, unquiet woman that haunted them. When he had learned her story from the fisherman, his pity grew to sympathy, and ended in love. He was rich and free; and that night, as she clung gratefully to his arm, it was offered to her, with protection from all care and want and contact with the world. He had come out to seek her, he said, and that very night stood ready to make her his. The priest awaited them; his arms should shelter her; he urged and pleaded with her to become once more a wife.

"You must not blame her, children—you must not, at least, judge her too harshly that she listened to the temptation, knowing, as she did, that the new vows would be an empty mockery; that all her love was buried fathoms deep with Richard Gray. She still trembled from the insult of the sailors; the night was black and pitiless; she was alone, and almost starving. It was like one, benumbed with cold and hunger, standing on the threshold of a mansion blazing with light and warmth and costly cheer. Many a young maiden has bartered her hand for gold without Alice Gray's bitter need, now, even in our own day, or for the baubles of rank and position.

"Oh, it was cruel in that kind voice to plead so earnestly, knowing her heart was starved—craving for kindness and care! For her child's sake, he said, and pictured the boy growing up under his fatherly protection, or, skilfully reversing the lines, showed him to her neglected and abandoned among the rude fishermen. No wonder that consent hung on her very utterance, when the child stirred in her bosom, and passed its little hands caressingly over her haggard face as she bent towards it. Richard's child! She could not give another the husband's right he had been proud to claim; no, she would work, ay, starve, if it must be so, but not wrong his memory by falsehood and the endurance of caresses from which she must ever shrink, as the memory of his love came between her and the present.

"Her child saved her from the great sin of going to another home and another love that night, when she had nothing to offer in return.

"So her last friend was repulsed, and deserted her, trying to keep down the bitterness of spirit that pride called up to take the place of rejected love. She sat alone and hopeless with her child through the midnight darkness, and the love-token sparkled beneath the lamp of the grasping broker, who sat counting the day's gains.

"A knock at the outer entrance did not startle him, for he conducted many a shrewd bargain while others slept; but he looked to see that all his treasures were within a sweep of his arm before he admitted the visitor.

"It was a sunburnt, swarthy-looking man, with jewels from the Orient to be exchanged for gold. He knew their full value, and demanded it; but, while the Jew demurred, his quick eyes scanned the whole room at a glance. Travel-worn as he was, something arrested his gaze that made his lips tremble and grow white, and his heart beat fast as he bent forward and clutched, heedless of the old man's remonstrances, the love-token he had given years ago to his wife, Alice Gray.

"You can see it all now, my children, from what a fearful sin the sacrifice of that night saved her, though you are too young and too untried to imagine even the swoon of joy in which she lay clasped to her husband's bosom, till the dim morning light revealed those dear features, and the nut-brown curls threaded with silver from the toil and exposure he had endured. No wonder that she shuddered at the remembrance of her temptation, or that she loved the unconscious child, who had saved her from it, above all that were afterwards given to her arms."

So ended Aunt Mary's reading, while papa still shaded his eyes from the light, and grandmother's hand trembled as she supported the screen. Mamma's eyes were full of tears, and she kissed Charlie, now sleeping on her shoulder, over and over again, as if stooping down over him could hide them: Josephine and myself could not understand the scene till we were much older, and the picture had come to be spoken of as an heirloom in the family. But I saw something else that interested me very much, for I thought she might better have given it to me—Maude pull Robert Winthrop's scarlet geranium from her hair, and finally crush it under her slipper, as the decision of Alice Gray was told. Some one else saw it, too, I fancy, for presently Chester Adams's hand dropped from my shoulder upon Maude's, lying near me, and she did not withdraw it. Maude was crying, too; but a smile, like sunshine, came into her eyes as she stole a timid, wistful look up into his affectionate eyes, as I have seen children ask for pardon.

When we separated for the night, grandmother took a hand of each of them in one of hers, and said, "Good-night, my children; be true to yourselves and to each other!" and it was in this way I noticed a ring, like the love-token in the picture, on my grandmother's wedding-finger.

A CHAPTER ON NECKLACES, OLD AND NEW.

BY MRS. WHITE.

It is curious to trace the first appearance of necklaces amongst the Egyptians, in the same form as they exist at the present day upon the necks of the Patagonians, and the natives of the islands of the Pacific; for the ancient dwellers by the Nile wore necklaces of the seeds of leguminous plants, berries, and feathers (especially those of the poule de Numidie), precisely the same substances which are used in this ornament by the above people, except that the emu supplies the feathers, and that shells are occasionally mingled with the bright-colored berries. But shells were also used in necklaces by the Egyptians, as our readers may perceive in the table-cases of the Egyptian gallery in the British Museum.

Here, we may trace the next appearance of this trinket, when art began to be applied in its composition, and spherical beads of various substances were used; as well as its progression from a simple ornament to its superstitious use as an amulet.

In one of these cases some very interesting specimens of our subject may be seen, tracing, as plainly as more important things might do, the gradual advance of art; there is one of round blue beads capped with silver, another representing deities and symbols, and a third with pendants in the form of the lock of horns, fishes, and cowries, which are well deserving of attention.

The two latter were of course worn as amulets, and, being impressed with sacred images, were supposed to ward off danger and infection, to render the wearer courageous or agreeable, or invest him with the various qualities which their symbolism, or the substances of which they were composed, represented in the mythic language of the East.

Perhaps it might have been with such intentions that we find the necklace so favorite an adornment with the warriors of antiquity. The Medes, Persians, Indians, and Etruscans wore them in the valuable shape of strings of pearls, sometimes enriched with jewels; while the chiefs and great men amongst the northern nations were distinguished by necklaces and collars of gold, called torques, so that, when conquered, the necklaces of both oriental and Celtic nations must have made an important part of the spoils. Hence, probably, the adoption of the monile by the Romans as a reward for military valor, and hence also the surname of Torquatus Manlius, who was so called from his having torn the golden torque from the neck of an enemy on the field of battle.

Necklaces were worn by both Greek and Roman women, but only within doors, and on occasions of domestic festivity, as at weddings and dances; they were especially used as bridal presents, and the learned in mythology will remember that it was upon the occasion of Hermione's marriage that Vulcan, to revenge her mother's infidelity, bestowed upon her the fatal necklace which worked such wondrous evils on her race. Here we perceive that the Eastern superstitions connected with this ornament had accompanied the fashion of wearing it into Greece: the rich and beautiful necklace of Hermione was a talisman—not to counteract evil, but to produce it; so that by-and-by we find this very necklace, which Ovid tells us was of gold, and to the description of which Nomus devotes fifty lines of his Dionysica, bribing Eriphyle, the wife of Amphiaraus, to betray her husband.

At Rome, as with the old Egyptians, the materials of the necklace soon altered from a simple row of berries or small spheres of glass, &c., to pearls and amber, and precious stones; the single chaplet, which primitively encircled the throat, gradually extended to a second, and even a third row: after which we find the original necklace adorned with drops or pendents, which, when worn, fell round the neck like rays from a centre.

For this description of monile, emeralds, and other gems of a greenish hue, were greatly prized; and amongst the treasures which time has restored to the museums and cabinets of the curious, from the buried toilets of Pompeii, a golden necklace is enumerated, which was enriched with twelve small emeralds.

Etruscan graves have also yielded up their treasures, and amongst a variety of other matters affording the most interesting illustrations of the domestic economies of the ancient Tuscan people, have preserved for us the fashion of these ornaments. Those purchased from the Prince of Canino, and deposited in the British Museum, are of gold; one represents a wreath of ivy-leaves in pairs, the stems of the leaves joining; and the ornaments of the others consist of circles, lozenges, rosettes, hippocampi (sea-horses), and a heart depends centrally from one of them.

Necklaces in the shape of serpents were worn by the Greeks and Romans, by whom this emblem was regarded as a charm against witchcraft and the "evil eye;" they were made to coil round the neck of the wearer, and it is remarkable that the necklace so fatal to Hermione and Eriphyle was of this form. Some years back an inscription, found in France, mentioned a torque dedicated to Æsculapius, having been made by twisting together two golden snakes, and offerings of trinkets in this shape were often made in honor of him by persons during illness, or on their recovery from it.

Besides decorating the necks of brides and conquerors with these ornaments, the Romans carried their admiration of the necklace so far as to adorn the statues of their divinities with them; thus, a statue of Fortune, found at Herculaneum, had the representation of a necklace incrusted with silver, and a figure of Mercury, in the gallery of Greek and Roman antiquities in the museum (thought by some to be the most exquisite bronze in Europe), has a gold torquis round its neck; this honor, however, the deities shared in common with favorite domestic animals; and horses were frequently adorned with them.

So much more remains to be said of the use of them by the ancients, that we leave, reluctantly, these classic reminiscences, to trace the history of the necklace at home, where it appears to have an existence coeval with Stonehenge, and to have preserved its memoirs in the funeral barrows of the Britons and Anglo-Saxons. In these tumuli, necklaces of various kinds have been found, and beads of crystal, jet, amber, and colored glass, are quite common in them. In some, necklaces of bone and ivory have been discovered, and the Archæological Society have engraved one in their Journal, which is formed of beads of bone and canel coal.

In the wills of the Anglo-Saxons, we find the neck-bracelet, as its name implied in their language, frequently mentioned: and amongst other articles of jewellery, we read of golden vermiculated necklaces. Boadicea wore a golden necklace, and subsequently the torquis, or collar of honor, commonly of gold, was made the insignia of dukes and earls, both by the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans. The Norman kings wore a collar or necklace of gold, adorned with jewels, and which depended on the breast, like the collar or knighthood, of which, no doubt, these antique ornaments were the prototypes; while such of our Saxon ancestors as could not procure the precious metals, rather than be without this favorite ornament, wore them of brass, and even iron.

Amber appears, from the very earliest period, a favorite material for the necklaces of women, probably on account of its perfume, which Autolycus, the roguish peddler, in the "Winter's Tale," alludes to in his rhyming list of wares—

"Necklace amber,

Perfume for a lady's chamber."

In Italy, we learn from an ancient chronicle, that ladies wore them made of bent gold coins, and that whistles, in the shape of a dragon, set with gold and pearls (probably to call servants), sometimes depended from them.

A picture of Joan of Navarre, wife of Henry IV., in whose reign necklaces were much worn by ladies, represents her wearing a collar of Esses.

A necklace on the ancient effigy of Lady Peyton, at Isleham Church, Cambridgeshire, is formed of pear-shaped stones or pearls, attached to a string or narrow band of gold, while another, represented in the Harleian MS., looks like a wreath of small stars, and was, in all probability, of the same precious metal.

In the Middle Ages, we read that the necklaces of women were set with jewels and stones; and that some, called serpents, from the fashion of them, were also in vogue; and in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the necklaces of English ladies were arranged in the same manner as the rayed ones of the Romans.

Queen Elizabeth is always represented wearing strings of pearls, or jewelled carcanets, and the royal example appears to have been very generally followed by the dames of her realm, whose taste for a profusion of such ornaments has been handed down to us by the dramatists and other writers of the period; though in her reign, as in her father's, sumptuary laws were made to prevent persons below a certain rank from appearing in them.

Barclay, in his "Ship of Fools," printed A. D. 1508, speaks of some who had their necks

"Charged with collars and chains,

In golden withes."

And in a curious work called "The Four Pees," of John Heywood, written 1560, he makes the Peddler vaunt, amongst other vanities of women, "of all manner of beads." The penalty for wearing anything of gold or gilt about the neck, in Henry VIII.'s time, unless the wearer was a gentleman, or could prove that he possessed, over all charges, 200l. yearly value, was the forfeiture of the same; a regulation well calculated to maintain the restriction in fact.

All this while certain superstitions existed with regard to the necklace, as well as to all other trinkets of which gold and precious stones made part, occasioned, probably, by the antique use of gems as amulets, and from the pretended occult powers ascribed to them by the alchemists. Even Elizabeth, with all her keenness and masculine strength of mind, save where vanity and its natural craving, the love of admiration, were concerned, appears to have been just as impressible upon such subjects as a peasant girl; and we find the Lord Chancellor Hatton sending her a ring (in all probability of agate), to be worn on her breast, against infectious air. The physicians of those days did much to sustain the "charm" of our subject. Necklaces made of the root of the male peony were worn for the prevention of the falling sickness, while those made of amber were deemed good against infection; and to the doctrine of signatures, which connected the medical properties of substances with their forms and color, we may safely trace the common practice of ornamenting young children with necklaces of coral, as well as the invention of the silver-belled trifle, so called.

With the same purpose (that of assisting their teething), the anodyne necklace, which is made of beads of the white bryony, is sometimes hung around the necks of infants, sustaining, even in our own times, a lingering faith in the medical virtues of the amulet.

But that our space forbids, the necklace worn by nuns might lead us to a dissertation on the religious uses of this ornament; but we must briefly glance at its secular history in modern times, when its most powerful spells have been those of fashion.

Coming down to the seventeenth century, we find the necklace quite as much in vogue as in the reign of Elizabeth: in Massinger's "City Madam," after her husband's knighthood, we find her brother observing to the lady,

"Your borrowed hair,

Powdered and curled, was by your dresser's art

Formed like a coronet—hang'd with diamonds,

And richest orient pearls—your carkanet,

That did adorn your neck, of equal value;"

so that the love of gems and jewellery was by no means on the decline. In the picture of Charles and his queen, in "Heath's Chronicle," (1662), Catherine of Braganza wears two necklaces, one clasping the throat, and the other, to which a pendent is attached, falling low on the shoulders. Planché tells us that in Mary's reign, jewelled necklaces sparkled on the bosom, a fashion continued in that of her sister Anne of Denmark, who is usually drawn wearing one.

With the accession of George III., the maudlin sentimentality of the belles and macaronies of the period gave the name of esclavage to the necklace then in fashion, which consisted of several rows of gold chains, or beads, or jewels, arranged one under the other in successive festoons, so as to cover the entire neck.

This was again displaced by the carcanet, or band of jewels set in gold, and we ourselves remember the négligé, with its tasselled ends falling gracefully beneath the throat; since then the necklace has gradually grown into disuse, so that our friend's information, that short golden ones were again in fashion, sounded pleasantly as news of an old acquaintance.

GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.

LESSON III.

Fig. 23.

The pupil may now proceed to more ambitious attempts in the art of delineation. Fig. 23 is the representation of a box supposed to be standing on a table. It is formed entirely of straight lines. She should draw the front oblong first, then the end, taking care to make the perpendicular boundary line farthest from the eye rather shorter than the first line, in order to give the perspective appearance to the representation. In this section we do not give the rules of perspective delineation, preferring to let the pupil become acquainted therewith after she has acquired the necessary facility for copying objects as they appear presented to her eye; this to us appearing the most natural course, as perspective cannot be taught unless the objects which illustrate the rules, and which are to be found in all perspective delineations, can themselves be sketched with ease. As soon as a pupil can copy an object correctly, so far as her own ideas go, she will at once perceive the utility of an art which, by stated rules, will enable her to test the accuracy of her proceedings.

Fig. 24 is a free outline sketch of a pump; by drawing the lower square first, thereafter the end and top, and next the upright oblong, finally putting in the handle and spout, the delineation will speedily be effected. The pupil at this stage should attempt to delineate the forms presented by placing boxes, square blocks, bricks, &c., in various positions.

Fig. 24.

Fig. 25.

Fig. 25 is the representation of a book lying on its side; it is formed of both straight and curved lines. She should draw the horizontal lines first, then the oblique, taking care to make the two lines forming the top nearly parallel, and the others slightly to approach each other, to give the idea of distance; the under lines may be strengthened as in the figure, which will compensate for the absence of light and shade.

Fig. 26.

Fig. 26 affords a good exemplification of the use of the oval or ellipse in forming leaves, &c. In the first place, a correct ellipse is to be drawn, thereafter the top a and the end b of the leaf, rubbing out the parts c c not required, and, lastly, putting in the fibres, as in the figure. The leaf is finished by putting in the serrated or saw-like edges, as in Fig. 27.

Fig. 27.

Fig. 28 is formed in the same way, the only difference being that the leaf is comprised within the ellipse; the parts a a being rubbed out, and the edges filled as in Fig. 29.

Fig. 28.

Fig. 29.

Fig. 30 exemplifies the use of the circle in delineating natural objects. A pear is drawn by first making the circle, as in Fig. 30, thereafter finishing it, as in Fig. 31. The use of the circle is further demonstrated by Figs. 32 and 33, which show the method adopted in drawing an acorn. The method here indicated, of using ellipses and circles as the foundation of the outlines, is applicable to the formation of a vast variety of objects; thus, vases and other forms can be rapidly delineated, as shown in Figs. 34 and 35.

Fig. 30.

Fig. 31.

Fig. 32. Fig. 33.

Fig. 34. Fig. 35.

THE TRIALS OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

(Continued from page 127.)

CHAPTER III.

On the next morning, at the earliest dawn, Mrs. Gaston arose. She found Ella's fever still very high. The child was restless, and moaned a good deal in her sleep.

"Poor little thing!" murmured the mother, as she bent over her for a moment, and then turned away, and commenced kindling a fire upon the hearth. Fortunately for her, she had saved enough from her earnings during the summer to buy half a cord of wood; but this was gradually melting away, and she was painfully conscious that, by the time the long and severe winter had fairly set in, her stock of fuel would be exhausted; and at the prices which she was receiving for her work, she felt that it would be impossible to buy more. After making the fire, she took her work, and drew near the window, through which the cold faint rays of the morning were stealing. By holding the work close to the light, she could see to set her needle, and in this way she commenced her daily toil. An hour was spent in sewing, when Emma aroused up, and she had to lay by her work to attend to her child. Ella, too, had awakened, and complained that her head ached badly, and that her throat was very sore. Half an hour was spent in dressing, washing, and otherwise attending to her children, and then Mrs. Gaston went out to get something for breakfast. On entering the shop of Mrs. Grubb, she met with rather a more courteous reception than had been given her on the morning previous.

"Ah! good-morning, Mrs. Gaston! Good-morning!" said that personage, with a broad, good-natured smile. "How is Ella?"

"She seems very poorly, Mrs. Grubb. I begin to feel troubled about her. She complains of a sore throat this morning, and you know the scarlet fever is all about now."

"Oh, no! never fear that, Mrs. Gaston. Ella's not down with the scarlet fever, I know."

"I trust not. But I have my fears."

"Never take trouble on interest, Mrs. Gaston. It is bad enough when it comes in the natural way. But what can I do for you?"

"I think I must have a cent's worth of coffee this morning. My head aches so that I am almost blind. A strong cup of coffee I am sure will do me good. And as I have a hard day's work before me, I must prepare for it. And then I must have a pint of milk and a three cent loaf of bread for the children. That must do me for the present. We have some molasses left."

"You'll want a little dried meat, or a herring, or something to give you a relish, Mrs. Gaston. Dry bread is poor eating. And you know you can't touch molasses." Half in sympathy did Mrs. Grubb utter this, and half as a dealer, desirous of selling her goods.

"Nothing more, just now, I believe," the poor woman replied. "I must be prudent, you know, and count over every cent."

"But you'll make yourself sick, if you don't eat something more than you do. So come now; treat yourself to a herring, or to a penny's worth of this sweet butter. You'll feel all the better for it, and do more than enough work to pay the cost twice over."

Mrs. Gaston's appetite was tempted. The hard fresh butter looked inviting to her eyes, and she stooped over and smelled it half involuntarily.

"I believe you are right, Mrs. Grubb," she said. "You may give me a couple of cents' worth of this nice butter."

An ounce of butter was carefully weighed out, and given to the customer.

"Isn't there something else, now, that you want?" said the smiling shop-keeper, leaning her elbows upon the counter, and looking encouragingly into the face of Mrs. Gaston.

"I've indulged myself, and I shall not feel right, unless I indulge the children a little also," was the reply; "so weigh me two cents' worth of your smoked beef. They all like it very much."

The smoked beef was soon ready, and then the mother hurried home to her children.

After the morning meal had been prepared, Mrs. Gaston sat down and ate her bread and butter, tasting a little of the children's meat, and drinking her coffee with a keen relish. She felt braced up on rising from the table, and, but for the illness of Ella, would have felt an unusual degree of cheerfulness.

Henry attended the common school of the district, and, soon after breakfast, prepared himself to go. As he was leaving, his mother told him to call at Doctor R——'s, and ask him if he would be kind enough to stop and see Ella, She then seated herself once more beside her little work-table. The two foreparts of the jacket had been finished, except the button-holes; and the sleeves were ready to put in as soon as the body of the garment was ready for them. As the button-holes tried the sight of Mrs. Gaston severely, she chose that part of the day, when her eyes were fresh, to work them. The jacket was double-breasted, and there were five holes to be worked on each side. She had nearly completed one-half of them, when Doctor R—— came in. He looked serious upon examining his patient. Said she was very ill, and required immediate attention.

"But you don't think it the scarlet fever, doctor?" the mother said, in a low, alarmed voice.

"Your child is very sick, madam; and, to tell you the truth, her symptoms resemble too closely those of the fever you have named," was the undisguised reply.

"Surely, my cup is full and running over!" sobbed Mrs. Gaston, clasping her hands together, as this sudden announcement broke down, for a moment, her self-control, while the tears gushed from her eyes.

Doctor R—— was a man of true feeling. He had attended, in two or three cases of illness, the children of Mrs. Gaston, and had observed that she was a woman who had become, from some cause, greatly reduced in circumstances. His sympathies were strongly awakened at seeing her emotion, and he said, in a kind but firm voice—

"A mother, the safety of whose child depends upon her calm and intelligent performance of duty, should never lose her self-control."

"I know that, doctor," the mother answered, rallying herself with a strong effort. "But I was over-tried already, and your sudden confirmation of my worst fears completely broke me down."

"In any event, however," the doctor replied, "you must not permit yourself to forget that your child is in the hands of Him who regards its good in a far higher sense than you can possibly. He never permits sickness of any kind without a good end."

"I know that, doctor, but I have a mother's heart. I love my children, and the thought of losing them touches me to the quick."

"And yet you know that, in passing from this to another state of existence, their condition must be bettered beyond comparison."

"Oh yes. Beyond comparison!" replied the mother, half abstractedly, but with touching pathos. "And yet, doctor, I cannot spare them. They are everything to me."

"Do not suffer yourself to indulge needless alarm. I will leave you medicine now, and call again to-morrow. If she should be decidedly worse, send for me towards evening."

After the doctor went away, Mrs. Gaston gave the medicine he had left, as directed, and then forced herself from the bedside, and resumed her work. By the time the button-holes of the garment she was engaged upon were all completed, and the back and shoulder seams sewed up, it was time to see about something for dinner. She put aside the jacket, and went to the bed. Ella lay as if asleep. Her face was flushed, and her skin dry and hot. The mother looked upon her for a few moments with a yearning heart; then, turning away, she took from a closet her bonnet and shawl, and a little basket. Passing quickly down stairs, after telling Emma to keep very still and be a good girl until she came back, she took her way towards the market-house. At a butcher's she obtained, for three cents, some bones, and then at one of the stalls bought a few herbs, a head of cabbage, and three turnips; the whole at a cost of sixpence. With these she returned home, renewed her fire, and, after preparing the bones and vegetables she had procured, put them into an iron pot with some water, and hung this upon the crane. She then sat down again to her work.

At twelve o'clock Henry came in from school, and brought up an armful of wood, and some water, and then, by direction of his mother, saw that the fire was kept burning briskly. At one, Mrs. Gaston laid by her work again, and set the table for dinner. Henry went for a loaf of bread while she was doing this, and upon his return found all ready. The meal, palatable to all, was a well-made soup; the mother and her two children ate of it with keen appetites. When it was over, Henry went away again to school, and Mrs. Gaston, after administering to Ella another dose of medicine, sat down once more to her work. One sleeve remained to be sewed in, when the garment would only require to have the collar put on, and be pressed off. This occupied her until late in the afternoon.

"Thirty cents for all that!" she sighed to herself, as she laid the finished garment upon the bed. "Too bad! Too bad! How can a widow and three children subsist on twenty cents a day!"

A deep moan from Ella caused her to look at her child more intently than she had done for half an hour. She was alarmed to find that her face had become like scarlet, and was considerably swollen. On speaking to her, she seemed quite stupid, and answered incoherently, frequently putting her hand to her throat, as if in pain there. This confirmed the mother's worst fears for her child, especially as she was in a raging fever. Soon after, Henry came in from school, and she dispatched him for Doctor R——, who returned with the boy. He seemed uneasy at the manner in which the symptoms were developing themselves. A long and silent examination ended in his asking for a basin. He bled her freely, as there appeared to be much visceral congestion, and an active inflammation of the tonsils, larynx, and air passages, with a most violent fever. After this she lay very still, and seemed much relieved. But, half an hour after the doctor had left, the fever rallied again, with burning intensity. Her face swelled rapidly, and the soreness of her throat increased. About nine o'clock the doctor came in again, and upon examining the child's throat, found it black and deeply ulcerated.

"What do you think of her, doctor?" asked the poor mother, eagerly.

"I think her very ill, madam—and, I regret to say, dangerously so."

"Is it scarlet fever, doctor?"

"It is, madam. A very bad case of it. But do not give way to feelings of despondency. I have seen worse cases recover."

More active medicines than any that had yet been administered were given by the doctor, who again retired, with but little hope of seeing his patient alive in the morning.

From the time Mrs. Gaston finished the garment upon which she had been working, she had not even unrolled the other roundabout, and it was now nine o'clock at night. A sense of her destitute condition, and of the pressing necessity there was for her to let every minute leave behind some visible impression, made her, after Henry and Emma were in bed, leave the side of her sick child, though with painful reluctance, and resume her toil. But, ever and anon, as Ella moaned, or tossed restlessly upon her pillow, would the mother lay by her work, and go and stand beside her in silent anguish of spirit, or inquire where she suffered pain, or what she could do to relieve her.

Thus passed the hours until twelve, one, and two o'clock, the mother feeling that her child was too sick for her to seek repose, and yet, as she could do nothing to relieve her sufferings, she could not sit idly by and look upon her. For fifteen or twenty minutes at a time she would ply her needle, and then get up and bend over the bed for a minute or two. A thought of duty would again call her back to her position by the work-table, where she would again devote herself to her task, in spite of an aching head, and a reluctant, over-wearied body. Thus she continued until near daylight, when there was an apparent subsidence of Ella's most painful symptoms. The child ceased to moan and throw herself about, and finally sunk into slumber. In some relief of mind, Mrs. Gaston laid down beside her upon the bed, and in a little while was fast asleep. When she awoke, the sun had been up some time, and was shining brightly into the room. Quickly rising, her first glance was towards her sick child. She could scarcely suppress a cry of agony as she perceived that her face and neck had swollen so as to appear puffed up, while her skin was covered with livid spots. An examination of the chest and stomach showed that these spots were extending themselves over her whole body. Besides these signs of danger, the breathing of the child was more like gasping, as she lay with her mouth half opened.

The mother laid her hand upon her arm, and spoke to her. But she did not seem to hear the voice.

"Ella, dear! how do you feel this morning?" repeated Mrs. Gaston in louder and more earnest tones.

But the child heeded her not. She was already past consciousness! At an early hour Doctor R—— came in. The moment he looked at his patient his countenance fell. Still, he proceeded to examine her carefully. But every symptom was alarming, and indicated a speedy fatal termination; this was especially the case with the upper part of the throat, which was black. Nothing deeper could be seen, as the tonsils were so swollen as to threaten suffocation.

"Is there any hope, doctor?" asked Mrs. Gaston eagerly, laying her hand upon his arm as he turned from the bed.

"There is always hope where there is life, madam," he replied abstractedly, and then in a thoughtful mood took two or three turns across the narrow apartment.

"I will come again in an hour," he at length said, "and see if there is any change. I would rather not give her any more medicine for the present. Let her remain perfectly quiet."

True to his promise, Doctor R—— entered the room just an hour from the time he left it. The scene that met his eye moved his heart deeply, all used as he was to the daily exhibition of misery in its many distressing forms. The child was dead! He was prepared for that—but not for the abandoned grief to which the mother gave way. The chords of feeling had been drawn in her heart too tightly. Mind and body were both out of tune, and discordant. In suffering, in abject want and destitution, her heart still clung to her children, and threw around them a sphere of intenser affection, as all that was external grew darker, colder, and more dreary. They were her jewels, and she could not part with them. They were hidden away in her heart of hearts so deeply, that not a single one of them could be taken without leaving it lacerated and bleeding.

When the doctor entered, he found her lying upon the bed, with the body of her child hugged tightly to her bosom. Little Emma had crept away into a corner of the room, and looked frightened. Henry was crouching in a chair, with the tears running down his cheeks in streams.

"You are too late, doctor," said the mother, in a tone so calm, so clear, and yet to his ear so thrilling, that he started, and felt a chill pass through his frame. There was something in the sound of that voice in ill accordance with the scene.

As she spoke, she glanced at the physician with bright, tearless eyes for a moment; and then, turning away her head, she laid her cheek against that of the corpse, and drew the lifeless body with trembling eagerness to her heart.

"This is all vain, my dear madam!" urged Dr. R——, approaching the bedside, and laying his hand upon her. "Come! Be a woman. To bear is to conquer our fate. No sorrow of yours can call back the happy spirit of your child. And, surely, you would not call her back, if you could, to live over the days of anguish and pain that were meted out to her?"

"I cannot give up my child, doctor. Oh, I cannot give up my child! It will break my heart!" she replied, her voice rising and trembling more and more at each sentence, until it gave way, and the hot tears came raining over her face, and falling upon the insensible cheek of her child.

"'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,' Mrs. Gaston. Can you not look up, even in this sore affliction, and say, 'Blessed be the name of the Lord?' It is your only hope. An arm of flesh cannot support you now. You must look to the Strong for strength."

As Doctor R—— thus urged her to reason and duty, the tears of the bereaved mother gradually ceased to flow. She grew calmer, and regained, in some degree, her self-possession. As she did so, she slowly disengaged her arm from the body of her child, placed its head as carefully as if it had been asleep, upon the pillow, and then arose, and stood with her hands tightly clasped across her forehead.

"I am but a weak woman, doctor, and you must bear with me," said she, in a changed voice. "I used to have fortitude; but I feel that I am breaking fast. I am not what I was."

The last two sentences were spoken in a tone so sad and mournful, that the doctor could scarcely keep back the tears.

"You have friends here, I suppose," he remarked, "who will be with you on this afflicting occasion?"

"I have no friends," she replied, in the same sad voice. "I and my children are alone in this hard world. Would to Heaven we were all with Ella!" Her tears again gushed forth, and flowed freely.

"Then I must send some one who will assist you in your present need," said Doctor R——; and turning away he left the room, and, getting into his chaise, rode off at a brisk pace. In about a quarter of an hour, he returned with a woman who took charge of the body of the child, and performed for it the last sad offices that the dead require.

Upon close inquiry, he ascertained from Mrs. Gaston that she was in a state of extreme destitution; that, so far from having the means to bury her dead child, she was nearly without food to give to her living ones. To meet this pressing need, he went to a few benevolent friends, and procured money sufficient to inter the corpse, and about ten dollars over. This he gave to her after the funeral, at which there were only three mourners, the mother and her two children.

CHAPTER IV.

Berlaps was leaning over his counter late in the afternoon of the second day from that on which the person calling herself Lizzy Glenn had applied for and obtained work, when a young man entered and asked for some article of dress. While the tailor was still engaged in waiting upon him, the young woman came in, carrying a small bundle in her hand. Her veil was drawn over her face as she entered; but was thrown partly aside as she retired to the back part of the store, where she stood awaiting the leisure of the man from whom she had obtained work. As she passed him, the customer turned and looked at her earnestly for a moment or two, and then asked in a whisper—

"Who is that?"

"Only one of our sewing-girls," replied Berlaps, indifferently.

"What is her name?"

"I forget. She's a girl to whom we gave out work day before yesterday."

This caused the man to look at her more attentively. The young woman, becoming conscious that she was an object of close scrutiny by a stranger, turned partly away, so that her face could not be seen.

"There is something singularly familiar about her," mused the young man as he left the store. "Who can she be? I have certainly seen her before."

"Ah, good-afternoon, Perkins!" said a familiar voice, while a friendly hand was laid upon his arm. "You seem to be in a browner mood than usual!"

"I am a little thoughtful, or abstracted, just as you please," replied the individual addressed.

"Are you, indeed? May I ask the reason?"

"The reason hardly seems to be a sufficient one—and, therefore, I will not jeopardize your good opinion of me by mentioning it."

"Oh, very well! I am content to have my friends conceal from me their weaknesses."

The two young men then walked on arm and arm for some distance. They seemed to be walking more for the sake of a little conversation than for anything else, for they went slowly, and after winding about among the labyrinthine streets for ten or twenty minutes, took their way back again.

"There she is again, as I live!" Perkins exclaimed, half pausing as the young woman he had seen at the tailor's passed quickly by them on their turning a corner.

"You've noticed her before, then?" remarked the friend, whose name was Milford.

"I saw her a little while ago in a clothing-store; and her appearance instantly arrested my attention. Do you know who she is?"

"I do not. But I'd give something to know. You saw her in a clothing-store?"

"Yes. In the shop of that close-fisted Berlaps. She is one of his seamstresses—a new one, by the way—to whom he has just given work. So he informed me."

"Indeed! She must be in great extremity to work for his pay. It is only the next remove, I am told, from actual starvation."

"But tell me what you know of her, Milford. She seems to have attracted your notice, as well as mine."

"I know nothing of her whatever," replied the young man, "except that I have met her five or six times during the last two weeks, upon the Warren bridge, on her way to Charlestown. Something in her appearance arrested my attention the first time I saw her. But I have never been able to catch more than a glimpse of her face. Her veil is usually drawn."

"Who can she visit in Charlestown?"

"No one, I have good reason to think."

"Why so?"

"I had once the curiosity to follow her as far as I deemed it prudent and courteous. She kept on entirely through the town—at least through the thickly settled portion of it. Her step was too quick for the step of one who was merely going to pay a friendly visit."

"You have had, if I understand you, at least a glimpse of her countenance?"

"Yes. Once, in passing her, her veil was half drawn aside, as if to get a freer draught of air."

"And her face?"

"Was thin and pale."

"And beautiful?"

"So I should call it. Not pretty—not a mere doll's face—but intellectually beautiful; yet full of softness. In fact, the face of a woman with a mind and heart. But sorrow has touched her—and pain. And, above all, the marks of crushed affection were too plainly visible upon her young countenance. All this could be seen at the single glance I obtained, before her veil was drawn hurriedly down."

"Strange that she should seek so to hide her face from every eye. Can it be that she is some one we have known, who has fallen so low?"

"No, I think not," replied Milford. "I am certain that I have never seen her before. Her face is a strange one to me. At least the glance I had revealed no familiar feature."

"Well, I, for one, am resolved to know more about her," remarked Perkins, as the two friends paused before separating. "Since she has awakened so sudden, and yet so strong an interest in my mind, I should feel that I was not doing right if I made no effort to learn something of her true position in our city, where, I am much inclined to think, she is a stranger."

The young men, after a few more words, separated, Perkins getting into an "hourly" and going over to Charlestown to see a man on some business who could not be at his house until late in the day. The transaction of this business took more time than he had expected, and it was nearly an hour after nightfall before he returned to Boston. After passing the "draw," as he crossed the old bridge, he perceived by the light of a lamp, some distance ahead, a female figure hurrying on with rapid steps.

"It's the strange girl I saw at Berlaps', as I live!" he mentally ejaculated, quickening his pace. "I must see where she hides herself away."

The night was very dark, and the form of the stranger, as she hurried forward, was soon buried in obscurity. In a little while, she emerged into the little circle of light that diffused itself around the lamp that stood at the termination of the bridge, and in the next moment was again invisible. Perkins now pressed forward, and was soon clear of the bridge, and moving along the dark, lonely avenue that led up to the more busy part of the city. He had advanced here but a few paces, when a faint scream caused him to bound onward at full speed. In a moment after, he came to the corner of a narrow, dark street, down which he perceived two forms hurrying; one, a female, evidently struggling against the superior force of the other.

His warning cry, and the sound of his rapidly advancing footsteps, caused the man to relax his hold, when the female figure glided away with wind-like fleetness. The man hesitated an instant; but, before Perkins reached the spot where he stood, ran off in an opposite direction to that taken by the woman.

Here was an adventure calculated to give to the mind of Perkins a new and keener interest in the young seamstress. He paused but a moment, and then ran at the height of his speed in the direction the female form, which he had good reason to believe was hers, had taken. But she was nowhere to be seen. Either she had sought a shelter in one of the houses, or had hurried forward with a fleetness that carried her far beyond his reach.

Thoughtful and uneasy in mind, he could hardly tell why, he sought his lodgings; and, retiring at once to his chamber, seated himself by a table upon which were books and papers, and soon became lost in sad memories of the past that strongly linked themselves, why he could not tell, for they had no visible connection with the present. For a long time he sat in this abstract mood, his hand shading his face from the light. At last he arose slowly and went to a drawer, from which he took a small morocco case, and, returning with it to the table, seated himself again near the lamp. He opened the case, and let the light fall strongly upon the miniature of a most beautiful female. Her light brown hair, that fell in rich and glossy ringlets to her neck, relieved tastefully her broad white forehead, and the gentle roundness of her pure cheeks, that were just tinged with the flush of health and beauty. But these took not away from the instant attraction of her dark hazel eyes, that beamed tenderly upon the gazer's face. Perkins bent for many minutes over this sweet image; then pressing it to his lips, he murmured, as he leaned back, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling:—

"Where, where in the spirit-land dost thou dwell, dear angel? In what dark and undiscovered cave of the ocean rests in dreamless sleep thy beautiful but unconscious body? Snatched from me in the bloom of youth, when fresh flowers blossomed in thy young heart to bless me with their fragrance, how hast thou left me in loneliness and desolation of spirit! And yet thou seemest near to me, and, of late, nearer and dearer than ever. Oh, that I could hear thy real voice, even if spoken to the ear of my spirit, and see once more thy real face, were it only a spiritual presence!"

The young man then fell into a dreamy state of mind, in which we will leave him for the present.

CHAPTER V.

The prompt assistance rendered by Dr. R—— to Mrs. Gaston came just in time. It enabled her to pay her month's rent, due for several days, to settle the amount owed to Mrs. Grubb, and lay in more wood for the coming winter. This consumed all her money, and left her once more dependent upon the meagre reward of her hard labor to supply food and clothing for herself and her two remaining children. From a state of almost complete paralysis of mind, consequent upon the death of Ella, her necessities aroused her. On the second day after the child had been taken, she again resumed her suspended toil. The sight of the unfinished garment, which had been laid aside after bending over it nearly the whole night previous to the morning upon which Ella died, awakened a fresh emotion of grief in her bosom. As this gradually subsided, she applied herself with patient assiduity to her task, which was not finished before twelve o'clock that night, when she laid herself down with little Emma in her arms, and soon lost all care and trouble in profound sleep.

Hasty pudding and molasses composed the morning meal for all. After breakfast, Mrs. Gaston took the two jackets, which had been out now five days, to the shop.

"Why, bless me, Mrs. Gaston, I thought you had run off with them jackets!" was Michael's coarse salutation as she came in.

The poor, heart-oppressed seamstress could not trust herself to reply, but laid her work upon the counter in silence. Berlaps, seeing her, came forward.

"These kind of doings will never answer, madam!" he said, angrily. "I could have sold both jackets ten times over, if they'd been here three days ago, as by rights they ought to have been. I can't give you work, if you are not more punctual. You needn't think to get along at our tack, unless you plug it in a little faster than all this comes to."

"I'll try and do better after this," said Mrs. Gaston, faintly.

"You'll have to, let me tell you, or we'll cry 'quits.' All my women must have nimble fingers."

"These jackets are not much to brag of," broke in Michael, as he tossed them aside. "I think we had better not trust her with any more cloth roundabouts. She has botched the button-holes awfully; and the jackets are not more than half pressed. Just look how she has held on the back seam of this one, and drawn the edges of the lappels until they set seven ways for Sunday! They're murdered outright, and ought to be hung up with a basin under them to catch the blood."

"What was she to have for them?" asked Berlaps.

"Thirty cents a-piece, I believe," replied the salesman.

"Don't give her but a quarter, then. I'm not going to pay full price to have my work botched up after that style!" And, so saying, Berlaps turned away and walked back to his desk.

Lizzy Glenn, as she had called herself, entered at the moment, and heard the remark of the tailor. She glided noiselessly by Mrs. Gaston, and stood farther down the store, with both her body and face turned partly from her, where she waited patiently for the interview between her and Michael to terminate.

The poor, heart-crushed creature did not offer the slightest remonstrance to this act of cruel oppression, but took the half dollar thrown her by Michael for the two jackets with an air of meek resignation. She half turned to go away after doing so, but a thought of her two remaining children caused her to hesitate.

"Haven't you some more trowsers to give out?" she asked, turning again towards Michael.

The sound of her voice reached the ear of the young female who had just entered, causing her to start and look for an instant towards the speaker. But she slowly resumed her former position with a sigh, after satisfying herself by a single glance at the woman, whose voice had fallen upon her ear with a strange familiarity.

"We haven't any more ready, ma'am, just now."

"What have you to give out? Anything?"

"Yes. Here are some unbleached cotton shirts, at seven cents. You can have some of them, if you choose."

"I will take half a dozen," said Mrs. Gaston, in a desponding tone. "Anything is better than nothing."

"Well, Miss Lizzy Glenn," said Michael, with repulsive familiarity, as Mrs. Gaston turned from the counter and left the store, "what can I do for you this morning?"

The young seamstress made no reply, but laid her bundle upon the counter and unrolled it. It contained three fine shirts, with linen bosoms and collars, very neatly made.

"Very well done, Lizzy," said Michael, approvingly, as he inspected the two rows of stitching on the bosoms and other parts of the garments that required to be sewed neatly.

"Have you any more ready?" she asked, shrinking back as she spoke, with a feeling of disgust, from the bold, familiar attendant.

"Have you any more fine shirts for Lizzy Glenn?" called Michael, back to Berlaps, in a loud voice.

"I don't know. How has she made them?"

"First rate."

"Then let her have some more, and pay her for those just brought in."

"That's your sorts!" responded Michael, as he took seventy-five cents from the drawer and threw the money upon the counter. "Good work, good pay, and prompt at that. Will you take three more?"

"I will," was the somewhat haughty and dignified reply, intended to repulse the low-bred fellow's offensive familiarity.

"Highty-tighty!" broke in Michael, in an under-tone, meant only for the maiden's ear. "Tip-top airs don't pass for much in these 'ere parts. Do you know that, Miss Lizzy Glenn, or whatever your name may be? We're all on the same level here. Girls that make slop shirts and trowsers haven't much cause to stand on their dignity. Ha! ha!"

The seamstress turned away quickly, and walked back to the desk where Berlaps stood writing.

"Be kind enough, sir, if you please, to hand me three more of your fine shirts," she said, in a firm, but respectful tone.

Berlaps understood the reason of this application to him, and it caused him to call out to his salesman something after this homely fashion—

"Why, in thunder, Michael, don't you let the girls that come to the store, alone? Give Lizzy three shirts, and be done with your confounded tom-fooleries! The store is no place for them."

The young woman remained quietly beside the desk of Berlaps until Michael came up and handed her the shirts. She then walked quickly towards the door, but did not reach it before Michael, who had glided along behind one of the counters.

"You're a fool! And don't know which side your bread's buttered," he said, with a half leer, half scowl.

She neither paused nor replied, but, stepping quickly out, walked hurriedly away. Young Perkins, before alluded to, entered at the moment, and heard Michael's grossly insulting language.

"Is that the way to talk to a lady, Michael?" he asked, looking at him somewhat sternly.

"But you don't call her a lady, I hope, Mr. Perkins?" the salesman retorted, seeming, however, a little confused as he spoke.

"Do you know anything to the contrary?" the young man asked, still looking Michael in the face.

"I can't say that I know much about her, any way, either good or bad."

"Then why did you use such language as I heard just now?"

"Oh, well! Never mind, Mr. Perkins," said Michael, his whole manner changing as a new idea arose in his thoughts; "if she's your game, I'll lie low and shut my eyes."

This bold assurance of the fellow at first confounded Perkins, and then made him very indignant.

"Remember, sir," said he, in a resolute voice, and with a determined expression on his face, "that I never suffer any one to trifle with me in that style, much less a fellow like you; so govern yourself, hereafter, accordingly. As to this young lady whom you have just insulted, I give you fair warning now, that another such an act will bring with it merited punishment."

Perkins then turned from the somewhat crestfallen salesman, and walked back to where Berlaps was standing at his desk.

"Do you know anything about that young woman I just now saw leave here, Mr. Berlaps?" he asked.

"I do not, Mr. Perkins," was the respectful answer. "She is a stranger, who came in some days ago for work."

"What is her name?"

"Lizzy Glenn, I believe."

"Where does she live?"

"Somewhere at the north end. Michael, there, knows."

"Get from him her street and number for me, if you please."

Berlaps asked Michael for the street and number where she lived, which the fellow took good care to give wrong. Perkins made a memorandum of the name and residence, as furnished, in his note-book, and, bowing to the man of shears, departed.

With her half dozen shirts, at seven cents, Mrs. Gaston returned home, feeling as if she must give up the struggle. The loss of Ella, after having striven so long and so hard for the sake of her children, made her feel more discouraged than she had ever yet felt. It seemed to her as if even Heaven had ceased to regard her—or that she was one doomed to be the sport of cruel and malignant powers. She had been home for only a short time, when Dr. R—— came in. After inquiring about her health, and if the children were still free from any symptoms of the terrible disease that had carried off their sister, he said—

"I've been thinking about you a good deal in the last day or two, Mrs. Gaston, and have now called to have some talk with you. You work for the stores, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"Here are some common shirts, which I have just brought home."

"Well, how much do you get for them?"

"Seven cents, sir."

"Seven cents! How many of them can you make in a day?"

"Two are as many as I shall be able to get through with, and attend to my children; and even then I must work half the night. If I had nothing to do but sit down and sew all the while, I might make three of them."

"Shameful! Shameful! And is that the price paid for such work?"

"It is all I get."

"At this rate, then, you can only make fourteen cents a day?"

"That is all, sir. And, even on the best of work, I can never get beyond a quarter of a dollar a day."

"How in the world, then, have you managed to keep yourself and three children from actual want?"

"I have not been able, doctor," she replied, with some bitterness. "We have wanted almost everything."

"So I should suppose. What rent do you pay for this poor place?"

"Three dollars a month."

"What! seventy-five cents a week! and not able to earn upon an average more than a dollar a week?"

"Yes, sir. But I had better work through the summer, and sometimes earned two dollars, and even a little more, in a week."

The doctor paused some time, and then said—

"Well, Mrs. Gaston, it's no use for you to struggle on at this rate, even with your two remaining children. You cannot keep a home for them, and cover their nakedness from the cold. Now let me advise you."

"I am ready to hear anything, doctor."

"What I would propose, in the first place—and that, in fact, is what has brought me in this morning—is that you put Henry out to a trade. He is young, it is true; but necessity, you know, knows no law. He will be just as well off, and better, too, under the care of a good master than he can be with you. And, then, such an arrangement will greatly relieve you. The care of little Emma will be light in comparison to what you have had to endure."

"You are no doubt right, doctor," the poor woman said, while the tears came to her eyes as she glanced towards Henry, who, for want of a pair of shoes, was compelled to stay home from school. "But I cannot bear the thought of parting with him. He is a delicate child, and only ten years old this winter. He is too young to go from home and have a master."

"He is young, I know, Mrs. Gaston. But, then, it is vain to think of being able to keep him with you. It is a cruel necessity, I know. But it cannot be avoided."

"Perhaps not. But, even if I should consent to put him out, I know of no one who would take him. And, above all, I dread the consequences of vicious association in a city like this."

"That matter, I think, can all be arranged to your satisfaction. I saw a man yesterday from Lexington, who asked me if I knew any one who had a lad ten or twelve years old, and who would like to get him a good place. I thought of you at once. He said a friend of his there, who carried on the hatting business, wanted a boy. I inquired his character and standing, and learned that they were good. Now, I think this an excellent chance for you. I have already mentioned your little boy to the man, and promised to speak to you on the subject."

"But think, doctor," said Mrs. Gaston, in a trembling voice, "Henry is but ten. To put a child out for eleven years is a long, long time."

"I know it is, madam. But he has to live the eleven years somewhere, and I am sure he will be as comfortable in this place as you can make him, and, indeed, even more so."

"In some respects he may, no doubt. But a child like him is never happy away from his mother."

"But suppose it is out of his mother's power to get him food and comfortable clothing?"

"True—true, doctor. It is a hard fate. But I feel that I have only one way before me—that of submission."

And submit she did, though with a most painful struggle. On the following day, the friend of the hatter called upon Mrs. Gaston, and it was settled between them that little Henry should be called for by the man who was to become his master on the morning of the next day but one. The best that the mother could do for her son, about to leave his home and go out among strangers, was to get him a pair of shoes, upon which she paid forty cents, promising to settle the balance in a couple of weeks. His thin, scanty clothes she mended and washed clean—darned his old and much worn stockings, and sewed on the torn front of his seal-skin cap. With his little bundle of clothes tied up, Henry sat awaiting on the morning of the day appointed for the arrival of his master, his young heart sorrowful at the thought of leaving his mother and sister. But he seemed to feel that he was the subject of a stern necessity, and therefore strove to act a manly part, and keep back the tears that were ready to flow forth. Mrs. Gaston, after preparing her boy to pass from under her roof and enter alone upon life's hard pilgrimage, sat down to her work with an overburdened heart. At one moment she would repent of what she had done, and half resolve to say "No," when the man came for her child. But an unanswerable argument against this were the coarse shirts in her hands, for which she was to receive only seven cents a piece!

At last a rough voice was heard below, and then a heavy foot upon the stairs, every tread of which seemed to the mother to be upon her heart. Little Henry arose and looked frightened as a man entered, saying as he came in—

"Ah, yes! This is the place, I see. Well, ma'am, is your little boy ready?"

"He is, sir," replied Mrs. Gaston almost inaudibly, rising and handing the stranger a chair. "You see he is a very small boy, sir."

"Yes, so I see. But some small boys are worth a dozen large ones. Come here, my little fellow! What is your name?"

The child went up to the man, telling him his name as he did so.

"That's a fine little fellow! Well, Henry! do you think you and I can agree? Oh, yes. We'll get along together very well, I have no doubt. I suppose, ma'am," he continued, addressing Mrs. Gaston, "that the better way will be for him to stay this winter on trial. If we like each other, you can come out to Lexington in the spring and have him regularly bound."

"That will be as well, I suppose," the mother replied. Then, after a pause, she said—

"How long will it be, Mr. Sharp, before I can see Henry?"

"I don't know, ma'am. How long before you think you can come out to Lexington?"

"Indeed, sir, I don't know that I shall be able to get out there this winter. Couldn't you send him in sometimes?"

"Perhaps I will, about New Year's, and let him spend a few days with you."

"It is a good while to New Year's day, sir. He has never been from home in his life."

"Oh no, ma'am. It's only a few weeks off. And I don't believe he'll be homesick for a day."

"But I shall, Mr. Sharp."

"You?"

"Yes, sir. It is hard to let my child go, and not see him again before New Year's day."

"But you must act the woman's part, Mrs. Gaston. We cannot get through life without some sacrifice of feeling. My mother had to let me go before I was even as old as your boy."

As Mr. Sharp said this, he arose, adding as he did so—

"Come, my little man. I see you are all ready."

Holding back her feelings with a strong effort, Mrs. Gaston took hold of Henry's small, thin hand, bent over him, and kissed his fair young cheek, murmuring in an under tone—

"God be with you, and keep you, my boy!"

Then, speaking aloud, she said—

"Be a good and obedient child, and Mr. Sharp will be kind to you, and let you come home to see me at New Year's."

"Oh, yes. He shall come home then," said the man half indifferently, as he moved towards the door.

Henry paused only to kiss his sister, and then followed after, with his little bundle in his hand. As he was about descending the steps, he turned a last look upon his mother. She saw that his eyes were filled with tears. A moment more, and he was gone!

Little Emma had stood looking wonderingly on while this scene was passing. Turning to her mother with a serious face, as the door closed upon Henry, she said—

"Brother gone, mamma?"

"Yes, dear! Brother is gone," sobbed the mother, taking the last child that remained to her, and hugging it passionately to her bosom. It was a long time before she could resume her work, and then so deep was her feeling of desolation, that she could not keep back from her eyelids the blinding tear drops.

(To be continued.)

BEARDED CIVILIZATION.

It may not be generally known that beards are singularly connected in history with the progress of civilization. The early Greeks and Romans did not shave. The Greeks began to use the razor about the time of Alexander, who commanded all his soldiers to shave, lest their beards should afford a handle for their enemies. This was little more than three hundred years before the Christian era; and thirty years after Alexander, Ticinius introduced the habit of shaving amongst the Romans. The Gothic invaders of the Western empire revived the habit of wearing the beard. The Anglo-Saxons were a bearded race when William the Conqueror invaded England, and, therefore, the Conqueror and his Normans ever after wore the chin smooth, in order to distinguish them from the vanquished; and thus, even in the Norman invasion, the shaven chin became the emblem of an advanced civilization. In like manner, amidst all the long controversies between the Eastern and Western Churches, the Western Church has invariably espoused the cause of the razor, whilst the Greek or Eastern Church as resolutely defends the cause of the beard. Civilization has marched in the West, and remained stationary in the East, in the land of beards. When Peter the Great determined to civilize his Russian subjects, one of the means which he considered indispensable was the use of the razor, he, therefore, commanded his soldiers to shave every layman who refused to do it himself, and rare sport they had with the stubborn old patriarchs, who persisted in retaining their much-cherished emblems of age and wisdom.

BABYLON, NINEVEH, AND MR. LAYARD.

(Concluded from page 136.)

ENTRANCE TO THE SMALL TEMPLE AT NIMROUD.

Returning to Konyunjik, Mr. Layard renewed his excavations. Soon afterwards, he discovered what he called the "chamber of records," which was filled with tablets. These are of vast importance in a historical point of view; and, when completely translated, they will add immensely to our knowledge of the ancient Assyrians. Hincks and others, who have devoted much attention to the study of the cuneiform character, have employed themselves in the translation with considerable success. In other apartments were discovered bas-reliefs, containing representations of attendants carrying strings of pomegranates and locusts; musicians playing upon harps, tabors, double-pipes, and an instrument like the modern santour of the East, consisting of a number of strings stretched over a hollow case or sounding-board.

In the mean time, excavations carried on in the high mound of Nimroud resulted in the discovery of several temples, ornamented with great beauty and effect. One of them had a gateway formed by two colossal lions, with extended jaws, gathered up lips and nostrils, flowing manes, and ruffs of bristly hair. The heads were vigorous and truthful in design. The limbs conveyed the idea of strength, and the veins and muscles were accurately portrayed. But the front of the animal was narrow and cramped, and unequal in dignity to the side. The sculptor had given five legs to the animal, in order that they might offer a complete front and side view. The height of the lions was about eight feet, and their length thirteen. In front of them were two altars, hollow at the top, and ornamented with gradines resembling the battlements of a castle. The exterior walls appeared to have been adorned with enamelled bricks, many of which still remained. The slabs on the floor of the temple were inscribed with records of the wars and campaigns of the earliest Nimroud king.

SMALL TEMPLE AT NIMROUD.

Another small temple was discovered at the north-west corner of the mound. Four of its chambers were explored, chiefly by means of tunnels carried through the enormous mass of earth and rubbish in which the ruins were buried. The great entrances were to the east. The principal portal was formed by two colossal human-headed lions, sixteen feet and a half high, and fifteen feet long. They were flanked by three small-winged figures, one above the other, and divided by an ornamental cornice, and between them was an inscribed pavement slab of alabaster. In front of each was a square stone, apparently the pedestal of an altar, and the walls on both sides were adorned with enamelled bricks.

Having dispatched another lot of very interesting sculptures to Busrah, Mr. Layard determined to set out for Babylonia. Upon the reputed site of ancient Babylon he designed to carry on extensive excavations, provided his means would permit. The remains of Babylon were found upon the banks of the Euphrates. Towering above all was the great mound of Babel. Beyond, for many an acre, were shapeless heaps of rubbish, the ridges that marked the course of canals and aqueducts. On all sides, fragments of inscribed glass, marble, and pottery were mingled with that peculiar nitrous and blanched soil, which, bred from the remains of ancient habitations, checks vegetation and renders the site of Babylon a hideous waste. Southward of Babel, for the distance of nearly three miles, there is an almost uninterrupted line of mounds, the ruins of vast edifices, the whole being inclosed by earthen ramparts. On the west of the Euphrates is the vast ruin called the Birs Nimroud, which some have conjectured to be the remains of the Temple of Belus, which, according to Herodotus, stood in one of the western divisions of Babylon. According to the united testimony of ancient authors, the city was divided by the Euphrates into two parts. The principal existing ruins are to the east of the river.

The hostility of the Arab tribes prevented Mr. Layard from making excavations at the Birs Nimroud. He visited that famous ruin, and formed an opinion in regard to the shape of the edifice, but made no discoveries worthy of notice. The excavations carried on upon the eastern bank of the river were not attended with very remarkable results. Bricks, inscribed with the name and titles of Nebuchadnezzar, king of the Chaldees, were numerous. Coffins, containing skeletons that fell to pieces on exposure to the air, were discovered. No relic or ornament seemed to have been buried with the bodies. Glass bottles, glazed earthen vessels, and many other relics of a doubtful period, were found. Digging trenches into the foot of the mound of Babel, Mr. Layard came upon walls and masses of masonry, but failed to trace the plan of an edifice, or discover any remains of sculptured stone or painted plaster. The mound called Kasr was explored, and found to contain some astonishing specimens of masonry, the bricks being deeply inscribed with the name and title of Nebuchadnezzar. But the plan of an edifice could not be ascertained. The only relic of any interest discovered was a fragment of limestone, on which were parts of two figures, undoubtedly those of gods. This showed that the Babylonians portrayed their divinities in the same manner as the Assyrians. In the mound of Amran were found some bowls, on which were inscriptions in a curious character. These were deciphered by Mr. Thomas Ellis, of the British Museum, and ascertained to have been written by Jews. Mr. Layard thinks that there is no reason to doubt that the bowls belonged to the descendants of those Jews who were carried captive by Nebuchadnezzar to Babylon and the surrounding cities. From the same mound were also taken some earthen or terracotta tablets. They resembled those which had been already deposited in the British Museum by Colonel Rawlinson. On one of these is the figure of a man leading a large and powerful dog, which has been identified with a species still existing in Thibet. The Babylonians prized these dogs very highly. One of their satraps is said to have devoted the revenues of four cities to the support of these animals.

TERRACOTTA TABLET FROM BABYLON.

Brick appears to have been the common material for building purposes in Babylon. But such bricks and such bricklaying were never seen elsewhere. All the bricks were enamelled and ornamented with figures of men and animals. They were joined together by the finest cement. The immense edifices erected from such materials were even more astonishing than the pyramids of Egypt or the palaces of Assyria, as these were the results of greater toil and skill.

Leaving Babylon somewhat disappointed, Mr. Layard proceeded to the mounds of Niffer, in the same district. There, however, he had no better success than at Babylon. Masses of masonry, inscribed bricks, and sarcophagi of an unknown date, were all that could be obtained by excavations. Soon afterwards, Mr. Layard returned to the site of Nineveh to superintend the removal of his sculptures, and the work of exploration was relinquished.

It now remains to sum up the results of the discoveries of Layard to chronology and history. The translators of the Assyrian inscriptions have ascertained that the earliest king, of whom they can gain any detailed account, was the builder of the north-west palace at Nimroud, the most ancient edifice hitherto discovered in Assyria. His records, however, with other inscriptions, furnish the names of five, if not seven, of his predecessors, some of whom erected palaces at Nineveh, and originally founded those which were only rebuilt by subsequent monarchs. The translators, after a careful consideration of all the evidence, fix the date of the reign of the earliest king at about 1121 B. C. Colonel Rawlinson calls him the founder of Nineveh; but this is a hasty conclusion. His name is believed to have been Ashurakbal. He carried his arms to the west of Nineveh, across Syria, to the Mediterranean, to the south into Chaldea, and to the north into Asia Minor and Armenia. Of his sons, Divanubar, was also a great conqueror. He waged war, either in person or by his generals, in Syria, Armenia, Babylonia, Chaldæa, Media, and Persia. The kings of Israel and Egypt paid him tribute, so that he was, indeed, a mighty sovereign. Divanubar seems to have had two successors, but even their names are uncertain. The next king of whom there are any actual records appears to have been the predecessor of Pul, or Tiglath-Pileser, who is mentioned in the Scriptures. His name has not yet been deciphered. He was a successful warrior, and carried his arms into Chaldea and the remotest parts of Armenia. The successor of this monarch was Sargon, the builder of the palace of Khorsobad—a king mentioned by the prophet Isaiah. He was a warlike prince, and carried his arms to the islands of the Mediterranean, and into all the neighboring countries. He made 27,280 Israelites captive in Samaria and its dependent districts. Egypt paid him tribute. From the reign of Sargon, we have a complete list of kings to the fall of the empire, or to a period not far distant from that event. He was succeeded by the mighty Sennacherib, whose history is well known. This king ascended the throne about 703 B. C. After spreading the terror of his arms in every direction, he was assassinated, and his son, Essarhaddon, ascended the throne. This king is mentioned in the Scriptures. He built the south-west palace at Nimroud, and an edifice, the ruins of which are now covered by the tomb of Jonah, opposite Mosul. In his inscriptions, he is styled king of Egypt and Ethiopia, and he appears to have been a great warrior. The son of Essarhaddon was named after the builder of the north-west palace at Nimroud. His son was the last king of the second dynasty, and, as Mr. Layard says, may have been that Sardanapalus who was conquered by the combined armies of the Medes and Babylonians under Cyaxares, 606 B. C., and who made a funeral pile of his palace, his wealth, and his wives.

The records of Nineveh do not go back farther than the twelfth century before Christ. From Egyptian monuments, however, distinguished scholars have gleaned the intelligence that a kingdom called Assyria, with a capital called Nineveh, existed as early as the fifteenth century before Christ. The Assyrian empire appears to have been at all times a kind of confederation formed by many tributary states, whose kings were so far independent that they were only bound to furnish troops to the supreme lord in time of war, and to pay him an annual tribute. On the occasion of every change at the capital, these tributary states seem to have striven to throw off the yoke of the Assyrians. The Assyrian armies were made up of many various nations, retaining their own costumes, arms, and modes of warfare. The Jewish tribes can now be proved to have held their dependent position upon the Assyrian king from a very early period—indeed, long before the time inferred from any passage in Scripture.

The religious system of the Assyrians is still uncertain. All we can infer is that this people worshipped one supreme God, as the great national deity under whose immediate protection they lived. He was called Asshur, and Assyria was known as the "country of Asshur." Beneath him were twelve gods of vast power, and there seems to have been about 4,000 inferior divinities. Asshur was always typified by a winged figure in a circle.

Mr. Layard does not think that the extent of Nineveh has been exaggerated. The space within the ruined ramparts does not seem to have been occupied with houses. These ramparts merely surrounded the magnificent palaces and their beautiful grounds. The citizens resided beyond them, having the space within for a refuge in case of invasion. This is the plan of some modern cities in the East. From a careful survey of the whole ground, Mr. Layard believes that Nineveh was a "city of three days' journey round"—say, sixty miles in circumference.

VEGETABLE PHYSIOLOGY.

BY HARLAND COULTAS.

PROCESS OF FERTILIZATION.—The young seeds or ovules are contained in the interior of the pistil before the flower opens, and continue to grow until that time, but no longer, unless they are acted upon by the pollen of the anthers. The necessity of this process shows why it is that stamens and pistils are so constantly found in flowers, and why the former surround the latter so nicely as they in general do; and, even in circumstances which seem somewhat adverse to fertilization, still some admirable contrivance is always found to bring about the same end.

In some flowers, we meet with beautiful contrivances for securing the fecundation of their pistils. Thus, such as are erect have usually the stamens longer than the pistils, whilst in pendulous flowers it will be found that the pistils are the longest and the stamens the shortest. By this admirable relative adjustment, the pollen, in falling, comes into contact with the pistil. The Fuchsia, or ladies' ear-drop (Fig. 1), shows the character of this arrangement in a pendulous flower: p is the pistil, and s the stamens, which, it will be perceived, are much shorter, and situated above the pistil, in order that its viscid stigma or summit may receive the pollen as it falls out of the anther cells.

Fig. 1.

There are a few well-known instances in which fertilization is effected by certain special movements of the stamens. The stamens of the barberry spring to the pistil, if the lower part of their filaments is touched; and in Parnassia palustris, the grass of Parnassus, a rare and beautiful snow-white swamp flower, the stamens move towards the pistil in succession to discharge their polliniferous contents.

The flowers of the Kalmia latifolia, or mountain kalmia, a native evergreen, very abundant on the side of barren hills and the rocky margins of rivulets, are especially deserving of attention. The corollas of the kalmia are rotate or wheel-shaped, and have ten stamens, the anthers of which, before the flowers expand, are contained in ten little cavities or depressions in the side of each corolla, where they are secured by a viscid secretion. When the corollas open, the filaments of the stamens are bent back by this confinement of their anthers like so many springs, in which condition they remain until the pollen in the anther cells becomes ripe and absorbs the secretion. The anthers, becoming suddenly liberated by this means from their cavities, fly up with such force as to eject their pollen on the pistil. The slightest touch with the point of a needle, or the feet of an insect crawling over their filaments, is sufficient to produce the same effects when the pollen is mature. Fig. 2 shows, at a, the fully expanded flower with the confined anthers; at b, the flower after the anthers have discharged their pollen.

Fig. 2.

When the stamens and pistils are together in the same flower, it is designated as hermaphrodite, and complete; but, if the flower contains only one of these organs, it is termed unisexual, and, in this case, it is either male or female, according as it is composed uniquely of stamens, or male sexual organs, or of pistils, or female sexual organs. This separation of the sexual organs in flowers is of very frequent occurrence. The greater portion of our forest trees, and many herbaceous plants and shrubs, have unisexual flowers.

Sometimes the stamens and pistils are situated in separate flowers on the same plant. When this is the case, the staminate flowers are generally situated above the pistillate. The Indian corn exemplifies this arrangement. It is well known that the flowering panicle at the summit of the stem does not produce corn; these are the staminiferous flowers from whose anthers descend clouds of pollen on the threadlike pistils forming the silky tuft beneath. Without this pollen, the corn in the lower spike would not ripen; hence the evident design of nature in placing the pistillate below the staminate spike of flowers.

In forest trees, these unisexual flowers are usually borne on separate individuals of the same species, or the flowers on one tree are wholly staminate, and those on the other altogether pistillate. It must be obvious that such plants are still more unfavorably situated for fertilization. The great abundance of pollen produced compensates for the unfavorable situation of the flowers. The wind drives it far and near, and the air becomes sometimes so charged with it that rain, in falling, brings it down to the ground in considerable quantities, producing the so called sulphur showers of which we read in history. There is no doubt, also, that the bee and other insects in search of honey convey the pollen from the stamens to the pistils in unisexual plants.

CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.—MARCH.

BY D. W. BELISLE.

ARGO NAVIS.—This beautiful constellation occupies a large space in the southern hemisphere, though few of its stars are seen in our latitude. It is situated south-east of Canis Major, and may be known by three stars forming a small triangle in the prow and deck of the ship. Sixteen degrees south of this triangle is a very brilliant star in the row-lock, called Naos. This star is the south-east corner of the Egyptian X, and comes to the meridian on the 3d of March, when, for a few hours only, it is visible in our latitude. It is then eight degrees above the horizon. Seven degrees south of Naos, on the 7th of March, may be seen Gamma, a brilliant star which, for a few moments, skims the horizon, and then disappears. It is never in our latitude more than one degree above the horizon, and is rarely visible. Thirty-six degrees south of Sirius is Canopus, a star of great brilliancy and beauty. It is of the first magnitude; but, having a south declination of fifty-three degrees, it cannot be seen in the United States. Twenty-five degrees east of Canopus is Miaplacidus, a star of the first magnitude in the oars of the ship. This is also invisible to us. This constellation contains sixty-four stars, which, seen from the southern hemisphere, are of singular beauty and brilliancy.

"There they stand,

Shining in order, like a living hymn

Written in light."

According to Greek mythology, the ship was placed in the heavens to perpetuate the expedition of Jason into Colchis to recover the Golden Fleece. Hebrew mythology also claims the origin of it, and with them it perpetuates Noah's Ark, in which a remnant of every living thing was saved during the deluge. There is good foundation for the supposition that the Argonautic expedition is founded on certain Egyptian traditions relating to Noah's Ark, and that the Greeks located them within their territory, and claimed them as a triumph of Neptune, the god of the sea.

CANCER.—This constellation is situated directly east of the Twins, and occupies considerable space in the heavens. Its stars are small and scattered, yet it may readily be distinguished by three small stars in the centre, which form a triangle, and nearly in the centre of this triangle is a nebula, sufficiently luminous to be distinguished with the naked eye. The appearance of this nebula to the unassisted eye is not unlike the nucleus of a comet, and it was repeatedly mistaken for the comet of 1832, which passed in its neighborhood. On being viewed through a telescope, it resolves into distinct stars, and we thus catch a glimpse of an interminable range of systems upon systems, and firmaments upon firmaments; and, in contemplating the immensity of space that encircles them, the imagination becomes bewildered and lost. Who can trace the boundless depths of air?

Beyond the reach of telescope,

Whose powers o'erstep the space

That lies where eye may never hope

To pierce, or e'en to trace

The bounds of worlds which it reveals

In those illimitable fields?

These minute stars have the appearance of planets with oval disks, somewhat mottled, but approaching in vividness to actual planets. This constellation is on the meridian the 3d of March.

The Greeks assert that Cancer received its origin through the favor of Juno, who sent a sea-crab to annoy Hercules during his famous contest with the Lernean monster. The Chaldeans, however, represented the cluster by the figure of an ass, whose name, in the Chaldaic, is muddiness. It is supposed to allude to the discoloring of the Nile, which began to rise when the sun was entering Cancer.

VIA LACTEA.—

"A way there is in heaven's extended plain,

Which, when the sky is clear, is seen below,

And mortals, by the name of Milky, know;

The groundwork is of stars, through which the road

Lies open to the Thunderer's abode."

There is a luminous zone, varying from four to twenty degrees in width, which passes quite round the heavens, called by the Greeks Galaxy, by the Latins Via Lactea, which, in our tongue, is Milky Way. "Of all the constellations which the heavens exhibit to our view, this fills the mind with the most indescribable grandeur and amazement. When we consider what unnumbered millions of mighty suns compose this cluster, whose distance is so vast that the strongest telescope can hardly separate their mingled twilight into distinct specks, and that the most contiguous of any two of them may be as far asunder as our sun is from them, we fall as far short of adequate language to express our ideas of such immensity as we do of instruments to measure its boundaries."

"Throughout the Galaxy's extended line,

Unnumbered orbs in gay confusion shine;

Where every star that gilds the gloom of night

With the faint tremblings of a distant light,

Perhaps illumes some system of its own

With the strange influence of a radiant sun."

All the stars in the universe have been arranged into groups, which are called nebulæ or starry systems. The fixed star which we call our sun belongs to that extensive nebula the Milky Way, and, though evidently of such immeasurable distance from its fellows, it is probably no farther from them than they are from each other. We know very little of the number and economy of the stars that compose this group. Herschel counted five hundred and eighty-eight in a single spot, without moving his telescope. He found the stars unequally dispersed in all parts of the constellation, and apparently arranged into separate systems or clusters. In a small space in Cygni, the stars seem to be clustered into two distinct divisions, and in each division he counted upwards of one hundred and sixty-five thousand stars.

Various changes are constantly taking place among the nebulæ. Several new ones are being formed by the dissolution of larger ones, and it has been ascertained beyond a doubt that many nebulæ of this kind are detaching themselves from the Milky Way at the present time. In the body of Scorpio there is a large opening, four degrees broad, entirely destitute of stars, through which we get a glimpse of regions of space beyond.

"Oh, what a confluence of ethereal fires,

From urns unnumbered down the steeps of heaven,

Streams to a point, and centres on my sight!"

Already nearly three thousand nebulæ have been observed, and if each contains as many stars as the Milky Way in that portion of the heavens which lies open to our observation, there must be several hundred millions of stars. How vast and unfathomable to mortal mind must be the ways and attributes of that intelligence that creates and guides in unison these starry worlds!

"The hand of God

Has written legibly, that man may know

The glory of his Maker."

This nebula may be traced in the heaven, beginning at the polar star, through the constellations Cassiopeia, Perseus, Auriga, part of Orion, and the feet of Gemini, where it crosses the Zodiac, thence over the equinoctial into the southern hemisphere, through Monoceros and Argo Navis, St. Charles's Oak, the Cross, the Altar, and the feet of the Centaur. Here it passes over the Zodiac into the northern hemisphere, divides itself, one branch running through the tail of Scorpio, the bow of Sagittarius, the shield of Sobieski, the feet of Antonius, Aquila Delphinus, the Arrow, and the Swan. The other branch passes through the upper part of the tail of Scorpio, the side of Serpentarius, Taurus Poniatowski, Goose, neck of the Swan, head of Cepheus to the polar star, where it again unites to the place of its beginning.

Anciently, the Milky Way was supposed to be the sun's track, and its luminous appearance was caused by the scattered beams left visible in the heavens. The Pagans maintained it was a path their deities used in the heavens, which led directly to the throne of Jupiter.

"Heaven

Is the book of God before thee set,

Wherein to read his wondrous works."

TABLE-MOVING.

BY PAULINE FORSYTH.

Westbridge is a small town, so near one of the largest cities in our Union that it can keep pace with all the vagaries and wild chimeras with which the fantastic spirit of the age seems to delight to bewilder and mislead its votaries, as well as learn the latest news or display the latest fashions. And yet it is far enough from New York to have a character and mode of living entirely its own. That character is the severe, and the mode of life rigid and exemplary. All kinds of amusements are looked upon with a disapproving eye, and many of them have been so completely extirpated that they are hardly ever alluded to. Dancing alone has contrived to maintain a precarious foothold in the community, sometimes shrinking down into the modest cotillion, and again, when the ranks of its votaries are recruited from some less scrupulous portion of the country, bursting forth in the full horror of waltz, polka, or schottisch. Its reign is, however, short, and the social gatherings soon regain their usual character for staid propriety.

When you go to a party at Westbridge, to be invited to which is a sort of a testimonial that you are a discreet and proper person, you are expected to take a seat and remain seated. To move about much argues a lightness of mind, and will cause talk. Of course, the conversation will have to be principally carried on with your neighbor, whoever he or she may happen to be; and three hours' uninterrupted conversation with a shy youth or a heavy old bachelor is a mental effort of which let those speak who have tried it. I have generally taken refuge in silence, after having made the observations that are usually considered proper on such occasions.

If you are a lady, books as a subject of conversation are interdicted; for, St. Paul being our great oracle, puddings, and not literature, are considered as the proper objects on which the female mind may exercise itself; and, though the state of public feeling in Westbridge allows a critical supervision over the conduct of the members of its society, yet gossip in its broader sense is interdicted.

Thus deprived of the aliment that sustains it in so many places, the social feeling languished, and sometimes seemed almost extinct. Yet, in reality, it retained a vigorous vitality, and only needed an opportunity to show how strong and deep it had struck its roots in our common nature, so that neither circumstances nor education could utterly destroy it. The mania for moving tables in the peculiar way that came in with the spirit-rappings was just such an occasion as the people in Westbridge would allow themselves to seize upon, as a legitimate means for gratifying the love for novelty and excitement that is inherent in mankind.

They excused, or, I should say, accounted for their ardor in the cause—for to excuse their course of conduct is below a true Westbridgeite—by speaking calmly and wisely of moving tables in that mysterious way as a new fact in science yet unaccounted for, and all their efforts were to be considered as so many scientific experiments to discover whether electricity, or some hitherto unknown physical influence, were the agent. For a time in Westbridge, we all, young and old, became natural philosophers, and pursued our investigations with a most exemplary zeal.

In a state of benighted ignorance on the subject of table-moving, never having heard of it even, I made my entrance into the sewing society, held weekly at Westbridge. As soon as I entered, I became aware that some exciting topic was under discussion. That being our only weekly gathering during the winter, in the calmest times the tongue ran an even race with the needle; but on this particular afternoon the sewing seemed to be forgotten. Work in hand, I seated myself near a lady to whom a large circle were listening in open-eyed wonder.

"At my cousin's in New York," she was saying, with animated emphasis, "they moved a heavy table, with a marble top, up stairs."

"Well, I suppose that is often done," said I, as yet uninitiated into the mystery.

"Yes; but with their hands—that is, without their hands. I mean just by putting their hands on the top of it, without using any force at all."

"I know a gentleman in the city who can, after keeping his hands on the table for a little while, take them off, and it will follow him all about the room," said another lady.

"My cousin told me," said a young girl, so absorbed in listening that her work had fallen on the floor, "that he had heard of tables being made to spring up to the ceiling—heavy tables."

"Can such things be, and not o'ercome us with a special wonder?" thought I; and I asked, rather skeptically, "Have you ever seen any of these wonderful things?"

"Oh, yes!" said several at once, and one of the speakers continued—

"We have been trying experiments at Colonel Dutton's, and Mr. Johnson's, and at our house, and we find that we can make the tables move about the room as long as we keep our hands on them. We have not yet succeeded in making them follow us or spring up from the floor; but I have no doubt we shall. Our power seems to increase every day."

"What kind of power is it?"

"Some persons think it a new development of electricity. I think myself it is some mysterious physical agent residing in our bodies—a kind of magnetism that works all these wonders. That is also Dr. Whitman's opinion."

"How do you try your experiments?" asked I, rather more inclined to believe in it, since I had heard those scientific terms and Dr. Whitman's name.

"We sit round a table, and lay our hands upon it so as to cover as large a surface as possible; the thumbs must touch, and the little fingers of each hand be in contact with the little fingers of the one on either side, so as to form a complete circle. You must not allow any other part of your person or dress to touch the table, or the communication will be interrupted; and it is better not to talk or laugh, but to be perfectly quiet and intent on your object."

Thus fully instructed, I went home bent on experimenting. Who could tell but that I should go to my room at night followed by all the furniture in the drawing-room in a slow procession? Though thus extravagant in my hopes, I showed a proper humility in my first attempts, selecting a very small tea-poy as the object of my experiment. I obtained an assistant, a lady, who, at first, when seated opposite to me with her hands outspread on the table before her, having nothing else to do, was very much inclined to converse, but, at my earnest entreaty, she relapsed into silence; and thus we sat for two weary hours. I had been told that my fingers would tingle, and they did tingle, and that was the sole result of this patient waiting. Tired out at last, we came to the conclusion either that, in our ignorance, we had neglected something essential to the success of the attempt, or that we were entirely deficient in that mysterious physical agent, of which some other persons seemed to possess such a super-abundance.

After having been pursued all night by tables, from which my utmost efforts hardly enabled me to escape, I arose with a nightmare-feeling of oppression upon me, for which a walk in the bracing air of a cold bright day in February seemed the best remedy.

"I will run over directly after breakfast to Mrs. Atwood's, to get the receipt for that new pudding, which she promised me, and then return and devote the rest of the morning to making calls," thought I.

And, accordingly, a little after nine, I put my head into Mrs. Atwood's sitting-room.

"I won't come in, thank you, this morning," said I, in answer to her invitation. "I cannot stay a minute. I merely came to ask for the receipt for that apple and tapioca pudding. Henrietta isn't as well as usual to-day, and I thought she might like it. Oh, you are trying to move a table! Don't let me disturb you, then. How do you succeed?"

"Not very well this morning," said Mrs. Atwood; "but last night we were very successful. It was our first attempt, too. Jane brought home such wonderful accounts from the sewing society, that we could not rest until we had made a trial of our powers. I think this morning we need a little more assistance, as some of the children have gone to school. I wish you would stay a little while and help us."

"I should be very happy to do so," said I, yielding to her solicitations and my own curiosity, and coming forward; "but I am afraid I should be a hindrance rather than an assistance." And I related my failure of the preceding evening.

I found Mrs. Atwood, her two eldest daughters, and one of her boys sitting anxiously, with outspread hands, round a very small table. A more miserable, distressed-looking child than the little white-headed Charles Atwood I do not think I have ever seen.

"I made Charley come in from his play to help us," said Mrs. Atwood, "because Jane was told that light-haired people possess more of that peculiar electric power, or whatever it is, than any other. Charley is the only member of our family who has light hair. Sit still, my son," she added, as Charley gave the table a little nervous kick.

There was a long silence, broken only once when Charley looked up, with his face full of some deep purpose, and inquired the very lowest price for which wigs could be bought. The question being considered irrelevant, the only answer the poor child received was a shake of the head and a frown from his mother. A peculiar whistle, the familiar signal of one of his favorite companions, threw Charley into such a state of painful suffering that, in commiseration for him, I consented to take his place. He bounded off in an ecstasy of joy, and I took no more note of time till we heard the clock strike eleven. In the mean time, the table had quivered twice, and once moved about an inch. With a sort of Jonah-like feeling, I arose, saying—

"It is useless for me to try longer; I am convinced that I rather retard the movements of the table than assist you." And, bidding her good-morning, I turned my steps homeward.

As I passed the house of one of my acquaintances, my attention was arrested by a tap on the window—a phenomenon that never happened in Westbridge before within my recollection. I obeyed the summons, and found the whole family assembled, gazing in gleeful wonder at the clumsy antics a table was playing under the guidance of three of its members. One of these was a light-haired boy of about thirteen. There was a sober mischief lurking in his face that awoke a slight suspicion in my mind.

"Are you sure that Robert is not using a little muscular force?" asked I.

"Bob? Oh no; he wouldn't do such a thing. He knows how anxious we are to discover the truth that lies at the bottom of these strange developments. And look how lightly his hands rest on the table—the fingers hardly touch it. But Bob has a great deal of electricity about him."

He looked as though he had.

"And I have observed," continued Mrs. Dutton, "that boys and very young men are more successful than any others in moving tables."

If that had not been announced to me as a scientific fact, I should have regarded it as a suspicious circumstance. But manner has a great effect, and Mrs. Dutton's grand emphatic way impressed me so strongly that I listened with the unquestioning reliance of an ignorant, but trusting disciple.

I watched the table as it went reeling and pitching, in a blind and purposeless sort of way, about the room, closely attended by the three who had set it in motion.

"Now take your hands off, and perhaps it will follow you," said I.

That was an unfortunate request of mine, for, with the lifting of the hands, all movement in the table ceased. Bob took the opportunity thus afforded him, and made his escape from the room. We spent a long time in trying to "charge the table," as we called it in our wisdom, again, but were unsuccessful. I was astonished in the midst of our attempts, and just as the table began to make its usual quiver preparatory to a start, to hear the clock strike three. I hastened home to dinner without the receipt, and with the pudding and the calls still unmade, but with my mind so full of perplexed wonder at what I had seen and heard, that I hardly gave a thought to my omissions.

We were discussing the matter in a family circle in the evening, and I presume most of the other households in Westbridge were engaged in the same way, when two young ladies were shown into the parlor.

"We have come to borrow one of your tables—your very smallest, Mrs. Forsyth; and, Pauline, we want you to come back with us. You know how these experiments are tried, I believe. Mrs. Dutton says you were in there this morning, and saw how they did it. We have been trying in vain for the last hour, and at last I came to the conclusion that our tables were all too large, and I told mamma I was sure you would lend us one, and come and see if we omitted anything essential."

"Certainly," said I, "I will do all I can—that is very little. I have not succeeded yet in any attempt I have made. How shall we get the table carried round? Our servants are unfortunately out or engaged."

"Oh, we can carry it ourselves," said Miss Preston, an enthusiast, whom no trifling obstacles daunted; and we passed through the quiet streets of Westbridge carrying the table between us, and amusing ourselves with the curious surprise of the few pedestrians we met, as the full moonlight fell on us and our burden.

At Mrs. Preston's I was successful for the first time. The table quivered, then rocked, then tilted, and at last moved a little this way and that—not much, but just enough to lift from my mind the oppressive feeling of my own inability to do that of which all the men, women, and children in Westbridge seemed to be capable.

When I returned in the evening, I was told that another one of our set of small tea-poys had been borrowed by another neighbor; and for the succeeding fortnight there was little heard or thought of in Westbridge but moving tables. We ran into each other's houses unceremoniously in the evening, and met in little social groups, and our town began to wear another aspect.

But the heresy of involuntary muscular action had arisen in some way. The person who first broached the opinion, abashed perhaps by the indignant disapprobation with which it was received, had shrunk back into silence, but his opinion remained and was gaining ground. The parties began to run high. The people in Westbridge who had performed such wonders with their electric or magnetic force felt called upon to stand their ground and give some convincing proof that they had not all this time been duping themselves.

Those who had lately been devoting themselves to scientific experiments were invited to a soirée at Mrs. Dutton's. A few disbelievers in the science were also asked, that the examination might be carried on fairly and openly.

On entering the drawing-room at Mrs. Dutton's, I found the company already assembled. I saw all the familiar faces I had met so often lately around, not the festive, but the scientific board, and mingled with them were few not so often seen of late. Seated in the place of honor, on the luxurious sofa, were two stout and stately dowagers, guarding between them their niece, Edith Floyd, a lovely, blooming little beauty of sixteen, with brown eyes and fair hair falling in soft curls on either side of her face. Nearly opposite to her, and leaning against a door, stood Reginald Archer, a young Virginian, at that time a student at the college in Westbridge.

It was a rare event to meet a college student in the society of the place, for so many of them had acted the part of the false young knight "who loves and who rides away," that they had been for some time laboring under a kind of polite ostracism. But Mr. Archer had connections in the town, which fact accounted for his exception from the social banishment to which his companions were doomed. The first sight of Edith Floyd had so captivated him, that ever since he had been trying, but trying in vain, to obtain an introduction to her. She was so carefully watched and secluded by her two guardians, that this was the first evening that Mr. Archer had found himself in the same room with her. Even then he did not feel equal to encountering her imposingly dignified aunts, and stood waiting for a more favorable opportunity of forming her acquaintance.

Moving about from one group to another, talking in an excited, earnest way, was Mr. Harrison, the only man in all Westbridge who had expressed an utter disbelief in the whole movement from the first to the last. Even the idea of involuntary or unconscious muscular action was scouted at by him. There had not been a table moved in the town, he said, which had not been done by some person who was perfectly conscious of what he or she was doing. He would not reason nor listen to reason on the subject. It was too purely absurd, he said, for argument. He never entered a room where it was going on without being thrown out of all patience, and yet he haunted the tables and the groups around them, as if he found some strange fascination about them, talking, jesting, and inveighing at our ridiculous credulity, and doing his utmost to stem the tide that was so strong against him. But it was all to no purpose. Mrs. Dutton said, in her oracular way, that "Mr. Harrison had no faith, and faith was the key to knowledge."

Though thus summarily disposed of, he fought on still, not a whit discouraged by his want of success or the little credit he gained for himself.

After selecting with care a suitable table, those of the company who chose to be the experimenters placed themselves around it, and the number and variety of the fingers that were spread on that little surface was quite wonderful to behold. Under such experienced hands, the table performed its part to admiration. Its mode of progression was awkward and angular, to be sure; but what could be expected from the first attempt of a candlestand? It began at last to turn with such rapidity that it was followed with difficulty, and the laughing, confusion, and bustle occasioned by the endeavor to keep pace with its irregular movements created a merry turmoil seldom seen in a decorous assembly in Westbridge. Suddenly, the table made an unexpected tilt nearly to the floor, thus releasing itself from most of the hands laid upon it. The rest, satisfied with the result of the experiment, withdrew their fingers and went to receive the congratulations of the company.

Mrs. Dutton, in a state of high excitement, turned to Mr. Harrison and asked his opinion.

"You have humbugged each other most successfully," said he, too intolerant of the affair to be very choice in his expressions.

Mr. Archer, to whom the whole proceedings were new and strange, and who had had his attention about equally divided between the table and Edith Floyd, said, in a low voice, to Mr. Harrison—

"If I were to find myself seated with hands outspread at a table, waiting for it to move, I should certainly think that my head was a little touched."

"You are the only sensible person in Westbridge—besides myself," said Mr. Harrison, warmly.

Meantime, Ellwood Floyd, Edith's brother, desirous to repeat the experiment, had seated himself at the table, and was endeavoring to obtain assistants. But, satisfied and tired, most of the company were more inclined to talk.

"Come, Edith," said he, impatiently.

She looked beseechingly at her aunts, who, with some reluctance, gave their consent. They evidently regarded her as some precious jewel, which they were afraid to trust for one moment out of their care, for fear they should be rifled of it.

With blushing eagerness, Edith hastened to her brother's side, and two little hands, white and soft as snow-flakes, fell softly on the table. Instantly, two other hands, whose aristocratic beauty of form Lord Byron might have envied, although their color was somewhat of the brownest, were placed beside them.

"Introduce me, if you please," asked Mr. Archer, in a whisper, of a cousin of his, a lady who was standing near; and, the ceremony being performed, Mr. Archer felt inclined to bless the credulity which had thus enabled him to accomplish what had been for many months the desire of his heart.

Mr. Harrison looked on in astonishment.

"Is it possible!" he exclaimed.

"I begin to think there is something in it," said Mr. Archer.

"Is your brain turned too?"

"Perhaps it is a little," said Mr. Archer, with a half smile, while a flush stole over his face. He would not on any account have Mr. Harrison, the greatest tease in Westbridge, suspect the true reason for his sudden change.

All farther attempts at conversation were strictly forbidden by Mr. Floyd, who took upon himself the direction of the experiment. Three other ladies had joined, but he still looked about for more recruits.

"Come, Mr. Lamb," asked he of a large, mild-looking man, who had gathered himself up in a corner, as if he were laboring under a constant apprehension that he took up too much room in the world, "you will help us, I know."

Mr. Lamb begged to be excused, and the effort of speaking before so many brought a faint pink tinge to his face.

"Have you no faith either?" asked Mr. Harrison.

"You would not ask that, if you had seen him as I did yesterday," said Mr. Floyd, "sitting with outstretched hands over a large dining-table. He told me, when I went in, that he had been there all the afternoon, and had not yet produced the slightest effect."

Mr. Lamb's face was by this time a deep crimson, and, feeling it useless to attempt to withdraw any longer from observation, he advanced to the table and placed upon it a pair of hands so large, soft, and yielding that, when they at last stopped spreading, seemed to cover two-thirds of the table.

"Ah, that is something like!" said Mr. Floyd, highly satisfied with his new recruit.

But yet the table did not move as soon as before. Several times I fancied I observed a preparatory quiver in it, and the exclamations of those around it showed that they also were in expectation of some decided result; but we were as often disappointed. Looking closely, I thought that Mr. Archer's hands rested more heavily on the table than was expedient. I suggested this to him, and he thanked me politely, and showed such an evident desire to do nothing out of rule that he quite won my approval.

"My fingers are tingling," said one of the ladies.

"So are mine," said Mr. Archer.

But nothing came of it. After a long waiting, Edith Floyd burst out with, "I am so tired!" in a low, sighing whisper.

Instantly, the table began to move, very slowly and cautiously at first. But soon it increased its velocity, until the excited group around it could hardly keep pace with it. It whirled from one end of the drawing-room to the other with a rapidity never before seen in Westbridge.

"Not so bad a substitute for the waltz," said Mr. Harrison, as he watched the movers running, laughing, and exclaiming, mingled in apparently inextricable confusion. "I would not object to take a turn myself."

That was an unfortunate speech. One by one the movers withdrew their hands, until at last Mr. Lamb was left alone standing by the table in the middle of the room. In great confusion, he retired, and very soon the company dispersed.

That was the climax of the table-moving mania in Westbridge. What might have happened, if we had gone on, cannot be conjectured. We might all have been hearing mysterious rappings, and conversing with those most earthy spirits, whose utter barrenness and poverty of intellect have not hindered them from misleading some of our thoughtful and earnest minds.

The very day after Mrs. Dutton's soirée, Professor Faraday's exposition of the whole jugglery came out, and even the "Westbridge Chronicle" had the barbarity to publish it, "for the benefit," it said, "of some of its readers," when everybody in Westbridge knew that the editor had piqued himself on the possession of more electricity than any one else in town. The subject of table-moving is now a forbidden one in Westbridge. I have not heard an allusion to it for the last six month.

Yet, I fancy, it has produced some results; for Edith's two aunts, who were wont to delight in the most severe strictures on the young men of the present day, now make, in their sweeping assertions, a marked exception in favor of Mr. Reginald Archer.

INSTRUCTIONS FOR MAKING ORNAMENTS IN RICE SHELL-WORK.

[THIRD AND CONCLUDING ARTICLE.]

BASKET IN RICE SHELL-WORK.

We have hitherto only described those rice-shell ornaments which are adapted for wear. It is time we proceed to describe some of those ornamental articles for the drawing-room which can be manufactured, and which, from their delicacy, lightness, and rarity, are admirably adapted for presents.

Baskets of various kinds and forms may be made, either of the shells only, or of shells and card-board. Perforated card-board is the best when that material is used, as it saves trouble, and forms the pattern more evenly.

If we would make a card-basket or tray, for the reception of visitors' cards, the requisite number of pieces to form the article must be shaped out from the colored perforated card-board, and the pattern or arabesque, which is to be worked on it with the shells, pencilled. Colored card-board should be used, because that throws up the pure white of the shells. Having joined the different pieces together which form the basket, by sewing them with fine chenil, or silk twist, we take about half a yard of the finest silver wire and attach it to the basket at the place we purpose commencing the pattern, and bring it through one of the holes or perforations just there. We then thread a shell on it, and pass the wire through another hole so situated as, when the wire is drawn tight, to cause the shell to lie in that direction which will make it fall into its right position in the pattern. The wire must then be returned to the right side again, and another shell threaded on it, and the same manœuvre gone through; or, if it be intended to work a shell pattern inside and outside the basket, a second shell must be threaded on the wire before it is returned to the right side, and that adjusted into its place by a proceeding similar to the one just described. It is, however, difficult to manage the two patterns at once; one is sure to mar the other to a greater or less extent; therefore, it will always be best either to make the basket very open and tray-shaped, and to work the pattern on the inside, which will then be the only one much seen; or else to make it rather close and upright, so as to show chiefly the outside, and to work the pattern there.

Baskets may be made of unperforated card-board by gumming the pattern with a very thick solution of gum-dragon, and then sticking the shells on in their proper places.

In all kinds of baskets made with rice-shells, the back of the shell is to form the surface, and the opening to be turned inwards.

The basket, of which we have given a cut, is composed of shells, and the coarsest of the three sizes of silver wire. It is made in lattice-work, or squares, and requires some art to mould or shape it into form.

We commence at the bottom, and with the central square. A length of wire, measuring twelve or fourteen inches, must be taken, and the small shells used. Thread four shells on the wire, arranging them so that the point of the first meets the point of the second, and the end of the second meets the end of the third; while the point of the third meets the point of the fourth. Push them along the wire to within about an inch of the end, then bend them into a square, and twist the short end of the wire firmly and neatly with the other, and cut off the superfluous bit. Now thread three shells on the wire, so arranged that the end of the first and the point of the third shall meet the corresponding end and point of that shell of the square already formed, which, when these three are bent into their positions, will constitute the fourth side of this second square. Loop the wire through the corner of the foundation square, and we have the second completed.

A certain firmness, divested, however, of tightness, is requisite in performing these manipulations; for, if the shells are jammed too closely together, the work will have an uneven, stiff appearance, whereas, if they are left too loose, the fabric will never set in form, and will look slovenly. The drawing the wire through the corners of the preceding squares, in order to complete the one which is being worked, too, is a nice operation, which must be gently done, or we may crack the work; and securely and neatly managed, or the squares will not be firm and compact.

Three shells are now again to be symmetrically threaded, and formed into a square, and fastened down to the central one. Two other squares are then to be formed in like manner, and we now have five, or one on each of the four sides of the foundation square. All the sixteen shells used for this should be small, and as nearly as possible of a size.

The wire is now passed up through the inside of the shell nearest to it, and it will be found that the next round of squares will be formed, first, by threading two shells, and bending them into position, and fastening them down at the corner, over the place where the preceding round has left us two sides of a square, and then by threading three shells, and bringing them into shape, where we have only one side ready for us. The two shells, and the three shells, used alternately, will produce another round, consisting of eight squares. Care must be taken to use shells of equal size for a round, although in each fresh round the size of the shells should be in a slight degree increased. The backs of the shells must all lie one way, and the openings the other; the latter constitutes the inside of the basket, as they do not look so uniform and handsome.

The following engraving will give an idea of the appearance of the fabric in an early stage.

When it is necessary to take a fresh length of wire, it must be joined on close to the corner of a completed square, by twisting it firmly and neatly with the end of the length just used up, and cutting up the superfluous point.

The third round is formed as the second, by using alternately the two and the three shells as required to complete the squares.

The number of rounds which are to be worked for the bottom depends entirely upon the size which we design to make the basket. In general, these three, or at any rate four rounds, will be sufficient to make a very pretty sized one.

The next round is to be worked exactly in the same way and with exactly the same sized shells as the last one of the bottom, and, after it is worked, it is to be turned up like a rim all round. This commences the basket itself.

These rounds are now to be added with the small shells, and shaped into form; and then the middle-sized shells, in rounds of gradually increasing size, are to be used for about six rounds; and then the large shells, in gradually increasing size, are to be brought in use and continued until the basket is finished.

It will soon be perceived, while working, that it will occasionally be necessary to miss a square, or to add one or more here and there in order to preserve the raised, and opened, and rounded form requisite for the oval of a basket. The symmetrical arrangement of the points and ends must be carefully attended to, or else the star-like combinations, which add so materially to the appearance of the fabric, will be marred or lost.

A pair of tweezers, or very small nippers, may be used for twisting the wire when fastening on a fresh length, as the fingers will thus be saved, and additional firmness obtained.

Having raised the basket-work to the required height, which, when the bottom consists of four rounds, should be about six inches, a piece of round silk wire, either white or colored, and exactly the size, but not larger than the circle of the top of the basket, must be taken, and firmly attached to the edge of the basket with middle-sized wire; this is to give shape and firmness to the work, and to this another piece of wire is attached, to form the handle.

The basket must now be trimmed, and for this purpose we make two light and graceful wreaths, one long enough to go round the top of the basket, and the other as long as the handle. The single flower, the bud, the spiral group, and leaves of seven or nine shells each, are what will be required for an ordinary-sized basket. When the wreath is made in simple rice shell-work, the stems must be twisted, and the wreath bound together with fine silver wire, and attached to the handle and to the circular wire with the same; the silk wire used must be white.

If, however, the wreath is to be made in the "composite" style, light flower-seeds or small glass beads may be introduced into the centre of the flowers, and the stems may be wound, and the wreaths put together with floss silk, and then they are to be attached to the handle and circular wire with fine chenil. The following combinations are pretty and effective: beads or seeds of pink, or yellow, or coral, or blue, and the stems of the flowers and buds wound with silk to match, the stems of the leaves wound with green, and the wreaths attached in their places with green chenil. There should not be more than two colors, the green and one other, used at a time, and these should be delicate shades; for the shells have so pure and light an appearance, that anything in the least degree showy or gaudy spoils the effect of the whole.

Pendent from below each end of the handle, should be a grape-like bunch of shells, not set on so closely together as in the wheat-ear, or so far apart as in a leaf, and reaching about half way down the basket.

When completed, the article should be placed under a glass case to preserve it from dust and injury, and a few wax or artificial flowers may be tastefully arranged in it with advantage.

A square basket, or a long, straight-sided one, or one in almost any given shape, may be made in this lattice-work, by manufacturing each piece separately, and in the required shape, and then lacing them together with silver wire, chenil, or twist. There is, however, no trimming more graceful, or better adapted for them, than the wreath.

If thought fit, the wreath, however, need only be put round the top of the basket, and the handle made of a succession of squares of the kind we have described.

Light wreaths, either of "simple" or "composite" rice shell-work, may, with very pretty effect, be entwined around alabaster vases or baskets.

For wedding-cakes, rice-shell wreaths and bouquets, with silver bullion in the flowers, are both tasteful and appropriate.

Intermingled with groups of the wax, or artificial, or feather, or paper flowers, the shell-leaves and double and daisy flowers look very pretty.

As the shells never wear out, when any ornament is crushed, or soiled, or tarnished, it can be cut up, the wires picked out, and the shells, when washed and dried, will be ready to be used again and again.

But we are sure that we have suggested quite enough to our readers to enable them to devise for themselves many other pretty and fanciful uses for this work, and we feel convinced that, when once they have overcome the first difficulties of learning it, they will find pleasure in seeing the graceful articles that will, as it were, develop themselves under their busy fingers.

And so we now take our leave of this subject for the present, commending it to the favorable attention of those who may have taken the trouble to peruse what we have written.

ROMAN WOMEN IN THE DAYS OF THE CÆSARS.

BY H. P. HAYNES.

The condition of woman constitutes an important part of the complete history of any age or country. In her own appropriate sphere, she exerts an influence, powerful and enduring, for the political greatness, the moral grandeur, and general prosperity of a state, as well as for its social peace and harmony. In her heart dwell, for the most part, the charity, the virtue, the moral soundness of communities, and, it almost might be said, the patriotism of a people. Her character and condition are the character and condition of the society of which she is a component part. In those countries and climes where the female is made a slave, or treated with unmerited severity, the males are not men, but the most brutal of savages. Where civilization, Christianity, and refinement allow woman her proper level, man is the exponent of real humanity and intelligence. The annals of ages are but an accumulation of evidence establishing these truths.

The graver of the Athenians, in the age of Pericles, attributed the decline of those virtues which, in all ages, have been considered the brightest ornaments of the sex, and the consequent increase of vice in the republic, to the pernicious influence of the beautiful and fascinating Aspasia. To her they imputed the crime of seducing the first orator and statesman of his time. On the other hand, the stern virtue, the heroism, the self-denying patriotism of the sons of Sparta, were legacies from their mothers. They shunned no dangers, feared no enemy, shrank from no hardship, and, when they met an honorable death in combat with the invaders of Grecian soil, the brave-hearted matrons consoled themselves with the idea that for this purpose they had given birth to children.

When Carthage was for the last time besieged by the Romans, the patriotic women of that devoted city imparted to her warrior defenders a portion of their heroism and love of country, and cut off their tresses for bowstrings for the archers.

Roman history has described with great minuteness the extraordinary virtue and the excellent domestic habits of Lucretia, her sad fate, and the sympathy it awakened, and the indignation it aroused in the hearts of all good citizens. Her sacred regard for her own honor—that honor insulted by a corrupt nobleman, an unprincipled monarch—proved a death-blow to kingly power for a season in Rome. Whether the story of Lucretia be a cunningly-devised fable, or veritable, sober history, is not material, since it illustrates a principle well substantiated by all history and observation, that insults to female virtue and honor do not escape unavenged. Cleopatra, the beautiful and accomplished Egyptian queen, subdued successively the hearts of two stern Romans—heroes who had met the wildest shocks of battle undismayed, and who had never quailed with fear, nor scarce melted with pity. In her magic fingers hung, at an important crisis, the fate of the Roman empire. Her influence was as destructive as her presence was potential and commanding. These are marked instances of woman's influence, and of her characteristics.

The reign of Octavius Cæsar was the golden age of Rome. At that period, the almost unlimited control of the civilized world was hers. Her colonies were planted on every shore of the known world—the Roman eagles triumphed in every clime. Three continents paid her tribute. One intervening sea washed their shores and wafted her fleets. Extensive sway and the contributions of wealthy nations had not only rendered her proud and insolent, but corrupt, and, in a measure, cruel. The principal distinctions in her society were those of wealth and power, rather than of talents, sobriety, and virtue. The corrupt and the vile were, for the most part, the esteemed and highly favored.

There were numerous instances, it is true, of patriotism, virtue, and highmindedness among Roman citizens of this period, well worthy of imitation and remembrance. There was a sort of refinement of which the earlier Romans did not boast, and which they openly condemned. Grecian art and learning, combined with the wealth and vices introduced from the East, had wrought a great change in the national character and habits. Republican simplicity had given place to excessive extravagance and prodigality. In this, as in every age, woman acted no indifferent part in the everyday drama of Roman life. She was herself extravagant, and, if the history of that period be truly narrated, not always a discourager of vice and dissipation. Cicero, the greatest intellect Rome ever produced, with the exception, it may be, of Julius Cæsar, lived at this age in Rome, and contributed, in no small degree, to give it the title golden. He was, we are told, not only of the highest order of human intelligences, but a man of wisdom and purity of character. While he united in his own person all the noble qualifications of an able statesman, a brilliant scholar and orator, a learned and ingenious lawyer, and a good citizen, as well as a devoted father and husband, his first wife, Teruntia, was nearly the opposite. That he did not lack in kindness towards her, his known characteristics and disposition, as well as his letters to her when at a distance, fully prove. His social qualities eminently fitted him to discharge the duties of a husband in the most amiable manner. Teruntia, though of a rich and noble family, was of a turbulent and impetuous spirit, negligent, intriguing, and finally became so uncongenial a companion to the illustrious orator that he became divorced from her. He afterwards connected himself by marriage with another Roman lady of great wealth; but from her likewise he separated himself, finding her destitute of social kindness, domestic affection, and humanity.

Tullia, Cicero's daughter, is awarded a high rank among Roman ladies of her time; but she was thrice married, and as many times divorced. The cause may not have been hers so much as her husband's, or it may have been more attributable to the loose morals of the age than to either party in particular. If, however, Tullia was wanting in those domestic qualities so necessary to the permanent calm of married life, she was not destitute of learning and the polite accomplishments of her time. She is said, by Roman historians, to have been an "admirable woman"—affectionate and piously observant of her father—one of the most learned of Roman women.

In the earlier days of Rome, the noblest matrons were noted for nothing more than their excellent domestic habits—industry, frugality, and devotion to and affection for their families. The greatness of that vast empire was founded not more in the devoted patriotism and persevering energy of the Roman citizens, than in the incorruptible virtue, the sacrificing spirits, and noble hearts of Roman matrons. Not so in the declining days of the republic. Not so when the robust and vigorous youth of the nation began to tremble with advancing years, and to wreath its brow with gray hairs—a result not of age and toil and serious care, but of dissipation and inglorious ease, of wealth, and wine, and extravagant feasts. Not so when the humble cottage, the home wherein dwelt domestic peace and content, was exchanged for a marble palace, decorated with statues and paintings, lined with Tyrian couches, bespangled with gold and silver ornaments, and thronged with slaves. Not so when the Cæsars and Mark Antony ruled the imperial city with hordes of mercenary soldiers; nor when the republic was metamorphosed into an empire, and all regard to life, property, and private right had, in a measure, ceased. The social and domestic character of Roman society were so sadly changed, and foreign vice and corruption became naturalized to such an extent, that the decay of the empire is no marvel.

The simplicity and integrity of earlier times were the base on which was reared a magnificent national superstructure. Thereon was based the sure growth, the gradual, healthy expansion of Roman power, till all the tribes and nations of the earth respected and feared it. Therein consisted the peculiar glory of Rome's first estate—of her earlier conquests—that force of character and energy of action that wearied Pyrrhus, conquered Mithridates, and overwhelmed Carthage. No coward dared return from a field which he had dishonored to the bosom of his wife, his sister, or his family; for they scorned and detested cowardice and unmanly and unsoldierly behavior, while they honored bravery and patriotism, whether manifested against the invaded or in an offensive war against a foreign foe. They applauded whatever was noble, generous, and manly; though, to gratify this spirit, husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons were sacrificed on war's grim altar. The inflexible mandates of the immortal gods were to be observed at whatever cost.

The citizens were instruments in the hands of the deities to avenge wrongs, to enforce right, and to glorify the city of their birth. The great dramatic bard, in "Coriolanus," makes Volumnia, the mother of Marcius Coriolanus, say: "Hear me profess sincerely. Had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for his country than one voluptously surfeit out of action." She but spoke the spirit of her time; and her language is but the language of Roman matrons of her age. Thus grew and flourished, as by magic forces and divine ordination, the city of Romulus, the world's hope and dread, at once the saviour and destroyer of civilization, whose porous social system absorbed and quickly dissolved the mysteries of Egypt, the classic beauties of Greece, and the wealth of the "exhaustless East."

But the great distinguishing trait in the Roman woman, in the days of the republic and under the earlier kings, was her attention to household employments. This the Roman expected of his wife—it was enjoined upon her by the marriage rite. Thus, indeed, it was among most of the more enlightened nations of antiquity. The noble born of both sexes did not disdain to toil in their appropriate spheres; the prince of royal blood was proud of holding the plough and of acting the husbandman, and daughters of princes were not ashamed to ply the needle or tend the distaff.

"So it was of old

That woman's hand, amid the elements

Of patient industry and household good,

Reproachless wrought, twining the slender thread

From the light distaff; or, in the skilful loom,

Weaving rich tissues, or, with glowing tints

Of rich embroidery, pleased to decorate

The mantle of her lord. And it was well;

For in such sheltered and congenial sphere

Content with duty dwells."

The great veneration for home, and love for its pursuits and associations, grew weaker and weaker as the state exchanged a popular government for the reign of military dictators and kings. In the Augustan age, though instances of female virtue, nobility, and culture are not few, we find from the scanty records of female history of those times extant, which, indeed, are merely incidental, that woman is less often the ideal of self-sacrificing worth and of retiring modesty, less noted for her attachment to her family, her home, and her domestic pursuits, less careful in the training of her children, than formerly. In earlier times, no Roman matron coveted the infamous character of a masculine conspirator; no Roman woman left her quiet hearth disgracefully to insult the remains of a murdered citizen; no Roman woman had instigated a civil war, or proscribed her victims for assassination.

Fulvia, the ambitious wife of Mark Antony, did all this. After the assassination of Clodius, she raised a sedition. Imitating, or rather out-rivalling the cruelty of her husband, she joined in his proscriptions, that Roman blood might flow by Roman hands still more freely. After the great Cicero had been slain in a spirit of the most relentless and vindictive cruelty, and his head brought to Antony, Fulvia took it on her knees, broke out in a torrent of cowardly and abusive epithets on the character of the deceased, and then, with the most fiendish inhumanity, pierced his tongue with her golden bodkin. During the absence of her husband in the East, she not only endeavored to stir up insurrections, but sold the government of provinces and decreed unmerited triumphs. What an eternity of infamy should be hers for such deeds as these! What an example in the wife of a ruler for the imitation of an empire! When such a spirit actuates the female mind, when coupled with ambition, recommended by beauty and intelligence, and supported by power, it is sadly to be deplored. That ambition which at any time induces woman to step beyond her sphere, to take upon her shoulders masculine responsibilities, to take part in political struggles and sectional wrangles, to usurp the places and duties of those who were created and destined to cherish and protect her, it is, for her own sake, to be regretted. Such attempts are not only pernicious in their influence, but they tend to render those unhappy who make them. Such are the results of our reflection and observation, and such is the lesson taught by impartial history.

In the life of Fulvia, however, we do not get a fair representation of the female character of her time, but merely some of its tendencies. A spirit of insubordination to the laws of place and the rules of decorum; an overweening ambition that steps without household limits; assumption of power far beyond the reach of female duties; arrogance and haughtiness from the high official station of the husband; vindictive cruelty to avenge a fancied or a real wrong; prodigality and masculine pride, oftener perceptible in this age than formerly—were unmistakable indications of its character and tendencies. Yet the picture was not altogether sad, though at various points dark shadows were visible. Here and there the heaviness of the prospect was relieved by the most delightful views and cheering lights. The wife of the second Brutus is portrayed by the great limner of human character, in "Julius Cæsar," as worthy the beautiful tribute bestowed by her husband.

In this play, Portia is made to act the part and display the genuine qualities of a "true wife," understanding her duties as such, and manifesting all due sympathy and affection for her husband, as is shown where she beseeches Brutus to reveal to her why he is heavy in heart, the secrets of his bosom, and what designs he cherishes:—

PORTIA.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,

Is it excepted I should know no secrets

But, as it were, in sort or limitation;

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,

And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,

Portia is Brutus's harlot, not his wife.

BRUTUS.

You are my true and honorable wife!

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops

That visit my sick heart!

PORTIA.

Then should I know this secret.

I grant I am a woman; but, withal,

A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:

I grant I am a woman; but, withal,

A woman well reputed—Cato's daughter.

Think you I am no stronger than my sex,

Being so fathered, and so husbanded?

Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose them.

I have given strong proof of my constancy,

Giving myself a voluntary wound.

————— Can I bear that with patience,

And not my husband's secrets?

BRUTUS.

Oh, ye gods,

Render me worthy of this noble wife!

In the same play, Shakspeare would have us believe that Calpurnia, wife of Cæsar, had quite persuaded her husband not to go to the senate house on the fatal ides of March, though then and there he was to be crowned and clothed with regal power. The apprehensions she had raised in his mind were, however, dispelled by Oceius Brutus.

Antony's second wife, Octavia, was quite the reverse of Fulvia in character and disposition. She was of a gentle and peaceable spirit, doing her strict duty to her husband long after he had ceased to deserve her confidence or respect. The marriage, on the whole, was an unhappy one, being suggested by policy and public expediency, and effected for the purpose of uniting two powerful factions. Octavia was, for a considerable period, instrumental in preventing a rupture between her brother and husband, though that event finally occurred, with the most disastrous consequences to Antony. Though Antony was an able general, a man of capacity and great personal courage, yet he had so involved himself in the dissipations and luxuries of the Egyptian court, whose crowning star was Cleopatra, that he was no match for the graver and more calculating Augustus. The charms of Cleopatra had completely unmanned him, and smothered, in a measure, his ambition.

Time did not serve to rally him from the lethargy, hopeless and fatal, into which her spell had thrown him. The chains which bound him grew stronger and stronger, and his desire to break them weaker and weaker. This he attributed to her unrivalled beauty and the extent and variety of her accomplishment, to depict which requires a poet's pen and limner's art.

"Age cannot wither, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety. Other women clog

The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry

Where most she satisfies."

Happy picture! yet how inadequate to convey a correct impression of her entire character or history! But that portion intended to be depicted, the winning graces, the charming exterior, her manifold accomplishments, and queenly airs, how delicately, perhaps faithfully, touched off! The gifted and happy artist was not at fault here. The usually faithful limner, we have reason to believe, was not here unfaithful. He has portrayed the Egyptian queen, as she walked along the stage with Antony, truly and well.

But Cleopatra completed the ruin of Antony. He had wellnigh ruined himself; but it was hers to give the final stroke. How little he heeded his vow to Octavia at Rome, after he had spent part of his dissolute career in Egypt!

"My Octavia,

Read not my blemishes in the world's report.

I have not kept my square; but that to come

Shall all be done by the rule."

Poor Antony! the sequel of his life, the consummation of his destiny, how just, yet how painful to be observed! Fit retribution to one forsaking a true and faithful wife, to one choosing the paths of vice and dissipation and enervating pleasures. The stern warrior, the experienced general, the able statesman and orator found, at last, in the hand of the Venus he adored, the sword of a Nemesis.

Among the many noticeable women of this age, we would not pass by with seeming indifference the three Cornelias, wives of distinguished men, themselves, "withal, well reputed." Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna, was a very estimable woman, and the wife of Julius Cæsar. The best eulogy that has been pronounced upon her character and worth is the fact related by Plutarch concerning her. It appears that, though it was at that time contrary to custom at Rome to have funeral orations on young women deceased—only on the aged—yet Cæsar, from his high appreciation of the virtues of his wife, himself pronounced hers without regard to the practice of the times. This was her highest praise—the most worthy commendation of her merit. To recommend herself to her husband thus is one of the rarest excellences of a wife.

Pompey's wife, Cornelia, was Metellus Scipio's daughter. Considering the time in which she lived, the condition of society in which she moved, and the many examples of corruption daily exhibited in and about Rome, she certainly must be regarded as a woman of remarkable character and stability of virtue. Her accomplishments were many and various, and she was equally noted for the excellency of her private character, her domestic habits, and the extent and variety of her information.

Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, so celebrated in Roman history, was the daughter of Scipio Africanus Major. She also occupied a high rank among the worthy women of her day. She had a masculine turn of mind, but an irreproachable character. She is said, after the death of her husband, to have trained and educated her children in the most exemplary manner. In illustration of her regard for them, is the anecdote of Valerius Maximus concerning Cornelia, wherein she is represented, after having had displayed to her by a Campanian lady very many beautiful ornaments, and having been requested in turn to display her own, as having said, pointing to her children, "Here are my ornaments."

From the days of the Cæsars, Rome's glory began to depart. The stars that sparkled in her imperial diadem one by one faded, and at last were extinguished, leaving nations long accustomed to bondage and tribute free to grope about in the night of northern barbarism. Her conquerors and destroyers, though stigmatized as cowardly barbarians, without taste, learning, or genius, and destitute of any appreciation of the uses or beauty of art, could at least boast of a higher respect for woman. Ignorant and uncultivated, they yet looked upon the gentler sex with a kindly eye, and in her presence felt a generous sentiment, noble in itself and worthy of men. They looked upon woman as on the face of the calm heavens, to draw thence a kind of holy inspiration. They regarded her as mother, sister, wife, daughter—not as slave, servant, or a temporary toy. A worthy characteristic, though manifest in Goth and Vandal, the destroyers of statues, paintings, and magnificent cities, the dismantlers of queenly Rome, or the ravagers of Tuscany.

One of the disorders of which old Rome died—she had many preying on her vitals—was the rottenness of her social system. The Roman, in the days of Augustus, could not justify himself to his family on any rules of ancient or modern propriety; and too often it happened that his family, his wife, sister, and daughter, could not vindicate their own conduct, much less atone for that of the Roman man.

The history of that age, with what afterwards befel that proud empire, teaches with a plainness that is unmistakable that, when a nation or state loses its self-respect, and the people cease to pay a proper regard to social proprieties, and due respect and deference to female character—when woman is denied the charity she merits, or when she herself is encouraged to step beyond her generously accorded limits, its heart is unsound and its path is descending.

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.

EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.

THE THIRD LETTER LEFT.

(Dated March 3d.)

SHOWING WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME OF HER SCHOOL-FELLOWS.

I do begin, Nelly, to like this wretched place a little better. All the girls are not Nobles and Peacocks; and it's lucky they ain't, for I never met with such a couple of disagreeable things. They set themselves up for great judges and wits, ridiculing everything they do not like, and trying to make the rest feel humbled and worthless, because our mas have never been to court, or our pas do not drive a pair of horses!

Meggy Sharpe and I both think Annie Flower much prettier than Rosa Peacock, although she is not a fine lady, and her father is only a farmer. They call her "Dairymaid;" but, for all that, Miss Rosa Peacock is jealous of her beautiful complexion, and is always imitating Annie's merry laugh.

That little impudent thing with the turn-up nose is a Miss St. Ledger. Her pa is a city alderman, and a great patron of Mrs. Rodwell. Meggy calls her "Piggy," because she is always stuffing—hiding in the closets and the box-room, to eat by herself, the things she smuggles into the college. Whenever you meet her in the passages, she cannot speak—her cheeks are crammed so full of goodies. They tell a story against her about the drawing-room piano. It was terribly out of tune, and upon examination was found to be full of orange-peel and peach-stones. The supposition is that Miss St. Ledger had taken the peaches and oranges up with her to be able to eat them on the sly when she was practising, and, being suddenly disturbed, had thrown them inside the lid of the grand piano, so as not to be detected. This greedy girl is extremely rich, and she is always boasting that her papa could buy up a whole street of such poor creatures as Noble and Peacock, who she says, have nothing but debts for a fortune, and a title to pay them of with. At the same time, she flatters them, and tries all she can to get friendly with them; but they only snub her the more. But, Nelly, she dresses so beautifully, always in silks, and her pocket-handkerchiefs are as fine as muslin, and, I'm speaking the truth, trimmed with real Valenciennes! They give you a fever to finger them. Then she has boxes upon boxes full of the most lovely ribbons and belts; whilst Madame La Vautrien makes her bonnets, and charges three guineas apiece for them! But, in spite of all her finery, she is the meanest girl in the school—so stingy and greedy, always borrowing, and never lending—never sharing, never helping any one. I do not like her a bit—nasty, disagreeable thing! if she did not go and pry into my boxes; and I heard her telling the girls "all was cheap and common—only one silk dress, and that a turned one of mamma's." The lady principal is very fond of her (her money, more likely), and is always sending her into the drawing-room to practise (though she can't play a bit), because she is so fat and fine, and has hot-house grapes sent to her.

Miss Plodder is another favorite. She is the "Good Girl." Her nickname is "Preterpluperfect." Poor girl, her face makes you sad to look at it! It seems full of tasks and forfeits. Her fingers are always inky, and her hand is so cold that touching it is as unpleasant as the tearing of silk. My blood runs cold merely to think of it. She never plays or laughs, but is always thumbing her lessons, though what she does with her learning no one can tell, for she is never "up" in class, and is always sent "down" at examinations.

How different is dear Lucy Wilde! She seems to know everything without looking at a book. It comes as naturally to her as eating. Ah! she is clever. The professors pay her such compliments before all the school, and the governesses are afraid of her. The lady principal, however, cannot bear Lucy, because she is idle, and up to fun. She tries to keep her down; but Lucy is like a cork in a pail, she is sure to come to the top again. The more she is pushed under, the more she rises. With all her mad-cap tricks, she is always at the head of the class. How she learns no one can tell, for she is never seen with a book. Meggy says it comes to her in her sleep. Professor Drudge told us last week that if Lucy could only be tamed into studying she could do anything, and I believe it. She writes verses, too—little satirical poems on the mistresses, and Peacock and Noble; and sent off on Tuesday the most beautiful Valentine I think I ever read.

But, Nelly, it is Amy Darling you would love best—a bright, pleasant girl, all sunshine, except when she cries, and she cries immediately any one is hurt. We all run to Amy directly we are in trouble. She is like a young mother to us, and treats us with such tenderness that it is almost a pleasure to be in trouble to be comforted by Amy. She consoles one so beautifully; and I'm sure, if our puddings were taken away, we should miss them far less than the absence of dearest Amy. You should see how the little girls crowd round her in the play hours, and pull her about. She romps with them with the greatest good-humor, and never tires in teaching the little things some new game. She was in bed for three days once, and one would have imagined there was a death in the house; but when she recovered, we made so much noise that the lady principal came down from her boudoir to inquire what was the matter. It's strange! She is not clever, nor altogether pretty, nor even professional (her papa's a coachmaker), and yet, somehow, notwithstanding these tremendous drawbacks, she is the favorite of all the school. Even the masters and schoolmistresses cannot help giving the preference to Amy. Professor Drudge himself, who seems to love nothing in the world but his snuff-box, pats her occasionally on the head, bestowing on her at the same time a grim snuffy smile, that he accords to no one else. She is such a dear, dear love! so sweet—so full of joy and sympathy—that I really believe, Nelly, she was intended for an angel, and was only made a school-girl by mistake. Her sweetness is best shown by the fact that Peacock and Noble never give themselves airs to her, though her father is but a coachmaker. She would shame them out of their vulgarity without retorting a harsh word, and make them blush (if that was possible) by merely reproaching them kindly. It is a wonder for a school, where there are so many girls, that not one of them is jealous of Amy. Such a thing would appear unnatural. It would be like being jealous of your mother, or of a nurse who had tended you through a long illness. We are too grateful to be jealous; for there is not a girl in the school, big or little, but who has some cause to be grateful to her. The little girls she protects, and saves them from being bullied; and the big ones she advises when they are in a mess, besides helping them through their tasks. She is the protectress that all fly to—the peacemaker that all abide by (even those in the wrong); and the general confidante of us all, the poor mistresses included. Meggy calls her our "Sister Confessor;" and really it is terrible to think of the heap of secrets that must be piled up, as high as the boxes on a Margate steamer, upon her honor. When you think, Nelly, it is as much as we can do to keep one secret, I wonder how Amy can breathe with such a load upon her breast! Yet she carries it all as lightly as a fairy does her wand.

Meggy says, "poor Mary Owen is in pawn to Mrs. Rodwell," which means that she has been left as security for a debt, as hopeless as any national one.

Years ago (so Meggy tells me) Mary's father—a captain in the army—left her at school, with directions that she was to learn everything, and no expense spared in her education. With the exception of one or two small remittances, nothing has been heard of her father since. Year after year, Mary grows paler and more sad, with not a friend in the world to cling to, but dearest Amy, who treats her more like a sister than anything else, being always by her side, as something told her that if the poor girl hadn't a crutch of some sort to lean upon she would assuredly fall to the ground. The lady principal has lost all hope of Mary being ever claimed, or (worse still) of her bill being ever paid. This makes Mary's position all the more melancholy, for she is pointed to as a kind of living monument to the cardinal virtues of the schoolmistress who keeps her. If there is a little sermon on charity or benevolence, Mary is always chosen as its text. Whenever there is a lecture read about ingratitude, poor Mary is always brought forward as the disgraceful illustration of it. It is the same with dishonesty, taradiddles, fibbing, and the entire category of school vices—Mary serves as the example of them all. It would seem as if the poor girl was kept as a "terrible warning" to the college; and I'm sure in this capacity alone, that her bill has been paid more than twenty times over. It is sad to watch the poor girl while she's being thus publicly pointed at before her school-fellows. She never says a word, nor attempts to defend herself. She sits quietly in her seat, her face growing paler, and her head falling lower with each blow of her accuser; and if you saw her heavy, tearless eye, Nelly, and her lips quite colorless, as I have seen them, you would pity her with all your heart, and long to go up and kiss her, and tell her not to mind it. Often and often have I felt inclined to call out and beg of Mrs. Rodwell to stop such cruelty; but fear has pinched my lips, and I have caught myself crying, and I defy any one to help it. But I don't mean to say that Mrs. Rodwell ill-treats Mary, or is positively unkind, or lifts her hand against her; but she is always taunting her with her misfortune in so sharp a manner, that I would sooner by far be beat outright, or be sent away at once. It is one unceasing tyranny of little petty trifles all day long (a tyranny of pins and needles, Meggy calls it), which I call most cowardly for a woman like Mrs. Rodwell (though she has lost her money) to use against a poor girl who cannot defend herself: just as if Mary wouldn't pay if she could! On such occasions, Amy is kinder to her than ever, and struggles, by dint of affection, and by trying to lead her into play, to make her forget the harshness she has experienced during school hours. I'm not certain that she succeeds very well. Mary tries, in grateful return for so much kindness, to smile and to play; but it isn't smiling nor playing, Nelly; it's working, and hard working at it.

Her dress is the funniest thing you ever saw. When I, say funny, I do not mean it makes you laugh—far from it—but that it is extremely odd and peculiar. At first, Mary used to wear the cast-off things of two Indian girls, who are here and never go home; but since she has grown tall she is packed up in Mrs. R.'s old trumpery finery, and flits about like a thin shadow of what the lady principal was six months previously. No one, however, is cruel enough to quiz Mary. Her sorrow throws a sacred protection over her that is better than any shield, and even Miss St. Ledger (with her pert turn-up nose) forgets the sharpness of her tongue in her presence. Amy, besides, wouldn't allow any one to slight her. They tell me, Nelly, that when "breaking-up day" comes round, and all are skipping about in the wild joy of being fetched home, poor Mary sits silently apart, shunning everybody—avoiding the windows where all the girls are heaped together, watching the arrival of the carriages; and that she almost runs away from dear Amy's caresses, rejecting her loving endeavors to cheer her, as if they were a source of pain to her. Dear Amy always stops the last with her; but, when it comes to her turn to go away, then poor Mary flings herself round her devoted friend's neck, and bursts into one long flood of tears, as if her heart was breaking. May we never know such grief as that, Nelly! Only think, dearest, how cheerless must the holidays be to the poor homeless girl! The reassembling of school, which school-girls dread so much, must come back to her with all the delight of holidays to us.

Once Amy asked for Mary to go home with her, but the lady principal objected to it. It would take too much money and trouble to "get her up." Amy said she should wear her things; but Mrs. Rodwell still objected. She was afraid (Meggy says) to "trust the security of her debt out of sight!" Poor Mary has never left the Princesses' College now for four years, except at such times when she has been out walking with the school!

This is very sad and terrible, Nelly, and we ought to think ourselves very fortunate, that we have such good papas and mammas, and that our positions in life are very different from that of poor Mary Owen! But I have written myself quite miserable, and you too, I am afraid, Nelly; so no more at present, dear, from

Your little stupid
KITTY CLOVER.

P. S. Excuse haste.

P. S. Why don't you write?

MRS. MUDLAW'S RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING;
OR, GOSSIP FROM OUR TOWN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE BEDOTT PAPERS."

[The following story is not now published for the first time; but we republish it at the request of many subscribers, who want it in an endurable form, and because we wish to preserve a story so characteristic of the peculiar talent of its amiable writer, whose memoir we published in our numbers for July and August, 1853.]

Mr. John Darling, a worthy and intelligent mechanic, who has been, for two years past, a resident of our town, was somewhat surprised and considerably gratified one day last fall, at receiving an invitation to dine with Colonel Philpot, one of the aristocracy.

Mr. Darling enjoys that respect in our community which mechanical ingenuity and integrity united are always sure to command everywhere. These qualities, and a more than ordinary degree of information, acquired by the employment of much of his leisure time in reading, have given him an almost unbounded influence amongst his own class.

Though the invitation to Colonel P.'s created some surprise in his mind, he felt more disposed to be pleased at the honor than to question the motives which prompted it; for his nature is wholly free from suspicion and the petty feeling of jealousy which those in his station sometimes indulge towards the "upper ten"—feelings with which, we are sorry to say, the bosom of his better half was frequently agitated.

"We have been neighbors for some time, Mr. Darling," said Colonel Philpot; "it is time we were better acquainted. You must come and dine socially with me to-morrow. Mrs. Philpot and the children are out of town, and I am going to have a few friends to enliven my solitude."

So John Darling "saved his appetite," dressed himself in his best clothes, and, at the appointed hour—a somewhat later one than his customary time for dining—repaired to Colonel Philpot's.

He met there several of his associates—had a "fine time and a grand dinner"—the utmost hilarity and good feeling prevailed; and Mr. Darling entertained his wife with an account of it at every meal for several weeks.

"Hester," said he one day, as they were seated at a codfish dinner, "did you ever taste a potato pudding?"

"Potato pudding! No; I never heard of such a thing."

"Well, I wish you could, for 'tis delicious! We had one when I dined at Colonel Philpot's."

"I wonder what you didn't have at Colonel Philpot's," said Mrs. Darling. "I declare, I'm tired hearing about it."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing we didn't have—we didn't have codfish. But, that pudding—I wish you'd learn how to make it; it was superb!"

"I presume so; and I guess, if I had half a dozen servants at my heels, and a thorough-trained cook into the bargain, I could have things superb, too. But, as long as I have everything to do myself, and very little to do with, I don't see how I'm to get up things in style. I wonder you can expect me to."

"I don't expect you to, Hester. You always do things to suit my taste. But that pudding was excellent; and, being made of potatoes, I thought, of course, it must be economical, and"—

"Economical! That's all you know about it. What gumps men are! I'll warrant it had forty different things in it, and less potatoes than anything else. I'm no hand to fuss up. I like plain cookery, for my part."

"So do I, as a general thing. But, then, you know, it's well to have something a little better than ordinary once in a while."

"Well, if you're not satisfied with my way of doing things, you must hire a cook, or go and board out." And Mrs. Darling put on her injured look, and remained silent during the rest of the dinner.

But, after all, she was not an ill-natured woman really; and, after her husband had gone to his shop, she began to feel a little pricked in her conscience for having been so cross at dinner. She wished she had not gone on at such a rate. But, then, John had bored her so about that dinner at Colonel Philpot's—she was out of patience with it. Yet what right had she to be out of patience with John? He never was out of patience with her, and she could but acknowledge that he often had reason to be so. So she resolved to make it up as soon as possible.

"John," said she, as she handed him a cup of tea, "I've a great notion to try that potato pudding. I believe I could make one."

"No doubt of it, Hester," said her husband; "you can do almost anything you try to."

"I suppose it takes butter, and sugar, and eggs, and spices, and so forth; but I wish I knew the proportions."

"It's very easy to find out all about it by calling at Colonel Philpot's. He said his wife would be delighted to get acquainted with you."

"So you've told me a dozen times; but I think that, if she wanted to get acquainted with me, she might call upon me. She's lived here longer than I have, and it isn't my place to call first; and I don't believe the colonel tells the truth when he says she wants to get acquainted with me."

"Well, I always think people mean as they say, and I wish you would, too, Hester."

"But it's very evident that she holds herself a great deal above me. She has no reason to, certainly, for her family wasn't half as respectable as mine. Mrs. David Potter knows all about them, root and branch, and she says that Mrs. Philpot's father kept a very low tavern in Norridge, and Mrs. Philpot herself tended the bar when she was a girl. But, somehow, Colonel Philpot happened to fall in love with her, and he sent her away to school, and then married her."

"Well, that's nothing against her, is it?"

"No, of course it wouldn't be, if she didn't carry her head so high now. But it's always the way with such persons—they never know how to bear prosperity. There wouldn't be anything said about her origin, if she didn't put on such airs; but, as long as she feels so lifted up, folks will talk, you know."

"Perhaps you don't do her justice, Hester. You know nothing about her excepting what you've heard. At any rate, it would do no harm to call upon her."

After repeated conversations and discussions of this sort, Mrs. Darling concluded to pay Mrs. Philpot a visit. She could make the potato pudding an excuse, and be governed by Mrs. P.'s reception in regard to farther intercourse. Mrs. Philpot has been, for several years past, to use her own expression, "very unfortunate in her domestics." With the exception of her cook—up to the time of Mrs. Darling's call—she had seldom kept one above a month, and sometimes not as long as that. This frequent change of servants was not so much owing to any unkindness on Mrs. Philpot's part, as to the fact that Mrs. Mudlaw, her cook, could never agree with them. This functionary had been, for several years, a fixture in Colonel P.'s establishment; indeed, Mrs. P. declared she could not possibly get along without her. Mrs. Mudlaw was, in fact, a good cook, and so entirely relieved that lady from all care in that department that, rather than part with her, she was willing to submit to her petty tyranny in everything. The cook actually "ruled the roast" at Colonel P.'s in more than one sense. And she did not often find the subalterns of the household as submissive to her wishes as Mrs. Philpot herself was. She contrived to quarrel them away in a short time, for she had only to say to Mrs. P., "Well, either Bridget or I must quit, so you may take your choice;" and the offending servant-maid was dismissed forthwith, there being no appeal from Mrs. Mudlaw's decision.

A scene of this kind had just occurred when Mrs. Darling made her visit, and a new raw Irish girl had that morning been installed in place of the one discharged. The duty of this girl was to answer the door-bell, and help Mrs. Mudlaw. In fact, the hardest and most disagreeable of the kitchen-work came upon her. When Mrs. Darling rang, Mrs. Philpot was in the kitchen giving instructions to Peggy, or rather acquiescing in those which Mrs. Mudlaw was laying down.

"There goes the bell," said that important personage, and Mrs. Philpot hastened to an upper window to see who it was. Having satisfied herself, she came back and told Peggy to go and admit the lady.

"Why don't you start, you?" said Mrs. Mudlaw.

"Well, what'll I do now?" said Peggy, whirling round in that bewildered way peculiar to Irish girls.

"Do!" roared Mudlaw. "Don't you know nothin'? Hain't we jest been tellin' ye 'twas your duty to tend to the door-bell? Run to the front door and let 'em in, and show 'em into the drawin'-room. You know where that is, don't you?"

"Faith, I know that," answered Peggy, and away she ran, thanking her stars that there was at least one thing that she knew.

"It's no one that I know, I'm sure," said Mrs. Philpot, after Peggy had gone; "at least, the bonnet and shawl are not familiar to me. I presume it is somebody I don't care about seeing."

"I shouldn't wonder," said Mudlaw. "But I s'pose you couldn't do otherways, as the curnel has given orders that nobody ain't to be refused till after 'lection."

With much confusion and toe-stubbing, the unfortunate Peggy ushered Mrs. Darling into the nursery, which was also Mrs. Philpot's ordinary sitting-room. It was directly over the kitchen, and heated from the cooking-stove by means of a drum, or dummy, as Mrs. Mudlaw called it. Every word that was said in the kitchen could easily be heard in the nursery—quite a convenience to Mudlaw, as it enabled her often to communicate with Mrs. Philpot without the trouble of going up stairs. Many an interesting account of what she did when Mr. Mudlaw was living, and how they managed at General K.'s when she was staying there, has gone up that stove-pipe.

The nursery was in a state of the greatest disorder, as was usually the case, though the children were all out just then. Sukey, the nurse-girl, had taken the baby out to ride, and Philip Augustus had gone with them; and Zoe Matilda was at school. Playthings of every description, carts, horses, dolls, as well as children's books and clothes, were scattered about the room in what Mrs. Darling called "awful confusion." But she had not time for inward comments upon this state of things, before her attention was called to the conversation below.

"It's Mrs. Darling as wushes to see ye, mum," said Peggy.

"That Mrs. Darling! Did you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Philpot.

"She ain't nobody, is she?" said Mrs. Mudlaw.

"Nobody at all. Her husband is a cabinet-maker; but the colonel has charged it upon me to be polite to her just now. He wished me to call upon her; but I wouldn't condescend to stoop so low as that, though he made me promise to treat her with attention if she called."

"Well, I wouldn't do it, if I was you," said the cook. "I'd be mistress in my own house, anyhow."

"But, you know, it's for his interest now. He says that Darling has a great deal of influence among mechanics—can command a good many votes."

"Oh, I remember now! he's one of them codgers that dined here while you was away, that the curnel was laughin' about afterwards, and tellin' you how awkward they handled the silver forks."

"Yes; isn't it provoking to have to be polite to such people? Well, I shall be glad when 'lection 's over, for the colonel says I may cut them all then, and I think it won't be long before they sink back to their own level." And Mrs. Philpot arose with a sigh, and ascended to the drawing-room, arranging her features into a gracious and patronizing expression as she went.

Mrs. Darling's feelings during this conversation "can be better imagined than described," as the novels would say. Her first impulse was to leave the house without waiting for Mrs. Philpot's appearance, and she rose and made a few steps with that intention; but, on second thoughts, she resolved to remain, and let her know that she only came on an errand, and resumed her seat.

When Mrs. Philpot found no one in the drawing-room she returned to the kitchen, supposing that her visitor had gone.

"She's gone," said she, "without waiting for me. She doesn't know enough about good society to understand that a lady doesn't make her appearance the moment she's called for."

"I shouldn't wonder if she was in the nursery all the time," said Mudlaw; "for I heard a stepping up there a while ago, and the children hain't got home yet. Where did you take her to, you?"

"Why, I tuck her in the dhrawin'-room, sure, as you tould me, right overhid," said Peggy, in some alarm.

"You blunderin' Irish gumphead! Don't you know the drawin'-room from the nursery?"

"Och! but I thought it was the dhrawin'-room; for didn't I see the young masther a dhrawin' his cart, and wasn't Shukey a dhrawin' the baby about the floore by its feet, when I went up to take the wather this mornin'?"

"There, I told you she was a born fool!" said Mudlaw, in a rage. "She'll never know nothing—she'll never learn nothing—you may as well send her off first as last."

"Hush! don't speak so loud," said Mrs. Philpot, in a whisper. "She can hear all you say—she has heard enough already. Dear me, what shall I do? The colonel will be so provoked! How could you be so dumb, Peggy? Run right up and take her into the drawing-room. Stop! you needn't; you will make some other mistake. I'll go myself."

In a state of mind not to be envied, Mrs. Philpot hastened to the nursery. But, as she entertained a faint hope that the conversation below had not penetrated through Mrs. Darling's bonnet, she endeavored to hide her embarrassment under an affable smile, extended her hand gracefully, and drawled out a genteel welcome to her visitor.

"Delighted to see you, Mrs. Darling; but very sorry you should have been brought into the nursery"—no wonder she's sorry, thought Mrs. Darling—"these raw Irish girls are so stupid! Walk into the parlor, if you please."

"No, I thank you, Mrs. Philpot, I'd as soon sit here," returned Mrs. Darling. "I can only stay a moment. I called to ask for a receipt for potato pudding. Mr. Darling tasted one when he dined with Colonel Philpot, and liked it so much that he wished me to get directions for making it."

"Potato pudding? Ah, yes, I recollect. Mudlaw, my cook, does make a very good plain thing that she calls a potato pudding; but I know nothing about her manner of preparing it. I will call her, however, and she shall tell you herself." Thereupon she pulled the bell, and Peggy shortly appeared, looking more frightened and bewildered than ever.

"Send Mudlaw here," said Mrs. Philpot.

She would not have dared to address her "chief cook and bottle-washer" without the respectful title of Mrs.; but it was rather more grand to omit it, and she always did so when not in her hearing.

"The missus said I was to send you there," said Peggy.

"You send me!" exclaimed the indignant cook. "I guess when I go for your sending, it'll be after this."

Mrs. Philpot, although conversing in a condescending manner with Mrs. Darling, caught something of the cook's reply to her summons, and asked to be excused for a moment, saying that Peggy was so stupid, she feared that Mudlaw might not understand her, and she would go herself and send her. So she hastened down to the kitchen, where she found the head functionary standing on her dignity.

"Pretty well," said she, "if I am to be ordered round by an Irish scullion!"

"Mrs. Mudlaw, step here a moment, if you please," said Mrs. Philpot, meekly, opening the door of an adjoining room.

The offended lady vouchsafed to comply with the request, and, with a stern aspect, entered the room with Mrs. Philpot. The latter closed the door for fear of being heard overhead, and began—

"What do you think, Mrs. Mudlaw? That Mrs. Darling has come to learn how to make a potato pudding, and you'll have to go up and tell her."

"I sha'n't do it. I make it a point never to give my receipts to nobody."

"I know it; and, I'm sure, I don't blame you. But, in this case—just now—I really don't see how we can refuse."

"Well, I sha'n't do it, and that 's the hull on 't."

"Oh, do, Mrs. Mudlaw, just this once. The colonel is so anxious to secure Darling, and he will be so angry if we offend them in any way."

"But he needn't know it, need he?"

"He certainly will find it out by some means. I know it is real vexatious to you, and I wouldn't ask it if election was over; but now 'tis very important—it may save us all trouble. The colonel is so decided, you know."

These last words of Mrs. Philpot had an effect upon Mudlaw which no wish or entreaty of that lady would have ever produced, for they suggested to her selfish mind the possibility of a dismissal from her snug birth at Colonel P.'s, where she carried it with a high hand; so she gave in.

"Well, jest to please you and the curnel, I'll do it; but I wish 'lection was over."

Mrs. Philpot returned to the nursery, and Mrs. Mudlaw took off her apron, changed her cap for one trimmed with pink ribbons and blue roses, gave numerous orders to Peggy, and followed. She was a short, fat woman, with a broad, red face—such a person as a stranger would call the very personification of good nature; though I have never found fat people to be any more amiable than lean ones. Certainly, Mrs. Mudlaw was not a very sweet-tempered woman. On this occasion, she felt rather more cross than usual, forced, as she was, to give one of her receipts to a nobody. She, however, knew the necessity of assuming a pleasant demeanor at that time, and accordingly entered the nursery with an encouraging grin on her blazing countenance. Mrs. Philpot, fearing lest her cook's familiarity might belittle her mistress in the eyes of Mrs. Darling, and again asking to be excused for a short time, went into the library, a nondescript apartment, dignified by that name, which communicated with the nursery. The moment she left her seat, a large rocking-chair, Mudlaw dumped herself down in it, exclaiming—

"Miss Philpot says you want to get my receipt for potater puddin'?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Darling. "I would be obliged to you for the directions." And she took out of her pocket a pencil and paper to write it down.

"Well, 'tis an excellent puddin'," said Mudlaw, complacently; "for my part, I like it about as well as any puddin' I make, and that's sayin' a good deal, I can tell you, for I understand makin' a great variety. 'Taint so awful rich as some, to be sure. Now, there's the Cardinelle puddin', and the Washington puddin', and the Lay Fayette puddin', and the—"

"Yes. Mr. Darling liked it very much—how do you make it?"

"Wal, I peel my potaters and bile 'em in fair water. I always let the water bile before I put 'em in. Some folks let their potaters lie and sog in the water ever so long, before it biles; but I think it spiles 'em. I always make it a pint to have the water bile—"

"How many potatoes?"

"Wal, I always take about as many potaters as I think I shall want. I'm generally governed by the size of the puddin' I want to make. If it's a large puddin', why I take quite a number, but if it's a small one, why, then I don't take as many. As quick as they're done, I take 'em up and mash 'em as fine as I can get 'em. I'm always very partic'lar about that—some folks ain't; they'll let their potaters be full o' lumps. I never do; if there 's anything I hate, it's lumps in potaters. I won't have 'em. Whether I'm mashin' potaters for puddin's or for vegetable use, I mash it till there ain't the size of a lump in it. If I can't git it fine without sifting, why, I sift it. Once in a while, when I'm otherways engaged, I set the girl to mashin' on't. Wal, she'll give it three or four jams, and come along, 'Miss Mudlaw, is the potater fine enough?' Jubiter Rammin! that's the time I come as near gittin' mad as I ever allow myself to come, for I make it a pint never to have lumps—"

"Yes, I know it is very important. What next?"

"Wal, then I put in my butter; in winter time I melt it a little, not enough to make it ily, but jest so's to soften it."

"How much butter does it require?"

"Wal, I always take butter accordin' to the size of the puddin'; a large puddin' needs a good sized lump o' butter, but not too much. And I'm always partic'lar to have my butter fresh and sweet. Some folks think it's no matter what sort o' butter they use for cookin', but I don't. Of all things, I do despise strong, frowy, rancid butter. For pity's sake, have your butter fresh."

"How much butter did you say?"

"Wal, that depends, as I said before, on what sized puddin' you want to make. And another thing that regulates the quantity of butter I use is the 'mount o' cream I take. I always put in more or less cream; when I have abundance o' cream, I put in considerable, and when it's scarce, why, I use more butter than I otherways should. But you must be partic'lar not to get in too much cream. There's a great deal in havin' jest the right quantity; and so 'tis with all the ingrejiences. There ain't a better puddin' in the world than a potater puddin', when it's made right, but tain't everybody that makes 'em right. I remember when I lived in Tuckertown, I was a visitin' to Squire Humprey's one time—I went in the first company in Tuckertown—dear me! this is a changeable world. Wal, they had what they called a potater puddin' for dinner. Good laud! Of all the puddin's! I've often occurred to that puddin' since, and wondered what the Squire's wife was a thinkin' of when she made it. I wa'n't obleeged to do no such things in them days, and didn't know how to do anything as well as I do now. Necessity's the mother of invention. Experience is the best teacher after all—"

"Do you sweeten it?"

"Oh, yes, to be sure it needs sugar, the best o' sugar, too; not this wet, soggy, brown sugar. Some folks never think o' usin' good sugar to cook with, but for my part I won't have no other."

"How much sugar do you take?"

"Wal, that depends altogether on whether you calculate to have sass for it—some like sass, you know, and then some agin don't. So, when I calculate for sass, I don't take so much sugar; and when I don't calculate for sass, I make it sweet enough to eat without sass. Poor Mr. Mudlaw was a great hand for puddin'-sass. I always made it for him—good, rich sass, too. I could afford to have things rich before he was unfortinate in bisness." (Mudlaw went to State's prison for horse-stealing.) "I like sass myself, too; and the curnel and the children are all great sass hands; and so I generally calculate for sass, though Miss Philpot prefers the puddin' without sass, and perhaps you'd prefer it without. If so, you must put in sugar accordingly. I always make it a pint to have 'em sweet enough when they're to be eat without sass."

"And don't you use eggs?"

"Certainly, eggs is one o' the principal ingrejiences."

"How many does it require?"

"Wal, when eggs is plenty, I always use plenty; and when they 're scarce, why I can do with less, though I'd ruther have enough; and be sure to beat 'em well. It does distress me, the way some folks beat eggs. I always want to have 'em thoroughly beat for everything I use 'em in. It tries my patience most awfully to have anybody round me that won't beat eggs enough. A spell ago we had a darkey to help in the kitchen. One day I was a makin' sponge cake, and havin' occasion to go up stairs after something, I sot her to beatin' the eggs. Wal, what do you think the critter done? Why, she whisked 'em round a few times, and turned 'em right onto the other ingrejiences that I'd got weighed out. When I come back and saw what she'd done, my gracious! I came as nigh to losin' my temper as I ever allow myself to come. 'Twas awful provokin'! I always want the kitchen help to do things as I want to have 'em done. But I never saw a darkey yet that ever done anything right. They're a lazy, slaughterin' set. To think o' her spilin' that cake so, when I'd told her over and over agin that I always made it a pint to have my eggs thoroughly beat!"

"Yes, it was too bad. Do you use fruit in the pudding?"

"Wal, that's jest as you please. You'd better be governed by your own judgment as to that. Some like currants and some like raisins, and then agin some don't like nary one. If you use raisins, for pity's sake pick out the stuns. It's awful to have a body's teeth come grindin' onto a raisin stun. I'd rather have my ears boxt any time."

"How many raisins must I take?"

"Wal, not too many—it's apt to make the puddin' heavy, you know; and when it's heavy, it ain't so light and good. I'm a great hand—"

"Yes. What do you use for flavoring?"

"There agin you'll have to exercise your own judgment. Some likes one thing, and some another, you know. If you go the hull figger on temperance, why some other kind o' flavorin' 'll do as well as wine or brandy, I s'pose. But whatever you make up your mind to use, be partic'lar to git in a sufficiency, or else your puddin' 'll be flat. I always make it a pint—"

"How long must it bake?"

"There's the great thing after all. The bakin' 's the main pint. A potater puddin', of all puddin's, has got to be baked jest right. For if it bakes a leetle too much, it's apt to dry it up; and then agin if it don't bake quite enough, it's sure to taste potatery—and that spiles it, you know."

"How long should you think?"

"Wal, that depends a good deal on the heat o' your oven. If you have a very hot oven, 'twon't do to leave it in too long; and if your oven ain't so very hot, why, you'll be necessiated to leave it in longer."

"Well, how can I tell anything about it?"

"Why, I always let 'em bake till I think they're done—that's the safest way. I make it a pint to have 'em baked exactly right. It's very important in all kinds o' bakin'—cake, pies, bread, puddin's, and everything—to have 'em baked precisely long enough, and jest right. Some folks don't seem to have no system at all about their bakin'. One time they'll burn their bread to a crisp, and then agin it'll be so slack tain't fit to eat. Nothing hurts my feelin's so much as to see things overdone or slack-baked. Here only t'other day, Lorry, the girl that Miss Philpot dismissed yesterday, come within an ace o' letting my bread burn up. My back was turned a minnit, and what should she do but go to stuffin' wood into the stove at the awfullest rate? If I hadn't a found it out jest when I did, my bread would a ben spilt as sure as I'm a live woman. Jubiter Rammin! I was about as much decomposed as I ever allow myself to git! I told Miss Philpot I wouldn't stan' it no longer—one of us must quit—either Lorry or me must walk."

"So you've no rule about baking this pudding?"

"No rule!" said Mudlaw, with a look of intense surprise.

"Yes," said Mrs. Darling, "you seem to have no rule for anything about it."

"No rule!" screamed the indignant cook, starting up, while her red face grew ten times redder, and her little black eyes snapped with rage. "No rules!" and she planted herself in front of Mrs. Darling, erecting her fleshy figure to its full height of majestic dumpiness, and extending the forefinger of her right hand till it reached an alarming propinquity to that lady's nose. "No rules! do you tell me I've no rules! Me! that's cooked in the first families for fifteen years, and always gin satisfaction, to be told by such as you that I hain't no rules!"

Thus far had Mudlaw proceeded, and I know not to what length she would have "allowed herself" to go, had not the sudden entrance of Col. Philpot interrupted her. He being a person of whom she stood somewhat in awe, particularly "jest at this time," she broke off in the midst of her tirade, and, casting a look of ineffable disgust at Mrs. Darling, retreated to her own dominions to vent her fury upon poor Peggy, who had done everything wrong during her absence.

While Col. Philpot was expressing his extreme satisfaction at seeing Mrs. Darling, Mrs. Philpot emerged from the library, where she had been shaking in her shoes during the interview between that lady and Mudlaw.

"Matilda, my dear," said the colonel, "this is quite an unexpected pleasure, for really, Mrs. Darling, we began to fear that you did not intend to cultivate us."

"I did not come for that purpose," replied Mrs. Darling, who, now that she saw through Col. Philpot, despised him thoroughly, and was not afraid to let him know it, notwithstanding he belonged to the aristocracy of our town. "I came on an errand, and your cook has got very angry with me for some reason, I scarcely know what."

"Poor Mudlaw," said Mrs. Philpot, anxious to screen her main stay from the colonel's displeasure, yet feeling the necessity of some apology to Mrs. Darling. "Poor Mudlaw! I don't think she intended to be rude."

"What! has the cook been rude to Mrs. Darling?" exclaimed Col. P.

"Not rude, exactly, dear; but you know she is so sensitive about everything connected with her department, and she fancied that Mrs. Darling called her skill in question, and became somewhat excited."

"Quite excited, I should call it," said Mrs. D. with a smile.

"And she has dared to treat Mrs. Darling rudely!" said Col. P., apparently much agitated. "Shameful! disgraceful! the wretch shall suffer for it! To think that a lady like Mrs. Darling should be insulted by a cook! in my house, too!"

"And just before election, too; it is a pity!" said Mrs. Darling quietly, as she rose, and wishing them good-morning, departed, leaving Col. Philpot lost in astonishment. Her last remark rendered necessary some explanation from Mrs. P. She was compelled to repeat some part of the conversation that had taken place in the kitchen, which, though softened down as much as possible, was sufficient to rouse the colonel's indignation to the highest pitch, for he saw at once that Darling was lost. He gave his silly wife a hearty blowing up, but upon Mudlaw his wrath fell heaviest. No entreaties of her mistress could save her; she was commanded to quit the premises, to troop forthwith "for being rude to visitors." But Mudlaw knew well enough the real reason of her dismissal, and when she went forth in rage and sorrow, she found some consolation in spreading it far and wide, thereby making Col. Philpot very ridiculous in the eyes of the community.

"Well, I'm surprised, Hester," said John Darling, after his wife had given him a circumstantial account of her visit. "And I'm right sorry, too, to have my good opinion of a man knocked in the head so, for I did think well of Col. Philpot. I really believed we couldn't send a better man to Congress. But it won't do. A man that can stoop to such conduct isn't fit to go there. I can't vote for him, and my influence, what little I have, must go against him. If he gets there, it must be without any help from John Darling!"

Col. Philpot did not go to Congress, and what made his defeat the more aggravating was the fact that his opponent was elected by the small majority of three votes. And so Col. Philpot lost his election; and Mrs. Philpot lost her cook; and Mr. Darling lost his esteem for Col. Philpot, and all through the over-politeness of the latter.

And was there nothing gained? Oh, yes; Mrs. Darling gained something. Not much information in regard to the potato pudding, certainly; but she gained some knowledge of the internal arrangements of Mrs. Philpot's household, which proved of great service to her, for she confesses to John that she was never so contented with her own home and her own husband as she has been since she made that memorable call at Col. Philpot's.

Poetry.

THE DYING WIFE.

BY PHILA EARLE.

You'll think of me sometimes, beloved,

When I am gone from sight?

When you can see me nevermore,

You'll not forget me quite?

You'll miss sometimes, at twilight hour

My low and loving tone;

Your heart will sometimes feel a pang,

When beating all alone.

You'll think of days forever gone,

And grief may wring a tear

From eyes that have but seldom wept,

But I shall not be here;

You'll come and go; and yet the smile

That once your fond eyes met,

Will faded be—forever fled,

But oh, do not forget!

When cold and lifeless is the form

That's nestled on thy breast,

When chill and marble-like the lips

That once thine own have pressed,

Oh, sometimes think of me, and come

Unto the quiet spot

Where I shall slumber lone and still,

But oh not quite forgot!

You'll think of me when sitting 'side

My lone and vacant chair;

And sometimes, love, oh! gaze upon

This golden tress of hair!

And think that with its sister curls

It floated o'er the brow

That rests within the lowly grave,

So damp and pallid now.

But yet your grief will pass away

Like dusky shades of night;

The cypress wreath you'll change, beloved,

For one with flowers white;

You'll fondly love another one,

And call her thine—but yet

Your lost young bride—your first beloved,

Oh, do not quite forget!

And she, thy chosen one, may bring

A heart of love to thee,

But not more loving, true, than mine,

I know it cannot be.

But mine must throbless, pulseless be,

Its warm outgushings still.

But you will sometimes think of her,

Who rests so pale and chill.

Oh! sometimes fancy that my arms

Are fondly round thee twined,

And that my cheek, once warm and fair,

Is closely pressed to thine.

When I am gone, forever gone,

I'd be remembered yet,

Oh! think of me sometimes, beloved,

And never quite forget!

WE PARTED.

BY M. A. RICE.

We parted at the dawn of day,

While in the east a bright cloud lay

Awaiting the approaching sun;

The night, with all its dreams, was done,

The birds sang sweetly from each spray;

Dim mists began to speed away.

We parted at the old street door—

I stood and blessed him o'er and o'er,

As down the dear old grass-grown way

Which sparkling in the dew-drops lay,

He passed with slow, unwilling tread,

With tearful eyes and bended head.

He left us—he, the gifted boy,

The worshipped to idolatry.

But sixteen summer suns had shed

Their gladsome smiles above his head,

And now in memory's mirror fair

He stands before me just as there—

With that endeared bewitching face,

And form of more than sculptured grace—

With raven hair and eagle eye,

And brow so sunny and so high.

Long days of absence did I mourn

And wish a brother's loved return;

But, oh! how lonely were the hours,

How scentless were the sweetest flowers,

How joyless was the summer's sky,

And well I wished the hours gone by!

How oft at evening, sad and lone,

I watched the silent stars that shone;

And though they were so cold, so high,

They seemed to gaze with sympathy;

And many a gentle whispering gale,

And many a silvery moon-beam pale,

Can witness that the flight of years

Stayed not affection's truest tears.

Three summers, with their flowers, had cheered,

And winter's snow as oft appeared;

'Twas said that our beloved would come

Once more to his paternal home.

The grape-vine o'er our cottage door

Put out its glist'ning leaves once more;

Fair flowers looked smiling from the ground—

A welcome mingled in each sound.

And one there came with bearing high—

Ambition's fire was in his eye;

But ah! how blighted was my joy,

No feature of the lovely boy

That parted with the bitter tear,

Had left its cherished traces there!

Time leaves an impress—and will bring

A change o'er every human thing.

Seest thou a cloud at hour of even

Soft floating in the vault of heaven?

Gaze on the shadowy vision fair;

'Tis the last time it resteth there.

And dost thou breathe the word "farewell?"

'Twill be affection's funeral knell.

And never dream to thy fond arms,

Thy friend, arrayed in cherished charms,

This cold, vain world will e'er restore

As warm and truthful as before.

Hope in thy heart may chide its pain,

But loved ones never come again.

LAY OF THE CONSTANT ONE.

BY MRS. COROLLA H. CRISWELL.

Why do I doubt thy truth, dear one,

When thou art all to me?

Why do I doubt thy love, and deem

Thy fond heart false to be?

Why do I think thou lovest her,

Although thy thrilling eyes

Do ever shine on me, dear one,

As stars shine from the skies?

I watch thy roving glances, love,

And when on her they rest,

I feel a pang of jealousy

Shoot through my throbbing breast;

And then, I coldly turn away,

And force a careless smile,

As if my lonely heart was not

In anguish all the while.

Could I believe that thou wert true,

What bliss would then be mine!

I never loved but thee, dear one,

Will never be but thine.

Though many may have sought my heart,

Their vows were nought to me;

For years, long, weary years, mine own,

I have been true to thee!

And still my faith I'll constant keep,

Though false thou mayest prove,

My heart will never lose for thee

Its life-absorbing love;

And shouldst thou take her for thy bride,

Though shalt not hear one sigh;

As melts "the snow-flake in the sea,"

So silently I'll die.

TO MY BROTHER.

BY MRS. M. A. BIGELOW.

Brother, brother! storms are sweeping

Through the skies on wings of gloom;

And to-day I have been weeping

At a rising thought of home.

Oh! the place where first we center

All the love of early years,

When life's stormy clan we enter,

How its memory prompts our tears!

Brother, does the vernal sunlight

Fall the same on the green wood?

Sings that stream as full of music?

Or, hath winter changed its mood?

Are the cowslips still as fragrant?

Still as pure their golden light,

Showing the sweet brooklets pathway

Through the meadows fresh and bright?

Do the zephyrs soft at even

Gently wave the clambering vine?

Do the brilliant gems of heaven

Make the night about thee shine?

Are the fields around thee lying

Radiant with their former light?

Though above them clouds are flying,

Mem'ry sees them always bright!

Oh! there is no place—no other

Where the scenery seems so fair!

While afar, my dearest brother,

Still my thoughts are ling'ring there.

Could I watch the sun declining

Till the skies with crimson burn,

Till the moon-beams softly shining

Might forgotten thoughts return!

Could I take my seat beside thee,

Where the bees' soft lull is heard,

And the young maturing foliage

By the breath of home is stirred!

Wherefore, wherefore am I turning

To conceal my bitter tears!

Wherefore, O my heart, this yearning

For the home of earlier years

Dearest, ever faithful brother,

Is that home unchanged to thee?

While I wander with another,

Does thy heart's love follow me?

Dost thou miss me in the morning?

Am I missed at close of day?

Canst thou let me be forgotten

While afar my footsteps stray?

Let me know my brother loves me,

That the hearts of home are warm—

Then the heavens may frown above me,

And I will not heed the storm!

'TIS GOLD! 'TIS GOLD!

BY JAMES L. ROCHE.

What is it worldlings bow before,

And thieves and murderers adore;

Corrupts the young, and damns the old

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! my heart detests

Its haughty rule, its proud behests;

It turns the warmest natures cold,

Corrupting gold! corrupting gold!

What is it dooms to live and die

Unblest, the hearts it could not buy?

Betrays the honest, tries the bold?

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! &c.

What is it sets one friend, one brother,

In deadly strife against another?

The kind, warm heart turns selfish, cold

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! &c.

What is it that doth Earth subdue,

And thinks to conquer Heaven too?

That doth o'er ALL dominion hold?

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! &c.

What is it tempts th' unguarded soul,

From God, and from its destined goal?

Accursed thing! still be it told,

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! &c.

THE WRECK.

BY MRS. E. LOCK, OF CALCUTTA, AUTHORESS OF A VOLUME OF POEMS ENTITLED "LEISURE HOURS," AN "EDUCATIONAL WORK IN THE BENGALI LANGUAGE," ETC. ETC.

Mark yonder light bark 'mid the whitening surge,

And, hark! how the loud storm is breaking

Around her frail sides, while the howling winds call;

Destruction's dread powers are waking!

Ay, stand on the rock and behold the last shock,

It has shivered her deck, and no more

Her pennons will stream in the sun's glancing beam—

Her voyage forever is o'er!

Down 'neath the wave she sinks! none can save;

Let us bid her adieu, for, ah! never

She'll meet with the light of her Cynosure bright,

For the sea has closed o'er her forever!

The whelming waves of woe swell o'er my soul,

From this affliction I can never rise;

The dark and heavy rolling surges break

Over my storm-tost bark, and not a star,

A beacon-spark amid the gloomy waste,

Shines forth to light me to the opening grave.

A brilliant star there was—my guiding star;

On it I kept my eye and fondly dreamed

It ne'er would set until my journey's end;

On it I gazed as on a star of hope,

To the tired wanderer a gift from God,

A star of promise to the lonely one!

But, ah! am I deceived? have all my hopes

Been placed on nothing save a shadow bright,

An ignis fatuus, a meteor delusive?

It cannot be, for have I not, since first

That light arose upon my darksome path,

Been guided gently, safely by its rays?

The glory of this bright, resplendent star

Has ne'er been quite shut by lowering skies,

Though intervening clouds have oft obscured,

And 'neath a mystic veil have sometimes hid

Its soft and radiant light; still, still enough

I've seen to guide me safe through quicksands, rocks,

Through paths beset with dangers worse than death.

Upward and onward I've pursued my way,

A way strewn thick with cares and trials too,

And sorrows neither few nor far between.

A timid, untried one launched forth upon

The ocean-world, no friend with counsel kind,

No hand to save or aid the helpless bark

To navigate the sea of foreign waters!

Pale apprehension brooded o'er my heart;

At length it sank! but ere 'twas fully lost,

This star arose benignly o'er the grave

Of my departed hopes, and beaming peace,

Ay, on its brow were written PEACE and LOVE.

They filled my heart, those two celestial rays—

An earnest gave that they would ne'er forsake,

But be my guidance to my long, last home.

My sinking soul was strengthened; I arose

In trust relying on the promise given,

Clasped to my heart the cheering form of hope,

And on her anchor leaned in confidence,

Sustained by faith e'en when enwrapped in clouds,

And darkness palpable my guiding light!

Almost one lustrum now has passed away

Since the soft vision met my lifted eye,

Since first I felt its holy influence,

Its secret spell connecting me with heaven!

And has that STAR in gloom impervious set,

Forever set, at least from out my view!

Compact, piled up, dark leaden-colored clouds

Now intervene like demons of revenge

On swift destruction bent. Malice and Hate,

And Scandal's cruel breath unite to doom

The fragile bark to an untimely tomb!

Full many a gloomy night (and all is night

To the lone one now on the boisterous wave, or sea),

Through life's kaleidoscope, with straining eye,

I've gazed and prayed that brighter skies would shine,

Or that, at least, a half-lit solitude

Upon the deep might still remain for me,

And not Cimmerian darkness cover all

Fore'er in life my only solace stay.

Baseless and unsubstantial promise given,

In that unmeaning "morrow" ne'er to rise!

THE EMBROIDERED SLIPPERS.

AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF A HOLIDAY GIFT.

If a pen full of ink will my feelings portray,

Accept my best thanks for those slippers, I pray;

I prize them sincerely; they suit to a T;

And no trifle, dear madam, shall wrest them from me.

Should the sons of St. Crispin their workshops give o'er,

And the cobblers declare they will cobble no more,

What boots it to me if they throw down their awl

And come to an end, and the craft wholly fall?

Possessing such friends, with those banners unfurled,

No fear of my going barefoot through the world.

'Tis said Cinderella, a well-meaning lass,

Was raised to great wealth by a shoe made of glass;

Now if one single slipper such wonders will do,

How fortunate those who are favored with two!

Still some have their doubts, and hesitate whether

One slipper of glass is worth two made of leather.

The man who is upright (they may think as they choose),

That person's full weight must rest in his shoes;

Be lowly his station, or high and commanding,

Two slippers secure him a firm understanding.

OLD, WHILE YOUNG.

BY MABEL CLIFFORD.

I asked a friend why she was so sad? Her reply was,

"Sorrow hath made me old, while young."

You ask me why I am so strangely tearful,

Why clouds of anguish o'er my brow are flung?

You strive and pray to make me gay and cheerful,

And wonder how I can be sad while young.

Yes, I am young in years, but not in feeling,

For many frosts upon my bosom lie,

And sorrow's mantle o'er my spirit stealing,

Wrapped age within, and cast youth idly by.

I may be young, but, with my blighted spirit,

My clouded heart, and weary head and brain,

I feel, I know I never can inherit

A careless brow, and cheerful mien again.

Then do not scorn me that I have not power

To show a brow where shadows may not come,

For, were your heart like mine, a blighted flower,

You would not wonder I feel old, while young.

PRESENTIMENT.

BY MRS. PRISCILLA P. LOMPAYRAC.

I know that I shall die! and oh, beloved,

Chide me not now if o'er thy heart I send

The echoes of that voice which I have long

In silence heard.

I would have been the sunshine o'er thy path,

But such was not my lot. The light must fade—

The tones thou lovest linger not. I die

Ere the young freshness of our love hath flown

I die, and thou wilt be on earth alone!

Speak not, dear friend! Let this sad thought now find

An utterance—solemn, strange, as it hath swept

O'er me like some strong whirlwind in its might;

But now 't hath melted to a moaning wind,

Which lulleth me to peace. The flush of health

Is on my cheek, and the cool blood moves on

Through all my veins, unfevered in its flow;

And yet I know that I shall die, and ere

The young fair flowers, which thou and I have sown,

Have faded on their stems, be all at rest!

There is strange music in the air, and tones

Upon the twilight breeze, and voices heard

In midnight dreams, for those who early die;

And I have heard them all, and my doomed heart

With life hath striven until the victory

Is won. I would that we had earlier met,

Dear friend, that all the sunshine of my first

Young dreams were poured on thee, for now my love

Hath caught that settled sadness which deep love

On earth must ever wear. Have I not looked

On death, and are they not companions e'er?

And memory, grows it not tearful too?

Do high hopes wither not?

'Twas thus, while life's young spring bloomed on my cheek,

My heart grew sorrowful beyond its years,

And learned to fear and doubt, and for its dreams

And hopes a coffin made, all sealed and hid,

Till thou didst loose them once again.

But, oh! they could not spring to meet thine own,

With all the freshness of their early day.

There lived the memory of the past,

And when I clasped thy hand in mine, and looked

Into thine eyes, and heard thy words of love,

My heart grew dark with sad and tearful thought.

I have remembered me,

That hands which I had clasped in love were now

The earthworms' prey; soft eyes were quenched, and tones

Of love were changed by time, or stilled by death!

Oh! I have drained from even joy the dregs

Of grief, which in its cup have mingled ever.

Perchance its tracery was on my brow,

And all my love, the fond, and deep, and true,

Hath been upon thy lot a shadow cast.

'Tis well that I depart ere it grow deep,

And link the sunshine of its joyous soul

With its dark hues.

Thou wilt remember me? I know thou wilt:

Thou wilt sit here, perchance, where we recline

Beneath the shade of vines which I have reared

And the sweet flower-scents will go floating by,

Blent with all mournful memories of the past.

Yet do not weep, but think of me as one

Whose heart was like the restless moaning wave,

Which frets itself to peace—whose love was all

Too deep for bliss on earth, and who above

Will watch with anxious ministry thy steps.

I have had dreams—bright, holy dreams—dear friend.

I would have poured the fulness of these thoughts,

Which burn within, upon the breath of song—

Have left my name upon the lips of men

As one whose foot had trod within the realm

Of mind afar, that when upon the breath

Of fame it floated past, thou might'st have said,

"She was mine own, most worthy of my love."

It was in vain—I die, all unfulfilled

The promise of my youth, leaving my name

But in thy heart.

Lay me to rest in that lone lovely spot

Which I have loved, and o'er my grave plant flowers

Let not the funereal willow wave above:

I would remind thee, by all happy things,

Of her thou loved and lovest; and sometimes come

To that sweet spot and think of me, for all

My kindred's graves are far, and they who loved

Me in my early years will see me not.

Friend, dearest friend, thy love, thy love alone

Is all the sunshine which, unshaded ever,

Was thrown upon my path: shall I not bear

It all away? and if mine own hath caught

From earth a shade of gloom, will it not soar

Where all is light? I say not now farewell,

But, in that last stern hour, close thou mine eyes,

Which smile adieu to earth and thee, and let

Me rest in peace.

SONNET.—BEAUTY.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Beauty—'tis but a beam, a flickering flame,

A flower that withers, whose gay colors die;

Such, erst, was Helen's, of historic fame,

Such thine, fair lady of the diamond eye.

As fades the lily on the water's breast,

So fades thy color, shown thee in thy glass;

As fade the flowers wherewith thy head is drest,

So quick away thy beauty too shall pass.

Love, golden-winged, away doth quickly fly,

When Time's dark pinions heard are flapping near,

And thou, deformed, art left all suddenly,

Who, erewhile, wert to thy acquaintance dear.

"This skull is Helen's"—beauteous relic this,

Of her so famed for form and loveliness.

FAIRYLAND.

BY LAURA M. COLVIN.

Sleeps the old woodland through midsummer night!

Its leafy arches, spreading far away,

Are still, and silvered by the pale moonlight,

From gnarled branch unto the tiniest spray.

O'er the soft moss-beds, by the streamlet's sheen,

And o'er the greensward, are the folded flowers;

A heaven of azure o'er the beauteous scene,

Doth watch the gliding of serenest hours.

The moon smiles fair upon the greenwood glade,

The red lips of the rose new fragrance shed,

And stealing forth, in radiant robes arrayed,

What sprites are those that merry measures tread?

These are the revels of the Fairyland—

It is Titania and her gentle band!

O'ER BLEAK ACADIA'S PLAINS.
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MRS. L. B. GURLEY.

BY CLARK GADDIS.

O'er bleak Acadia's plains, where blow

From arctic piles an icy breath,

And earth is wrapped in shrouds of snow,

As if that earth lay cold in death,

I roam, as strangers sadly roam—

For every step its distance lends

From those, the cherished ones at home,

And constant friends.

Still fondly in my breast I wear

(And kindly every feeling glows)

The images of clear ones, where

The loved at home in peace repose:

From distant lands, where'er I roam,

To thee my heart still fondly tends,

My mother, sisters, brother, home,

And constant friends.

Ye are the sunshine on my path,

Dispelling gloom amid the shade;

Though hope that led my boyhood, hath

All withered or all been betrayed;

Still ye are true! where'er I roam

I know for me the prayer ascends

From those, the cherished ones at home,

And constant friends.

THE LIFE OF MAN.

BY C****.

As rosy light in eastern skies

Gives hope to all of bright sunrise;

As floweret lays its petal bare

And sheds its fragrance on the air;

As babbling rill 'neath greenwood trees

Wends on its way to distant seas;

As comet in its rapid flight

Across the azure vault of night—

Thus runs the mortal life of man.

When on his infant form we gaze,

Sweet Hope shines bright upon his days;

With tott'ring steps he treads the ground

And sheds his joyousness around,

Till, wending on through smiles and tears,

He meets the sea in manhood's years;

Then, for a moment flashing bright,

Is lost fore'er to mortal sight—

And his eternal life's began.

Then breaks to him another day,

In which eternal sunbeams play.

As the sweet floweret fades and dies,

At Spring's soft summons will arise;

As babbling rill, lost in the main,

Returns again in gentle rain;

As comet, when it disappears,

Will glow again in after years;

Man may be lost to mortal eye,

The Spirit Man will never die.

BRAIDED SLIPPER.

OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR.

A LADY'S WALKING-DRESS.

LADY'S WALKING-DRESS.

The above is a pattern of a fashionable lady's walking-dress, made of either velvet or cloth. It is closed down the front, and ornamented with gilt buttons.

DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S WALKING-DRESS.

[See larger version]

COTTAGE FURNITURE.

Fig. 1 is a small sideboard-table, very convenient for holding the dessert, the glasses, the plate, and other things in use. It is placed on castors concealed in the legs.

Fig. 2 is another pattern for a sideboard-table, used for the same purpose as that represented in Fig. 1.

CHEMISETTES AND SLEEVES.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 2.

Fig. 3.

Open dresses are still the order of the day; and as the spring comes in, we select two very neat and ladylike styles, both of which are easily followed.

Fig. 1 is composed of alternate rows of insertion and muslin puffs; the collar is rather large and square, the favorite style at present.

Fig. 2 can be made either of Swiss muslin, cambric, or linen, and is suitable for mourning, when black studs should be used to close it.

Fig. 3 is a sleeve to correspond with Fig. 1. As we have before remarked, chemisettes and undersleeves now come in sets to match, and make a favorite and most acceptable holiday or bridal gift. A plain sleeve, with band of the same, will match Fig. 2. Lace will be worn the coming season; but, at present, muslin and cambric are most appropriate, except in evening-dress.

MADAME CAPLIN'S CORSETS.

No. 1.

We have before alluded to the establishment of this lady, at 58 Bemers Street, Oxford Street, London, and have now procured some cuts of those peculiar inventions, founded on physical investigations and principles, which have made her so famous.

No. 1.—The Registered Coporiform Child's Bodice offers many advantages, and is valuable for infants and children, affording ease and comfort, supporting the frame, and directing the growth. It is arranged so as to follow the prominent and receding lines of the body; a smooth and comfortable fit is thus obtained, but without the slightest pressure. A pair of straps passes over the shoulders, which cross in the back, and are fastened similarly to a gentleman's brace. We can at once accord the advantages that this bodice possesses over those usually made for children—namely, the straight-corded bodice, which Madame Caplin states, from a want of shape and adaptation, slips off the shoulders on to the arms, causing the head and shoulders to bend forward; thus producing a stooping position, round shoulders, contraction of the chest, and a flattening of the ribs.

No. 2.

Madame Caplin has introduced another invention, called "The Invisible Scapula Contractor." (No. 2.) This we were very much pleased with, and consider it an ingenious contrivance. She explained its use by stating that, in many cases, the child's bodice has not sufficient power of itself to counteract the stooping of the body, and particularly where this evil has been of long standing. In such instances, the contractors cannot fail to be of the greatest utility. We were also much gratified in inspecting the models and numerous inventions which were exhibited by Madame Caplin at the Great Exhibition, and where she received the only prize granted in the United Kingdom for adaptations of this kind. They are twenty-three in number, commencing with infancy, and following the different phases of woman's life up to old age.

No. 3.

The Contracting Belt (No. 3), among others, is strictly anatomical in its construction. The front is composed of elastic materials, in which are inserted medical plates, thus combining perfect support and elasticity.

TAPER STAND.

Materials.—5 skeins of pink single Berlin wool, 3 shades of green, 2 skeins of each shade; 2 balls of silver twine, and a skein of wire, No. 24, bell gauge; Penelope needle, No. 2. The stand is made of mill-board, and may be had for sixpence.

THE FLOWER. The Centre Divisions.—Commence with the pink wool, *, work 17 chain, take the wire, and, leaving an end of about 3 inches, place it between the wool and the loop on the needle, work 1 chain across the wire; then fold the wire back even with the other piece, and holding them along the foundation chain, miss the 1 plain that crosses the wire, and work 16 plain on the foundation chain, keeping the doubled wire under the stitches; then leave the wire, as it will not be required in the next round, turn; 1 chain to cross, and up the other side work 3 plain, 3 treble, 5 long, 3 treble, 3 plain, turn, and down the other side, 2 plain, 3 treble, 5 long, 3 treble, 3 plain. Repeat from * 6 times more, and in working the next 17 chain, leave the same length of wire as the chain. When the 7 divisions are made, work 1 single on the 1st plain of the 1st division to make it round; then join on the silver twine, and work the wire under the following stitches: 15 plain up the 1st division, 2 plain in one at the point, * *, 15 plain down the other side; miss 3, 1 plain on the 2d plain stitch of the next division; 7 plain more, join to the 7th stitch of the last 15 plain; 7 plain, 2 plain in one. Repeat from * *, 5 times more; then 7 plain, join to the opposite stitch of the 1st division, 8 plain, then work a plain row along the bottom of the division, and fasten off.

The Inner Divisions.—Commence with the pink wool, make 15 chain; turn, miss 1, and down the foundation chain, 1 plain, 2 treble, 1 long, 6 extra long, 1 long, 1 treble, 1 plain. Repeat 6 times more, then 1 single on the 1st plain stitch of the 1st division to make it round, join on the silver twine; take the wire and work it under the following stitches: 12 plain, 2 plain in one, †, 12 plain down the other side; miss 3, work 7 single up the next division, join to the 5th stitch of the last 12 plain; then 5 plain, 2 plain in one. Repeat from †, 5 times more, then 5 plain, join to the opposite stitch of the 1st division, 7 plain; then work a plain row along the divisions. Fasten off; and for

THE LEAVES.—With the green wool, work 16 chain, turn, miss 1, 2 plain, 13 treble; 2 chain, 1 single in the same stitch as the last; 3 chain, turn, and up the other side, work 3 long in one, 8 long, 4 treble, 3 plain, turn, and down the other side, 2 plain, 4 treble, 8 long, 3 long in one, 3 chain, 1 single in the same stitch as the last. Fasten off; and for

THE STEM.—Commence with the silver twine, work 10 chain, 1 single on the 1st stitch of the 3 chain of the leaf. Take the wire and work it under the following stitches: 34 plain round the leaf; then 10 plain on the stem and fasten. Work 12 leaves more the same with the 3 shades of wool; and for

THE BUD.—With the silver twine, work 15 chain, turn, miss 5, 1 single.

1st round.—3 chain (2 treble in one stitch, 5 times), 1 single on the 1st treble stitch.

2d round.—3 chain, 10 treble, 1 single on the 1st treble stitch; join on the pink wool, then miss 1 and 1 treble, 7 times. Fasten off, and work 2 buds more the same.

THE HANDLE.—With the green wool, work 7 chain, make it round, and work plain round and round for about 4 inches. Fasten off, and place the handle through it. The upper part of the stand should be covered with dark green velvet or cloth; place the leaves and buds around the sconce and sew them to the stand, then put the large and small divisions of the flower over the sconce, and sew them to the stand.

EMBROIDERY.—DESIGN FOR SCREEN.

(See Plate in front of Book.)

Materials.—Drab or black satin, three shades of crimson, two of brown, three of green, three shades of amber, and two of blue embroidery silk or chenille.

Frame the satin, and draw the pattern with a white crayon; work, in embroidery stitch, the flowers with the shades of crimson, the leaves with the greens, the stems with the browns, and the birds with the shades of blue, amber, and green, blending the colors as may be suggested by the taste and judgment of the worker. The above design is well adapted for a cheval-screen, but in drawing the pattern, it will be necessary to considerably magnify the whole. The easiest method of drawing a design on satin for embroidery is to make use of a pounced pattern. This is prepared in the following manner: Trace the outline of the pattern on thin paper, then neatly pierce it with a steel point. Fix the pattern thus prepared firmly on the material, rub the pounce over the paper so as to penetrate the perforated outline; afterwards trace it over with a white crayon. Finely-ground pumice forms the best kind of pounce. Embroidery in chenille, though rather expensive, if neatly worked, is extremely rich and elegant in appearance; it is well adapted for screens, provided when made up the work is protected by glass from the dust. In working on satin, a long-eyed needle is preferable. Chenille à broder is used for embroidery; and much unnecessary waste may be avoided if the needle is brought up close to the preceding stitch.

THE ARROGONESE AND THE VALENCIA.

(See Plates in front of Book.)

The cloaks we illustrate this month are made respectively of cloth and velvet, and, although differing widely in style, are perhaps equal in their claims upon the favor of our gentle readers.

THE ARROGONESE.

The first, the "Arrogonese," is of black velvet, and is very simple in construction, it being merely a circular back, which extends in a half yoke in front; to this the front portion of the cloak is attached; it is box-plaited in four plaits. These, however, are only continued to the waist, from thence they escape confinement, and the material droops in graceful freedom. A collar, narrow at the throat, but with two scallops upon each side springing boldly to greater width, adorns the neck; from the point formed by the scalloped cut of the collar depends a fancy tassel at the back. The cloak is elaborately adorned with a rich design in needle-work.

THE VALENCIA.

The companion to this, in our pages for this issue, is the "Valencia," a very graceful cloak of drab cloth; it is, however, made of this material in all colors which are favorites this season. The cloak is constructed by box-plaiting the back upon a plain or smoothly-fitting yoke, which extends upon the back only from shoulder to shoulder; the points are quite plain, and fall from the neck smoothly. The peculiarity of this style of garment chiefly consists in the mode of the cutting of the sleeve, which is, as reference to the illustration will demonstrate, a turning over of the cloth upon itself at the elbow, the edge of this portion being cut scalloped, and all the borders of the cloak most beautifully ornamented in embroidery. Both cloaks are lined with quilted taffetas in colors to match.

PLANS OF THE ORNAMENTAL COTTAGE.

AN ORNAMENTAL COTTAGE.

(See Plate in front of Book.)

This design cannot strictly be termed a Gothic building, but by the term we only intend that the principal features are taken from the Gothic style. The walls are of brick or stone, roughcast, without pointing. The roof is of slate, and the chimney-stacks are of brick, also roughcast.

On the second floor are four large chambers and a bedroom, furnishing ample room for a family of five or six persons exclusive of servants. On the first floor, if the size of the family required it, the dining-room might be used as a back parlor or sitting-room, the present kitchen as a dining-room, and the laundry, being removed to an out-house, might be used as a kitchen. The hall is to receive additional light by a window in the roof immediately over the well of the stairs. Beneath these stairs is a flight descending to the cellar.

EMBROIDERED ANTIMACASSAR.

(See Plate in front of Book.)

Materials.—One and a quarter yards of book muslin, three skeins of Shetland wool, and twelve skeins of Berlin wool. The Shetland wool is to be of three different shades, and the Berlin may match any one of them; or mohair braid may be used instead of Shetland wool.

This antimacassar is a sort of bag, slipped over the top of the chair. The front is ornamented either with braid run on, or with chain stitch, the latter being rather the most work; but having a far better effect than the former. The initials we have selected are given to show the way in which any initials may be arranged for the centre. The pattern for the border is given in the engraving with the utmost accuracy, but requires, of course, to be greatly enlarged, and marked on the muslin.

The width of the antimacassar, at the widest part, is 26 inches; a margin is left beyond the border, of about one inch, and the depth is eighteen inches. The back of the antimacassar may be of either worked or plain muslin. The two tucks are run together, near the edges, on the wrong side, then turned on the right, and a row of chain-stitch worked at the extreme edge. All the border is done with one shade of the Shetland wool; but the monogram should be in two or three shades, according to the number of letters, each letter being done in one shade. When the muslin is braided, one shade only need be employed. The Russian mohair braid is the best adapted for this purpose; it washes well, and is easily put on; but the chain-stitch is certainly prettier. Marked muslin may be readily finished for either oblong or oval antimacassars; and those who wish it, can have any initials marked for them.

THE BORDER.—Take a bone mesh half an inch wide, and do a strip of common diamond netting, wide enough for the border of the antimacassar. Do four plain rows, and in the fifth work three stitches in one. In the sixth row, take three stitches together. Repeat these two rows, and knot a handsome fringe in the loops of the last.

The border is composed entirely of Berlin wool; the depth of the fringe is four inches.

Our readers will be glad to learn the proper way of knotting fringe. Wind the wool on cotton as often as you may wish, round a card of any given width, and slip it carefully off, without cutting either end. Draw all the loops of one edge through the loops of netting, sufficiently far to allow the loops of the other edge to be drawn through them, and tightly pulled. The ends must then be cut.

WATCH-POCKET.

BRODERIE EN LACET.

(See Plate in front of Book.)

Materials.—One-quarter of a yard of maroon satin; two yards of ribbon to match, an inch and a quarter wide; a knot of the narrowest blue silk Russia braid; a hank of gold beads; four knots of gold thread, No. 0; and some blue sewing silk.

BRODERIE EN LACET is the term applied to the new kind of embroidery. The outlines are done with silk braid, in the ordinary braiding style, and then the flowers, leaves, &c., are filled in with point lace stitches, usually done in silk the color of the braid. In the design before us, a fine gold thread is laid on the outer edge of the braid, and some of the spots are also worked in this material.

Each watch-pocket has two patterns, one for the front, which forms the pocket, the other for that part of the back which is seen above the pocket.

The pattern may be drawn from the engraving, or a pounced paper may be purchased. The design being marked on the satin, is to be braided and then worked according to the engraving. At the edge, a row of sorrento, in blue silk, with a gold bead dropped in every long stitch, makes a very pretty finish. The lining of the pocket must be wadded, and the back must have a piece of card-board between the satin and the lining. Finish with satin ribbon bows.

PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY.

[See larger version]

EDITORS' TABLE.

"Why in this work did the creation rest,

But that eternal Providence thought you best

Of all his six days' labor? Beasts should do

Homage to man, but man should wait on you."

RANDOLPH'S "Praise of Women."

The assertions of the poet are, in a general sense, true, because they harmonize with the declarations of Holy Writ. Men should provide for women; the hard work of the world belongs, with the government of the world, to men; the "household good," the education of the young, the gentle and spiritual influences that humanize man and harmonize society, are the appropriate work of women. When the good time comes, feminine value will be appreciated as highly as feminine virtues, and the last are now the basis and the glory of Christian life. But the good time is not fully come even in our happy land, therefore many women are yet obliged to toil for their own support. Some mothers have to maintain their little children, other women must provide for parents and those who helplessly depend on them. For these reasons, it is necessary that every young woman in our land should be qualified by some accomplishment which she may teach, or some art or profession she can follow, to support herself creditably, should the necessity occur. If the trial of self-exertion never comes, women will be better qualified by such useful education for their happiest position, that of presiding over, guiding, and adorning the well-ordered home.

These educational views, that we have always held and urged on our readers, are now fast becoming the fashion and rule in society. We are happy to note the change—to find grave men, whose experience of life is practical wisdom, uniting in plans to promote the usefulness of woman's talents. Give her education and opportunity, let it be seen by actual trial what she can learn and what she can do, then a true estimate of the best means of promoting and insuring the happiness of humanity may be made.

Among the various plans for woman's advantage, adopted in our country within the past five years, three are most worthy of note, viz., opening "Female Medical Colleges," "Schools of Design for Women," and "Schools to Teach the Art of Type-setting." The first and most important of these we have often and zealously advocated and described in our "Book." We shall continue to uphold Female Medical Education as one of the best and most important advantages for woman and for the race. Now, however, we will give some account of another excellent improvement.

The Philadelphia School of Design for Women.—This school, the first of the kind in America, was founded by Mrs. Sarah Peter, 1848. It is now an incorporated institution, with a Board of gentlemen Managers, from among the most eminent citizens of Philadelphia, and a Board of lady Assistant Managers, who attend to the internal affairs of the school, the admission of pupils, their deportment, proficiency, &c.

"The changes of the last few years," says the editor of a religious paper, "have deprived woman of some of the sources of employment and supply which tended to her comfort, and are bringing her into a state of dependence upon man, such as is not compatible with her best interests. New sources of employment, consistent with her nature, are to be sought out, by which her usefulness may be increased, her comfort promoted, and her true dignity maintained. One of these will be found opened by the School of Design.

"The pupils are employed in drawing and coloring, in copying and in producing original patterns, and on lithographs and wood-engravings. The products of their industry are used by our manufacturers of cotton prints, delaines, and paper hangings, and by the publishers of ornamented books and periodicals. Hitherto, the Schools of Design in France have enabled that country to lay the world under contribution for tasteful fabrics. We hope that Philadelphia will encourage an enterprise from which both city and country will derive a benefit.

"Several specimens of the skill of the pupils are now, we understand, on exhibition in the Crystal Palace."

Thus our readers will see that this noble institution for the development of woman's talents is sustained by the good will and good offices of men. An endowment of $50,000 is in hopeful progress; when that is obtained, as it surely will be in this rich city, the Philadelphia School of Design will become the model for such institutions in every section of our land.

About ten thousand children of both sexes, from the working classes, are said to be now under this art instruction in the city of Paris; probably twice that number of scholars are in the different Schools of Design throughout France. But, then, it is about two hundred years since their first school of decorative art was established.

The first school of the kind in England was opened about twenty years ago, through the exertions of Lord Sidmouth. Now there are many institutions of the kind, and thousands of English girls and young women engaged in the study and practice of designing, drawing, &c. We trust that, in a very few years, thousands of our young and talented countrywomen will be emulating, if not excelling the taste, beauty, and perfectness shown by Europeans in every branch of decorative art.

INFLUENCE OF FEMALE EDUCATION IN GREECE.—Our readers are aware, probably, that a Mission School for the instruction of girls was established in Athens, Greece, some twenty-five years ago. At the head of this school were the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Hill. Under their care, about five thousand young women have received instruction. In a recent letter from Rev. Dr. Hill to the Foreign Mission, he thus describes the effect of this education:—

"Our prospects for the ensuing season of missionary labor were never more encouraging; on every side we witness the fruit of our twenty years' toil, in the improved religious and moral character of those around us. Some of these have received their training in our schools, and have carried with them the principles they were taught by us into their own domestic and social circles. They are scattered over the whole of Greece. Very pleasing accounts are continually being brought to our ears by American and English travellers who visit the Morea, the islands and the provinces of northern Greece, regarding those who were once our pupils, and are now mothers of families. But the influence of our principles and our instructions is not confined to those only who were brought up under our immediate care. The 'leaven has leavened,' if not the whole, at least a large 'lump,' and the effect of our labors, it may be said with great truth, is visible to a greater or less degree among the whole community. There is no end to the applications we have for admission to the privileges of our schools, nor are there any bounds to the facilities we have for preaching the Gospel freely, and for the dissemination of the Word of God, and of religious and other useful tracts. Under my own roof, I assemble twenty indoor pupils from the age of six to eighteen, with my own family, for morning and evening worship, and for religious instruction; and our outdoor pupils, when our schools shall be reopened, will outnumber four hundred. I have just added five more rooms in a contiguous building to those hitherto devoted to our missionary schools; and, if I could obtain a much larger space, or could afford the outlay, we could fill every portion of it."

READING WITHOUT IMPROVEMENT.—"Some ladies, to whose conversation I had been listening, were to take away an epic poem to read. 'Why should you read an epic poem?' I said to myself. 'You might as well save yourselves the trouble.' How often I have been struck at observing that no effect at all is produced, by the noblest works of genius, on the habits of thought, sentiment, and talk of the generality of readers; their mental tone becomes no deeper, no mellower; they are not equal to a fiddle, which improves by being repeatedly played upon. I should not expect one in twenty, of even educated readers, so much as to recollect one singularly sublime, and by far the noblest part, of the poem in question: so little emotion does anything awake, even in the moment of reading; if it did, they would not forget it so soon."

So says good, sensible John Foster, whose thoughts are always as clear and pure as rock water. There is another sentiment of his we should like to have read and remembered, too, by those who are soon to be married:—

LOVE—HOW TO SECURE IT.—"I have often contended that attachments between friends and lovers cannot be secured strong, and perpetually augmenting, except by the intervention of some interest which is not personal, but which is common to them both, and towards which their attentions and passions are directed with still more animation than even towards each other. If the whole attention is to be directed, and the whole sentimentalism of the heart concentrated on each other; if it is to be an unvaried, 'I towards you, and you towards me,' as if each were to the other not an ally or companion joined to pursue happiness, but the very end and object—happiness itself; if it is the circumstance of reciprocation itself, and not what is reciprocated, that is to supply perennial interest to affection; if it is to be mind still reflecting back the gaze of mind, and reflecting it again, cherub towards cherub, as on the ark, and no luminary or glory between them to supply beams and warmth to both—I foresee that the hope will disappoint, the plan will fail. Attachment must burn in oxygen, or it will go out; and, by oxygen, I mean a mutual admiration and pursuit of virtue, improvement, utility, the pleasures of taste, or some other interesting concern, which shall be the element of their commerce, and make them love each other not only for each other, but as devotees to some third object which they both adore. The affections of the soul will feel a dissatisfaction and a recoil, if, as they go forth, they are entirely intercepted and stopped by any object that is not ideal; they wish rather to be like rays of light glancing on the side of an object, and then sloping and passing away; they wish the power of elongation, through a series of interesting points, on towards infinity."

PUBLIC LIBERALITY.—The State of New York, which has expended, from time to time, upwards of half a million of dollars in the advancement of medical education, has more recently divided thirty thousand dollars between the two Medical Colleges at Albany and Geneva.

Would it not be better to devote a little money to educate those who have the normal care of humanity in their hands—rather than give all to those who are preparing to cure its diseases? Women are the preservers of infancy, they form the physical constitution of their children; give women that knowledge of the laws of health which their duties require, and one-half the present number of male physicians might be spared.

A RULING PASSION.—I have the highest opinion of the value of a ruling passion; but if this passion monopolizes all the man, it requires that the object be a very comprehensive or a very dignified one, to save him from being ridiculous. The devoted antiquary, for instance, who is passionately in love with an old coin, an old button, or an old nail, is ridiculous. The man who is nothing but a musician, and recognizes nothing in the whole creation but crotchets and quavers, is ridiculous. So is the nothing but verbal critic, to whom the adjustment of a few insignificant particles in some ancient author, appears a more important study than the grandest arrangements of politics or morals. Even the total devotee to the grand science Astronomy, incurs the same misfortune. Religion and morals have a noble pre-eminence here; no man or woman can become ridiculous by his or her passionate devotion to them; even a specific direction of this passion will make a man sublime—witness Howard; specific, I say, and correctly, though, at the same time, any large plan of benevolence must be comprehensive, so to speak, of a large quantity of morals.

HE who administers medicine to the sad heart in the shape of wit and humor, is most assuredly a good Samaritan. A cheerful face is nearly as good for an invalid as healthy weather. To make a sick man think he is dying, all that is necessary is to look half dead yourself. Open, unrestrained merriment is a safety-valve to the heart and disposition. If overburdened with the noxious gases of care, pull the string of wit, up flies the valve of fun, and out go the troubles and vexations of life to the four winds of heaven.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.—The following articles are accepted: "The Linden," "The Song-Birds of Spring," "My Early Days," "To one who Rests," "Cupid's Arrows," "Bury me in the Evening," "To an Absent Dear One," "Some Thoughts on Training Female Teachers," "The Lily and the Star" (the two other poems by the same writer are not wanted, because we are overstocked with poetry), "Truth" (the other poem is not accepted for want of room), "A Song," "I miss thee, Love," "The Young Enthusiast," and "Love and Artifice."

The following articles are declined: "Letter from Eden," "The faded bloom of Spring" (the poem is not without merit, but there are faults of rhythm and rhyme which make it inadmissible), "True Friendship" (the acrostic Mr. Godey will give from his "Arm-Chair," and thanks Theresa for her compliments, which are pleasant, though her poetry is not perfect), "Sudden Death," "Exercise in the Morning," "A Long Story," "Arabella," "Sonnets," "The Old House," "Ages," "Seeing is not Believing," and "Good-Bye."

Editors' Table-Drawer.

PICTURES FROM DANTE.

FAME.

"NOW must thou shake off sloth," my guide began,

"For not beneath rich canopies of state,

On beds of down, must fame be sought by man."

FIRMNESS.

FOLLOW thou me, nor heed what others say;

Be like a tower that stoopeth not its head,

Bellow the tempests fiercely as they may.

He in whose breast springs thought to thought succeeding,

Of his intent is ever frustrated—

The force of one the other's force impeding.

WORLDLINESS.

OH, the insensate labor men bestow

On worldly things! How weak those reasonings are

Which make them stoop their wings to earth below!

One was pursuing medicine; one a course

Of law; the church employed another's care;

One strove to rule by sophistry or force;

One was on wicked gains by fraud intent;

By merchandise another; this one given

To sensual joys; on ease another bent—

While I, from all these earthly cares relieved,

With Beatrice ascending into heaven,

Was in that sphere so gloriously received.

FEMINOLOGY.

ON account of the few lucrative employments that are left to the female sex, and by consequence of the little opportunity they have of adding to their income, daughters ought to be the particular objects of a parent's care and foresight; and as an option of marriage, from which they can reasonably expect happiness, is not presented to every one who deserves it, especially in times when a licentious celibacy is in fashion with the men, a father should endeavor to enable his daughters to lead a single life with independency and decorum, even though he subtract more for that purpose from the portions of his sons than is agreeable to modern usage, or than they expect.—W. PALEY, Moral Philosophy.

LADIES have sometimes distinguished themselves as prodigies of learning. Many of the most eminent geniuses of the French nation have been of the female sex. Several of our own countrywomen have also made a respectable figure in the republic of letters.—C. BUCK, Miscellanies.

EMERA was much displeased with her maid-servants. The occasion of her displeasure was great and just, but she had not the spirit of reproof. Criton happening to be in his closet, she went up and made her complaint there. He entreated her to excuse him from the economy of the kitchen and parlor: It was entirely under her dominion, and if her maids were so culpable, she must reprove them sharply. "Alas!" said she, "I cannot chide."—ISAAC WATTS, Miscellanies.

THE obvious designation of woman to a different sphere of action and influence from that which is occupied by the stronger sex, suggests the contemplation of excellencies which, though not peculiar to herself, are delightfully appropriate to her character and condition. There is a feeling of heart, a consciousness of dependency, a natural and amiable timidity, a tenderness and kindness, which unfit a woman for the rude and tumultuous occupations, and which, while they assign to her a more retired sphere, as clearly disclose those qualifications which constitute her true dignity and glory.—GARDINER SPRING, Sermon.

THERE is not one sentiment I join you more cordially in, than an utter detestation of all the heartless splendor and ceremony of fashionable life; and I trust that my wife will never suffer herself to be so seduced by the example of female acquaintances, and advisers, and managers, as to step down from the dignified simplicity of a minister's fireside, and mingle in all the extravagances of parties, and second courses, and splendid drawing-rooms, and the whole tribe of similar abominations.—THOMAS CHALMERS.

DEACONESSES.

THAT the peculiar gifts of the female sex might be made available for the outward service of the Church, in rendering the assistance of various kinds for which women are peculiarly fitted; the office of Deaconess was established, in addition to that of Deacon, at first in the churches of the Gentile Christians.—NEANDER, History of the Church.

IT is well known that in the primitive Church there were women particularly appointed for this work. Indeed, there was one or more such in every Christian congregation under heaven. They were then termed Deaconesses, that is, servants—servants of the Church and of its Great Master. Such was Phœbe, mentioned by St. Paul, Rom. xvi. 1, "A Deaconess of the Church at Cenchrea." It is true most of these were women in years, and well experienced in the work of God. But were the young wholly excluded from that service? No! neither need they be, provided they know in whom they have believed, and show that they are holy of heart, by being holy in all manner of conversation.—JOHN WESLEY, Sermons, vol. ii. p. 335, N. Y. ed.

IGNATIUS, in writing to the Church at Antioch—of which he himself was pastor—says: "Salute the Deaconesses in Christ Jesus." Tertullian speaks particularly of a Deaconess who was of a very tender age.[2] Their office was so respected, that a bishop was deposed for having received into it a woman who had been excommunicated;[3] and it often fell to their lot to share the glories of martyrdom with the most holy confessors of the faith.[4]

How long this order continued in the Christian Church is not absolutely certain. Up to the commencement of the fourth century it, however, preserved itself free from abuses, but became corrupted in the fifth and sixth, and ended by disappearing in the Latin Church in the eighth, when the Papacy became finally constituted. In the Greek Church this office continued several hundred years, and Deaconesses pursued their self-denying service in the Christian Churches of Constantinople to the close of the twelfth century.[5]—WM. A. PASSAVANT, Institution of Deaconesses.

[2] Tertull. vel. de virg.

[3] Sozam, lib. iv. c. 14.

[4] Plin. Ep. ad. Traj.

[5] Suicer, Thesaur, tom. i. p. 896.

Literary Notices.

LIBERIA; or, Mr. Peyton's Experiments. Edited by Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, author of "Woman's Record." etc. etc. The author has furnished us with a copy of this work, which at once addresses itself to the good sense and the good feelings of all persons who are sincerely interested in Christian practical efforts to ameliorate and to elevate the condition of the African race. We think it has been fully demonstrated in this volume that the only sure plan for the attainment of those desirable ends is that proposed, and, it may now be said, successfully carried out by the American Colonization Society. In order to establish this important truth, the author has been at great pains to present us with the real character and condition of the negro while in a state of slavery, and his improvidence and want of energy, as generally exhibited, when set free and furnished with land in the midst of a white population. The prejudices against which he has to contend in our large cities, their paralyzing effects, and the wretchedness to which he is often reduced in consequence, are also fully contrasted with the independent and prosperous condition of those who have been settled in Liberia, and who have raised themselves to a standard of Christianity, civilization, statesmanship, and orderly government, which might, indeed, be questioned, did not indisputable evidences of their astonishing and successful progress accompany all the statements of the author. This work, therefore, commends itself not only to the attention of those who are anxious to benefit an unhappy race, but also to the serious consideration of such of that race as have sufficient intelligence to comprehend their true interests, and sufficient energy to follow their dictates.

From J. S. REDFIELD, 110 and 112 Nassau Street, New York, through W. B. ZIEBER, Philadelphia:—

ART AND INDUSTRY, as Represented in the Exhibition of the Crystal Palace, New York, 1853-4. Showing the progress and state of various useful and æsthetic pursuits. From the "New York Tribune." Revised and corrected by Horace Greeley. This volume will very justly command the attention of all who are interested in the progress of the arts, and in the dissemination of useful knowledge among the people, objects which, it is admitted, form the basis of all nationality and true civilization.

From THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT, & CO., Philadelphia:—

A NEW HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. For the use of schools. By John Lord, A. M., author of a "Modern History from the Times of Luther to the Fall of Napoleon." This work is intended to meet the necessity, which it is thought has long existed, for a new history of the United States for the use of schools. The author has long been known to the literary public as a close investigator of historical subjects, and as a candid and impartial writer. In the volume before us, as far as we have been able to judge, he has carefully adhered to the truths of history, and has, at the same time, presented a clear and forcible narrative of all the important events on record, from the discovery of America down to the present times. As an elementary work, we think it is calculated deeply to control the minds of youthful readers, and to impress upon their memories the important incidents connected with the progress of their country in the establishment of freedom, and in the diffusion of knowledge, wealth, and independence among the people.

NOVELS, SERIALS, PAMPHLETS, &c.

From S. Hueston, New York: "January and June: being Outdoor Thinkings and Fireside Musings." By Benj. F. Taylor. Though not very striking or original, these "thinkings" and "musings" will probably interest the reader.

From Phillips, Sampson, & Co., Boston, through W. P. Hazard, Philadelphia: "Bureliff; its Sunshine and its Clouds." By Paul Creyton, author of "Father Brightness," "Hearts and Faces," etc. This is a very interesting story by a favorite author.

From Ticknor, Reed, & Fields, Boston, through W. P. Hazard, Philadelphia: "My two Sisters: a Sketch from Memory." By Emily Judson. This is a most affecting family memorial, evincing the purity and intensity of that love which submits to the influences of religion.

From Fetridge & Co., Boston, through T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia: "Home Scenes and Home Sounds; or, the World from my Window." By H. Marion Stephens. A very handsome and agreeable volume, containing numerous poetical and prose articles from the pen of a popular authoress.

From Phillips, Sampson, & Co., Boston, through T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia: "Estelle's Stories about Dogs, for Good Boys and Girls." "Little Mary; or, Talks and Tales for Children." By H. Trusta, author of "The Sunny Side," etc. "Christmas Holidays at Chestnut Hill." By Cousin Mary. Illustrated: "Little Blossom's Reward." A Christmas Book for Children. By Mrs. Emily Hare. Illustrated. These pretty volumes reached us too late for a seasonable notice. Such books, however, can never be out of season with those for whom the authors have carefully blended amusement with important lessons of morality.—"Viola; or, Adventures in the Far South-West." By Emerson Bennett, author of the "Forged Will," "Clara Moreland," etc. etc. Mr. Bennett is spirited, and therefore a popular writer. His works are sought after and read with the greatest avidity by the lovers of romance and wild and stirring adventure.—"Indiana." By George Sand, author of "Consuelo," etc. Translated by one of the best French scholars in this country, a member of the Philadelphia bar.

From J. S. Redfield, Clinton Hall, New York, through W. B. Zieber, Philadelphia: "Clovernook; or, Recollections of our Neighbors in the West." Second series. By Alice Carey. A collection of very pleasant stories from the pen of a lady whose talents have long since rendered her name familiar to the public.—"Vasconselos: a Romance of the New World." By Frank Cooper. This is a powerfully written romance, founded on the adventures of De Soto, which we think deserving of more than the usual attention paid to works of fiction. The style is energetic, and the incidents and the plot, though the latter is not altogether agreeable to our taste, are full of the spirit of the age and of the characters represented.

From De Witt & Davenport, New York: "Hot Corn: Life Scenes in New York." Illustrated. Including the "Story of Little Katy," "Madelina," "The Rag-Picker's Daughter," "Wild Maggie," &c. With original designs, engraved by N. Orr. By Solon Robinson. These stories originally appeared in the "New York Tribune," and attracted very general attention. They have been published in a handsome volume, which has generally received favorable notices from the press. Some, however, have considered the morality, as well as the purity of its literature, highly questionable.

From T. B. Peterson, 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia: "Henrietta Temple: a Love Story." By B. D'Israeli, M. P., P. C. With a portrait of the author. Price fifty cents.

Godey's Arm-Chair.

WE stated in our February number that we wanted just two hundred subscribers to make even 10,000 more than we printed last year. They have been received, and more than 3,000 in addition. We now go in for 20,000 additional, and we know that we shall get them.

MODEL COTTAGES.—We give a very beautiful cottage in this number, and shall continue to publish them almost monthly.

BREACH OF PROMISE CASE—NOT TO COME OFF.—The "Mauch Chunk Gazette" says: "Godey promises one hundred pages in each number, and he has never yet been indicted for 'breach of promise.'"

WE do not want the gentlemen to read this paragraph. But, ladies, did you ever see such superb fashion plates as we have been publishing? Look at the one in this number. Paris can't surpass that. They seem even to have excited to admiration our grave, but good friends of the press. The "Mercer Whig" says: "The fashion plates given in the 'Lady's Book' are worth the subscription price to any lady." The "Plainfield Gazette" adds a remark which our vanity also induces us to copy: "Godey is the greatest favorite with ladies amongst publishers, and his fashion plates lead all other magazines." The "Ebensburg Alleghanian" winds up with, "The fashion plates are graceful and colored, superior to any that we have yet seen." And they and our other embellishments shall surpass all others. By way of variety, we give in this number a mezzotint engraving, which the graceful pen of Mrs. Neal has illustrated—"Selling the Wedding Ring or Love Token."

THIRD EDITION.—We are now using our third edition, but, foreseeing the great demand, we have kept ourselves supplied. Every day's orders have been mailed within the twenty-four hours.

IS it economical for a family to take the "Lady's Book?" that is the question. The "Brandon Republican," says "It is decided economy in any family to take it. The useful information to be derived from it in a year is worth ten times the subscription."

PATTERNS, PATTERNS.—We shall have the most beautiful patterns for spring wear that have ever been offered from this establishment. Send on your orders soon, ladies.

BACHELORISM AGAIN.—One of them says: "Whatever amount of 'cooing' we may have in our honeymoon, we may be pretty sure of having a fearful amount of bill-ing."

MERCHANT PRINCES AND STREET OF PALACES.—The splendid stores of Morris, Hallowell, & Co., and Caleb Cope & Co., recently finished, are the most splendid specimens of store architecture to be found in the United States. They have recently been opened for public view, and crowds of ladies and gentlemen have visited both establishments, and been delighted with the varied and tasty arrangements so beautifully conceived and admirably executed.

ARTHUR'S "Home Gazette" says:—

"'The Book of the Toilet.' Philadelphia, Louis A. Godey The publisher of the 'Lady's Book' has here supplied a want long felt. In a neatly printed and bound miniature volume, readily transmissible by mail, we have, separately treated, the following subjects: 'The Beauty of the Skin,' 'The Care of the Skin,' 'The Toilet,' 'Recipes for Perfumes,' 'The Hair,' 'The Teeth,' 'Recipes for Soaps,' 'Pomatums,' 'Recipes for Improving the Breath,' and 'Miscellaneous Recipes.' A 'Book of the Toilet,' from one so experienced as the publisher of the 'Lady's Book,' will, of course, be eagerly sought for by those for whose special use it has been prepared."

A VERY DESPERATE JOKE.—Why should a gentleman, on paying a visit to a widow, take her a supply of tobacco? Because he finds her in weeds.

WE are happy to record the great success of Philadelphia periodicals and newspapers. This has been the greatest season ever known. "Godey's Lady's Book," "Arthur's Home Gazette," and "Arthur's Home Magazine," have nearly doubled their editions of last year, while "Graham's Saturday Mail," which was only started on the first of the year, has a circulation nearly equal to the largest.

HAWLEY & Co., Perfumers, whose advertisement will be found in our "Book," now take the lead in this city, and are the fashionable perfumers. We have examined and tested their perfumery and fancy soaps, both for ladies and gentlemen. Their shaving cream, gentlemen, what a luxury! and the shaving compound military soap, and the ambrosial tablet of concentrated cream, for shaving, neatly done up in little boxes that you might carry in your waistcoat pocket—but these luxuries for shaving are running away with us, and we are forgetting the ladies. Well, ladies, they have for you lip salve—think of that—liquid hair dye; but none of our subscribers will want that, they wear their hair the color that nature made it. And then they have colognes, pomades, bandolines, eau lustrale, oleate of roses for chapped hands, extracts for the handkerchief, etc. And, elderly ladies, a word with you; that is, if you have any vanity—we will whisper it—there is a certain tonic lotion for restoring gray hair to its original color, and lots of other articles, wholesale and retail, which we have not space to mention.

A REMARKABLE case of table-talking lately took place. A cabinet-maker was recommending a table to a lady as a very fine new mahogany table. At which the table lifted itself up and exclaimed, "Don't you believe him, ma'am; I'm veneered and second-hand."

"'ARTHUR'S HOME GAZETTE' FOR 1854.—We cheerfully recommend this weekly to the public readers. Its past conduct proved it to be one of the highest excellence, and we have good reasons to believe that it will be so for the future. During the coming year 1854, Mr. Arthur, the editor, will publish two original nouvellettes in the columns of the 'Gazette,' one of which is entitled 'The Angel of the Household.'"—Flo. Democrat, Pensacola, Flo.

GARRETT & Co., of New York, have sent us "Mrs. Partington's Carpet-bag of Fun." A funny book, from which we make the following extracts:—

MODERN SCIENCE.—"Do you think people are troubled as much with flea-bottomary now, doctor, as they used to be before they discovered the anti-bug bedstead?" asked Mrs. Partington of a doctor of the old school, who attended the family where she was staying. "Phlebotomy, madam," said the doctor, gravely, "is a remedy, not a disease." "Well, well," replied she; "no wonder one gets 'em mixed up, there is so many of 'em; we never heard in old times of trousers in the throat, or embargoes in the head, or neurology all over us, or consternation in the bowels, as we do nowadays. But it's an ill wind that don't blow nobody good, and the doctors flourish on it like a green baize-tree. But of course they don't have anything to do with it—they can't make 'em come or go."

MRS. PARTINGTON AT SEA.—"There's poor Hardy Lee called again!" says Mrs. Partington on a trip to Boston. The wind was ahead, and the vessel had to beat up, and the order to put the helm "hard a lee" had been heard through the night. "Hardy Lee again! I declare; I should think the poor creetur would be completely exaspirated with fatigue; and I'm certain he hasn't eat a blessed mouthful of anything all the while. Captain, do call the poor creetur down, or human natur can't stand it."

SOUND LOGIC.—Mrs. Partington, on reading an account of a schooner having her jib-boom carried away in Long Island Sound, one night last week, wondered "why people would leave such things out o' doors, nights, to be stolen, when they was so many buglers about, filtering everything they could lay their hands to."

POPPING THE QUESTION.—A young lawyer, who had long paid his addresses to a lady, without much advancing his suit, accused her one day of being "insensible to the power of love."

"It does not follow," she archly replied, "that I am so, because I am not to be won by the power of attorney."

"Forgive me," replied the suitor, "but you should remember that all the votaries of Cupid are solicitors."

A LADY A JUDGE—AND WHY NOT?—The "Johnston Echo" says: "Our wife—and our wife's a judge—says that Godey's fashion plate embellishments, designs for embroidery, &c., are the very things which ladies often need, and know not where to get." She judges correctly, too.

"'ARTHUR'S HOME MAGAZINE.'—This truly meritorious and deservedly popular monthly periodical commences the new year with decided claims to public favor, much improved in its embellishments and well stored with a choice moral miscellany, rendering it worthy of the home for which it is admirably adapted. In short, the name of its talented conductor alone is sufficient to secure for it a general welcome. T. S. Arthur, Philadelphia, $2 a year."

RAPP'S GOLD PENS.—We have received orders for more than one hundred of these pens. We repeat the terms, and also our hearty assurance that they are the best gold pens we have ever used. Price of pens, condor size, with a holder, $6; in a silver case, $7; swan-quill size, with double extension silver cases, $4; goose-quill size, suitable for ladies, with holders, as above, $3.

WYMAN, the magician, has been here delighting the people as usual. He is also one of the best ventriloquists we have ever heard.

CHARLES OAKFORD'S FASHION PLATE FOR SPRING, 1854.—We present our numerous patrons this month with this plate. We are pleased to notice the originality of design which is here displayed. Oakford is now at the head of his profession. He has infused more life and spirit into his business than any other competitor in the United States. His store is pronounced the most beautiful in the world, his stock the most varied and extensive to be found anywhere. Oakford's success in his new establishment is unprecedented, and he deserves it, for his liberal spirit has spared no expense whatever to keep ahead in his branch of business. Philadelphia should be proud of this, and we feel assured they know how to appreciate him. We advise wholesale dealers to bear his store in mind when they wish to purchase, as they will find hats and caps of every grade as low as they can be purchased in any city in the Union. We would also remind the ladies that they can procure the finest quality of children's head gear of the most fashionable styles at this establishment. We therefore proclaim success to Oakford!

THE bonnets published on our first page are from the extensive establishment of Messrs. Thomas White & Co., who have the largest bonnet establishment in the United States. It is from their extensive manufactory in this city whence most of the fashions emanate. The establishment in the city is, besides the manufacturing department, also their sale-room, both wholesale and retail. Added to this, they have "the Industrial Straw-Works at Roxborough," where an immense number of bonnets are manufactured daily. They employ, in all, some four hundred females. Here is a concern that gives employment in the right kind of way. Think of four hundred females in one establishment! They certainly deserve not only the thanks, but the united patronage of all the subscribers to the "Book." Every description of silk, lace, crape, straw, blonde, and fancy bonnets, of the latest style, artificial flowers, French and American summer hats for gentlemen, in all their variety—and it is unsurpassed, as they are importers as well as manufacturers—can be found at this celebrated bonnet depot.

Their magnificent new store, erected on the site of their former stand, No. 41 South Second Street, and the extensive stock, is now open to the public, and it is a pleasure to visit it, to see how a business of such extent can be carried on without there appearing anything like hurry or confusion.

"GODEY'S 'BOOK OF BEAUTY,' No. 2.—Through the ever attentive courtesy of Philadelphia's model magazineer, Louis A. Godey, Esq., we were several weeks since made the recipient of his 'Parlor Gem,' No. 2, consisting of some thirty exquisite engravings, all but two or three of which are on steel, and are pictures of rare excellence and beauty. We avail ourselves of the earliest opportunity to say to every one of our friends and readers to send on your fifty cents to L. A. Godey, and get a bijou that you would not sell again for $5."—Ellsworth Herald.

GENERAL AGENCY FOR PERIODICALS.—Many persons wishing to subscribe for different publications do not like the trouble of writing several letters. This may be obviated by sending the money to the subscriber, who will attend to all orders punctually, whether for publications monthly or weekly in this city or elsewhere.

Any information asked for by any of our subscribers we will cheerfully give, if it is in our power.

We will attend to purchasing any goods that may be desired, and will forward them at the lowest market price.

A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF BOARDMAN & GRAY'S MANUFACTORY, ALBANY, N. Y.

BOARDMAN & GRAY'S DOLCE CAMPANA ATTACHMENT PIANO-FORTES.

In our January and February numbers, we gave a detailed sketch of piano-forte making, and selected, as the subject of our illustration, the extensive establishment of Messrs. Boardman & Gray. We have therefore deemed it desirable to present our readers with an exterior view of this establishment. These buildings were completed about a year since; and, at that time, it was supposed they would be sufficiently large even for the extensive business designed to be carried on in them. But so rapidly has the demand increased for their instruments, that Messrs. Boardman & Gray will be obliged to add another wing to their main building, and will thus be able to supply their orders with additional promptness.

It is scarcely possible to overrate the excellence of their piano-forte, with its Dolce Campana Attachment. As a parlor instrument, it is, we believe, unrivalled. To those who appreciate rich, full, and sweet sounds, rather than mere noise; to those who love an instrument which seems, as it were, to respond to the feelings and passions of the player—which can at one time delight the ear with its organ-like tones, at another charm it with a melody so soft and tender as to start the tear of the listener—it will need no commendation. The touch and action of the instrument are faultless; the firmness, the lightness, and the elasticity of the touch have won the praise of every pianist who has used it. A marked feature in the instrument to which we are alluding is its durability of tone, a result which, as we have already shown, is due to its careful and methodical construction. In every respect, it embodies within itself the conditions of the finest and most reliable of instruments. We can therefore confidently commend it to the reader.

SOME wretched bachelor concocted the following:—

A JURY Of FEMALES.—In the year 1693, the body of a female was discovered in Newbury, under circumstances which rendered a coroner's inquest desirable. A jury of twelve women was called, and a copy of their verdict has been preserved. As it is about as lucid and satisfactory as most modern verdicts, we copy it entire in the quaint language of the period. It was as follows:—

"We judge according to our best light and contients, that the death of said Elizabeth was not by any violence or wrong dun to her by any person or thing, but by some soden stoping of her breath."

HOW true is the following. Read it, ye unhappy bachelor editors, and follow the example of our friend French, of the "Georgetown Herald," another convert to our doctrines. He has announced to us that he has taken to himself a "helpmeet."

THE FEMALE TEMPER.—No trait of character is more agreeable in a female than the possession of a sweet temper. Home can never be happy without it. It is like the flowers that spring up in our pathway, reviving and cheering us. Let a man go home at night, wearied and worn by the toils of the day, and how soothing is a word dictated by a good disposition! It is sunshine falling on his heart. He is happy, and the cares of life are forgotten. A sweet temper has a soothing influence over the minds of a whole family. Where it is found in the wife and mother, you observe a kindness and love predominating over the natural feelings of a bad heart. Smiles, kind words and looks, characterize the children, and peace and love have their dwelling there. Study, then, to acquire and retain a sweet temper.

THE cottage in this number is from Sloan's beautiful work on architecture.

FROM an editor in South Carolina: "On my return home, I found the pen you were so kind as to send me. I am very much pleased with it, and again tender my thanks. I will soon send for another. I need the best pens, or, as you see, my intentions or words could never be communicated, at least in an intelligible manner." We congratulate you, friend B., upon the marked improvement in your chirography.

WE copy the following from the "Evening Argus," fully indorsing every particular of it, and especially that part speaking of Mr. Purdy, whom we have, for the last thirty years, been pleased to call our friend:—

"THE HOUSE PRINTING TELEGRAPH.—We observe, with real satisfaction, the rapid extension of the House Printing Telegraph Lines throughout the North and West; and in every instance where this means of telegraphic communication is adopted it is pronounced the very perfection of telegraphic inventions. The line recently established between this city and New York, has now extended its branches through all the Northern, Middle, and Western States, while many of these lines, in the extent of their business, are among the most prosperous in the country. The main line, from Washington to Boston, has recently undergone many improvements, and the office in this city has been removed to Harnden's Express Building, N. E. corner of Third and Chestnut Streets, where quarters unsurpassed in accommodation and comfort have been fitted up, new instruments introduced, &c., for the purpose of more expeditiously accommodating the increasing patronage which the knowledge of the advantages of this means of communication is bringing upon the line.

"The lines between this city and New York, Baltimore, and Washington, are now prepared to dispatch almost any amount of business; and their active management being in the hands of gentlemen fully conversant with the wants of the business community, we can commend the line to the public with every confidence. The lines centering in this city are under the immediate superintendence of J. H. Purdy, and every attention which experience and sagacity can suggest is devoted to keeping them in order for the dispatch of business. Mr. W. J. Phillips, the principal in charge of the office, is a skilful and experienced operator, and obliging gentleman, while all his assistants are capable, experienced, and efficient, thus making the office—as indeed are all the offices—a model in the prompt and accurate dispatch of business.

"The House instrument is unsurpassed in speed and accuracy of communication, and its merits and advantages once understood, it must come into general use with the telegraphing public."

WE thank the editor of the "Litchfield Republic" for the following:—

"This is the 'Lady's Book' par excellence. We admire this work, for the plain and simple reason that, like refined, polished, and virtuous female society, it powerfully tends to improve the manners and mend the heart."

THE "FLORIST'S AND HORTICULTURIST'S JOURNAL." Vol. 3, No. 1. H. C. Hanson, 63 Walnut Street, Philadelphia.—We have here the best work upon floriculture and horticulture published in the United States. Each number contains a beautifully colored engraving. In some instances, these engravings are got up and colored in Paris. Price of the work only $2 a year.

KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN.—Every one, however busy, however poor, however humble, can greatly elevate and enrich himself by looking around and suffering naught to escape his notice; and he will not only enrich himself, but the whole world may be indebted to him for digging from the rubbish of obscurity a gem to enrich mankind.

WE do not deem it improper to publish the following feeling extract from a letter just received, as we give no names or date. It is a credit to the heart of the writer: "Inclosed you will find twenty dollars for the following club. The gentlemen say it is of no use refusing to subscribe, as their wives consider it a 'woman's right' to have the 'Book.' My own past year's experience has left me a deserted home; yet I still wish it for myself, recollecting how well she liked it who is now an angel in heaven."

CARD WRITING.—We beg leave to call the attention of our lady friends to the fact that written cards are now more fashionable than engraved; and, if they want a handsome pack written, or linen marked in the most beautifully florid, or in a plain style, let them apply to Martha A. Torrey, S. W. corner of Filbert and Eighteenth Streets.

THE "GERMANTOWN TELEGRAPH" has been enlarged and improved, but only in its typographical appearance, the matter being already perfect. We consider Major Freas a model editor, bold and fearless in what is right, never lending his columns to anything of which he does not approve. He ought to be in the city, where his power could be felt. As an agricultural paper, the "Telegraph" stands first in the State, the major himself being a practical farmer. He has taken premiums upon several occasions, the last for some particular kind of roosters—crowing ones, we believe; but the major is used to crowing, the whole press having crowed upon the occasion of his enlargements and improvements. Success to him! and may he always entertain a just sense of his high position as the editor of one of the most popular papers in the State, and not descend to become a candidate for governor. By the way, major, we should like to see the first number of your paper, and, until we do, we shall consider ourself as the oldest publisher.

WE ask attention to our new work, "How to Make a Dress." It is by our Fashion Editor, and we think it will be useful to every one of our lady subscribers. Orders for materials of all kinds, jewelry, patterns, etc. etc., will be attended to, by inclosing a remittance to L. A. Godey, Philadelphia.

WE will furnish any of the following from the establishment of Mrs. Suplee, the originator of this style of patterns. But few persons can imagine how complete they are in every respect, fit, trimming, &c. At a little distance, they look like the real garment. The stock and variety of patterns for ladies' dresses, cloaks, mantillas, sacks, sleeves, and every article of ladies' and children's wear, are unequalled in the United States. Every new design from Paris and London is regularly received, so that persons wishing something new can always be supplied. The patterns are cut in tissue paper, and trimmed as the article is made.

Cloaks, Mantillas, Dress Bodies, Sleeves, Basques, Full Dress, Children's Dresses, Basques, Sacks, and Aprons, Boys' Jackets and Pants.

In ordering patterns, please say if for ladies or children.

Address FASHION EDITOR,
Care of "Godey's Lady's Book," Phila.

PHILADELPHIA AGENCY

"Miss H. A. J."—Sent your gold pencil on the 16th.

"Miss M. T."—Wrote about hair, ear-rings and bracelet on 16th.

"Mrs. G. L. M."—Sent your package to Princeton, Ky., on the 19th.

"M. E. T."—Sent your order on the 10th.

"Julia Hope."—Will find the explanations of crochet terms in this number.

"Mrs. P. E. H."—Sent apron patterns by mail on 21st.

"Mrs. S. M. B."—Sent your articles on the 21st.

"C. C. B."—Sent ear-rings on 21st by mail.

"Mrs. C. B."—Sent your piano on 12th by freight line, and sent you bill of lading.

"Mrs. A. S. M."—Sent your bracelet on 22d by mail.

"M. C. S."—Cannot find any Evans's Boar's Head Cotton. "Geary's" is said to be better. "Book of Crochet" is fifty cents.

"H. P. L."—Sent Eglantine patterns on 22d.

"Mrs. R. G. W."—Eglantine pattern sent on 22d.

"J. H."—Sent the Talma ornaments on 23d.

"Miss H. A. J."—Happy to hear that you are pleased with the Rapp pen. Our own writing has been improved very much since we have used them.

"M. A. B."—Sent patterns on the 3d.

"D. T. P."—Sent Hungarian Circle on the 6th.

"L. M. S."—Let us know where school is, and we will send you an answer there. The remittance was received, and the "Book" sent.

"Mrs. H. M. L."—Club received. The article upon rearing and training Canary birds will appear in the April number.

"Old Subscriber."—We don't know where to look for designs for chairs of worsted-work. Have never seen any. Should we find any will publish them.

"Mrs. R. P."—Yes; we can furnish patterns of any of the fashions we publish.

"Coralie."—We cannot help you. The gentlemen are mercenary, and, we are assured, look more after money than accomplishments.

"Libbie" will find full explanations of all the crochet terms in this number.

"C. A. W."—The F. of S. is the same as the common powdered, the difference being that the first is passed through a very fine hair sieve. For the white lily, substitute crystallized salt, reduced to powder extremely fine.

"J. H."—Sent pattern 17th.

"J. P."—Sent Hungarian circle on the 16th.

"B. F. H."—Twenty-two cents postage due on the "Tracts."

"Stella's" letter not understood. Had she not better refer to the publishers of the paper. Much obliged for her kind compliment to the "Book."

"Fleda," Annapolis, Md.—Must write under her own name. Cannot answer anonymous communications.

"Miss M. B."—Sent pattern on the 10th.

"Miss J. C. D."—Answered yours on the 10th.

"C. J. D."—Much obliged for the cuff pattern. It is a very pretty design, and prettily executed; but cuffs are not used here now. Flowing undersleeves are now all the rage.

We publish the following answer to an inquiry, by "H. E. B.," in our January number. We are much obliged to the correspondent who sent it:—

"BATH, January 2, 1854.

"MR. GODEY: Muslin embroideries should be squeezed through a warm suds until perfectly clean, then rinsed and dried. Then make your starch, have it thick, a little blue, and use it warm. Dip the article, clap it, and work every thread out smooth with your fingers until dry; then lay it on a flannel, and pass an iron over the wrong side.

"Embroidery cleaned in this way will look as clear as those imported. A SUBSCRIBER."

"Rapp's Gold Pens."—We cannot enumerate each person that we have sent Rapp's gold pens to. It would fill a column. We say, generally, every order has been filled; and gold will become scarce, notwithstanding the California supply, if orders multiply as they have done for the last month. See terms, page 276.

EXPLANATION OF CROCHET TERMS.—Sc, single crochet; dc, double crochet; pc, plain crochet; pdc, plain double crochet; dsc, double stitch crochet; oc, open crochet; doc, double open crochet; tc, treble crochet; stc, single treble crochet; rc, ribbed crochet; ch, chain stitch; l, loup, and sometimes long stitch; sq, squares (in a tidy).

The stars in work patterns denote repetition, and whatever is inclosed between two stars is to be repeated. Crosses and dashes often indicate the same thing. There are also sometimes used crosses, and sometimes stars within crosses, to avoid a deal of repetition, as the following: X 2 dc, 4 ch, miss 4, * 5 dc, 1 ch, miss 1, * three times, 5 dc, X twice. This would be at length, 2 dc, 4 ch, miss 4, 5 dc, 1 ch, miss 1, 5 dc, 1 ch, miss 1, 5 dc, 1 ch, miss 1, 5 dc, 2 sc, 4 ch, miss 4, 5 dc, 1 ch, miss 1, 5 dc, 1 ch, miss 1, 5 dc, 1 ch, miss 1, 5 dc. This mode, therefore, of stars, crosses, &c., very much abbreviates.

No orders attended to unless the cash accompanies it.

All persons requiring answers by mail must send a post-office stamp.

Chemistry for Youth.

HEAT, LIGHT, AND FLAME.

A LANTERN TO GIVE LIGHT UNDER WATER.—The lantern must be made of leather, which will resist the waves better than any other substance, and must be furnished with two tubes, having a communication with the air above. One of these tubes is to admit fresh air for maintaining the combustion of the candle, and the other to serve as a chimney, by affording a passage to the smoke; both must rise above the surface of the water. The tube which serves to admit fresh air must communicate with the lantern at the bottom, and that which serves as a chimney must be connected with it at the top. Any number of holes may be made in the leather of which the lantern is constructed, into which glasses are fitted; by these means the light will be diffused on all sides. In the last place, the lantern must be suspended from a piece of cork, that it may rise and fall with the waves.

EXPERIMENT WITH A PIPE.—Compose a powder with one ounce of saltpetre, one ounce of cream of tartar, and one ounce of sulphur, pulverized singly, then mixed. Put a single grain of this powder into a tobacco-pipe, and when it takes fire it will produce a very loud report without breaking the pipe.

SINGULAR EFFECT OF HEAT.—If a piece of tin foil be wrapped in a piece of platinum foil of the same size, and exposed on charcoal to the action of the blowpipe, the union of the two metals is indicated by a rapid whistling, and by an intense brilliancy in the light which is emitted. If the globule thus melted is allowed to drop into a basin of water, it remains for some time redhot at the bottom: and such is the intensity of the heat, that it melts and carries off the glaze of the basin from the part on which it happens to fall.

IMITATION OF THE LUMINOUS APPEARANCE OF THE LUNAR DISC.—Introduce a few pieces of phosphorus, of the size of a pea, into a hollow glass ball of three or four inches in diameter; and having heated it to cause the phosphorus to inflame, keep turning the ball around, till half the inner surface is covered with the phosphorus; when the inflammation has ceased, there will be left a whitish crust or lining, which, in a dark place, shines for some considerable time.

Enigmas.

ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS IN FEBRUARY NUMBER.

4. Memory.
5. Kensington.
6. Eye—I.
7. The parts of speech.
8. Earthquake.

ENIGMAS.

9.

THOUGH formed of what by all is prized,

I'm universally despised:

Though light[6] myself, I darken you;

And though I'm missed, I balk your view.

In cities is my favorite haunt,

Although afloat I also flaunt:

Land travellers e'er rail at me,

While sailors wish me in the sea.

Yet, spite of all their dire abuse,

The wise will deem I serve some use.

10.

OF goodness the beginning

Am I, you may depend,

Although also of sinning

Undoubtedly the end.

In grief hard-used I must confess,

As well as gravity;

But softened e'er by gentleness

And generosity.

Grandees to me give precedence

(So prominent in grace):

For gold I claim a preference,

And guilt also embrace.

But greater far than all of these

In glory I transcend,

And lead the Highest of Degrees

The mind can comprehend.

11.

THOUGH variable as the wind am I,

A steady servant ne'ertheless I prove;

By active drudgery your wants supply,

And moving frequently, yet ne'er remove.

Hard-hearted are my motives; yet you'll own

No fairer workman than myself could live;

Then I'm a sailor, though a landsman known,

And, fairly dealt with, fairest measures give.

12.

"Tria juncta in uno."

LIKE the leaf of the shamrock, an union of three,

On the stalk of humanity flourish should we—

Three blossoms of heavenly beauty and grace,

Which you may in the following similes trace.

While one with the sun may in fervor compare,

The fixed centre whose glorious ardor we share;

The second resembles sweet Phœbe, whose light,

The reflex of the first, must illume the mind's night.

Then our third our own beautiful planet portrays,

Whose beautiful harmonies gladden our days.

The one ever ardent, inspiring, we find,

The other two sanctified spirits enshrined

In their mystical palace: one cheering our heart;

While the other's sweet ministry 'tis to impart

What may happiness ever to others extend,

And of mundane felicity prove a real friend.

Now the poetized graces extinguished must be,

By comparison e'er with our paragon Three!

Therefore, we presume, with a little address,

The names of our glorious triad you'll guess.

[6] Lucus a non lucendo.

Receipts, &c.

TO REMOVE STAINS OF WINE OR FRUIT FROM TABLE LINEN.—A wine stain may sometimes be removed by rubbing it, while wet, with common salt. It is said, also, that sherry wine poured immediately on a place where port wine has been spilled, will prevent its leaving a stain. A certain way of extracting fruit or wine stains from table linen is to tie up some cream of tartar in the stained part (so as to form a sort of bag), and then to put the linen into a lather of soap and cold water, and boil it awhile. Then transfer it wet to lukewarm suds, wash and rinse it well, and dry and iron it. The stains will disappear during the process. Another way is to mix, in equal quantities, soft soap, slacked lime, and pearlash. Rub the stain with this preparation, and expose the linen to the sun with the mixture plastered on it. If necessary, repeat the application. As soon as the stain has disappeared, wash out the linen immediately, as it will be injured if the mixture is left in it.

TO MAKE GOOD INK.—Take one pound logwood, one gallon soft water, boil it one hour, add twenty-five grains bichromate of potash, twelve grains of prussiate of potash; stir a few minutes while over the fire, take it off, and when settled, strain it. This ink is bright jet black at first, flows beautifully from the pen, and is so indelible that even oxalic acid wilt not remove it from paper. No other ink will stand the test of oxalic acid. It is equally indelible on cloth.

TO DYE RED.—You can dye red with either cochineal, madder, Brazil wood, or archil; the latter is generally preferred for common dyes. Alum is all that is required to fix a color.

TO PRESERVE WOODWORK.—Boiled oil and finely-powdered charcoal, mix to the consistence of a paint, and give the wood two or three coats with this composition. Well adapted for water-spouts, casks, &c.

TO REMOVE IRON SPOTS ON MARBLE.—Mix equal quantities of spirit of vitriol and lemon-juice, shake it well; wet the spots with the mixture, and in a few minutes rub with a soft linen until they are completely effaced.

DOMESTIC RECEIPTS.

CUSTARDS, CREAMS, JELLIES, AND BLANC MANGE.

[Third article.]

PINE-APPLE CREAM.—Have some pine-apple prepared in syrup, and cut into small dice, putting it in your cream with a little of the syrup, the other process as before.

RASPBERRY AND CURRANT CREAM.—Use a pottle of raspberries, and the juice of a handful of currants, passed through the sieve with the raspberries, then proceed as before, precisely.

CREME MERINGUEE.—Infuse in a pint of new milk the very thin rind of a lemon, with four or five bitter almonds bruised. As the quantity should not be reduced, it should be kept by the side of the fire until strongly flavored, and not be allowed to boil for more than two or three minutes. Sweeten it with three ounces of fine sugar in lumps, and when this is dissolved, strain, and mix the milk with half a pint of cream; then stir the whole gradually to the well-beaten yolks of six fresh eggs, and thicken it like boiled custard. Put it, when cold, into a deep dish; beat to a solid froth the whites of six eggs, mix them with five table-spoonfuls of pounded and sifted sugar, and spread them evenly over the custard, which should be set immediately into a moderate oven, baked half an hour, and served directly it is taken out. New milk, one pint; rind of one lemon; bitter almonds, five; sugar, three ounces; cream, half pint; yolks of eggs, six; frothed whites of eggs, six; sifted sugar, five table-spoonfuls; baked, half an hour.

ITALIAN CREAM.—Mix one pint of rich cream with half pint of milk; sweeten it to your taste; add two gills of Madeira wine; one gill of rose-water; beat these ingredients thoroughly; dissolve in boiling water one and a half ounce of isinglass; strain it through a napkin or sieve, and stir it into the cream; fill the moulds, and when firm, turn out.

ALMOND CREAM.—Boil one quart of cream with a grated nutmeg, a blade or two of mace, a bit of lemon-peel, and sugar to your taste; then blanch one-quarter of a pound of almonds, and beat them very fine with a table-spoonful of rose-water or orange-flower water; beat well the whites of nine eggs and strain them to the almonds; beat them together and rub them well through a coarse hair-sieve; mix it with the cream; set it on the fire, and stir it all one way until it almost boils; pour it into a bowl and stir it till cold. Put it into cups or glasses and send it to table.

CREME A LA VANILLE.—Boil one ounce of isinglass in a pint of milk for ten minutes, taking care it does not stick to the bottom of the stewpan. Put into it half a stick of vanilla; cover it down, and let it stand till nearly cold. Beat up the yolks of five eggs, mix into them six ounces of pounded sugar, put these into a stewpan; take the vanilla out of the milk, which add to the eggs, mix them well, and stir the custard over the fire till it thickens, but do not let it boil. Strain it into a bowl; when nearly cold, add a glass of noyeau or maraschino; keep stirring it, and when on the point of setting add three-quarters of a pint of cream well whipped; mix it well, and pour it into a mould; set it upon ice till wanted, when dip it for a moment into warm water, wipe it dry, and turn over upon a dish. Or: Boil half a stick of vanilla in a quarter of a pint of new milk until it has a very high flavor; have ready a jelly of one ounce of isinglass to a quarter of a pint of water, which mix with the milk, and one and a quarter pint of fine cream; sweeten with fine sugar, and whip until quite thick; then pour into the mould and set it in a cool place. Or: Pound thoroughly with loaf-sugar a quarter of a stick of vanilla, sift it, taking care that the vanilla is passed through the sieve; whip a pint of cream; add the vanilla, sugar, and half an ounce of dissolved isinglass; pour into a mould.

CREME AU MARASQUIN.—Prepare a cream as the Crême à la Vanille, adding a quarter ounce more isinglass, and substituting maraschino for vanilla.

THE SICK ROOM AND NURSERY.

DECOCTION OF SARSAPARILLA.—Take four ounces of the root, slice it down, put the slices into four pints of water, and simmer for four hours. Take out the sarsaparilla and beat it into a mash; put it into the liquor again, and boil down to two pints; then strain and cool the liquor. Dose—a wineglassful three times a day. Use—to purify the blood after a course of mercury; or, indeed, whenever any taint is given to the constitution, vitiating the blood, and producing eruptive affections.

TO CURE BOILS.—The leaven of gingerbread placed on the boil, and left there until it bursts, has been found to be a good remedy. When the matter is removed, place some more leaven on the part. Another, and perhaps easier mode, is the application of the rough side of the nettle-geranium leaf to draw the boil, and the smooth side to be applied to heal it.

CURE FOR A DRY COUGH.—Take of powdered gum-arabic, half an ounce; liquorice-juice, half an ounce. Dissolve the gum first in warm water, squeeze in the juice of a lemon, then add of paregoric two drachms; syrup of squills, one drachm. Cork all in a bottle, and shake well. Take one teaspoonful when the cough is troublesome.

MEDICAL EFFECTS OF HOT WATER.—In bruises, hot water is most efficacious, both by means of insertion and fomentation in removing pain, and totally preventing discoloration and stiffness. It has the same effect after a blow. It should be applied as quickly as possible, and as hot as it can be borne. Insertion in hot water will cure that troublesome and very painful thing called a whitlow. The efficacy of hot water in preventing the ill effects of fatigue is too well known to require notice.

CURE FOR TOOTHACHE.—Dr. Blake recommends two drachms of alum, to be dissolved in seven drachms of sweet spirits of nitre; a piece of lint, or a small piece of sponge, to be dipped in the solution and applied to the tooth.

STING OF A BEE.—Apply sal eratus wet. It is said to be an excellent cure.

EARACHE may be relieved by dropping a little sweet oil and laudanum, warm, into the ear, and applying hot salt in flannel bags, so as to keep the part constantly warm. For sore throat, a gargle of alum and water will frequently prove of relief at the early stage of the disease.

The Toilet.

MACASSAR OIL.—Common oil, three quarts; spirit of wine, half a pint; cinnamon-powder, three ounces; bergamot, two ounces. Heat them together in a large pipkin; then remove it from the fire and add four small pieces of alkanet-root, keeping it closely covered for several hours. Let it then be filtered through a funnel lined with filtering-paper.

WASH FOR SUNBURN.—Take two drachms of borax, one drachm of Roman alum, one drachm of camphor, half an ounce of sugar-candy, and a pound of ox-gall. Mix, and stir well for ten minutes or so, and repeat this stirring three or four times a day for a fortnight, till it appears clear and transparent. Strain through blotting-paper, and bottle up for use.

TO REMOVE SUPERFLUOUS HAIR.—Lime, two ounces; carbonate of potash, four ounces; charcoal-powder, two drachms. Make up into a paste with warm water, and apply to the part, which must be previously shaved close. When completely dry, wash it off with warm water.

WASH FOR THE HAIR.—Olive oil, half an ounce; oil of rosemary, one drachm; strong hartshorn, two drachms; rose-water, half a pint. Add the rose-water by degrees, otherwise it will not amalgamate.

TO DYE THE SKIN OLIVE.—Use walnut-juice mixed with a small quantity of Spanish anotta. The tint required may be ascertained by dipping the finger into it.

Centre-Table Gossip.

DRESS OF AMERICAN WOMEN.

Apropos of Godey's Dress-Making publications, we find the following remarks in a notice of the visitors of the Crystal Palace, at the time it was most thronged by the crowd of summer and autumn travellers. The compliment to the ladies of our own city is more noticeable, as coming from a New York writer:—

"We may here properly observe that American women would be a great deal better dressed if they would more carefully consult simplicity and sobriety in the colors and arrangement of their costumes, especially such as are worn in public places. For a ball or evening party, it is allowable to be elaborately dressed, gay and brilliant; but the spectacles of dress we have seen during our visits to the exhibition have often been the reverse of grateful to the eye. Ladies we have seen who, no doubt, fancied themselves very splendid, poor things, because they were arrayed in the hues of the rainbow—a bonnet of pink perhaps, a dress of bright blue, or of some gay changeable silk, or mantilla of yellow, and a parasol of white. We have often longed to advise such unlucky persons to go to their hotel, and put on the neat and appropriate travelling-dress they had discarded for this horrible finery. Let our fair readers then be aware that the well-dressed lady is the one who appears in the street, or in public places, in the fewest, simplest, and least conspicuous colors, choosing, of course, such of the neutral hues as are most suited to her complexion, and having every part of her attire of the most scrupulous fit, neatness, and propriety.

"For perfect taste, the Parisian is unrivalled, and you will often see her dressed in a single neutral color—bonnet, dress, cloak, and gloves nearly the same shade. Next to her in the art of dress is the Philadelphia Quakeress, who has discarded the awkward and angular forms of costume prescribed by her sect, but adheres to its simple and sober colors. No class of American women are so well dressed in the street, and, indeed, no other class of women in the world are dressed better, save only the ladies of Paris, who matchless in taste, and perfect in the most refined science of costume."

A BIT OF SHOPPING GOSSIP.

"On dress, of course," perhaps you say—a safer subject for gossip than the reputation of one's neighbors; but everybody knows shopping is considered a legitimate amusement, from the good substantial purchases of the farmer's wife, who exchanges butter and cheese for her teas and cottons, to the wife of the Fifth Avenue millionaire, whose bill at Stewart's for a single year would purchase the homestead for which the farmer pays by the sweat of brow. Let us see how they manage this feminine accomplishment on the other side of the water.

"When you go to buy gloves in Paris, a young lady not only knows what size you wear by intuition, but actually tries on a pair, putting them on you with her pliant fingers, and, if the glove does not fit, takes it off and throws it by! And you are told what colors to wear in the street—what in the evening; and white kids are never worn here, except to balls. Gloves for evening are made with two and three buttons at the wrist, and never have any kind of lace or trimmings at the top.

"Now, as to prices, I find everything a little dearer here than in New York; a bonnet, for instance, without feathers or flowers, costs from 90 to 100f.; a velvet cloak 350, 400, or 500f.; a simple headdress 50f. I suppose there are common stores, where articles are cheap; but who wants to come to Paris and buy such things as one sees in Canal Street or the Bowery, at home?

"The embroideries are so exquisite! One never sees real Parisian needle-work for sale in America; for there are certain stores which only work from orders, and not to sell to merchants, and it is in these little shops one must go to learn what French embroidery is. For pocket-handkerchiefs, there is a store in the Rue de la Paix, No. 11, where nothing is sold but 'French cambric handkerchiefs, from one franc to 1,500 each,' and where they embroider your name, or 'coronet or crest,' when you have purchased of them. I find mouchoirs, embroidered in colors (blue, red, and violet), are very much used.

"You may tell the ladies at home that curls are entirely the fashion here now, and as long as the hair will admit, even to the waist (in front). There are no great puffs at the temple, such as are worn in New York. The narrow fronts to the bonnets forbid those now. Curls are termed à l'Anglais, and ladies of a certain age wear their gray curls as gracefully as young ones do their ringlets of auburn and black."

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

"MISS N. R."—Ermine and its imitations can be cleaned to look almost as well as new in New York. Any order of the kind will be attended to by the editress of the fashion department. A good imitation is well worth the trouble and expense.

"MRS. S."—For reading aloud, we would recommend "The Artist Wife," Mary Howitt; "A Year of Wedlock," Emilie Carlin; "Knicknacks;" Weld's "Life of Franklin;" anything by the "Author of the 'Maiden Aunt,'" or Mrs. Margaret Maitland. Two of the books she mentions are by no means suited to the family circle, one being too heavy in topic and treatment for the interest of younger members, the other a work entirely unfit for a lady's centre-table, certainly for her private reading, although she has "cut the advertisement from a popular family paper." A mother cannot be too cautious in selecting mental food for her children. We will furnish either of the above by mail.

"MISS M.," of Ohio, will find a chitchat article on the topic named in her very clever letter. We are sure she is a dutiful, affectionate daughter, and will make a good wife.

"NANNIE" can have stamped bands sent to her by mail, and will find cambric embroidery a very pleasant parlor work. By this means she will get a set, sleeves and chemisette, at one-third of the importer's price. There are but two stitches generally used for them, button-hole and the plain eyelet, or over and over stitch; the variety is produced by the different styles of arranging the eyelets.

"L. M. J." should remember Mrs. Hentz's story of the "Mob Cap." It is not well to trust the purchase of jewelry to an inexperienced person, particularly in the matter of stones, unless they are directed to a well-known, responsible manufacturer. We recollect to have seen a set of cornelians surrounded by pearls, which proved to be glass colored by sealing-wax on the under side, a perfect imitation, but worthless in themselves. We would refer her to Bailey or Warden, in Philadelphia, Ball & Black, Tiffany, or Rait, in New York.

"MUSIDORA" has chosen rather a fanciful name for her correspondence, but we do not seek to penetrate her secret. The best remedy for the strain that she complains of is to quit reading in bed, the worst possible practice for eyes and head. If mischief is already done, we would recommend bathing them in fresh rose-water, plain cold water, or a simple mixture of camphor eight ounces, distilled water sixteen ounces. Worsted-work in the evening should also be avoided, especially any difficult pattern that requires much counting.

"AN AMATEUR GARDENER" will find Saxton, Fulton Street, New York, to have the best works on the subject. With regard to the economy of a kitchen garden, it is a matter of doubt still to our own minds. At any rate, there is a great pleasure in having fresh vegetables, sweet peas, and corn, and unwilted cucumbers, that have not lost their flavor by lying half of a week in market.

"M. S."—The "Musical Gift" contains all of Jullien's music, simply arranged. Price one dollar, and the postage is but a trifle, as the binding is very simple. As she wishes it for a person not very far advanced, we think this would be better than buying difficult arrangements, separately, at fifty cents a piece.

Fashions.

FASHIONABLE BONNETS,

FROM THE CELEBRATED ESTABLISHMENT OF THOMAS WHITE AND CO., NO. 41 SOUTH SECOND STREET, PHILA.

(See Cuts in front of Book.)

No. 1.—Opera Bonnet.—Material, white tulle; face, pointed satin wire, wreath of pink satin pipings around the front; rows of pink pipings, edged with white blonde lace. Trimming of green crape leaves; face trimming composed of bouquet of rosebuds and mazarine blue flowers; strings on the left side, with bouquet loops.

No. 2.—Spring Fancy Bonnet.—Material, lilac glacé silk; pointed edge, with blonde lace fall. Trimming, tulle ruches, intermingled with violets. Face trimming, lilac and white flowers.

No. 3.—English Straw Bonnet.—Trimming, white flowers, mixed with a bouquet of rosebuds and green plaid ribbon. Face trimming, wreath of the same. Strings same as in No. 1.

No. 4.—Miss's Flat.—Material, white glacé silk; front edge, blocks of wire covered with tulle. Trimming, half wreath of white flowers; ribbon carried across the crown, finished with bows at each side.

CHITCHAT UPON PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS for THE JUVENILES.

Taking always as our motto that comfort and simplicity are the first principles of dress for children, we have, like a careful mother, to consider the spring outfit of the little ones, a task which many mothers dread, because they have not the tact to manage it rightly. In the first place, comfort cannot be insured without cleanliness, another of our previous axioms, and here, as in an infant's wardrobe, it is best to choose plenty, rather than fineness or elaboration, if both are not to be had, particularly in the matter of underclothing, which would form a separate chapter by itself.

For a little girl just emerging from babyhood, the change is almost insensible; but very few mothers know what to do with a boy under similar circumstances. The present styles are more available than the little close cloth suit of jacket and trousers, so long in fashion, transforming the little urchin into the semblance of a monkey in his hand-organ costume. All mothers have reason to bless the invention, or rather the revival of sacques—for the prettiest, and at the same time most comfortable and convenient summer dress we can recommend for boys from two years old to five, is a loose sacque, girt, by a belt, over white linen jean drawers or "pataloons," as the young gentlemen will be apt to call them.

We prefer the sack buttoning on the shoulder, with short sleeves, and rather full in the skirt, reaching a little above the knee. It may be made of any material—for spring, cashmere or mousseline de laine, plain colors or small plaids—brown Holland, with an edging of linen bobbin sewed on flat in two or three rows, as the weather grows milder, and finally, for summer heats, cambric in solid colors, as blue, buff, pink, or green, also very prettily finished by rows of bobbin or coronation braid. Needlework scalloping is also a suitable finish. Nothing could be more simple or inexpensive. Plaid ginghams might also be made up to look well, with pearl, linen, or porcelain buttons on the shoulders. There are porcelain buttons, as most of our readers know, with edges of different shades, pink, purple, etc., that will match nicely. The thin sacques might be low in the neck, with short sleeves; for a thicker material, as cashmere de bege, or mousseline, they should be high in the throat, with a narrow cambric ruffle or edge basted in the neck.

The drawers are short, coming a little below the knee, and not very wide. For ourselves, we prefer them finished with a plain hem, about an inch in width, but it is much the fashion to have a ruffle of twice that depth, of embroidered cambric flouncing, double the trouble to make and keep in order, of course. They are slightly full on the hip, opening on each side, trousers fashion, and gathered into a waistband, in turn buttoned on a plain low-necked waist, like the lining of a frock body. Of course, if circumstances will not admit of the care and washing necessary for white clothes, the judgment of the economical mother can substitute any suitable material for the white linen. Belts are worn of morocco, or broad silk, and linen belting—a kind of galloon—with brass buckles of different styles. They should be loose and low on the hip, to give the figure grace and freedom of movement. This dress has, at least, the merit of convenience and simplicity. Pinafores are, of course, indispensable, whether of bird's eye, or brown linen. They are made very much in sacque fashion at present, the sleeves being long or short, as the health of the child or the season demands. Many belt the pinafores over the drawers and waist we have described, without anything else beneath, in warm weather.

Straw hats are, of course, the most suitable covering for the head, and there are an infinite variety to be found at Genin's and Oakford's the present spring, from the costly Leghorn, with its snowy plumes, to the simple braids of China pearl, or even coarser varieties, the brims varying in width. The bands are of Mantua ribbon, white or green straw and galloons. Straw caps are still worn, but are not so comfortable, as they afford very little shade to the eyes or neck. They are more intended for boys from five to ten.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 1 is a sacque of a more ornamental character than that we have described, and is intended for a little girl's out of door dress. It is of white cambric, trimmed with embroidered flouncing, and may be worn with or without a sacque. Of course, it is calculated for weather several degrees warmer than March; but a spring wardrobe includes summer garments as well. Little coats may be made of nankeen, dimity, or cambric, with a rather full body and round cape coming to the waist, and are very much in favor the coming season. If of nankeen, the trimming is a hem headed with rows of bobbin, plain linen, or coronation braid; if dimity or cambric, the flouncing as given in the cut is much used, or wide cambric edging.

Fig. 2.

Fig. 2 is a walking-dress for a little girl of three or four years, and is considered very simple and childlike. It is of a light plain cashmere, any shade that will suit the complexion of the young wearer. The skirt has two broad folds, or they may be imitated by two rows of trimming, a simple braid, galloon, or gimp. The waist is plain, with a basque opening on the hips; a cross piece is made to imitate a tiny pelerine, when worn on the street. The usual objection to a fashionable costume—overloading of ornament—cannot be urged against this extremely neat dress.

Fig. 3 is still another style for a child of the same age; it is the simple infant's waist, with a basque and sleeves of cambric embroidery. The waist has alternate rows of plain plaits and a narrow puffing; it may have the same effect if plaits and three narrow tucks alternate, and can be more easily done up. The skirt is of plain cambric, with a deep hem. The dress without the basque, and with an elongated skirt, is very suitable for an infant's wardrobe. A belt of insertion takes the place of the trimming on the hip.

Fig. 3.

For the street, children of this age wear drawn bonnets of white or blue silk, of a very simple style, or a delicate straw braid, with a ruche of silk lace or blonde encircling the face. Flats of straw and Leghorn will be worn, as the past season, with bows and flowing ends of white ribbon, or the addition of a white plume, in some cases. Satin ribbon is much used. Sacques, coats, and sylphides of dotted, cross-barred, and plain Swiss muslin, cambric, or summer silks, are used for surcoats. Fine printed lawns, French chintzes, brilliantes, cambrics, etc., are the favorite dress materials. Checks of cashmere, mousseline, silk, and French gingham are very pretty for spring wear. Gaiters, or morocco slippers, with a strap around the ankle, and white stockings; pantalettes are still worn rather high.

FASHION.

Transcriber notes:

P. 195. Music treble bar 5, note should be (g d)8 count, not 4.

P. 195. First 'Pop', bass, '(c e a)4\fermata' should be '(c e a)8\fermata', changed.

P. 202. '...alities of rags', changed to 'qualities of rags'.

P. 204. 'tranferred' changed to 'transferred'.

P. 278. 'and efficent' changed 'efficent' to 'efficient'.

Fixed various punctuation.

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