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Title: Godey's Lady's Book, Philadelphia, Volume 48, March, 1854
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Godey's Lady's Book, Philadelphia, Volume 48, March, 1854" ***

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    |                 Note:                     |
    |                                           |
    | = around word indicates bold =CAPSULE.=   |
    | _ around word indicated italics _Erebus_  |
    |                                           |
    | The table of contents relevant to this    |
    | month are extracted from the January      |
    |   edition of this volume.                 |



    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



         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.


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







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




No. 4.--MISS'S FLAT.]



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.


=T. C. ANDREWS=, _No._ 66 _Spring Garden Street_, _Philada_.



    Pop goes the Wea - sel.
    Pop goes the Wea - sel.

[Illustration: THE ARROGONESE

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

(_For description, see page_ 267.)]

[Illustration: THE VALENCIA.

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

(_For description, see page 267._)]


(_See description._)]







[Illustration: Fig. 1.--PAPER-MAKING BY HAND.]


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.

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


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

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: Fig. 3.]

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.


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.

[Illustration: Fig. 6.]

[Illustration: 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

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.


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

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:--

    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


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."

       *       *       *       *       *


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




(_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

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

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

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:--


"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

"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

"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

       *       *       *       *       *

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.



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

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,
200_l._ 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.



[Illustration: 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

[Illustration: Fig. 24.]

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: Fig. 28.]

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: Fig. 30.]

[Illustration: Fig. 31.]

[Illustration: Fig. 32. Fig. 33.]

[Illustration: Fig. 34. Fig. 35.]



(Continued from page 127.)


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

"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

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

"'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.


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

"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

"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

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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

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.


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

"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

"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

"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

"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."


"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.)

       *       *       *       *       *


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.


(Concluded from page 136.)


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

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.


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.


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

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.



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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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



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.

       *       *       *       *       *


    "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

    "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.

    Is the book of God before thee set,
    Wherein to read his wondrous works."



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

"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

"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

"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

"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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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.

       *       *       *       *       *




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

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

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

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.



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

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:--


    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.


    You are my true and honorable wife!
    As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
    That visit my sick heart!


    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?


                                  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

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.

       *       *       *       *       *





(_Dated March 3d._)


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

P. S. Excuse haste.

P. S. Why don't you write?

       *       *       *       *       *




    [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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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 _pre_cisely 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

"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

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.




    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 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.



    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_.



    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!



    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.



    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!



    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.



    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.



    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.



    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.



    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, 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.


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.

       *       *       *       *       *





[Illustration: 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.



    FRONT      BACK



[Illustration: 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.]

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


[Illustration: Fig. 1.]

[Illustration: Fig. 2.]

[Illustration: 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.


[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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



 _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

_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

       *       *       *       *       *


(_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.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_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 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 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.



(_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.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_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.

       *       *       *       *       *



(_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

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.



    "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

       *       *       *       *       *

_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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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.



    "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."

       *       *       *       *       *


    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.

       *       *       *       *       *


    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.

       *       *       *       *       *


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,

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.


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_.

[Footnote 2: Tertull. vel. de virg.]

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

[Footnote 4: Plin. Ep. ad. Traj.]

[Footnote 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:--

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.


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

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

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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."

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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,

       *       *       *       *       *

"'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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

"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

       *       *       *       *       *

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.



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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

"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

       *       *       *       *       *

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.


    _Care of "Godey's Lady's Book," Phila._

       *       *       *       *       *


"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

"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

"Mrs. R. P."--Yes; we can furnish patterns of any of the fashions we

"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

"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

"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.


"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.


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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.



    4. Memory.
    5. Kensington.
    6. Eye--I.
    7. The parts of speech.
    8. Earthquake.

       *       *       *       *       *



    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.


    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.


    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.


"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.

[Footnote 6: Lucus a non lucendo.]

Receipts, &c.

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.

       *       *       *       *       *



[_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

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

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.

       *       *       *       *       *


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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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.


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."

       *       *       *       *       *


"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."

       *       *       *       *       *


"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

"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.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *



(_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

       *       *       *       *       *


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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.


       *       *       *       *       *

    |                                                                |
    |                      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        |
    |    '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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