NOTE

The Table Of Contents has been harvested from the January edition of Godey's Magazine VOL. XLVIII.

A cover page has been created using images from this Month's Godey's Magazine; and '"Olde English", sans-serif;' font has been used for this periodical.

GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

VOL. XLVIII.

May.

• The Gleaner.
• Godey's Colored Spring Fashions.
• Embroidered Dress Undersleeve.
• Preparing for Church.
• MUSIC.—Let us be Friends. Words by David Bates, Esq. Music by P. K.
• MANTILLAS.—Evangeline and Antoinette; Lace Mantilla and Tablet Mantilla; Marquise and Navailles Shawl-Mantelet; The Albuera.
• Spring Fashions.
• Design for a Letter-Band.
• Painting on Velvet.
• Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing.
• New Revelations of an Old Country.
• Farm House.
• Ladies' Dresses and Diagrams.
• Cottage Furniture.
• Back of a Watch-Pocket.
• Dice Pattern for Slippers.
• Patterns for Embroidery.
• Embroidery with Cord.
• Spring Bonnets.
• Night Dresses.
• The Broken Bust.

EVANGELINE. ANTOINETTE.

The latest French fashions. From the establishment of Messrs. T. W. Evans & Co., Philadelphia.

A pattern of either of the above will be sent on receipt of 62½ cents. Post-office stamps received in payment. These patterns are exact counterparts of the original, with trimmings, etc. (Description on page [457].)

LET US BE FRIENDS.

WORDS BY DAVID BATES, ESQ.

Music Composed and Dedicated to his Friends, by P. R.

Published by T. C. ANDREWS, 66 Spring Garden St., Phila.

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1853, by T. C. ANDREWS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

1

Let us be friends, though far and near

The outward world contends;

With noble souls, and true hearts here,

Dear friends, let us be friends.

Let us be friends when fortune smiles,

And blesses all our ends;

She often cheats us with her wiles;

Dear friends, let us be friends.

2

Let us be friends; that heart is best

That freely treasure spends,

To cheer the drooping and oppressed;

Dear friends, let us be friends.

Let us be friends when, lifting high,

The threatening wave impends;

T'will harmless break or pass us by,

Dear friends, if we are friends.

3

Let us be friends, for life is brief,

And friendship makes amends

For days of toil and nights of grief:

Dear friends, let us be friends.

Let us be friends, for one by one

The grave its summons sends;

When we must tread life's path alone,

Dear friends, let us part friends.

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]] [[PDF]]

LACE MANTILLA. TABLET MANTILLA.

SPRING FASHIONS.—Designed, by Mrs. Suplee, expressly for Godey's Lady's Book.

A pattern of either of the above will be sent on receipt of 62½ cents. Post-office stamps received in payment. These patterns are exact counterparts of the original, with trimmings, etc. (Description on page [457].)

MARQUISE. NAVAILLES SHAWL-MANTELET.

PARISIAN FASHIONS RECEIVED BY THE LATEST ARRIVALS.

A pattern of either of the above will be sent on receipt of 62½ cents. Post-office stamps received in payment. These patterns are exact counterparts of the original, with trimmings, etc. (Description on page [457].)

(Description on page [458].)

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

(For description, see page [458].)]

PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1854.

EVERYDAY ACTUALITIES.—NO. XIX.

ILLUSTRATED WITH PEN AND GRAVER.

PAINTING ON VELVET.

NUMEROUS inquiries have been addressed to us for some instructions in the elegant art of painting on velvet, and we have at length prepared an article on the subject, which, we think, will satisfy our readers. Papers on ornamental work are exceedingly useful, when, by the aid of practical experience, they convey simple and precise directions which can easily be learned.

Formula 1.

Among the various accomplishments of the present day, no fancy work is perhaps more elegant, produces a better effect, and is, at the same time, more easily and quickly performed, than painting on velvet. Possessing all the beauty of color of a piece of wool-work, it is in every way superior, as the tints used in this style of painting do not fade; and an article, which it would take a month, at least, to manufacture with the needle, may be completed, in four or six hours, on white velvet, with the softest and most finished effect imaginable. Another recommendation greatly in favor of this sort of work is, that it does not require the knowledge of drawing on the part of the pupil, being done with formulas, somewhat in the manner of the old Poonah paintings, except that in this case the colors are moist. If these formulas be kept steady, a failure is next to impossible.

Formula 2.

The first thing necessary to be done, after obtaining the colors and the velvet (which should be cotton, or more properly velveteen, as most common cotton velvets are not sufficiently thick, and silk velvet, besides the expense, is not found to answer), is to prepare the formula for the group intended to be painted. Get a piece of tracing or silver paper the size of the cushion, mat, or screen you wish to paint, then lay it carefully upon the group you wish to copy, and trace through. Should the paper slip, the formula will be incorrect; it will therefore be well to use weights to keep all flat. Having traced your flowers, remove the thin paper, and laying it on a piece of cartridge paper the same size, go over the pencil marks by pricking them out with a fine needle, inserted in a cedar stick. Now that you have your whole pattern pricked out clearly upon a stiff paper, take eight or nine more pieces of cartridge paper, of the same size as the first, and laying them one by one, in turn, under the pricked pattern, shake a little powdered indigo over, and then rub with a roll of list or any soft material. The indigo, falling through the punctures, will leave the pattern in blue spots on the sheets of paper beneath; then proceed in like manner with the remaining formulas until you have the selfsame pattern, neatly traced, in blue dots on them all. Next, with a sharp pen-knife, you must cut out the leaves, petals, and calices of the group, taking care to cut only a few on each formula, and those not too near together, lest there should not be sufficient room to rub between the spaces, and that, for instance, the green tint intended for the leaf should intrude on the azure or crimson of the nearest convolvulus; for it must be kept in mind that in this sort of work erasure is impossible.

The foregoing diagrams will show how the formulas should be cut, so as to leave proper spaces, as above mentioned. The shading denotes the parts cut out.

Some leaves may be cut out in two halves, as the large ones in the pattern; others all in one, as the small leaf: but it is chiefly a matter of taste. The large leaves should, however, generally be divided. In each formula there should be two guides—one on the top of the left-hand side, the other at the bottom of the right-hand corner—to enable the formulas always to be placed on the same spot in the velvet. For instance, as in Formula 2, A and B are the two guides, and are parts cut out, in Formula 2, of leaves, the whole of which were cut out in No. 1; and therefore, after No. 1 is painted, and No. 2 applied, the ends of the painted leaves will show through, if No. 2 be put on straight; if, when once right, the formula is kept down with weights at the corners, it cannot fail to match at all points. Care should, however, be taken never to put paint on the guides, as it would necessarily leave an abrupt line in the centre of the leaf. While cutting out the formulas, it is a good plan to mark with a cross or dot those leaves which you have already cut out on the formulas preceding, so that there will be no confusion. When your formulas are all cut, wash them over with a preparation made in this manner: Put into a wide-mouthed bottle some resin and shellac—about two ounces of each are sufficient; on this pour enough spirits of wine or naphtha to cover it, and let it stand to dissolve, shaking it every now and then. If it is not quite dissolved as you wish it, add rather more spirits of wine; then wash the formulas all over on both sides with the preparation, and let them dry. Now taking Formula No. 1, lay it on the white velvet, and place weights on each corner to keep it steady; now pour into a little saucer a small quantity of the color called Saxon green, shaking the bottle first, as there is apt to be a sediment; then take the smallest quantity possible on your brush (for, if too much be taken, it runs, and flattens the pile of the velvet; the brush should have thick, short bristles, not camel-hair, and there ought to be a separate brush for each tint: they are sold with the colors). Now begin on the darkest part of the leaf, and work lightly round and round in a circular motion, taking care to hold the brush upright, and to work more, as it were, on the formula than on the velvet; should you find the velvet getting crushed down and rough, from having the brush too damp, continue to work lightly till it is drier, then brush the pile the right way of it, and it will be as smooth as before. Do all the green in each formula in the same manner, unless there be any blue-greens, when they should be grounded instead, with the tint called grass-green.

Next, if any of the leaves are to be tinted red, brown, or yellow, as Autumn leaves, add the color over the Saxon green, before you shade with full green, which will be the next thing to be done; blue-green leaves to be shaded also with full green. Now, while the green is yet damp, with a small camel-hair pencil vein the leaves with ultramarine. The tendrils and stalks are also to be done with the small brush. You can now begin the flowers: take, for instance, the convolvulus in the pattern. It should be grounded with azure, and shaded with ultramarine (which color, wherever used, should always be mixed with water, and rubbed on a palette with a knife); the stripes in it are rose-color, and should be tinted from the rose saucer. White roses and camellias, lilies, &c., are only lightly shaded with white shading; and if surrounded by dark flowers and leaves so as to stand out well, will have a very good effect.

Flowers can easily be taken from nature in the following manner: A A, D D, is a frame of deal, made light, and about two feet long, and eight or ten inches in width. The part D D is made to slide in a groove in A A, so that the frame may be lengthened or shortened at pleasure. A vertical frame, C, is fixed to the part D, and two grooved upright pieces, B B, fixed to the other part. These uprights should be about nine inches high, and C half that height. There is also a piece of wood at the end A of the frame, marked D, with a small hole for the eye, and there is a hole in the top C opposite to it. S is a piece of glass, sliding in the grooves in B B. In the hole H is placed the flower or flowers to be copied. If a group is wished, more holes should be made, and the flowers carefully arranged. The eye being directed to this through the hole in E, it can be sketched on the glass by means of a pencil of lithographic chalk. It is afterwards copied through by slipping the glass out, laying it on a table, and placing over it a piece of tracing-paper. When traced on the paper, proceed as before to make the formulas.

Of course, so delicate a thing as white velvet will be found at length to soil. When this is the case, it can be dyed without in any way injuring the painting. Dye in this manner: Get an old slate-frame, or make a wire frame; add to it a handle, thus; then tie over it a network of pack-thread; next, cut a piece of cardboard the exact size of your group, so as completely to cover it, the edges of the cardboard being cut into all the ins and outs of the outer line of the group; then placing it carefully over the painting, so as to fit exactly, lay a weight on it to keep it in place. Then dip a large brush into the dye, hold the frame over the velvet (which should be stretched out flat—to nail the corners to a drawing-board is best), and by brushing across the network, a rain of dye will fall on the velvet beneath. Do not let the frame touch the velvet; it should be held some little way up. Then just brush the velvet itself with the brush of dye, to make all smooth, and leave the velvet nailed to the board till it is dry. Groups, whether freshly done, or dyed, are greatly improved, when perfectly dry, by being brushed all over with a clean and rather soft hat-brush, as it renders any little roughness, caused by putting on the paint too wet, completely smooth and even as before. Music-stools, the front of pianos, ottomans, banner-screens, pole-screens, and borders for table-cloths, look very handsome when done in this manner.

INTERESTING DISCOVERY AT JERUSALEM.

THE following, from a letter dated Jerusalem, May 16, 1853, has been sent by Mr. James Cook Richmond, for publication. "I was spending a couple of days in Artas, the hortus clusus of the monks, and probably the 'garden inclosed' of the Canticles, when I was told there was a kind of tunnel under the Pool of Solomon. I went and found one of the most interesting things that I have seen in my travels, and of which no one in Jerusalem appears to have heard. I mentioned it to the British Consul, and to the Rev. Mr. Nicolayson, who has been here more than twenty years, and they have never heard of it. At the centre of the eastern side of the lowest of the three pools, there is an entrance nearly closed up; then follows a vaulted passage some 50 feet long, leading to a chamber about 15 feet square and 8 feet high, also vaulted; and from this there is a passage, also arched, under the pool, and intended to convey the water of a spring, or of the pool itself, into the aqueduct which leads to Jerusalem, and is now commonly attributed to Pontius Pilate. This arched passage is six feet high, and three or four feet wide. Each of the two other pools has a similar arched way, which has not been blocked up, and one of which I saw by descending first into the rectangular well. The great point of interest in this discovery is this: It has now been thought for some years that the opinion of the invention of the arch by the Romans has been too hastily adopted. The usual period assigned to the arch is about B. C. 600. We thought we discovered a contradiction of this idea in Egypt, but the present case is far more satisfactory. The whole of the long passage of 50 feet, the chamber 15 feet square, the two doors, and the passage under the pools in each case, are true 'Roman' arches, with a perfect keystone. Now, as it has never been seriously doubted that Solomon built the pools ascribed to him, and to which he probably refers in Ecclesiastes ii. 6, the arch must of course have been well known about or before the time of the building of the first temple, B. C. 1012. The 'sealed fountain,' which is near, has the same arch in several places; but this might have been Roman. But here the arched ways pass probably the whole distance under the pools, and are therefore at least coeval with them, or were rather built before them, in order to convey the water down the valley. What I saw convinced me that the perfect keystone Roman arch was in familiar use in the time of Solomon, or 1,000 years before the Christian era."

A BLOOMER AMONG US.

BY PAULINE FORSYTH.

"There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle,

But etiquette forbade them all to giggle."—BYRON.

"The outward forms the inner man reveal."—HOLMES.

THROUGHOUT all the Union, there is no region more full of an abounding life and activity than western New York. Its people, inheriting from their New England ancestors their unresting energy in all practical affairs, and their habits of keen and close investigation in everything connected with their social or moral development, seem, in a great measure, to have laid aside the conservatism, the wary circumspection that the descendant of the Puritans has still retained. Enjoying the gifts of nature bestowed with a more bounteous hand and a freer mode of life, they have thrown off many of the shackles or restraints with which the worldly prudence of the New Englander hampers him in action, however loose he may suffer the reins to lie on his mind or fancy; but, whatever result his reason or benevolence works out, a genuine New Yorker would exemplify in his conduct, with a high disdain for all who suffered the baser motives of prudence or fear of censure to withhold them from the same course.

The people of that section of the country are so accustomed to see the singular theories, that are only talked about in other places, carried out into action by their zealous promulgators or defenders, that the eccentricities that, in most country villages, would throw all the people into a high state of astonishment, and supply them with a topic of conversation for months, there only causes a gentle ripple over the surface of society; or, to give a truer illustration, the waves there are always rolling so fast and high, that one wave more or less makes but little impression.

But when, from this unquiet ocean, a Bloomer was left stranded on the still shores of our quiet little town of Westbridge, our dismay and agitation can be but faintly described. Socially speaking, propriety is our divinity; Mrs. Grundy, our avenging deity. We frown on short sleeves; but when those short skirts were seen waving in our streets, when they even floated up the broad aisle on the Sabbath, it would be hard to say whether indignation or horror were the predominant feeling.

But, to begin at the beginning, as is in all cases most proper and satisfactory, Jane Atwood announced at our Sewing Society, and Mrs. Atwood mentioned, in the course of a round of calls, that they were expecting Miss Janet McLeod, a niece of the late Mr. Atwood, to pass the winter with them. We all knew Mr. McLeod by reputation, for Mrs. Atwood was very proud of her relationship to him, and references to her brother-in-law were frequently and complacently made. We had seen him, too, when now and then he had passed a day with the Atwoods—he never found time to stay in Westbridge more than a day—and were astonished to find that the rich Mr. McLeod, who had been for some time a sort of a myth among us, a Westbridge Mrs. Harris, was a plain, homespun-looking man, with a comely sun-browned face, white hair, and the kindest and most trusting brown eyes in the world. His manners were hearty and genial, but their simplicity prevented him from making a great impression on us; we like more courtliness and a little more formality. His benevolence and uprightness, together with his immense wealth, procured for him among us that degree of consideration which such things always do procure among the numerous class who take the world as they find it, and we dismissed him with the remark that, though plain and unpolished in his manners, he possessed sterling goodness and sound sense.

This last quality might not have been allowed him, if Mrs. Atwood had not been careful in concealing, as far as possible, the peculiar revelations he made in each visit of his reigning enthusiasm.

"That Mr. McLeod is a very strange man," said Mrs. Atwood's nurse to a former employer of hers. "Do you know, ma'am, he spent all yesterday pulverizing Miss Jane! Miss Jane went sound asleep, and I thought in my heart she would never wake up no more."

It was found out afterwards that Jane Atwood had been undergoing some experiments in mesmerism, which, although Mr. McLeod declared them triumphantly successful, Mrs. Atwood was rather inclined to conceal than converse about. This was on Mr. McLeod's first visit. On his second, he found Mrs. Atwood suffering from an attack of rheumatism. He pulled out of a capacious pocket-book two galvanic rings, which he insisted on her wearing; and, for fear that they might not effect so speedy a cure as he wished, he hastened to the city and returned with a galvanic battery, by means of which he gave his sister-in-law such severe shocks that she assured us often "that her nervous system was entirely shattered by them." But, as I have known many ladies live and get a fair proportion of enjoyment out of this life with their nervous systems in the same dilapidated state, I have come to consider it a very harmless complaint.

At another time, Mr. McLeod had wonderful stories to tell of spiritual manifestations, and on his last visit he had been overflowing with indignation against society on the score of woman's rights and wrongs.

Yet, notwithstanding these peculiarities, Mrs. Atwood loved and esteemed Mr. McLeod with a sincerity that redeemed her otherwise worldly and timid character. Her husband had been left dependent on his half brother, and owed to him his education and his establishment in the world; and, when a fortune was left by some relation of their mother to be equally divided between them, Mr. McLeod refused to take any portion of it, saying that he had more than enough. These, with many other instances of his generosity and affection which Mrs. Atwood had received since her widowhood, made her forget his eccentricities, and listen with forbearance to his impetuous outbursts of zeal or indignation.

There was another person in Westbridge who shared Mrs. Atwood's affectionate gratitude to Mr. McLeod, and from similar causes; and this was Professor Mainwaring. He was the professor of ancient languages in the college at Westbridge, and the society of the place, as well as the members of the college, thought it a high honor to be able to number such a man as one of themselves. He combined, in a manner that is seldom seen, the high-bred gentleman with the accomplished scholar and the strict and severe theologian, for he was a clergyman as well as a professor; and when to this it is added that he was still unmarried, it will hardly be wondered at if he were an object of general attention, carefully restrained though within its proper limits.

He also had been indebted in early life to Mr. McLeod; for, although brought up in the habits, and with the expectation of being a rich man, he found himself in the second year of his college life left, by the sudden death of his father, Judge Mainwaring, entirely destitute. With no friends who were able or willing to assist him, George Mainwaring was about to give up reluctantly all hopes of completing the studies in which he had so far been eminently successful, and had already begun to look about for some means of obtaining a present support, when Mr. McLeod heard of his position, and, with the prompt and delicate generosity peculiar to him, came forward with offers of assistance. He claimed a right, as an old friend of George Mainwaring's father, to interest himself in the young student's welfare; and, with some hesitation, such as every independent mind naturally feels, Mr. Mainwaring accepted the offered aid.

The pecuniary obligation had long since been repaid, but the feeling of gratitude to the one who had enabled him to pursue the career best fitted to the bent of his mind remained in full force; and, from the influence of this feeling, he had been induced to make an offer to Mr. McLeod, which was the immediate occasion of Miss McLeod's visit to Westbridge.

Mr. McLeod had been for some years devoting himself spasmodically to the study of Revelations. He fancied that he had discovered the clue to the meaning of many of the most mysterious parts of this book; but, unfortunately, there were many little discrepancies between his ideas and those apparently conveyed by the words of this part of Holy Writ. These he attributed to a faulty translation, and had himself begun one that was to be free from such blemishes; but, finding that his knowledge of the language was insufficient, or that his patience was soon exhausted, he determined that his daughter Janet should qualify herself to perform this office for him.

She would have undertaken to learn Chinese, if her father had expressed a wish to that effect, and therefore made no opposition to studying Greek, nor to passing the winter in Westbridge with her aunt, that she might avail herself of the proposal Mr. Mainwaring had made to her father, that he should be her instructor. Miss McLeod had never been in Westbridge, and Mr. Mainwaring had never happened to meet her. He knew that she was a young lady of eighteen, and that, since her mother's death, some three years before, she had devoted herself entirely to making her father's home as comfortable and happy as possible. Her filial affection had prepossessed him very much in her favor, and he looked forward to aiding her in her studies with an unusual degree of pleasure. Jane Atwood, too, was delighted at the prospect of renewing an acquaintance that had languished since her childhood.

Mr. McLeod was prevented, by some of his numerous engagements, from accompanying his daughter to Westbridge, as he had intended; and, placing her under the care of an acquaintance who was on his way to the city of New York, he telegraphed to Professor Mainwaring a request that he would meet Miss McLeod at the Westbridge depot.

The cars arrived about twilight, and, punctually at the appointed time, Mr. Mainwaring and Miss Atwood stood on the platform waiting for the stopping of the train. The young lady looked in vain among the group that sprang hurriedly out of the cars to find one that she could recognize as her cousin. Mr. Mainwaring scrutinized the crowd with a like purpose, but as fruitlessly. Their attention was arrested at the same moment by the same object—the singular attire of a person leaning on the arm of an old gentleman, who was looking around him evidently greatly hurried and perplexed. Mr. Mainwaring gave but one glance, and then looked away, apparently considering the individual hardly a proper subject of curiosity; but Jane Atwood, less scrupulous, stood gazing so absorbed in what she saw that she entirely forgot her cousin.

The person who thus attracted her notice was a small and youthful woman, dressed in a sort of sack or paletot of black cloth, belted around her waist and falling a little below the knee, and loose trowsers of the same material gathered into a band around the ankle, leaving exposed a small foot encased in thick-soled, but neatly-fitting gaiter boots. A linen collar tied around the throat with a broad black ribbon, and a straw bonnet and veil, completed the attire.

"That must be a Bloomer, Mr. Mainwaring," said Jane Atwood; "do just look at her. I am very glad she happened to come in this train. I have always wanted to see one."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Mainwaring, in a tone that expressed more surprise than approval. "Do you see your cousin anywhere, Miss Atwood?" asked he, after a moment's pause.

She replied in the negative.

"Allow me to leave you a moment, and I will make some inquiries." And, after attending Miss Atwood to the ladies' saloon, the professor hurried off to inquire after his charge.

Hardly had he gone before the old gentleman and the Bloomer entered.

"Excuse me, ma'am," said the gentleman, addressing Miss Atwood; "but I am afraid to wait here any longer, for fear the cars will leave me, and I promised Mr. McLeod I would see his daughter safely to her friends. Do you know whether Professor Mainwaring is here to meet her?"

"Yes, he is," said Miss Atwood, with a sudden misgiving. "Is—is—is this—person—lady—Miss McLeod?" Miss Atwood could hardly finish the question.

The Bloomer threw back her veil, and said, somewhat timidly—

"Is this Miss Atwood—Cousin Jane?"

Miss Atwood bowed, and the old gentleman, saying, "I am glad you have found your friends," hurried off.

There were a few moments of embarrassed silence, when Professor Mainwaring reappeared.

"Miss McLeod cannot be in this train," said he. "Shall we wait here for the next? It will be down in an hour."

"This is Miss McLeod, Professor Mainwaring," said Miss Atwood, hardly conscious of the ungracious manner in which she effected the introduction.

Mr. Mainwaring bowed with his usual ceremonious politeness; but he said not a word, and his lips closed with a firmer compression than usual. He was too indignant and astonished to speak. He wondered if his old benefactor had quite lost his senses that he should permit his young daughter to go about dressed in that outrageous costume. And he did not see with what propriety he, the guide and controller of more than a hundred young men, who required all the power of his example and authority to keep them in proper order, could be asked to teach, or in any way have his name connected with that of a Bloomer. He was more than half inclined to walk away; but, restraining himself, he observed that the carriage was waiting, and had instinctively half turned to Miss McLeod to offer her his arm, but, catching another glimpse of the costume, in itself a sort of a declaration of independence, and remembering having seen a number of students lingering around the depot, he bowed hastily and led the way to the carriage.

Miss McLeod's manner had all the time been very composed and quiet. She could not help observing that her greeting was not a very warm one; but this was her first absence from home, and her thoughts were so full of those she had left behind that she was not fully conscious of all that was passing around her. She seated herself in the carriage, and, after answering the few formal questions addressed to her by her companions, she sank with them into a silence that remained unbroken until they reached Mrs. Atwood's door.

Declining Miss Atwood's invitation to walk in, Professor Mainwaring bade them good-evening, murmuring something hastily about seeing Miss McLeod again soon, and walked off, glad to be released even for a moment from his distasteful duty of attendance.

Miss Atwood ushered her companion into the drawing-room, and then went to seek her mother. She found her in the kitchen giving directions to a new cook about the preparations for tea. She beckoned her into the dining-room.

"She's come, mother," said Jane, with wide-open eyes.

"Yes, dear, I know it. Go and stay with her; I will come in in a minute."

"She's a Bloomer!" continued Jane, unheeding the maternal bidding.

"You don't say so, Jane! What! little Janet a Bloomer! Oh, Jane!" And Mrs. Atwood sank down on the nearest seat. This was worse than the galvanic battery. Her nervous system gave way entirely, and she burst into a flood of tears. "I cannot go in to see her," said Mrs. Atwood. "I don't think I can have her here in my house with my children."

"Oh yes, mother, we must," said Jane; "remember how kind uncle McLeod has always been to us. Don't be so distressed about it. Perhaps we can induce her to change her style of dress."

While Jane was endeavoring to soothe her mother, Janet McLeod had been trying to overcome the shyness of two little children whom she had found in the drawing-room. She was telling them about a pony and a dog she had at home, when the boy raised his head and asked, with the straightforwardness of a child—

"Who are you?"

"I know," said the little girl, shaking her head with a very wise look.

"Do you? Who am I?" asked Janet, amused by her earnest manner.

"I don't like to tell oo; but I'll tell Tarley, if he'll bend down his head."

Charley bent his head, and the child said, in a loud whisper—

"That's the little ooman that went to market to sell her eggs; don't oo see?"

"Are you?" asked Charley.

"No; I am your cousin Janet."

"Oh, I always thought Janet was a girl's name. I am glad you are a boy. I like boys a great deal the best."

Here Charley was interrupted by his mother's entrance. Mrs. Atwood had composed herself, and had come to the conclusion that she might as well make the best of it. She greeted Janet in a manner rather constrained and embarrassed, and yet not cold enough to be wounding; and this she thought was doing wonders.

The next day was Sunday, and Mrs. Atwood saw, with dismay, Janet preparing to go to church in the same attire.

"Have you no long dresses that you could wear to-day, my dear?" she asked. "We are so unaccustomed here to see anything of that kind, that I am afraid it will attract more attention than you would like."

"No," replied Janet, with a composure that was not a little irritating to Mrs. Atwood, "I did not bring any with me. I promised father that I would wear this dress at least a year."

Jane Atwood had a convenient headache, which prevented her from accompanying the rest of the family to church, and Mrs. Atwood had to bear the whole brunt of the popular amazement and curiosity, as, followed by a Bloomer, she made her entrance among the assembled congregation. The walk up the aisle was accomplished with a flurried haste, very unlike the usual grave decorum on which Mrs. Atwood piqued herself, and, slipping into her pew, she sat for some minutes without venturing to raise her eyes.

Miss McLeod did not share her aunt's perturbation. She appeared, in fact, hardly conscious of being an object of general remark, but addressed herself to the duties of the sanctuary with a countenance as calm and tranquil as a summer's day. A very sweet and rural face she had, as unlike her startling style of dress as anything could well be. Having always lived in the country, surrounded by an unsophisticated kind of people who had known her from her infancy, and loved her for her father's sake as well as her own, and who, reverencing Mr. McLeod for his noble and kindly traits of character, looked upon his many crotchets as the outbursts of a generous, if an undisciplined nature, Janet had never learned to fear the criticism or the ridicule of the unsympathetic world.

Like most persons brought up in the sheltered seclusion of the country, far away from the bustle and turmoil of the city, where every faculty is kept in activity by the constant demand upon its attention, her mind was slow in its operations, and her perceptions were not very quick. At ease in herself, because convinced by her father's advice and persuasions that she was in the path of duty, she hardly observed the astonishment and remark of which she was the object. What Bulwer Lytton calls "the broad glare of the American eye" fell upon her as ineffectually as sunshine on a rock.

With a disposition naturally dependent, and inclined to believe rather than to doubt and examine for herself, she had grown up with such a deep reverence for her father, and with such an entire belief in him, that the idea of questioning the propriety or soundness of his opinions never entered her mind. It was hard labor for one so practical and unimaginative as Janet to follow up the vagaries of a man like Mr. McLeod, and it was one of the strongest proofs of her great affection for him, that she had laid aside her own correct judgment and good sense to do so.

That same evening Mrs. Atwood had a long conversation with Miss McLeod about her dress. It was a disagreeable task to one of Mrs. Atwood's timid disposition to find fault with any person; but she thought it a duty she owed to her motherless niece, at least, to expostulate with her about so great a singularity.

"Will you tell me, my dear," she said, "how you came to adopt that costume?"

"It was my father's wish," Janet replied. "He was convinced that it was a much more sensible and useful mode of dress than the usual fashion of long trailing skirts, and he was very anxious that it should be generally adopted; but he said it never would be unless it were worn habitually by ladies occupying a certain station in society. He thought that, as we had so many advantages, we ought to be willing to make some sacrifices for the general good. I did not much like the idea at first, but I found that father was right when he said that I should soon become accustomed to the singularity of the thing; and indeed it is hardly considered singular in Danvers now. Several of the ladies there have adopted the same style of dress. We find it a great deal more convenient."

Mrs. Atwood could not assent; she could not see a single redeeming quality in the odious costume.

"Would you object, Janet, to laying it aside while you remain in Westbridge? I am sure that you will effect no good by wearing it, and I am afraid you will be rendered painfully conspicuous by it. Young ladies should never do anything to make themselves an object of remark."

This aphorism, which was the guiding principle of every lady trained in Westbridge, was a new idea to Janet. She pondered upon it for a while, and then replied—

"It seems to me, at least so my father always tells me, that the only thing necessary to be considered is, whether we are doing right or not; and if this dress is to do as much good as father thinks it will, it must be my duty to wear it. I promised father I would wear it for a year at least."

"If your father will consent, will you not be willing to dress like the rest of us while you remain here? It would be a great favor to me if you would."

"Certainly, dear aunt, I will. But it seems strange to me that you should be so annoyed by what father is so much delighted with."

Mrs. Atwood wrote what she considered quite a strong appeal to Mr. McLeod, entreating him to allow his daughter to resume her former attire. But in reply, Mr. McLeod wrote that Janet was now occupying the position in which he had always wished a child of his to be placed. She was in the front rank of reformers; giving an example to the people in Westbridge, whom he had always considered shamefully behind the age, which he hoped would awaken in them some desire for progress and improvement. He was proud of her and of her position. He would not for the world have her falter now, when, for the first time, she had had any conflict to endure.

Janet read the letter, and, with a blush for her weakness in yielding to her aunt's suggestions, she resolved to allow no pusillanimous fear of censure to degrade her father's daughter from the high station in which he had placed her. Mrs. Atwood was indignant at Mr. McLeod's answer.

"I never read anything with so little common sense or common feeling in it. I am sure he would not be willing to subject himself to all the annoyances to which he is exposing his poor young daughter, persuading her that she is in the path of duty, and that she ought to make a sacrifice of herself. I have no patience with him," and Mrs. Atwood, in her vexation, came very near giving Charley a superfluous whipping.

Meantime, the people in Westbridge were debating as to the expediency of calling on the new arrival. They were in great perplexity about it. As Mrs. Atwood's niece, Miss McLeod ought certainly to be visited; but as a Bloomer she ought to be frowned upon and discountenanced. The general opinion was decidedly against showing her any attention. One lady did call, but repented it afterwards, and atoned for her imprudent sociability by declining to recognize Miss McLeod when she met her in the street. There were very few invitations sent to Mrs. Atwood's during the winter, and those that came were very pointedly addressed to Mrs. and Miss Atwood. These they at first declined, with much inward reluctance on Jane's part; but Janet perceiving this, and divining that politeness to her was the cause of the refusals, insisted on being no restraint on her cousin's pleasure. She was willing to endure mortifications herself for what she considered her duty, but it would be a needless addition to her trials, she said, if those who did not approve of her course had to suffer for it.

It seems a pity that there should be such a superfluity of the martyr spirit in womankind, or that there were not something of more vital importance to wreak it upon than the rights and wrongs that are just now causing such an effervescence among them.

Meantime, Mr. Mainwaring had decided that, come in what shape she might, Mr. McLeod's daughter ought to receive from him all the attention that gratitude for her father's services might demand. Every morning he devoted an hour to giving her a lesson in Greek, and though for some time he continued to look upon her with suspicion and distrust as a femme forte, yet his urbane and polished manners prevented Janet from perceiving anything that might wound or offend her. She felt that the gentle cordiality with which she was at first inclined to receive him, as one whom her father loved and esteemed, met with no response, but she attributed it to his natural reserve. The first thing that lessened the cold disapproval with which Mr. Mainwaring regarded Janet was the discovery that study was to her a painful labor, and that she was not very fond of reading. There is a popular fallacy that a high cultivation of the intellect implies a corresponding deficiency in the affections, and profoundly sensible as Mr. Mainwaring was, he was, like most men, a firm believer in this erroneous opinion; and therefore he welcomed all Janet's mistakes as pledges that, though her judgment might be wrong, her heart was right.

And there was a yielding docility about her that was exceedingly pleasing to one accustomed, as Mr. Mainwaring was, to have his opinion regarded as law by most of those with whom he was thrown. It was not a mere inert softness either, but the pliability of a substance so finely tempered and wrought that it could be moulded by a master hand into any form without losing its native and inherent firmness and goodness. He began at last to understand her, and to perceive that she had one of those delicate and conscientious natures that, when once convinced of a duty, seize upon it with a grasp of iron, and would suffer to the death for it. With his admiration for Janet, his interest in her increased, and he became truly distressed to see her throwing away, as it seemed, her usefulness and her happiness in endeavoring to uphold a fantastic fashion.

The life of seclusion and study to which the resolute neglect of the people of Westbridge had condemned Janet was so unlike anything to which she had been accustomed, that, strong in constitution as she was, with all the vigor that a free country life gives, her health began at last to fail. The spring breezes sought in vain for the loses that the autumn winds had left upon her cheeks.

"It seems to me that you are looking rather pale, Miss McLeod," said Mr. Mainwaring, one day.

It was the first time that he had ever spoken to her on any subject unconnected with the lessons, and Miss McLeod colored slightly as she answered—

"I am quite well, I believe."

"I am afraid you do not exercise enough. I see Miss Atwood walking every pleasant afternoon. If you would join her sometimes, you might find a benefit from it."

Again Janet blushed as she answered, with a frank smile—

"Cousin Jane is very kind; but I believe she would do anything for me sooner than walk with me. At any rate, I would not like to place her in a position that would be so painful to her. And I do not like to walk by myself here."

Miss McLeod did not acknowledge, what Mr. Mainwaring had perceived, that a growing shyness had been coming over her since her residence in Westbridge, leading her to keep out of sight as much as possible. A very faint-hearted reformer was poor little Janet, and I am afraid that her co-workers would have disdained to acknowledge her.

"You have not made many acquaintances in Westbridge, I think, Miss McLeod?"

"No, none besides aunt Atwood's family and yourself."

"I am sorry for that, for there are many very agreeable and intelligent people here. Few country villages can boast of as good society. I do not see you often at church lately, I think."

"No, I do not go so regularly as I ought," said Janet, sadly.

"How would you like a class in the Sunday School? It might be an object of interest, and visiting your scholars would be a motive to take you out occasionally. The clergyman mentioned lately that they were very much in want of teachers."

The tears came in Janet's eyes. It seemed to her that Mr. Mainwaring must be trying to wound her, or that he was one of the most unobservant of men, that, with so little tact, he was reminding her of all the social duties and kindnesses from which she was debarred.

"I offered my services the other day, but they were declined," said she.

"On account of your mode of dress, I presume," said he.

Janet bowed.

"If my obligations to your father had not been so great that they can never be repaid, I might feel that I was taking too great a liberty, if I should venture to express any disapproval of anything that you might think proper to do. But I will run the risk of displeasing you, and ask you whether you think it worth while, even supposing one mode of dress to possess far more real superiority over the prevailing fashion than the one does which you have adopted, to sacrifice not only your social enjoyments, but your usefulness, for the purpose of making an ineffectual attempt to change a fashion under which so many people have lived in health and comfort, that it will be difficult to persuade them that it is injurious?"

"At home, my style of dress was not thought so wrong," said Janet. "There are not many places, I think, where I should not have met with more liberality and charity than in Westbridge."

"All over the world, Miss Janet"—and, for the first time, the professor called Miss McLeod by her Christian name—"dress is considered as an exponent of character. When a person is thrown among strangers, they are judged almost as much by that as by their countenance. And when they adopt a style of dress, the mark of a particular clique, they are considered as indorsing all the opinions belonging to it. Now, the ideas of the Bloomerites are many of them so flighty, and have so little reason or common sense in them, that I am sure you are not acquainted with them, or you would not so openly rank yourself with their party."

Poor Janet had heard her father talk for hours about the absurdity of the usual mode of dress, and the advantages of the Bloomer costume; but now, in her time of need, she could not recall a single one of his arguments. Not that she was entirely overpowered by the professor's reasons, but, partly from her own observation of his character, and partly from general report, she had imbibed so high an opinion of Mr. Mainwaring's judgment and understanding, that she felt unequal to opposing him. There was a soundness in his opinions, with a firmness and strength in his whole nature, to which she yielded an unconscious deference.

This was by no means the only conversation Mr. Mainwaring and Janet had on the subject of her unfortunate dress. Slowly and gradually the young girl began to realize that she might have been wasting the whole energies of her earnest nature in a Quixotic contest with what was in itself harmless. At any rate, she became convinced that "le jeu ne vaut pas le chandelle," and yet she was unwilling to take any decided step without consulting her father. She was afraid that he would be greatly disappointed in her, when he found her so weak that she shrank from the notice and comments her attire attracted.

Seeing that Miss McLeod was disinclined to make the effort, Mr. Mainwaring wrote himself to Mr. McLeod, who, although he was unable to appreciate the "delicate distresses" which Mrs. Atwood had hinted at, as the consequence of his daughter's singularity, was alarmed and distressed at the idea of her illness. He came immediately to Westbridge, and took Janet home to recruit. But, before he went, Mr. Mainwaring had a long conversation with him, and, either by his cogent arguments, or because some new crotchet had displaced the old one, he obtained his permission that Janet should resume the flowing robes against which he had once declared such unsparing antipathy.

During the next summer, Janet stopped for a few weeks at Mrs. Atwood's, on her way to Saratoga, and we took advantage of the opportunity to call upon her, acting towards her as though this were her first visit to Westbridge, and considering it an act of delicate politeness to ignore the fact that the young lady, whom we saw so simply and tastefully attired, had any connection with the Bloomer who had awakened our horror not long before.

The latest piece of news in Westbridge is the established fact that Mr. Mainwaring is engaged to Miss McLeod. He who has withstood all the charms of the well brought up ladies of our town has been captivated by a Bloomer, and that, too, after having declared, openly and repeatedly, his disapproval and utter distaste for all women who had in any way made themselves conspicuous. But there seems to be naturally a perversity in all matters of this kind. Love evidently delights in bending the inclinations in that very direction against which the professions have been the loudest and most decided.

CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.—MAY.

BY D. W. BELISLE.

COMA BERENICES.—This is a beautiful cluster of small stars, situated about five degrees east of the equinoctial colure, and midway between Cor-Caroli on the north-east, and Denebola on the south-west. The stars that compose this group are small, but very bright, and are in close proximity to each other; therefore the cluster is readily distinguished from all others. There is a number of small nebulæ in this assemblage, which give it a faintly luminous appearance, somewhat resembling the milky-way. The whole number of stars in this cluster is forty-three. It comes to the meridian on the 13th of May.

This constellation is of Egyptian origin. Berenice was married to Evergetes, King of Egypt, and, on his going out to battle against the Assyrians, she vowed to dedicate her hair, which was of extraordinary beauty, to the goddess of beauty, if her lord returned in safety. Evergetes returned victorious, and, agreeably to her oath, her locks were shorn and deposited in the temple of Venus, whence they shortly disappeared, and the king and queen were assured by Conon, the astronomer, that they had been taken from the altar by Jupiter and placed among the stars; and, to convince them of the truth of his assertion, pointed out this cluster, and

"There Berenice's locks first rose so bright,

The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light."

This group being among the unformed stars until that time, and not known as a constellation, the king became satisfied with the declaration of Conon, who, pointing to the group, said, "There, behold the locks of our queen." Berenice was not only reconciled to this petty larceny of Jupiter, but was proud of the partiality of the god. Callimachus, who flourished before the Christian era, thus adverts to it—

"Immortal Conon, blest with skill divine,

Amid the sacred skies beheld me shine;

E'en me, the beauteous hair, that lately shed

Refulgent beams from Berenice's head;

The locks she fondly vowed, with lifted arms,

Imploring all the powers to save from harm

Her dearer lord, when from his bride he flew,

To wreak stern vengeance on the Assyrian crew."

CORVUS.—This small constellation is situated east of the Cup, and may be readily distinguished by four bright stars of the third magnitude, which form a trapezium; the two upper ones being three and a half degrees apart, and the two lower ones six degrees apart. Algorab, the most eastern star of these four, forms the east wing of the Crow, and comes to the meridian on the 13th of May. Beta, in the foot of the Crow, is seven degrees south of Algorab, and is the brighter of the two lower stars; and on the left, six degrees west of Beta, is Epsilon, which marks the neck, while two degrees below it is Al Chiba, a star of the fourth magnitude, which marks the head.

This constellation is of Greek origin, and it is gravely asserted by their ancient historians that this bird was originally of the purest white, but was changed, for tale-bearing, to its present color.

"The raven once in snowy plumes was drest,

White as the whitest dove's unsullied breast,

Fair as the guardian of the capitol,

Soft as the swan, a fair and lovely fowl;

His tongue, his prating tongue, had changed him quite

To sooty blackness from the purest white."

Apollo, becoming jealous of Coronis, sent a crow to watch her movements. The bird discovered her partiality for Ischys, and immediately acquainted the god with it, which so fired his indignation: that

"The color left his look,

The wreath his head, the harp his hand forsook;

His silvered bow and feathered shafts he took,

And lodged an arrow in the tender breast

That had so often to his own been prest."

To reward the crow, he placed it among the constellations. Other Greek mythologists assert that it takes its name from a princess of Phocis, who was transformed into a crow by Minerva to rescue the maid from the pursuit of Neptune. One of the Latin poets reverts to it thus—

"For, as my arms I lifted to the skies,

I saw black feathers from my fingers rise;

I strove to fling my garments on the ground,

My garments turned to plumes and girt me round;

My hands to beat my naked bosom try,

Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I;

Lightly I tripped, nor weary, as before,

Sunk in the sand, but skimmed along the shore,

Till, rising on my wings, I was preferred

To be the chaste Minerva's virgin bird."

VIRGO.—This constellation lies directly south of Coma Berenice, and east of Leo. It occupies considerable space in the heavens, and contains one hundred and ten stars. It comes to the meridian the 23d of this month. Spica Virginis, which marks the left hand of the Virgin, is a star of the first magnitude, and is of great brilliancy, and, with Denebola in Leo, and Arcturus in Boötes, forms a large equilateral triangle, which, joined with Cor-Caroli, a star of the same brilliancy, at an equal distance north, forms the Diamond of Virgo. The stars in this diamond are of equal brilliancy, rendering it one of the most clearly defined and most beautiful figures in this part of the heavens.

This constellation is probably of Egyptian origin. A zodiac discovered among the ruins of Estne, in Egypt, commences with Virgo, and, according to the regular progression of the equinoxes, this zodiac must be two thousand years older than that at Dendera. This relic of the earliest ages of the human species is conjectured to have been preserved during the deluge by Noah, to perpetuate the actual appearance of the heavens immediately subsequent to the creation.

The Athenians also claim the origin of this constellation, maintaining that Erigone was changed into Virgo. Erigone was the daughter of Icarius, an Athenian, who was slain by some peasants whom he had intoxicated with wine; and it caused such a feeling of despair in Erigone, that she repaired to the wood and hung herself on the bough of a tree.

"Thus once in Marathon's impervious wood,

Erigone beside her father stood,

When, hastening to discharge her pious vow,

She loosed the knot and culled the strongest bough."

ASTERION ET CHARA.—This is a modern constellation, and embraces two in one. It lies north of Coma Berenice, and west of Bootes, and comes to the meridian the 20th of May. Cor-Caroli is the brightest star in this group, and marks Chara, the southern hound. Asterion is north of this, and is marked by a small star about three degrees above Cor-Caroli. These two hounds are represented as chasing the Great Bear around the Pole, being held in a leash by Bootes, who is constantly urging them on in their endless track. The remaining stars in this group are too small and scattered to excite interest.

URSA MAJOR.—This constellation is situated between Ursa Minor on the north, and Leo Minor on the south, and is one of the most conspicuous in the northern hemisphere. It has been an object of observation in all ages of the world. The shepherds of Chaldea, Magi of Persia, priests of Belus, Phœnician navigators, Arabs of Asia, and American aborigines seem to have been equally struck with its peculiar outlines, and each gave to the group a name which signified, in their respective languages, the same thing—Great Bear. It is somewhat remarkable that nations which had no knowledge or communication with each other should have given the same name to this constellation. The name is perfectly arbitrary, there being no resemblance in it whatever to a bear or any other animal.

This cluster is remarkable for seven of its brightest stars forming a dipper, four stars forming the bowl, and three, curving slightly, shaping the handle. These seven stars are of uncommon brilliancy, and need no description to point out their locality. The whole number of stars in this group is eighty-seven, and it comes to the meridian the 10th of May.

MANUFACTURE OF PINS.

WE often hear the expression used, when talking of anything comparatively useless, that "it's not worth a pin;" and from this we might be led to suppose, did we not know it to be otherwise, that a pin was a very worthless thing, instead of being what it is—one of the most useful that is manufactured in this or in any other country. As the use of pins is principally confined to the female portion of our community, perhaps the following short account of their manufacture, for which we are indebted to Knight's "Cyclopædia of Industry," a very useful book, may not be uninteresting to our readers:—

"Pins are made of brass wire. The first process which it undergoes, by which any dirt or crust that may be attached to the surface is got rid of, is by soaking it in a diluted solution of sulphuric acid and water, and then beating it on stones. It is then straightened; after which, it is cut into pieces, each about long enough for six pins. These latter pieces are then pointed at each end in the following manner: The person so employed sits in front of a small machine, which has two steel wheels or mills turning rapidly, of which the rims are cut somewhat after the manner of a file: one coarse for the rough formation of the points, and the other fine for finishing them. Several of these pieces are taken in the hand, and, by a dexterous movement of the thumb and forefinger, are kept continually presenting a different face to the mill against which they are pressed. The points are then finished off by being applied in the same manner to the fine mill. After both ends of the pieces have been pointed, one pin's length is cut off from each end, when they are re-pointed, and so on until each length is converted into six pointed pieces. The stems of the pins are then complete. The next step is to form the head, which is effected by a piece of wire called the mould, the same size as that used for the stems, being attached to a small axis or lathe. At the end of the wire nearest the axis is a hole, in which is placed the end of a smaller wire, which is to form the heading. While the mould-wire is turned round by one hand, the head-wire is guided by the other, until it is wound in a spiral coil along the entire length of the former. It is then cut off close to the hole where it was commenced, and the coil taken off the mould. When a quantity of these coils are prepared, a workman takes a dozen or more of them at a time in his left hand, while, with a pair of shears in his right, he cuts them up into pieces of two coils each. The heads, when cut off, are annealed by being made hot and then thrown into water. When annealed, they are ready to be fixed on the stems. In order to do this, the operator is provided with a small stake, upon which is fixed a steel die, containing a hollow the exact shape of half the head. Above this die, and attached to a lever, is the corresponding die for the other half of the head, which, when at rest, remains suspended about two inches above the lower one. The workman takes one of these stems between his fingers, and, dipping the pointed end of a bowl containing a number of heads, catches one upon it and slides it to the other end; he then places it in the lower die, and, moving a treadle, brings down the upper one four or five times upon the head, which fastens it upon the stem, and also gives it the required figure. There is a small channel leading from the outside to the centre of the dies, to allow room for the stem. The pins are now finished as regards shape, and it only remains to tin or whiten them. A quantity of them are boiled in a pickle, either a solution of sulphuric acid or tartar, to remove any dirt or grease, and also to produce a slight roughness upon their surfaces which facilitates the adhesion of the tin. After being boiled for half an hour, they are washed, and then placed in a copper vessel with a quantity of grain tin and a solution of tartar; in about two hours and a half, they are taken out, and, after being separated from the undissolved tin by sifting, are again washed; they are then dried by being well shaken in a bag with a quantity of bran, which is afterwards separated by shaking them up and down in open wooden trays, when the bran flies off and leaves the pins perfectly dry and clean. The pins are then papered for sale."

Pins are also made solely by machinery. There is a manufactory for this sort (the Patent Solid Headed Pins, near Stroud) where nearly 3,250,000 are made daily.

A pin, then, is not such an insignificant article, after all. We see it has to go through a great many processes and hands before it is finished. If we take one, examine it closely, and mark how nicely it is made, how neatly the head is fixed on to the shank, how beautifully it is pointed, and how bright it shines, we shall see a very good specimen of what the ingenuity and labor of man can do upon a piece of metal. It is really surprising what a large number are made, and how many persons are employed in their manufacture. We read, some time ago, an amusing article from "Bentley's Miscellany," wherein the writer asks the question: "What becomes of the pins?" and puts forth the rather curious assertion that, if they continue to be lost and made away with as they are now, some day or other the whole globe will be found to be "one vast shapeless mass of pins."

In conclusion, we would recommend our readers always to bear in mind the excellent maxim which Franklin attached to a pin, namely, "A pin a day, a groat a year."

ADVICE TO A BRIDE.

I BEG to remind my daughter that the husband has a thousand elements of disturbance in his daily avocations to which his wife is an utter stranger; and it will be her privilege, and her title to the respect of all whose respect is worth having, to make his own fireside the most attractive place in the universe for the calm repose of a weary body or excited mind. The minor comforts, which are the most valuable, because the most constantly in requisition, will depend more upon her look, her manner, and the evidence of her forethought, than upon all the other occurrences of life.—Parental Precepts.

"TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION."

MR. GODEY: Miss Snipe left my house in great haste on the second day of April, forgetting, in her precipitation, several articles of her wardrobe and her portfolio. While waiting an opportunity to forward them to Wimpleton, a natural impulse of curiosity induced me to examine the contents of the portfolio, when, lo and behold, a letter, directed to yourself, fell on the floor. Being loosely folded and unsealed, I ventured to open it, supposing it merely a business communication. Imagine my surprise on discovering the nature of its contents, for I had been unable to penetrate the reasons of her hurried departure; but do not, I pray you, accuse me of having read it through.

Finding, as far as I proceeded, nothing very heinous laid to myself, nor any insinuations against my table, I judge proper to forward it without delay, according to the address. However, I can with difficulty forgive her for calling my boy a "cub," and think, moreover, that her dislike towards my Irish inmate is unreasonable. As to Mr. Sparks—I do not blame her so much—he has not yet paid me those gloves. And as to the writer herself, I am really astonished—we all thought her such a quiet and unobservant little body—on becoming acquainted with this spirited volley from her pen. Will there not be both laughing and wry faces in my household, if you publish it? And, though April is gone (I am sorry the letter was not sooner found), do give the world the benefit of her experience, to oblige and amuse

Yours, faithfully,
HELEN MASHUM.

April 1, 1854.

MY DEAR MR. EDITOR: Such a tumult as we have all day been in, by reason of that abominable practice of "fooling," has been enough to destroy the patience of a saint. I am nearly out of my wits. Here have I come, at my niece's invitation, to spend a fortnight with her, in a boarding-house. "She was lonely," she said; "Mr. Sparks was so much at the office; and it would be such a favor if I could stay with her a few days."

So I have come from my quiet country home, fifteen miles off, to this noisy town that calls itself a city, to visit Ann Sophia; and, between you and me, I was an April fool from the beginning. There are several other young married women boarding in the same house, who, like my flighty niece, have apparently nothing under the sun to do but go shopping and pop in and out of each other's rooms. Some of them are in her parlor every evening when she is not out at parties or lectures, and, as she spins street yarn every morning, I cannot for the life of me see what opportunity she takes to be lonesome. But I do see that she gives herself no time to keep her husband's shirts made up and in order; and I find that I have no lack of employment, for she has kept me sewing ever since I came.

"Sophy, dear," says I, the morning after my arrival, "give me some sewing; I cannot be idle, and have nothing but this knitting to do for myself."

Whereupon she brought out a whole piece of fine bleached cloth, and proposed that we should amuse ourselves by making it into shirts for her husband.

"Holton needs them so much," said she, "and you are so kind as to offer your services, aunty; it would cost so much to hire them done, and his salary is so small now, you know, and boarding so expensive."

And to work we began; but the truth is that it is very little which Ann Sophia has done thus far. Well, what is a single woman good for unless to make herself generally useful? A precious sight of twaddle have I read first and last in the papers and magazines about the delights and privileges of old-maidery. Delights of a fiddlestick! Pulled hither and thither, perhaps—as I have been—at the beck of married brothers and sisters, and a score of idle nephews and nieces; if you have a home of your own, not allowed to stay at it in peace for more than one week together. Sister Julia's children have all got the measles, and Aunt Abigail must go and take care of them; or brother Peter's wife is dead, and Abigail must pack up and go to keep house for him till she becomes attached to the motherless tribe, and feels quite at home among them, when he gets a new wife, and Abigail departs just as she begins to be happy. To crown all, when she puts her own house in order, and has a nice lot of sweetmeats and pickles made up, along comes a troop of relations, male and female, young and old, to visit dear Aunt Abigail and eat up all her stores, to say nothing of completely kicking out the stair carpet. But I am wandering from my subject—a thing which I am apt to do.

The house is quiet now, and, having finished one of Holton Sparks's shirts this evening, I embrace the respite to retire to my own room. After all, I do not feel like scolding about Ann Sophia. The pleasant-tempered girl looks so much like her mother, brother Peter's first wife; I brought her up, too, at least till she was ten years old, when her father married again. Her chief fault is her youth, and she will get over that, dear child.

However, to return, I cannot sleep till I have expressed my indignation at the follies that have been perpetrated in honor—rather should I say, in dishonor—of All Fools' Day, hoping that you, Mr. Editor, will lift your voice in favor of putting a stop to such absurdities. In the first place, I had scarcely risen, when I was myself made the victim of imposition; for, while I was dressing, there was a rap at the door, and I heard Sparks's voice—

"Aunt Abigail, are you up? Here is a letter postmarked Wimpleton. It came by the night train, probably."

"As sure as fate," thought I, "there has something dreadful happened at home." And, being much agitated, I tore open the envelop in great haste, without observing that the superscription was not in brother Sam's hand, and wondering why Sparks did not wait to learn the nature of its tidings. As truly as I am a living woman, there was nothing inside but a great foolscap sheet, and on it these words, in staring capitals—

"APRIL FOOL."

I could have cried, so vexed was I at first. Then I felt thankful that no bad news had actually reached me; for, during the brief moment occupied in opening the letter, you can scarcely imagine the many terrible things that passed through my head. Mother had had a fit, fallen down and broken her leg, though brother Sam had promised me faithfully not to leave her alone while I was gone; or that stupid Dutch boy, who takes care of the cow and the fires, had left live coals in the ash-box, and the house was burned to the ground. Or Sam himself had got one of those severe attacks of inflammatory rheumatism, and nobody there but mother to take care of him, and take his fretting into the bargain, and she almost eighty years old. When I recovered myself a little, I took that wretched sheet of paper, and was on the point of penning a dignified expression of my sentiments below the odious words, and handing it in silent scorn to my nephew-in-law at the breakfast-table. But better feelings prevailed; I smoothed it nicely in my portfolio, and am now scratching this hasty epistle upon its surface, intending in the morning to write it more legibly on some of my own fair sheets of Bath.

A few among the follies of this tiresome day have, I must acknowledge, given me a certain sort of satisfaction. Holton Sparks has been come up with himself; not by any means of mine, I earnestly assure you, for, besides heartily despising it, I cannot in any shape perpetrate "April fooling." Sam often says that this is because I am so matter-of-fact; but, matter-of-fact or not, I trust that there is not enough matter-of-folly in my composition to attempt such performances. I always did abominate practical jokes, and Sam knows that; yet the jokes which that boy still puts upon me, though I am three years older than himself, would be deemed improbable.

Well, when the breakfast-bell rang this morning, I went down stairs with an air as erect and dignified as a woman of fif——no matter—with such a demeanor as one who has outlived the fooleries of early youth should make habitual. Holton Sparks is very fond of eggs, and invariably takes the biggest on the dish. I observed that our landlady directed the servant to hand them first to Mr. Sparks, who was too intent on securing his egg to notice her action. Indeed, he never hesitates to help himself first, quite regardless of the ladies who sit near, and even of Ann Sophia. Holton is a tremendous eater, seeming to think of nothing at table but disposing of his food as rapidly and in as large quantities as possible. The manner of this gentleman is to place a large piece of nicely buttered toast on his plate, pour the egg over it, pepper the whole thoroughly, and swallow it as if the preparation were some unpleasant dose that it is his duty to dispatch. Mrs. Mashum, who is altogether too much given to laughing, and too volatile for her station, sat behind the coffee urn shaking violently with suppressed mirth. He broke the shell of his egg as usual, when, behold, his plate was flooded with a dingy-looking liquid, which proved to be warm dish-water. On comprehending the joke, he sent it away with an offended air, and made his breakfast on beefsteak, without deigning to join in the universal laugh. It seems that last evening he laid a wager with Mrs. Mashum that she could not succeed in playing him a trick, he should be so constantly upon his guard during All Fools' Day. The affair of the egg has put him out of humor to such an extent that we have been saved the infliction of any more jokes at his hands. He has worn his dignity all day, not even Ann Sophia succeeding in laughing or coaxing him into laying it aside. I rather think that he grudges the dollar which he will have to lay out for the gloves, as Mrs. Mashum has won the bet, and Ann Sophia assures him that a pair of her own will not do by any means. He proposed that expedient to settle the matter. Holton is stingy. But his wife declared that such a good joke deserved a pair of Alexander's best. It is not because I approve of betting that I mention this, for I hold the practice in great abhorrence. It was only of a piece with the other follies of the day, and shows up Holton Sparks a little.

A small fire of fooling was kept up throughout the morning. If the door-bell has been rung once, it has forty times, by Mrs. Mashum's cub of a boy, who would jerk the handle or toss up his ball at the wire, and then run out of sight. In going from my own room to my niece's, I saw a sixpence on the floor, and, stooping down to pick it up, found it fast. Congratulating myself on not having been observed, I was passing on, when that disagreeable urchin shouted, from behind a door—

"April fool, old lady!"

He deserves to be sent to the House of Refuge.

Ann Sophia herself has put me out of all manner of patience by saying, as I sat sewing at the front window in her parlor, "Pray, Aunt Abigail, whose carriage do you suppose that is?" when no vehicle was in view but the milkman's. Or, suddenly, she would exclaim, "What ladies are those crossing the street?" when none were anywhere to be seen.

But the meanest of all was a very rude thing, which she repeated several times upon different persons, apparently delighted with its efficacy. This was to rush up suddenly, and screaming out, "See there!" throw her arm directly across one's nose with so much force as to oblige that organ to follow the direction of her outstretched finger, whether or no. Such a sort of fooling by compulsion struck me as particularly reprehensible.

"I'd try it on you, aunty," said the volatile child, "if I were not afraid of scoring my arm."

Such an insinuation against my nose! Had it been any one besides Sophy, I could not have forgiven the speech. She is such a highty-tighty.

But one trick which she played was really good, especially as its object was a man to whom I have taken a huge dislike. He is an Irish gentleman connected with some legal firm in town, most desperately polite, with a very long round nose and fiery red hair. He is continually poking dishes at me across the table, and is fairly oppressive with his attentions. Moreover, he calls me "Mrs." perpetually. "Mrs.," indeed! Intimating that I am old enough to be a "Mrs.," if not one in fact. As he rises very late, he never appears at breakfast with ourselves; but at dinner we have the misery of his presence. To-day, when we were almost through with the first course, he entered with an air much flushed and uncomfortable.

"Are you ill, Mr. O'Killigan?" asked Mrs. Mashum.

"No, thank you, madam," said he, with one of his customary efforts at politeness. "But I have been trying for a long while to shave, till forced in despair to give up the attempt. The deuce has got into my soap."

"You have forgotten that it is the first of April. The day may have had some influence upon your dressing-case," remarked one of the ladies present.

"I declare, I have not thought of that," said he, and, springing from the table, he ran to his room, returning with something which he begged the ladies to examine. It proved to be a thick, fair slice of a raw potato, in size and color so much like his own soap, which had been removed, that he had detected no difference, except that it refused to form a lather. This was the work of my mischievous niece, who looked at it very gravely, and remarked, with much demureness—

"I always knew that you Irish were fond of potatoes, but was not aware that you carried it to such an excess as to shave with that vegetable."

It would have better pleased me had O'Killigan been angry; but the Irishman took the joke, and all the speeches made at his expense, with entire good-humor, laughingly assuring the ladies that he would be revenged before night. And, as he knew not whom to suspect, he adopted a course which involved most of us in its consequences. When we retire for the night, those who are not better provided equip themselves with a candle, of which a supply stands ready in the lower hall. Such a fuss as I had with my light this evening! It went out as soon as I reached my own door; and, after relighting it several times by means of matches, the tallow was exhausted, and I discovered that the blackened remnant of wick was stuck into a carrot. That miserable Irishman had enlisted Biddy Flyn, the chambermaid, in his service, and this afternoon they spent two whole hours in the basement at their nefarious work, trimming off carrots and giving them a very thin coating of grease. Mrs. Mashum herself did not escape, for, just as she began taking her usual rounds to see that all was safe for the night, her treacherous light went out, leaving her in total darkness—in the lower regions, too, for she was on the point of inspecting a keg of mackerel in the cellar.

At this identical moment, having used up all my matches in vain endeavors to light a candle, which, like its manufacturer's locks, I had found to be carroty, I was on my way to the kitchen in pursuit of a more reliable means of illumination, when I heard Mrs. Mashum scream out—

"Bring a light, Biddy, for goodness sake! I shall step into this rat-trap that you've set, if I stir an inch in the dark."

And all the while the shameful Biddy stood holding her sides, and laughing in a most unreasonable way. Several persons were running along the upper hall calling for lights, the ladies in a sort of demi-toilet, and one of the young men, a dry-goods clerk, who dresses his hair with a curling-tongs, having on a black silk night-cap. But the real culprit did not suffer, after all, for Ann Sophia has her own solar lamp.

While these distressing events were transpiring, that mean Irishman, with his big nose and red head, sat in the parlor, as cool as possible, reading the "London News" by the light of a brilliant camphene lamp. I wonder his hair did not ignite and cause an explosion. It would have served him quite right.

Strange to say, Mrs. Mashum is not at all offended either at O'Killigan or his accomplice, but has enjoyed their mischief in a way to me utterly unaccountable. I suppose Sam would say that she knows how to take a joke; for my part, they are things which I do not wish to know how to take myself; I wash my hands of all participation in such knowledge.

I have obtained a lamp that shall last till I have finished this narrative of to-day's outrageous proceedings. On passing the parlor-door, I heard that disagreeable O'Killigan say to his landlady, in reply to some of her pretended threats of punishment—

"At any rate, my good Mrs. Mashum, you cannot arrest me for incendiary attempts; I have made such laudable exertions to put out the flames in the house."

Impudent fellow! I had a mind to say something about the blaze on his own head; but I forbore, passing on in offended silence.

Now, my dear Mr. Godey, set a good example, and lead the way in a reform of these abuses, as you have in so many other praiseworthy undertakings. Frown upon these April fooleries, especially as levelled at the peace and quiet of respectable single women. If my letter is too late to take effect this present season, please give it due notice before a twelvemonth hence. You will thus oblige and gratify your friend and constant reader,

ABIGAIL SNIPE.

Postscript. I shall go home to-morrow, and finish Holton Sparks's last new shirt in the pleasant seclusion afforded by my own hearthstone. I cannot endure the thought of sitting at the table in this house any longer, opposite that dreadful O'Killigan, hearing him crack his dry jokes while he rubs his chin with his thumb and forefinger. To be obliged to listen when he comments on the mishaps of this evening would surely set me into a nervous fit. It strikes me that I have read in one of Sam's old books—"Sal" somebody's writings—of an elderly lady who "died of a Frenchman." If I were to stay here much longer, I should assuredly die of this middle-aged Irishman.

Depend upon it, I shall not breathe a word to Sam of my trials at Sophy's boarding-house, in consequence of the inmates all making fools of themselves and me on the FIRST OF APRIL.

INTELLECTUAL ENDOWMENTS OF CHILDREN.

AN extremely intelligent boy, of about twelve years of age, was once brought to the late Dr. Deville, an English phrenologist, for examination, by a parent who was very proud of the intellectual endowments of his child. Dr. Deville gave his opinion of the boy's character, at the same time cautioning the father of the dangerous course he was pursuing. But the father's reply was, "All that other boys considered labor and hard study were merely child's play to him; and that his studies could not be hurtful to him—he enjoyed them so much." Again Dr. Deville endeavored to save the child, but the father would not attend to the warning. Two years from that time he again called on Dr. Deville, and, in reply to his inquiries about the child, burst into tears, and stated that the boy was an idiot.

GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.

LESSON V.

The outline of the stem and the curve of the scroll of Fig. 54 must first be drawn, the distances and proportions of the various parts being carefully observed. In sketching the scroll in Fig. 55, the eye alone will be the guide, the directions and distances of the various parts being marked off before filling in the details.

The method of drawing the rosette forming part of the scroll shown in Fig. 57 is displayed in Fig. 56, the circle being drawn first.

In sketching Fig. 58, the direction of the curve must first be ascertained, its due proportions noted, thereafter filling in the details.

The stem, leaves, flower, and buds of the wall-flower in Fig. 59 will afford an interesting example for practice at this stage of progress; the stem, its length and direction, should first be drawn, the position of the leaves, &c. marked thereon, and the details thereafter filled in.

Fig. 58.

The sketch in Fig. 60, which represents the stem, leaves, and flower of the yellow crowfoot, will be drawn in the same way as above.

The flower of the honeysuckle in Fig. 61 affords a good example for free pencil-sketching. The stem should be drawn first, then an outline made which will touch all the exterior parts of the sketch, as in Figs. 44 and 52; the distances of the leaves should next be drawn on this, and the details put in. The pupil should endeavor to copy this example correctly; it may appear very difficult, but, by a careful attention to the rules we have given, and a little determination to "try again," if perchance she should once or twice fail, the difficulty will soon vanish.

Fig. 62.

The sketch in Fig. 62, representing a human foot, may be put in by first drawing the general outline, thereafter finishing the details. Figs. 63, 64, and 65 will be drawn in the same manner.

DRESS—AS A FINE ART.

BY MRS. MERRIFIELD.

CONCLUSION.

WE look forward hopefully to a day when art-education will be extended to all ranks; when a knowledge of the beautiful will be added to that of the useful; when good taste, based upon real knowledge and common sense, will dictate our fashions in dress as in other things. We have schools of art to reform our taste in pottery, hardware, and textile fabrics, not to speak of the higher walks of art, painting, sculpture, and architecture. The handle of a jug, the stem of a wine-glass, the design for dress silks or lace veils, will form the subjects of lectures to the students of the various schools of design; disquisitions are written on the important question whether the ornamental designs should represent the real form of objects, or only give a conventional representation of them, while the study of the human figure, the masterpiece of creation, is totally neglected, except by painters and sculptors. We hope that the study of form will be more extended, that it will be universal, that it will, in fact, enter into the general scheme of education, and that we shall hereafter see as much pains bestowed in improving by appropriate costume the figure which nature has given us, as we do now in distorting it by tight stays, narrow and high-heeled shoes, and all the other deformities and eccentricities of that many-faced monster, fashion. The economy of the frame, and the means of preserving it in health and beauty, should form an integral part of education. There can be no true beauty without health, and how can we hope to secure health if we are ignorant of the means of promoting it, or if we violate its precepts by adopting absurd and pernicious fashions?

Surely it is not too much to hope that dress-makers will hereafter attend the schools of design, to study the human form, and thence learn to appreciate its beauties, and to clothe it with appropriate dress, calculated to display its beauties to the greatest advantage, and to conceal its defects—the latter with the reservation we have already noticed. We hope, also, that the shoe-maker will learn to model the shoe upon the true form of the foot.

Manufacturers are now convinced of the importance and utility of schools of design, and whether the article hereafter to be produced be a cup and saucer, a fender, a pattern for a dress or for furniture, for a service of plate or diamond tiara, it is thought proper that the pupil, as a preliminary course that cannot be dispensed with, should commence with the study of the human figure. Yet, is not dress an art-manufacture as well as a cup and saucer, or a tea-board? Are there less skill and talent, less taste required to clothe the form which we are told is made after God's own image, than to furnish an apartment? Why should not dressmakers and tailors attend the schools of design as well as those artisans who are intended to be employed in what are now called art-manufactures? Why should not shoe-makers be taught the shape and movements of the foot? If this were the case, we are satisfied that an immediate and permanent improvement would be the consequence in our style of dress.

We believe that many portrait painters stipulate that they shall be allowed to dictate the dress, at least as regards the arrangement of the colors, of their sitters; the reason of this is that the painter's selection of dress and color is based upon the study of the figure and complexion of the individual, or the knowledge of the effects of contrast and harmony of lines, tissues, and colors, while the models which are presented for his imitation too frequently offer to his view a style of dress, both as regards form and color, which sets the rules of harmony at defiance. Now, only suppose that the dress-maker had the painter's knowledge of form and harmony of lines and colors, what a revolution would take place in dress? We should no longer see the tall and the short, the slender and the stout, the brown and the fair, the old and the young, dressed alike, but the dress would be adapted to the individual; and we believe that, were the plan of study we recommend generally adopted, this purpose might always be effected without the sacrifice of what is now the grand desideratum in dress—novelty.

The reasons why the art of dressmaking has not hitherto received the attention which it deserves, are to be sought for in the constitution of society. The branches of manufacture which require a knowledge of design, such as calico-printing, silk and ribbon-weaving, porcelain and pottery, and hardware manufactures, are conducted on a large scale by men of wealth and talent, who, if they would compete successfully with rival manufactures, find it necessary to study and apply to their own business all the improvements in science with which their intercourse with society gives them an opportunity of becoming acquainted. It is quite otherwise with dressmaking. A woman is at the head of every establishment of this kind a woman generally of limited education and attainments, from whom cannot be expected either liberality of sentiment or enlarged views, but who possibly possesses some tact and discrimination of character, which enable her to exercise a kind of dictatorial power in matters of dress over her customers; these customers are scarcely better informed on the subject than herself.

The early life of the dressmaker is spent in a daily routine of labor with the needle, and, when she becomes a mistress in her turn, she exacts from her assistants the same amount of daily labor that was formerly expected from herself. Work, work, work with the needle from almost childhood, in the same close room from morning to night, and not unfrequently from night to morning also, is the everlasting routine of the monotonous life of the dressmakers. They are working for bread, and have no leisure to attend to the improvement of the mind, and the want of this mental cultivation is apparent in the articles they produce by their labor. When one of the young women who attend these establishments to learn the trade thinks she has had sufficient experience, she leaves the large establishment and sets up in business on her own account. In this new situation, she works equally hard, and has therefore no time for improving her mind and taste. Of the want of this, however, she is not sensible, because she can purchase for a trifle all the newest patterns, and the thought never enters her poor little head that the same fashion may not suit all her customers. This defective education of the dressmakers, or rather their want of knowledge of the human form, is one of the great causes of the prevalence of the old fashion of tight-lacing. It is so much easier to make a closely-fitting body suit over a tight stay than it is on the pliant and yielding natural form, in which, if one part be drawn a little too tight, or the contrary, the body of the dress is thrown out of shape. Supposing, on the other hand, the fit to be exact, it is so difficult to keep such a tight-fitting body in its place on the figure without securing its form by whalebones, that it is in vain to expect the stays to become obsolete until the tight-fitting bodice is also given up.

This will never take place until not only the ladies who are to be clothed, but the dressmakers shall make the human form their study, and direct their efforts to set off their natural advantages by attending to the points which are their characteristic beauties. A long and delicate throat, falling shoulders, not too wide from point to point, a flat back, round chest, wide hips; these are the points which should be developed by the dress. Whence it follows that every article of dress which shortens the throat, adds height or width to the shoulders, roundness to the back, or flatness to the chest, must be radically wrong in principle, and unpleasant and repulsive in effect. In the same manner, whatever kind of dress adds to the height of a figure already too tall and thin, or detracts from the apparent height of the short and stout, must be avoided. These things should form the study of the dressmaker.

As society is now constituted, however, the dressmaker has not, as we have already observed, leisure to devote to studies of the necessity and importance of which she is still ignorant. The reform must be begun by the ladies themselves. They must acquire a knowledge of form, and of the principles of beauty and harmony, and so exercise a controlling influence over the dressmakers. By this means a better taste will be created, and the dressmakers will at length discover their deficiency in certain guiding principles, and will be driven at last to resort to similar studies. But in this case a startling difficulty presents itself—the poor dressmaker is at present over-worked: how can she find leisure to attend the schools of design, or even pursue, if she had the ability, the necessary studies at home? A girl is apprenticed to the trade at the age of thirteen or fourteen, she works at it all her life, rising early, and late taking rest, and what is the remuneration of her daily toil of twelve hours? Eighteenpence, or at most two shillings a day, with her board! As she reckons the value of the latter at a shilling, it follows that the earnings of a dressmaker, in the best period of her life, who goes out to work, could not exceed 15s., or at the most 18s. a week, if she did not, at the hazard of her health—which, indeed, is frequently sacrificed—work at home before she begins, and after she has finished her day's work abroad. The carpenter or house-painter does not work harder, or bring to bear on his employment greater knowledge than the poor dressmaker, yet he has 4s. 6d. a day without his board, while she has only what is equivalent to 2s. 6d. or 3s.! What reason can be assigned why a woman's work, if equally well done, should not be as well paid as that of a man? A satisfactory reason has yet to be given; the fact, however, is indisputable that women are not in general so well paid for their labor as men.

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

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

EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.

THE FIFTH LETTER LEFT.

(Written on copy-book paper, apparently left by hand.)

SHOWING WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF GOVERNESSES IN GENERAL, AND OF ONE IN PARTICULAR.

NELLY, dearest, I have formed a great determination. Nothing shall ever induce me to become that poor, absurd, ill-used creature, called a governess. I would starve sooner, or make shirts (which is pretty nearly the same thing), or emigrate and marry the first savage I met, or be a "touter" at a bonnet shop, or even go into service at a cheap lodging-house; anything, Nelly, sooner than be turned into that hopeless, spiritless, friendless being a governess seems destined by nature, or society, to be.

A governess in a private family is bad enough, but then she is not totally deprived of the comforts of home. She has a room, or at least a bed, entirely to herself, and her meals are generally the same as those of the family. Besides, a certain degree of respect is always paid to her. The servants are obliged to treat her with civility, at all events in the presence of their mistresses; and the mistresses are compelled to show her a little attention, if it is only done to set a good example to their servants. Then, again, their "young charges" cannot invariably be amusing themselves at her expense. They cannot always be teasing her. When they are taken out for an airing in the carriage, or when they are brought down after dinner with their shiny faces and glossy ringlets, or whenever there is company, or their parents and strangers are present, the governess enjoys a brief respite from that system of petty tyrannies she is the untiring victim of elsewhere. She has her few pleasures, though perhaps they may come at long straggling intervals; she has her distractions, her excitements in moving about in the world, and going to places of public amusements, and occasionally she knows what it is to enjoy the sweet success of rivalry—for have we not seen, Nelly, many a poor neglected governess who was doing the work of a musician at the piano, without his wages, receive in the course of the evening more attention than the fine young ladies themselves who were the worshipped idols of the establishment?

But the governess in a girls' school has a very different life of it, Nelly. She hasn't a moment to herself. She is the first to rise and the last to go to bed. She hasn't even the privacy of a bedroom to herself, for she is obliged to sleep in the same room as the girls, to look after them. The only privacy she knows is when she creeps into bed and draws the curtains round her. Our play-hours are no play-hours to her; rather on the contrary, for then her torments really begin, and only end when the bell rings again for class. She is the target at which every little chit fires her fun, and thinks she has a perfect right to do so. She is the only game at which the girls never tire of playing, and to see how they enjoy it you would imagine there was no amusement like it. It is true, Nelly, I have not seen much misery yet, and hope I never shall; but I can hardly imagine anything in this world more miserable than a school governess on a half-holiday.

Why, look at poor Blight. I have only to look upon her to feel for the sufferings of the whole class. Her nature seems to be sun-dried. She never smiles, and there is such an air of resignation about her, such a tone of despair that runs through all her words and smallest movements, that it is perfectly clear Hope never whispers into her ear any of those soft motherly words which soothe the agony of one's heart and lull it quietly off to sleep.

She may justly be called our "mistress of all work." She does a little of everything; she helps the smallest girls to dress; takes the junior pupils; hears the reading; sees to the wardrobes; gives out the linen; teaches needlework; and superintends the Saturday night's cleaning; in short, she is expected, as they say of servants, "to make herself generally useful," which means, in our instance, that she is worked to death by everybody, and spared by nobody; besides being teased, deceived, bullied, and ridiculed by every one who has a fancy that way; and for leading a life like this, she only gets 16l. a year, and her board and lodging during the holidays!

Snapp (another of our teachers) smiles at Blight's old-fashioned learning. She says it is quite out of date, and only fit for a charity school. Mademoiselle (the French teacher) quizzes her dress, and makes fun of her melancholy, and talks of her contemptuously, as, "ça," which I am told is the same as if you were speaking of a cook, or a poor relation, and called her "it." Fraulein (the German mistress) mimics her, and laughs over her patient endurance and old-maidish manners.

It must be confessed that poor Blight's appearance affords plenty of temptation for this cruel ridicule. She is certainly very ugly, and no one ever loses an opportunity of telling her so. The worst is, the example set by the schoolmistress is followed with the greatest zest by the schoolgirls, who indulge in all kinds of practical jokes at her expense. She is unfortunately very short-sighted, and consequently they are always hiding her spectacles, or else rubbing the glasses over with butter or ink. No one considers there is any harm in this, for the girls have grown to look upon Blight as "fair game;" and if any one can put her into a passion, it is considered "rare fun," and thought just as harmless as throwing bread-pills at one another when the mistress's back is turned. When there is no other amusement going on, the cry is always raised, "Let's go and tease Blight," and you see the whole school rushing forward as eagerly as if a gypsy suddenly appeared at the play-ground gate to tell us our fortunes. But if any one is in trouble, Blight is the first to screen her. If any girl is ill, Blight will sit up with her all night, and will pet and nurse the little sufferer until she almost fancies herself at home; and when the little invalid has grown well again, and has recovered the use of her tongue and fingers, Blight never says a word about the ungrateful return, but bears it all like a martyr, which, in truth, she really is. Ugly as she is, I really think there are times when I could throw my arms round her neck, and kiss her for her goodness.

I cannot tell you all the nicknames which they have for her face and person, nor would it altogether be agreeable for you, Nelly, I think to hear them. Suffice it to say, the poor thing, is very old—thirty-nine, if she is a day; and she has the funniest little head of hair, every hair appearing to be pulled as tight, and to be almost as wide apart, as the strings of a harp. The top of her head is mounted with a round knot of hair no bigger than the worsted ball you see on a Scotch cap. It's a wonder to me she doesn't wear a wig or a cap of some sort, though perhaps it would be too dangerous, as every one would undoubtedly be trying to pull it off. The girls declare no one can recollect her having a new gown. Every quarter a very thin, snuff-brown silk, on a very stiff lining, is brought out as Sunday best; but it is only the old one turned and altered a bit, for that little wicked thing, Jessie Joy, put a drop of ink on one of the breadths on purpose to find it out; and there it is still, journeying about backwards and forwards, first in front and then behind; now on the top, just under her chin, and next down at the bottom, sweeping the floor, precisely as the faded silk is twisted or turned to hide the creases and the ravages of old age. The girls calculate the period they have been at school by this venerable gown; and it's no unusual thing to hear them, when disputing about any particular date, settling it at once by referring to the age of Miss Blight's brown silk, saying, "I recollect very well it was in the ninth quarter of Blight's Sunday gown;" and a reference to a date of this kind is considered as indisputable as to a Family Bible, or an old almanac.

But these are small matters, Nelly, which I am half ashamed to tell you, for under this poor garment there is a heart of so much goodness as to make us wonder at the strange hiding-places in which virtue sometimes delights in lurking, as if from modesty it had taken every precaution not to be found out. What do you think, Nelly? I am told by Meggy that poor Blight supports an old bedridden mother! She has no positive proof of this, but she is morally sure of it. This, then, accounts for the reason why the poor governess is always working so hard—never resting from crocheting purses, and knitting antimacassars sufficient to cover all the sofas in the world. If you ask her for whom she makes this extraordinary quantity (you can't think, Nell, how quickly and beautifully she works), she simply replies, her pale face becoming paler, "for a dear friend;" and that is all we can get out of her to reward our vulgar curiosity. This must be the truth, for at all hours, both early and late, has she got a needle in her hand. There is a story that she wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night, and works whilst the girls around her are sleeping. But no one knows the cause of her excessive industry, and I really think she would be miserable if it were known, and her fingers would not ply their work of love half so nimbly if she suspected that the girls, as they watched her with such fixed curiosity, were acquainted with the sacred object for which she was toiling. It is a puzzle when or where she sells all the things she finishes, and no one exactly likes to find out, though one or two attempts have been made, but always ending, I am happy to say, in the most complete failure. It makes me sad to watch her anxiety when there is a postman's knock at the door. She starts up in her seat, and pauses for a while in her work (the only pause it ever knows), until she gives out the letters; and then you would pity her with all your heart to see how disappointed she is—what a vacancy of hope falls like a dark shadow upon her face—when she learns that there is not one for her! Though, when there is a letter, it is scarcely any better. She sighs heavily, looks sometimes at a little locket she carries in her breast, and hurries on with her work quicker than ever, as if the purse she was finishing was to contain her own money instead of somebody else's, and she had so much that she wanted the use of it immediately.

If you have any fancy-work you want doing (any braces or cigar-cases you wish to give away as presents), will you send it to me, Nelly, and I will ask Blight, if I can do so without offending her, to do it for me?

I'm obliged to finish my letter, Nelly, for the fact is I have been writing the latter part of it in our bedroom with a piece of wax candle I took out of a candlestick there was in the hall, and there is only just sufficient left to enable me to scramble into bed, and to assure you how dearly you are loved by

Yours affectionately,
KITTY CLOVER.

P. S.—I intend that my bootlace shall come undone somewhere about the grocer's, when we are out a walking to-morrow, so that I may lag behind, and drop this in the post unobserved. Oh! dear—the candle's gone out. What sh—

TO MISS LAURA.

So let it be: what shall I lose or gain

By looking less within those eyes?

The promise made shall therefore firm remain,

Though it may cause me care and pain;

My passion will not die, but rise

Beyond the earth, and pierce the skies.

Thine image is impressed upon my heart,

And though you hate, and even spurn,

I still will love, though I do bleed and smart

I'll be as true, nor seek to part;

The love which binds me still shall burn.

Though friends to foe should choose to turn.

So it may be: yet hate me not, I pray;

'Tis a pure love that fills my breast;

Yet I have sought to tear that love away,

To crush it in its dawning day,

And, failing, am I curst or blest

In living void of hope or rest?

Curst you will say, and you may pity me,

And look less cold, or even smile;

A sweet, kind smile will not impov'rish thee,

Or make thy heart less light and free;

Me from my grief 'twill part awhile,

From sadness and despair beguile.

CHARITY ENVIETH NOT.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

"You don't say so!"

"True as the Gospel, Miss Snelling. That velvet cloak of hers—she calls it a Talma—cost every cent of twenty-five dollars. Then there's her bonnet—that came from New York, too; Miss Dunn's work ain't good enough for her of late years. Well, that bonnet couldn't be bought for less'n eight dollars. Why, the ribbon must be four and six a yard, not to speak of the feathers. Then there's that new plaid silk, you know, and that French merino; neither of 'em less'n twelve shillings, and that's the way she dresses. Time was when she was glad enough to get me to sew for her. I've had her beg, and beg, and beseech me to give her a day, or even half a day, in my spring hurry; and now she's got a seamstress, as she calls that stuck-up girl, that sets in the settin'-room all day. She makes the children's clothes, and her'n are cut and fixed in New York, when they ain't made there."

"She's dreadful extravagant for a church member," said Mrs. Snelling, with a sigh, as she turned herself slowly round before the little looking-glass. She was having a lining fitted by the village dressmaker, Miss Prime, and a merino dress she had worn two years was partly ripped up on the chair by the window. It was the only dressmaking she had on hand for the season. It was a hard winter, and, what with the sickness of the children, and Mr. Snelling losing so much time by the frost, their means were unusually limited. No wonder that she thought of the ease and plenty of the rich manufacturer's household with a feeling of envy. She did not know it, though. She was a plain, good-hearted person naturally, struggling on to do her duty through the discouragement of ill health, ailing children, and very narrow means; but she could not help thinking Mrs. Hubbard was getting worldly and extravagant as, year by year, her household arrangements and personal expenses increased.

Only the day before, at meeting, she could not fix her attention upon the sermon for looking at the velvet Talma worn for the first time by her old friend and still kind neighbor, Mrs. Hubbard. They were members of the same church, of which Mr. Hubbard was the most liberal supporter. He gave according to his means, and, at the same time, desired his wife and family to dress and live as became his altered position and prospects.

"Time was when she had to work hard enough," continued Miss Prime, pinching in a side seam in the endeavor to produce the hour-glass shape, orthodox when she "learned her trade." "I remember when they first set up housekeeping, and she had to do her own work as well as other people, and her own sewing, too. Now I don't believe she takes a needle in her hand from morning till night, while you and I, Miss Snelling, don't git many play spells."

The leaven of uncharitableness worked on in Mrs. Snelling's heart.

"I'm afraid there isn't much spiritual growth, Miss Prime. The cares of this world choke the seed." Poor woman! she thought it was only an interest in her neighbor's best good that prompted such a constant review of her conduct. "People that have their hearts set on dress and high living can't have much time for better things."

"That's what I think. How do you like them bask waists, Miss Snelling? I hear they're all the fashion in New York. Miss Dunn said she'd try an' git me a pattern when she went down in the spring. I wouldn't ask Miss Hubbard to lend me hers to look at for nothing in the world. How am I goin' to get out new backs, Miss Snelling?"

"There's the cape, you see."

"Why, so there is! I never calculated the cape. I was studyin' an' contrivin' all the while you was to breakfast. Says I, 'Miss Snelling'll have to have them backs pieced, and then everybody in town'll know it's been made over.'"

As if everybody in Mrs. Snelling's community would not have known and noticed, under any circumstances, that her brown merino of two winters ago had been turned and made up again for her best dress. She had set her heart, early in the fall, on a new style of plaids, for sale at Brown & Chapins; but the doctor's bill was so much larger than she expected, she was obliged to give it up. The sacrifice had cost her many hours of calculation, alternate resolves, and reconsiderations. Every purchase that she made, indeed, was of necessity turned over and over in her mind for weeks.

Miss Prime went on with her fitting by the window, and Mrs. Snelling with her task of washing up the breakfast-dishes, "jogging the cradle" with one foot, every now and then, as her youngest child stirred in his morning nap.

"That was a lucky thought, that cape." Miss Prime resumed her thimble and her conversation together. "It don't seem to be worn as much as the rest, neither."

"No, it isn't; I only kept it for very cold days. I thought of it in church, Sunday, right in the middle of the sermon. Queer, wasn't it? I was so dreadfully afraid you couldn't get it out. So, as soon as I came home, I took it out and looked at it; sure enough, it was the very thing."

"I see Miss James has got a new cloak this winter. She hain't worn hers more than three winters, to my knowledge. Well, these rich people are jist as worldly, for all I see, as if they wasn't professors." Miss Prime was one of the most constant attendants of the church prayer-meetings, and saw "no beam in her own eyes."

"Time was, as you say, Miss Prime, when we were all plain people together, with good feelings towards each other. I think of it very often—the days when Susan Hubbard and I used to send our little presents to each other New Year's, and be neighborly all along. That was before the Jameses moved here, or lawyer Martin's people. She's so intimate with them now she hasn't got any time for old friends. Many and many's the time I've sent her things right off my table; and, when her Jane had the scarlet fever, I sat up with her night after night. But I don't mind that. What I look at is Christian professors being so taken up with dress, and going about, but dress particularly. It don't look right, and it isn't, according to Scripture."

It was a wearisome, fatiguing day to Mrs. Snelling, who did the whole work of her household. Her oldest son was learning his father's trade, and the dinner for the two had to be on the table precisely at twelve, for they had but an hour's nooning. So, scarcely were the breakfast things cleared away, when there were the meat and vegetables to prepare for "a boiled dinner;" and twice she was obliged to stand and be pinned up in the thick jean lining Miss Prime was fitting with unexampled tightness. The afternoon was no better; she had Tuesday's ironing to finish, her little boy was sick and fretful; though four years old, and very heavy, he required to be nursed and tended as if he had been a baby. She wanted to sew with Miss Prime; but, no sooner would she get her needle threaded, and her thimble on, than some new demand would be made upon her time, and so the short afternoon passed before she could stitch up a seam, and tea must be ready by dark. Besides all this, Miss Prime was disposed to continue her conversation with very little pause or stint, discussing the affairs of the neighborhood and the church with a train of moral, religious, and personal reflections. Every one knows how fatiguing it is to be expected to listen to such a discourse, and respond in the right place, even when the mind is unoccupied; and then the dress did not look nearly so well as Mrs. Snelling had figured it in her mind, the new pieces being several shades darker than the main body of the material. More discouraging than all, it needed "finishing off" when seven o'clock sounded the signal for the conference meeting Miss Prime would not miss on any account.

"I wouldn't mind staying over my time jist to give you a helpin' hand, if it wasn't church meetin' night; but, you know, it's very important all should be there that can. To be sure, Miss Hubbard is so took up with other things now, she never goes; and, though Miss James joined by letter when she came, she's never been to a business meeting. For my part, I think we've got just as good a right to vote in church meetin' as the men, and speak, too, if we want to, though Deacon Smith has set his face against it of late years. So, you see, I'll have to go; and there's only the facing to face down, and them side seams to stitch up, and the hooks and eyes to go on. The sleeves are all ready to baste in—oh, and there's the bones; but bones are nothing to put in—especially as John Lockwood is to be dealt with to-night for going to the theatre last time he was in New York. For my part, I never did put much faith in his religion—and the more some of us stay away, the more the rest of us ought to go. Don't forget to take in that shoulder seam a little. For my part, I think his sister ought to be labored with for singing such songs as she does on the piano. Clear love songs, and plays opera pieces, Miss Allen says. Now which is the worst, I'd like to know, going to the theatre or playing opera pieces? Miss Hubbard's Jane does that, when she's home in vacations, though. That piece under the arm don't look so very bad, Miss Snelling—there ain't more'n two hours' work, any way."

Two hours' work, to a person who could scarcely get time to do her mending from week to week, was no trifle. Mrs. Snelling wavered for a little while between the accumulating pile of dilapidated under-clothes in the willow basket and the unfinished dress; but the dress must be done before New Year's day, now close at hand, and she lighted another lamp, and drew her little workstand up to the fire, as the clock again struck eight. Her mind had opened itself to discontented thoughts in the morning, and "the enemy had come in like a flood," until all the brightness of her life had been swept out of sight. She saw only the successive woes of ill health, loss, and wearing anxiety which had rolled over them in the past, and a blank, dreary prospect for the future. Her very occupation reminded her of it. If she could have afforded Miss Prime's assistance two days instead of one, she might have got ahead in her sewing a little; now here was another drawback, and she had so little time. And "there was Susan Hubbard; but, then, she did not give up everything to dress and display, thank goodness! as Susan Hubbard did, bringing scandal in the church, and setting herself up over everybody."

A knock at the front door was a fresh annoyance; for the work had to be put down again, the sick boy quieted, before Mrs. Snelling went shivering through the cold, narrow hall to answer it.

The neighborly visitor was no other than Mrs. Hubbard; "and no fire except in the kitchen," was Mrs. Snelling's first thought, as she recognized her with a mixed feeling of gratification, "hard thoughts," and curiosity. Certainly it was a curious coincidence that the person who had formed the subject of her thoughts and conversation, so much of the day, should suddenly appear.

"Don't mind me," Mrs. Hubbard said, pleasantly, stepping on before her old neighbor. "This way, I suppose?" And she led the way to the kitchen herself, thus avoiding the necessity of an apology on the part of Mrs. Snelling. "How bright and cheerful a cook stove looks, after all! and your kitchen always was as neat as wax. We never used to keep but one fire, you know." This last was an unfortunate allusion. Mrs. Snelling's softening face grew coldly rigid at what she considered an attempt to patronize her.

"Poor folks had to," she said, taking up her work and stitching away vigorously.

"I haven't forgotten old times, Jane," Mrs. Hubbard went on, not caring to notice the ungracious tone in which this remark was made, "when we were all beginning the world together. You seem to, though, for then you used to run in and see me, and I was thinking to-night you haven't been up to our house since October."

Mrs. Snelling began to say something about "not going where she was not wanted;" but it died away lower and lower, when she remembered Mrs. Hubbard had been in twice since then.

"I know you have a great deal to keep you at home; I know how it used to be when my children were little. You didn't let me pay three visits to your one then, Jane." Mrs. Hubbard drew her thimble from her pocket and took up the top piece of mending from the big willow basket, in the most natural manner. "This is to go so, isn't it?" said she. "I can work and talk, too, you know. Mr. Hubbard has gone to church meeting; but I don't think it's exactly our place to attend to church discipline, we women are so apt to make a bad matter worse by talking it over among each other, and to people that it doesn't concern. So I thought I'd just run in sociably, and bring my thimble, as we used to do for each other."

Mrs. Snelling would have said, half an hour ago, that she was completely fortified against Mrs. Hubbard's advances, in what shape soever; but she began to find a mist gathering in her eyes, as that old kindness and affection came stealing back again in recollection.

But Mrs. Hubbard was a wise woman, and she knew that a friend aggrieved was hard to win, whether the offence had been intentional or not.

"It's pretty hard work to live right, isn't it?" she said, verging round again to the old subject, after a little talk about the roads and the weather. "Every lot in life has its trials. I used to look at rich people, and think they hadn't a care in the world; but, now Mr. Hubbard has done so well, we have to live differently and dress differently, and there's no end to looking after things. I used to work hard all day, and, when the children were asleep in the evening, sit down comfortably to sew or read; but now there's something or somebody to see to to the last minute. To be sure, as far as dress is concerned, I don't think half so much of it as I used to, when I had to plan and contrive about every cent. Why, I often used to find myself planning about my sewing in sermon-time, if you will believe it, and how I should get the girls two dresses out of one of mine. To be sure, I have no such temptations now."

Mrs. Snelling looked up suddenly, as the recollection of her Sunday plan about the cape came into her mind. Could it be that to Him, into whom all hearts are open, she had been the less sincere worshipper of the two?

"I should like to try a little prosperity, by way of a change," she said, more pleasantly than she had last spoken, but still with bitterness beneath. "I'm tired of slaving."

"Oh, Jane!" Mrs. Hubbard said, quickly, "don't choose—don't choose your trials. I used to say that very thing, and that it was all well enough for rich people to preach." Mrs. Snelling saw the painful expression that crossed her friend's face, and the current report of young Robert Hubbard's dissipation came into her mind. "Everybody has their own troubles; some don't stand out as plain as others, and don't get so much pity. Rich people get very little, and they have hard work enough to bring up their children right, and to live in peace and charity with all. I've got so now I only ask for patience to bear the trial of the time, instead of praying to have it changed, and thinking that I could bear any other better."

The two women sewed in silence for a little while; each heart knew its own bitterness.

"Jane," Mrs. Hubbard said, stopping suddenly and looking into the bright grate in front of the stove, "shall I tell you what this puts me in mind of, seeing this nice bright cooking-stove? Of that New Year's night, the winter Robert was sick, and our children were all little, when you came round and brought them over to spend the afternoon, and boiled candy for them and let them pop corn. They brought us home a plateful of braided sticks. Poor little things! if it hadn't been for you, they wouldn't have had so much as a pin for a New Year's present, their father was so sick, and I was so worn out. Why, only think, they had been teazing me to buy them some candy, and I actually did not feel that I could afford that quart of molasses! I've thought of it often and often since. Somehow, this winter there's scarcely a day when it doesn't come into my mind, and I always feel like crying."

Mrs. Snelling was crying, as Mrs. Hubbard's voice faltered more and more; she did not attempt to conceal it, she remembered that New Year's day so well, and how she had pitied Susan's poor little boys, and brought them home and made them as happy as children could be made, in the very kindness of her warm heart. The long struggle with poverty and care had not seared it, after all.

"Don't cry, Jane. But you won't mind, and you won't misunderstand me now, if I've brought you a New Year's present of a dress? I was afraid you wouldn't take it as it was meant, if I just sent it. Here it is." And Mrs. Hubbard unrolled the very raw silk plaid Mrs. Snelling had so long coveted. "I wanted it to be useful, and I went down to get a cashmere like mine; but you happened to be there when I went in, and I saw how long you looked at this."

Mrs. Snelling remembered the day, and that she had come home thinking Mrs. Hubbard had felt too grand to talk to her before the clerks.

"I was afraid you would find me out, and so I kept at the other end of the store. Now, you won't misunderstand me, will you, Jane?"

"Oh, Susan, I had such hard thoughts, you don't know." And Mrs. Snelling put her apron up to her eyes, instead of looking at the new silk.

"Never mind that now, it's only natural. I could see just how you felt, for the more I tried to be neighborly, the colder you got. It's grieved me a good deal. But about the dress. Ann was not very busy, and so I had her make the skirt, as we could wear each other's dresses in old times, and every little helps when a person has a good deal to do. If you will let me know when Miss Prime comes to make it up, she shall come over and sew with her."

"Charity is not easily provoked, suffereth long, and is kind," was the minister's text the next Sunday; but Mrs. Snelling thought of a better illustration than any he could offer, and noted the rest of the verse with humiliation—charity envieth not.

TREASURES.

JOY makes us grieve for the brevity of life; sorrow causes us to be weary of its length; cares and industry can alone render it supportable.

SERENITY of mind is nothing worth, unless it has been earned: a man should be at once susceptible of passions, and able to subdue them.

MEMORY is like a picture-gallery of our past days. The fairest and most pleasing of the pictures are those which immortalize the days of useful industry.

IF you wish to make yourself agreeable to any one, talk as much as you please about his or her affairs, and as little as possible about your own.

PUT away presumptuousness and pride: if they assail thy heart, think of the beginning and end of life. Narrow, indeed, are the cradle and the coffin: in both we slumber alike helpless, to-day a germinating dust, to-morrow a crumbling germ.

THE ECONOMICS OF CLOTHING AND DRESS.

REMAKING AND MENDING.

SHAKSPEARE tells us that "an old cloak makes a new jerkin;" and with such authority and sanction for turning old materials to new purposes, we will make no apology for giving our readers a chapter of advice and instruction on some of the most feasible plans of turning old garments to good account.

Many are obliged by necessity, or as a matter of good economy, to do this; and those who are richer, and can afford frequently to purchase everything new for themselves, will greatly add to their kindness to their poorer neighbors, if, when they give a cast-off garment, it is accompanied by a little judicious instruction as to how to make the best of it.

We will suppose a poor woman receiving the gift of a lady's dress fully trimmed all over, and so near a fit, that she might think it had been made on purpose for her, if it was not a little too tight. Would it be the wisest thing she could do to take and wear the dress just as she received it? If she did so, the probability is that she would do those about her, as well as herself and her dress, a great injury. She would, most likely, be very cross in her family, for that is often one of the ill effects of dressing too tight. She might, too, begin to think that she looked so like a lady with this full-trimmed dress, that sundry unbecoming airs would be likely to creep over her. And as to the dress, nature would endeavor to free itself from restraint, and hooks and eyes would be bursting this way and that, and the flounces, that were very suitable to a lady's mode of life, would soon be torn and soiled in the household occupations of a poor woman. And in two or three weeks, this dress, that might have been made to do her good service for months, will have such a slovenly and torn appearance, that it had better be put out of sight.

We should recommend, as a preferable course, that, on receiving such a gift, all conspicuous and needless trimmings be taken off, and the body and sleeves be made a comfortable fit, by putting in pieces where they are needed; for which purpose some of the trimmings will be useful. Or, if it should be a very full skirt, it might be better to take a breadth from that, which will serve to make a fresh body. If it is too long, or if it is rubbed, and a little worn at the gathers, the skirt should be taken from the body, and sewed on again at the right length, at the same time placing the middle of a different breadth to the middle of the body, so as to put the worst worn part of the gathers to the place where they will have the least wear. This will oblige running up the opening at the back of the skirt, and making a new one. All this trouble will, however, be well repaid by having a comfortable and suitable dress; and ladies are much more likely to repeat a kindness when they see that their gifts are well used and valued.

When a mother has worn a dress as long as she can, it will be strange if there is not enough which is pretty good left in the skirt, which will make a frock, or perhaps even two, for a little girl. It is well to bear this in mind in buying a dress, and to choose one of a pattern that would not be very conspicuous or unsightly if it should afterwards be used for children.

Another good use to which to put an old dress is, by altering the body and sleeves, to adapt it for a petticoat. It is well, however, not to be in a hurry to do this. Two mothers had each a good black satin dress; in the course of time they became, as unfortunately all dresses will, too shabby, or too old-fashioned for their wearers' use. One mother picked hers to pieces, washed and ironed it, and made from it two handsome-looking mantles for her daughters. The other adapted hers for a petticoat, and spent five dollars in the purchase of new mantles for her two daughters. The mantles made of the old material were far the better looking, and the more serviceable. Now one dollar would have bought a petticoat; and thus the saving of four dollars might have been made for the pocket of the husband.

Bonnets may be lined or made from the cuttings of old silk dresses. A lady benevolently disposed can find the means of assisting a needlewoman in want of work, by employing her to use up odd pieces in this manner. She will thereby give the workwoman the means of earning a few shillings, and at the same time she will, at a comparatively little cost, enable herself to rejoice the hearts of various old women by the gift of a comfortable silk bonnet.

The remaining parts of some dresses will prove suitable for making aprons and pinafores.

But what can be done with dresses that are so washed and worn as to be of no service even for a child's frock or pinafore? Why, they may be cut up for dusters, if they will do for nothing else, and they will serve nicely for the little girls to learn hemming upon. Indeed, it only wants an active, notionable mind to discover good uses for almost anything that may be at hand, and render it applicable to some of the requirements of the possessor.

About the worst thing to do with old dresses is to carry them to an old clothes-shop, or to dispose of them at the door for something out of a basket.

Woollen garments, such as coats and trowsers, offer rather more of a puzzle as to how to dispose of them. They are, however, articles to be by no means despised, as a peep into the working-rooms of some old clothes establishment might soon convince our readers. Many a second-hand waistcoat, cap, and even child's complete suit, have been contrived from the refuse contents of an old clo'-man's bag. These old clothes-merchants, however, never cut up garments that can by any contrivance of piecing and cleaning be made suitable for wear, or to fetch a price in their original form. This a good home manager should also observe.

Cheap bought slop-clothes are scarcely worth the time and trouble of remaking into anything. But a bit of broadcloth that has been originally good may be brought into use over and over again, when its original purpose has been almost forgotten.

In a family of restricted means, where the father is obliged, by his line of life or connections to keep up what is called a respectable or genteel appearance, if the mother is a good contriver very little need be purchased for the clothing of her boys until they reach their teens. The clothes that the father is, for the sake of appearance, obliged to lay aside, will afford good material for clothing them. But how often pride, more than a want of knowledge, comes in here, and prevents the mother from doing what she might and could do. She is afraid that if she herself makes clothes for her boys, she may be laughed at as "a hen tailor." And if she should employ a needlewoman, who could do such things well and inexpensively for her, she is afraid the woman will speak of it, and think her mean for using old clothes; and she will in preference buy cheap, ready-made clothes, which will not last so long, and perhaps not look any better than what she might have obtained for a tithe of the cost by using the materials laid by at home.

To keep up a genteel appearance with only a small income, is a very trying situation to be placed in; nevertheless, it is the lot of very many; and a wise woman will feel sure that she is not acting meanly, while she acts in accordance with the limits of her husband's purse. Nothing can be more mean than to increase his anxieties by indulging in any needless expenses in dress.

When it is designed to make any cloth garment into a smaller one, it is generally best to look upon it merely as a piece of material, and not to attempt to bring any of the old seams into use. If it has been previously worn in the same family, and not much soiled, a good dry brushing may be all that is required for cleanliness. But if it has been long worn and made dirty, it had better be picked to pieces and thoroughly washed. Good broadcloth will bear washing just as well as a bit of calico; and so will very many other articles that are frequently considered unwashable.

Supposing the garment unpicked and brushed, or washed, it should be well examined as to the thicker and thinner parts, and the smaller pattern laid on and cut accordingly, always observing to keep the nap of the cloth all one way, from the top to the bottom of the garment. Much of the secret of the neat appearance of clothes made by tailors is in their flatly placing and pressing down all their seams by means of heated irons. The seams should be opened out—that is, each side of the seam should be folded back, and damped and smoothed by a hot iron before the lining is put in. As to a pattern, the best way to obtain one is from a tailor; and great assistance in the making up may be obtained by observing how the article picked to pieces was made. All visible button-holes should be made with silk, and not thread; and a strip for strengthening laid where buttons and button-holes are to be. There is no reason why clothes of this description, made by women, should either be bad fitting, or the work clumsy looking. This is not always the case; and any woman who has learned the use of her needle, and uses her powers of observation, might as well rival the tailor as not.

Odd cuttings of cloth are serviceable for mending or remaking the tops of boots. Foot-stools also may be covered with remaining pieces, and if braided with a lively-colored braid, have a neat and ornamental appearance. We have also seen made from the tails of a coat, a work-bag, which had a pattern with colored wools worked on each side, and really had a handsome appearance. Girls in a family might just as well use such materials to exercise their fancy and ingenuity upon, and so often save a good many wasted shillings.

Hearth-rugs are sometimes made by cutting cloth into strips half an inch wide and two inches long, and knitting them together with string. This is done by inserting the piece of cloth exactly at the middle, in the loop of the knitting and drawing it in very tight; it is rather hard finger-work, and some make the rug by sewing the strips of cloth on to a piece of old carpet or any other strong material that may be at hand. This sort of rug will in winter form a very comfortable addition to a poor man's fire-place. Or the bits may be knitted into smaller pieces for door-mats.

But when all the best bits have been employed as use or fancy may dictate, there will still remain some rough or thin cuttings which cannot be worked up any how; what is to be done with these? Perhaps we could not easily have answered this question, had we not recently heard a girl say, "Oh, mother is very glad indeed of such pieces; when she gets any, she washes them thoroughly, and sets us children to cut them up very small indeed, and fills a case with them to make a pillow; all our pillows and bolsters, and even the beds at home, are made like that, and we find them very comfortable; mother could never afford to buy proper beds for all us children."

Linen and cotton, and even flannel under-clothing, may generally be darned and pieced until the whole fabric is too much worn to be worth making into garments of any other form. It may sometimes be worth while, where the material has been originally good, to slightly make from them shirts and petticoats for infants; as the growth of the infant forbids their being worn any great length of time, and the material having been previously used is softer than new.

MAY-DAY.

The observance of May-day was a custom which, until the close of the reign of James the First, alike attracted the attention of the royal and the noble, as of the vulgar class. Henry the Eighth, Elizabeth, and James patronized and partook of its ceremonies; and, during this extended era, there was scarcely a village in the kingdom but had a May-pole, with its appropriate games and dances.

The origin of these festivities has been attributed to three different sources—Classic, Celtic, and Gothic. The first appears to us to establish the best claim to the parentage of our May-day rites, as a relic of the Roman Floralia, which were celebrated on the last four days of April, and on the first of May, in honor of the goddess Flora, and were accompanied with dancing, music, the wearing of garlands, strewing of flowers, &c. The Bettein, or rural sacrifice of the Highlanders, on this day, as described by Mr. Pennant and Dr. Jamieson, seems to have arisen from a different motive, and to have been instituted for the purpose of propitiating the various noxious animals which might injure or destroy their flocks and birds. The Gothic anniversary on May-day makes a nearer approach to the general purpose of the Floralia, and was intended as a thanksgiving to the sun; if not for the return of flowers, fruit, and grain, yet for the introduction of a better season for fishing and hunting. The modes of conducting the ceremonies and rejoicings on May-day may be best drawn from the writers of the Elizabethan period, in which this festival appears to have maintained a very high degree of celebrity, though not accompanied with that splendor of exhibition which took place at an earlier period, in the reign of Henry the Eighth. It may be traced, indeed, from the era of Chaucer, who, in the conclusion of his "Court of Love," has described the feast of May, when

Forth goth all the court, both most and leas,

To fetch the floures fresh, and braunch and blome;

And namely hauthorn brought both page and grome:

And then, rejoysen in their great delite,

Eke ech at other throw the floures bright,

The primerose, the violets, and the gold,

With fresh garlants party blew and white.

And it should be observed that this, the simplest mode of celebrating May-day, was as much in vogue in the days of Shakspeare as the more complex one, accompanied by the morris-dance and games of Robin Hood. The following description, by Bourne and Borlase, manifestly alludes to the costume of this age, and to the simpler mode of commemorating the first of May: "On the calends, or the first day of May," says the former, "the juvenile part of both sexes were wont to rise a little after midnight, and walk to some neighboring wood, accompanied with music and the blowing of horns, where they break down branches from the trees, and adorn them with nosegays and crowns of flowers. When this is done, they return with their booty homewards, about the rising of the sun, and make their doors and windows to triumph in the flowery spoil. The after part of the day is chiefly spent in dancing round a tall pole, which is called a May-pole; which, being placed in a convenient part of the village, stands there, as it were, consecrated to the goddess of flowers, without the least violence offered to it, in the whole circle of the year."

"An ancient custom," says the latter, "still retained by the Cornish, is that of decking their doors and porches on the first of May with green sycamore and hawthorn boughs, and of planting trees, or rather stumps of trees, before their houses. And, on May-eve, they from towns make excursions into the country, and, having cut down a tall elm, brought it into town, fitted a straight and taper pole to the end of it, and painted the same, erect it in the most public places; and on holidays and festivals adorn it with flower-garlands, or ensigns and streamers." So generally prevalent was this habit of early rising on May-day, that Shakspeare makes one of his inferior characters in King Henry the Eighth exclaim—

Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible

(Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons)

To scatter them, as 'tis to make them sleep

On May-day morning; which will never be.

But, about the commencement of the sixteenth century, or sooner, a very material addition was made to the celebration of the rites of May-day by the introduction of the characters of Robin Hood and some of his associates. This was done with a view towards the encouragement of archery, and the custom was continued even beyond the close of the reign of James the First. It is true that the May-games, in their rudest form—the mere dance of lads and lasses round a May-pole, or the simple morris with the Lady of the May—were occasionally seen during the days of Elizabeth; but the general exhibition was the more complicated ceremony which we are about to describe. The personages who now become the chief performers in the morris-dance were four of the most popular outlaws of Sherwood Forest. Warner, the contemporary of Shakspeare, speaking of the periods of some of our festivals, and remarking that "ere Penticost began our May," adds—

Tho' (then) Robin Hood, litell John, frier Tuck,

And Marian, deftly play,

And lord and ladie gang till kirke,

With lads and lasses gay;

Fra masse and een sang sa gud cheere,

And glee on ery greene.

These four characters, therefore—Robin Hood, Little John, Friar Tuck, and Maid Marian—although no constituent parts of the original English morris, became at length so blended with it, especially on the festival of May-day, that, until the practice of archery was nearly laid aside, they continued to be the most essential part of the pageantry.

BLESSINGTON'S CHOICE.

BY FITZ MORNER.

"Be kind to thy mother, for lo, on her brow,

May traces of sorrow be seen."—Popular Melody.

"Well, Blessington, so you've come back to locate with us, have you? Got enough of travelling and all its vexations, I presume?"

"Enough? As you please about that, George; but I find no vexations so weighty as to overcome the pleasures to be enjoyed in travel, by any manner of means. Still, I have returned to settle down in my native land, and my good genius seems to have thrown Dallydale in my way; so here I remain, and have commenced practice, as you see—or, rather, intend to commence, when any business presents itself."

"Excuse impertinence, Harry," said the first speaker, with a roguish look, "but—you'll get a wife, I suppose? You know, that's an absolute necessity in these days; to say nothing about performing an act of kindness to the scores who are waiting but to be asked."

"Well, I am not so certain as to the truth of that last remark; nevertheless, I have some intentions of that nature. By the way, George, can't you introduce me to some of the Dallydale ladies, that I may find a maiden to my liking? You know, I'm a perfect stranger in these parts."

"Good!" said George, springing from his chair, and thrusting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. "'Pon honor, I should be delighted to introduce you to some of my lady acquaintance. Ahem! 'Miss Jones, my friend, Mr. Blessington, of—of'—where shall it be, Harry? Paris, or London, or New York, or where? By my troth, Harry, you're the only mortal that I'd give a fig to exchange situations with; but you, with your fortune, your magnificent figure, your"——

"There! there, George; I declare, I was in hopes you had discarded those old ways of yours. It's exceedingly disagreeable, if you knew it, to be descanted upon in this manner to one's face. But come, when for those introductions?"

"This very night, Harry, if you please. I'll go with you, and call on some of my host of familiar acquaintances. By the way, there's one young lady, Miss Somers, a cousin of mine, who saw you at church last Sabbath, and who wishes to make your acquaintance. And—would you believe it?—she even told me so slyly. Yet there's no great wonder; for a man of your magnificent build"——

But Blessington closed his lips by placing his finger upon them, and together they left the office and disappeared up the street. These two young men were old schoolmates, and were quite familiar in their manner with each other. Blessington had been travelling in different lands for a couple of years previous, and, on his return to the United States, had fallen in with his friend, George Hart, some years his junior, and withal a pretty wild, though whole-hearted fellow. Both were wealthy, both of very prepossessing appearance and manners; but Blessington, if either, the more so.

On the evening of the same day in which we introduce them to you, kind reader, they sallied out as they had agreed. We cannot detail their pleasant evening's ramble; suffice it to say that Blessington was convinced that Dallydale was possessed of as charming ladies, and as kind and hospitable souls, as many other places of greater note. The Miss Somers of whom Hart had spoken, Blessington found to be a lady possessed of dazzling beauty, and a power of conversation he had seldom seen excelled. Accomplished, elegant, and lovely, it may appear strange to you, reader, when we tell you that our hero was not at all prepossessed by her appearance. He saw, or thought he saw, a species of contemptuous pride, a sort of glorying in her own attractions, and a scorning of all "lesser lights," that, to a man of his generous disposition, was anything but pleasing.

At another place, however, he saw a lady who was introduced to him as Miss Ella Cole, who appeared possessed of all those good qualities of the heart for which he sought. And, indeed, what beauty there was in her expressive features owed its existence to the genuine artlessness, affection, and sincerity shadowed forth in each particular lineament. Hart was not slow to observe that Blessington appeared inclined more strongly to "tarry yet a little" at this place than at any other during the entire evening.

That night Blessington had a dream, in which a certain pair of mild blue eyes, light sunny ringlets, and petite figure bore no insignificant part. There was another, too, whose ruby lips seemed to curl contemptuously towards the meek one, and whose piercing black eyes seemed to flash upon her the fires of hatred.

Some days after, Blessington met Miss Somers at the mansion of Colonel Auberly, and she appeared delighted to see him. Blessington, in the nobleness of his heart, was equally pleased at meeting her; and thus was the finishing stroke put to the work that rent from Miss Somers her proud heart and placed it in Blessington's possession, he all unconscious of the precious treasure he had obtained, and with his own safe in the place that God ordained for it.

Oh, ye that speak of the folly of prating of woman's wiles, know ye that when she determines, with her whole soul, to win a man's heart, it is twenty to one that, in spite of all human obstacles, she will accomplish her purpose? This was the spirit now awakened in Miss Somers's proud bosom. She saw, with her apt intelligence, the state of Blessington's feelings with regard to her, and she resolved that, come what would, she would obtain from our hero that which alone could content her ambitious soul—his unbounded affections. Did she succeed? You shall see.

From that hour forth, a change was noticed in the entire deportment of Flora Somers, and many were the conjectures as to what might be the cause thereof; but all were equally distant from the truth. Her haughty bearing in society had yielded to one of apparent humility, kindness, and a desire to gratify those around her. Blessington noticed it, and, far from supposing the real truth, he concluded that such was her natural disposition, and that his first impressions were the result of some unaccountable state of his mind at the time of his introduction to her.

However this might be, it was observed that his visits at Dr. Somers's were of frequent occurrence, and soon every gossip of Dallydale had another match in her eye. Few doubted that Flora Somers would eventually be Mrs. Blessington. And if our hero had been interrogated upon the subject, his replies—if he gave any—would not have been greatly at variance with this belief.

Might a peep have been taken behind the parlor curtains of Dr. Somers's mansion, on the occasion of some of these calls, one might have seen how

"Soft eyes looked love to eyes that spake again."

Thus matters stood. You who have passed the ordeal of love, and are now roaming in the fair fields of Hymen, can imagine what were Blessington's intentions and Flora Somers's expectations; while you who, like myself, have only read of such things, must content yourselves with the testimony of the initiated. Thus matters stood.

One evening, Blessington had sallied out for the evening rather earlier than was his wont, and was on his way to Dr. Somers's, intending to at once make known his intentions to "the most adorable of her sex," and be consigned to "everlasting misery or the supremacy of bliss," as she should decide.

Ha reached the door, and had laid his hand on the bell-knob, when he heard a voice sharply enunciating words which struck a chill to his heart's core, but whose pronouncer's voice sounded terribly like that of Miss Somers. He paused and listened.

"Well, mind your own business!" was the sound that greeted his ear from within, in a voice which there was now no mistaking.

"Flora!" reproachfully murmured the gentle voice of Mrs. Somers. And then followed the doctor with—

"My daughter, are you never to desist from your unfeeling disregard of a mother's love? Are you never to repay, even by respect and kindness, that anxiety and devotion with which she watched over your earlier years? It wounds me deeply that a daughter of mine should persist in thus treating one who loves her as no other being on earth ever can. Go to your room, Flora, and remain until you will ask your mother's forgiveness."

The hall-door was then closed with a bang, and Blessington heard the light foot of his heart's beloved ascending the stairway. He tarried no longer, but turned away and retraced his steps to his office. Locking the door behind him, he threw himself into a chair, and, from the bitter emotions of his soul, exclaimed—

"My God, what have I heard! Can it be that my own dear Flora is possessed of a heart like this? Though it tear the cords of my soul in shreds, I never will take to my bosom one who can thus treat her mother. Spirit of my sainted mother, idol of all my early dreams, never will I forsake the vow I plighted o'er thy corpse!"

Bowing his head upon his hands, Blessington became lost in the memories of the past. Hallowed associations arose to his view, and passed in solemn retrospect over his mind. He thought of his boyhood's days, of the old stone mansion that stood in the leafy grove, of the happy hours he had spent in those ancient halls, and he murmured a prayer to heaven, thanking his Maker for thus revealing to him the yawning abyss of misery into which he had been about to plunge.

After this came a calmness and capacity for deliberation that ere long recalled to his mind the recollection of Ella Cole—she that months since had appeared so attractive to him. As it was yet early, he sallied out, and a few minutes' walk found him at the door of the humble brick dwelling at the foot of the main street in the village, where Mr. Cole had long lived and pursued his honest calling. As he was about to ring, his hand was again arrested by the sound of a female voice; not in a loud tone, but softly, lowly, like the murmuring of distant music. It was Ella Cole reading from the "Lady's Book" a tale to her mother, who was listening with earnest attention.

"Ella, my dear girl," called a manly voice from an adjoining room, "will you please to bring me the last number of the 'Living Age?' It lies on the parlor table."

"Yes, father," said Ella, springing up. "Excuse me a moment, mother."

"Be quick, dear," was the mother's reply.

Light footsteps were heard tripping over the floor, and soon again was heard the voice of the sweet girl reading to her mother. Blessington could not resist comparing this scene with that of an hour previous. Being reluctant to intrude upon so happy a scene, he again retired and sought his office, but with far different feelings from those of a short time before.

He called next evening, and was more than ever convinced of the good qualities of Ella Cole's heart. She remained Ella Cole not long thereafter. She now rejoices in the name of Blessington, and proves a source of unceasing happiness to her worthy husband. Many wondered at this marriage—none more so than the two ladies most intimately concerned.

You have perused the simple truth, reader, related to the writer by him we have called George Hart. Blessington is not the only one in the human family who regards a mother in the light nearest approaching that of an angel of any other mortal, nor the only one that knows that in the degree which a girl is a good daughter, in the same degree will she be a good wife.

NEW REVELATIONS OF AN OLD COUNTRY.

THE GRAND LAMA.

WE are growing wiser in our generation. Two propositions we have fully demonstrated, viz., that some things can be done as well as others, and that some people know as much as others. The latter proposition is confirmed by the developments of each succeeding day. For a considerable period, we were contentedly wrapt up in the belief which the old Grecians took unto themselves. We were assured that all the enlightenment which had been vouchsafed to this sublunary sphere dwelt with us, and that all beyond our narrow circle was shrouded in the gloom of ignorance and barbarism. We were the chosen people. Travellers have worked remarkable changes in that flattering faith.

Much has been written concerning Tartary, Thibet, and China. But, upon reflection, we shall ascertain that our real knowledge of those countries, which form so large a portion of the globe, is exceedingly limited. We confidently receive and spread abroad the grossest errors in regard to the nature of these regions, the character of the inhabitants, and the peculiarities of their institutions. These errors may now receive due correction, for which we have to thank two adventurous French missionaries, of the Catholic Church, MM. Gabet and Huc. About the year 1844, the Pope established an Apostolical Vicariat of Mongolia; and, it being deemed expedient to ascertain the nature and extent of the diocese thus created, MM. Gabet and Huc, two Lazarists who were then attached to the petty mission of Si-Wang, were deputed to obtain the necessary intelligence. Through incredible difficulties they made their way to Lha-Ssa, the capital of Thibet and chief seat of Lamanism. Soon afterwards, Ke-Shen, the famous Chinese minister, had them arrested for political reasons, and deported to China, whence they were allowed to proceed to France. These missionaries enjoyed the best opportunities for observing the character of the inhabitants and the nature of the institutions in the countries they visited, and their statements may be relied upon as truth.

Tartary and Thibet are dependencies of the Chinese empire. The former is a vast region, divided into Mongolia, Mantchouria, and Elé. Mongolia comprises the territory lying between 35° and 50° north latitude, and 82° and 123° east longitude. Its length from east to west is about 1,700 miles, and its breadth about 1,000 miles. The surface of the country may be described as an elevated plateau, inclosed to the north-west by the Altai chain, and on the south by the Thibetian ranges. In the centre is the great sandy desert of Gobi, or Shamo, which is for the most part destitute of water and vegetation. Rivers are numerous north of the desert, and south of it are to be found several beautiful lakes. The climate is excessively cold, owing to the great elevation, dry atmosphere, and want of shelter from the winds, and the soil is almost entirely barren. As might be expected from the nature of the country, the Mongols are nomadic, wandering within certain limits with their herds and flocks. They pass the greater part of their waking hours on horseback, or on their camels, where they sometimes sleep. They are hardy and active, and have always been famed for their warlike disposition. Under the great Timour, they subdued the largest portion of Asia. But their power is now confined to their own barren territory. Their religion is called Lamanism, and the Lamas are at once their rulers, priests, and teachers. The tribes of that portion of Mongolia called Koukou-Noor have princely chiefs, who are tributary to the Emperor of China.

Mantchouria comprises the most eastern portion of the elevated plateau of Central Asia, and lies between 42° and 58° north latitude, and 120° and 140° east longitude. It has the Yablonnoi mountains on the north, the Chinese seas on the east and south, and the Sialkoi mountains on the west. The greater part of the country is covered with forests, in which bears, tigers, wolves, deer, and numerous fur-bearing animals abound. This region is well watered. Besides several lakes of considerable size, it has the great River Amour, or Saghalien, which is about 2,200 miles in length. Mantchouria is inhabited by a number of roving tribes; but the principal are those called Mantchoos. They differ but slightly from the other inhabitants of Tartary, and may be spoken of in connection with them.

Elé is an extensive region east of the Celestial Mountains, stretching from 36° to 49° north latitude, and from 71° to 96° east longitude. Soorgaria occupies about one-third of the province. This territory is the penal colony of the Chinese empire. Large bodies of convicts are sent here to work, and guarded by Chinese troops. The country is wild, and but a small portion of it is under cultivation.

Thibet is the most southern of the three great table-lands of Central Asia. It is surrounded by lofty mountains, most of which are extremely difficult of ascent. It has Gobi and Khoten on the north, Kokonor on the north-east, Szechuen and Yunan, provinces of China proper, on the east, and provinces of India upon the south and west. The average length of this great plateau is about fourteen hundred miles, and the average breadth about three hundred miles. The highest plains are at least ten thousand feet above the sea. Thibet is divided by mountain ranges into three distinct parts. The western one consists of the valley of the Indus. The central one comprises an extensive desert land. The eastern consists of a number of ridges and peaks. The number of peaks above the line of perpetual snow is greater than in any other part of the world. The Indus, Yang-tse-kiang, and the Brahmaputra, three of the largest rivers in the world, have their primary sources in Thibet. The lakes are large, and some of the isolated ones are perfectly salt. The climate is pure and excessively dry. The soil is better adapted for grazing than for cultivation; but the plain in which Lha-Ssa, the capital, is situated, is remarkably fertile. The Thibetians belong to the Mongolian race, and their general character resembles that of the Tartars of Central and Northern Asia.

We have said that the grossest errors are entertained in regard to the customs and institutions of the Tartars and Thibetians. These we are now enabled to correct by the revelations of MM. Gabet and Huc, and we begin with their religion, for by that their customs and institutions are shaped, in a great degree.

It is generally believed that Lamanism, or reformed Buddhism, which is the religion of about one hundred and seventy millions of people inhabiting Tartary, Thibet, and China proper, is a species of degrading idolatry, on a level with the dark heathenism of the Hindoo—brutal, sensual, and deserving of the contempt of enlightened Christian minds. An account of the origin and nature of this religion will show how far we have been from the truth.

According to the Lamanesque chronicles, a shepherd named Lombo-Moke, of the country called Amdo, in Tartary, married a woman named Ching-tsa-Tsio, who shared with him the cares of a pastoral life. In the year of the Fire Hen (1357) Ching-tsa-Tsio had a child, whose birth was attended with many miraculous features, according to the traditions of the people among whom his mission was to be performed. The child was a marvellous being. At his birth he had a white beard, and his countenance expressed an extraordinary majesty. As soon as he saw the light, he was capable of expressing himself with clearness and precision in the language of Amdo. At the age of three, Tsong-Kaba resolved to embrace a religious life. Ching-tsa-Tsio herself shaved his head, and threw his fine hair outside of the tent. From this hair sprung a tree, the wood of which dispensed an exquisite perfume around, and each leaf of which bore upon its surface a character in the sacred language of Thibet. Tsong-Kaba withdrew into most absolute retirement, and passed his days in fasting and prayer upon the summits of the highest mountains. He respected the life of even the humblest insect, and rigorously interdicted himself the consumption of any flesh whatever. While he was thus engaged in purifying his heart, a Lama, from one of the most remote regions of the west, visited Amdo, and amazed the people by his learning and the sanctity of his life. His appearance was remarked as singular. He had a great nose, and his eye gleamed with something like seraphic fire. Tsong-Kaba sought him for an instructor, and he, struck with the wonderful qualities of the young man, took him for a disciple. After having initiated his pupil in all the doctrines recognized by the most renowned saints of the west, the stranger fell asleep one day on the summit of a mountain, and never opened his eyes on earth again.

Deprived of his tutor, Tsong-Kaba determined to proceed westward, and drink the precepts of sacred science where that tutor had quaffed them. He reached the sacred town of Central Thibet; and there a Lla, or spirit, all radiant with light, checked his progress, and thus addressed him: "Oh, Tsong-Kaba, all these vast regions belong to the great empire which has been granted to thee. It is here thou art ordained to promulgate the rites of religion and its prayers. It is here will be accomplished the last evolution of thy immortal life." Tsong-Kaba then entered Lha-Ssa, the Land of Spirits, and began his career as a teacher and reformer.

The ancient worship of Buddha was strongly rooted in the minds of the people. But Tsong-Kaba made partisans rapidly. They were called Yellow Cap Lamas, to distinguish them from the Red Cap Lamas who supported the old system. In a short time, the reformers became predominant, and the homage of the multitude was turned from the living Buddha, or Chakdja, the head of the old hierarchy, to Tsong-Kaba. At an interview between the two chiefs, a discussion was held, which resulted in the complete triumph of the reformer. Thenceforward the reforms proposed met with no obstacle; they were adopted throughout Thibet and Tartary. In 1419, the soul of Tsong-Kaba, who had become Buddha, quitted the earth, returned to the Celestial Realm, and was admitted to the heaven of rapture. His body is reported to preserve all its freshness to the present day; and, by a perennial miracle, it lies a little above the earth, without being supported by anything visible. Besides reforming the liturgy, Tsong-Kaba issued a new edition of the "Body of Doctrine," and left, among his other works, an important one entitled the "Lam-Rim-Tsien-Bo, or the Progressive Path to Perfection."

MM. Gabet and Huc were impressed with the striking similarity between the Lamanesque worship and Catholicism. The cross, the mitre, the dalmatica, the cape, which the Grand Lamas wear on their journeys, or when they are performing some ceremony out of the temple; the service with double choirs, the psalmody, the exorcisms, the censer, suspended from five chains; the benedictions given by the Lamas by extending the right hand over the head of the faithful; the chaplet, ecclesiastical celibacy, spiritual retirement, the worship of the saints, the fasts, the processions, the litanies, the holy water, all these are analogous in the two modes of worship. Monasteries were founded by Tsong-Kaba, and they now contain a very large number of Lamas. The principal one is situated about three leagues from Lha-Ssa. It contains eight thousand Lamas, who devote the greater portion of their lives to study. The monastery of Hounboum is situated at the Lamanesque Mecca—the foot of the mountain where Tsong-Kaba was born. Near it is shown the tree of the Ten Thousand Images, which is said to have sprung from the hair of Tsong-Kaba. MM. Gabet and Huc both saw this wonderful tree, and they testify that Thibetian characters are distinctly traceable upon its leaves. It is covered by a dome of silver, erected by the Emperor Khang-Hi.

The French missionaries naturally conjectured that the Lama from the remote west, who taught Tsong-Kaba, was a Christian priest. Upon a further intercourse with the Thibetians, they learned that the only two essential points in which the Lamas of Thibet differed from the Catholic priests of Rome, were concerning the origin of the world and the transmigration of souls. Two alternatives presented themselves to the minds of the missionaries: To believe that the Thibetians had enjoyed the blessing of a divine revelation, or that they had been visited ages before by Christian missionaries. They concluded the latter was the most rational and probable. The celebrated Swedenborg declared that an Ancient Word, a revelation prior to the Mosaic, and including the lost Book of Jasher, was still preserved in Tartary; and the members of his church now assert that the discoveries of MM. Gabet and Huc go very far towards establishing the truth of this declaration.

The Lamanesque Church has a regular organization like that of the Church of Rome. Each Tartar kingdom has a Grand Lama, who is selected from the members of the royal family. There is also a Grand Lama for all Thibet. This personage resides in the Lamasery, like a living idol, receiving every day the adorations of the devout, upon whom, in return, he bestows his blessing. Everything which relates to prayers and liturgical ceremonies is placed under his immediate superintendence. The Mongol Grand Lama is charged with the administration, good order, and executive of the Lamasery; he governs while his colleague is content to reign. Each Lamasery of the first class has a Living Buddha for its head. He is believed to be immortal. When his death is reported, there is no mourning in the Lamasery; for it is believed that he will soon reappear as a child. The augur, or Tchurtchur, indicates the place where the child will declare himself, and this always occurs. A certain precocious child announces that he is the Living Buddha, and the people immediately display the most enthusiastic joy. The child is rigidly examined as to the residence, habits, and property of the deceased Buddha. If his answers are satisfactory, and they generally are, he is conducted in triumph to his Lamasery, the people prostrating themselves along his path.

The Grand Lamas who govern have a number of subalterns, who direct the details of administration. After this staff, the inhabitants of the Lamasery are divided into Lama-masters and Lama-disciples, or Chabis. Each Lama has under his direction one or more Chabis, who live in his small house and execute all the details of the household. These Chabis are also considered as pupils, and when they fail to commit their studies to memory they are severely punished.

All instruction, both in Thibet and Tartary, is ecclesiastical. It is said that the majority of the people constantly act with a view to a future life. They are, in fact, much more consistently religious, according to their notions, than the so-called Christian nations of Europe. As to the character of those notions, we may learn from the Thibetian work entitled "The Forty-Two Points of Instruction delivered by Buddha," that they are purely moral. According to this book, "there are in living creatures ten species of acts which are called good, and also ten species of acts which are called evil. There are three which appertain to the body, murder, theft, and impurity; four, which appertain to speech, are words sowing discord, insulting maledictions, impudent lies, and hypocritical expressions; three appertaining to the will, are envy, anger, and malignant thoughts." The wicked man who persecutes a good man is compared to a madman who spits against heaven, the spittle falling back in his face. The man who seeks riches is compared to a child who cuts itself while trying to eat honey with a knife. Voluptuousness is denounced as a sin, and the dominion of the mind over the passions of the heart is rigidly enforced. The belief in a spiritual God, who rewards good actions and punishes evil ones, is common to all Tartars and Thibetians. They believe that he is the beginning and end of all things, and that he has assumed the human shape and appeared among men to stimulate them to do good. They divide living beings into six classes, angels, demons, men, quadrupeds, birds, and reptiles, corresponding to the six syllables of the prayer they constantly repeat: "Om mani pad me houm." (Oh, the gem in the lotus, Amen.) The meaning of this singular prayer is said to be an aspiration after divine perfection. The reward of the just and perfect is believed to be an absorption into the blissful soul of the Deity.

The monasteries of these people differ in some respects from the Catholic establishments of Europe. It cannot be said that the Lamas live in community. You may find among them all the graduated shades of poverty and wealth that you see in mundane cities. Every third month, the authorities make a distribution of meal to all the Lamas of the Lamaseries without distinction. The voluntary offerings of the pilgrims to Hounboum come in aid of this donation. Some of these offerings are in money; but generally they consist of a tea-drinking entertainment, to which all the Lamas are invited. These entertainments are very expensive.

A large number of the Lamas gain a livelihood by the ordinary occupations of life; but a certain class devote themselves entirely to study and contemplation. Among the industrial Lamas, a number occupy themselves in printing and transcribing the Lamanesque books. The Thibetian writing proceeds horizontally from left to right. Stereotype printing on wood is alone practised, no use being made of movable type. The Thibetian books resemble a large pack of cards, the leaves being movable and printed on both sides. The manuscript editions of the Lamanesque books are enriched with illustrative designs, and the characters are elegantly traced. The Lamas use sized paper and a bamboo pen. Their inkstand is filled with cotton saturated with ink.

In each Lamasery there is a Faculty of Prayers, and the Grand Lama and the students of this department are often appealed to by the government to preserve their locality from calamity. On these occasions, the Lamas ascend to the summits of high mountains, and spend two whole days in praying, exorcising, and in erecting the Pyramid of Peace—a small pyramid of earth whitened with lime, a flag, inscribed with Thibetian characters, floating above.

THE PYRAMID OF PEACE.

Each Lamasery has also a Faculty of Medicine. The physicians assign to the human frame four hundred and forty-four maladies. In the medical books the symptoms are described and the remedies stated. Bleeding and cupping are sometimes resorted to. The books contain much quackery, but also a large number of valuable recipes, the benefits of which are confirmed by long experience and observation.

Four great festivals are observed by the Tartars and Thibetians during the year. The most famous of all is the Feast of Flowers, which takes place on the fifteenth day of the first moon. It is celebrated with the greatest magnificence at Hounboum, where, at the appointed time, a vast number of pilgrims congregate. Three months are occupied in preparation, a Council of Fine Arts being appointed to superintend. The most remarkable achievements are the butter-works—all the Asiatic nations being represented with their peculiar physiognomies and costumes in fresh butter. MM. Gabet and Huc state that this butter-work and the arrangement of the flowers excelled anything they ever beheld as the result of art. At night the exhibition was splendidly illuminated. In front of the principal temple there was a theatre with its performers and decorations, all of butter. The dramatis personæ were a foot high, and represented a community of Lamas on their way to solemnize prayer. The Lamas were movable puppets. The day after the Feast of Flowers not a trace remains of these splendid works. All are demolished, and the butter thrown to the cows.

The Thibetians have made extensive progress in those arts which are generally considered the flowers of civilization. Their architecture, though somewhat fantastical, often appears grand. Some of their temples are very imposing. Most of the houses at the capital at Lha-Ssa are several stories high, terminating in a terrace, slightly sloped to carry off the water. They are white-washed all over, except the bordering round the doors and windows, which is painted red or yellow. The people of Lha-Ssa are in the habit of painting their houses once a year, so that they always seem as if just built. In one of the suburbs, the houses are built of the horns of oxen and sheep, and they present a most fantastical appearance. Lha-Ssa is laid out with broad streets, and surrounded with a beautiful wall of gardens. Besides the taste and architectural skill displayed in the erection of the temples and dwelling-houses of the capital, we find a number of grand mausoleums in various parts of Thibet, which evince a high degree of development in art. The Thibetians are not in the habit of burying their dead. In general, the bodies are left upon the summits of the mountains, or thrown to the dogs, being esteemed but as worthless clods; but mausoleums have been erected in honor of famous Grand Lamas.

THEATRE AT THE FEAST OF FLOWERS.

The manufactures of the Thibetians are various and valuable. Although the severest labor is performed by the women, the men employ themselves quite profitably, especially in spinning and weaving wool. The stuffs they manufacture, which are called poulon, are of a very close and solid fabric, and surprisingly various in quality, from the coarsest cloths to the finest possible merino. By a rule of reformed Buddhism, every Lama must be attired in red poulon. The consumption of the article in Thibet is very large, and considerable quantities are exported. The pastile-sticks, so celebrated in China, are manufactured at Lha-Ssa, of various aromatic trees, mixed with musk and gold dust. When these sticks are lighted they consume slowly, and diffuse around an exquisite perfume. The Thibetians have no porcelain, but they manufacture all kinds of pottery in great perfection. The only tea-service used throughout Thibet is a wooden cup, which is either carried in the bosom or suspended from the girdle. Some of the most costly cups have the property of neutralizing poisons.

The agricultural productions of the Thibetians are very poor. They cultivate a little wheat and still less rice. The chief production is tsing-kon, or black barley, of which is made the tsamba, that basis of the aliment of the entire Thibetian population. All the labor of cultivating the ground is performed by the women. The implements used are of the most primitive description, and the work is wretchedly done.

Thibet is exceedingly rich in metals. Gold and silver are collected there so readily, that the common shepherds have become acquainted with the art of purifying these precious metals. Specie is of a low value, and, consequently, goods maintain a high price. The monetary system of the Thibetians consists entirely of silver coins, which are somewhat larger than French francs. On one side they bear an inscription, and upon the other, they have a crown of light, small flowers. To facilitate commerce, these coins are cut into pieces, the number of flowers remaining on each piece determining its value—a very simple, yet adequate arrangement. In the larger commercial transactions, ingots of silver are employed. The Pebouns, or Indians settled at Lha-Ssa, are the only workers in metals at the capital. In their quarters, you may find ironsmiths, braziers, plumbers, tin-men, founders, goldsmiths, jewellers, machinists, and even chemists. There all sorts of vases are manufactured for the use of the Lamaseries, and some of them are exquisitely ornamented. While these Indians are the chief manufacturers of Thibet, the Katchi, or Musselmen, are the leading merchants. Their religion and their trade are respected by the government.

The greater portion of the wealth of Thibet is the property of the Lamaseries. The people experience all the misery consequent upon the existence of an overpaid church establishment. Yet they are so devoted to their religion that they are never weary of making rich offerings to the Lamas. There are swarms of beggars throughout the country; but it is only just to observe that the Thibetians are kind and compassionate, and that those who are blessed with a goodly store give freely.

The condition of woman is always a fair test of progress in civilization. Polygamy prevails, with the sanction of the Lamanesque religion, in Thibet and Tartary. But the first wife is always the mistress of the household, and the most respected in the family. MM. Gabet and Huc thought polygamy a real blessing to the people of those countries. Celibacy being imposed on the Lamas, and the class of those who shave the head and live in Lamaseries being so numerous, it is easy to conceive what disorders would arise from the multiplication of young women without support, and abandoned to themselves, if girls could not be placed in families in the quality of second wives. Divorce is frequent, and it takes place without any intervention of civil or ecclesiastical authorities. In Tartary, the women lead an independent life, coming and going at pleasure.

The Thibetian women submit, in their toilet, to a custom or law scarcely credible. Before going out of doors they always rub their faces over with a sort of black, glutinous varnish, the object being to render themselves as ugly and hideous as possible. This practice is said to be about two hundred years old, and tradition says that it originated with an austere Lama king, who desired to check licentiousness of manners. At present, the women who bedaub their faces the most hideously are esteemed the most pious. The women lead an active and laborious life. Besides fulfilling the various duties of the household, they concentrate in their own hands all the petty trade of the country, whether as hawkers, as stall-keepers in the streets or in the shops. Little or no restraint is imposed upon them. Their general character for morality is good—in fact, if compared with that of other Asiatic women, quite exemplary. They are strictly attentive to their devotions, and will even go beyond the men in deeds of penance and mortification of the body.

We hope we have given a sufficient idea of the recent revelations concerning Thibetian and Tartarian life to awaken an interest in further developments. The discoveries of the French missionaries have but opened the way for others of the highest importance to mankind. From what we have related, it will be inferred that the work of Christianizing Asia will not be so difficult as has hitherto been supposed; that reformed Buddhism is a good preparation of one hundred and seventy millions of people for the reception of those truths which Christians believe to be necessary to the salvation of man; and that we have not false idols to throw down, but to a belief essentially pure, spiritual, and godly, to add that definite knowledge of a new dispensation, the universal prevalence of which must banish strife from the face of the earth, and render it a realm of uninterrupted bliss.

REMEMBERED HAPPINESS.

MANKIND are always happier for having been happy; so that if you make them happy now, you make them happy twenty years hence, by the memory of it. A childhood passed with a due mixture of rational indulgence, under fond and wise parents, diffuses over the whole of life a feeling of calm pleasure, and in extreme old age is the very last remembrance which time can erase from the mind of man. How enjoyment, however inconsiderable, is confined to the present moment! A man is the happier for life from having made once an agreeable tour, or lived for any length of time with pleasant people, or enjoyed any considerable interval of innocent pleasure.

THE TRIALS OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.[A]

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

(Continued from page 334.)

CHAPTER VIII.

A BOY of more robust constitution and fuller of blood than Henry Gaston, with that activity which a fine flow of animal spirits and a high degree of health give, would have cared little for the exposure to which he was subjected at Sharp's, even if clad no more comfortably. But Henry had little of that healthy warmth natural to the young. He was constitutionally delicate, and this caused him to feel more keenly the chilling intensity of the cold to which he was frequently exposed without sufficient clothing. His whole dress, intended to protect him from the cold of a remarkably severe and trying winter, was a thin shirt, the remains of one worn for nearly a year; the jacket and trowsers, thin and threadbare, that Mrs. Sharp had made for him out of some worn-out garment which her husband had thrown aside, and which were now rent in many places; a pair of dilapidated yarn stockings, with feet like a honey-comb. His shoes, the pair given him by his mother, had been half-soled once, but were again so far gone that his stockings protruded in several places, and yet neither his master nor mistress seemed to take any notice of their condition, and he was afraid to ask for a new pair. When it rained or snowed, or, worse, when it rained with or after the snow, as it had done several times within a week, his shoes were but a poor protection for his feet. The snow and water went through them as through a sieve.

Before the first of February, the poor boy was almost crippled with the chilblains. Through the day, he hobbled about as best he could, often in great pain; and at night the tender skin of his feet, irritated by the warmth of the bed, would keep him awake for hours with a most intolerable burning and itching.

"Why don't you walk straight? What do you go shuffling along in that kind of style for?" said Sharp to him one day, toward the last of January.

"My feet are so sore," replied Henry, with a look of suffering, blended with patient endurance.

"What's the matter with them, ha?" asked his master, glancing down at the miserable apologies for shoes and stockings that but partially protected the child's feet from the snow whenever he stepped beyond the threshold.

"They're frosted, sir," said Henry.

"Frosted, ha? Pull off your shoes and stockings, and let me see."

Henry drew off an old shoe, tied on with various appliances of twine and leather-strings; and then removed a stocking that, through many gaping holes, revealed the red and shining skin beneath. That little foot was a sight to pain the heart of any one but a cruel tyrant. The heel, in many places, was of a dark purple, and seemed as if mortification were already begun. And in some places it was cracked open, and exhibited running sores.

"Take off your other shoe and stocking," said Sharp, in an authoritative tone.

Henry obeyed, trembling all the while. This foot exhibited nearly the same marks of the progress of the painful disease.

"What have you done for it?" asked Sharp, looking Henry in the face with a scowl.

"Nothing but put a little candle-grease on it at night before I went to bed," replied the child.

"Come out here with me. I'll doctor you," said his master, turning away and disappearing through the back door. Henry followed as quickly as he could walk on his bare feet, that seemed ready to give way under him at every step. When he got as far as the kitchen, he found Sharp waiting for him in the door.

"Here, jump out into that snow-bank!" said he, pointing to a pile of snow that had been shovelled up only that morning, after a fall through the night, and lay loose and high.

The poor boy looked down at his crippled, and, indeed, bleeding feet, and, as may well be supposed, hesitated to comply with the peremptory order.

"Do you hear, sir?" exclaimed his master seizing him by the collar, and pushing him out into the yard. Then catching him by one arm, he set him in the centre of the snow-bank, his naked feet and legs going down into it some twelve or eighteen inches.

"Now stand there until I tell you to come out!"

The child did not scream, for he had already learned to bear pain, without uttering even the natural language of suffering; although the agony he endured for the next minute was terrible. At the end of that time, a motion of the head of his master gave him to understand that the ordeal was over.

"Now take that bucket of cold water, and let him put his feet into it," said he to a little girl they had just taken to raise, and who stood near the kitchen window, her heart almost ready to burst at the cruelty inflicted upon the only one in the house with whom she had a single feeling in common.

The girl quickly obeyed, and sat down on the floor beside the bucket of water. She handled tenderly the blood red feet of the little boy, ever and anon looking up into his face, and noting, with tender solicitude, the deep lines of suffering upon his forehead.

"There, that will do," said Sharp, who stood looking on, "and now run up stairs and get a better pair of stockings for Henry."

"What do you want with a better pair of stockings?" said Mrs. Sharp, a few moments after, bustling down into the kitchen.

"Why, I want them for Henry," replied her husband.

"Want them for Henry!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Where's the ones he had on?"

"There are some old rags in the shop that he had on; but they won't do now, with such feet as he's got."

"What's the matter with his feet, I'd like to know," inquired Mrs. Sharp.

"Why, they're frosted."

"Let him put them in snow, then. That'll cure 'em. It's nothing but a little snow-burn, I suppose."

"It's something a little worse than that," replied Sharp, "and he must have a comfortable pair of stockings. And here, Anna, do you run around to Stogies, and tell him to send me three or four pairs of coarse shoes, about Henry's size."

Anna, the little girl, disappeared with alacrity, and Mr. Sharp, turning to his wife, said—

"Henry must have a good, warm pair of stockings, or we shall have him sick on our hands."

"Well, I'll find him a pair," replied Mrs. Sharp, going off up stairs. In the mean time, Henry still sat with his feet in the cold water. But the pain occasioned by the snow was nearly all gone. Mrs. Sharp came down with the stockings, and Anna came in with the shoes at the same moment. On lifting the child's feet from the water, the redness and inflammation had a good deal subsided. Mrs. Sharp rubbed them with a little sweet oil, and then gave him the stockings to put on. He next tried the shoes, and one pair of them fitted him very well. But his feet were too sore and tender for such hard shoes, and when they were on, and tied up around the ankles, he found that after getting up they hurt him most dreadfully in his attempt to walk. But he hobbled, as best he could, into the shop.

"Throw them dirty things into the street!" were the only words addressed to him by Sharp, who pointed at his wet apologies for shoes and stockings, still lying upon the floor.

Henry did as directed, but every step he took was as if he were treading upon coals of fire. His feet, now enveloped in a closely fitting pair of woollen stockings, and galled by the hard and unyielding leather of the new shoes, itched and burned with maddening fervor.

"Here, carry this hat home," said his master, as he came in from the street, not seeming to notice the expression of suffering that was on his face, nor the evident pain with which he walked.

Henry took the hat, and started out. He was but a few paces from the shop, before he found that the shoes rubbed both heels, and pressed upon them at the same time so hard as to produce a sensation at each step as if the skin were torn off. Sometimes he would stop, and wait a moment or two, until the intolerable pain subsided, and then he would walk on again with all the fortitude and power of endurance he could command. In this extreme suffering, the uppermost thought in his mind, when on the street, kept his eyes wandering about, and scanning every female form that came in sight, in the ever-living hope of seeing his mother. But the sigh of disappointment told, too frequently, that he looked in vain. He had not proceeded far, when the pains in his feet became so acute that he paused, and leaned against a tree-box, unable, for a time, to move forward a single step. While resting thus, Doctor R——, who had been called to visit a patient in Lexington, came past in his carriage and noticed him. There was something about the child, although so changed that he did not recognize him, that aroused the doctor's sympathies, and he ordered his man to drive up to the pavement and stop.

"Well, my little man, what's the matter?" said he, leaning out of his carriage window.

Henry looked up into his face, but did not reply. He knew Doctor R—— instantly. How strong a hope sprang up in his heart—the hope of hearing from or being taken back to his mother! The kind-hearted physician needed no words to tell him that the little boy was suffering acutely. The flushed face, the starting eye, and the corrugation of the brow, were language which he understood as plainly as spoken words.

"What ails you, my little boy?" he said, in a voice of tender concern.

The feelings of Henry softened under the warmth of true sympathy expressed in the countenance and tone of Doctor R——, and still looking him steadily in the face, essayed, but in vain, to answer the question.

"Are you sick, my boy?" asked the doctor, with real and increasing concern for the poor child.

"My feet hurt me so that I can hardly walk," replied Henry, whose tongue at last obeyed his efforts to speak.

"And what ails your feet?" asked Doctor R——.

"They've been frosted, sir."

"Frosted, indeed! poor child! Well, what have you done for them?"

"Nothing—only I greased them sometimes at night; and to-day my master made me stand in the snow."

"The cruel wretch!" muttered Doctor R—— between his teeth. "But can't you walk up as far as the drug store at the corner, and let me see your feet?" continued the doctor.

"Yes, sir," replied the child, though he felt that to take another step was almost impossible.

"You'll come right up, will you?" urged the doctor.

"Yes, sir," returned Henry, in a low voice.

"Then I'll wait for you. But come along as quickly as you can;" and so saying, the doctor drove off. But he could not help glancing back, after he had gone on about the distance of half a square, for his heart misgave him for not having taken the little fellow into his carriage. He soon caught a glimpse of him on the sidewalk, slowly and laboriously endeavoring to work his way along, but evidently with extreme suffering. He at once gave directions to the driver to turn back; and taking Henry into the carriage, hurried on to the office. The child, when lifted in, sank back upon the seat, pale and exhausted. Doctor R—— asked him no question; and when the carriage stopped, directed the driver to carry him in. He then, with his own hands, carefully removed his shoes and stockings.

"My poor, poor child!" said he, in pity and astonishment, on beholding the condition of Henry's feet. The harsh remedy prescribed by Sharp, if the subsequent treatment had been tender and judicious, might have been salutary; but, after it, to confine the boy's feet in hard, tight new shoes, and to send him out upon the street, was to induce a high state of inflammation, and, in the advanced state of the chilblains, to endanger mortification. Several of the large ulcerous cracks, which were bleeding freely, the doctor dressed, and then, cutting a number a short strips of adhesive plaster, he applied them to the skin over the heel and foot, in various directions, so as almost completely to cover every portion of the surface.

"How does that feel?" he asked, looking into Henry's face with an air of relief and satisfaction, after he had finished the first foot.

"It feels a good deal better," replied the child, his voice and the expression of his countenance both indicating that he no longer suffered so excruciatingly as he had but a short time previously.

The other foot was soon dressed in the same way. Doctor R—— then went back into the house and got a loose pair of stockings and a light pair of shoes, belonging to one of the apothecary's children, from their mother. These fitted Henry comfortably, and when he stood down upon his feet he did not experience any pain.

"That feels a good deal better, don't it?" said the doctor, smiling.

"Yes, indeed it does," and Henry looked his gratitude; and yet, blended with that look, was an expression that seemed to the doctor an appeal for protection.

"You're afraid to go back now, ain't you, since you've stayed so long?" he asked, in a tone meant to encourage the child's confidence.

"Indeed I am. Mr. Sharp will be almost sure to beat me."

"What a very devil incarnate the man must be!" muttered Doctor R—— to himself, taking three or four strides across the floor. "I shall have to take the little fellow home, and brow-beat his master, I suppose," he continued. Then addressing Henry, he said, aloud—

"Well, I'll take you home to him in my carriage, and settle all that for you, my little man; so don't be frightened."

Acting upon this resolution, Doctor R—— soon drove up before the hatter's shop, and, lifting out Henry himself, led him into the presence of his astonished master.

"What's the matter now?" asked the latter, roughly, and with a forbidding aspect of countenance.

"The matter is simply this, sir," responded Doctor R——, firmly. "I found this little boy of yours on the street absolutely unable to get along a step farther; and on taking him into the drug store above, and examining his feet, I found them in a most shocking condition! Why, sir, in twelve hours mortification would have commenced, when nothing could have saved his life but the amputation of both limbs." The sober earnestness of Doctor R—— caused Sharp to feel some alarm, and he said—

"I had no idea, doctor, that he was as bad as that."

"Well, he is, I can assure you, and it is a fortunate thing that I happened to come across him. Why, I haven't seen so bad a case of chilblains these ten years."

"What ought I to do for him, doctor?" asked Sharp, in real concern.

"I have done all that is necessary at present," replied the doctor. "But he must be suffered to have rest; and, as you value his limbs, don't let him be exposed to the wet or cold until his feet are healed, and the tenderness and soreness are both gone."

"I shall attend to your direction, most certainly," said Sharp, his manner greatly changed from what it was when the doctor came in. "But, really, doctor," he continued, "I had no idea that there was any danger in getting the feet a little frosted."

"The chilblains are not only extremely painful," replied Doctor R——, "but there is great danger, where the feet are exposed to wet and cold, as Henry's must have been to get in the condition they are, of mortification supervening. That little boy will require great care, or he will stand a chance of being crippled for life. Good-morning!"

Poor Henry! How eagerly had he hung upon the doctor's words! how almost agonizing had been his desire for even the slightest intimation that he was remembered by the physician, to whose mistaken kind offices he was indebted for the place he held in the family of Sharp! But all was in vain. A dozen times he was on the eve of asking for his mother; but, as often, weak timidity held him back. In the presence of his master, fear kept him dumb. It seemed to him as if life would go out when he saw Doctor R—— turn away from the shop and enter his carriage. A deep darkness fell upon his spirit.

As Doctor R—— rode off in his carriage, he could not help congratulating himself on the good deed he had performed. Still he did not feel altogether satisfied about the boy. He had been so much concerned for his distressed situation, that he had failed to make any inquiries of him in regard to his friends; and for this he blamed himself, because it was clear that, if the child had friends, they ought to know his condition. He blamed himself for this thoughtlessness, and a consciousness of having performed but half of his duty to the poor boy caused a shade of concern to steal over him, which he could not shake off.

And Henry, as he stood frightened in the shop, felt, as the carriage-wheels rattled away, the hope that had awakened, faint and trembling in his heart, sinking into the gloom of despair. One who could have told him of his mother; one who, if he had only taken the courage to have mentioned his name, could have taken tidings of his condition to her, or perhaps would have carried him home, had been beside him for half an hour, and he had not spoken out. And now he was gone. He felt so sick and weak that he could hardly stand.

From his sad, waking dreams he was roughly startled by the loud, sharp voice of his mistress, who, attracted by the strong expressions of Doctor R——, now entered the shop, exclaiming—

"What's all this? What's that little wretch been doing now, ha?"

"I wish I'd never seen him!" muttered Sharp, but in a tone that left no doubt on the mind of his wife that something more than usually annoying had occurred.

"What's the matter? What's he been doing? Not stealing, I hope; though I shouldn't wonder."

"He's sick, and you've got to take care of him," was the dogged answer of Sharp.

"Sick! He looks sick, don't he?" The tones of the virago were full of contempt.

Any eye but hers would have seen sickness, sorrow, suffering, and want in the pale, frightened face of the poor boy, as he stood trembling beside the counter, and actually clinging to it for support.

"Who was that in here, just now?" she added.

"Doctor R——, of Boston," replied the hatter, who knew the doctor by sight very well.

"What did he want?"

"He picked Henry up in the street and took him over to the drug store at the corner. Then he brought him home in his carriage. He says that he must be taken care of, or he will become a cripple; that it's the worst case of chilblains he ever saw; and that his feet are in danger of mortification."

"I don't believe a word of it. Here! you go off up stairs," speaking sharply, and with a threatening look, to the child. "I'd like to know what business he has to come here, meddling in affairs that don't concern him."

Henry, thus spoken to, let go of the counter, by which he was sustaining himself, and attempted to move towards the door. As he did so, his face grew deadly pale. He staggered across the shop, fell against the wall, and then sank down upon the floor. Mrs. Sharp sprang towards him, not with any humane intention, we are sorry to say; but, ere she had grasped the boy's arm, and given him the purposed jerk, the sight of his ashen, lifeless face prevented the outrage. Exhausted nature could bear nothing more, and protected herself in a temporary suspension of her power. Henry had fainted, and it was well that it was so. The fact was a stronger argument in his favor than any external exhibition of suffering that could have been given.

The hatter and his wife were both alarmed at an event so unexpected by either of them. Henry was quickly removed to a chamber, and every effort made to restore him. It was not a very long time before the machinery of life was again in motion; its action, however, was feeble, as even his oppressors could see. Self-interest, and fear of consequences, if not humanity, prompted more consideration for the boy, and secured for him a few days' respite. After that, the oppressed and his oppressors assumed their old relations.

CHAPTER IX.

"I DON'T think I've seen anything of Lizzy Glenn for a week," remarked Berlaps to his man Michael one day during the latter part of December. "Has she anything out?"

"Yes. She has four of our finest shirts."

"How long since she took them away?"

"It's over a week—nearly ten days."

"Indeed! Then she ought to be looked after. It certainly hasn't taken her all this time to make four shirts."

"Well, I don't know. She gets along, somehow, poorly enough," replied Michael. "She's often been a whole week making four of them."

While this conversation was going on, the subject of it entered. She came in with a slow, feeble step, and leaned against the counter as she laid down the bundle of work she had brought with her. Her half-withdrawn veil showed her face to be very pale, and her eyes much sunken. A deep, jarring cough convulsed her frame for a moment or two, causing her to place her hand almost involuntarily upon her breast, as if she suffered pain there.

"It's a good while since you took these shirts out, Lizzy," said Berlaps, in a tone meant to reprove her for the slowness with which she worked.

"Yes, it is," she replied, in a low, sad tone. "I can't get along very fast. I have a constant pain in my side. And there are other reasons."

The last sentence was spoken only half aloud, but sufficiently distinct for Berlaps to hear it.

"I don't expect my workwomen," he said, a little sharply, "to have any reasons for not finishing my work in good season, and bringing it in promptly. Ten days to four shirts is unpardonable. You can't earn your salt at that."

The young woman made no reply to this, but stood with her eyes drooping to the floor, and her hands leaning hard upon the counter to support herself.

Berlaps then commenced examining the shirts. The result of this examination seemed to soften him a little. No wonder; they were made fully equal to those for which regular shirt-makers receive from seventy-five cents to a dollar a piece.

"Don't you think you can make five such as these in a week—or even six?" he asked, in a somewhat changed tone.

"I'm afraid not," was the reply. "There's a good day's work on each one of them, and I cannot possibly sit longer than a few hours at a time. And, besides, there are two or three hours of every day that I must attend to other duties."

"Well, if you can't, I suppose you can't," said the tailor, in a disappointed, half-offended tone, and turned away from the counter and walked back to his desk, from which he called out to his salesman, after he had stood there for about a minute—

"Pay her for them, Michael, and if you have any more ready give her another lot."

Since the sharp rebuke given by Mr. Perkins, Michael had treated Lizzy with less vulgar assurance. Sometimes he would endeavor to sport a light word with her, but she never replied, nor seemed to notice his freedom in the least. This uniform, dignified reserve, so different from the demeanor of most of the girls who worked for them, coupled with the manner of Perkins's interference for her, inspired in his mind a feeling of respect for the stranger, which became her protection from his impertinences. On this occasion, he merely asked her how many she would have, and on receiving her answer, handed her the number of shirts she desired.

As she turned to go out, Mrs. Gaston, who had just entered, stood near, with her eyes fixed upon her. She started as she looked into her face. Indeed, both looked surprised, excited, then confused, and let their eyes fall to the floor. They seemed for a moment to have identified each other, and then to have become instantly conscious that they were nothing but strangers—that such an identification was impossible. An audible sigh escaped Lizzy Glenn, as she passed slowly out and left the store. As she reached the pavement, she turned and looked back at Mrs. Gaston. Their eyes again met for an instant.

"Who is that young woman?" asked Mrs. Gaston.

"Her name is Lizzy Glenn," replied Michael.

"Do you know anything about her?"

"Nothing—only that she's a proud, stiff kind of a creature; though what she has to be proud of, is more than I can tell."

"How long has she been working for you?"

"A couple of months or so, if I recollect rightly."

"Where does she live?" was Mrs. Gaston's next question.

Michael gave her the direction, and then their intercourse had entire reference to business.

After the subject of this brief conversation between Mrs. Gaston and Michael left the store of Mr. Berlaps, she walked slowly in the direction of her temporary home, which was, as has before been mentioned, in an obscure street at the north end. It consisted of a small room, in an old brick house, which had been made by running a rough partition through the centre of the front room in the second story, and then intersecting this partition on one side by another partition, so as to make three small rooms out of one large one. These partitions did not reach more than two-thirds of the distance to the ceiling, thus leaving a free circulation of air in the upper and unobstructed portion of the room. As the house stood upon a corner, and contained windows both in front and on the end, each room had a window. The whole were heated by one large stove. For the little room that Lizzy Glenn occupied, including fire, she paid seventy-five cents a week. But, as the house was old, the windows open, and the room that had been cut up into smaller ones a large one; and, moreover, as the person who let them and supplied fuel for the stove took good care to see that an undue quantity of this fuel was not burned, she rarely found the temperature of her apartment high enough to be comfortable. Those who occupied the other two rooms, in each of which, like her own, was a bed, a couple of chairs, and a table, with a small looking-glass, were seamstresses, who were compelled, as she was, to earn a scanty subsistence by working for the slop-shops. But they could work many more hours than she could, and consequently earned more money than she was able to do. Her food—the small portion she consumed—she provided herself, and prepared it at the stove, which was common property.

On returning from the tailor's, as has been seen, she laid her bundle of work upon the bed, and seated herself with a thoughtful air, resting her head upon her hand. The more she thought, the more she seemed disturbed; and finally arose, and commenced walking the floor slowly. Suddenly pausing, at length, she sighed heavily, and went to the bed upon which lay her work, took it up, unrolled the bundle, and seating herself by the table, entered once more upon her daily toil. But her mind was too much disturbed, from some cause, to permit her to pursue her work steadily. In a little while she laid aside the garment upon which she had begun to sew, and, leaning forward, rested her head upon the table, sighing heavily as she did so, and pressing one hand hard against her side, as if to relieve pain. A tap at the door aroused her from this state of abstraction. As she turned, the door was quietly opened, and the woman she had seen at the tailor's, a short time before, entered. She started to her feet at this unexpected apparition, and gazed, with a look of surprise, inquiry, and hope, upon her visitor.

"Can it be Mrs. Gaston? But no! no!" and the young creature shook her head mournfully.

"Eugenia!" exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, springing forward, and instantly the two were locked in each other's arms, and clinging together with convulsive eagerness.

"But no, no! It cannot be my own Eugenia," said Mrs. Gaston, slowly disengaging herself, and holding the young woman from her, while she read over every feature of her pale, thin face. "Surely I am in a strange dream!"

"Yes, I am your own Eugenia Ballantine! my more than mother! Or, the wreck of her, which a wave of life's ever restless ocean has heaved upon the shore."

"Eugenia Ballantine! How can it be! Lost years ago at sea, how can she be in this room, and in this condition! It is impossible! And yet you are, you must be, my own dear Eugenia."

"I am! I am!" sobbed the maiden, leaning her head upon the bosom of Mrs. Gaston, and weeping until the tears fell in large drops upon the floor.

"But the sea gives not up its dead," said Mrs. Gaston in a doubting, bewildered tone.

"True—but the sea never claimed me as a victim."

"And your father?"

The maiden's face flushed a moment, while a shade of anguish passed over it.

"At another time, I will tell you all. My mind is now too much agitated and confused. But why do I find you here? And more than all, why as a poor seamstress, toiling for little more than a crust of bread and a cup of water? Where is your husband? Where are your children?"

"Three years ago," replied Mrs. Gaston, "we removed to this city. My husband entered into business, and was unsuccessful. He lost everything, and about a year ago, died, leaving me destitute. I have struggled on, since then, the best I could, but to little purpose. The pittance I have been able to earn at the miserable prices we are paid by the tailors has scarcely sufficed to keep my children from starving. But one of them"—and the mother's voice trembled—"my sweet Ella! was not permitted to remain with me, when I could no longer provide things comfortable for my little ones. A few short weeks ago, she was taken away to a better world. It was a hard trial, but I would not have her back again. And Henry, the dear boy, you remember—I have been forced to let him go from my side out into the world. I have neither seen nor heard from him since I parted with him. Emma alone remains."

Mrs. Gaston's feelings so overcame her at this relation, that she wept and sobbed for some time.

"But, my dear Eugenia!—my child that I loved so tenderly, and have so long mourned as lost," she said, at length, drawing her arm affectionately around Miss Ballantine, "in better and happier times, we made one household for more than five pleasant years. Let us not be separated now, when there are clouds over our heads, and sorrow on our paths. Together we shall be able to bear up better and longer than when separated. I have a room, into which I moved a week since, that is pleasanter than this. One room, one bed, one fire, and one light, will do for two as well as one. We shall be better able to contend with our lot together. Will you come with me, Eugenia?"

"Will I not, Mrs. Gaston? Oh! to be once more with you! To have one who can love me as you will love me! One to whom I can unburden my heart—Oh, I shall be too happy!"

And the poor creature hung upon the neck of her maternal friend, and wept aloud.

"Then come at once," said Mrs. Gaston. "You have nothing to keep you here?"

"No, nothing," replied Eugenia.

"I will get some one to take your trunk." And Mrs. Gaston turned away and left the room. In a little while, she came back with a man, who removed the trunk to her humble dwelling-place. Thence we will follow them.

"And now, my dear Eugenia," said Mrs. Gaston, after they had become settled down, and their minds had assumed a more even flow, "clear up to me this strange mystery. Why are you here, and in this destitute condition? How did you escape death? Tell me all, or I shall still think myself only in the bewildering mazes of a dream."

(To be continued.)

SILENT THOUGHT.

BY WILLIE EDGAR TABOR.

SOMETIMES there steals across the heart

A quietness of flow,

Where gentle memories form a part,

And bid in mythic tableaux start

The scenes of long ago—

Too holy and too heavenly

For open utterance or fear.

Across the mirror of the soul,

A gorgeous, a transcendent whole,

They pass—a train of silent thought,

With spirit, bliss, and pleasure fraught.

Then shut we out the world from view,

And all its mundane care;

Our hearts baptized with fresh'ning dew,

Which we from seraph regions drew;

Our minds with ambient air.

We love to linger very long

(As on some ancient harper's song,

Floating through corridors of time,

In all the majesty of rhyme),

And silent thought alone express

The acme of our happiness.

These whispers language cannot tell:

E'en imagery bows low

Before the task; its gentle spell

(Like zephyrs in some elfin dell)

Will o'er the spirit flow.

And moments pass unheeded by

As visions to the spirit's eye

Open their prospects, and lay plain

Their tracery of joy or pain.

With bliss or wo forever fraught,

Within the halls of SILENT THOUGHT.

THE MOTHER'S LESSON.

A STORY FROM A GERMAN BALLAD.

BY ELMA SOUTH.

'TWAS night, the star-gemmed and glittering, when a bereaved mother lay tossing on her bed in all the feverish restlessness of unsanctified sorrow. Sleep had fled far from her weary eye-lids; and her grief-burdened heart refused to send up from its troubled fountains the refreshing stream of prayer.

The deep stillness that rested on the hushed earth was broken by those saddest of all sounds, the bitter wailings of a mother weeping for her children, and "refusing to be comforted because they are not."

"Oh, woe, woe is me!" was the piteous cry of that breaking heart, and the piercing sound went up to the still heavens; but they looked calmly down in their starry beauty and seemed to hear it not.

And thus slowly passed the long, weary hours of the night, and naught was heard save the solemn chiming of the clock, telling, with iron tongue, that man was drawing hourly nearer to the quiet grave.

And as the mourner lay listening to Time's slow, measured strokes, Memory was busy with the images of the loved and lost. Again they were before her in all their youthful beauty; she heard their gleeful voices and felt their fond caresses. The night wind swept coolingly into the casement, and, as it touched her throbbing brow, it seemed like the soft kisses of her loving children.

Poor mourner! Could earth furnish no magic mirror in which thou couldst always thus see the dead living? Oh, no! for as melts the fleecy cloud in to the blue depths of heaven, so passed away the blessed vision; and seeing but the coffin and the shroud, again arose on the silent air those tones of despairing anguish: "Woe is me! my sons are dead!"

Then softly and sweetly sounded forth the matin chimes, blending their holy music with the anguished cries of the bereaved mother. In the midst of her sorrow, she heard the bells' sweet harmony, and, leaving her sleepless couch, walked forth into the refreshing air. Morning was breaking cold and gray over the earth, and the stars were growing pale at the approaching step of the monarch of the day.

Slowly walks the mourner through the yet sleeping woods, whose flowers are folded in silence, and whose birds give forth no carols. She reaches the antique church and enters the sacred doors. A mysterious light—light that is almost shade—is brooding over the holy aisles, clothing in shadowy garments the pale images of departed saints; wrapping in mantle of dimness the carved sepulchres; throwing strange gleams over the tall white columns; and embracing, with pale arms, cross and picture, and antique shrine. In the midst of this mysterious light kneel a silent company; each head is bowed on the clasped hands, and no sound is heard save a deep, far distant murmuring, like the voice of the mighty wind when it passes through the leaves of the dark, old pines, dwelling in some dim, solemn woods.

Suddenly every head is lifted, and the mourner sees in that vast company friends who had been sleeping long ages in the silent tomb. All were there again; the friend of her cloudless childhood, who went down to death's cold chambers in all her stainless beauty, sinking into the grave as pure as the snow-flake that falls to the earth. And there was the sister of her home and heart, the tried friend of sorrow's shaded hours, who, in dying, left a mighty void that time could never fill. And there were the "mighty dead," they whose footsteps, when living, tracked the world with light—light that now shed a halo over their graves. And there were the meek, patient ones of earth, pale martyrs to sorrow, who struggled hopefully through the dim vapors that surround the world, and met as a reward the ineffable brightness of heaven. They were all here, all who had passed from earth amidst a fond tribute of tears and regrets.

All were here save two, those two the most dearly loved among the precious company of the dead; and wildly scanning the pale group, the mother called aloud as she missed her children: "Oh, my sons! my sons! would that I could see them but once again!"

Then arose a loud voice, and it said: "Look to the east;" and the weeping mother looked.

Oh! dreadful sight! there, by the sacred altar, rested a block and a fearful wheel. Stretched on these dreadful instruments of doom, in the coarse garb of the prison, wrestling fiercely with death in its most awful form, were two poor youths; and in their wan countenances, where crime and grief had traced their fearful march, the mother recognized her lost sons.

Dismayed, heart-sick, despairing, she motionless stands; and the deep silence is again broken by a voice speaking these words:—

"Mourner, whose every tone is a murmur at Heaven's will, whose every expression is a doubt of God's love, let this teach thee a mighty truth. See the dark path of crime they might have trod; see the agony, the shame, the maternal anguish that might have swept like a desolating tempest over thy heart; then thank thy God, in a burst of fervent praise, that he took them in unsullied youth from a world of sin to a place of safe refuge."

The voice ceased, and darkness fell like a pall on the marble floor; but through the arched windows came streaming the pale moonlight, and beneath its holy rays, the mother knelt and prayed.

There fell on her heart a blessed calm, as a voice whispered to the troubled waves of sorrow, "peace, be still."

And the angel of death stole softly in, and sealed her pale lips forever, whilst repentance and resignation were breathing from them in the music of prayer.

Oh, weeping mother! who art hanging garlands of sorrow ever fresh over thy children's tombs, take to thy bereaved heart, and ponder well, this "Mother's Lesson!"

TEACHING AT HOME.

LANGUAGE.

AS we are desirous of pointing out in what respects parents may assist in the education of their children previous to their being sent to school, we must remind them that it is at home that a child learns to speak; and that there is, perhaps, nothing which helps more towards his after instruction than the power of speaking well. There are sometimes very strange notions on this subject amongst fathers and mothers. They think, as long as they themselves can understand a child when it begins to talk, that it is sufficient. They are rather pleased than otherwise that the baby should have its own names for the things it wants, and the parent learns to use these words for the accommodation of the child. Instead of being helped forward in its progress to plain speaking, it is allowed for several years to express itself in a strange sort of gibberish, which is only laughed at and admired by the rest of the family. The mother will tell with a sort of satisfaction that little Susan can never use the letter S, or the letter W; and no effort is made by her to conquer the difficulty. She does not foresee, as most probably will be the case, that this will be a sort of stumbling-block in little Susan's way when she goes to school, and that she will pass for a sort of dunce, perhaps, for a year or two, in consequence of her inability to read as well as other children of her age. When she stands up in her class and begins to read her portion of the lesson, she is told by the rest of the children that they cannot understand a word that she reads; and the patience of her teacher is sorely tried, in vain attempts to get a few words distinctly uttered. And when Susan leaves school at last to enter upon her occupation in life—say that of teacher—it is ten to one that her imperfect utterance does not stand in her way in getting a place; for mothers, who are well educated, like that their children should be with those who speak well, and in the first interview with Susan, the imperfection in her speech is discovered. The same, perhaps, with Willy, her brother, who finds himself rejected several times by persons to whom he offers himself to fill some situation for which he is perfectly well qualified, only that the gentlemen think he must be but a rough sort of lad from the countrified way in which he answers the questions put to him. Clearness and correctness of speech have also another advantage in securing correctness and clearness of thoughts. A child who is made to put the right word to everything and to pronounce it properly—to use the right expression in describing what he sees, or in telling what he has done—knows and understands better than one who makes up words or expressions for himself; and a mother or father can, if they be not very bad speakers themselves, early accustom their children to choose the right names for things instead of the wrong in their talk. We all know that in many counties of England, the people living there have words peculiar to themselves for many things, different from the way in which they are called in London, or in the great towns; at the same time that they know quite well what are the right names and words used by the well educated. From early habit they like to use these words, which perhaps remind them of their own childhood or their home in early life; but it would be as well to remember that to their children it would be an advantage to use the more correct words and expressions, and therefore worth their while to make an effort to employ them. It is also of great importance that the pronunciation, or way of sounding words, should be correct. In these counties, for instance, it is the habit of the people not to sound the letter H at the beginning of a word; and though this may seem a very trifling matter, it may on many occasions in life go greatly against a young person, should he or she talk of a orse or a ouse, instead of a horse or a house. The persons so speaking may have learned to read very correctly, and write well, and be possessed of a good stock of useful knowledge, and yet with a very large class of persons they would, from such a slip of the tongue, be set down as ignorant and ill educated—perhaps even be suspected of a rudeness and vulgarity in thought and feeling which they were far from being guilty of. To secure their children against such a disadvantage, it would be worth while for any parent who knows how to spell, to take care that this important letter h is sounded in all words which it begins, there being only two or three words in the English in which it is the custom not to pronounce it, such as hour, heir, honor, &c., which are soon learned to be exceptions to the general rule. This habit, it is true, is peculiar to England; but it shows how carefully proper habits should be nurtured in childhood.

There is a still more important point for parents to observe in the language used by their children, and this is the avoidance of all profane, vulgar, or indecent words. And in this respect the parent is most particularly the teacher of his child. A father who uses an oath in the presence of his innocent child, teaches that child to make use of that expression some day in his turn. A mother who takes the great name of God in vain, not only sets her child the example of so doing, but takes away from its young mind some portion of the reverence which it has hitherto felt towards the Great Being whom it is taught to call its "Father in Heaven." Too much is it the custom, in the most trivial events of everyday life, to utter that Name which should never be pronounced but with reverence and love. It is called upon in moments of anger and impatience, when the remembrance of His care and love should lead us to leave the little as well as the great events of life trustfully in his hands, knowing as we do that all is ordered and ruled for our good.

DIRECTIONS FOR TAKING LEAF IMPRESSIONS.

HOLD oiled paper in the smoke of a lamp, or of pitch, until it becomes coated with the smoke; to this paper apply the leaf of which you wish an impression, having previously warmed it between your hands, that it may be pliable. Place the lower surface of the leaf upon the blackened surface of the oil-paper, that the numerous veins, which are so prominent on this side, may receive from the paper a portion of the smoke. Lay a paper over the leaf, and then press it gently upon the smoked paper with the fingers, or with a small roller (covered with woollen cloth, or some like soft material), so that every part of the leaf may come in contact with the sooted oil-paper. A coating of the smoke will adhere to the leaf. Then remove the leaf carefully, and place the blackened surface on a sheet of white paper, not ruled, or in a book prepared for the purpose, covering the leaf with a clean slip of paper, and pressing upon it with the fingers, or roller, as before. Thus may be obtained the impression of a leaf, showing the perfect outlines, together with an accurate exhibition of the veins which extend in every direction through it, more correctly than the finest drawing. And this process is so simple, and the materials so easily obtained, that any person, with a little practice to enable him to apply the right quantity of smoke to the oil-paper, and give the leaf a proper pressure, can prepare beautiful leaf impressions, such as a naturalist would be proud to possess.

There is another, and we think a better method of taking leaf impressions than the preceding one. The only difference in the process consists in the use of printing-ink instead of smoked oil-paper.

LEAF PRINTING.—After warming the leaf between the hands, apply printing-ink, by means of a small leather ball containing cotton, or some soft substance, or with the end of the finger. The leather ball (and the finger when used for that purpose), after the ink is applied to it, should be pressed several times upon a piece of leather, or some smooth surface, before each application to the leaf, that the ink may be smoothly and evenly applied.

After the under surface of the leaf has been sufficiently inked, apply it to the paper, where you wish the impression; and, after covering it with a slip of paper, use the hand or roller to press upon it, as described in the former process.

FARM HOUSE.

[From "Rural Architecture," published by C. M. Saxton, New York.]

THIS is a plain and unpretending building in appearance; yet, in its ample finish, and deeply drawn and sheltering eaves, broad veranda, and spacious out-buildings, may give accommodation to a large family indulging a liberal style of living.

By an error in the engraving, the main roof of the house is made to appear like a double, or gambrel-roof, breaking at the intersection of the gable, or hanging roof over the ends. This is not so intended. The roofs on each side are a straight line of rafters. The Swiss, or hanging style of gable-roof, is designed to give a more sheltered effect to the elevation than to run the end walls to a peak in the point of the roof.

By a defect in the drawing, the roof of the veranda is not sufficiently thrown over the columns. This roof should project at least one foot beyond them, so as to perfectly shelter the mouldings beneath from the weather, and conform to the style of the main roof of the house.

The material of which it is built may be of either stone, brick, or wood, as the taste or convenience of the proprietor may suggest. The main building is 44 by 36 feet, on the ground. The cellar wall may show 18 to 24 inches above the ground, and be pierced by windows in each end, as shown in the plan. The height of the main walls may be two full stories below the roof plates, or the chambers may run a foot or two into the garret, at the choice of the builder, either of which arrangements may be permitted.

The front door opens from a veranda 28 feet long by 10 feet in depth, drooping eight inches from the door-sill. This veranda has a hipped roof, which juts over the columns in due proportion with the roof of the house over its walls. These columns are plain, with brackets, or braces from near their tops, sustaining the plate and finish of the roof above, which may be covered either with tin or zinc, painted, or closely shingled.

The walls of the house may be 18 to 20 feet high below the plates; the roof a pitch of 30 to 45 degrees, which will afford an upper garret, or store, or small sleeping rooms, if required; and the eaves should project two to three feet, as climate may demand, over the walls. A plain finish—that is, ceiled underneath—is shown in the design, but brackets on the ends of the rafters, beaded and finished, may be shown, if preferred. The gables are Swiss-roofed, or truncated, thus giving them a most sheltered and comfortable appearance, particularly in a northerly climate. The small gable in front relieves the roof of its monotony, and affords light to the central garret. The chimneys are carried out with partition flues, and may be topped with square caps, as necessity or taste may demand.

Retreating three feet from the kitchen side of the house runs, at right angles, a wing 30 by 18 feet, one and a half stories high, with a veranda eight feet wide in front. Next in rear of this, continues a wood-house, 30 by 18 feet, one story high, with ten-feet posts, and open in front, the ground level of which is 18 inches below the floor of the wing to which it is attached. The roof of these two is of like character with that of the main building.

Adjoining this wood-house, and at right angles with it, is a building 68 by 18 feet, projecting two feet outside the line of wood-house and kitchen. This building is one and a half stories high, with twelve feet posts, and roof in the same style and of equal pitch as the others.

Interior Arrangement.—The front door from the veranda of the house opens into a hall, 18 by 8 feet, and 11 feet high, amply lighted by sash windows on the sides, and over the door. From the rear of this hall runs a flight of easy stairs, into the upper or chamber hall. On one side of the lower hall, a door leads into a parlor, 18 feet square, and 11 feet high, lighted by three windows, and warmed by an open stove or fireplace, the pipe passing into a chimney flue in the rear. A door passes from this parlor into a rear passage, or entry, thus giving it access to the kitchen and rear apartments. At the back end of the front hall, a door leads into the rear passage and kitchen; and on the side opposite the parlor, a door opens into the sitting or family room; 18 by 16 feet in area, having an open fireplace, and three windows. On the hall side of this room, a door passes into the kitchen, 22 by 16 feet, and which may, in case the requirements of the family demand it, be made the chief family or living room, and the last one described converted into a library. In this kitchen, which is lighted by two windows, is a liberal open fireplace, with an ample oven by its side, and a sink in the outer corner. A flight of stairs, also, leads to the rear chambers above; and a corresponding flight under them, to the cellar below. A door at each end of these stairs leads into the back entry of the house, and thus to the other interior rooms, or through the rear outer door to the back porch. This back entry is lighted by a single sash window over the outside door leading to the porch. Another door, opposite that leading down cellar, opens into the passage through the wing. From the rear hall, which is 16 by 5 feet, the innermost passage leads into a family bedroom, or nursery, 16 by 14 feet, lighted by a window in each outside wall, and warmed by an open fireplace, or stove, at pleasure. Attached to this bedroom is a clothes-closet, 8 by 4 feet, with shelves and drawers. Next the outer door, in rear end of the hall, is a small closet opening from it, 6 by 4 feet in dimensions, convertible to any use which the mistress of the house may direct.

Opening into the wing from the kitchen, first, is a large closet and pantry, supplied with a table, drawers, and shelves, in which are stored the dishes, table furniture, and edibles necessary to be kept at a moment's access. This room is 14 by 8 feet, and well lighted by a window of convenient size. If necessary, this room may have a partition, shutting off a part from the everyday uses which the family requires. In this room, so near to the kitchen, to the sink, to hot water, and the other little domestic accessories which good housewives know so well how to arrange and appreciate, all the nice little table-comforts can be got up, and perfected, and stored away, under lock and key, in drawer, tub, or jar, at their discretion, and still their eyes not be away from their subordinates in the other departments. Next to this, and connected by a door, is the dairy, or milk-room, also 14 by 8 feet; which, if necessary, may be sunk three or four feet into the ground, for additional coolness in the summer season, and the floor reached by steps. In this are ample shelves for the milk-pans, convenience of churning, &c. &c. But, if the dairy be a prominent object of the farm, a separate establishment will be required, and the excavation may not be necessary for ordinary household uses. Out of this milk-room, a door leads into a wash-room, 18 by 14 feet. A passage from the kitchen also leads into this. The wash-room is lighted by two windows in rear, and one in front. A sink is between the two rear windows, with conductor leading outside, and a closet beneath it, for the iron ware. In the chimney, at the end, are boilers, and a fireplace, an oven, or anything else required, and a door leading to a platform in the wood-house, and so into the yard. On the other side of the chimney, a door leads into a bathing-room, 7 by 6 feet, into which hot water is drawn from one of the boilers adjoining, and cold water may be introduced, by a hand-pump, through a pipe leading into the well or cistern.

A FEW WORDS ABOUT DELICATE WOMEN.

HOW essential is it to the well-being of a family that the wife and mother should be cheerful, active, and healthy. Yet, looking at those classes of the community a little above what may be termed the laboring class, how frequently we find that the women are ailing, nervous, and irritable; or, as they would call themselves, "delicate!" How is this?

"Why," answers one, "some are the children of unhealthy parents, and the inheritors of their diseases." Where this is the case, the fullest sympathy and consideration are due; but the number of such would be only a few in comparison with the class we speak of. We must look further for the cause.

"Oh," suggests another, "is not the fact of being a wife and mother, and having the care and management of a family and household, with perhaps very limited pecuniary resources, quite enough to make women weak and ailing?" We think not. Such circumstances are trying; but with some women they have been the means of drawing out unwonted cheerfulness and energy of character. Allowing, however, that some women are so tried and harassed by the circumstances of married life that their health and energy give way; still their number would be comparatively few, and we must find some other cause for the fact that there are so many females who call themselves "delicate."

Is it that they have an impression that there is something amiable in being delicate?

Do they think it is lady-like to be delicate?

Is not this delicacy cultivated by some as a means of drawing more largely on sympathy, especially the husband's sympathy?

Are not idleness and inactivity often excused or hidden under this convenient cloak of delicacy?

We think that each of these questions may be correctly answered in the affirmative, and that the commencement of these errors, with all their attendant evils, may be traced to the education of the girl.

Years ago, Fanny was a healthy, active, and unaffected child, when her parents sent her to a boarding-school. For the first few days, feeling herself among strangers, and away from home, she was pensive and quiet; but this soon wore away, and she became cheerful and happy again. She had taken a skipping-rope with her to school, and one evening, when she was in the full enjoyment of the use of it, the evening bell rang for the scholars to retire for the night. When Fanny went to say "good-night" to the governess, she was surprised to hear her say to the matron: "You will be so good as to give Miss Fanny a dose of calomel, she is in too robust health; see, her cheeks are like a milkmaid's." So Fanny had to take calomel, and the next day she was languid and listless, or, as the governess seemed to consider, "lady-like." Another time, when playing with a companion somewhat actively in the playground, they were stopped by a teacher, saying: "Young ladies, are you not ashamed of yourselves? that is not the way to conduct yourselves in this establishment. Why, what would be thought of you? Pray let me see you walk like young ladies."

Fanny wished then that she was not to be called a "young lady" if she might not play and romp about a little, for she was sure it made her happy to do so. But it is astonishing what changes may in time be effected by teaching and example. During the remainder of her stay at school, Fanny had occasional doses of calomel when too robust health began to show itself; and she had learned to believe that, to be at all respected by her fellow-creatures, she must be considered a young lady, and that all young ladies were of delicate constitutions, and that it was very unlady-like to be healthy and active.

Poor Fanny! she had not only imbibed these notions, but she had also lost a great deal of her vigor of constitution, and had become inert and inactive. When she left school, she returned to the home of her childhood, where family arrangements were such that her assistance would frequently have been acceptable to her parents. But when anything was requested of her, it was attended to in a manner so unwilling and languid, that they soon ceased to ask anything of her, grieving and wondering what was become of their cheerful and active Fanny.

Not being aware of Fanny's idea's about ladyism, and not perceiving that the mind wanted curing more than the body, her parents consulted the family doctor, who said that he could not perceive there was much the matter with her; he, however, recommended fresh air and exercise, and suggested that perhaps a few weeks by the seaside might do her good. Now, this latter advice Fanny liked very much; it added to her importance as a lady that she should be taken to the seaside because she was in delicate health. However, as Fanny meant to be delicate, she was as much so on her return as before, until at last it became an allowed fact in the family that Fanny was "so delicate" that she was left to do pretty much as she pleased.

Time passed on, and Fanny became a wife, and, with a vague idea that she was to secure to herself the affections of her husband, just in proportion that she made demands upon his sympathy, her elegant ailings became more numerous than ever, and she has fully established her claim to be classed among "delicate women."

Perhaps the custom of giving calomel to destroy health, as if it were a weed too rank to be allowed to grow, is not very much practised; but other injurious customs are taught and practised which as certainly injure health.

The custom of confining the body in tight stays, or tight clothes of any kind, is exceedingly hurtful to the health of both body and mind. A girl has learned a very bad lesson, when she has been taught that to gain the admiration of her fellow-creatures, she must, even to the endangering of health and life, distort her figure from that which nature has made, to something which fashion presumes to dictate as more admirable.

The custom of preventing the active use of the limbs, and free exercise of the body generally, and restricting every movement to the artificial notions of boarding-school propriety, is attended with mental and physical evils of all sorts. While a child is forbidden to take the bodily exercise which nature would impel her to do, the humors grow thick and stagnate for want of motion to warm and dilate them; the general circulation is impeded; the muscles stiffen, because deprived of their necessary moisture; obstructions take place, which produce weakness in every animal function; and nature, no longer able to discharge the morbid matter which constantly accumulates from all her imperfect operations, gradually sickens, and the child is either carried to a premature grave, or continues an existence of physical and mental languor and listlessness; and another is added to the class of "delicate women."

We cannot be far from right in saying that almost all the mental and physical ailings of "delicate women" may be traced to a defective education. And those who are now engaged in training girls, whether at home or in schools, cannot too seriously consider the weight of responsibility resting upon them. Upon their management depend much of future health, and, consequently, the usefulness and happiness of those committed to their charge.

As requisites to the promotion of bodily vigor, we will mention:—

A strict attention to personal cleanliness, which children should be taught to cultivate, because it is healthy and right that they should be clean, and not because "it would look so if they were dirty!"

The use of apartments that are well ventilated.

Frequent and sufficient active bodily exercise in the open air.

Entire freedom from any pressure upon the person by the use of tight clothes.

A sufficiency of nourishing and digestible food.

And, in winter, the use of such firing as is needed to keep up a healthful warmth.

All these will tend to promote health, but we shall have no security against "delicate women" unless there be also added the cultivation of mental health.

For this, it is necessary that girls should be taught to cultivate mental purity and mental activity, by sufficient and well-regulated exercise of the mind.

Habits of benevolence, contentment, and cheerful gratitude should be inculcated, both by precept and example, to the exclusion of selfishness.

And, above all, should be strongly impressed upon the mind the necessity of the strictest integrity, which will lead to the abhorrence of every species of affectation, which is, indeed, only a modified sort of deceit.

Girls should also be early taught that they are responsible beings; responsible to God for the right use of all the mercies bestowed upon them; and that health is one of the chief of earthly blessings, and that it is their duty to value and preserve it.

But much is learnt from example as well as from precept; therefore, let no affectation of languid airs in a teacher give a child the idea that there can be anything admirable in the absence of strength. We do not wish that girls should cultivate anything masculine; for an unfeminine woman cannot be an object of admiration to the right judging of either sex. But a female has no occasion to affect to be feminine; she is so naturally, and if she will but let nature have its perfect work, she will, most likely, be not only feminine, but also graceful and admirable.

The school studies of girls should be so arranged that they may afford mental food and satisfaction; otherwise, as soon as the lesson hours are over, they will, most likely, turn with avidity to any nonsense they can learn from foolish conversation, or to reading some of the trashy books of the day, to the injury of all mental and moral health, and the almost certain production of "delicate women."

To those who are already women, and are unfortunately classed among the "delicate," we would say: For the sake of your husbands, and all connected with you, strive resolutely to lose your claim to such an unenviable distinction. If you are conscious of the least feeling of satisfaction in hearing yourself spoken of as delicate, be assured it is a degree of mental disease that allows the feeling. If you ever suppose that you gain your husband's sympathy by weakness, remember you might gain more of his esteem and satisfied affection by strength. Fifty years ago, it was well said that, "To a man of feeling, extreme delicacy in the partner of his life and fortune is an object of great and constant concern; but a semblance of such delicacy, where it does not really exist, is an insult on his discernment, and must ultimately inspire him with aversion and disgust." It is not for us to say how many put on the semblance of delicacy as a covering for idleness, or from any of the weak motives that prompt such an affectation—conscience will whisper where this is the case—and happy will it be for the household of any one who can be roused from such a pitiable state.

Could woman only know how many husbands are bankrupt because their wives are "delicate;" how many children are physically, mentally, and morally neglected and ruined, because their mothers are "delicate;" how many servants become dishonest and inefficient, because their mistresses are "delicate"—the list would be so appalling that possibly we might hear of an Anti-delicate-ladies Association, for the better promotion of family happiness and family economy.

Meanwhile, let each listen to her own conscience and the dictates of her better judgment, and remember that health is a gift of God, and we cannot slight a gift without also slighting the Giver.

POETRY.

THE GLEANER.

BY RICHARD COE.

(See Plate.)

NOT the raven's glossy wing

Is so beautiful a thing

As thy locks of jet-black hair,

Maiden, all so bright and fair!

And a soul of beauty lies

In the midnight of thine eyes;

And a sweet, expressive grace

Sitteth meekly on thy face,

Like unto a statue seen

Of some gentle, loving queen!

Whatsoe'er thy name or station,

Thine, sweet maid, 's a blest vocation;

'Neath the dome that God hath spread

All above and round thy head;

Taking in the healthful breeze

From the mountain-tops and trees;

Thou dost toil from day to day,

Knowing that "to work's to pray!"

Conscious of reward well won

At the setting of the sun.

From thy thought-revealing brow

Strength of intellect hast thou;

In the harvest-fields of Thought

Mighty minds of old have wrought;

Thou hast followed in their way,

Gleaning richly day by day:

Gems of purest ray serene

In the intervals between

Constant toil and needful rest,

Thou hast garnered in thy breast.

In the brighter fields above,

'Neath the beaming eye of Love,

While the heavenly reapers stand,

Each with sickle in his hand,

Thou shalt take thy final rest

On the Master's kindly breast;

Ever, evermore to be

Blest throughout eternity;

Never, nevermore to roam

From thy gladsome Harvest Home!

THE PET.

BY ROSA MONTROSE.

I HAVE a little nephew,

He is scarcely three years old,

With eyes of heaven's deepest blue,

And ringlets palely gold;

His mouth, a velvet rosebud red,

All hung with honey-dew;

But sweeter far our darling's lips

Than rose that ever grew!

I ne'er have found so dear a child,

Or one so strangely fair,

Or saw on infant brow like his

The mind that's slumb'ring there!

And oftentimes he utters things,

Confounding wise and old;

And from his baby lips we hear

What wisdom bath not told!

He's like a breath of summer air—

A dew-drop pure and bright,

That falls from Evening's closing eye,

To kiss the morning light:

A ray of sunshine, soft and warm—

A straying golden beam—

A silver singing rivulet—

Or joyous dancing stream!

He is the treasure of our heart—

The sunlight and the joy;

He'll lisp to you the names he bears,

Sweet, lovely, darling boy!

And when he comes with pleading words,

My work is laid away,

Or classic volume closed at once,

To join him in his play.

His voice is like a tiny lute,

And when he sweetly sings,

You'd think he was an angel, and

Be looking for his wings!

And oft I clasp him to my heart

With strange foreboding fear

That he's a straying seraph child

God only lends us here!

Such thoughts as these intruding come,

For in this world of ours

The loveliest things the soonest droop;

The fairest human flowers

Are ever first to pass away,

The first to fade and die—

Thus teaching us our treasures should

Be sought beyond the sky!

But we will love our "angel boy,"

And never cease to pray

That seraph forms may guide him here,

But call him not away!

And hope that till life's closing breath,

As on his infant brow,

So Intellect and Innocence

May blend as pure as now!

DISAPPOINTED LOVE.

BY W. S. GAFFNEY.

OH! scorn him not—the noble soul

Whose happy dreams have sped:

Whose cherished hopes of blissful love

Have ever, ever fled!

For, oh! 'tis hard at best to bear

Misfortunes from above;

But deathlike to the manly heart

Is cruel, shipwrecked love!

Oh! scorn him not—but gently strive

To soothe his troubled breast;

For man's vocation here on earth

Is wearisome at best:

Then metre out true sympathy—

Pour oil upon the smart—

And, smiling angels, oh! beware

To crush a manly heart!

STANZAS.

BY H. B. WILDMAN.

I STOOD beside a pleasant stream,

Where spicy boughs were wreathing;

Its gentle ripples came and went

Like sleeping infants breathing.

The lily press'd its dewy cheek

Upon the kissing billow,

And slumber'd like a summer bride

Upon her nuptial pillow.

Yet, by this stream a dark rock tower'd

Like fane in forest waving;

Deep furrows shown within its side,

Wrought by the ripples laving!

I gazed upon the sunny stream,

And thought of sunny faces,

And wonder'd how such gentle waves

Could leave such angry traces.