Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 48, June, 1854
Date: 2023-03-30T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Women's periodicals; American; Fashion -- 19th century -- Periodicals; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Periodicals

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Title: Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 48, June, 1854

Author: Various

Editor: Sarah Josepha Buell Hale

Release date: March 30, 2023 [eBook #70411]

Language: English

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK, VOL. 48, JUNE, 1854 ***

NOTE:

The Table of Contents and Embellishments, &c. tables have been harvested from the January edition.

The cover page and music files have been created by the transcriber from this book and placed in the public domain.

GODEY'S

LADY'S BOOK.

PHILADELPHIA, JUNE, 1854.

THE PYRAMID TALMA.

[From the establishment of G. BRODIE, No. 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. VOIGT, from actual articles of costume.]

THE Talma we select for illustration is peculiarly becoming, especially for the richest toilet. Its material is white poult de soie. It is constructed of nine pieces cut in gores or pyramidal form, joined together, the seams being hidden by a fancy braid trimming. Nine tabs, widening at the bottom, and placed at distances equal to their width, descending about one-third of the depth of the garment, constitute the form of this novel garment. It is exquisitely adorned in needlework, and beautified by an elegant netted fringe. By an oversight in the drawing, fringe, which should also border the tabs that form the upper portion of the dress, was omitted.

THE SCARF VOLANT.

[From the establishment of G. BRODIE, No. 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. VOIGT, from actual articles of costume.]

THIS is a novel and peculiarly dressy-looking garment, the distinctive features being a closed square front (which is confined by a bow of a rare fancy ribbon), and in the character of the flounce: this is gathered or fulled in divisions, giving it the appearance somewhat of a series of festoons. The separate compartments are strongly pronounced by transverse bands of black velvet and narrow black lace; a similar trimming of which outlines the whole scarf, and, with the piquant air of the garment, renders it an exceedingly beautiful production. The color may be made to taste. Those of lavender glacé silks, the drabs, and of black taffeta, especially are very beautiful.

THE PALACE WALTZ.

BY A YOUNG AMERICAN COMPOSER.

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

[Midi] [Listen] [XML]

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.

THE EMPRESS.  THE NOVADA.

A pattern of either of these 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.

THE EMPRESS.—A silk mantelet, cut low in the neck. Two hollow plaits forming a fichu are trimmed with a bow in the middle of the back. The bottom is bordered by a wide ribbon plaited with bows at each side of the arm. Two rows of lace complete it.

THE NOVADA.—Pelisse, cut low and square. A wide revers forms the sleeve. All the edges are trimmed with ribbon, silk with gold fillets. Two rows of lace fall on the back, one narrow between two plaited ribbons; the other wider, which begins square in front and widens in the back: a deep lace runs along the bottom. The back is plain, and falls in flutes from the second row of ribbons.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

| PAGE
A Consideration, | 569
A Lace Basque, | 550
A Loving Heart, by W. S. Gaffney, | 543
A Song, by Charles Stewart, | 501
A Strange Incident, | 514
Braid for Child's Dress, | 549
Bread-Cloth, | 553
Caps and Headdress, | 546
Celestial Phenomena, by D. W. Belisle, | 504
Centre-Table Gossip, | 569
Chemistry for Youth, | 566
Chinese Sayings, | 548
Costly China, | 569
Cottage Furniture, | 551
Editors' Table, | 555
Enigmas, | 567
Evening Thoughts, by H. Merran Parke, | 543
Everyday Actualities.—No. XX | 487
Every Lady her own Dressmaker, | 570
Fashions. | 571
Geraniums, from Mrs. Hale's New Household Receipt-Book, | 565
Godey's Arm-Chair, | 561
Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing, | 502
History of Pearls, Natural and Artificial, | 533
Illuminated, or Vellum-Painting, | 538
Juvenile Fashions, | 547
Lady's Riding Boots, | 551
Lady's Slipper, | 552
Legend of Long-Pond; or, Lake of the Golden Cross, by Fanny Fales, | 506
Let me Die! by S. M. Montgomery, | 544
Letters Left at the Pastry Cook's, Edited by Horace Mayhew, | 499
Lines to a Bronchitis Birdie, by N. W. Bridge, | 545
L'Isolement, Translated from the French of Alphonse de Lamartine, by Wm. A. Kenyon, | 545
Literary Notices, | 558
Mantillas, from the celebrated Establishment of G. Brodie, New York, | 482, 483
Mrs. Clark's Experience as a Servant, by Bell, | 508
My Tulips, by H. S. D., | 544
Niagara, | 521
Ornaments, | 570
Patterns for Embroidery, | 554
Philadelphia Agency. | 565
Physical Training, | 525
Preservation of Food, | 487
Receipts, &c., | 567
Secret Love, by Kate Harrington, | 542
Slander, | 557
Smyrna Embroidery.—Lady's Slipper on Cloth, | 552
Sonnets, by Wm. Alexander, | 543
The Borrower's Department, | 566
The Dead Tree, | 544
The Last Kiss, by Jenny A. M'Ewan, | 541
The Needle in the Haymow.—A Story for Housekeepers, by H. D. R., | 515
The Nursery Basket, | 570
The Pedestrian Tour, by Pauline Forsyth, | 494
The Schottisch Partner, by Motte Hall, | 542
The Toilet, | 568
The Trials of a Needle-Woman, by T. S. Arthur, | 527
The Wild Flowers of the Month, by H. Coultas, | 523
Time's Changes; or, Fashions in the Olden Times, | 512
To a Friend on the Day of his Marriage, | 545
To Correspondents. | 571
Truth, by D. Hardy, Jr., | 550
Two Mothers? by Mrs. S. F. Jennings, | 543
What shall be done for the Insane? | 555
Why don't Ladies learn to Cook? | 549

EMBELLISHMENTS, &c.

June.

- Eastport and Passamaquoddy Bay.

- Colored Fashions.

- Embroidered Dress Collar.

- The Truant Detected.

- Fashionable Bonnets and Caps.

- The Pyramid Talma.

- The Scarf Volant.

- MUSIC.—The Palace Waltz.

- The Empress and the Novada.

- Preservation of Food.

- Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing.

- The Wild Flowers of the Month.

- Artificial Pearls in the Mussel.

- Illuminated, or Vellum-Painting.

- Caps and Headdress.

- Juvenile Fashions.

- Braid for Child's Dress.

- Lace Basque.

- Lady's Riding Boots.

- Cottage Furniture.

- Lady's Slipper on Cloth.—Smyrna Embroidery.

- Design for a Bread-Cloth.

- Patterns for Embroidery.

EVERYDAY ACTUALITIES.—NO. XX.

ILLUSTRATED WITH PEN AND GRAVER.

BY C. T. HINCKLEY.

PRESERVATION OF FOOD.

THE various organic substances furnished by the animal and vegetable kingdoms, which constitute the food of man, are, from the nature of their chemical structure, liable to change and decay; they are also irregular in their supply; hence arises the necessity of storing up the abundance of one season to meet the deficiencies of another. The art of preserving food as much as possible in its original state is therefore of great importance; it has been improved by gradual steps, depending, in great measure, as in so many other cases, on chemical discovery and the diffusion of chemical knowledge among persons engaged in the useful arts; so that, at the present time, the deprivations suffered by our forefathers may be prevented; the commonest articles of food may be enjoyed at all seasons; and even the delicious fruits of our gardens may be made to contribute to our health and refreshment at a season when the trees which produced them are covered with snow. The mariner, too, is not now necessarily confined to salt meats; he may, on the longest voyage, and in the severest clime, as easily enjoy fresh meat and vegetables as when he is in port.

The necessity for adopting means for the preservation of articles of food arises from the complicated structure of organic compounds, and their tendency to resolve themselves into simpler or inorganic compounds. Although the comprehensive history of the animal and vegetable kingdoms is written with a very brief alphabet; although the elements which enter into the composition of organic bodies are only carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen—often, but not always, nitrogen—and occasionally minute portions of sulphur and phosphorus; yet their extraordinary powers of combination are such that there appears to be no limit to the number of definite substances which they are capable of producing, each substance having a character peculiar to itself, and often a crystalline form. It is very different with the fifty-eight other members of the list of elements; the compounds which they assist in forming are inorganic, and they are formed by the union of pairs of elements, or pairs of binary compounds.

It is a consequence of this complicated structure that organic compounds are unstable in their character, and liable to decomposition, or, in other words, to resolve themselves into simpler compounds. An inorganic substance, on the contrary, however complex its formula may appear, is actually built up of binary compounds, the simplest that can be formed. But in the organic substance the carbon and hydrogen have a strong tendency to form carbonic acid; the hydrogen and oxygen to form water; the hydrogen and nitrogen to form ammonia; or, the hydrogen and the sulphur to form sulphuretted hydrogen, &c. In popular language, these changes are expressed by such terms as decay and putrefaction. Liebig, however, has given precision to them by limiting the term decay to the decomposition of moist organic matter freely exposed to the air, the oxygen of which gradually burns and destroys it without sensible elevation of temperature.[1] The term putrefaction is limited to changes which occur in and beneath the surface of water, the effect being a mere transposition of elements or metamorphosis of the organic body.[2] The conversion of sugar into alcohol and carbonic acid is a simple illustration of the term. The contact of oxygen is, however, first necessary to the change, which, when once begun, is continued without the aid of any other external substance, except perhaps water, or its elements. Every instance of putrefaction begins with decay; and if the decay, or its cause, viz., the absorption of oxygen, be prevented, no putrefaction occurs. In short, if the access of oxygen be prevented, there is no decay; if the access of water be prevented, there is no putrefaction. The exclusion of air and moisture forms the basis of some of the best methods of preserving food.

There are certain substances named Antiseptics (from ἀντὶ, against, and σήπομαι, to putrefy), from their property (exerted, however, very unequally) of preventing the putrefaction of organic substances. Thus, alcohol, and common salt in certain proportions, check all putrefaction and all the processes of fermentation by depriving the putrefying body of water. Nitre, vinegar, spices, and sugar are also antiseptics. The antiseptic effect of a very low temperature is caused by the solidification of the water and other juices, which, in their usual fluid state, allow the molecules to move freely on one another.

We will first notice the various methods of preserving animal food. These are: 1, by drying; 2, by cold; 3, by salting and by sugar; 4, by smoking; 5, by vinegar; 6, by parboiling and excluding air; 7, by potting; 8, by alcohol.

1. A familiar example of the first method is afforded in common glue, which in its hard and dry state may be kept for any length of time. So also may white of egg, if prepared by pouring the white of a number of eggs into a large flat dish, and exposing this for twelve or fourteen hours to heat in front of the fire. As the water evaporates, the albumen forms into a yellow, transparent, hard, shining, brittle mass, which scales off at the least touch—a test that it is properly done. These two substances, gelatine and albumen, are two of the constituents of flesh; fibrin or fleshy fibre, which is the third, dries equally well, and is not liable to putrefaction in that state. Gelatine, after being dried, may be softened by the action of hot water. Albumen coagulated by heat cannot be softened again by water; but if dried at about 140° without being coagulated, it may be dissolved in cold water, retaining all its valuable properties. Hence, in preserving meat by drying, too high a temperature must be carefully avoided, or the albumen will become coagulated, and the meat be made insoluble.

The dried flesh of the bison, of the buffalo, and of the deer, forms pemmican, the preparation of which is thus described in Captain Back's Journal:—

"While meat remains in a thick piece, it is impossible to get the middle dried before putrefaction commences; but if the meat be cut into slices, its desiccation may be easily effected. The fleshy parts of the hind quarters are cut into very thin slices, dried in the sun, or before the fire, and pounded. Two parts of the pounded meat are then mixed with one of melted fat, and packed into a bag formed of the hide of the animal. A bag weighing ninety pounds is called a taureau by the Canadian voyageurs; and, in fact, only one bag of pemmican is generally made from each bison cow. Two pounds of this kind of food are sufficient for the daily support of a laboring man; though, when the voyageurs first commence upon pemmican, they each consume three pounds or more. In the spring, they generally boil the young shoots of Epilobium angustifolium with it, and some Scotchmen in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company add flour or oatmeal, thus rendering it more palatable. The best pemmican is made of finely-pounded meat mixed with marrow, and further improved by the addition of dried berries or currants. If kept from the air, it may be preserved sound for several years, and being very portable, it might be used with great advantage in provisioning troops that have to make forced marches. It may be eaten raw, or mixed with a little water and boiled; and although not much relished by those who taste it for the first time, the voyageur, with the single addition of the luxury of tea, requires nothing else for breakfast, dinner, and supper."

In the West Indies, and in South America, jerked beef is prepared by cutting the meat into slices, dipping them into sea-water or brine, and then drying them in the sun. The flesh of wild cattle is thus preserved at Buenos Ayres. Sometimes this dried meat is pounded in a mortar, into a uniform paste, which is pressed into jars, and if intended to supply the wants of the traveller, it is beaten up with maize meal and packed closely in leather bags. It is eaten in this state without further cooking. Drying meat in the air is said, however, to injure its flavor, and to dissipate a great portion of the nutritious juices.

Some kinds of fish are preserved by slitting them down the middle, and drying them in the air to evaporate the moisture. Small cod, haddock, and stock fish, prepared in this way, will, if kept dry, remain good for a great length of time.

Portable soup is prepared by processes similar to those used in the manufacture of glue. The gelatine of meat is dissolved by boiling water, and the water being evaporated, the gelatine is left in a solid state. Any fresh lean meat, with the fat cut away, will answer the purpose. Bones are also used for the purpose, the gelatine being extracted by means of a digester. In the French manufacture of gelatine brut fin, one hundred pounds of bones yield about twenty-five of gelatine, which is dried, cut up into dice, and used for making soup.

2. The effect of cold in the preservation of animal substances received a remarkable illustration in the discovery made by Pallas, in the year 1779, on the shores of the Frozen Ocean, near the mouth of the river Lena, of an animal of immense size, imbedded in ice, which, as it melted gradually, exposed it to the air and furnished food for the hungry wolves and other animals of those regions. It was the opinion of Cuvier that this animal differed from every known species of elephant, and was antediluvian, preserved from the remote period of the deluge in the mass of ice which enveloped it. Some of the hair of this animal may be seen in the museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, England.

In Russia, Canada, Hudson's Bay, and other countries where the frost is sufficiently steady, meat preserved in this way is a common article of commerce. Travellers speak with admiration of the frozen markets of Russia, supplied as they are from distant places with provisions solidified by the cold. Thus, in the market at Petersburg, Mr. Kohl noticed partridges from Saratoff, swans from Finland, heathcocks and grouse from Livonia and Esthuria, while the wide Steppes furnished the trapp-geese which flutter over their endless plains, where the Cossack hunts them on horseback, and kills them with his formidable whip. All these birds, as soon as the life-blood has flown, are apparently converted into stone by the frost, and, packed in huge chests, are sent for sale to the capital. So rapid are the effects of frost in that country, that the snow-white hares, which are brought in sledge-loads to the market, are usually frozen in the attitude of flight, with their ears pointed and their legs stretched out, just as they were at the moment of death. Another curious sight in these markets is a frozen reindeer, its knees doubled under its body, its hairy snout stretched forth upon the ground, and its antlers rising majestically in the air; or a mighty elk, disappearing piece by piece, as the action of the saw and the axe separates it for distribution among the several customers.

When provisions have been frozen, great care is required in thawing them; for, if this be done suddenly, putrefaction soon sets in, and although cooked immediately, they are hard and deficient in flavor. They must be thawed by immersion in cold water.

The London markets are supplied with salmon packed in ice from many of the northern rivers that flow to the eastern coasts of Britain. Every salmon fishery is now provided with an ice-house, and a stock of ice collected during the winter. The salmon is packed in large oblong wooden boxes, with pounded ice between, and the fish is received in London as fresh as when it was taken out of the water. It is not, however, frozen. Most fishmongers are furnished with ice-houses or cellars for the preservation of their fish in tubs of ice; and we do not see why English butchers should not be provided with larders cooled by the same means. In many parts of the United States every housekeeper has a small ice-safe, in which, through the warm season, all kinds of perishable provisions are kept. Public ice-houses are also maintained by the butchers, so that, under the burning climate of South Carolina, there is less loss in the way of butcher's meat, fish, game, &c., than in the comparatively temperate summer of London. The meat is sent to the ice-house, near the market, every evening, and is cooled down to near the freezing-point during the night; when exposed on the stalls next day, it retains its low temperature for a long time. Such a plan, adopted in London, would prevent the immense waste of meat during every summer, which is said to amount to at least two thousand tons in London alone. It is true that, when meat has been once frozen, its flavor is injured, but the reduction of meat to 32° or thereabouts, and the solidification of its juices, are very different things; and it would be easy to regulate the temperature within a range of several degrees.

3. Various kinds of salt are used in the preservation of food. Saltpetre and sal prunella (which is saltpetre deprived of its water of crystallization by heat) are also used for the purpose. The action of these alkaline salts upon animal substances is, as already noticed, to abstract the water in the juices of the meat, and, being dissolved therein, the salts enter the pores of the animal substance; the albumen of the meat, which is more liable to putrefaction than the gelatine and fibrine, is thus rendered less so. There are two methods of salting, dry salting and pickling. In dry salting, the meat is packed in dry salt, or in some cases the surface is rubbed all over with salt. In pickling, the meat is kept immersed in a solution (sometimes saturated) of common salt dissolved in water. This method does not render the meat so salt as dry rubbing, and is probably less injurious to its nutritious qualities, but it will not keep the meat so well. Bacon is cured by salting and drying, for which latter purpose it is often hung up in the wide chimneys of farm-house kitchens; cod is also salted and dried for the large demand of the Peninsula; in England, it is used in a green state; that is, instead of being split quite open, it is only opened down to the navel, then salted, and laid in brine or strong pickle, and put into casks without drying. Haddock, cod, or ling, are cured by splitting the fish and removing the backbone; they are then salted for two or three days, with equal parts of salt and sugar, or with salt alone; they are next stretched on sticks, and laid on the beach to dry in the sun, or they are arranged on stages, or hung up in an inclosed space warmed by a stove. Herrings are salted, or pickled, and smoked.

Sugar, like salt, takes away the water from animal substances, and thus prevents putrefaction. By immersing meat in molasses, it has been preserved fresh for months. Fish is sometimes preserved by cutting it open, rubbing in sugar, and leaving it for a few days; it is then dried in the air, taking care to turn it frequently. For a salmon of six pounds weight, a table-spoonful of brown sugar is sufficient; but, if hardness be required, a teaspoonful of saltpetre is to be added.

4. The efficacy of smoking, or smoke-drying, arises not only from the heat of the smoke, but from certain chemical products disengaged during the combustion of the wood fuel used for the purpose. Pyroligneous acid vapor and creasote are both produced, and the latter substance possesses the remarkable property of coagulating albumen. Hence, those chimneys only are fit for the purpose where the fire below is wood or peat, not coal. The kind of wood burnt is also of importance, the smoke from beech and oak being preferable to that from fir or larch. Smoke from the twigs of juniper, rosemary, peppermint, &c., impart to the meat a portion of their aromatic flavor. Westphalia hams owe some of their excellence to being smoked by juniper. Slow smoking is preferable to rapid, as it penetrates completely into the interior of the meat. In some parts of the country, the drying and smoking of hams are a separate trade. In such cases, a smoking-house or hut is erected, about twelve feet square, and the walls seven feet high, with a hole in the roof; joists are laid across inside, to hang the flitches on, and the floor is covered five or six inches deep with sawdust, which, being kindled, produces much smoke and little flame.

5. Vinegar and some other acids preserve both animal and vegetable substances by coagulating their albumen, which, as already stated, is peculiarly liable to putrefactive fermentation.

6. In the year 1810, M. Appert received a reward of 12,000 francs from the French Government for his method of parboiling provisions, and inclosing them in earthenware vessels in such a manner as to exclude the air. Many vegetables, fruits, &c., can be kept fresh for a great length of time, by shutting them up closely in a vessel, having previously filled up the interstices with sand or other loose substance that will exclude nearly all the air. Fresh walnuts may be preserved in this way in a jar, packed with sand and closely covered over; grapes packed in sawdust are imported into this country. Meat cannot be preserved in this way, but by exposing it to the heat of boiling water, the albumen, in which putrefaction first commences, coagulates; and as coagulated albumen is somewhat slow in decomposing, we thus have a reason for the common observation that cooked meat will keep longer than raw. It will not, however, keep many days, unless the air be perfectly excluded, not only from the external, but from the internal parts. The air in the interior may be expelled by boiling, and the exterior air may be kept away by inclosing the substance in an air-tight vessel. If these conditions be carefully observed, food may be preserved for any length of time. Appert's method consists in applying heat to the substances to be preserved, so as to coagulate their fermentable juices, and then to place them in such a situation as to deprive them of contact with air. The vessel in which the meat is prepared is plunged for some time into boiling water before it is finally sealed, in order to drive out the last portions of the air; for, if a small portion of oxygen gas were present, this would be sufficient to commence the process of fermentation, and when once begun it would be continued.

M. Appert's process may be described as follows:—

The meat to be preserved is first parboiled, or somewhat more, and freed from the bones. It is then put, together with vegetables, if required, into tin cases or canisters, which are filled quite up with a rich gravy; a tin cover, with a small aperture in it, is then carefully fixed on to each canister by solder, and while the vessel is perfectly full, it is placed in boiling water, or in a saline bath, heated above the boiling point of water, and kept therein until the air has been expelled as completely as possible by the steam generated within the canister. The small hole in the cover is completely closed up with a little solder while the contents are yet hot, the issue of the steam being stopped for a moment by means of a damp sponge. The canister, with its ingredients, is now allowed to cool, in consequence of which these contract, and the sides of the vessel are forced slightly inwards by the pressure of the atmosphere, and become a little concave. As a precautionary measure, however, the tins are placed in the testing-room, which is heated to above 100° Fahr. Should putrefaction take place in consequence of a minute portion of oxygen left in the case, and not combined with the animal or vegetable matter, the generated gases will burst the canisters; those, however, which withstand this test will preserve the provisions for many years; for as each vessel is hermetically sealed, and all access of air prevented, it may be sent into any climate without fear of putrefaction, and the most delicate food of one country be thus eaten in its original perfection in a distant region, many months, or even years after its preparation. In this manner may all kinds of alimentary substances be preserved; beef, mutton, veal, and poultry; fish and game; soups, broths, and vegetables; creams and custards. Of a quantity taken by Captain Nash to India, not one canister was spoiled; and one which he brought back contained, after two years, beef in the highest state of perfection and preservation, and after having been carried upwards of 35,000 miles, in the warmest climates. This method has been adopted by the commissioners for victualling the English Navy, who, having examined some meat so preserved for four years, during voyages in the Mediterranean, found it as sound, sweet, and fresh, as if it had been boiled only the day before. Captain Basil Hall bears similar testimony. It was stated, however, by the officers in the Antarctic voyage, that they gradually got very tired of preserved meats, but not of preserved vegetables, and that there was an insipidity in them which they did not find in fresh food. There is, however, no doubt that, if the articles be selected with care, and the process be properly conducted, M. Appert's method of preserving food is a valuable invention. If the contractor be careless or dishonest, the most fearful consequences might ensue to the crews of ships victualled with preserved meats. It appears, from a recent examination of several thousand canisters of the preserved meat of the Navy at Portsmouth, England, that their contents were masses of putrefaction, consisting of meat, &c., which, even in a fresh state, ought never to be used as food. It is stated that this preserved meat was supplied from Galatz, in Moldavia.

In 1842, M. Appert's method was made the subject of a further patent, granted to Mr. Bevan, whose process consisted in expelling air from the cases containing the food, by placing such cases in connection with a vacuum chamber, or other exhausting apparatus, and also with a vessel containing gelatine or other suitable fluid material, in such a manner that, by opening the communications, the air escapes into the exhausting apparatus and the gelatine takes its place. By this method the high temperature previously used in preserving food was not required; it could, on the contrary, be cooked at very low temperatures, and in a space almost void of air. The apparatus used is shown in section, in the following figure: A is a vessel open at the top, and filled to the line i with fluid gelatine, having a pipe j, and a stopcock e firmly attached to it. B is a sphere of metal in which a vacuum is produced by blowing steam through it by the pipe l out through k; l and k are then closed, and a jet of water at m, applied to the outside of the sphere, condenses the steam and leaves a vacuum within it. The substance to be preserved is inclosed within a cylindrical tin vessel C, the top of which is then soldered on, and two small metal pipes d and c passed into it air-tight, as far as a b; the other ends being secure to the pipes j j at h h. The case is next immersed in a water-bath N, at a temperature of about 120°, and by turning the cock f, the greater portion of the air in the case C rushes into B; the article of food, animal or vegetable, in the case, being thus relieved of atmospheric pressure, the heat of 120° is sufficient to cook it, and to expel the air from it. A fowl is cooked in this way in about fifteen minutes. The cock e is then opened, and the gelatine, kept fluid by the warm bath P, enters by the pipes j and c, into the case C, and drives the small portion of air left therein into the vacuum chamber B. The case C is then hermetically sealed by nipping the tubes d and c at the points g g. The case is then submitted for a few minutes to the action of boiling water (thirty minutes for a fowl), and when cool, the process is complete.

A concentrated form of food, called meat biscuit, excited a considerable degree of attention in the Great Exhibition. It is formed by boiling down the fresh beef of Texas, and mixing into the strong beef-tea thus formed a certain proportion of the finest flour. The biscuit formed from these materials is so nutritive, that less than four ounces a day (mixed with warm water or not, according to circumstances) is sufficient food for a man in active service. It is very light and portable, and keeps perfectly well without change; hence it is admirably adapted to the provisioning of troops, ships, and overland expeditions. The manufacture is also of great importance to those countries in which cattle are superabundant, and are killed merely for the sake of their skins for the tanner, or their bones for the farmer, the flesh being actually thrown away. In some places, animals which we are accustomed to regard as valuable are so numerous that they are drowned by hundreds, merely to get rid of them, neither their skin, bones, nor flesh serving as a pretext for the wholesale slaughter.

Milk has been preserved in the following manner: Fresh milk is reduced by boiling to one-half, and beaten up with yolk of eggs, in the proportion of eight eggs to every ten and a half quarts of milk. The whole is then placed on the fire for half an hour, and skimmed frequently; it is next strained and heated in a water-bath for two hours. It is stated that this milk will keep good for two years, and, if churned, would afford good butter. Cream may be preserved by boiling five measures down to four; then, after cooling and skimming, it is put into a bottle, corked down, luted, and kept in the boiling heat of a water-bath for half an hour. This, it is said, will keep two years.

A much better method of preserving milk is that first pointed out by M. Dirchoff, the Russian chemist; namely, to solidify it by driving off the aqueous portion by a gentle heat. Specimens of consolidated milk were shown in the Great Exhibition; and it was stated that, after being dissolved in boiling water, and reproduced in the form of milk, the solution will keep pure for four or five days. As milk contains 873 parts of water in every 1000, it follows that 1000 parts of milk will yield by evaporation only 127 parts.

7. Potting is only another contrivance for excluding animal substances from contact with air. Lean meat should be selected, cooked, and then reduced to a pulp by being beaten in a mortar, salt and spices being incorporated. The pulp is then rammed into jars, and preserved from the air by a thick coating of melted butter or lard poured over it.

In the preservation of fruits and vegetables, some are dried, as in the case of nuts, raisins, sweet herbs, &c.; others are preserved by sugar, such as many of the fruits, whose delicate juices would be dissipated in the process of drying. Some are preserved in vinegar, as in the case of pickles; a few by salting, as French beans; and others are preserved in spirits.

Appert's method applies to vegetables and fruits of all kinds; they need not, however, be parboiled. The dry and fresh-gathered fruits are put into strong, wide-mouthed glass bottles, carefully corked, and luted with a cement of lime and soft cheese, and bound down with wire. The bottles are then inclosed separately in canvas bags, and put into a kettle of water, which is gradually heated until it boils; the bottles are kept in this condition until the fruits are boiled in their own juice. The whole is then left to cool; after which the bottles are examined separately, and put away for store.

Many kinds of vegetables may be preserved by being spread out on the floor of a kiln, and dried by a gentle heat: the thicker kinds of roots, such as carrots, turnips, potatoes, &c., are to be sliced, and thoroughly well dried; after which they must be packed up in paper or very dry boxes, and put into casks.[3]

A method of preserving vegetables by drying and pressure, recently invented by M. Masson, was brought into prominent notice at the Great Exhibition. Cabbage, sliced turnips, apples, or whatever vegetable be selected, are dried in an oven at a certain temperature, so as to drive off from seven to eight per cent. of water: the drying must not be conducted too slowly nor too rapidly, but at a medium rate. After the drying, the vegetables are packed into a very small compass by the intense pressure of an hydraulic press; then squared and trimmed with a knife, packed up in tinfoil, and lastly, stored in boxes. A short time ago, we examined some red cabbage preserved in this way, which had been exposed in the Great Exhibition all the time it was open, and had been slowly absorbing moisture, and yet it appeared to be perfectly good. By this method, from 15,000 to 18,000 rations, of a quarter pound each, can be stowed into a cubic yard. We also saw some dried plantains from Mexico (a vegetable of very considerable nutritious value), which had been lying in a warehouse at Woolwich ever since the year 1835, and had undergone no change. It was stated that the method of preparing them is cheap and easy, and that the dried plant can be sent in any quantities to Europe, at six cents per pound, with a considerable profit to the importer.

Some kinds of vegetables, such as French beans, artichokes, olives, samphire, and barberries, are preserved by salt, a strong brine being made by the addition of four pounds of salt to a gallon of water; the vegetables are put into this, and quite covered with it. In Holland and Germany, kidney beans are sliced by a machine something like a turnip-cutter, and put into a cask in layers with salt between; a weight is then put on, and pressure is kept up until a slight fermentation takes place; the salt liquor is then poured off; the cask is covered up, and put into the cellar as store. Before being cooked, the beans are steeped in fresh water.

Sauer Kraut is prepared somewhat in the same manner. The following recipe for making it is given by Parmentier:—

The heads of white winter-cabbages, after removing the outer leaves, are to be cut into fine shreds, and spread out upon a cloth in the shade. A cask which has had vinegar in it is to be selected, or, if that cannot be had, the inside should be rubbed over with vinegar or sauerkraut liquor. A layer of salt is to be put in the bottom of the cask, caraway-seeds are to be mixed with shreds of cabbage, and they are to be packed in the cask to the depth of four or six inches; and layers of this kind, with salt between each layer, are added till the cask is full, stamping them down with a wooden stamper as they are put in, to half their original bulk; some mix a little pepper and salad oil with the salt. Some salt is to be put on the top, and some of the outside leaves of the cabbages. About two pounds of salt suffice for twenty middle-sized cabbages. The head of the barrel is to be placed upon the cabbage-leaves, and must be loaded with heavy stones. A common method is for a man, with clean wooden shoes on, to tread the cabbage down in the cask. Fermentation will take place, and some juice will be given out, which is green, muddy, and fetid; this rises to the surface, and is to be replaced with fresh brine. When the fermentation is over, the casks are closed up. Cabbages are preferred, but any other vegetables may be treated in the same manner.

When vegetables are preserved in vinegar, they form pickles. When sugar is the preserving medium, they are variously named according to the mode of preparation. Fruits, flowers, herbs, roots, and juices, boiled with sugar or syrup, and employed in pharmacy, as well as for sweetmeats, are called confections (Latin, conficere, to make up). Liquid confects consist of fruits, either whole or in pieces, preserved by immersion in fluid transparent syrup: apricots, green citrons, and some foreign fruits, are treated in this way. Dry confects are prepared by boiling in syrup those parts of vegetables adapted to this method, such as citron and orange-peel, &c.; they are then taken out and dried in an oven. Marmalades, jams, and pastes are soft compounds made of the pulp of fruits, or other vegetable substances, beaten up with sugar or honey; oranges, apricots, pears, &c., are treated in this way. Jellies are the juices of fruits—currants, gooseberries, apples, &c.—boiled with sugar to such a consistence as, on cooling, to form a trembling jelly. Conserves are dry confects, made by beating up flowers, fruits, &c. with sugar not dissolved. Candies are fruits candied over with sugar, after having been boiled in the syrup.

The best syrup for preserving fruits is made by dissolving two parts of double-refined sugar in one part of water, boiling a little, skimming, and filtering through a cloth. This gives a good smooth syrup, which does not readily ferment nor crystallize.

The specimens of preserved food in the Great Exhibition were exceedingly numerous; they included animal and vegetable productions, fruits, &c. One interesting specimen was a canister containing boiled mutton, prepared by the exhibitor, Mr. Gamble, for the Arctic Expedition in 1824. A large number of these canisters were landed from the ship Fury, on the beach where the ship was wrecked in Prince Regent's Inlet, and were found by Captain Sir John Ross in August, 1833, in a state of perfect preservation, although annually exposed to a temperature of 92° below, and 80° above zero. Had it not been for the large store of provisions left by Parry near the spot where the Fury was wrecked, Ross's expedition must have perished.

THE PEDESTRIAN TOUR.

BY PAULINE FORSYTH.

BETWEEN the projecting a scheme in the mind and its actual accomplishing, the difference is as great as that between the appearance of some Eastern city seen from a distance in the moonlight, with its picturesque domes and minarets silvered by the rays that throw over the darkest spots an unreal glamour of purity and brightness, and the same place viewed in the broad daylight, while standing in the midst of its narrow and dirty streets. It is as if we had devised some airy palace, beautiful and complete in its smallest details, and found ourselves, when going about to build it, with no materials ready but a little clay and a few stones and sticks, and those of the most crooked and unpliable materials. Few persons realize, before they are twenty-five, the resolutely prosaic actualities of the world as it is. Almost every one in his early youth is fully persuaded that he is about to perform an important part in some deeply interesting drama, and it is a hard lesson that disenchants him, and shows that he has been acting the part of Don Quixote with the world for Sancho Panzo.

Frederic Lanier was a young man of nineteen. His early life had been passed in the country; but when he was fifteen he had been sent to New York to complete his education, and to reside in the mean time with his uncle, Mr. Lawrence. The very day after his arrival in the city had been marked by an important event. He had seen Adelaide Marshall, and had fallen in love with her. This love had accompanied him during the one year he had spent at the High School, and his three succeeding ones at the college. The lady was six years older than himself, but that was an additional attraction. Her stately and graceful movements, her majestic presence, and the calm and regular beauty of her face, never lost their charm to him. He was too much in love to observe that in the light of her blue eyes there was no warmth, but a cold and critical scrutiny, and that her mouth closed with a severe and slightly satirical expression. She was to him a perfect Helen.

About soon to be elevated to the rank of a Senior, he had begun to think himself in a position to show his passion more openly than he had hitherto ventured to do. He little suspected that the lofty Adelaide had divined his feelings from the first, and had received his timid attentions with sensations of gratified pride and amusement that, unmingled with any softer feeling, promised little for the success of his suit. The lady, accustomed to admiration, considered all homage as her due; and, looking on Frederick Lanier as a mere boy, she talked to him familiarly when she so inclined, and made use of him in a gracious and royal manner without the slightest tender consideration for his feelings, or fear of the consequences. She had known many men and boys to fall in love with her, and, when they had found out that she did not and would not reciprocate their affection, the worst that had ever happened was that they had married somebody else; and this she calmly contemplated as the probable termination of Frederick Lanier's passion, while he was internally vowing a lifelong devotion to the lady of his heart.

He had discovered that she was to pass two or three weeks at the White Mountains during the month of July. He decided to arrange his summer wanderings so as to be there at the same time. Meantime, a vague desire to be alone, to feed on his own thoughts free from the importunate interruptions of even the members of his own family, induced him to follow the example of several of his college companions, and undertake a pedestrian tour.

This proposal was not received with any approbation by his uncle's family.

"Now, Fred," said his cousin Emily, "this is too bad. We were going to have such a pleasant time at Lake George this summer, and had relied upon you to go with us. Father will have to be away a great deal, and I am sure I don't know what we shall do without you to go about with us. I have asked Bessie Graham to accompany us, too, and I particularly wanted you to become better acquainted with her."

"Bessie Graham! Why, she is a little girl."

"She is nearly seventeen," replied Emily.

"Well, she is a very small specimen of womankind, and I have no particular admiration for little women; besides, she is somewhat of a chatter-box, is she not?"

"She talks a little, but not too much," was the reply.

"And laughs a great deal. I like dignified manners better."

"For instance, Miss Adelaide Marshall's," said Emily, with a little irritation in her tone. "You are going to the White Mountains, you say?"

"Yes."

"And I heard Miss Marshall say, the other day, that she intended to pass two or three weeks there; so that accounts for your plan. It is a most absurd fancy of yours to fall in love with that iceberg. I have as much expectation of seeing you return with Mount Washington in your pocket, as with Miss Marshall on your arm."

Frederick Lanier grew red even to the tips of his ears with embarrassed indignation at thus having the most cherished secret of his heart rudely laid bare to the light of common day. He became only the more determined to escape, where he could dwell in peace on the one idea that engrossed all his thoughts.

"When do you think of leaving?" asked Emily.

"To-morrow," he replied.

"And Bessie comes the day after. And when will you return?"

"Perhaps by the last week in August."

"And Bessie will be gone by that time. It is too bad!"

"I do not understand what Bessie Graham has to do with my movements. I might change my plans to suit you, Emily, but not a little chattering thing like your friend."

Emily said nothing; she had had schemes of her own, and Frederick had completely destroyed them, but she deigned no explanation.

"I think of going along the Hudson River until I reach the northern extremity of the State, when I shall cross over to the Green Mountains in Vermont, and go through that State into New Hampshire. I hope to find myself at the foot of the White Mountains by the middle of July."

"The very time Miss Marshall expects to arrive there. She is going on horseback with her brother. Her mother and sister are to accompany them in the carriage."

"Ah!" said Frederick, endeavoring, in a most transparently artful manner, to appear ignorant and indifferent.

"If you are going so soon," said his aunt, "we had better see if your wardrobe is in a fit state for so long an absence."

"I shall need very little," replied Frederick; "the less the better, as I intend to carry it myself."

"I have a little light valise I can lend you," said a cousin of his, John Williams, who happened to be passing the evening there.

The offer was accepted, and the rest of the time was passed in discussing the many delightful and romantic adventures that pedestrian tourists have met with both in Europe and America.

With a heart full of hope and joyous expectation, Frederick took his valise and a stout stick, with which all prudent pedestrians provide themselves, and saw with delight the dusty pavements merging into the dustier road, and the houses becoming more and more widely separated.

He had intended to choose the byways rather than the main road, and to make it convenient to stop at farm-houses instead of the country taverns along his route, thinking by this means to be able to see more of the people, and to gain a little insight into habits and customs with which he felt as though he ought to be somewhat more familiar. He had anticipated a great deal of pleasure from the variety of character and mode of life which would thus be brought under his notice; but his first attempt proved so unsatisfactory, that he gave up all farther idea of intruding on the privacy of those who were unprepared for receiving strangers.

He had stopped at a farm-house, and asked if he could be lodged for the night just at eight o'clock. He found the occupants preparing to retire, and, though they made him welcome, and entertained him hospitably, yet he could not help perceiving that he gave them additional trouble; and, when he found that they would not receive payment for it, he decided that it was a false position in which he had placed himself, and that nothing but necessity should induce him to adopt the same course again. He lacked the cheerful assurance with which some men can make themselves at home anywhere, without a suspicion that others are not equally pleased with their society.

The next morning, feeling rather footsore and unrefreshed, after his unusual exertions of the day before, Frederick took advantage of a stage that was going in the same direction with himself, and rode to the village in which he had decided to pass the night. Here he amused himself by wandering about the beautiful and romantic country around, and returning when he was weary to the country inn. This he found so much easier and pleasanter a mode of travelling than the fatiguing one of walking, that he went almost to the foot of the Green Mountains before he thought of resuming it. Then, ashamed of his faint-heartedness, he left the stage, and, shouldering his valise again, he walked for some hours quite vigorously.

He entered the little village of Hillsdale just as the moon was rising, and, after a supper such as none but a pedestrian could eat, he strolled out to enjoy the loveliness of the summer evening and his own meditations, by the banks of a clear and rapid stream, the beauty of which had attracted his notice as he was entering the village. He walked for some distance up its banks, and then, throwing himself down on a grassy mound, he lay in a sort of musing trance, watching the moonlight shimmering on the flashing waters, and listening to the tinkling music of their flow, while his imagination was busily engaged in inventing deeds of heroism and chivalric daring, by which he fancied himself proving to the lady of his love that he was worthy of one so noble and high-souled.

Midnight stole unawares upon him while thus engaged, and, with reluctant steps, he sought the Eagle Hotel, where he had decided to pass the night. A decision not difficult to arrive at, as there was no other public house in the place. The next morning he discovered, to his great annoyance, that he had lost his purse in his evening ramble. He sought for it in vain; and when the landlord, conjecturing from his movements that he was about to depart, asked him if he would like his bill, he could not help a guilty conscious feeling stealing over him as he tried to answer, in an off-hand way, that he intended to pass a few days in Hillsdale.

If Frederick Lanier had not been so unaccustomed to the ways of the world, he would have stated his situation frankly to the landlord, and then have made himself easy until he could receive remittances from home. But, as it was, he kept his affairs to himself; and, while waiting for an answer to the letter he had written home, he went in and out, took his meals, read the paper, and did his best to pass the time away without addressing a remark to any one.

It struck him that he had never been among people quite so rural and primitive, and he was right. But, as the arrival of a stranger was a rare event among them, so he was of proportionate importance. And they were also gifted with the usual sociability of the New Englanders; and a young man that did not seem inclined to tell who he was, and where he came from, and where he was going to, and seemed to have nothing to do but to go regularly to the post-office, and then with his fishing-rod to the river, from which he always returned empty-handed, was an object of wonder and suspicion.

Frederick Lanier, unconscious of the speculations of which he was the object, began to be greatly worried and perplexed by not receiving the letter for which he was anxiously waiting. He grew daily more restless and uneasy.

"He's got a bad conscience, depend upon it," said the landlord, oracularly, as he sat in the midst of his satellites and customers listening to the hasty strides with which Frederick Lanier was pacing up and down the room over their heads.

At length a paragraph in a newspaper brought their suspicions to an open expression.

"That's him, depend upon it," said the landlord. "James Wilson. J. W.; them's the very letters on his portmantle. Five hundred dollars reward. That will be doin' a pretty good business for one day."

"Are you going to take him up, Squire?" asked one of the men in the bar-room.

"Certingly. Think I am going to let such a chance slip through my fingers? It's him—it's as like him as two peas. Read that, friend," continued the landlord, addressing himself to Frederick as he was going hastily through the room, and planting himself so that the young man could not pass him.

Frederick took the paper, and read an advertisement offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension of a clerk in a bank of a neighboring town, who had absconded with two or three thousand dollars. As Frederick glanced over the description of the runaway, it struck him that James Wilson must have been rather an ill-looking fellow. A broad-shouldered, down-looking, dark-haired, swarthy-complexioned man would be rather an unpleasant person to meet in a lonely place, he thought. He returned the paper to the landlord, saying, carelessly—

"Do you think there is any probability that the thief will be taken?"

"Well, I guess so, if we look sharp."

Something in the landlord's tone struck Frederick disagreeably. He glanced around, and the distrustful, watchful expression on the countenances of those about him revealed at once the nature of the suspicions against him.

"You surely do not suspect me of being this James Wilson?" asked he, in surprise.

"I guess you'll have hard work to prove that you are anything else. What is your name?"

"Frederick Lanier."

"And what business do you follow?"

"I am a student in New York city. My uncle, with whom I reside there, is Mr. Oliver Lawrence. You may have heard of him?"

But no. Well known as Mr. Lawrence was in Wall Street, his reputation did not extend to Hillsdale. Frederick saw that the mention of his uncle's name produced no effect. He glanced again over the description of the defaulter.

"I surely am neither swarthy nor down-looking," said he, catching at a straw.

"Wall, I don't think you be 'ither," said a young man, who seemed to look with some compassion on Frederick in his painful position.

"Asa Cutting, who asked your opinion?" said the landlord, magisterially. "Young man," continued he to Frederick, "I hain't once seen the color of your eyes sence you've ben in my house."

He must have seen them at that moment, for they were bent on him full of flashing indignation. But he went on.

"If you are a college-larnt young man, you can read Greek most likely?"

"Yes."

"Wall, I've got a Greek book here that I would like to have you read out of."

And, after some searching, a small book bound in paper was handed to Frederick. He took it readily, hoping to prove by his scholarship the truth of his assertions. To his disappointment, it was a little Chinese or Japanese pamphlet that had found its way to this remote place.

"This is not Greek; it is Chinese," said he.

"Hum!" said the landlord, in a tone of contempt; "that jest shows how much you know about it. If that ain't Greek, I would like to know what is. Do you ever see paper like that nowadays? That's Greek paper; it was invented ages before Chiny was ever heard of."

"Wall," said Asa Cutting, "I always have thought that them scratches in that book that pass for letters were jest like the scratches on the tea-chists in my store."

"Asa Cutting, what you think is nothin' to nobody, and what you say had better be the same. Young man, sence Greek is unbeknown to you, may be you'll have better luck with Latin."

"I can read Latin," said Frederick, modestly.

"Do you see them letters on my sign? You can read them out of the window here."

"You mean the motto, 'E pluribus unum,' I suppose?" said Frederick.

"Yes," said the landlord. "What do they stand for now?"

"'One of many,'" said Frederick.

"I thought how it would be," exclaimed the landlord, triumphantly. "'One of many!' What, in the name of common sense, does that mean? No, young man; don't you see they are put under the eagle, and they mean, 'The eagle's flight is out of sight?'"

"I think you are mistaken, Square," said the pertinacious Asa; "I am sure the stranger is right."

"Capen Cutting, you are like a sheep's head, all jaw," said the landlord, with some irritation. "You think you've got more sense than any one about here; but I guess you'll find yourself mistaken. Leftenant Davis, of the United States Army, told me what them words stood for, not more than a year ago, and it's likely he'd know. Young man, I'm afraid you are in a bad way."

Frederick began to think so himself.

"I assure you," he said, "that I am not James Wilson."

"Young man, you be," said the landlord, sternly. "What have you got J. W. on your portmantle for, I'd like to know?"

"That is a valise that was lent to me by my cousin, John Williams," said Frederick. "If you will wait till I can write to New York and receive an answer, I can satisfy you that you are mistaken in the person."

"I think, Square, you might allow the young man that chance," said Asa Cutting.

"Wall, I'd be willin' to do it," said the landlord, "if I only knew where to keep him; but the jail hasn't been mended sence that nigger took the roof off with his head and got out, two months ago; and there ain't a room in my house but the cellar that ain't about as onsafe as out doors."

Meantime, as people were dropping into the bar-room, the landlord, for greater privacy and safety, took his captive, with a small train of advisers and lookers-on, into the parlor, and there continued the discussion as to the proper course to be pursued. Frederick offered to give his word not to attempt an escape; but that proposal the landlord put aside with great contempt, and, disdaining any farther parley, Frederick listened in angry silence to the different plans suggested by the landlord to insure the safe keeping of the prisoner, and the consequent obtaining of the reward.

There was a slight bustle in front of the tavern, but the debate was so interesting that it passed almost unnoticed. Soon after, the parlor door was thrown open, and Adelaide Marshall entered, followed by her brother. Frederick thought he had never seen her look so magnificently beautiful. Her long riding-habit showed her figure to great advantage; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkling with the light and color of vigorous health and animation, and the mountain breeze had arranged her blonde hair with a most picturesque negligence around her fair open forehead.

"Why, Mr. Lanier," said she, with gracious cordiality, "this is an unexpected pleasure."

"Fred, I am delighted to meet you," exclaimed Henry Marshall.

An expression of disappointment passed over the landlord's face.

"Do you know this young man?" asked he.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Marshall, with some surprise; "he is an old friend of mine."

"Wall, Square," said Asa Cutting, "I told you you'd better take care what you was about. I kinder thought all along the young man didn't look like a thief."

"That's complimentary," said Miss Marshall. "You seem to have been in some trouble. I am glad we came in time to relieve you from such suspicions."

Frederick could not echo her expressions of pleasure. A week or two in jail, or even a temporary confinement in the landlord's cellar, would have been a light trouble compared with the mortification of being seen by Miss Marshall in such a position. He explained, with an attempt at indifference, the circumstances which had conspired against him, and Adelaide found them highly amusing. She laughed heartily over the advertisement, dwelling with malicious pleasure over each unflattering epithet. She listened to Asa Cutting's circumstantial account of the whole affair with an interest that led him insensibly to make it as long as possible; and, when he came to the landlord's suggestion of confining the suspected man in the cellar, she seemed so very much amused that Frederick could hardly endure it with becoming patience. Even after they were alone, she recurred again and again to the same theme, and always contrived to hit upon the very points that jarred most on Frederick's sensitive nature. When her mother and sister arrived, Miss Marshall repeated the story to them, dwelling and expatiating upon it until Frederick could no longer conceal his annoyance.

He declined coldly the invitation urged upon him by the whole family to join them in their tour—an invitation he would gladly have accepted a few days before; and it was with real pleasure that he saw the cavalcade set out the next morning to continue their journey, Miss Marshall looking back, after she had said "Good-by," to "hope that Mr. James Wilson would enjoy the solitary fishing excursions he seemed to like so well."

The long-looked-for letter came that day; some accident had delayed it on the road. With the remittance it contained he paid his bill, and left the village of Hillsdale with no very pleasant feelings. He was somewhat puzzled what course to take. His liking for travelling on foot had not stood the test of experience, and just then he would have directed his course to any other part of the Union more willingly than to the White Mountains. He wisely decided to return to New York, and, by taking the speediest conveyances, he managed to reach his uncle's house just two weeks after he had left it.

He was warmly welcomed by his aunt and cousins, and Bessie Graham's bright face looked brighter as she greeted him.

"You have come just in time, Fred," said Emily; "we are going to Lake George to-morrow. But how did you happen to get back so soon? I am afraid your 'predestinarian tower,' as that old lady out West called it, has not been so delightful as you expected."

Frederick acknowledged that it had not; and, after tea, he told the whole story to an audience more sympathizing than the former one had been.

"I thought you had a very crestfallen look as you came in," said Emily.

"I hope," said Mrs. Lawrence, "that you made the people understand who you were before you left."

Bessie said nothing; but Frederick was struck by the spirit in which she had listened to his misadventures, so different from the one that Miss Marshall had displayed. The one he had always thought a grave and serious character, and the other a light and childish one. But Miss Marshall seemed to find an endless source of amusement in the mortification of other people's vanity, while Bessie was so occupied with the painful position in which he had been placed that she could hardly smile, easily as her smiles generally came, at Frederick's imitation of the pompous and ignorant landlord.

"Bessie is a sweet little girl," said he to Emily, at the close of the evening.

"I knew you would like her," was Emily's pleased reply.

The pleasant weeks the party spent at Lake George served to confirm Frederick's opinion, and the liking that commenced that first evening after his return went on increasing, until in a few years it ended, as most stories and novels do, in a wedding.

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 SIXTH LETTER LEFT.

(Dated April the 9th.)

SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED ON A VERY IMPORTANT DAY, AND WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME OF HER MASTERS.

TO-DAY, dearest Nelly, is the 14th of February. Not a girl, I believe, in the whole school, slept a wink last night; ever since sunrise, there has been such a humming and buzzing, exactly as you hear at church when the service is just over. I believe all the girls are mad. No one seems to care for fines or forfeits. What is twopence or sixpence, or a hundred lines of the "History of England," so long as a dear sweet valentine is smuggled into the college? and it requires all the art which a woman has of smuggling, to pass a letter through the examination of this place. I declare it's worse than the custom-house, when you land from Boulogne. Every one who comes in has his pockets searched, and the Lady Principal stands on the staircase all day, watching for the postman. She little knows, however, that he has been bribed (with half a dozen SILVER THIMBLES) to slip all the letters under the door without that tell-tale "tat-tat;" or that Susan has earned in one day more ribbons and handkerchiefs than a year's wages would buy her, simply by having a little human feeling. Snapp and the Lady Principal were never fluttered with such hopes, I'll be bound, when they were young, although it is so long ago they may well be excused for forgetting it.

But it does not matter, Nelly, their locking us up in a state of siege. Rosy May has got a beauty sent round her bottle of strengthening mixture by the doctor's handsome young man; and Lucy Wilde found such a duck tucked in her stockings from the wash. And those impudent fellows next door have pelted us over the garden wall with half a dozen all tied on to a piece of string precisely as if it were the tail of a kite that had got entangled in the trees.

And then, Nelly (mind, this is a secret), there came a new Sunday dress for me (a beautiful shot silk, with all kinds of colors, just like mother-o'-pearl); and what do you think? There, inside it, hid up the sleeve, was such a love of a valentine for your dear, happy, happy Kitty! Oh gracious! when I opened it, I saw two sweet little doves, as white as bride-cake, caged in a net of beautiful silver paper, hovering over a large heart, smothered, dear, in the sweetest roses! It was so pretty, you can't tell; and I was so happy I could have gone to bed and have cried the rest of the afternoon. How kind of him to think of me on such a day! Bless him! How foolishly I love him to be sure, and I should be very wicked if I didn't; for it was only yesterday I flung the paring of an apple three times round my head, and when it had fallen on the ground, there it was in the form of the dear letter "S!" You understand, dearest; but not a word.

Snapp had one. It was inside an orange that was thrown at her from over the wall. Those impudent boys again! She tore it up most indignantly, and flung the bits away with a burst of eloquence about "the vulgar ribaldry of such ignorant, witless insults." We picked up the bits afterwards, and, putting them together, found they formed the ugliest picture that ever was seen, of an old witch riding on a birch-broom, with a big bottle in her hand. It was too bad, but we have pasted the pieces on a sheet of paper, and intend to keep it by us to spite her with some day, if she is unkind to us.

The fact is, the whole house is crazy. If it was breaking-up day, there couldn't be more fun and less discipline. Even that long piece of dryness, Miss Twigg, has been caught laughing several times, and the servants have been giggling up and down stairs, and all over the house, and running every minute to the door, until at last Mrs. Rodwell has put the chain up, and says she'll answer the door herself. She's in such a passion that I shouldn't like to be one of those poor girls who hav'n't paid for their last half year, and to be taken up before her!

Even that curious old Mr. Penn has become touched with the infection. He has been setting us the drollest copies, about "Faint Heart ne'er won Fair Lady," and "Though Lost to Sight, to Memory Dear," and such like; exceeding even his usual eccentricities.

He is the funniest little specimen you ever saw, Nelly, and ought to sit to have his portrait taken in China. He would make a capital Dresden ornament, for he is a very great curiosity; but in his present shape he is much more curious than ornamental. He is our writing-master; but his accomplishments go far beyond pot-hooks and hangers; for he teaches us, also, arithmetic, mathematics (much we understand about them!), and Latin (we all like "Amo, I love"—I think of Sidney as I conjugate it), and elocution; besides drawing to the juniors. Poor Penn! His is a sad life, Nell. He was brought up with expectations of having a large fortune. Those expectations are all gone now; for you cannot read the slightest hope in his care-worn face. His whole appearance implies a struggle to live. Every article of his dress speaks of a long fight with poverty. His coat looks so thin that you imagine, if it were brushed, it would be swept clean away like so much dust. It is buttoned close up to his throat, and what you see of his linen is clean, though rough and jagged at the edges, like the leaves of a book that's been badly cut. His boots are patched to that extent that, when it has been raining very hard, he doesn't like drying them at the fire, for fear of our laughing at the numerous patches about them. His hat—but never mind about his dress, Nelly; for I feel a sort of shame in counting the darns and stitches about this poor fellow's appearance. Suffice it to say, he always looks the gentleman in the midst of his shabbiness, and that he wins the respect of us giddy little girls, even in spite of his bad clothes. The latter, I can tell you, is no small recommendation in a girl's school.

He is clever, and I would sooner learn of him than of that ponderous Professor Drudge, whose explanations are so high-flown that we never can see what they mean, even by standing on tip-toe. At first, all manner of tricks were played upon old Penn. He never could find his spectacles—his knife was always mislaid—his quills were always stolen—but he never grumbled or made the slightest complaint. Last winter he used repeatedly to leave the room. We could not fancy why or where he went, until one day he dropped his pocket-handkerchief. It was nothing but holes and rags—almost as bad as the handkerchief I have seen the clown in a pantomime wipe his eyes with when he has pretended to be crying. He had been ashamed to withdraw it in our presence; and well he might, for on my word, without meaning any harm, we should all have burst out laughing, if he had. We could not have helped it, Nelly. You never saw such a thing, dear! "It was not a pocket-handkerchief," said that great stupid Meggy Sharpe, "so much as a Penn-wiper!"

Well! as we were all laughing at its poverty and comical appearance—you must have laughed yourself, Nelly—who should come in but Blight? In a few strong words she made us ashamed of our unfeeling mirth, and brought the color still more to our tingling cheeks by running up stairs and bringing down one of her own pocket-handkerchiefs, which she bade us slip unperceived into poor old Penn's coat pocket. We watched him from the window. The old gentleman pulled out his handkerchief as soon as he left the house, but, perceiving the substitution, his head dropped, poor fellow, and we saw him with the handkerchief held up to his eyes until he turned the corner.

Ever since then, no more tricks have been played with our writing-master. His poverty, unlike with most men, has been his friend—and a very good friend, too. Contributions have been dropped in the same poor-box for his relief, until the old gentleman has grown comparatively quite a dandy; one of Noble's black satin aprons has found him in stocks for months, and Blight is always knitting comfortable muffetees, slippers, and chest-protectors for him in the winter. We picture to ourselves the old man emptying his pockets when he gets home, and his surprise at finding the little gifts (and cake sometimes) they contain. We are happy in the pleasure we know we give him. He never says a word, but merely looks his thanks. We feel his gratitude in the increased kindness we receive from him. He calls us his "angels," and we know directly what he means; if he said more, O Lord! how we should all cry, and he, perhaps, more than any of us.

He is here, Nelly, mostly all day long; but doesn't dine with us. The Lady Principal sends him out a plateful, heaped up with almost insulting profusion, as if she were sending it out to a beggar. Perhaps she isn't wrong, however, for it is all eaten. He carries down the tray himself, that none may see how clean his plate has been polished.

I need not tell you, Nell, dear, that we all are fond of poor Penn. He is so kind, so gentlemanly, so patient, acting to us more like a parent than a teacher. Besides, he sets us the strangest copies, the oddest problems—things never heard of in a school before—but reconciling us to our tasks by making us laugh, and interesting the dullest pupil. You won't credit it; but that conceited thing Twigg fancies him in love with her. She dresses out her ringlets as long as spaniel's ears, and puts on cherry neck-ribbons when he comes. All day long is she pestering him to mend her pen, and to explain away difficulties about x in algebra; just as if a man could be bothered into love! Penn takes it all very good-temperedly; but I imagine it would bring his wig prematurely to the grave, if he was told that he was going to marry Twigg.

None of us can tell what pittance the Princesses' College gives for the life-service of such a man. Not a tenth, I dare say, of what they give to Herr Hullabullützer. Such fuss, dear, as is made for the Herr's reception! The room is heated to a certain degree of nicety, the light is subdued, sherry and biscuits are ready for his refreshment, tea and cake (our cake) brought in afterwards, and the young ladies kept waiting in succession every quarter of an hour, so as not to lose a moment of his valuable time. And you should only see him lounging in the arm-chair; his little fourpenny-piece of a watch placed before him, as if the object of his visit was to follow its hands, and not our fingers. Why, he looks, dear, the handsomest personification of contentment, hair-oil, and conceit, that a foreigner ever bamboozled people with in this country. His shirt is light pink, and perforated like an open-work jam tart. His wristbands are turned back nearly as much as the sheet on the pillow of a bed. His head would make a beautiful block for a French hair-dresser's window; and he has sufficient chains and miniature pistols, donkeys, cannons, and dogs dangling round his neck to start in business a Jew peddler. He dozes one-half the time; but then it is a reverie—the meditation of genius. The other half he plays with his glossy curls or his whitey-brown moustache, so he may well be excused if he doesn't know exactly to a minute what air his pupil is playing. It's true, he scarcely gives himself the trouble to correct us when we are wrong; but then he teaches the young princesses! and so we should not expect him to be over patient with little chits of school-girls. He is an artist: poor Penn is only a man of intellect. He goes to the palace three times a week; poor Penn has only been to college; so the two are not to be compared.

Once, however, when your dearest Kitty was making more noise over the "Battle of Prague" than has ever been made over the battle of Waterloo, the ringleted Herr caught up her hand, and said, in a voice that melted with the sweetness of barley sugar, "I can-not perr-mit such soft litt-tle fin-gerrs to murr-derr har-mo-nie;" and—and, dearest, I think Kitty's hand felt the smallest possible baby's-touch of a squeeze.

I had on your pretty turquoise ring at the time, and since then every girl has wished me to lend it her for her music lesson. Just as if it was the ring that!!!——

Fraulein Pinchinhertz is quite sentimental over the handsome Herr. She sits in the room during the lessons, looking and listening with all her soul in her eyes, and talking German in the softest manner. But the Herr admires his boots infinitely more than he does her.

But, bother take it, there's the bell for tea. Good-bye, my darling Nelly, and do not forget the toffee you promised to send to—

Your fondest  KITTY CLOVER.

P. S. I will show you the valentine when I come home. Tell me, have you had any? Pray, how many?

P. S. It is very strange—some one sang under our windows last night, "Wilt thou love me then as now?" I wonder if it was him?

P. S. I have had this more than three weeks in my pocket, waiting for an opportunity to post it.

A SONG.

BY CHARLES STEWART.

As fancy breathes her gentlest gale
O'er memory's shallop, bright with flowers,
And up the stream of Time you sail
To visit childhood's fairy bowers—
As early scenes bring to your mind
The day gone by of youthful greeting—
The joys and pleasures left behind,
As bright, as transient, and as fleeting
As sunshine on a summer's day—
One moment bright, but ere the hour
Hath passed, the landscape wears a frown,
And then 'tis darkened by a shower:
Oh, cherish, as in other days,
One passing thought, one precious tear,
When o'er the past thy vision strays,
For him who writes this tribute here!
And may thy dreams, so glad in youth,
As Time with tireless pinions fly,
Unfold in happiness and truth,
And sit amid a cloudless sky!

GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.

LESSON VI.

FIGURE AND OBJECT DRAWING.

IN executing the copies here given, and, indeed, in all other drawings which are to be shaded, the outlines must first be put in before any attempt to shade is made. The pupil should endeavor to produce the proper degree of shade at one operation, without having occasion to go over or darken it afterwards. This retouching spoils the effect of clearness and spirit which shading at one operation is calculated to give, and which all drawings should have. The drawings in Figs. 1 and 2 will be very easily put in. The outline of Fig. 3 should be drawn in the manner heretofore explained, the shading put in by bold strokes from top to bottom, because if done at two operations a shadow would result, by which the effect would be spoiled; a few cross-strokes may be next put in, which will give a little roundness to the sketch. In Fig. 4, the nearest part of the oval is to be drawn considerably stronger, so as to bring it forward. Figs. 5 and 6 are examples in which the ellipse is distinguishable. In copying Fig. 7, a nice broken outline should first be obtained; the shading being simple needs no explanation. The outline of Fig. 8 is to be drawn as formerly; the indented parts of the leaf to be put in slightly, and afterwards the stronger shadow, which throws forward the curled edge of the leaf. In copying the annexed sketch of a grindstone, to get the outline correctly the framework should be drawn first, carefully observing the relative proportions of the parts, in order to give an idea of perspective.[4] Having done this, an ellipse may be drawn to represent the stone, part of this to be rubbed out afterwards; in shading the drawing, the nearer parts should be made darker than those distant; this causes the latter to recede, having the appearance of distance. In Fig. 10, we give the representation of an old gate; it is so simple that it needs no explanation. Fig. 11, which is the representation of a familiar object, is treated under a very simple effect of light and shade, the shaded parts bringing forward the light ones; this effect is called relief. It is of the utmost importance that the pupil should have a clear knowledge of the mode of producing this effect. We would recommend her to try the experiment of placing simple objects so as to relieve each other, and to sketch them in this manner; this will enable her very speedily to understand the method of attaining the effect. In Fig. 12, the same effect is displayed, only reversed; a mixture of light and shade throwing back the other end, which is in half tint. In Fig. 13, which is the representation of a fuchsia-leaf, the outline must be put in in the manner heretofore explained; the shading is similar to that in Fig. 8. After copying this, we would recommend the pupil to get a similar leaf, and place it in various positions, so that the light and shade will be variously disposed. This will afford excellent practice, and will accustom the pupil to draw or sketch from nature. In Fig. 14, which is the representation of a rural stile, the pupil will find the principle of relief shown in Figs. 11 and 12 again displayed; the shading behind the stumps throwing the light parts forward, and the shaded sides of these causing the back part to recede.

CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.—JUNE.

BY D. W. BELISLE.

BOOTES.—This constellation is situated west of Asterion Et Chara, and contains fifty-four stars. It comes to the meridian the 9th of June. Bootes may be readily distinguished by the position and splendor of its principal star Arcturus, which shines with a reddish lustre, much resembling the planet Mars. This star is supposed to be nearer the earth than any other star in the northern hemisphere. Arcturus is referred to in Young's "Paraphrase," where the Almighty answers Job out of the whirlwind—

"Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain,

And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain?

Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere,

Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year?

Bid Mazzaroth his destined station know,

And teach the bright ARCTURUS where to glow?"

Arcturus is a star of the first magnitude, situated in the left knee, and is twenty-six degrees south-east of Cor-Coroli. Three small bright stars curve down to the left foot, while three of the same size, about nine degrees east, curve in the same manner, and form the right leg. Three stars curve upwards, forming the left arm, which he holds aloft, while three still more minute ones mark the neud of the leash which he holds in his left hand, while his right one is marked by four stars; three very minute ones mark the club with which he urges on the hounds.

The ancient Greeks called this group Lycaon, which signifies a wolf, asserting that it is Calisto who was changed into a wolf by Juno.

"But now her son had fifteen summers told,
Fierce at the chase, and in the forest bold,
When, as he beat the woods in quest of prey,
He chanced to rouse his mother where she lay.
She knew her son, and kept him in her sight,
And fondly gazed; the boy was in a fright,
And aimed a pointed arrow at her breast,
And would have slain his mother in the beast;

But Jove forbade, and snatched her through the air

In whirlwinds up to heaven, and fixed her there."

The Egyptians claimed the origin of it likewise, as also did the Hebrews. Its origin is probably too ancient to be traced.

CENTAURUS.—This fabulous monster is represented as having the head and shoulders of a man, terminating in the body of a horse. It occupies a considerable space in the southern hemisphere, yet it is so low down that but little of it can be traced in our latitude. It is situated south of Spica Virginis, and contains thirty-five stars, two of which are of the first magnitude. Agena and Bengula are stars of rare brilliancy, and mark the fore-feet of the monster. These stars are never visible in our latitude, but shine with greater lustre than any that gild our own hemisphere.

It is supposed this constellation took its rise from the simplicity of the shepherds of the earlier ages, who, on seeing men on horses, supposed them part of the animals they rode; so the Spanish cavalry seemed to the Mexicans as late as the year 1500.

The Centaurs were, in reality, a tribe of Lapithæ, who resided near Mount Pelion, and first invented the art of breaking horses. Virgil says—

"The Lapithæ to chariots add the state

Of bits and bridles; taught the steed to bound,

To turn the ring, and trace the mazy ground,
To stop, to fly, the rules of war to know,
To obey the rider, and to dare the foe."

LUPUS.—This constellation is situated south of Libra and east of the Centaur, and is so low down that it cannot be traced in our latitude. It contains twenty-four stars of a small magnitude.

This constellation, according to mythology, is Lycaon, King of Arcadia, who lived 3,600 years ago, and was changed into a wolf by Jupiter for sacrificing human victims at the altar of Pan.

LIBRA.—When the sun enters the sign Libra, the days and nights are of equal duration, and seem to observe an equilibrium like a balance. Libra contains fifty-one stars, and comes to the meridian the 22d of June. It may be known by its four principal stars forming a quadrilateral figure, lying north-east and south-west, and having its upper and lower indices nearly in a straight line running north and south. The two stars which form the south-west side of the square are situated about six degrees apart, and distinguish the southern scale. The two which form the north-east side are seven degrees apart, and mark the northern scale.

The Libra of the Zodiac is found upon all the hieroglyphics of Egypt, which is proof of its great antiquity. In the Zodiacs of Estne and Dendera, Virgo is represented as holding the balance in her hand as an emblem of equal justice to all.

The Greeks assert that the balance was placed among the stars to perpetuate the memory of Mochus, the inventor of weights and measures. It is known, however, to have existed prior to the Greek nation, and therefore the assumption must be erroneous.

SERPENS.—This constellation is situated chiefly between Libra and Corona Borealis. Those stars that lie scattered along for about twenty-five degrees, in a serpentine direction between Libra and the Crown, mark the body and head of the serpent; five of these, standing in a cluster, form the head. They are about ten degrees south of the crown.

"Vast as the starry serpent that, on high,
Tracks the clear ether and divides the sky,
And southward winding from the northern Wain,

Shoots to remoter spheres its glittering train."

Many nations have worshipped the Serpent, among which are the Hivites and aborigines of South America. Job says: "By his spirit He hath garnished the heaven; his hand hath formed the crooked Serpent."

CORONA BOREALIS.—Among the starry hosts that deck the summer sky, there is no group more beautiful than the northern Crown. It is situated north of the Serpent, and may be readily distinguished by its six principal stars curving round into a wreath or crown. Alphacca, its brightest star, is eleven degrees east of Mirac in Bootes, and comes to the meridian the 30th of June. This group contains twenty-one stars, of which those that compose the wreath are alone conspicuous. This beautiful cluster of stars is said to have been placed in the heavens to commemorate the crown presented to Ariadne, Princess of Crete, by Bacchus.

We cannot discard the history connected with the traditionary gods of the ancients as entirely fabulous, for undoubtedly, in the fables of heathen mythology, are transmitted to us records of early times so far enveloped in the impenetrable darkness that separates us from the earliest records of the human species, that they alone are all that remain to us of the habits and pursuits of the patriarchs of the world. It remains with us to sift these relics of the past from the mystic web that a barbarous age threw around them, and thus be enabled to transmit to future ages glimpses of the habits and pursuits of patriarchs of our race in all the purity of unadorned truth.

LEGEND OF LONG-POND; OR, LAKE OF THE GOLDEN CROSS.

BY FANNY FALES.

THE summer moon hung in the sky,
And sleeping in its sheen;
Long-Pond, watched by the angel stars,
Lay in its cradle green.

The little zephyrs gliding by,
Rocked it upon their way;
And saw the dimples come and go,
As of a child at play.

The beautiful white lilies bowed,
With folded hands, at rest;
As if they stole away to pray
Beneath the water's crest.

From the dim woods beyond, the doe
Came down her thirst to slake;
Her wild brown eyes, and graceful form,
Reflected from the lake.

What! does she list the huntsman's horn,

That thus she bounds away?

Turns she, with head erect and proud,

The noisy hounds to bay?

Nay, nay! 'tis but a swift canoe
Shoots from the coppice near;
Its light oars leave a silvery track
Upon the waters clear.

A pale, fair youth, one arm flung round
A maiden's form, is there;
The Saxon in his deep blue eyes,
And light-brown waving hair.

The full-orbed moon floods in its wanes,
The Indian maiden's face;
The rich blood tints her olive cheek,
Her form is full of grace.

Her black eyes, softer than the night,
Are turned to meet his own;
Her heart drinks in each loving word,
And deep impassioned tone.

"Listen, Lueka—little fawn,"
(His voice is sad and low;)
"Chide not with that imploring gaze;
To-morrow I must go!"

Her head drops slowly on her breast,
Veiled with her long black hair;
Love in that simple act confest,
Love, and almost—despair.

"Anoonk,[5] Lueka's heart will bleed,
The arrow 'neath its wing;
'Twill sit and mourn, 'twill droop and die,
It never more will sing.

"To-morrow is a little word,

But, oh, how big with woe!

Did poor Lueka hear or dream,

'To-morrow I must go?'

"Lueka, list, my bird, my fawn,
I will return again
Before the harvest moon looks down
Upon the golden grain.

"I swear, Lueka, by the stars,
And by this cross of gold,
'Ere red the berries of the thorn
My Indian bride I'll fold.

"In token, chain and cross of gold
I hang upon thy breast;
And let it whisper, 'He will come
When summer's in the west.'"

'Twere vain Lueka's fears to paint,
'Twere vain her woe to tell;
When came the morrow's long embrace,
And quivering, low farewell.

Popmonet's daughter was the maid,
A princess' rank she bore;
And many a rival chieftain laid
His offering at her door.

But all in vain—for she had seen
The stranger as he lay
With fever in his throbbing veins—
And nursed him day by day.

Health came, and love—but woe if he
Who sought her for his own,
The Marshpee chief, her secret know,
By word, or look, or tone.

The night is dark, the storm is fierce,
But darker, fiercer still
The whirlwind passions in the soul
Of scorned Auketauquil.

For sad, apart, Lueka sits,
Her heart's-eyes gaze afar;
The young chief's words, his very smiles
Upon her spirits jar.

The golden cross, but half concealed,
To him her secret told;
The while she murmurs, "he will come
Before this moon is old.

"The corn is golden in the sheaf,
With silken tassels drest;
I've seen the shining summer rise,
And now 'tis in the west."

But summer set, and winter came,
And spring, with blossoms gay;
Then hope died in Lueka's heart,
For he was still away.

She drooped and faded day by day,
And when the autumn hours
Came round again with yellow leaves,
She'd perished with the flowers.

Popmonet bowed his aged head
In sorrow—with a moan;
"The leaves from the lone tree are swept,
I stand alone—alone!"

Auketauquil approaches near,
With brow and footstep grave;
The hated cross gleams on her breast,
He hurls it in the wave.

"Curses," he cried, "upon the lips

That lured away my bird!

Curse him! would of his hated race

Lueka'd never heard!

"Great Spirit, curse him! for he stole
The ring-dove from my breast;
Poor wounded thing—how cold it lies;
I would have been its nest!"

A lovely island in the lake
Popmonet's child received;
Her people bore her gently there,
And e'en the sternest grieved.

Anear her placed they food and drink,
And trinkets that she wore,
To cheer her on the lonely voyage
Unto the spirit shore.

They laid her where the sweet-fern grew,
With lilies in her hand;
Then loosed a bird above her grave,[6]
And sang thus by the strand.—

Speed on to the beautiful land afar,

Where the soul of our sister's a new made star;

With kisses, embraces, thy wings are laden,
Soar high to the home of the absent maiden,
Away! away!

Tell her, winged blossom, that over her grave,

The kindred who mourn her, thy freedom gave;

We ope thy cage, captive; we bid thee farewell;

Soar away to the clime where the blessed dwell,

Away! away!

Tell her we'll look when the north is aglow,[7]

With the souls of our people, moving slow;

For the beams of her spirit 'mid those we see,

For we know in glory she brightest will be,

Away! away!

She will come no more when the morn is fair,

To look in the wave while she braids her hair;

But her face like a star on Auketauquil's soul,

Dawns bright from the gloom where its deep waters roll,

Away! away!

Soar on—soar away to the spirit-land,

Thy wings with the breath of affection fanned;

The soul of our sister's a new made star,
Bear our blessing, O bird, to her home afar;
Away! away!

Years fled—the council fires went out;
The red men, one by one,
Died, or were driven from their haunts,
Toward the setting sun.

No more a moccasin is seen
On Succannesset[8] lands;
Where once arose the wigwam's smoke,
The white man's dwelling stands.

Save one old brave with locks of snow,
No tree stands where it grew;
No longer on the wave is launched
The graceful bark canoe.

A poor lone woman, gathering
Fuel Long-Pond around,
Drew forth a dead branch from the wave,
And lo! a cross was found!

'Twas asked the aged brave, if he
Its history could tell;
'Twas the same cross Lueka wore,
Ah, yes! he knew it well.

I gathered from his lips ere long
The tale here given thee;
'Tis common love, and woe, and death,
From man's inconstancy.

And evermore that woodland pond,
Where oaks their shadows toss,
We'll call for poor Lueka's sake,
Lake of the Golden Cross.

MRS. CLARK'S EXPERIENCE AS A SERVANT.

BY BELL.

"WHY is it, Mrs. Clark, that you always take the part of servants? You speak as if you thought them possessed of sensibilities as refined as ours."

"Why should they not have such feelings?" inquired Mrs. Clark.

"Their education is so different."

"Does education always give sensibility? Do you not think it possible for those that must work for a living to be possessed of it?"

"I should suppose they might do something that would not expose them to the contempt that is shown to such as are 'girls in the kitchen.' Why, even the higher servants despise them."

"Would it not be better if all were considerate enough not to contemn any one? Then there would be no danger of wounding sensibilities that are none the less acute because they are found in the breast of a servant." Mrs. Clark said this softly, and with a slight quiver, perceptible only when you looked at her.

I was sitting by the window for the sake of the light. Sarah Marshall, who was spending a week with Isabel Clark, was chatting as usual when Mrs. Clark came in with a neighbor, who was telling of the impudence of a servant who, when she was accused of falsehood, replied, "There is none of my father's family that can lie."

"Did she lie?" innocently inquired Sarah.

"No, it was found she told the truth; but then, it was her independent manner that was so offensive."

"Do you not think servants ought to have independence enough to defend themselves from an unjust accusation?" asked Mrs. Clark.

"Her saying so proved nothing; we found out the truth ourselves. If she had waited, she would not have lost her place. I am sorry for her, I am sure. If you do not want her, I do not know what will become of her. Her family are quite destitute."

"Do you not need her help?"

"Oh, yes; but, then"——

"You are satisfied of her innocence, you say; why not have her come back to you?"

"That would be too humiliating. I never give my servants a chance to triumph over me in that way."

The visitor departed, and the conversation was continued, as at the commencement of the story.

Mrs. Clark was a lady. It was not necessary to inquire who her ancestors were, to be sure of that; yet it was not her dress, or manner, or voice, or sentiments, either of them, alone, but harmony and appropriateness in everything she said or did, that left with you that impression. In her presence you never thought whether she was handsome or well-dressed, but, on leaving her, you would be more than ever in love with moral beauty.

In the evening, we girls—I call myself one of them, though so much older—were sitting round the fireplace in the pleasant room; it was just fit for dreaming or story-telling, at twilight, when Sarah referred to the conversation of the morning, wondering if Mrs. Hart had conquered her pride, or poor Anna had found a place.

"I have always pitied servants," said she; "it seems that they ought to know their place; yet, if they are unjustly accused, it is hard if they must lose a home when they defend themselves."

"For my part," said Isabel, "I like to see ladies know their places, as well as servants. What right has any one to charge another with falsehood, and expect them to be silent under the false charge, merely because they have agreed to give them the labor of their hands for a paltry sum counted out to them on Saturday night? Anna was educated to thoughts and habits of strict integrity, and I do not wonder at her proud retort."

Isabel had been indignant all day, but had controlled her lips till now; her eyes flashed as she spoke, and, when she was done, she went to the piano and played several spirited airs with even more spirit than was necessary; then, turning to us, said—

"Did mother ever tell you her history?"

"No," said Sarah.

"Nor you, Miss Bell?"

"Never."

"She wrote it out for me a year ago. I will read it to you, if you wish."

Now, I had often wished to know her earlier life, but did not think it right for Isabel to read to us what was probably written for her alone; so I ran up stairs, where Mrs. Clark was engaged with the younger children, and told her what Isabel proposed doing, inquiring if it met her approbation.

"I wrote it," said she, pleasantly, "as a lesson for my daughter; but I am willing others should be benefited with her."

Feeling that I had wronged Isabel by supposing she would do anything improper, I returned to the parlor just as she was ready to read the following:—

The first dream of my life was to be a school-teacher. The first morning of my going to school, the sweet lady who was teaching in our district took me on her lap, and asked me if I did not wish to become a school-teacher. I felt that to be like her would be pleasant; and so, from that time, it was the acme of my ambition to become what Polly Frazier was—pleasant name it is, even now—and I was careful about this, and I learned that, because it was necessary for a teacher to know such things. My parents and instructors encouraged the idea, and it was with me a settled purpose. I hardly know how young I was when I learned that, to teach successfully, I must govern well. I desired not to rule merely, but to instruct; and, when my teacher would let me hear the little ones read, how tearfully happy I was if I succeeded in giving them a new sound, or right pronunciation!

Thus time passed with me until I was twelve, when my father came from an eastern State to Pennsylvania. Soon after, by one of those great wrongs, where no one is to blame, my father lost the little property he brought with him to this part of the country, and a family of eight was dependent on what he could earn at his trade. Money was scarce and provisions dear, and you may judge of my feelings when my father came home every day more and more tired, and our resources became day by day more and more reduced; for, though my mother was a good manager, yet there are limits beyond which it is impossible to manage at all.

If I could only do something! I thought it over at night, but said nothing. I knew I was not prepared to teach even children, or, at least, no one would think I was, and that was all the same, for all the good it would do me, and I must give up the thought of it, at least for the present.

I could not tell you all the day-dreams I had about the one thing, how I could help my father. At last I found a way to help myself, and thus help him, by reducing the number of mouths at home, and also adding something to a wardrobe that was becoming quite scanty.

I became acquainted with a girl some years older than myself, who was "working out." She earned seventy-five cents a week. I had done nearly all of the kinds of work at home that were expected of her; why, then, could I not obtain as much? I saw no reason why I should not. True, girls of my own age had but fifty cents, but then they never washed or ironed, except coarse clothing, while I could do all, except the finest.

"Where there is a will, there is a way;" so I soon was from home trying my best. I need not tell you how much I was disappointed in some things; but, as yet, I saw no reason why my main object could not be accomplished. I was the more encouraged to hope this, as it was evident the people were satisfied with my endeavors, and said I "was as much help as those who were four or five years older."

I had been there six weeks before anything was said about my pay. The family sewing was done for the winter, and they did not keep help only at times, so I was not needed; and, as a matter of ceremony, I was asked "what I expected a week." I had all along thought they would not hesitate to give me as much as older girls received, inasmuch as they had often said I was as much help. I even thought they would have the delicacy to give me that amount without the ceremony of asking how much I expected. The manner of asking me, however, made me think that perhaps I had over-estimated my services, and I rather hesitatingly said five shillings would do.

How they stared at me! I then found that, for all I had done more than was expected of my age, I had my pay in praise; something I did not value, only as it helped me to forward my main design. Still, fifty cents a week and my board was better than doing nothing at home, so I submitted to what was inevitable. Thus passed the years until I was sixteen. In the interval, I had managed to attend school three months. I helped about house mornings and evenings, and stayed at home Mondays to wash. At some places I was permitted to read or study, if I could get the usual work out of the way; besides, I kept a book or paper by me, and thus picked up and pondered over many thoughts that would have escaped me, if I had had the opportunity of reading as much as I wished; for, during this time, I used to get as hungry for mental food as ever woodcutter did for physical aliment. The kind of reading I had made me earnestly desire to attend school. Philosophical, chemical, or botanical allusions were often made, and I could only half understand what I read, even with the help of the dictionary.

A change of employment offered, which I eagerly accepted, as it brought back my old dreams of the pleasure I should enjoy as a school-teacher. An assistant was required in the village school. I was too eager to get the place to inquire about the remuneration, and I enjoyed myself too well to think about it much; but I took for granted that I should have a dollar a week, and consequently should be able to attend the academy the next winter. I was disappointed when, at the close of the term, I found I was to be allowed only seventy-five cents, or what I was able to get as a "hired girl," though I boarded at father's. I had some time to study, or the disappointment would have been even greater. By working for my board, I found I could attend the district school.

The reputation I acquired as a teacher of the lady I assisted, was the means of my being employed in an adjoining district; but, as much as I desired the situation, and as much as I loved teaching, and wished to do my duty, I always considered that school a failure. Not that any one complained of me, for the pupils improved; but everything became too mechanical, and, while they learned their lessons well, their minds seemed to rest, not expand, and I did not know how to remedy the evil. Still, I loved my school, and set myself to learn why I had failed.

As I studied myself, I was more than ever conscious of my deficiencies in mental cultivation, and of a hungering after mental food. Every chance I had for study I improved. I was too conscious of a want of preparation for teaching to offer myself as a teacher, so I must do what I could.

Just then an incident occurred that roused more pride than I had supposed I possessed. One Sabbath, in the interval between the morning and afternoon service, a lady came to me, and, in a manner intended to be very kind, said—

"Are you going to attend the examination of teachers on Saturday?"

"I have not decided. I am not engaged as a teacher."

"Well, never mind, go. If you cannot pass examination so well as Samantha and the rest, go; it will do you good."

Samantha was her daughter, and had always been at school, and consequently ought to have known more than she did; but opportunity does not always make scholars any more than want of opportunity prevents others from becoming such. Now, I had been at school with Samantha, and knew that, if she could bear examination as fitted for a teacher, I could; and I resolved to attend, and, if opportunity was given, I also would be examined with the rest. And I did, and have that certificate now.

No opportunity offered for teaching, however; in fact, I hardly desired one, until I had more chance for improvement myself. I made my arrangements, as I thought, for attending school the next winter; but winter came, and the next summer passed, and still I was as far from what I so earnestly desired as ever. I could not pay my board, and I could not always get a place where I could work mornings and evenings for it; my clothes would be worn; so, with one thing and another, it seemed impossible that I should ever be anything but a drudge. Not that my pride rebelled against doing the kind of work I did, but so constant and ceaseless and unsympathizing a round of duties left no time for thinking except of what was just about me.

The elasticity of spirits that had sustained me heretofore was failing me; for, worn with labor, I felt my mind, as it were, contracting upon itself, and felt, if I could not break from the bondage, I should be miserable enough. For that I could see no way. Now I had a dollar a week, and I must earn it. My employers seemed to consider it treason against them if I so much as looked into a book. From early in the morning until ten, eleven, and often until the "small hours," I must labor; and, if I so much as made myself a garment, I was charged for it, as if it had been hired for me. I submitted to many impositions rather than contend about them, though I questioned with myself if it was to last always. It did not last always. I will relate one incident that occurred, and pass on to pleasanter days.

A glass dish that was cracked about half way across, I accidentally finished breaking. I went immediately to the sitting-room, and explained how it was done. Mrs. —— did not appear displeased at what I had done; told me not to mind; it was an old dish; she had expected for some time it would come apart; there was enough more; told me what one to use in place of it. There was also considerable conversation on the impropriety of fretting if anything was accidentally broken; and she ended by saying, "I make it a point never to reproach my girls if an accident occurs."

I left the room, feeling grateful that such was her practice, and thinking how pleasant it would be if all could think so, not only about accidents, but other things, and be careful not to "break the bruised reed." I thought, too, that though many persons did not seem to sympathize with those who labor for them, it was more in seeming than real. This incident showed me that our feelings were regarded.

A few days after this, Mrs. —— came into the kitchen to make some preparation for company, and when she wanted a dish inquired about that one. I thought it strange if she had forgotten it, and reminded her of its being broken.

"Yes, and I think very carelessly broken, too."

A very expressive remark, I thought, after her boasted forbearance, and it stung none the less that the dart was unexpected.

My long-desired wish was gratified, and I was spending the winter at the academy, and among friends who took an interest in my welfare, and assisted me whenever they could. The prospect was fair before me of my being able to prepare for what I had wished from childhood. Still, envy and contempt had a shaft or two, but they generally flew too high or too low, for I knew a man would "be a man for a' that."

A little boy said to me one day, tauntingly: "Mother says you can't be a schoolma'am anyhow; anybody as has allus been a servant don't know 'nough. I sha'n't go to school to you."

"Ah, you think you would not like to come then?" said I, pleasantly.

"If mother would let me."

Then, looking up to me in a confiding way, he asked: "Is it bad to be a servant?"

Heaven bless the child! thought I, as I kissed his face, sweet now with gentle thoughts; why must such hearts be poisoned with bitter and contemptuous thoughts?

It was nearly spring when a party was made by one of the principal families of the village. Some of the pupils of the academy were to leave before the term expired, and it was intended as a compliment to them. Some of the villagers had begun to think the habits of our village too primitive, and that "hired girls," farmers' sons, and apprentices, should no longer be invited to the village gatherings. To this party I was among the uninvited. I was too proud, too independent, too much intent on my studies to resent it, and intended not to notice it. One does not like to be the subject of deliberate neglect; but all I meant to do about it was to prepare myself for the future, and I resolved my future should be such that they and their descendants would be proud to associate with me.

A young gentleman, a favorite in the village, boarding at the same place, asked permission to attend me to the party. His favorite girl was a particular friend of mine, and he had been escort to both on a previous occasion, but now she was out of the village. Without telling him I could not go, and for what reason, I endeavored to put him off to go alone, or find another lady, saying, "I must learn my lessons; I did not like to be out late."

He knew that, but had resolved I should go this time, as I had successfully excused myself before. He protested I was studying too much; a social evening would do me good; said he would come home as soon as I said, after nine o'clock. Thus he endeavored to overrule all my objections and excuses.

There was no real reason why I should not go with him, only the one why I should not go at all. I did not intend to tell him I had such an one, but he gave me no peace until I told him I could not go, and why.

"No invitation!" repeated he, in astonishment; "how is that?"

"Excuse me; I must keep my suspicions to myself."

He sat thoughtfully a few moments, then, starting up as if a new thought occurred to him, said—

"I understood they were not intending to invite 'hired girls;' but why should they slight you? You are as much a pupil at the academy as any one there."

"Yes, but I work for my board, and next summer I shall probably be 'hired girl' again."

"Well," said he, pleasantly, "we can have a party here."

I protested against his staying on my account.

"Yes, yes, they made me promise to come, but I insisted on qualifying it with 'providential,' and I consider this I have learned quite in that light. Nay, speak not, I command you. I shall not go. I only wish Mary was at home. However, we can have a pleasant evening here, and no thanks to the 'codfish aristocracy.'"

The next day, inquiry was made after Mr. ——, and why he did not attend the party; but he gave them no more satisfaction than they were entitled to. Afterward I was invited whenever there was a party; I did not care about going always, though I was glad to have my right to an invitation unquestioned, as, according to my definition of respectable, a man or woman either was so who could conscientiously respect himself.

The next summer, and for years, until my marriage, I had the satisfaction of knowing that my schools were not failures. Though I had anticipated so long, the enjoyment was equal to the anticipation.

Here Mrs. Clark's history of her days of trial ceased.

"Why did she not write more of her school-teaching life?" I asked. "I should like to hear her account of it; I am sure it would be interesting."

"It is," said Isabel; "she has related many incidents to me that are very amusing, and some pathetic. I will ask her to tell you about them some time. This she wrote for me to correct some very foolish notions I had acquired at Mrs. W.'s school. Who would think, after seeing mother, that work must necessarily degrade any one? You know Burritt says: 'If a man thinks at his work, his thoughts are strong,' and mother exemplifies it; her thoughts are also gentle."

Again Isabel resorted to the piano, but this time it was accompanied by a gentle evening hymn.

TIME'S CHANGES; OR, FASHIONS IN THE OLDEN TIMES.

JULY, 1730.

Extracts from the Diary of my Greatgrand-mother.

Five o'clock.—Got up an hour before my usual time to distil surfeit-water. Said my prayers. Finished one of my father's new shirts. Mem. To send to town for some currants, raisins, and ratafia water.

Six.—Some poor women came for medicine to my mother; gave out of the store-room several doses, and a pint of sack. Mem. To carry two shillings to Tom, the carpenter's wife, who is ill.

Seven.—Breakfasted. A card has come from Mr. Jenkins, to let us know he will do himself the pleasure of dining with us. The match debated during breakfast. My father says, if he finds him a man of good morals, he'll not differ as to the settlements. I am ordered never to be alone with Mr. J. until all the writings are drawn.

Eight.—Read the Psalms and chapters for the day. Taught little Jemmy his catechism. Mem. Betsey has marked J. in her sampler to-day: that stands for Jenkins.

Nine.—Darn some old point-lace tuckers. Do some clear-starching and ironing for next week.

Ten.—Go see the carpenter's wife. Her family in very great want. Give them a shilling from my own pocket-money.

Eleven.—Sit down to my cross-stitch. A shepherdess the subject, for an urn-rug.

Twelve.—My mother orders me to make a custard-pudding, to show Mr. Jenkins what I can do. Orders me to wear my best gown at dinner, and only two patches. Mem. I mean to appear in my new hoop and laced stomacher. Mr. J. is a man of figure, so will look to my appearance.

One.—Too much ratafia water in the pudding. Mr. J. praised some hare of my potting. I begin to like him vastly well, but must not let him perceive it. Mem. Our currant wine just out. Mislaid the key of the corner-cupboard. Thinking of Mr. J.

Two.—Miss T. and her lover stepped in to tea. Promise her receipt for pickling mushrooms. Mem. Mrs. Hart's receipt for burns very good. Must have it in the house. Garlick syrup excellent for coughs.

Eight.—Supper. My brother tells me Mr. Jenkins is very wild. Mem. Never to see his face again!

SATURDAY, MARCH, 1778.

Notes from my Grandmother's Pocket Diary.

Two o'clock.—Arrived this moment in town. We have been three days coming from S—— in our own coach. Just put off my riding-dress, and huddled on my green gown, to get to the milliner's, mercer's, &c. Overjoyed to be in town; so have no appetite for my dinner.

Four.—Going out with Miss Tendrill. She tells me coque de perle necklace and ear-rings are much in vogue. Mem. To teaze my mother until she gets them for me. Arrive at Truefit's. N. B. Truefit the first modeste in the world. Ordered a cane hat, lined with cerulean blue Persian, trimmed with blonde lace and ribbons, for walking in the Park, and making morning calls. Mem. Must bespeak two pairs of white leather shoes, with red heels, and bindings to correspond. Advised to have a Saint Teresa of sarsnet and blonde lace, as 'tis the latest mode. Ordered it at once. Mem. Blonde lace ruffles, with a large slope, vastly genteel. Uneasy till I get them.

Eight.—Go home, fearing I may miss Mr. Cleveland. He advises, as my shoulders are rather round, that my stays be made high behind. He says 'tis quite the thing to have them so. I have desired they should be cut low before, as it shows the chest off to advantage.

Sunday. Eleven o'clock.—Had no rest last night, anticipating the pleasure of the week to come. Too late for church. I shall dress time enough for a ride in the Park.

One.—Miss Wyndham has called for me. Go to Mrs. Emerson, to engage her to matronize us to an assembly to-morrow night. Mr. —— walked up to speak to us. An acquaintance of Miss Wyndham. A fine well-made man; improves on better acquaintance. He took great notice of me, and told Miss W. I was a prodigious fine girl. Miss W. jealous, and anxious to return home; he offered to escort us. Miss W. complained of headache, and would not speak. I improved the opportunity, by chatting away merrily to Mr. —— all the way home. Mem. To get a green Persian calash, same as Miss Wyndham's. Mr. —— praised it, so I won't be outdone.

Seven.—Mr. —— invited to dinner by my mother. I engrossed all his attention. He is very rich.

Eleven.—Desired Mary to waken me at two in the morning, to have my hair dressed. It will be done in about four hours.

Monday. Two in the morning.—Crumpe just arrived. Read Damon and Ella, whilst my head is being operated on. A sweet book!

Seven.—My hair finished. Mem. Crumpe the first hair-dresser in Europe. Only 463 black pins in it. No other could have accomplished it with less than 470.

Eleven.—Out shopping with Mrs. Emerson. Take the round of the fashionable milliners. Bespeak a grenadier cap of blonde lace, with a Mary Stuart peak. Saw a lovely clouded lute-string at Ball and Campbell's. Resolved to have it. 'Tis very much genteeler than Miss Wyndham's.

Twelve.—Had a glance at Mr. ——. They say half the reigning belles are dying for love of him. Charming creature! Mem. To dance the first minuet with him to-night, if possible.

One.—Much fatigued from tumbling over silks, &c. Tried on my new negligée. Mem. Must not go to the assembly until ten. Country hours will not do here.

Tuesday. One.—Paid so many visits yesterday before the assembly, that I was tired and out of sorts. Mr. —— danced with Miss Wyndham half the night. Well, to be sure, what taste some people have! She looked downright frightful. Her fortune is a large one; that covers all defects, I suppose. I am mortified, have a bad headache, and wish our stay in town was at an end. I have just heard that Mr. —— proposed for Miss Wyndham last night. I shall cut her acquaintance most certainly.

DECEMBER, 1820.

Leaves from my Mother's Journal.

Tuesday, Dec. 2.—The boxes containing my trousseau have just arrived. My cousin Annie and I busy unpacking them. Annie to be my bridesmaid. How brilliant her color is to-day: she looks very lovely, and will grace our wedding. Of course, dear Edward is charmed with her, for my sake. My wedding-dress is of white lace, gored on the hips, and quite tight down to the knee, where small flowers, headed with thick wadded rolls of white satin, commence. The body is just one finger deep in front, and a little deeper behind. The dress is made low, for the ball on the evening of the wedding; and with it has come a white flowered satin spencer, covered with small white tassels on the front, and with a stiff standing collar, which looks very stylish. My hat is composed of blonde and satin, and has six full ostrich feathers in it, three at each side, the two end ones being very long, so as to fall gracefully on the shoulders. Madame Lion has sent, amongst other things, a blue cloth pelisse, trimmed with sable; the price of it is thirty-five guineas. Edward made Annie try on some of my things to see how he liked them. Strange that it was not me he wished to see them upon! Dear Edward, how thoughtful he is—he made me retire to my room very early, saying I looked fatigued. Annie did not follow me until twelve o'clock, and seemed flushed and slightly agitated on entering the room. She says I look so pale I should wear a little rouge. 'Tis a fashion I never yet adopted.

Wednesday, Dec. 3.—Papa and dear Edward all day in the study, closeted with Mr. Grabb, our attorney, arranging about settlements. To-morrow I shall be the happy bride of him whom I adore. Guests arriving all day. I saw Annie coming out of the shrubbery with dear Edward, before the dinner-bell rang. What could they have gone there for? The hour late, too, for walking, and the evening cold and damp.

Twelve o'clock.—Just retired to my room for the night. Take one more peep at my wedding-dress, laid on the sofa, and now retire to dream of the happy morn fast approaching.

Here the manuscript ceases; for, when morn came—that morn so longed for—Edward was missing; and, stranger far, Annie was nowhere to be found, and was sought for in vain. The faithless pair had eloped together, and the following day were united at Gretna Green. Long did my poor mother pine and mourn her sad fate. But at length brighter days arose for her; and in my dear and honored father she found what she had long searched for—a congenial, loving, and honest heart.

M. E. H.

A STRANGE INCIDENT.

I HEARD the other day an anecdote which justifies the remark that "truth is often stranger than fiction." An old woman, a short time ago, on her death-bed, called her nephew, who was also her heir, and revealed to him that, eight years before, she had gone to Paris to receive some money which was due to her—a sum of fourteen thousand francs received in bank-notes; she wrapped them up in an old newspaper, and placed them, with different other things, on the mantle-piece of the room of the inn where she was staying, while she sat down to write to her husband, to tell him she had received the money. The letter written, she determined that, instead of trusting it to any one, she would put it herself in the post; and accordingly left the hotel for the purpose. On going out, she left her key with her porter, with directions to light a fire in her room at eight o'clock. Towards half-past seven, whilst at the house of one of her acquaintances, it suddenly occurred to her that she had left her bank-notes on the mantle-piece at the hotel. She immediately returned in search of them, went up to her room, where the fire was lighted according to her directions; but the packet of bank-notes had disappeared. She rang. A young girl answered the bell; of whom she demanded who had lighted the fire. It was the girl herself. The owner of the bank-notes asked if she had seen them. She answered in the negative. At last the master of the hotel was called, and the affair related to him. It then was proved that the only person who entered the room was the girl who lighted the fire. The master of the house had confidence in the girl's honesty; but, as appearances were certainly against her, the whole affair was placed in the hands of the police, and the girl arrested. She was condemned, on her trial, to three years' imprisonment; but the money was not found after the expiration of the three years. The girl came to the house of the owner of the unlucky bank-notes, reproached her as the cause of her ruin and dishonor. The old lady was touched: it occurred to her, suppose, after all, the woman was innocent! Her guilt had never been satisfactorily proved; nor had the strictest searches been able to discover what she had done with the money she was accused of taking. At the time of her arrest she had been on the point of marrying an honest workman; and now she would have the greatest difficulty in placing herself in service again. Instigated by the desire to repair, as far as in her lay, the injury she might have caused this young woman, the old lady determined to take her into her service, and try her; and never had she cause to regret having done so. She now revealed all to the nephew, and expressed her full belief in the innocence of her servant, and desired them always to retain her in the family, and not to reveal her secret. The next day the old lady died, leaving about two hundred thousand francs to her nephew.

The nephew came a short time ago to Paris, to pass a few months of the winter season; he went to an hotel in the Rue du Helder, where he established himself very comfortably. One evening, after returning home, he heard, in the room adjoining that in which he was, the sound of voices and laughter; evidently his neighbors were in high glee. Overhearing some words, his curiosity was piqued, and he approached the partition, in order to hear more distinctly; (and yet there are some men who pretend to say that it is only women who are curious!) In this laudable attempt, our hero discovered that there had formerly been a door of communication between the room he occupied and that in which his gay neighbors were enjoying themselves. The hole where the lock had been was filled up with sealing-wax, so that there was no chance of seeing through that: but his curiosity was excited, and in looking about he saw that there had been a space at the top of the door, which was stuffed up with old paper. He pulled it out, and his curiosity was gratified with a view of his next-door neighbors. His efforts being thus crowned with success, he went to bed, and fell asleep.

The next morning, wishing to remove the proofs of his curiosity, he took the packet of old newspapers, with the intention of replacing them, when, in so doing, out fell the fourteen billet de mille francs, evidently those of his aunt. The master of the house was called. He remembered perfectly the circumstance. The servant was sent for; she recognized the room. The young man offered to make public reparation, and establish her innocence; but the poor woman preferred letting all the affair rest in oblivion. The story was forgotten, she said: why revive it? The young man handed her over the billets, which had been the cause of so much sorrow to her. After all, they were hardly earned.

THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYMOW.

A STORY FOR HOUSEKEEPERS.

BY H. D. R.

"YOU must have help, that is certain," said Mr. Harding, as he laid a letter which he had been reading upon the breakfast-table, and began to sip his coffee. "With all this company upon your hands, and warm weather coming on, it would be madness for you to try to get along alone."

"That is true," sighed Mrs. Harding; "but the question is, where to get it. The whole vicinity has been searched over and over, and there is not a girl to be had."

"One must be had," replied her husband, in a determined tone. "Eight or ten visitors, more or less, for the summer, will kill you outright." And he cast a troubled glance at the pale face and slender form of his wife.

"Well, how shall we get help, then?" asked Mrs. Harding, half laughing in the midst of her vexation. "The days are gone by when girls apply for places."

"Yes, there is no way but to go after them. If my troublesome rheumatism would just leave me for a few days, you should have two girls. But as it is, wife, I see no way but for you to go yourself with Walter for driver."

Mrs. Harding laughed to think how she would look driving about the country for "help," and would almost have preferred to try her hand alone; but her husband's troubled countenance and the necessities of the case decided her, and she said—

"I have almost no faith in the undertaking, but am willing to try, and if I fail I shall be no worse off than now. But where shall I go?"

Mr. Harding thought a moment, and then said—

"I have heard that there are girls enough on Seccombe Plains."

"How far is that?"

"Only twelve or fifteen miles. It is only four or five miles from Cousin Harriman's."

"Oh, that will be nice!" exclaimed Mrs. Harding, well pleased with the suggestion. "I will spend the night with Cousin Clarissa, and start from there in the morning."

After dinner, the same day, Walter brought the carriage round to the door, and Mrs. Harding started off, infinitely amused with her errand, though with no very sanguine hopes of success.

The next morning, Mrs. Harriman gave her guests an early breakfast, and by seven o'clock they were ready to commence their search. It was a lovely morning in early June. The sun had not been up long enough to kiss the glistening dew from the grass, and the thousand songsters of grove and forest had not quite finished their matin song. Everything looked bright with hope; and hope beat higher, a great deal higher in Mrs. Harding's breast than it had done the day before. The whole world looked so beautiful that it seemed almost wicked to doubt, and they rode on over the retired hills towards Seccombe Plains, feeling almost as sure of the "bird" as though they had her "in hand."

After riding two or three miles, they approached a small unpainted cottage which stood upon a very high bank upon the right. A single glance showed them that two or three men were at the back door, evidently just starting for the fields.

"Stop when you get against the house, Walter; I mean to inquire here," said Mrs. Harding, as they drew near. But the next moment two of the men disappeared round the corner of the shed, while the third, a very oily-looking man, with an enormous width of collar, came leisurely along in front of the house.

"Do you know where I could find a girl to do housework, sir?" asked Mrs. Harding, leaning forward in her carriage, and addressing the man.

"Wal, yes," said he of the broad collar; "I've got a darter'd be glad to go; but she ain't to home. She went to work to the Falls last week, but she ain't a gwine to stay but three or four weeks. If she was to home, she'd be glad to go."

"Do you know of any others who go out?" said Mrs. Harding, who thought there was but little prospect of getting his daughter Sally.

"Not as I knows on," said Mr. of the broad collar. "You couldn't wait three or four weeks, I s'pose."

"No," was the reply; and she laid her hand upon Walter's arm, as a signal to drive on.

"We came pretty near getting a girl that time," said Walter, laughing.

"Quite as near as was best for us. It is well that Sally is gone, I dare say," replied his mother, with a smile.

Patient toiling brought them at last up a long, rugged hill, upon the other side of which spread out Seccombe Plains.

"Here is a house; shall we inquire here?" said Walter, pointing to a rude little house or hovel which stood upon the hill-top, upon a level spot which was covered with large granite boulders and unsightly brush.

"Yes," said his mother, as she espied a man coming round the corner of the house. "It can do no harm to inquire."

"Can you tell me of any girls in the vicinity who go out to work?" sang out Mrs. Harding to the slovenly-looking man, who had no idea of drawing nearer.

"What? I didn't hear."

The question was repeated, and the sound of a stranger's voice brought three or four barefooted, uncombed juveniles to the door, and the mother's head to the window.

"Can you tell this woman where she can find a gal to do housework?" said the man, addressing his better half.

"Why, yes; there's gals enough, but I can't seem to think on 'em," said the woman, with a perplexed look. "P'raps she could get one of Smithson's gals. He has got two that go out to work."

"Would they make good help?" asked Mrs. Harding.

"Fust rate. One on 'em worked for me a spell last winter, and she did well."

Mrs. Harding thought that was no great recommendation; but she simply thanked her, and asked if she could tell of any others.

"Wal, I don't think of any; but there's enough on 'em a leetle farther on, at Mapleton."

"How far is that?"

"Six miles beyond the Plains."

Mrs. Harding thanked her informer, and they drove on down the long steep hill, at the foot of which lay the insignificant village of Seccombe Plains.

"We have heard of one girl, mother," said Walter, looking very bright. "Perhaps she will be just the one for us."

"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Harding, doubtfully.

"We shall feel pretty grand if we can carry back a good girl."

Mrs. Harding laughed, and said something about "counting chickens before they were hatched;" but just then they found themselves at the foot of the long hill, and directly opposite a low farm-house, the mistress of which was out, broom in hand, sweeping the little footpath which led to the road.

Mrs. Harding inquired if she knew of any girls for housework.

"Where do you want 'em to go?" asked the woman, whose curiosity was at once awakened.

"Only about fifteen miles," was the evasive reply.

"Well, I don't know of any," replied the woman, looking a little disappointed. "I don't think there's such a thing to be had anywhere round here."

"I was told that Mr. Smithson has daughters who go out to work."

"Well, you couldn't git 'em, I know. They go a little right round here, but they wouldn't go off so far. Their folks wouldn't hear a word to 't," said the woman, with a flourish of her broom.

"Will you have the kindness to tell me where they live? I think I will try them."

"Oh, yes, I'll do that! You must go back to the saddler's shop, and then turn square round to your left, and it is the first house on the right."

"How far is it?"

"I should say about a mile and a half, or such a matter. It's the third house on the right."

Mrs. Harding expressed her thanks, and old Dobbin was whirled round the corner instanter, and they were in full pursuit of the Smithsons.

"Here's the house, mother; this is the third," said Walter, as they came in sight of a comfortable-looking farm-house, which stood upon quite a bluff upon the right. Everything about the premises looked very neat. The bright green grass grew clear up to the front door of the cottage, which, with the closed curtains in the "foreroom," gave a particularly staid, go-to-meeting-like aspect to the front. A narrow footpath wound round to the back door, which was evidently the only approved mode of entrance. Mrs. Harding alighted and took the well-worn path to the back door, and knocked. "Come in," called out a shrill voice within. Obeying the summons, she saw before her a very tidy-looking matron, with a very white bleached cotton cap upon her head, holding in her hand a lace or muslin article of the same sort, which she was spatting and pulling, evidently with the intention of "doing it up." The aspect of the kitchen was very inviting. The morning work was all out of the way, and the polished stove and very white unpainted floor were really charming.

"I have called to see if one of your daughters would go out to work," said Mrs. Harding, with hope fast rising in her breast, for she felt that she had at last come to the right place.

"Well, I don't know; they go out sometimes. Where do you want them to go?" asked the woman, with a glance of curiosity at the stranger.

Mrs. Harding mentioned the name of the town and the distance, adding that she should have a large family through the season, and wished some one to cook and do general work.

"I don't know what they'd say to it. They can do as they've a mind to. But they ain't good for much, nohow," said the mother, who continued to spat and pull her muslin vigorously.

"How old are they?"

"The oldest is seventeen this month, and t'other is two years younger."

At this moment the door opened, and in walked a coarse overgrown girl, munching a piece of pie, and staring boldly at the stranger.

"Do you want to go out to work, Emmeline? Here's a woman that wants you," said the mother, the moment she made her appearance.

"Yes," said the girl, in coarse tones, without relaxing her stare.

Mrs. Harding's heart sank within her. She saw, at a glance, that the great, coarse, unmannered girl would be more care than help. She hardly knew how to make an honorable retreat in the case; but after a slight cross-examination of the capabilities of the girl, she expressed her belief that she was too young for her hard work, and bowed herself out, leaving both mother and daughter looking quite disconcerted.

"Is she going?" whispered Walter, as his mother approached the carriage.

A shake of the head answered him.

"Oh, dear, where shall we go now?"

"Straight before us, Walter; you must not give up for trifles," said his mother, laughing good-humoredly, notwithstanding the uneasiness that was creeping upon her own heart.

"Where?" said Walter, still desponding.

"I don't know; we'll see. Don't you know that we are out seeking our fortunes, Wally?"

They drove on, and soon met an elderly-looking man in a rickety old wagon, drawn by a limping gray horse.

"Can you tell me, sir," said Mrs. Harding, laying her hand upon Walter's arm as a sign to stop, "can you tell me where I can find a girl to do housework?"

"That is a pretty difficult thing to find, ma'am," replied the old man, in a respectful tone. "Let me see," and he looked down for a moment, thoughtfully. "Yes, there's Susan Lovejoy you might get, and she would make good help. She is a first rate girl."

"How old is she?" inquired Mrs. Harding, as the vision of the coarse girl munching her pie flitted before her.

"Oh, she's old enough," replied the man, with a smile, "she's old enough. I should think she might be thirty or thereabouts. They call her one of the best."

Away they went over the hills, some three or four miles, and at length old Dobbin was reined up before Mr. Lovejoy's door. It was a substantial-looking farm-house set in the midst of a green field, surrounded by a stone wall, its only opening being a formidable farm-yard gate, fastened to a post by a piece of rope. The premises were guarded by a noisy dog, who rushed out the moment he heard the sound of wheels, and ran barking towards the carriage. Mrs. Harding, however, pushed open the gate, and quickly made her way to the house. A pale, fresh-looking matron was bustling about the kitchen; and standing at a spinning-wheel, near the door, was a girl in a tidy-looking dark calico, whom she knew, at a glance, was the object of her search.

She at once made known her errand.

"Oh, no," was the response of the girl; "I couldn't possibly go. I don't see who ever thought I would."

"I was recommended to come here," replied Mrs. Harding, who liked the looks of the girl, and was determined to plead her cause with all her might. "I was told that you went out, and very likely would go now."

"Who told you so?"

"An old gentleman whom I met three or four miles back."

"With a gray limping horse?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"It must have been old Mr. Cartwright, mother; I don't see what made him think so."

"Could I not induce you to go?" asked Mrs. Harding, bringing her back to the main point, and entering very fully into the circumstances of the family. "I will give you good wages. Two dollars a week, if you say so."

"Well, I couldn't go nohow. They can't spare me."

"Could not you go for a few weeks?" asked Mrs. Harding, anxiously. "Six or eight weeks would do me a great deal of good. You shall be well paid, if you will go. You may set your own price."

"No, I couldn't possibly go," said the girl, with a tantalizing smile. "I ain't obliged to work out, and I can't go."

Mrs. Harding looked and felt disappointed, but she made her way out, not knowing where to go. She felt that she was on a hopeless errand, and was half disposed to turn her face homeward. But, on second thought, she concluded to try a little longer, and they rode on, making fruitless inquiries here and there. At length she recollected that some one had told her that there were plenty of girls in Mapleton. In an instant, old Dobbin was headed that way, despite Walter's sinking spirits, and they rode along drinking in the perfume of a thousand flowers, and charmed into something like hope by the harmonies which float upon the breezes of early summer.

"I will inquire here," said Mrs. Harding, as they neared an old-fashioned house some two or three miles beyond the Plains; and, suiting the action to the word, she sprang lightly from the carriage and ran up to the door and knocked. After knocking till her fingers were sore, for neither bell nor knocker graced the panel, she heard steps of some one who came stubbing leisurely along to the door. The face which presented itself was coarse and greasy, and the untidy dress of the owner strongly suggestive of yellow snuff.

"Do you know of any girls for housework?" said Mrs. Harding, hardly expecting any available information.

"Don't b'l'eve there's such a thing to be found in ten mile. Folks can't git gals when they're sick, and dun no where well folks can find 'em. S'pect they'll have to do their own work; at any rate, they orto."

"But well people sometimes have more work than they can do, and then they need help," returned Mrs. Harding, in a tone of remonstrance.

"Wal, gals round here won't go where they're looked down on. They'd rather do sunthin' else than work for folks that's too grand to eat with them," said the woman, with a look which indicated that she thought the stranger one of the aristocracy.

"Then you cannot tell me of any one?" interrupted Mrs. Harding, intending to cut short the uncivil harangue.

"No; not unless Betty Symonds would go; but, then, she wouldn't, I know," replied the woman, who seemed a little softened, now that she had given vent to her spleen against the "grand folks."

"And where does she live?" asked Mrs. Harding, who, like a "drowning man, caught at every straw."

"Up't the next housen; but she won't go; I know as well as I want to, eanamost."

Mrs. Harding was soon ushered into Betty Symonds's best parlor. It was a long narrow room, with two small windows, and partially carpeted with bits of rag carpeting and large braided mats of domestic manufacture. A white homespun towel covered the stand between the windows, upon which stood a cracked tea-pot, over which straggled long branches of petunia, which were under the necessity of lying down, because there was nothing to hold them up.

Betty was soon heard approaching, and she came in dressed in quite a striking manner. Her gay, large-figured calico was decorated with three deep flounces. Large gold ear-rings were in her ears, and rings, which glowed with great yellow and red stones, adorned the hands which were damp with dish-water. To Mrs. Harding's inquiry she replied, in loud tones—

"I don't kalkilate to work out. I ain't obleeged teu. And I mean to go to Boston a visiting soon as haying is over."

Great as were Mrs. Harding's necessities, she felt little inclined to urge Betty Symonds to live with her, and on they were soon jogging towards Mapleton.

"Where are you going now, mother?" asked Walter, looking quite blue.

"Oh, I don't know, Wally. I am almost discouraged."

"Do let us go home, mother; we shall not find a good girl."

"We may; we will try a little longer," said Mrs. Harding, trying to be cheerful.

As they rode into Mapleton village, they met a man of whom Mrs. Harding ventured to inquire.

"Oh, there is girls enough," he replied, cheerfully. "You've just come by a house where there are three."

"How far back is it?" asked Mrs. Harding, eagerly.

"Oh, a mile or so. You can see it from here, just beyond that hemlock grove," said the man, pointing back.

Dobbin was again turned, and put in rapid motion towards the house. There she found a great corpulent woman knitting quietly by the window; but the girls were nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Harding stated her errand briefly, but earnestly.

"My gals are gone," said the woman, coldly. "One's gone to Lowell, and t'other went yesterday to work at the Meadows."

"Have you not another that would go?"

"No," was the gruff reply of the woman, who did not even deign to look up.

"It's just so everywhere," said Walter, as he caught the hopeless expression of his mother's face when she came out. "They are all just gone or going, or else 'ain't obleeged to work out.' I wish some of them had to."

"Oh no, that is wrong, Wally. I would not have a domestic unless it would be for her interest to serve me as well as for mine. But I do believe these uncultivated girls sometimes stand very much in their own light in refusing to go where they might be learning something valuable, and be really improving themselves, as well as helping those who need."

"Well, I am sick of this," said Walter, half laughing, and almost half crying. "I am tired and hungry. Cannot we have some dinner?"

His mother assured him that they would stop for dinner soon. In the mean time, they continued their inquiries. One girl who, they were assured, was at home spinning, and who intended to engage out for the season, they found had started the day before for Boston in search of a place. At another house, a sweet-looking girl, blue-eyed and fair, with her white arms bare almost to the shoulders, had her trunk already packed for Lowell. She "could not go." One pale mother had three daughters, one of whom was at the academy, a second in the paper-mill, and the third she must keep to assist herself. One stout, healthy girl, whom Mrs. Harding urged to the very verge of decency, preferred to stay at home to knit for the merchants at one dollar per pound. And one woman, with very yellow skin and snapping black eyes, wouldn't "have her girls go where folks were so grand. They were as good as anybody, and better than some who sot themselves up to be so smart."

It was two hours past noon when our tired, worn-out travellers drove up to a small tavern to dine. As they sat at table, a new thought struck Mrs. Harding. She would inquire of the table-girl.

"No, ma'am," replied the girl to her question, with a smile and a shake of the head. "We can't get girls enough here to do our work. Most all the girls here go to the factory. There was a man along last week, who had been up country to get a lot of girls, and he had engaged sixteen hundred to go to a new factory in Lowell. He pays them so much a head, and takes them down by the lot, just like cattle to the market."

"Shall you go home now, mother?" asked Walter, when the girl had left the room.

"Certainly I shall; and I can see no other way but to do my own work at present."

It was a late hour in the evening when Mrs. Harding and her son drove up to their own door. Mr. Harding, notwithstanding his rheumatism, laughed heartily as they rehearsed the incidents of the day. He still insisted, however, that it was because they had taken an unfortunate direction, and that, if they should take a different route, they would surely be more successful.

"No," said Mrs. Harding, laughing; "I can assure you I have had enough of it. All I get for my day's labor is the privilege of getting my own supper. I can get along alone, and must."

"Ah, you will think differently, wife, when the Wallaces and Pinkertons get here. It will be no trifling affair to play the parts of lady and housemaid, hostess and table-girl, with so many visitors on your hands."

Mrs. Harding, however, kept up good courage. The expected guests, some eight or ten, including the babies, arrived. By making extra preparations before their arrival, she managed to get along comfortably for a few days; but the cake and tarts could not always last where there were so many mouths, the house would not keep in order, and the care and labor of meeting the wants of her large family pressed every day, she thought, with greater weight upon her.

"I can tell you, Ellen, I will not consent to this another day," said Mr. Harding to his wife, as he met her burning face one day in the kitchen, just as dinner was ready for the table. "Why, you look as if you had baked yourself as well as the mutton," he added, laughing.

"Pray, how will you help it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Harding.

"I will go myself for help. I do believe I can find somebody who can tend the roast and wash the dishes."

"Don't be too positive, Mr. Harding; remember your good wife's experience," interposed Mrs. Pinkerton, with an arch shake of the finger and a roguish twinkle of the eye.

"Well, one thing is certain," replied Mr. Harding, laughing, "I shall not come back till I find one, extraordinaries excepted. So, when you see me driving up, you will see some one else."

Old Dobbin was duly harnessed next morning, and Mr. Harding, full of hope, started off "bright and early," while the whole family, guests and all, ran down to the gate to wish him success and a pleasant ride.

One, two, three days passed, but he did not return, and Mrs. Harding began to cast uneasy glances down the street, and to watch and listen every time she heard carriage-wheels.

"He will be as good as his word, Ellen," said her sister, Mrs. Pinkerton. "When he does come, you will have help; that is a comfort."

"Perhaps," cried little Anna Pinkerton, "he cannot find a girl, and then he will never come back."

Just then, however, a step was heard in the hall, and the next moment the parlor door was darkened by his tall form. There he stood, but alone.

"Where is your girl?" asked Mrs. Harding, anxiously.

"I left her to come in the cars. She will be here in three days."

"Oh, did you get one, then?" asked his wife and two or three others, in a breath.

"To be sure I did; but I had hard enough work to find her. My experience was almost as romantic as yours, wife."

"Do give us your history," said Mrs. Pinkerton, after Mr. Harding was settled, and quietly sipping his tea.

"Well," said Mr. Harding, with a self-satisfied air, for he had actually engaged a girl, "one experiences wonderful alternations of hope and fear in this business, I can assure you. I have made as many as fifty calls, and inquiries without number. I rode over frightful hills and almost impassable roads, and met with many discouraging receptions; but I was determined to succeed, and I did."

Mr. Harding's history of his "girl hunt" kept his family chatting, laughing, and wondering till a late hour. But we spare the reader the details of his ride.

The day that the new girl was expected was damp and cloudy. The sun scarcely showed itself all the morning, and, now and then, a heavy mist or slow drizzling rain added to the discomfort and gloom. Late in the morning, a lumbering old stage-coach came rattling up to Mr. Harding's door, and from it alighted a girl, evidently somewhat over twenty years of age, with a very dark, sallow complexion and large coal-black eyes, which seemed made on purpose to look everything through. Notwithstanding the dull, uncomfortable morning, she was dressed in a flounced lawn with a white ground. A gold pencil dangled at her side, and she flaunted the largest of gold hoops in her ears, and an enormous piece of red glass in her breast-pin.

"Can that be the new girl?" asked Mrs. Pinkerton, as the stranger whisked up the gravel-walk and pulled the bell.

"The very one," answered Mr. Harding, who caught a glimpse of her figure at the door.

Zilpah Ann Swain, for such was her euphonious appellative, was soon ushered into the kitchen, where Mrs. Harding was busy with the dinner, and quietly seating herself at the window, without offering her aid, she fixed her staring black eyes upon Mrs. Harding's red, weary face, and followed her through all the evolutions of getting up dinner.

"I am very glad you have come to-day," said Mrs. Harding, attempting to be a little social. "I have friends with me, and need very much some one to take care of the kitchen."

"Well, I thought I'd come a spell, jest to accommodate; but I told Mr. Harding I wouldn't be boun' to stay. I ain't obleeged to work out, if I ain't a mind teu," replied Zilpah Ann, her black eyes flashing with independence.

It was soon evident that Zilpah Ann came simply as "help." She had not the slightest idea of taking charge of the kitchen, or of relieving her mistress by going on independently in any department of the work. The morning after her arrival, Mrs. Harding gave her special directions about sweeping the front stairs and hall, and the brick walk which led to the gate. She was to go through a certain process every morning. But her work was so badly done that Mrs. Harding determined to speak to her about it.

"Zilpah Ann," she said, as she passed through the hall one morning, about one week after her arrival, "I wish you to be particular to sweep the corners of the stairs clean. You will find the small brush better for that purpose."

"I guess I know how to sweep, Miss Harding," exclaimed the surprised Zilpah Ann, starting up from her work and throwing the full fire of her eyes upon Mrs. Harding's calm face. "I don't want nobody to tell me how to sweep out corners. I knows some things, if I hain't got so much l'arnin' as some folks."

"Oh, yes, I presume you do know how. I only wished to remind you of the corners; I am very particular about having them swept clean, and the walk, too. You will remember that, Zilpah Ann."

"I didn't come here to be a nigger nor a sarvent, Miss Harding, I'll let you know," exclaimed Zilpah Ann, dropping her broom in a passion and bolting to her room. Half an hour afterwards, she appeared at the parlor door with her bonnet on, and her bandbox in her hand, and demanded to be carried to the depot. The Hardings let her go without a word of remonstrance. They had had "help" enough for one week, and Mrs. Harding went about her work alone again, with a feeling of positive relief.

"What do you think of girl-hunting now, brother Harding?" asked Mrs. Pinkerton, as they sat round the tea-table, making themselves merry with the trials and helps of the week.

"Oh, I call it an unprofitable business," exclaimed Mr. Harding, with a hearty laugh. "I rode three days in a broiling sun after Zilpah Ann, paid her fare fifty miles, bore with her help for a week, and received nothing for my pains. It is just like chasing your own shadow, or 'hunting a needle in a haymow.'"

NIAGARA.

A RECENT tour to Niagara, in affording welcome recreation, gave me opportunity to look upon this stupendous curiosity. I had had years ago a faint foresight in observing, at a favorable season, Passaic Falls. The river at these falls is forty yards wide, and one entire sheet of water descends seventy feet. The cascade presented a unique scene of beauty, and has been regarded as the greatest curiosity in "the State of the Broad Seal." But the Falls of Niagara far outreach all comparison. They are really stupendous, and challenge the world to outvie them in grandeur. On first witnessing them, your sensations are peculiar. Your nature becomes suffused with a sublimity of feeling. A fulmination of "the great and glorious" strikes one to silent amazement. With a "pleasing terror," akin to grandeur, you approach the precipice, and gaze unweariedly upon the wonderful cataract.

I proceeded without refreshing my memory with any account of the wonder. Conversation touching the falls, with all fulsome descriptions, I had avoided. I beheld them from many points of observation, at evening, in the morning, and during the sunny day. I was sensible that the great natural curiosity of the New World had presented itself to my view. The sense of grandeur augmented with repeated observations. No description can adequately convey an idea of their true sublimity.

Niagara has had many admirers. Some, in their descriptions, have been borne very far by fancy; others have given occasional circumstances as the general. The precipice which produces the cataract was said to be not less than six hundred feet. This was an account of an early tourist. It does not, in reality, exceed one hundred and sixty feet. "The noise is such," says Father Hennepin, "that people distant from it several miles cannot hear each other speak." At some seasons, and at particular times, the roar of the cataract is very loud, and is heard for many miles; but it would be exceeding strange if found so deafening as indicated by the above account. "As the traveller advances," says Howison, "he is frightfully stunned by the appalling noise, clouds of spray sometimes envelop him, and suddenly check his faltering steps; rattlesnakes start from the cavities of the rocks; and the scream of eagles soaring among the whirlwinds of the cataract, at intervals, announce that the raging waters have hurled some bewildered animal over the precipice." These intervals, at present, are very long.

When the red man gazed exclusively upon the cataract, it is supposed it was of greater height than now. Not only, indeed, of greater height, but that it was differently located. The intelligent geologist maintains that the falls were once at Lewiston, and that they must eventually recede to Lake Erie. Thus, any poetical apostrophe to Niagara which sings, "As creation's dawn beholdst," &c., loses its verity. As years wind on, the falls must gradually become less grand as their height decreases; and, "Lake Erie being drained, they will sink to the wild beauty and hoarse roar of the rapids." Accurate observation proves that the falls wear backward a trifle over a foot each year, having receded forty-two feet in the last forty years. Many thousands of years have gone by since the falls were on the borders of the Ontario, and over another hundred thousand years must pass ere they retire to the sister lake.

At the efflux from Lake Erie, Niagara River is three-quarters of a mile wide, and from forty to sixty feet deep. Its current flows at the rate of seven miles an hour. As it proceeds, the river widens and imbosoms Grand and Navy Islands, which terminate in points a mile and a half above the falls.

Below these islands are rapids which extend a mile to the precipice, in which space the river descends fifty-seven feet. Down these rapids the stream rushes, foaming and dashing, giving to the beholder a wild scene of novel interest. Goat Island divides the river into two courses. A small island but a few yards from Goat Island divides the channel on the American side. Between the two is a beautiful cascade; and, from the small island to the American side, the sheet is broad, with a greater descent, though less quantity of water, than at the other fall on the Canada side. Much the greater body of water passes through the course between Goat Island and the Canada shore. This fall, from its shape, has been named the Horse-shoe Fall.

The waters, as they wend their way over the edge and downward, assume a white appearance, save a streak eastward in the Horse-shoe Fall, which streak is of a green color, like the water of the river where it is deep and undisturbed. In one spot, near "the Cave of the Winds," on the American side, I saw a narrow cascade with so thin a sheet that it assumed a pearl color, and descended in congregated globules, or beads, sparkling in their beauty, and altogether variable from the heavier masses rolling over the more central parts. Farther centreward, the bounding waters assume a snowy appearance; and, in gazing upon them, they seem large volumes, or rather avalanches of foam, rolling down into the trembling depths of the lower river. A gentleman skilled in science, who has measured the water above, below, and on the brink of the falls, reports that three millions of tons of water fall over the precipice every second. The moving water below the falls creates one vast mass of "liquid foam," which, like pressed down, floats upon the surface of the river. Here, amid the roar of the rumbling and rushing waters, the spray rolls up in clouds, like ascending smoke. Rainbows dawn amid the dull-appearing mist, and we have, as a whole, Niagara presented to us as she is, and as no language can describe her. The grand view remains fixed upon the mind, and a halo of happy fancies takes hold of the conceptions.

The scenery around the falls is not without its interest. Nature retains her roughest aspect, and looks pleasingly rugged and wild. There is, indeed, much that is romantic around Niagara. Along the river, below the falls, there are trees of many kinds and an abundance of uncultured shrubbery. The impending cliffs seem to vibrate with the rolling murmurs and echoes of the cataract. Table Rock, a portion of which fell some years since, and the remainder recently, was on a level with the edge of the cataract on the Canada side. It projected beyond the cliffs that supported it, resembling the leaf of a table, which circumstance caused its name. Under this projecting rock I passed, after descending a flight of stairs, and approached the sheet of rolling water. The spray here danced on the eddying currents of the air, and ascended in clouds. The waters plash and foam, the cataract sounds with a winnowing roar, echo resounds amid the rocky hills, and the beholder is thrilled with emotions of awe.

A little way below the falls, where the river loses its excessive agitation, and resumes an unexcited course, a small "row-boat" plies to and fro. In going over this ferry, your boat is swayed with a turning motion by the force of the current. While visited lightly by the fleeting spray, the traveller looks towards the wonderful fall. The cliffs on each side of the river are lofty. The tides glide down in a rapid current towards the distant whirlpool. Passing the eye upward, and gazing upon the falls, they are now presented in all their stupendous grandeur. The waters roll over in huge bodies, never ceasing—rolling, rolling, rolling. You see it, and linger to see it. Echoes reverberate, and the constant murmur and rumble, like a hundred mill-races in a freshet, send a feeling which you cannot forget. No one has inclination to speak while viewing the falls. The luxury is to look in silence at the picture here presented in lively colors by Nature. 'Tis a pleasure to stand and contemplate. You must; your soul ponders upon the novelty and grandeur before the eye. The memory has garnered a clear impression. It will hold it forever.

Surrounding rugged and fossil exhibitions lead the mind to the convulsions and changes through which Nature has gone since the Creation. Fancy retains Niagara long after it ceases to be visible. The falls appear in both their pleasing terror and dancing beauty. Nature, ceasing to be unanimated, has exhibited at once her heavy artillery and rainbow beauties. The soul recognizes and does involuntary homage to the Grand Master of the universe.

THE WILD FLOWERS OF THE MONTH.

BY HARLAND COULTAS, PROFESSOR OF BOTANY IN PENN MEDICAL UNIVERSITY, PHILADELPHIA.

THE early spring flowers, whose lovely forms were nurtured amidst the falling snows of February and the rude cold winds of March, have disappeared from the wild parterre of nature. Flora's first offering, how welcome to the botanist! The vernal sun now pours forth on the cold damp earth floods of warm, life-giving radiance. Vegetation is in full activity, and by the forces of nature the earth and atmosphere are being woven into green leaves and beautiful flowers. Behold the rich feast which is provided for the support of every living thing. There is not an insect wantoning in the sunbeam, or a bird singing sweetly amongst the branches, or a poor worm crawling at your feet, for which ample provision has not been fully made.

To those who are interested in botanical pursuits, the country now possesses an especial attraction. June is pre-eminently the month of flowers. To describe them all would fill a volume. We will, however, mention the following, which are both abundant and beautiful, and may be very easily procured:—

Fig. 1.

AQUILEGIA CANADENSIS (Wild Columbine).—This beautiful plant may now be found growing out of the crevices of the rocks on the west bank of the Schuylkill, between Manayunk and Columbia Bridge. It has biternate leaves, or leaves which are twice three parted and deeply toothed at their margin. Fig. 1 shows the foliage and flower of the Columbine. The sepals of the calyx and petals of the corolla are of the same color, and so intermingled as to be not easily distinguished from each other. The corolla is composed of five horn-shaped petals, one of which is shown detached at a. The petals are curved at the upper end and form a sort of coronet, terminating below in spurs or horns which contain honey. The five oval and colored sepals of the calyx alternate with them. The stamens and styles are exerted, or hang below the mouth of the corolla. The corolla and calyx are of a beautiful scarlet or rather coral color, and the whole plant, together with its drooping, pendulous flowers, is really an ornament to the barren rocks from which it springs. How wonderful that so much beauty should thus flourish in so unpromising a situation! b Represents the appearance of the fruit after the flowers have faded and fallen, which consists of five carpels or follicles, many seeded and acuneinated by the persistent style. c, A separate follicle.

Fig. 2.

HOUSTONIA CŒRULEA (or Quaker Lady).—The fresh green grass on every hill-side is now adorned with the tufts of this beautiful wild plant. It grows, however, most luxuriantly in moist, shady situations. This plant is easily recognized by its profusion of handsome bright blue blossoms, fading to white, with a yellow eye. Fig. 2 shows the form of its leaves and flowers. Each little plant, when examined apart from the rest, presents a few forked branches an inch or two in length. The radical leaves are spatulate, the corolla monopetalous and salverform. It has four stamens and one pistil. a, One of the anthers opening longitudinally. b, Cross-section of that anther magnified. c, The capsule enveloped by the persistent calyx. d, e, Views of the dehiscence of the capsule.

MITCHELLA REPENS (Partridge-berry).—This pretty little evergreen is now in flower in moist, shady woods, about the roots of trees. Its stem and branches trail along the ground, bearing opposite ovate leaves, and pairs of white, monopetalous, four cleft, and singularly villous or downy-looking flowers. After flowering, a bright scarlet berry is produced by the coalescence or engraftment of the drupes or fruit of each pair of flowers, which is crowned with the calyx teeth of each of them. This plant commemorates Dr. John Mitchell, an early correspondent of Linnæus and an excellent botanist. The berries remain over winter.

EPIGŒA REPENS (Trailing Arbutus).—This is a favorite spring flower, especially with ladies. It is very abundant in the woods on the banks of the Wissahicon. It may be readily distinguished by its prostrate stems, which bear evergreen, reticulated, rounded, alternate leaves, and axillary clusters of rose-colored flowers, which are most delightfully fragrant. The stem and stalks of the leaves are bristly with rusty hairs. Name derived from [Greek: epi], upon, and [Greek: gê], the earth. Ten stamens and one pistil will be found within the floral envelops.

CLAYTONIA VIRGINICA (Spring Beauty).—This plant is common in moist woods on the banks of the Schuylkill. It is named in honor of John Clayton, one of the earliest botanists of this country. It sends up in early spring from a small, deeply buried tuber, a simple stem bearing two linear lanceolate, opposite leaves, and a simple raceme of pale, rose-colored flowers. Fig. 3 is a representation of this ornament of the vernal woods. Sepals of the calyx, two, ovate, free, green, and persistent; that is, they remain after the corolla has faded as a protecting envelop to the fruit. Stamens, five, adhering to the claws of the petals. Style, three-lobed. Capsule, three-valved, three to five-seeded. a Shows the persistent two-leaved calyx enveloping the capsule. b, A section of the dehiscing or opening capsule, with the seeds in its interior.

Fig. 3.

VIOLA PEDATA (Bird's-Foot Violet).—This is the largest and handsomest of the wild violets, and is exceedingly abundant in the sandy soil of the pine-barrens in the neighborhood of Camden, New Jersey. It is called bird's-foot violet, from a fancied resemblance between its leaves and the feet of birds. Its flowers are large, pale-blue, and exceedingly showy. The beautiful Phlox subulata, or moss pink, grows in the same pine-barrens in company with this violet, and cannot fail to be recognized.

The earth at this season is adorned with the utmost profusion of flowers. Now is the time to secure good specimens. We shall introduce a few more of these beautiful strangers to your notice in another article.

PHYSICAL TRAINING.

PART I.

To most persons, probably, the words "Physical Training" suggest ideas of the drill-sergeant, or of gymnastic or other extraordinary exercises; and, truly, such exercises may form a part of physical training, but only a part, and that a small one, of this most important department of human education. We must endeavor to give our readers wider and better views than are usually entertained upon the subject.

Physical training in its proper sense involves: 1. The cultivation and preservation of physical health. 2. The development of the physical strength, powers, and mechanical capabilities of the body to such a pitch as the individual requires to perform well the duties of life. 3. The cultivation, within certain limits, of the graces and beauties of the body. 4. The cultivation and development of the mind, through and by means of the bodily powers and senses.

Thus, whatever the means employed, the chief end of all physical training must be the perfect working of a healthy mind, by means of a healthy body, in the performance of life's duties, the enjoyment of life's pleasures, and the avoidance, as far as permitted, of life's pains.

In this life, God has linked together our bodies and our minds, and man cannot with impunity disregard their union or divide their interests; act and react they will, and do, upon one another. Their Creator has made the one the instrument of the other; and as well might we look for harmony from an unstrung harp, be the player ever so skilful, as for perfect working from a mind, however good and powerful, through the means of a sickly body. True, there have been many possessors of sickly bodies, many sufferers from permanent "bad health," who have not only done much active good, but who have worked well and successfully with their minds; yet may we not justly suppose that, had the same minds dwelt in healthy frames, had they not been clogged and clouded by the frequent "infirmities of the flesh," their good deeds would have been still more widely spread, their intellectual exertions still more powerfully manifested? Even in the more ordinary business of life, in the counting-house or in the work-shop, how often is work too slowly or imperfectly executed, because of minds hampered by bodies in bad working order; because the physical training of the body has been, and is, day by day neglected! Few there are whose individual experience cannot revert to hours, days, lost to them, simply from derangements of health which might have been avoided, and which, though not amounting to illness, were yet sufficient to render either duty or amusement a labor or a "bore." How few are there who do not know the difference between the irritability, the nervous fears, the indolence and despondency of illness, and that cheerful activity of good health which laughs at trifles, looks forward with hope, and finds work a pleasure! How strong the reasons, then, for training the health and powers of the body to their highest pitch, seeing that upon their perfection depends the more or less complete fulfilment of our duty to God, our neighbors, and ourselves!

We return to the rule No. 1, of Physical Training.—The cultivation and preservation of physical health.

Health is a comprehensive term, including the perfect and harmonious working of the organs generally of which the body is composed; but this perfect, this healthy working of many parts, chiefly depends upon the integrity and health of the one all-pervading fluid, the blood—the life. In all physical training, the condition of the blood must be the foundation—the centre point of our thoughts and endeavors. This, to an unlearned reader, may appear a somewhat startling proposition; nevertheless, by means of it we shall gain the simplest, most intelligible, and, at the same time, most comprehensive views of our subject. The condition of the blood depends, first, on its nourishment; secondly, on its purification. The effect of the blood upon the body depends, thirdly, upon its circulation or distribution. The first involves the nature, quantity, and digestion of the food which nourishes; the second, the ventilation, cleanliness, &c., which purify; the third, the various exercises which aid to distribute.

As the blood is continually being expended in the nourishment of the body, so it must as constantly be renovated by supplies from without—by food. Evidently, then, this food must supply to the blood every material required by the body; otherwise there can be no proper nourishment. Thus, if the diet be deficient in the bone-earths, the bones—as they do in badly-nourished children—become soft and yielding; if the diet is too exclusively composed of such farinaceous articles as rice, potatoes, &c., or with too much fat, it is incapable of yielding the elements of muscular flesh, and the strength declines; if vegetable food is wanting, scurvy is the result. Here, then, we have the first element of Physical Training: the real supply of nourishment calculated to afford every material required by the body. This of course takes in a wider range of subject—no less than that of diet generally—than our space will permit us to enter into here. Suffice it to remark that the diet of the infant and growing child, of the youth and the adult man, must, under a proper system of training, be varied according to the constitution of the individual, and accommodated not only to the climate, but also to the changes of the seasons. For instance, we will suppose two young children; one is fair, light-haired, with delicate skin, through which the blue veins show conspicuously, but fat and plump withal; the other is a ruddy-faced rogue, whose rich red blood seems ready to start from his cheeks. Give these two nurslings equal treatment in every way, the same air, the same everything, and the same food, consisting chiefly of milk and grain materials, puddings, and the like, with perhaps a little meat; the rosy face will lose none of its healthy hue; the fair, fat child will become no thinner, perhaps fatter, but, at the same time, pale and puffy, or pasty-looking, and if the diet be unchanged, finally unhealthy. Reverse matters; let each have fresh animal food every day, and what is the consequence? Our little pale friend brightens up amazingly; there comes a tinge of red in the cheek, the puffiness is gone, and the flesh has become more solid—he is more active and sprightly; but our other little fellow is evidently not benefited; the healthy rose hue looks more like a feverish flush, and suspicious spots, that will soon break out into little pimples or small boils, are perhaps showing themselves. This will never do, so we keep the little fair one to his beef and mutton, and reduce his companion, who soon shows the benefit of the change, to his milk-puddings and vegetables, and give him his treat of meat only twice or thrice a week. This one example—we might give many more—will serve to show how many considerations are involved in this first department of physical training—the management of the food: how that which gives health and strength to one will be too little for another, and vice versâ. Then, again, we might show how the variation of climate, even such as takes place between winter and summer in our land, requires variation in the amount and kind of food; how also this should be influenced by exercise. These minutiæ cannot be separately discussed in the compass of a short paper; but the information is such that no intelligent man, either for his own sake or that of others, should be entirely unfurnished with. As a general rule, let it be kept in mind, especially in the case of the young and growing, that the habitual food ought to be calculated to yield the requisite nourishment for every portion of the frame; that it ought, while adapted to the constitution, to be sufficient in quantity and quality. Rarely, indeed, if food be wholesome, and at the same time not calculated to tempt the appetite artificially, can it be necessary, or even right, to stint its allowance to young people? Lastly, as far as possible, the application of a well-directed cookery, by which the digestibility of food is improved, ought not to be lost sight of, as an important element in the physical training of the young, or of the physical preservation of the adult.

Thus, the first essential for the healthy condition of the blood, and thence of the body, is its nourishment. The second, is its purification. Now, the blood is not only the nourishing, but it is also the warming medium of the body. Each moment of our lives, chemical changes and interchanges are going on between the atoms, throughout every portion of our frames: those which have become unfit for the purposes of the living, healthy body, are replaced by fresh ones, by fresh nourishment, brought by the blood in its never-ceasing current of circulation. At the moment the change takes place, heat is given out—the natural warmth of the living being. But the fresh atoms of nourishment having displaced the old ones, the latter necessarily pass into the blood, and as necessarily render it impure, altering its qualities, and converting it from a bright red, life and vigor-supporting agent, into a dark purple fluid, not only unfit to sustain life, but unfit also either to impart energy or proper nourishment to the frame, unless it be perfectly purified by the agencies provided for this purpose. These agencies are principally four, viz., the lungs, the skin, the liver, the kidneys. The first is directly connected with the subject of pure air; the second, with pure air, light, and personal cleanliness; the two last, with food; and all with the last condition of physical health, the blood circulation or distribution.

THE TRIALS OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.[9]

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

(Continued from page 440.)

CHAPTER X.

WITHOUT venturing the remotest allusion to her parting with her lover, Miss Ballantine commenced her narrative by saying—

"When I left New York with my father, for New Orleans, no voyage could have promised fairer. Mild, sunny weather, with good breezes and a noble ship, that scarcely seemed to feel the deep swell of the ocean, bore us pleasantly on towards the desired port. But, when only five days out, an awful calamity befel us. One night I was awakened from sleep by a terrific crash; and in a little while the startling cry of 'the ship's on fire!' thrilled upon my ear, and sent an icy shudder to my heart. I arose from my berth, and put on my clothes hastily. By this time my father had come, dreadfully agitated, into the cabin; and while his own lips quivered, and his own voice trembled, he endeavored to quiet my fears, by telling me that there was no danger; that the ship had been struck with lightning; but that the fire occasioned thereby would readily be put out.

"When I ascended to the deck, however, I saw that we had little to hope for. While the masts and rigging were all enveloped in flame, a dense smoke was rising from the hold, indicating that the electric fluid, in its descent through the ship, had come in contact with something in the cargo that was highly combustible. Passengers and crew stood looking on with pale, horror-stricken faces. But the captain, a man of self-possession, aroused all from their lethargy by ordering, in a loud, clear voice, the masts and rigging to be cut away instantly. This order was obeyed. Over went, crashing and hissing, three noble masts, with their wealth of canvas, all enveloped in flames, quenching the heaven-enkindled fires in the ocean. Then all was breathless and silent as the grave for some moments, when a broad flash lit up the air, and revealed, for an instant, the dismantled deck upon which we stood, followed by a pealing crash that made the ship tremble. The deep silence that succeeded was broken by the voice of the captain. His tones were cheerful and confident.

"'All will now be well!' he cried. 'We are saved from fire, and our good hull will bear us safely up until we meet a passing ship.'

"'But there is fire below, captain,' said one.

"'It cannot burn without air,' he replied, in the same tone of confidence. 'We will keep the hatches closed and sealed; and it must go out.'

"This took a load from my bosom. I saw that what he said was reasonable. But when daylight came, it showed the smoke oozing out through every crevice in the deck. The floors, too, were hot to the feet, and indicated an advanced state of the fire within. All was again terror and confusion, but our captain still remained self-possessed. He saw that every hope of saving the ship was gone; and at once ordered all the boats made ready, and well stored with provisions. To the first and second mates, with a portion of the crew, he assigned two of the boats, and in the third and largest he embarked himself with four stout men and the passengers, twelve in all. The sky was still overcast with clouds, and the sea rolled heavily from the effects of the brief but severe storm that had raged in the night. Pushing off from the doomed vessel, we lingered near for a couple of hours to see what her fate would be. At the end of that time, the dense smoke which had nearly hidden her from our view, suddenly became one enveloping mass of flame. It was a beautiful, yet appalling sight, to see that noble vessel thus burning upon the breast of the sea! For nearly an hour her form, sheeted in fire, stood out distinctly against the face of the sky, and then she went down, and left only a few charred and mutilated fragments afloat upon the surface to tell of her doom.

"During the night that followed, it stormed terribly, and in it our boat was separated from the other two. We never met again, and for all I have ever learned to the contrary, those that were saved in them from the burning ship perished from hunger, or were overwhelmed by some eager wave of the ocean.

"The four men of the ship's crew, with the captain and the male passengers, labored alternately at the oars, but with little effect. Heavy seas, and continued stormy weather, rendered of little avail all efforts to make much headway towards any port. Our main hope was that of meeting with some vessel. But this hope mocked us day after day. No ship showed her white sails upon the broad expanse of waters that stretched, far as the eye could reach, in all directions. Thus ten days passed, and our provisions and water were nearly exhausted. Three of the passengers had become already very ill, and all of us were more or less sick from exposure to the rain and sea. On the twelfth day, two of our number died and were cast overboard. Others became sick, and by the time we had been floating about thus for the space of twenty days, only four of the twelve remained. Most of them died with a raging fever. The captain was among the number, and there was now no one to whom we could look with confidence. My father still lived, though exceedingly ill. Our companions were now reduced to a young man and his sister.

"A bag of biscuit still remained, and a small portion of water. Of this, none but myself could eat. The rest were too sick. Three days more passed, and I was alone with my father! The brother and his sister died, and with my own hands I had to consign them to their grave in the sea. I need not attempt to give any true idea of my feelings when I found myself thus alone, with my father just on the brink of death, afar in the midst of the ocean. He was unconscious; and I felt that I was on the verge of delirium. A strong fever made the blood rush wildly through my veins, causing my temples to throb as if they would burst. From about this time consciousness forsook me. I can recollect little more until I found myself lying in a berth, on board of a strange vessel. I was feeble as an infant. A man, with the aspect of a foreigner, sat near me. He spoke to me, but in a foreign tongue. I understood, and could speak French, Spanish, and Italian; but I had never studied German, and this man was a Hollander. Of course, I understood but a word here and there, and not sufficient to gain any intelligence from what he said, or to make him comprehend me, except when I asked for my father. Then he understood me, and pointing across the cabin, gave me to know that my father was with me in the ship, though very sick.

"Small portions of nourishing food were now offered at frequent intervals, and, as my appetite came back keenly, and I took the scanty supply that was allowed me, I gradually gained strength. In a week I was able to leave my berth, and to walk, with the assistance of the captain of the vessel, for he it was whom I had first seen on the restoration of consciousness, to the state room in which my father lay. Oh! how he had changed! I hardly recognized him. His face had grown long and thin, his eyes were sunken far back in his head, and his hair, that had been scarcely touched with the frosts of age when we left New York, was white! He did not know me, although he looked me feebly in the face. The sound of my voice seemed to rouse him a little, but he only looked at me with a more earnest gaze, and then closed his eyes. From this time I was his constant nurse, and was soon blessed with finding him gradually recovering. But as health came back to his body, it was too appallingly visible that his reason had been shattered. He soon came to know me, to speak to me, and to caress me, with more than his usual fondness; but his mind was—alas! too evidently—imbecile. As this state of mental alienation showed itself more and more distinctly, on his gradually acquiring physical strength, it seemed as if the painful fact would kill me. But we are formed to endure great extremes of bodily and mental anguish. The bow will bend far before it breaks.

"After I had recovered so as to leave my berth entirely, and when, I suppose, the captain thought it would be safe to question me, he brought a map, and indicated plainly enough that he wished me to point out the country I was from. I laid my hand upon the United States. He looked surprised. I glanced around at the ship, and then pointed to the map with a look of inquiry. He placed his finger near the Island of St. Helena. It was now my turn to look surprised. By signs I wished him to tell me how we should get back; and he indicated, plainly enough, that he would put us on board of the first vessel he met that was returning either to Europe or the United States, or else would leave us at the Cape of Good Hope. But day after day passed, and we met no returning vessel. Before we reached the Cape, a most terrific storm came on, which continued many days, in which the ship lost two of her masts, and was driven far south. It seemed to me as if my father and I had been doomed to perish in the ocean, and the sea would not, therefore, relinquish its prey. It was ten or twelve days before the storm had sufficiently abated to leave the vessel manageable in the hands of the captain and crew, and then the captain's reckoning was gone. He could get his latitude correctly, but not his longitude, except by a remote approximation. His first observation, when the sky gave an opportunity, showed us to be in latitude forty-five degrees south. This he explained to me, and also the impracticability of now making the Cape, pointing out upon the map the Swan River Settlement in Australia as the point he should endeavor first to make. A heavy ship, with but one mast, made but slow progress. On the third day another storm overtook us, and we were driven before the gale at a furious rate. That night our vessel struck and went to pieces. Six of us escaped, my father among the rest, and the captain, in a boat, and were thrown upon the shore of an uninhabited island. In the morning there lay floating in a little protected cove of the island barrels of provisions, as pork, fish, bread, and flour, with chests, and numerous fragments of the ship, and portions of the cargo. The captain and sailors at once set about securing all that could possibly be rescued from the water, and succeeded in getting provisions and clothing enough to last all of us for many months, if, unfortunately, we should not earlier be relieved from our dreadful situation. My father had become strong enough to go about and take care of himself, but his mind was feebler, and he seemed more like an old man in his second childhood than one in the prime of life as he was. He was not troublesome to any one, nor was there any fear of trusting him by himself. He was only like an imbecile old man—and such even the captain thought him.

"A thing which I failed to mention in its place, I might as well allude to here. On recovery from that state of physical exhaustion in which the humane captain of the Dutch East Indiaman had found me, my hand rested accidentally upon the pocket of my father's coat, which hung up in the state room that had been assigned to him. His pocket-book was there. It instantly occurred to me to examine it, and see how much money it contained, for I knew that, unless we had money, before getting back, we would be subjected to inconvenience, annoyance, and great privation; and as my father seemed to be so weak in mind, all the care of providing for our comfort, I saw, would devolve upon me. I instantly removed the pocket-book, which was large. I found a purse in the same pocket, and took that also. With these I retired into my own state-room, and fastening the door inside, commenced an examination of their contents. The purse contained twenty eagles; and in the apartments of the pocket-book were ten eagles more, making three hundred dollars in gold. In bank bills there were five of one thousand dollars each, ten of one hundred dollars, and about two hundred dollars in smaller amounts, all of New York city banks. These I took and carefully sewed up in one of my under garments, and also did the same with the gold. I mention this, as it bears with importance upon our subsequent history.

"A temporary shelter was erected; a large pole with a white flag fastened to it, as a signal to any passing vessel, was set up; and the captain, with two of his men, set out to explore the island. They were gone for two days. On returning, they reported no inhabitants, but plenty of good game, if any way could be devised to take it. No vessel appearing, after the lapse of some twelve or fifteen days, the men set about building for us a more comfortable place of shelter. One of these had been a carpenter, and as an axe and saw, and some few tools, had come ashore on pieces of the wreck, and in chests, he was enabled to put up a very comfortable tenement, with an apartment for me partitioned off from the main room.

"Here we remained for I can scarcely tell how long. It was, I believe, for about a year and a half: during which time two of the men died, and our party was reduced to four. About this period, when all of us began to feel sick from hope deferred, and almost to wish that we might die, a heavy storm came up, with wind from the north-west, and blew heavily for three or four days. On the morning of the fourth day, when the wind had subsided, a vessel, driven out of her course, was seen within a few leagues of the land. Signals were instantly made, and our eyes gladdened by the sight of a boat which was put off from the ship. In this we soon embarked, and, with a sensation of wild delight, found ourselves once more treading the deck of a good vessel. She was an English merchantman, bound for Canton. We made a quick passage to that port, where we found a vessel just ready to sail for Liverpool. In this I embarked, with my father, who still remained in the same sad state of mental derangement. No incident, worthy of referring to now, occurred on our passage to Liverpool, whence we embarked direct for New Orleans, at which place we arrived, after having been absent from our native land for the long space of nearly three years! How different were my feelings, my hopes, my heart, on the day I returned to that city eight years from the time I left it as a gay child, with the world all new and bright and beautiful before me! I need not draw the contrast. Your own thoughts can do that vividly enough.

"You can scarcely imagine the eagerness with which I looked forward to an arrival in my native city. We had friends there, and a fortune, and I fed my heart with the pleasing hope that skilful physicians would awaken my father's slumbering reason into renewed and healthy activity. Arrived there at last, we took lodgings at a hotel, where I wrote a brief note to my father's partner, in whose hands all the business had been, of course, during our absence, stating a few facts as to our long absence and asking him to attend upon us immediately. After dispatching this note, I waited in almost breathless expectation, looking every moment to see Mr. Paralette enter. But hour after hour passed, and no one came. Then I sent notes to two or three of my father's friends, whom I recollected, but met with no response during the day. All this strange indifference was incomprehensible to me. It was, in part, explained to my mind on the next morning, when one of the persons to whom I had written called, and was shown up into our parlor by request. There was a coldness and reserve about him, combined with a too evident suspicion that it was not all as I had said. That my father was not Mr. Ballantine, nor I his daughter—but both, in fact, impostors! And certain it is that the white-headed imbecile old man bore but little resemblance to the fine, manly, robust form, which my father presented three years before. The visitor questioned and cross-questioned me; and failed not to hint at what seemed to him discrepancies, and even impossibilities in my story. I felt indignant at this, at the same time that my heart sank at the suddenly flashing conviction that, after all our sufferings and long weary exile from our home, we should find ourselves but strangers in the land of our birth—be even repulsed from our own homestead.

"Our visitor retired after an interview of about half an hour, giving me to understand pretty plainly that he thought both my father and myself impostors. His departure left me faint and sick at heart. But from this state I aroused myself, after a while, and determined to go and see Mr. Paralette at once. A servant called a carriage, and I ordered the driver to take me to the store of Ballantine & Paralette.

"'There is no such a firm now, madam,' he said; 'Mr. Ballantine was lost at sea some years ago. It is Paralette & Co. now.'

"'Drive me there, then,' I said, in a choking voice.

"In a few minutes the carriage stopped at the place I had designated, and I entered the store formerly kept by my father. Though I had been absent for eight years, yet everything looked familiar, and nothing more familiar than the face of Mr. Paralette, my father's partner. I advanced to meet him with a quick step, but his look of unrecognition, and the instant remembrance that he had not attended to my note, and moreover that it had been plainly hinted to me that I was an impostor, made me hesitate, and my whole manner to become confused.

"'Eugenia Ballantine is my name,' said I, in a quivering voice. 'I dropped you a note yesterday, informing you that my father and I had returned to the city.'

"He looked at me a moment with a calm, severe, scrutinizing gaze, and then said—

"'Yes, I received your note, and have this moment seen Mr. ——, who called upon you. And he corroborates the instant suspicion I had that your story could not be correct. He tells me that the man whom you call your father resembles Moses a great deal more than he does the late Mr. Ballantine. So, you see, madam, that your story won't go for anything here.'

"There was something cold and sneering in the tone, manner, and expression of Mr. Paralette that completely broke me down. I saw, in an instant, that my case was hopeless, at least for the time. I was a lone, weak woman, and during an absence of eight years from my native city, I had grown up from a slender girl into a tall woman, and had, from suffering and privation, been greatly changed, and my countenance marred even since I had attained the age of womanhood. Under these circumstances, with my father changed so that no one could recognize him, I felt that to make my strange story believed would be impossible. From the presence of Mr. Paralette I retired, and went back to the hotel, feeling as if my heart would break. Oh, it was dreadful to be thus repulsed, and at home, too! I tried only twice more to make my story believed; failing in these efforts, I turned all my thoughts toward the restoration of my father to mental health, believing that, when this was done, he, as a man, could reassume his own place and his true position. I had over six thousand dollars of the money I had taken from my father's pocket-book, and which I had always kept so completely concealed about my person, that no one had the least suspicion of it. Five thousand of this I deposited on interest, and with the residue took a small house in the suburbs of the city, which I furnished plainly, and removed into it with my father. I then employed two of the most skilful physicians in the city, and placed him in their hands, studiously concealing from them our real names and history. For eighteen months he was under medical treatment, and for at least six months of that time in a private insane hospital. But all to no effect. Severe or lenient treatment all ended in the same result. He continued a simple, harmless old man, fond of me as a child is of his mother, and looking up to and confiding in me for everything.

"At the end of the period I have indicated, I found my means had become reduced to about three thousand dollars. This awoke in my bosom a new cause of anxiety. If my father should not recover his reason in two or three years, I would have nothing upon which to support him, and be compelled to see him taken to some public institution for the insane, there to be treated without that tenderness and regard which a daughter can exercise toward her parent. This fear haunted me terribly.

"It was near the end of the period I have named, that I met with an account of the Massachusetts Insane Hospital, situated in Charlestown in this State. I was pleased with the manner in which patients were represented to be treated, and found that, by investing in Boston the balance of my little property, the income would be sufficient to pay for my father's maintenance there. As for myself, I had no fear but that with my needle, or in some other way, I could easily earn enough to supply my own limited wants. A long conference with one of the physicians who had attended my father raised my hopes greatly as to the benefits which might result from his being placed in an institution so well conducted.

"As soon as this idea had become fully formed in my mind, I sold off all our little stock of furniture, and with the meagre supply of clothing to which I had limited myself, ventured once more to try the perils of the sea. After a quick passage, we arrived in Boston. My father I at once had placed in the asylum, after having invested nearly every dollar I had in bank stock, the dividends from which were guaranteed to the institution for his support, so long as he remained one of its inmates. This was early in the last fall. I had then but a few dollars left, and no income. I was in a strange city, dependent entirely upon my own resources. And what were they? 'What am I to do? Where am I to go for employment?' were questions I found hard indeed to answer. Twenty dollars were all I possessed in the world, and this sum, at a hotel, would not last me, I knew, over two or three weeks. I therefore sought out a private boarding-house, where, under an assumed name, I got a room and my board for two dollars a week. The woman who kept the boarding-house, and to whom I communicated my wish to get sewing, gave me half a dozen plain shirts to make for her husband, for which I received fifty cents each. This was all the work I obtained during the first two weeks I was in the house, and it yielded me only three dollars, when my boarding cost me four. I felt a good deal discouraged after that. I knew no one to whom I could go for work—and the woman with whom I boarded could not recommend me to any place, except to the clothing-stores: but they, she said, paid so badly that she would not advise me to go there, for I could not earn much over half what it would cost me for my board. Still, she added, 'half a loaf is better than no bread.' I felt that there was truth in this last remark, and, therefore, after getting the direction of a clothing-store, I went there and got a few pairs of coarse trowsers. This kind of work was new to me. In my ignorance, I made some portion of them wrong, for which I received abuse from the owner of the shop, and no money. He was not going, he said, to pay for having his work spoiled.

"Dreadfully disheartened, I returned to my lodgings, and set myself to ponder over some other means of support. I had been, while at school, one of the best French and Spanish scholars in the seminary. I had also given great attention to music, and could have taught it as skilfully as our musical professor. But five years had passed since I touched the keys of a piano or harp, and I had not, during that time, spoken a dozen words in any language except my native tongue. And, even if I had retained all my former skill and proficiency, my appearance was not such as to guarantee me, as a perfect stranger, any favorable reception either from private families or schools. So anxious had I been to make the remnant of my father's property, which a kind Providence had spared to us, meet our extreme need, that I denied myself everything that I could possibly do without. Having no occasion to go into society, for no one would recognize me as Eugenia Ballantine, I had paid little regard to my external appearance, so far as elegant and fashionable apparel was concerned. I bought sparingly, and chose only plain and cheap articles. My clothes were, therefore, not of a kind, as you may yourself see, to give me, so far as they were concerned, a passport to consideration.

"As two dollars a week would, I knew, in a very short time, exhaust my little stock of money, I determined to try and rent a room somewhere, at the lowest possible rate, and buy my own food. I eat but a little, and felt sure that, by making this arrangement, I could subsist on one dollar a week instead of two, and this much it seemed as if I must be able to earn at something or other. On the day after I formed this resolution I met, in my walks about the city for the purpose, with the room where you found me, for which I paid seventy-five cents a week. There I removed, and managed to live on about one dollar and a quarter a week, which sum, or, at the worst, seventy-five cents or a dollar a week, I have since earned at making fine shirts for Mr. Berlaps at twenty-five cents each. I could have done better than that, but every day I visit my father, and this occupies from two to three hours."

"And how is your father?" asked Mrs. Gaston, wiping her tearful eyes, as Eugenia paused on ending her narrative.

"He seems calmer, and much more serious and apparently thoughtful since he has been in this institution," Eugenia replied, with something of cheerfulness in her tone. "He does not greet my coming, as he did at first, with childish pleasure, but looks at me gravely, yet with tenderness, when I enter; and, when I go away, he always asks if I will 'come again to-morrow.' He did not do this at first."

"But have you not written to Mr. Perkins since your return?" asked Mrs. Gaston.

Eugenia became instantly pale and agitated. But, recovering herself with an effort, she simply replied—

"How could I? To him I had, years before, been lost in the sea. I could not exist in his mind, except as one in the world of spirits. And how did I, when I came back, or how do I know now, that he has not found another to fill that place in his heart which I once occupied? On this subject I dared make no inquiry. And, even if this were not the case, I am not as I was. I had fortune and social standing when he wooed and won me. Now I am in comparative indigence, and branded as an impostor in my native city. If none recognized and received us in our own home, how could I expect him to do so? And to have been spurned as a mere pretender by him would have broken my heart at once."

Eugenia was greatly moved by this allusion to her former lover and affianced husband. The subject was one upon which she had never allowed herself to think, except compulsorily, and but for a few moments at a time. She could not bear it. After a silence of some moments, Mrs. Gaston said—

"I have not met with or heard of Mr. Perkins for some years. He remained in Troy about six months after you went away, and, during that period, I saw him very frequently. Your loss seemed, for a time, as if it would destroy his reason. I never saw any one suffer such keen mental distress as he did. The fearful uncertainty that hung around your fate racked his mind with the intensest anguish. At the end of the time I have mentioned, he went to New York, and, I was told, left that city a year afterwards; but, whether it is so or not, I never learned. Indeed, I am entirely ignorant as to whether he is now alive or dead. For years I have neither heard of him nor seen him."

Eugenia wept bitterly when Mrs. Gaston ceased speaking. She did not reply, but sat for a long time with her hand partly concealing her face, her whole body trembling nervously, and the tears falling fast from her eyes. From this excitement and agitation, consequent upon a reference to the past, she gradually recovered, and then Mrs. Gaston related, in turn, her trials and afflictions since their separation so many years before. These we will not now record for the reader, but hurry on to the conclusion of our narrative.

By a union of their efforts, Mrs. Gaston and Eugenia were enabled, though to do so required them to toil with unremitting diligence, to secure more comforts—to say nothing of the mutual strength and consolation they received from each other—than either could have possibly obtained alone. The rent of a room, and the expense of an extra light, were saved, and this was important where every cent had to be laid out with the most thoughtful economy. Eugenia no longer went out, except to visit her father. Mrs. Gaston brought home as much work from the shop as both of them could do, and received the money for it when it was done, which all went into a common fund. Thus the time wore on, Eugenia feeling happier than she had felt for many weary years. Mrs. Gaston had been a mother to her while she lived in Troy, and Eugenia entertained for her a deep affection. Their changed lot, hard and painful though it was, drew them closer together, and united them in a bond of mutual tenderness.

New Year's day at last came, and the mother, who had looked forward so anxiously for its arrival, that she might see her boy once more, felt happier in the prospect of meeting him than she had been for a long time. Since his departure, she had not heard a single word from him, which caused her to feel painfully anxious. But this day was to put an end to her mind's prolonged and painful suspense in regard to him. From about nine o'clock in the morning, she began to look momently for his arrival. But the time slowly wore on, and yet he did not come. Ten, eleven, twelve, one o'clock came and went, and the boy was still absent from his mother, whose heart yearned to see his fair face, and to hear his voice, so pleasant to her ear, with unutterable longings. But still the hours went by—two, three, four, and then the dusky twilight began to fall, bringing with it the heart-aching assurance that her boy would not come home. The tears, which she had restrained all day, now flowed freely, and her over-excited feelings gave way to a gush of bitter grief. The next day came and went, and the next, and the next—but there was no word from Henry. And thus the days followed each other, until the severe month of January passed away. So anxious and excited did the poor mother now become, that she could remain passive no longer. She must see or hear from her child. Doctor R—— had obtained him his place, and to him she repaired.

"But haven't you seen your little boy since he went to Lexington?" the doctor asked, in some surprise.

"Indeed, I have not; and Mr. Sharp promised to bring him home on New Year's day," replied the mother.

"Mr. Sharp! Mr. Sharp!" ejaculated the doctor, thoughtfully. "Is that the name of the man who has your son?"

"Yes, sir. That is his name."

Doctor R—— arose and took two or three turns across the floor at this, and, then resuming his seat, said—

"You shall see your son to-morrow, Mrs. Gaston. I will myself go to Lexington and bring him home. I had no idea that the man had not kept his promise with you. And, as I got Henry the place, I must see that his master is as good as his word in regard to him."

With this assurance, Mrs. Gaston returned home, and with a lighter heart.

(To be concluded next month.)

HISTORY OF PEARLS, NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL.

PEARLS are a shelly secretion of a spherical shape formed in a species of oyster, or pearl mussel, and said to be produced by a malady in the animal, which requires nearly seven years for its full development, after which the oyster dies. Small pearls which have been immersed in acetous acids, and thus reduced to their membranous constituents, have the appearance of being formed of concentric coats of membrane and carbonate of lime, thus resembling in composition the mother-of-pearl with which oyster-shells are lined. The precise origin of pearls is unknown, but it appears probable that some minute substance, such as a grain of sand, may have found its way into the shell and produced irritation, and that the animal, unable to expel it, renders it less injurious by covering it with calcareous matter. It is sometimes affirmed that, to produce pearls, the oyster must have received some external injury; and this is corroborated by the fact that nearly all the shells in which pearls are found are outwardly contorted, and that a smooth regular shell is a pretty sure sign of the absence of the pearl. It was therefore suggested to the Swedish government, by the celebrated Linnæus, to pierce small holes in the shell of the freshly-caught pearl oyster, and then restore it to its original bed. The experiment was tried, but without success. A somewhat similar plan is said to be adopted by the Chinese, and with favorable results. These ingenious people thread upon fine silk small beads of mother-of-pearl, and fasten them within the shells of pearl oysters, when they rise to the surface of the water at the beginning of summer. The animals are then restored to their bed, where they soon cover the beads with calcareous matter, and thus convert them into pearls.

In whatever way produced, pearls of considerable size, on account of their beauty and rarity, have been valued at enormous prices in past ages, and are still among the choicest objects of the jeweller's art. Their delicate and silvery lustre has been as widely celebrated as the brilliancy of the diamond. The Hindoos poetically describe them as drops of dew falling into the shells when the fish rise to the surface of the sea in the month of May, and becoming, by some unexplained action of the sun's rays, transformed into pearls.

Pearl fisheries exist in Ceylon, on the Coromandel coast, and in the Persian Gulf, the last-named being the most productive. Fisheries of less importance also exist in Algiers, and in the Zooloo Islands. Two thousand years ago, the Romans found pearls in Britain, and within modern times the rivers of Scotland have afforded considerable quantities, though not of the best quality. Several rivers of Saxony, Silesia, Bavaria, and Bohemia afford pearls, and they are also found in two or three Russian provinces. There are also pearl fisheries in the western hemisphere. The coast of Columbia and the Bay of Panama have furnished considerable quantities, but they are not considered equal to the pearls of the East in shape or color. Detailed accounts of the pearl fishery of Ceylon have been given by the Count de Noé and others, who have had ample means of watching the operations of the pearl-divers during a residence in that island. It appears that the pearl oysters occur in banks at greater or less depth in the sea on the western side of the island of Ceylon, the average depth, however, being about twelve fathoms, and the distance from the shore about fifteen miles. The right to fish on these banks is sold by the government every season, and a single auction sale is generally made to one individual, who afterwards disposes of shares in the fishery to other parties. The biddings at the auction are regulated by the produce of some thousands of oysters taken from the beds at hazard. If the average quality of pearls contained in them be good, the competition is strong in proportion.

The pearl fishery commences in April, and lasts till towards the end of May. It attracts a concourse of visitors not only from the interior of the island, but from various parts of India, whose diversities of language, dress, and manners produce a striking effect. The sea-shore, at other times solitary, is, on the eve of the fishery, suddenly covered with innumerable huts, composed of a few poles stuck in the ground, interwoven with bamboo and covered with the leaves of the cocoa-nut palm. These temporary dwellings often shelter as many as 150,000 persons. The signal for commencing the fishery is given at daybreak by the firing of cannon, and at that moment the several boats cast anchor in the fishing-ground, for at midnight they had left the shore in an extensive fleet, so as to be on the spot at the desired moment. Each boat has its own proper bounds, beyond which it is not lawful to work, and government vessels are on the spot to see that no infringement of contract takes place. The boats each carry a captain, a pilot, and twenty men, of whom ten are experienced divers. Five divers descend at once, the other five taking the plunge when the first ascend. Thus a little time is allowed for regaining strength. In order to descend as rapidly as possible through the water, the diver places his feet on a large stone made fast to one end of a rope, the other end being secured to the boat. He also takes another rope, to the end of which is attached a net, or basket, to contain the oysters. The upper extremity of this second rope is held by two men in the boat. The diver is also provided with a strong knife for detaching the oysters, and as a means of defence against sharks, which are very numerous in those seas, but which do not often attack the divers, being perhaps scared by the noise of the assemblage, and the continual plunging of so great a number of persons. The diver no sooner reaches the ground than he gathers oysters with all possible speed into his basket, and then letting go the rope to which the stone is attached, he pulls that which is held by the sailors, and rapidly ascends to the surface. Some divers make very dexterous use of their feet, holding the net with one foot, clasping the stone with the other, and thus leaving one hand free to close the nostrils, while the other hand holds the rope in descending.

The time during which the divers can remain submerged is variously stated, and no doubt it differs greatly according to the constitution of the individual. Some observers declare that, in their experience, it never exceeded fifty seconds; but Captain Percival, in his work on Ceylon, gives two minutes as the usual time of remaining under water.[10] Serious effects are produced by this employment, and the divers may frequently be seen with blood issuing from their mouth and nostrils. Yet this does not hinder them from going down in their turn. They will make from forty to fifty plunges in one day, and bring up on each occasion about one hundred oysters. Their day closes before noon; for, as soon as the sea-breeze sets in, the signal is given for the return of the boats to the shore. Their owners, and a large assemblage of persons of all classes, are eagerly looking out for the arrival of the flotilla, and are soon busily employed in examining and stowing away the cargoes.

Each owner has a shallow pit fenced round and secured for his own use, in which his store of oysters is deposited, and left open to the air. This pit, or couttó, as it is called, is in the midst of a group of huts belonging to the same owner, so that it is under guard of his party. Here the oysters are allowed to putrefy under a burning sun, and a stench arises from them which would seem enough to depopulate the shore of its thousands of inhabitants. Yet such is not the case. The health of the people does not appear to be materially affected, and the oysters are allowed to remain till dry, when they can be easily opened and the pearls extracted. To open them when fresh would require much greater force, and would be likely to injure the pearls. When the putrefaction is sufficiently advanced, the oysters are taken from the couttó, and placed in troughs made of the trunks of trees. Sea-water is thrown over them: they are easily opened, and render their pearls to the washing and shaking of a number of men who stand all on one side of the trough, while inspectors at each end closely watch their proceedings, and other inspectors examine the shells which are thrown away, lest they should contain some of the precious substance. The workmen engaged in washing pearls dare not lift their hands to their mouths under penalty of a flogging, yet a man will sometimes contrive to swallow a pearl of high price. After all the pearls are washed out, the largest are carefully picked out from the sand at the bottom of the troughs and washed repeatedly in clean water: the next in size are spread out on white napkins to dry in the sun. The remainder are left to the care of women, who pick them up and dry them. Pearls are assorted by means of three sieves placed one above another, the meshes in which are smaller as the pearls descend. Thus the pearls which will not pass through the uppermost sieve are of the first class, and so on with the others. Another assortment is made as to color, regularity of form, &c., and here the tastes of different nations have to be consulted. The Europeans prefer pure white pearls, the Indians yellow pearls, and the natives of Ceylon those which are tinged with rose-color.

Besides the number of persons who arrive in Ceylon in the fishing season for the purpose of speculating in pearls, there are also numerous Indian artisans who are very expert in piercing and drilling pearls, and who practise their trade on the spot on economical terms. A writer thus describes their operations: "A machine made of wood, and of a shape resembling an obtuse inverted cone, about six inches in length and four in breadth, is supported upon three feet, each twelve inches long. In the upper flat surface of this machine holes or pits are formed to receive the larger pearls, the smaller ones being beat in with a little wooden hammer. The drilling instruments are spindles of various sizes, according to that of the pearls; they are turned round in a wooden head by means of a bow handle, to which they are attached. The pearls being placed in the pits which we have already mentioned, and the point of the spindle adjusted to them, the workman presses on the wooden head of the machine with his left hand, while his right is employed in turning round the bow handle. During the process of drilling, he occasionally moistens the pearl by dipping the little finger of his right hand in a cocoa-nut filled with water, which is placed by him for that purpose; this he does with a dexterity and quickness which scarcely impede the operation, and can only be acquired by much practice. They have also a variety of other instruments both for cutting and drilling the pearls. To clean, round, and polish them to that state in which we see them, a powder, made of the pearls themselves, is employed. These different operations in preparing the pearls occupy a great number of the black men in various parts of the island. In the black town, or pettah of Columbo, in particular, many of them may every day be seen at this work, which is well worth the attention of any European who is not already acquainted with it."

MOTHER-OF-PEARL, or NACRE, is the hard, silvery, internal layer of several kinds of shells, especially oysters, the large varieties of which in the Indian seas secrete this coat of sufficient thickness to render the shell an object of manufacture. The genus of shell-fish, Pentadinæ, furnishes the finest pearls as well as mother-of-pearl: it is found round the coasts of Ceylon, near Ormus in the Persian Gulf, at Cape Comorin, and in some of the Australian seas. The dealers in pearl-shells consider the Chinese from Manilla to be the best: they are fine, large, and very brilliant, with yellow edges. Fine large shells of a dead white are supplied by Singapore. Common varieties come from Bombay and Valparaiso, from the latter place with jet black edges. South Sea pearl-shells are common, with white edges. The beautiful dark-green pearl-shells called ear-shells or sea-ears are more concave than the others, and have small holes round the margin: they are the coverings of the Haliotis, which occurs in the Californian, South African, and East Indian seas.

In the Indian collection of the Great Exhibition in London, specimens of the finest pearl-shells were shown, known in commerce as flat-shells, ear-shells, green snail-shells, buffalo-shells, Bombay shells. It is stated that the shores of the Sooloo Islands afford the finest shells.

The beautiful tints of mother-of-pearl depend upon its structure; the surface being covered with a multitude of minute grooves, which decompose the reflected light. Sir David Brewster, who was the first to explain these chromatic effects, discovered, on examining the surface of mother-of-pearl with a microscope, "a grooved structure, like the delicate texture of the skin at the top of an infant's finger, or like the section of the annual growths of wood as seen upon a dressed plank of fir. These may sometimes be seen by the naked eye; but they are often so minute that 3,000 of them are contained in an inch." It is remarkable that these iridescent hues can be communicated to other surfaces as a seal imparts its impress to wax. The colors may be best seen by taking an impression of the mother-of-pearl in black wax; but "a solution of gum-arabic or of isinglass (white glue), when allowed to indurate upon a surface of mother-of-pearl, takes a most perfect impression from it, and exhibits all the communicable colors in the finest manner, when seen either by reflection or transmission. By placing the isinglass between two finely-polished surfaces of good specimens of mother-of-pearl, we obtain a film of artificial mother-of-pearl, which, when seen by single lights, such as that of a candle, or by an aperture in the window, will shine with the brightest hues."

It is in consequence of this lamellar structure that pearl-shells admit of being split into laminæ for the handles of knives, for counters, and for inlaying. Splitting, however, is liable to spoil the shell, and is therefore avoided as much as possible. The different parts of the shell are selected as near as possible to suit the required purposes, and the excess of thickness is got rid of at the grindstone. In preparing the rough pearl-shell, the square and angular pieces are cut out with the ordinary brass-back saw, and the circular pieces, such as those for buttons, with the annular or crown-saw, fixed upon a lathe-mandrel. The pieces are next ground flat upon a wet grindstone, the edge of which is turned with a number of grooves, the ridges of which are less liable to be clogged than the entire surface, and hence grind more quickly. If the stone be wetted with soap and water, it is less liable to be clogged. The pieces are finished on the flat side of the stone, and are then ready for inlaying, engraving, polishing, &c. Cylindrical pieces are cut out of the thick part of the shell, near the hinge, and are rounded on the grindstone preparatory to being turned in the lathe. Counters, silk-winders, &c., are smoothed with Trent sand or pumice-stone and water on a buff-wheel or hand-polisher, and are finished with rotten-stone moistened with sulphuric acid, which develops finely the striated structure of the shell. For inlaid works, the surface is made flat by filing and scraping; then pumice-stone is used, and after this putty-powder, both on buff-sticks with water; and the final polish is given with rotten-stone and sulphuric acid, unless tortoise-shell, or some other substance liable to be injuriously affected by the acid, be present in the inlay. In turned works, fine emery-paper, rotten-stone and acid or oil are used. The pearl handles for razors are slightly riveted together in pairs, then scraped, sand-buffed on the wheel with Trent sand and water; thirdly, gloss-buffed on the wheel with rotten-stone and oil, or sometimes with dry chalk rubbed on the same wheel; and fourthly, they are handed up, or polished with dry rotten-stone and the naked hand.

ARTIFICIAL PEARLS.—The art of making artificial pearls has been brought to such perfection in Paris, that even jewellers and pawnbrokers have occasionally had a difficulty in deciding between the artificial and the real. The origin of this successful imitation is given as follows: A French bead-maker named Jaquin, observing that when the small fish called ablette, or bleak (Cyprinus alburnus), was washed, the water was filled with fine silver-colored particles, collected some of these for the purposes of his trade. He found that the soft shining powder thus obtained had, to a remarkable degree, the lustre of pearls; hence, he called it essence of pearl, or essence d'orient. He first made small beads of gypsum and covered them with this substance; they were greatly admired and eagerly sought after; but it was found that this pearly coat, when exposed to heat, separated itself from the bead, and attached itself to the skin of the wearer in a manner that was anything but pleasant. The ladies themselves, it is said, suggested to Jaquin the making of hollow glass beads, and covering the inside with essence of pearl. This he did, and established a manufacture, of which some idea may be gained by the following account. Slender tubes of glass are first prepared, called girasols, a term applied to opal, and sometimes to the stone called cat's-eye, and given to these tubes because the glass is of a peculiar bluish tint. From these the artist blows minute globules, to the extent of from two to six thousand per day, not caring to make them all perfectly regular or free from blemish, because the natural pearls are not so. The pearl essence is then mixed with a solution of isinglass, and is blown while hot into each bead by means of a fine glass pipe. The solution is spread equally over the whole internal surface, by shaking the pearls in a vessel placed over the table where the workman sits, and to which he gives motion by his foot. When the varnish is equally diffused and dry, the beads are filled with white wax; this gives them the necessary weight and solidity, and renders them less fragile. They are then bored with a needle, and threaded on strings for sale. The holes in the finer sort are lined with thin paper, that the thread may not adhere to the wax.

To produce one pound of scales no fewer than 4,000 fishes are required; but this quantity of scales only yields four ounces of pearl essence. The fish are about four inches long; they are sold at a cheap rate in the markets after being deprived of their scales. The value of a pound of washed scales in the Chalonnais is from fifteen to twenty-five livres. The early manufacturers suffered great inconvenience from not knowing how to preserve the scales from putrefaction, and consequently being obliged to use the essence immediately it was obtained, lest it should acquire the intolerable odor of decayed fish. Attempts were made to preserve them in spirit of wine or brandy, but those liquors wholly destroyed their lustre. At length it was discovered that these fishy particles can be kept for a long time in solution of ammonia, and this enables the manufacturers of artificial pearls to carry on a considerable traffic with distant places where the fish is plentiful, the supply from the Seine, though abundant, being insufficient for the purposes of the trade of Paris. Down to a late period, the heirs of M. Jaquin continued to manufacture pearls to a considerable extent, in the Rue de Petit Lion, at Paris. An elaborate account of this art is given by De Beost, in a work entitled, "L'Art d'imiter les Perles fines," from which most English descriptions of this manufacture have been obtained.

ARTIFICIAL PEARLS IN THE MUSSEL (MYA MARGARITIFERA).

In a recent number of the "Journal of the Society of Arts," it was stated that an "oyster, or rather a mussel, of the species known to naturalists as the mya margaritifera, in which the artificial pearls are formed by the Chinese, had recently been sent to England. These pearls are only obtained near Ning-po, and until lately very little was known of the manner in which they were formed; and the account first published by Sir Joseph Banks was generally questioned. The Hermes steamer, however, on a late visit to that place, was able to obtain several live ones, in which, on being opened, several pearls, as many as eighteen or twenty, were found in the course of formation. The one sent only contains simple pearls adhering to the shell. It appears they are formed by introducing some pieces of wood or baked earth into the animal while alive, which, irritating it, causes it to cover the extraneous substance with a pearly deposit. Little figures made of metal are frequently introduced, and, when covered with the deposit, are valued by the Chinese as charms. These figures generally represent Buddha in the sitting position, in which that image is most frequently portrayed. Several specimens have, it is said, been preserved alive in spirits, and others slightly opened, so as to show the pearls."

ILLUMINATED, OR VELLUM-PAINTING.

AS it is the duty of a faithful journalist not only to "hit the follies of the day," but to study the tastes of the times, we have now ventured to make a few remarks on an art which has of late been revived, and which is now not only much practised as an accomplishment, but widely diffused as a means of general ornamentation. A slight sketch of its history will perhaps form a not unacceptable introduction to our subject.

It would appear that the metallic portions, and the general idea of illuminated painting, have been familiar to Oriental nations for ages; numberless traces of it, as applied to decorative purposes, having been discovered among those memorials now existing of the early Persian, Arabian, and Moorish races. The Egyptians, too, appear to have possessed the art of adding burnished gold or silver to their paintings; but whether they ever thus ornamented manuscripts is not known to us—in all probability they did not. Neither do the more ancient inhabitants of Italy appear to have applied it to manuscripts, for none of those discovered amid the ruins of the buried cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii are illuminated.

Many writers have surmised that manuscripts were not thus decorated until they began to assume something of the folio form; certainly, we are not aware of any traces of illuminating having been found in those rolled manuscripts which have descended to us. "The Dioscorides" in the Library of Vienna, and the celebrated copy of "Virgil" in the Vatican at Rome—both of which are supposed to date back so far as the fourth century—are believed to be the oldest examples of illuminated MSS. extant; and these can scarcely claim to be termed illuminated, for they only differ from ordinary manuscripts in having colored capitals. It is not until the seventh century that we find this art practised in any part of Great Britain; and then, in its earliest form, it simply consisted in staining the vellum purple or rose color, or inscribing the characters in gold. In the British Museum is a splendid MS., termed the "Golden Gospels," supposed to date from about the eighth century; its text is entirely of gold. There are some beautiful decorations in this valuable and curious relic of the patience, industry, and artistic powers of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. There is another illuminated manuscript copy of the Gospels in the Archiepiscopal Library at Lambeth Palace, supposed to be nine hundred years old, and to have been painted by Moelbrigid Mac Durnan, Abbot of Derry, for Athelstan, who presented it to the city of Canterbury.

In those early ages, illuminating was applied only to religious and devotional MSS.; and it was chiefly done by members of the religious orders, for a very good reason—that they appear to have been almost the sole depositories of what learning and fine arts then existed. The celebrated St. Dunstan is said to have been a skilful illuminator, and is represented, in one of the pictures of an old manuscript, as busily at work decorating a missal.

The earlier specimens of illuminating which have descended to us are mostly crude and simple, consisting chiefly of colored capitals, stained ground, and metallic letters. For several ages the art does not appear to have made much progress, except that the capital letters increase in size, in ornament and beauty; and about the twelfth century we find them assuming a gigantic height, abounding in florid development, gorgeous in hues, and often exquisite in execution. In the early part of the fourteenth century an alteration is perceptible—the MS. pages assume an illuminated border, which at first only passes down one side, but gradually extends along the top and the bottom of the page; and, after a lapse of years, constitutes a complete frame to the text.

These borders at first consist simply of foliage or scrolls; but, as the art improves, and doubtless is more fostered and patronized, arabesques are introduced, in which forms of marvellous grace and beauty, linked in inextricable twinings, shine forth in all the gorgeous hues of a brilliant sunset; and these are, at a later period, gemmed with medallions or miniature paintings, illustrative of portfolios of the text. Indeed, several of the most celebrated painters of those days did not disdain to enrich MSS. for some high personage with specimens of their artistic skill. This continued until the middle of the sixteenth century.

Subsequently, a progressive decline in the excellence and artistic beauty of illuminated painting becomes very evident. It is true that, in the middle of the seventeenth century, it was florid, gorgeous, and, to a certain degree, admirable, but it was not the beauty of art; the rococo taste was beginning to dawn—that strange exuberance of fancy which heaped in one mass the most incongruous details, and was often more cumbrous and grotesque than graceful and harmonious. Nor was it probably only to this cause that the decline in the art may be attributed—the introduction of printing, and its gradual diffusion, had made manuscripts less valuable. The Reformation also, doubtless, had its share in depreciating illuminated painting, which soon ceased to be practised to any extent—excepting in Catholic countries—for the decoration of missals.

Then comes a period of some hundred or hundred and fifty years, during which the art may almost be said to be extinct; nor is it until within the last ten or twenty years that it has received much attention. Then, when lithographic printing, and various similar improvements, facilitated the reproduction of an indefinite number of copies of any given subject, and the still further invention of color-printing and chromo-lithography came into exercise, the value of a study of illuminated painting was perceived, and its applicability to all purposes of literary ornamentation developed. The title-pages of albums, of music, and of annuals; the covers of magazines and books; the initial letters of articles in periodicals; the decorations on circulars, cards, labels, and numberless other similar productions, whether printed, colored, gilded, or stamped—all will be found more or less derivable from the old style of illuminated manuscripts; indeed, a person who has not studied it can form little idea how largely its principles enter into all this kind of decorations.

It has been said that this branch of the art of painting is so mechanical as to be easily taught in a few lessons to those who have no previous knowledge of drawing. This we cannot fully admit. It is true such persons may acquire a smattering of the art—a crude, inartistic style of working it; but, unless they have a correct eye, good taste, and some judgment, they cannot achieve anything that will not betray the amateur.

It is by no means an easy matter to give practical written instructions for illuminated painting on vellum; for it is not merely directions as to what materials shall be used, and the mode of employing them, that are required, but principles for general guidance which have to be inculcated. The desired effects cannot be produced by a heterogeneous assemblage of forms and colors, but only by careful and artistic combinations of the appropriate and the harmonious.

In the matter of letters, allegorical letters, suitable to the subject they are to commence, may be obtained by arranging animals, fishes, reptiles, &c. &c., into the requisite forms.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 1 represents an L adapted for a paper on botany.

For those who may wish to paint from these cuts, we state that the leaves are of sap-green, shaded with Prussian green, and just touched at the tips with gold; the small ones are more delicately tinted than the others.

Fig. 2.

Fig. 2 is a T adapted for a paper on woods or forest trees. It is painted in Vandyke brown, and shaded with black, and the leaves and ground are green.

In an old MS. at the British Museum, the human form is most oddly contorted into grotesque semblances of capital letters. An initial for a paper on war may be composed of armor, weapons, &c.

Fig. 3, an S, is suitable for a heroic poem, or romantic tale of chivalry. For agriculture, we form our initial of corn, or the implements of husbandry, and such like; for music, of musical instruments and characteristic ornaments.

The S in the annexed cut is of silver, burnished and wrought (terms which we shall presently explain); the flag is painted in ultramarine, and striped and bordered with silver the spear-headed staff is shaded with Vandyke brown, and its decorations put in with silver.

Fig. 3.

Fig. 4.

Fig. 4 is not an allegorical letter, but simply decorative, and adapted for a title-page, rather than an initial. The darker and central parts of the letter are of vermilion, shaded with carmine; and the ornamentation of gold burnished and wrought. The letter in Fig. 5 belongs to the same class, and is only a modification of style; the white ground is merely shaded up with soft touches of carmine. The varieties of letters which can be formed are endless, and may be as quaint and as ideal as fancy can devise, provided they are also appropriate, and do not depart from the gracefully-curved line of beauty.

Fig. 5.

For illuminated painting we use water-colors; ultramarine, carmine, burnt carmine, burnt sienna, gamboge, deep chrome, vermilion, red-lead, emerald-green, sap-green, Vandyke-brown, lamp-black, and Chinese-white, are those most necessary. Persons who are not already provided with colors will do well to purchase those which are prepared expressly for illuminating, as they are more brilliant. Pure gold, green gold, and silver shells; fine sable hair-pencils, some gum-water, a lead-pencil, H. H. H; some tracing and some transferring paper; and an agate burnisher, which consists of a piece of polished agate, in the shape of a cut pencil, set in a handle; a flat ruler and a tracing pen, are the materials requisite; all of which should be obtained at one of the first-rate artists' color repositories.

Illuminated paintings may be made either on vellum or fine Bristol-board; the vellum is prepared expressly for the purpose, and not that commonly sold; it must be mounted on, or affixed to, a drawing-board (which has previously been covered with cartridge-paper) with artists' glue, before it can be painted on. Great care is requisite in sketching or transferring the outlines to its surface, for it is by no means easy to efface any marks once made; bread is usually more efficacious for this purpose than India-rubber; but, as it must be stale, it can only be used with caution, being likely to scratch or roughen the surface.

Fig. 6.

In all illuminated drawings the background is more or less ornamented; and this may be done according to the fancy of the artist himself; the leading characteristics of these fundamental ornamentations are delicacy, simplicity, and grace. In the different compartments of Fig. 6, four of the most common patterns are given. They are either put in with a darker shade of the grounding tint, or wrought in gold or silver, or painted in white or black. The straight lines must be firm and even, and equidistant; the curved lines flowing and graceful; the dots or spots all equal in size, and at even distances from the lines and from each other. The upper and lower compartments of this cut are pure gold and green gold, on a black and an ultramarine ground; the right-hand side is grounded with a light tint of emerald-green, and worked over with ornamentation in sap-green; the left-hand compartment is silver, on a delicate blue ground.

Fig. 7.

This damask pattern (see Fig. 7), which may be enlarged or diminished, is worked in carmine, on a ground of red-lead, or a light tint of vermilion. It is as well to observe that these groundwork patterns are almost always very minute and delicate; and, therefore, should never be traced with a pencil, or the line will show; but must be worked in with a fine sable-hair brush, and the requisite tint, or with a very fine pen, charged with diluted color; but the brush is preferable.

Fig. 8.  Fig. 9.

Such ornamentations as those in Figs. 8 and 9 may be worked in on the outer or metallic borders, which frequently surround the chief border. Our readers must not suppose that we profess to give all, or half the forms of decoration used for groundwork in illuminated drawings. We only attempt to sketch those most frequently met with, and which may serve as models of style. Various threefold ornaments—originating, doubtless, in the spirit of that class of men who at first chiefly used this decoration for MSS., and symbolical of the triune nature of the Deity—are frequently observed. In Fig. 10 are two of the most common specimens; the third is a spider-like ornament, also often introduced. Fig. 11 is another simple and common decoration.

Fig. 10.  Fig. 11.

THE LAST KISS.

BY JENNY A. M'EWAN.

THE last, the last! it lingers still,
Though weary days have fled,
Though summer's bloom
Is in the tomb,
And autumn's glory dead.

The last, the last! upon my brow
Thy seal of truth is pressed,
And in my heart
Love's echoes start;
Their music ne'er can rest.

The bright, blue heaven is clouded now,
And moans the wintry blast;
Fond memory sighs,
But hope replies,
"That kiss was not the last."

'Tis when I yield my wearied frame
To slumber's magic powers,
By thy dear side,
Thine own loved bride,
I rove through Dreamland's bowers.

Oh, dim are all my earthly joys
To those that greet me there,
And in my dream
It ne'er doth seem
That Heaven can be more fair.

Gray morning breaks o'er yonder hill;
My visions bright are past,
Yet ere they fly,
The spirits sigh,
"Thy dream-kiss was the last!"

When twilight's magic hour draws nigh,
And Thought is roaming free,
When evening's breeze
Sighs through the trees,
Thy spirit comes to me.

Oh, 'tis a holy presence then
That's stealing o'er my breast;
The magic power
Of that sweet hour
Lulls my sad heart to rest.

And on my brow I feel a touch,
A breathing touch of bliss;
The spirit-sigh
Is hovering nigh,
That touch, the spirit-kiss.

'Tis here, 'tis here! I feel it now—
Yes, o'er my heart 'tis cast,
And voices sweet
Once more repeat
"The spirit-kiss is last."

SECRET LOVE.

BY KATE HARRINGTON.

RAISE me gently—gently, sister, that my brow may catch the breeze

Softly gliding through the casement from yon grove of orange-trees;

That mine ear may drink the music gushing forth in mellow lays,

Made by song-birds sweetly warbling their evening hymns of praise;

That mine eye again may wander to the bosom of yon stream,

Where the ripples dance as lightly as young fairies in a dream.

Now bend your ear, my sister, for my life is ebbing fast,

And my heart must tell its secret before the dream is past;

It is all the grief I've cherished that thou hast never known,

For, save this, my thoughts have ever found an echo in thine own.

It were better not to tell thee, but my spirit spurns control,

And the words I would not utter seem escaping from my soul.

Dost thou remember, sister, how in sunny youth we played

On the margin of yon streamlet in the orange branches' shade?

Or, when the evening twilight threw its veil o'er stream and wood,

And we saw the stars grow dizzy and tremble where they stood,

How we twined the pure white blossoms in the ringlets of our hair,

And wondered if the dew-drops would come to nestle there?

Hast thou forgotten, sister, life's bright, unclouded spring,

When thy thoughts were just as joyous as wild birds on the wing,

When young Clarence stood beside thee, and the words he dared to speak

Made thy spirit leap for gladness and sent blushes to thy cheek?

I had worshipped him in secret; he knew not my distress,

And in secret I resigned him, but loved thee none the less.

In vain I tried to banish from my crushed and bleeding heart

The image it had cherished long as of itself a part;

My will was weak, for when I came to breathe a sad good-by,

I could not, could not smother on my lips the bursting sigh.

None knew the wild, deep anguish, the torturing pangs of grief,

That closed the fount of feeling and refused a tear's relief.

Thou hast often wondered, sister, why mine eye has lost its light,

Why I've spoken of existence as a gloomy, starless night;

Thou hast sat for days together, and, in accents low, hast told

How thy Clarence soon will hasten from the distant land of gold.

Whene'er his name was mentioned, I have felt a strange, wild thrill;

But I've learned long since, my sister, to suffer and be still.

Nay, weep not; for, believe me, ere awakes yon setting sun

Earth's struggles will be over, and life's conflicts will be done;

My disembodied spirit upon wings of love will rise

To roam with shining seraphs through the realms of Paradise.

My soul is only waiting till the silken cord is riven,

To burst its earthly fetters and soar away to Heaven.

Draw nearer to me, sister, on my bosom bow thy head,

And take my fervent blessing ere I'm numbered with the dead;

And Clarence, he must never know the words I've breathed to thee,

As a loving sister only let him learn to think of me.

Tell him I longed to see him, but could not wait his time,

For the angels came to waft me to a never-changing clime.

Thou wilt not forget me, sister, though long the parting seems,

Yet, oh, believe me, often will I come to thee in dreams;

And, if I gain permission of the true, unchanging Friend,

I will be thy guardian angel till He calls thee to ascend.

Then, as here on earth we've wandered, through fields of light we'll rove,

With our spirits joined together by the silken cord of love.

THE SCHOTTISCH PARTNER.

BY MOTTE HALL.

OH, I danced with him the schottisch!

'Twas the first time that we met;

He was such a dashing creature,

With orbs as black as jet.

And he wore a lovely diamond;

How it flashed into my eyes!

As he drew me closely to him

I saw its wondrous size.

Oh, at ball, and rout, and party,
I was his schottisch belle;
He said I danced so charmingly,
And knew the step so well.

And we grew so very loving,
As we stood upon the floor,
That people said the schottisch step
Would lead to Hymen's door.

But, though I schottisched every night,
I reached not Hymen's dwelling;
The god must live a long way off,
But where, there is no telling.

And, only think, one festal night,

The ungrateful, wicked Harry!

I heard my schottisch partner say—

"She'll do—but not to marry.

"She'll do to twirl in mazy dance,
She'll do for giddy pleasure;
She'll do to meet out Folly's gauds
With Fashion's line and measure;

"But she'll not do for sacred home,
A meek and gentle woman,
An angel in her purity,
But in her love a human."

TWO MOTHERS?

BY MRS. S. F. JENNINGS.

A LITTLE dirty ragged boy, in the streets of New York, selling penny songs, is asked by a gentleman if he has a mother. "Neow don't—where's yourn? Does she know you're out?" he says, with that impudent nonchalance which is the more pitiful because so common among that class. But the gentleman buys some of his songs, and that act is the sesame to his heart. Upon a second putting of the question, he is ready, though with the same reckless air, to answer, "No; folks don't have two mothers, do they? and mine's dead's long ago's I can remember."

Two mothers? Never, little one;
No merit brings such meed;
God gave thee one—if she be gone
God help thee feel thy need!
For a dangerous way, stormy and wild,
Thou goest, without thy mother, child.

The throbbing heart of this mighty town,

How beats its pulse for thee?

The tide of life swells up and down

The paths of this restless sea.

Will they dash thy bark on the surf away,

Like a straw or leaf on the ocean spray?

Poor boy! for thee how ruthless time

All tender ties hath riven!

Thy father's love—all seared with crime;

Thy mother—gone to Heaven.

No brother, sister, guards the shrine,

When God hath set his seal divine.

Thy mother dead? long, long ago?

No soft eye beams on thee?

No kindly voice says firmly "No,"

To bid thy tempter flee?

And snares are thick, and pitfalls deep,

And the upward way is rough and steep.

And thou heedest not, in thy soul's deep night,

That God hath so bereft thee;

And thou carest not for the trembling light

Dim in thy memory left thee.

God save thee from the world's sure blight!

God save thee from an endless night!

A LOVING HEART.

BY W. S. GAFFNEY.

SWEETER than the sweetest flower,
Brighter than the brightest gem,
Richer far than Flora's bower,
Art or nature's diadem—
Fairer, sweeter,
Purer, meeter,
Is a kind and loving heart!

Wealth may prove a toy caressing;
Beauty's charms a world of light;
But Affection is a blessing
From a soul serene and bright;
Kindest, purest,
Best and surest,
Is a faithful, loving heart!

EVENING THOUGHTS.

BY H. MERRAN PARKE.

TWILIGHT deepens upon the lea,
And shadows come dancing in play with me;
Little brown birds have hurried away
To their nests in the tree-tops old and gray,
While here at my window I lean and gaze
Earnestly into the misty haze,
Watching the coming of one sweet star
Which thou'rt now seeking from me afar.
Absent and dearest, my spirit's life
Dost ever forget, 'mid the din and strife,
That one fond heart o'er the line of hills
Sighs for thy presence, yet bounds and fills
With measureless bliss when this sweet hour
Gathers around with its magic power.

Visions of brightness come and go
Like the falling and melting of winter snow;
But one, a presence like thine remains,
And winds my heart in its golden chains.
Then, sweet as the music in Assam's bowers,
When winds go singing among the flowers,
Or like the leaves of the lotus-tree
That touch each other in melody,
So sweetly a voice creeps into my soul
To woo my senses from earth's control,
And point to a world of rarer joy
Where pleasures are found that never cloy,
Where bliss supernal forever reigns,
And rapture gushes in seraph strains.

Oh, earth is darkly beautiful now,

With her garland of flowers upon her brow;

And the stars have come with their golden eyes

To light up the portals of Paradise;
The visions of sweetness have left my heart,
But the voice of music will never depart;
And when I look to the shining skies,
Where the bright pavilions of glory rise,

I'll think of the gardens of matchless flowers,

Where angels walk 'mid the wingless hours;
And, dearest, I'll think we'll sometimes go
The peace and rapture of heaven to know.
But, hark! the sound of ringing bells
Comes on the wind, and softly tells
Midnight—and earth doth sweetly rest,
With her beautiful children on her breast.

SONNET.—FLOWERS.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

WINTER scarce o'er, as messenger of Spring,

Walks forth bright Snowdrop, clad in green and white,

Which simple beauties every eye delight,

Till Violet scents the gale and Bluebirds sing;

Come now the Windflower and the Tulip tall,

And Naiad Lily of the lowly vale,

The lover's flower, which is true passion pale;

Up, next, Narcissus springs, more fair than all,

Reflecting in the brook, that purls anigh,
Her image, and, like Echo, hastes to die;
Then the sweet lady Rose, at Zephyr's call,

Like nymph, comes forth to show her glowing breast,

While Flora holds her proudest carnival,

And yields the palm to her, as queen of all the rest.

MY TULIPS.

BY H. S. D.

STERN old Janus shook his sceptre
Over a shivering land,
Yet spring, one day, with a warning came
And slipped it from his hand.
She brought him torrents from the skies,
And rivers down the street;
Melted his crown about his eyes,
And thawed his icy feet.

My tulip bulbs in goodly rows,
Scenting the loosened springs,
Shot up in haste to look around;
But ah, the silly things!
They did not know that when spring comes
In such a vapory way,
She only thinks to try her power,
And never means to stay.

So when the reckless sprouts had seen
Their fill of mist and mud,
Spring went away and left them e'en
To manage as they could.
Then winter rose in fearful rage,
And fumed and flurried round;
He shut the waters in a cage,
And closed the opening ground.

Like true philosophers, my plants,
Though sorely pinched and frayed,
Braved the old tyrant in his rants,
And stood there undismayed,
Till spring, with airs and sunny smile,
Came tripping o'er the ground,
Leading her orchestra, the while,
In many a tricksy sound.

And buds above, below, burst forth,
In tints of emerald dressed,
To see the wild spring gain the north,
My tulips with the rest.
When she'd subdued the rigid earth,
And conquered all the cold,
My plants, to grace her victory, donned
Their crimson and their gold.

Out flashed their flames, their feathers tossed

Upon the ambient air,
And nicest choice was dazed between
By bloemen and Bizarre.
But when the gentle sway of spring
Must yield to summer's pride,
My tulips fainted with regret,
And dropped their heads and died.

THE DEAD TREE.

I SAW it with leafy honors crowned

By a crystal streamlet's side,

And its long, fair boughs in their graceful play

Stooped down to the gentle tide.

I lingered once beneath its shade

At the noon of a summer day;

When youth's high pulse through my temples beat

In its swift and burning way.

And many a thought of my questioning heart
Went out on restless wing,
To the unseen's far and shoreless waves,
Some tidings thence to bring.

Blest, blest and beautiful seemed all things,
Green earth and the holy sky,
And soul with its wondrous, fearful gifts,
And doom of mystery.

Years passed; from distant and stranger homes
I came with a colder brow;
But at nature's altars wreathed and pure,
My spirit still could bow.

The crystal stream on its winding way
My footsteps traced once more,
And a dim sweet thought of other days
Led softly on before,

To where a circling emerald wall
Caught the laughing waves to rest,
For a moment charmed and placidly
In its violet-scented breast.

And there, far down in the stillness glossed,
All riven, bleak, and gray,
Was a giant form that frowned above,
Though kissed by the summer ray.

Then a mist came over the sunbeam's light,
The breeze swept chillingly,
And something mourned within my heart,
But not for the blighted tree.

For a vision came with a lordly bow,

And stood beside me there,

With pride-wreathed lips and a clear dark eye—

Away—'twas a thing of air.

Yet a being like it on earth once dwelt,
With men thus high and cold;
But the valley's clods press heavily
And mute o'er the spoils they hold.

A deep pall covered the wasted corse,
A deeper the passing soul;
A name that stands like yon gray, sad tree,
Was the proud man's earthly goal.

LET ME DIE!

BY S. M. MONTGOMERY.

OH! who would live on in this dreary world,
When the light of Hope has fled,
And the friends of old are changed and false,
And faith and trust are dead;

When the heart is crushed 'neath its weight of grief,

And the smile of joy is gone,
When "love's young dream" is past—all past,
Say, who would linger on?

Let me die! ay, lay me down to rest
In the dreamless sleep of death,
Where flowers send forth, at dewy eve,
Their pure and perfumed breath;
Where the bright sunshine will gently fall,
And soft winds murmuring by,
Will my requiem chant, in whispers low,
Through the green grass waving high.

LINES TO A BRONCHITIS BIRDIE.

A FRAGMENT.

BY N. W. BRIDGE.

NOW heed the counsel of a sage,
And closely keep in thy warm cage
This cold and dreary winter through;
See that ye shun the winds of March,
No April showers thy plumes unstarch,
Nor skies of May thy crest bedew.
And then, perchance, sweet airs of June
Will find our Birdie's throat in tune,
And ye through valleys green may rove,
And o'er the sunlit emerald hills,
Within the cool refreshing grove,
Along the marge of winding rills;
And gather flowers of varied hue,
'Mid grassy beds and moss-grown banks,
And on them smile, and kiss them, too,
While they will sweetly blush their thanks,
And drink thy health in drops of dew;
Inhale the blossom-scented breeze
Within thy oscillating zone,
And never cough, nor even sneeze,
So sound thy swan-like throat has grown.
Then will thy happy voice be heard
Amid sweet spring's melodious throng;
No other heavenly warbling bird
Will sing so joyous, oft, and long.

L'ISOLEMENT.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE,

BY WM. A. KENYON.

OFTEN, at sunset, on the mountain side,
Beneath an aged oak I take my seat,
My vision roaming o'er the plain spread wide,
Whose panorama opens at my feet.

Here scolds the river, thus in foam to break,

Then slow meanders down the dim afar,

Toward the spread waters of the sleeping lake,

Where smiles in azure the fair evening star.

To these crowned summits—dim old colonnades—

The gentle twilight still a last ray lends,

E'en while the cloud-car of the queen of shades

White o'er yon far horizon's verge ascends.

Spreading through all the air, with gothic swell,

Soft sounds of worship bid the ear attend;
The trav'ler stops to hear the distant bell
With day's last noises holy concerts blend.

But these fair tableaux have no charm for me;

My sight indifferent is o'er them led,

Like the fleet shadows that at noon I see:

Suns for the living cannot warm the dead.

From hill to hill in vain I turn my glance,

From south to north, from sunrise to his rest,

I search at every point this vast expanse;

Nowhere doth fortune wait on my behest.

What make these valleys and these homes? I cry;

Vain objects all; their charm for me has flown:

Rocks, rivers, forests, loved retreats, I sigh,

One being absent, every soul is gone.

What signifies the sun to rise or set?

And what a heaven sombre or serene?

Returning days no joy for me beget,

And still unmoved I gaze on every scene.

Round could I follow the sun's vast career,

My eyes would see but deserts wild and void;

Nothing he shines on can my bosom cheer:

I wish for nothing here below enjoyed.

Perchance beyond the borders of this earth,

Where the true sun looks down from other skies,

Could I but cast the slough of this world's birth,

What I so much have dreamed would meet my eyes.

There, filled from fountains whither thought aspires,

There might I find again, with hope and love,
This fair ideal every soul desires—
Find her who has no name save there above.

Borne on Aurora's car, why can I not,

Vague object of my vows, launch forth to thee?

Why on this earth of exile is my lot,

With nothing common between it and me?

Leaves in the prairie fall, with passage brief,

And evening breezes to some dale convey;

And I—am I not like a withered leaf?

Ye stormy north winds, bear me hence away!

TO A FRIEND ON THE DAY OF HIS MARRIAGE.

A STORE of happiness to thee
This day auspicious brings,
And o'er the future fairy Hope
Her robe of promise flings.

Oh, fair is she whom thou hast won
To be thy gentle bride,
A fairer none could ever wish
"To grace a lover's side."

But well for thee thy chosen one
Hath charms that brighter shine,
And these by strong, though tiny cords,
Shall make her doubly thine.

Beneath the potent hand of Time
That graceful form must bow,
And age his furrowed lines shall trace
Upon that lovely brow.

And years of care shall dim those eyes
Sparkling with love's own light,
And 'mid those dark and glossy braids
Shall mingle threads of white.

But outward change shall only prove
That heart more true to thee,
And, though the eyes their lustre lose,
It will unaltered be.

And oh, when sorrow's storm shall come,
For come it surely will,
'Twill only bind that loving heart
To thee more closely still.

And now, though many friends are near,
Wishing thee perfect bliss,
Not one, I know, is more sincere
Than she who sends you this.—V.

CAPS AND HEADDRESS.

AS it is impossible to describe the various shades of trimming that are seen in the new styles of caps and headdresses, we resort to cuts to illustrate them.

Fig. 1 is a breakfast-cap for a young married lady, of a very simple style; the foundation is of a plain net; this is traversed by plaitings of lace, through which is passed a flat plaid ribbon of bright hues. Loops and bows in profusion at each ear. It will be found a very stylish model.

Fig. 2.—A more complicated and less youthful cap, composed of insertions and edgings, trimmed with mantua ribbon of a good quality.

Fig. 3.—A graceful style of headdress for a young person, when simplicity is to be preserved. It is merely of full bandeaux, slightly waved; the flowers, a light drooping spray, are arranged in the bandeaux, instead of the back of the hair, or across the brow. The back of the hair, as seen in Fig. 4, is dressed in three puffs, and secured by a low ornamental comb. We have still newer designs of headdresses in preparation to illustrate the topic of the coming month—dress at watering-places.

JUVENILE FASHIONS

WE are very much pleased—nor is it to be wondered at—with the communications that frequently reach us with regard to this especial department.

"Indeed," writes a correspondent, whose opinion is of value, "the good ideas you have given me concerning children's dresses and many other things, during the three months I have received the 'Lady's Book,' I consider worth the whole year's subscription."

Once, at least, every season we devote our chitchat especially to the young people; and to show they are not forgotten in the mean time, select a design from Mrs. Suplee's large establishment—of children's clothing, etc.—of a boy's summer suit.

The plaited linen shirt, or chemisette, Fig. 1, is sometimes worn by itself, buttoning to the waistband of the trousers, Fig. 2, which are full, and rather long. The over-jacket may be made of Cashmere or any suitable material, and is intended for the street. The peculiar style of the sleeves and the square opening of the front display the fine linen bosom and sleeves.

FASHIONABLE BONNETS AND CAPS.

From the celebrated Establishment of Thomas White & Co., No. 41 South Second St., Philada.

No. 1. BOY'S HAT.—Material of Coburg straw.

No. 2. BONNET TIP.

No. 3. BONNET CROWN.

No. 4. WIRE BONNET FRAME.

Description of Cuts on page 481.

No. 1. INFANT'S TURBAN.

Material.—Embroidered French blonde and gimp.

Trimming.—Bunches of white ribbons at the sides, with quilling of blonde around the face.

No. 2. BOY'S JOCKEY CAPS.

A. Material.—Straw brilliant, edged and trimmed around the front with Paris gimp.

B. Material.—Brilliant straw, inserted with Paris gimp. Front edged with gimp.

No. 3. SUMMER BONNET.

Material.—Blonde lace, with quilling of ribbon. Crown of silk, with lace fall to hang over the cape.

Trimming.—Bouquets of wild flowers.

No. 4. ITALIAN LEGHORN.—Untrimmed.

CHINESE SAYINGS.

SOME of the ordinary expressions of the Chinese are sarcastic enough. A blustering harmless fellow they call "a paper tiger." When a man values himself overmuch, they compare him to a "rat falling into a scale, and weighing itself." Overdoing a thing they call "a hunchback making a bow." A spendthrift they compare to a rocket which goes off at once. Those who expend their charity on remote objects, but neglect their family, are said "to hang their lantern on a pole, which is seen afar, but gives no light below."

BRAID FOR CHILD'S DRESS.

WHY DON'T LADIES LEARN TO COOK?

AMONG the common things to the teaching of which public attention is now so strongly directed, it is to be hoped that the art of cookery—one of the commonest, and yet, apparently, one of the most difficult and neglected of all—will not be forgotten. The instruction of the female peasantry in this useful art would be as advantageous to themselves when settled on their own hearths as to the families of the middle classes, in which, before marriage, they officiate as domestic servants. On all sides we hear complaints of the difficulty of finding, and of retaining when found, a cook who can roast a leg of mutton, and make batter-pudding or pea-soup. In point of fact, we have heard of ladies who have it in serious contemplation to dispense with servants altogether, as the least troublesome alternative. Without wishing matters carried quite so far, we are convinced that many of our fair friends would lose nothing, either in point of respectability or happiness, while they could add at least one-third to the effective incomes of their husbands, if they were to spend a little more time in their kitchens, superintending the preparation of the family dinner, instead of contenting themselves with ordering it—if, indeed, they condescend to do even that. Some forty years back, ladies were driven to shoemaking as a fashionable way of killing time. Why not try a little cooking? Thanks to the modern stoves, with their nicely-arranged skillets and stewpans, which science and mechanical skill have substituted for the blazing kitchen hearth of other days, young ladies of the nineteenth century, just passing its prime, may cook without soiling their fingers or injuring their complexions. Were it not so, we would not recommend them to cook. We would rather live on bread and cheese all the days of our lives.

It will be said, perhaps, that our notions with regard to female education and employment are too antiquated—that in these matters, as in everything else, a new era has dawned, and the solid course of instruction now given in colleges for ladies will be triumphantly appealed to. Ladies, however, who possess these solid acquirements—who, like Lady Jane Grey, prefer Plato to a picnic—will be least likely to neglect the economy of the kitchen. They will thoroughly understand the dignity of the employment, and call to mind all the poetry of cooking. To say nothing of the dinner which Milton describes Eve as preparing when "on hospitable thoughts intent," there are the Homeric banquets at which kings literally "killed their own meat," and at which queens and princesses turned the spit for the roasting, or drew the water and chopped wood for the boiling. Cooking is classical, and no lady will disdain to take part in it who has read of these feasts in the original Greek. Let it be observed that it is the middle and working classes on whom we wish to urge the importance of the study. A gentleman's daughter can afford to be so ignorant of common things as not to be able to recognize chickens in a poultry-yard, because they do not run about with a liver under one wing and a gizzard under the other, though our modern poultry shows, it must be confessed, will tend much to dissipate this error. A knowledge, however, of the art of cooking is of more importance to the wives of the laboring population than to those of the middle classes, because it is the art, when properly cultivated, of making a little go a great way.—Mark-lane Express.

A LACE BASQUE.

Furnished from Madame Demorest's Emporium of Fashions, 375 Broadway, New York.

THIS novel and graceful design is adapted for black lace or any other thin material that fancy may dictate, as will be seen by reference to the engraving. It is gathered in a graceful fulness to a band of insertion across the back, and also to a similar band fitting closely to the form at the waist, and falls in a rich double flounce over the person. The corsage is made high in the neck, gathered into a band same as the back. The style of sleeve (which is so clearly illustrated by the artist as not to need any further description) harmonizes most beautifully with the general design.

VOIGT Del

TRUTH.

BY D. HARDY, JR.

AS stands the old oak when the tempest is raging,

While others less firm are upturned by the blast,

So Truth, though with Error a warfare is waging,

Is firm and unyielding, triumphant at last.
She stands as unmoved as the bold promontory,
Tow'ring so proud by the waves of the sea;

Her heart-gushing song and her soul-cheering story

Should bless and make glad every land that may be

Truth, mighty and noble, down came from the Maker,

The Sovereign Ruler of earth and of sky;

Then cling to her fondly and never forsake her,

Till death shall have closed thy now beaming eye;

Truth is so mighty, Superstition and Error,

All powerless and weak, must fall by her side;

Then, friends of the Right, do not falter in terror,

But nobly press onward with Truth for your guide.

LADY'S RIDING BOOTS.

WE are at pains to present our friends with every recherché article that can contribute to their welfare; for this purpose, we illustrate a pair of riding boots for ladies, which, in addition to their ostensible purpose, are admirable for damp or muddy walking, especially in locations where vegetation renders protection desirable. These boots will effectually prevent the moisture that is brushed off from proving detrimental. They are made of patent leather, of a rich, lustrous black hue, the upper portion of fancy colored morocco, purple, maroon, green, or bronze, and bordered with silk galloon, finished with neat tassels. Excepting in their elegant proportions and ornamental appearance, they are essentially similar to the dress boots of the sterner sex; and we are gratified to observe this move in the right direction. This fashion is in accordance with sound sense and comfort.

For the original of these beautiful and commendable articles, we are indebted to Mr. E. A. Brooks, Boot and Shoe Emporium, 575 Broadway, New York, from whose large and varied collection we propose affording frequent illustrations, that our fair readers may be fully au fait in this important department of their costume.

Fig. 1 represents two tables formed to fasten together underneath.  Fig. 2 is a Pembroke table with the leaves raised.

LADY'S SLIPPER ON CLOTH.—SMYRNA EMBROIDERY.

LADY'S SLIPPER ON CLOTH.—REDUCED DESIGN.

Materials.—Any dark-colored cloth, black or dark claret is the best. Silk or terry velvet of a color contrasting well with that of the cloth. Purse twist, first size, either gold color or the color of the velvet, but one shade or two lighter.

Draw your pattern on the cloth first; then on the wrong side of the velvet; cut out the velvet carefully, and gum well the wrong side of the velvet. When cut out, apply on the cloth, press it down gently, and let it dry; when perfectly dry, work the outlines in chain stitch with the purse twist.

If you can manage the tambour needle, the chain stitch would be better done in tambour work, also quicker and more easily.

This design, embroidered with black silk on scarlet or blue merino, will also make an extremely pretty baby's shoe.

THE LEAF OF THE SLIPPER IN ITS PROPER SIZE.

BREAD-CLOTH.

Materials.—Five reels crochet cotton, No. 24, with crochet-hook, No. 18.

MAKE a chain of 160 stitches, and work on it one row in dc.

2d row.—Begin with 1 chain, and work 2 dc in each of the first two dc of last row. One dc in each of the others, except the last two, in both of which work 2, and end with a chain stitch.

The remainder is to be worked from the design, in ordinary square crochet; but, as there is first an increase of a square at each end, and afterwards a decrease to the same extent in every row, the space in the centre only being without either increase or diminution, we shall describe the way in which the decrease is so effected as to leave a regular edge; the increase being always done as we have described in the 2d row. There are two close squares at each end.

FOR THE DECREASE.—Slip on the first stitch, sc on the next, sdc on the next, dc on the fourth, do three more dc, 2 ch, which form the first open square in the line. At the other extremity reverse the process, working on the last four stitches, 1 dc, 1 sdc, 1 sc, 1 slip.

In all the succeeding rows that are decreased, make the slip stitch on the first dc stitch of the previous row, at each end, thus shortening every row by three stitches.

The edge being of two close squares, allows for all the ends being worked in, which should invariably be done.

Work one row of open square crochet all round, with the dc stitches sufficiently close at the corners to set flat, and in every square knot a fringe of twelve or sixteen strands, and 2 inches deep.

EMBROIDERY.—DRESS COLLAR.

(See Colored Plate in front of Book.)

Materials.—Embroidery cotton, No. 100.

Trace the pattern upon the muslin with a quill pen and blue mixed with gum-water; make the leaves, stems, and flowers in raised satin-stitch; the circles in buttonhole-stitch, either making them close or open, as may be preferred; if close, a raised spot must be worked in the centre of each. Work the edge in buttonhole-stitch.

PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY.

"Man to man so oft unjust,

Is always so to woman."—BYRON.

SUCH is the testimony of a poet, and history, we are sorry to say, would prove his assertion true. Yet a "better time" is coming, has already begun, and, in our country, seems making progress quite as rapidly as women are prepared to receive and adjust themselves to the new and enlarged duties which are opening before them. Education is the grand lever to elevate society. When both sexes are allowed equal privileges of instruction, the advancement of the race will be accelerated in more than twofold proportion, because the ignorance of one-half the species serves to hinder greatly the influences of intelligence in the enlightened portion. A small cloud can dim the sun.

Some important questions respecting female education are yet unsettled; one of these concerns the prerogative of their colleges. Are these institutions, when chartered by legislative authority, to hold equal rank with male colleges? When degrees are conferred on the female student, shall she have an equal right to the honors these are supposed to confer, as are claimed for her brother graduate? Not long since, a lady was complimented by the Faculty of one of the most eminent Female Colleges in our country with "the Honorary degree of Mistress of Arts." While acknowledging the compliment, the lady wrote—

"Allow me to inquire if, in thus conferring degrees on women, you contemplate the assumption of the style similar honors confer on men? Would you be pleased to see that I added the M. A. to my name? Now, this is an important question, and will, as I think, have much influence on the future aspect of female education. If colleges for women are invested with full power of conferring degrees, and do confer them, why should not the same rules be applied to these as are considered proper in regard to colleges for your sex?

"If to append the sign of his degree to his name be for a man an advantage, showing his acquirements have been acknowledged and guaranteed by the competent authority, why is not a similar course beneficial, under like circumstances, for a woman?" &c.

The faculty of the college made reply by the president to the effect that they did confer the degree in good faith, considering it "one and the same held by the faculty," and that the lady had an equal right with themselves to assume the A. M. We were intending to invite attention to this subject, gathering thus the results of discussion, when the following article reached us, and we give it here to invite others to write on this question:—

"TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'LADY'S BOOK:' Knowing that you have very much at heart the advancement of learning and the spread of useful knowledge, and that you do not think woman's share an unproductive one, or her powers below culture, I venture to ask why most of the stimulants to generous ambition are neglected in her case? Is it because men consider her nature too elevated to require the adventitious helps they throw out to each other? It cannot be that they fear on equal ground some odious comparisons might be obvious.

"Milton says—

'Fame is the spur that the clear spirit does raise

To scorn delights and live laborious days.'

So sensible have mankind ever been of this, that, in all ages, incentives have been offered to the ingenious and distinguished, by titles, honors, and decorations distributed to excellence. To excellence in men; for women, however industrious their researches, however 'laborious' their 'days,' have little to expect but a limited fame, and the inward consciousness of high motives. Why should this be? Why might not woman have the satisfaction of feeling that her deservings may entitle her to the marks of approbation of the learned in her own sphere, and that her name may acquire a general respectability from honors worthily borne? In other words, why may not honorary degrees be granted by literary and scientific institutions to all persons who merit them? And why may not women publicly bear such testimonials, by appending to their names the same titles borne by men under similar circumstances? I know that there is a large, worthy, and respectable class of men who, as some shrink in undefinable horror from the sight of a cat, feel nervous shudderings and morbid vexation at the word strength of mind as applied to woman. To the word; for I have, in essentials, found many of these nervous gentlemen happy to avail themselves of the objectionable quality when it was taken by them in a disguised way. These might, at the first blush of the thing, begin to wince at a lady being styled A. M., F. R. S., cum ceteris. But, if they will, if they can consider the subject coolly, they will see that there is nothing unfeminine, nothing the finest womanly delicacy need fear in the matter. Would the names of Maria Edgeworth or Hannah More have been published with less propriety, had they been supported by initials signifying that certain judges of literature approved their efforts and sanctioned their pretensions? For my part, I think it seems altogether more befitting a woman's weakness to be ushered into public by the stamp of masculine authority. I think even a weak-minded woman could not disparage her charms by seeking in a signature the protection of her superiors.

"Far be it from me, speaking in modern cant, to draw woman out of her sphere. I would have every one do her 'duty in that sphere of life in which it has pleased God to call her.' Let man rule in the court, the camp; let him make laws and enforce them; let him plough the main; let him defend his country; while woman soothes the bed of sickness and instructs her children. Let her studies and her efforts be to alleviate pain, to increase mental development, and, above all, by precept and example, to watch over morals and religion. These things she may do; these things she daily does; but, though more patient, and more spiritual than her brother man, she is not an angel. She needs encouragement, praise, and rewards to cheer her course. Why, then, deny her the harmless gratifications that are her due, that she has won and should wear?"

WHAT SHALL BE DONE FOR THE INSANE?—The Report for 1853 of the Trustees of the Hospital for the Insane, in the State of Maine, contains a remark equal to a conclusive reason in favor of hereafter building every new insane hospital for one sex only—a recommendation lately submitted to the public by Medical Superintendents.

The Maine Trustees say, "It is very important the public should have every possible assurance that patients of one sex should not know, except by report, that there are those of the other sex in the hospital." This testimony, so official and experienced, is full of meaning, and it will be used by many voices in a wise way to effect a reform.

Pecuniary economy alone has led, in most places, to the present method of combining insane men and women in the same building. One building of a determined size, it has been argued, can be more cheaply supported than two, having together a capacity to accommodate the same number of patients as the larger one. But, whenever in any population a new hospital must be erected for increasing numbers, it will not be attended with an extra expense in supporting it, to appropriate it to one sex, and to remove into it the patients of this sex from the prior institution.

New ones ordered by a Legislature with an intention to devote each to one sex, can, from their foundations, be so arranged as to secure the attaining of many special advantages relating to social parlors, amusement saloons, reading-rooms, work-rooms, private rooms for interviews between patients and their near relations, bath-rooms, &c.

The proper locations of the noisy, of the homicidal, and of the dreadfully impulsive in various ways, so as to prevent them from injuriously disturbing others, is a serious problem of difficult solution in most hospitals now in operation. At present, all of the same sex are in the same wing; and therefore the timid are sometimes much distressed or excited by the furious we have alluded to. The difficulty of solving the problem will be almost removed in a hospital for one sex, by placing the furious at the far end of one wing, and those who would be hurtfully disturbed by them in the other wing; thereby separating them through the intervention of the centre building.

The proposed reform will enlarge the liberty and the privileges of patients, both within the buildings, and outside of them in walks, courts, or gardens. Females will be exempt from a risk, to which they are now subject in the best-conducted institutions, of being observed by male patients and their attendants through windows overlooking the grounds. Now, excited patients must often be secluded in rooms, or limited to small courts for air and exercise, to keep them from being seen by the other sex; whereas these very patients may more than others need daily walks with their attendants as the surest means of soothing their fury.

Whenever the whole of one wing of a hospital is constructed and organized for convalescent and timid patients, they can and will be allowed, with scarcely any inconvenience to the internal government, more frequent and longer visits from sane and sensible conversers, than are now allowable. They will then have the benefit of what is much needed, a greater variety of sane companionship and its healthful influences, than the household, together with the ordinary restricted visiting, can ever possibly supply. When these influences are of a wise quality, they are mental medicines of heavenly value to the many who need them and ought to have them.

MORAL COURAGE.—In an address, entitled Human Happiness—see book notices—we find the following very straightforward definition and advice:—

"What do I mean by moral courage? I mean the energy and spirit to say and do what is right and true, in a respectful and proper manner, though it be unpalatable to some, or apparently against our own interest. I do not intend you to suppose that I am advising you needlessly to tell all you know concerning either yourselves or others, but that you should avoid, as much as in you lies, doing or saying anything which you would be ashamed to acknowledge, if necessary to do so; and then when you have committed errors and faults towards others, should not hesitate to own and correct them. Young ladies, this would be moral courage. Do not, I beseech you, forget what it is, and do not hesitate to practise it, for it is a beautiful quality; it will always promote your comfort, respectability, and happiness, and very often your immediate and best interests."

FLOWERS AND THEIR INFLUENCE.—The people of France pay much attention to flowers, and thus one of their best writers on Education, M. Aimé Martin, describes the effect of this taste:—

"In all countries women love flowers, in all countries they form nosegays of them; but it is only in the bosom of plenty that they conceive the idea of embellishing their dwellings with them. The cultivation of flowers among the peasantry indicates a revolution in all their feelings. It is a delicate pleasure, which makes its way through coarse organs; it is a creature, whose eyes are opened; it is the sense of the beautiful, a faculty of the soul which is awakened. Man, then, understands that there is in the gifts of nature a something more than is necessary for existence; color, forms, odors, are perceived for the first time, and these charming objects have at last spectators. Those who have travelled in the country can testify, that a rose-tree under the window, a honeysuckle around the door of a cottage, are always a good omen to the tired traveller. The hand which cultivates flowers is not closed against the supplications of the poor, or the wants of the stranger."

CHRISTIAN ASSOCIATIONS OF YOUNG MEN.—These are becoming the rule in our cities. We have before us the "First Annual Report" of one formed in Boston a year or two ago. Why might not similar associations be formed among the young women? Many a girl from the country has been lost, who might have lived virtuously, happily, and usefully, had she, when coming to the city, known friends of her own sex to whom she might have gone for counsel in her loneliness and sorrows. But these efforts to save young men will gladden the hearts of mothers and sisters, whose brothers and sons are gone from the domestic roof out into the dangers and temptations of the world. We subjoin the opening remarks, or reasons for the association:—

"The wise and good men of Boston have, in times past, mourned over many a youth of promise who, fresh from his rural home, has yielded to the temptations of the city life, whose dangers he knew not of, and perished. Individual benevolence has done much to avert the evil; but no adequate remedy was found till Christian young men were banded together to receive their young brethren from the country and guard them with Christlike sympathy until they could securely walk amid the dangers of the city. Such a band is our association."

WOMAN'S RIGHTS—as we have always maintained—entitle her to equal advantages of education with her brother man. Slowly, but surely, this idea is gaining favor in the public mind, and men, noble-hearted and wise, are carrying forward the work of founding institutions for the daughters of our land. As yet, few of these schools are endowed, none made equal in efficiency to the schools for the other sex; but still we rejoice to record every attempt to extend the benefits of instruction to those who are the heaven-appointed educators of infancy and childhood. Women must be fitted to educate men; we shall then have goodness and wisdom united. In the "Female College to be established at Petersburg, Virginia," we hope these advantages will be provided for liberally. Every college should be endowed.

BLEAK WORLD.—These two stanzas are worth preserving from a poem which we have not room for; the author may hope:—

There's not so bleak a place on earth
Where blossom not the wildwood flowers;
There's not so desolate a hearth
But hath its smiling, sunny hours.

Though dark and drear life's voyage may seem,
And man without a sun may grope,
Yet in its darkest hours we dream
There's smiling in the distance hope.

SLANDER.—We seldom meet with a fearless, out-spoken rebuke of the sins of the tongue. Those who deal with evil-speaking seem usually afraid of committing themselves to the charge of an offence similar to that which they are rebuking. Not so Rev. Henry Steel Clarke, whose "Discourse," of which the following is a sample, goes straight to its mark as an arrow from the bow of a strong hand. Our readers will find pleasure as well as profit in these sentiments; they are accustomed to the language of truth in our pages, and will not feel the arrow pointed at any who are innocent. And the guilty, if such there be around our "Table," will read to profit by the pictures presented, and thank the good clergyman who, from the seclusion of his study, has breathed words that will reach and interest the inmates of thousands of homes in every section of our country:—

"Who slanders his neighbor is a—what is he? The signification of the term SLANDER, according to the best authority, is to belie; to speak falsely of. Who, then, slanders another, belies him—lies concerning him. Do not men forget this when they go about to blacken and vilify the character of their neighbors? And can they be justified in resorting to it for revenge? Is not the command, 'Thou shalt not bear false witness,' as binding as any of the ten? The fact that they can have satisfaction in no other way, offers no apology. To resort to it only increases their guilt. They thus, to falsehood, add the indulgence of a wicked spirit of retaliation. This, when God has said, 'Vengeance is mine.' They are bound, by all that is sacred and good, to submit in silence, rather than make such attempts to punish the injurious.

"It is to be remarked here that slanderous reports generally have an air of truth about them, which make them more prejudicial and hurtful than if they went in their own native garb. They seem ashamed of themselves. If they can steal the livery of truth, they hold up their heads and are sure of passing. Were every slanderous report branded with its own name, and called, as it should be, a lie, the evil done would be less. But, going forth with the semblance of probability, under a more specious garb than that of the direct and downright falsehood, the injury done is often greater even than that intended by the slanderer. Hence, only aggravated guilt. Men cannot be too cautious how little they say, which is true against others. Much less can they be too cautious how little they say which is positively false. Who love to hear themselves speak in this way will some time have abundant cause to regret their loquacity. Who love to speak lies may expect to gather fruit accordingly.

"There is another abuse of speech. It is not slander, but very like it. It has much of its meanness, and partakes of its guilt. They who indulge in it are the retailers of scandal. Their business argues a very morbid and sickly state of moral feeling. They are the snatchers up of inconsiderable trifles, who deal them out with infinite relish. They are traders in the small ware of slander, who magnify the value of their wares until they come to believe them real. The practice now referred to is that of reporting whatever one hears, adding, perhaps, a gloss of one's own; reporting it not perhaps upon the house-top—he might as well—but in the ears of others, until it becomes a common topic of conversation. What is peculiar to this is, that it is generally something prejudicial to the reputation or interests of his neighbor. To pry into that which is no concern of mine is mean. To report what I thus see and hear is contemptible. If this become general, no one is safe. All men would turn spies and scandal-mongers. No one will be safe, because no one's character will bear all kinds of exposure.

"Every man has his faults. Add to this that every man more quickly discovers his neighbor's than his own; then, that he is in a measure blind to his own, when discovered a beam is in his eye! and that this blindness is a magnifier to his neighbor's, and you have a sum total of probabilities, which renders it extremely likely that he who desires subjects for scandal will have realized his most sanguine expectations. Says the Latin fabulist, as I have some time read, speaking of the faults of men, 'Jupiter gives to every man two sacks: one with his own faults, to be carried on his back; another, with his neighbor's, to hang upon his breast'—

'On this account, man never can behold

His own, but can his neighbor's faults unfold.'

Phædrus knew men. His fable is not all a fable. If not a fact, it casts the shadow of one. It is easier to unfold the faults of others than our own. And, if all should delight to do it, none would be safe.

"Then, what a disposition does such practice indicate! How dark a spirit! What moral obliquity and depravity! No good is intended, none secured. Should good result, it would be a disappointment to the tale-bearer. No doubt there is often the appearance of pity for the victim. Many a story is told with rueful countenance, and protestations of sorrow for the occurrence, when the teller is secretly exulting in the injury it will do. 'How often does the reputation of a helpless creature bleed by a report, which the party, who is at pains to propagate it, beholds with much pity and fellow-feeling, is heartily sorry for it, hopes in God it is not true; however, as Archbishop Tillotson wittily remarks upon it, is resolved, in the mean time, to give the report her pass, that, at least, it may have fair play to take its fortune in the world, to be believed or not, according to the charity of those into whose hands it may fall.'[11] What can be more contemptible or base!

"Then the injury that is done. How many reputations are thus ruined—ruin for which no one is responsible—by men and women, who deal their blows in the dark, who let fly their Parthian arrows and retreat! How much mischief is caused to families and neighborhoods by cowardly people, who skulk behind 'I reckon,' or 'they say,' while they protrude their venomed tongues covered with the poison of asps! Nay, how are whole communities often kept in a state of constant and feverish excitement by those whose tongues should blister with their utterances! And how soon would the fever be allayed, and the excitement die, and the strife cease, if those 'who whet their tongue like a sword, and bend their bows to shoot their arrows, even bitter words,' would learn to use aright the power of speech! And would this accomplish it? The Bible says it would. 'Where there is no tale-bearer the strife ceaseth.'"

TO CORRESPONDENTS.—The following articles are accepted: "The Match-Making Mother," "Leaves from the Journal" (we shall use as we have room), "Going in Search of Impressions," "Imagination and Fancy among the Arabs," and "The Loss of the Hector."

"The Orphan Boy," a poem, that appeared in the February number, was from the pen of Robert G. Allison, now residing at Warrenton, N. C. His name was omitted by mistake.

We have not room for these articles, yet some are well worth publication: "The Prophecy," "Dreams," "Phædra," "To A——," "A Venetian Elopement," "Child's Evening Prayer," "The Poet's Lament," "Sibylline," "All Earth is Beautiful," "The Coquette," "Godey," "Lines," "Two Scenes in City Life," "Remien" (will be returned, if the author requests), "Home," "Lost at Sea," "Sonnet," "The Dying Girl," "Scene in the Garden," "Fancies," "Maria," "Musings," "Adieu to my Bower," "Old Forest Tree," "Ida Lofton," "Blossoms," "The dirge I hear," "The Bereaved," and "On the Death of two Children."

The above is a long list. We regret we cannot oblige all our friends, but the "Book" has its limits. We have heretofore alluded to the number of elegies and laments of the bereaved sent us for publication, and given our reasons for declining, generally, such poems. We think the newspaper circulating most largely in the vicinity of the "loved and lost," is the most suitable organ for these obituaries of the heart; the merits of the poetry are of less consequence to the reader who loves the memory of the dead. Elegiac poetry, when written to express individual grief, should be addressed to those who can sympathize with the bereaved, not to the general public, who read to criticize. A number of articles on hand are not yet examined.

BOOKS BY MAIL.—Now that the postage on printed matter is so low, we offer our services to procure for our subscribers or others any of the books that we notice. Information touching books will be cheerfully given by inclosing a stamp to pay return postage.

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

MELLICHAMPE. A Legend of the Santee. By W. Gilmore Simms, Esq., author of the "Partisan," "Yemassee," "Katharine Walton," "The Scout," etc. etc. This is another handsomely printed volume, uniform with the new and complete edition of the author's works, now in the course of publication. Judgment has already been passed upon the merits of this romance by many of the best literary and historical critics of our country. Their decisions have long since secured to the author, in connection with the "Partisan," and other and similar productions, the highest reputation among contemporary writers. It may be justly said of Mr. Simms that no American author of the same class has ever been truer to the leading facts of history, or more faithful in the delineation of the original characters of the actors he has introduced. None has been more successful in blending the witchery of romance with the patriotic, but often stern and cruel realities of revolutionary warfare. We have had many romances founded upon the events of the struggle which terminated in the independence of the United States, too many of which, we are sorry to say, have been characterized by inflation of style and exaggerated portraitures—by improbable and often impossible incidents, and a total departure from the historic record. Under such extravagances and perversions, we have not unfrequently seen persons elevated to a heroic and virtuous distinction in the romance of history, whom the truth of history had consigned to execration and infamy. We have the comfortable assurance, however, in perusing the pages of "Mellichampe," and similar works by the same author, that we have before us the true characters of the persons intended to be represented, and that the incidents have been faithfully delineated, yet all admirably woven together in the web of a fascinating romance.

THE DIVINE CHARACTER VINDICATED. A Review of some of the principal features of Rev. Dr. E. Beecher's recent work, entitled, "The Conflict of Ages; or, the Great Debate on the Moral Relations of God and Man." By the Rev. Moses Ballou. Persons fond of religious controversy, and more particularly those who have read Dr. Beecher's work, will no doubt take an interest in the "Vindication." This work appears to have been written with great candor, and equal explicitness, in regard to the religious views of the author, which differ very materially from those of Dr. B. What will be the amount of its influence in arresting the "conflict of ages," can only be conjectured by the effects produced by the controversies of the past. Theologians, though with the best intentions towards the establishment and preservation of peace, have been the great combatants in the conflict which, for ages, has distracted the human mind on speculative questions of religion, to determine which there has been no appeal but to man's fallible reason, to his prejudices, to his rashness, and to his spirit of hatred and persecution—power and might, not charity and good-will, being in most cases the arbiters. "A better day is coming," no doubt, when the sad conflict will cease forever. But that better day will have its dawn in "another and a better world," the beauties of which will be reserved for those who have kept aloof from the uncharitable warfares of this; and, in saying this much, we need not be brought into "conflict" with any one.

THE RUSSIAN SHORES OF THE BLACK SEA, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1852: with a Voyage down the Volga, and a Tour through the Country of the Don Cossacks. By Laurence Oliphant, author of "A Journey to Nepaul." From the third London edition. This is a very pleasant narrative, containing a great deal that is interesting in regard to the habits, customs, &c., of a portion of the inhabitants of Russia, bordering on the Black Sea. The book will elicit attention at this time, because it relates to a portion of the empire which must become the theatre of great events, should the war be prosecuted between it and the western powers of Europe. It is not exactly the work, however, for the statesman and politician, presenting but few statistics or practical observations from which reliable conclusions may be drawn.

THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. The poems of Mr. Hosmer are presented to us in two handsome volumes, respectively of 374 and 376 pages. The greater portion of the first volume is devoted to poems relating to Indians, the principal among which is "Yonnondio; or, the Warriors of the Genesee: a Tale of the Seventeenth Century." This poem was first published in 1844. Most of the shorter poems have, from time to time, appeared in the magazines and newspapers of the day, and evince not only the poetic taste and talent of the author, but the soundness of his moral sentiments, and his natural love of liberty and justice from his youth up.

MERRIMACK; OR, LIFE AT THE LOOM. A Tale. By Day Kellogg Lee, author of "Summerfield; or, Life on a Farm," and "Master Builder; or, Life at a Trade." Like all the other works of this author, the volume now before us, as a literary production, is quiet and unpretending; but it is not the less true to nature, in its delineations of the hopes, joys, labors, sufferings, and misfortunes of the class he represents. Their habits, conversations, and reflections, their moral and religious feelings, their friendships and their loves, are all drawn in characters true to the life, and with an easy, fluent power of description that is not often excelled. In the peculiar line of writing our author has chosen, there is a wide and interesting field before him. No kind of knowledge will have a greater tendency to cement the foundations of this republic than a familiar acquaintance, and its consequent sympathy, with the true life, characters, impulses, and labors of the various classes who contribute to its support and defence. To know one another is the best guaranty of union, and in "union there is strength."

From LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, Philadelphia:—

THE SEPULCHRES OF OUR DEPARTED. By Rev. F. R. Anspach, A. M., Hagerstown, Maryland. A pure and happy Christian spirit pervades the pages of this volume, which cannot fail to infuse its genial glow into the hearts of all who will peruse it with the right dispositions. We believe the work is calculated to do a great deal of good wherever it may be read, and will unquestionably awaken a proper attention to the burial-places of the dead, which, as we know by experience, and by the complaints of newspaper editors and their correspondents, are shamefully neglected in various cities and towns of this Christian land.

From C. M. SAXTON, Agricultural Book Publisher, New York, through E. C. & J. BIDDLE, Philadelphia:—

ELLIOTT'S FRUIT-BOOK: or, the American Fruit-Grower's Guide in Orchard and Garden. Being a compend of the history, modes of preparation, culture, &c., of fruit-trees and shrubs, with descriptions of nearly all the varieties of fruits cultivated in this country; notes of their adaptation to localities and soils, and also a complete list of fruits worthy of cultivation. By F. R. Elliott. The price of this valuable work, a handsome volume of five hundred pages, is only $1.50. The author is a practical man, who, for more than ten years, has been patiently, and, as he says, pleasantly engaged in the nurturing of trees and noting their products. Such a book as he has presented the public with will not fail to secure a ready and extensive sale in every part of the country where the least attention is paid to the cultivation of orchard fruits, or to those of the garden; and we feel sure that, in no spot where an "opening" or a "clearing" has been made, is the cultivation of fruit in some form or other entirely neglected. But, as it is important in the start to know the description of fruit adapted to the peculiarities of soil and climate by which the cultivator may happen to be surrounded, we unhesitatingly recommend the book to his examination and study.

From LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO, & CO. (successors to Grigg & Elliot), No. 14 North Fourth Street, Philadelphia:—

TRIALS AND CONFESSIONS OF AN AMERICAN HOUSEKEEPER. Portions of this handsome volume have been presented to the public in a different form; but, as a work of amusement, as well as of wisdom, it will not be the less acceptable on that account in its present shape, and with its numerous appropriate illustrations. The trials will be found full of instruction for the inexperienced, and the confessions will probably induce others to examine their consciences who now think themselves blameless. The last two chapters contain admirable lessons in regard to the treatment of servants, and the important duties of a mother to her children.

LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF A COUNTRY MERCHANT. A Narrative of his Exploits at Home, during his Travels, and in the Cities. Designed to amuse and instruct. By J. B. Jones, author of "Wild Western Scenes," "Adventures of Colonel Vanderbomb," "The Monarchist," etc. The design of the author has been admirably fulfilled. The contents of his volume are truly amusing; and, with regard to the peculiarities of mercantile life, and steamboat travelling in the West, it presents the reader with numerous instructive lessons and graphic sketches.

THE WINTER LODGE; or, a Vow Fulfilled. An Historical Novel. By James Weir. This volume is the sequel to "Simon Kenton." Its contents are highly interesting, being animated descriptions of the early condition of the western settlement, of the characters and habits of the people, and of their bloody contests with the Indians.

From BESSEY & CO., Springfield, Mass., for sale by LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO, & CO., and T. B. PETERSON, Philadelphia:—

CUT FLOWERS: a Collection of Poems. By Mrs. D. Ellen Goodman Shephard. Edited by J. G. Holland. Many of the poetic effusions of the lamented author have graced the pages of the "Lady's Book" and the columns of "Arthur's Home Gazette." To the former work they were always most acceptable, not so much on account of their fastidious conformity to rhythmical rules, as for their happy and beautiful metaphors, and for the instructive lessons they contained; the former drawn from simple and natural objects, and the latter founded upon the truths of holy Revelation. We venture nothing by the assertion, that there is not a poem in this collection that will not meet with the kindest approval, and that there is not a sentiment expressed that will not find a willing response in the sympathies of the reader.

From HARPER & BROTHERS, New York, through LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, Philadelphia:—

A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. By Charles Dickens. Vol. 2. England from the reign of Henry the Sixth to the Revolution of 1688. We have never seen the first volume of this history; and, after a short examination of the second, we think we may venture to say, with all deference to the great literary reputation of Mr. Dickens, that the style of his child's history is not very clear, and not always appropriate to the dignity, the solemnity, or the importance of the events related. In the effort to reach the comprehension of children, in our opinion, it was not necessary to relate deeds of injustice, murder, and rapine, however frequent their recurrence, in an off-hand and careless manner, in indifferent words, or to refer to them by a sneer or a joke. Such writing may be called sprightly and easy, but it is by no means calculated to leave a lasting impression of the baseness and cruelty of the deeds recorded upon the mind of the youthful reader, or a just detestation of the characters of those by whom they were perpetrated.

From MILLER, ORTON, & MULLIGAN, Auburn & Buffalo, through T. B. PETERSON, Philadelphia:—

MINNIE HERMAN; or, the Night and its Morning. A Tale for the Times. By Thurlow W. Brown, author of "Temperance Tales and Hearthstone Reveries." The evils of intemperance, like the truths of Scripture and morality, cannot be too frequently or too warmly insisted upon by judicious and capable speakers and writers. They should be "kept before the people" continually, as the politicians say, in order, if possible, to awaken public opinion to a just sense of their enormity. The interest and importance of the subjects incidentally connected with the discussion are in no danger of being exhausted at present, and therefore not only the attention and patience of readers and hearers may be relied on, but very probably the footsteps of many will continue to be arrested, as they are starting upon the downward path which leads to poverty, crime, and dishonor. We are happy to recognize, in the author of the excellent volume before us, the able editor of the "Cayuga Chief," a popular newspaper published at Auburn, N. Y. Mr. Brown is an ardent and consistent advocate of temperance, and of the principles of the Maine Law, as his work will abundantly testify. In his zealous detestation of intemperance, he draws pictures of distress, misery, and crime, which sensitive hearts will naturally turn from with abhorrence, hoping, and even deeming it impossible that such incidents could ever have occurred in the midst of civilized society. But, alas! in those pictures, revolting and painful as they are, those who are familiar with the facts and the sad condition of its victims will recognize in this work the ever-present and unquestionable results of intemperance.

From D. APPLETON & CO., No. 200 Broadway, New York, through C. G. HENDERSON & CO., corner of Fifth and Arch Streets, Philadelphia:—

RUSSIA AS IT IS. By Count A. De Gurowski. As everything connected with the history, power, and resources of Russia will, most probably for some time to come, form matters of deep interest and inquiry for the public mind, we may reasonably anticipate a full supply of information, and much speculation as to her rise, progress, and anticipated destiny. In forming our own opinions, however, upon any important question, it is not always safe to rely on the arguments or representations of enthusiasts, whose imaginations can easily figure out plausible results, because it is the honest desire of their hearts that just such results should happen. But, at the same time, we by no means intend that this remark shall apply to the work under consideration, for it is evidently from the pen of a statesman and philosopher; and, although the author may be still more or less of an enthusiast in regard to the destiny of races and empires, his principles and views are evidently the results of experience, reflection, and investigation. For nearly thirty years, as he tells us, his existence has been agitated by the political tempests overwhelming his native land, as well as other parts of Europe. He appears at one time to have been an admirer of the power and destiny of Russia. But in his youth he took an active part in the affairs of Poland, the land of his birth, and, in 1830-31, was driven into exile because he had participated in the insurrection of that period. His style is animated and attractive, much more so than is common in similar works of political inquiry.

CAT AND DOG; or, Memoirs of Puss and the Captain. An amusing book for children, filled with pretty engravings. A very interesting story, quite philosophical, too, and as well calculated for the perusal of the elder branches of the family as the younger.

From BLANCHARD & LEA, Philadelphia:—

HISTORY OF OLIVER CROMWELL AND THE ENGLISH COMMONWEALTH, from the Execution of Charles the First to the Death of Cromwell. By M. Guizot. Translated by Andrew R. Scoble. In two volumes. This work embraces a period of sixty-three years, the events of which are the most exciting and remarkable in the history of England. The appendix to each volume contains valuable historical documents, which, being derived principally from the French Foreign Office, and now first published, add greatly to the interest of the work. A new character is given to many of the actors in that bloody civil war rendering the volumes more worthy and impartial than many of the histories that have preceded them.

ORR'S CIRCLE OF THE SCIENCES. Nos. 1 and 2 of a series of treatises on every branch of human knowledge. No. 1 treats of the nature, connections, and uses of the great departments of human knowledge, by the editor. No. 2, the physiology of animal and vegetable life. With numerous illustrations.

From WM. S. YOUNG, 173 Race Street, Philadelphia:—

ODD-FELLOWSHIP EXAMINED IN THE LIGHT OF SCRIPTURE AND REASON. By Joseph T. Cooper, Pastor of the Second Associate Presbyterian Church, Philadelphia. With an introduction by the Rev. J. B. Dales, D. D. Second edition. This work has been strongly recommended by a number of clergymen belonging to the Presbyterian church.

From GOULD & LINCOLN, Boston:—

THE PRIEST AND THE HUGUENOT; or, the Persecution in the Age of Louis XV. From the French of L. Bungener. In two volumes. The aim of the work is well defined by its title. Monsieur Bungener, a minister of the "Reformed Church of Geneva," and author of a very popular work, "The Preacher and the King," has aimed to exhibit, in a series, the principal religious aspects of France, from the age of Louis Fourteenth to the close of the last century. This "Priest and the Huguenot" is the second work in the series, the "Preacher and the King" being the first, and will be found very interesting to all who wish to understand thoroughly the causes that have made and keep France what she is—Roman Catholic and Imperial—when her people seem made for civil and religious freedom. The translator, a lady of New York, has accomplished her difficult task with much success. The "characteristics of the French style of thought and expression" seem well preserved.

THE RELIGIONS OF THE WORLD AND THEIR RELATIONS TO CHRISTIANITY. By Frederick Dennison Maurice, M. A., Professor of Divinity in King's College, London. From the third revised London edition. This work is a brief analysis of the influential religions of the world, and of the relations of Christianity with the rest. The author searches out the germ, that principle in each belief which gives it vitality and power, and shows the adaptation of that especial truth to the needs of the people who embraced it, or of the time in which it prevailed. He then shows how far Christianity can accomplish the same purposes for all in a higher degree. This work is evidently the result of much study and reflection, and is written in a most liberal and comprehensive spirit.

THE CHRISTIAN WORLD UNMASKED. By John Berridge, A. M., Vicar of Everton, &c. With a life of the author, by the Rev. Thomas Guthrie, D. D. This is a reprint of a work written long ago by a clergyman of the Church of England, a worthy compeer of Whitfield and Wesley. Its object is to test the sincerity of the followers of Christ, and it is written in a plain and searching manner, that leaves the formalist but little room to escape. The style is animated and familiar, and, though sometimes peculiar, is always forcible and effective. The sincerity of the writer's belief and the strength of his mind are evident in every page.

NOVELS, SERIALS, PAMPHLETS, &c.

From T. B. Peterson, 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia: "The Fortune Hunter: a Novel of New York Society." By Anna Cora Mowatt, author of the "Autobiography of an Actress; or, Eight Years on the Stage," etc. This is a cheap and very handsome reprint of a popular work, in which some of the peculiarities of "good society" in New York are freely delineated, leaving truthful and salutary impressions upon the mind of the reader.

From De Witt & Davenport, New York: "The Secretary; or, Circumstantial Evidence." By the author of "Heads and Hearts." A very thrilling story, intended to demonstrate the dangers of circumstantial evidence. Price 38 cents.

From D. Appleton & Co., 200 Broadway, New York, through C. G. Henderson & Co., Philadelphia: "Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence of Thomas Moore." Edited by the Right Hon. Lord John Russell, M. P. Parts 7 and 8. Price 25 cents.

From T. Elwood Chapman, Philadelphia: "Human Happiness: an Address delivered before the Pupils of Sharon Female Seminary." By John H. Bazley. We have given an extract from this in our "Table," which shows our appreciation of its merits.

From Beverly Tucker, Washington, D. C.: "Obituary Addresses on the occasion of the Death of the Hon. William R. King, of Alabama, Vice-President of the United States." These papers, selected from the Message of the President of the United States, and the speeches of eminent members of both Houses of Congress, form a worthy testimonial of the noble character of the man whose memory they honor. There is a portrait, said to be a striking likeness of Mr. King, beautifully engraved, adding to the interest of the book.

OUR JUNE NUMBER.—END OF THE VOLUME.—No falling off yet. We continue, as we commenced, the same number, or rather more engravings, and one hundred pages; and so we shall continue throughout the year.

BILL.—Webster devotes a column of his large dictionary in explaining what this word means; but the only one that we find applicable, after reading through the whole, is the following: "Bill, an account of goods sold or delivered, services rendered or work done, with the price or value annexed to each article." In fact, the bill which every owing subscriber will find in this number is a clearer definition than even Webster can give. And now we shall expect the ladies to stand our friends, as they always have done, and give their husbands or parents no rest until the same be liquidated.

GIFT LOTTERIES, or whatever they may call them. We observe that some of these concerns are offering "Godey's Lady's Book" among their prizes. (The rogues know that the "Book" is a great inducement.) We now wish it understood that we have nothing to do with these concerns, and are adverse to having the "Lady's Book" mentioned in their schemes; and we earnestly advise all persons to have nothing to do with them. Don't purchase their tickets.

AN ARTIST AT FAULT.—The Philadelphia "Sun" says: "'Godey' for April is on our table, filled with admirable reading, useful receipts, and information for the ladies. The embellishments are profuse, and all good but the 'Arrival of the Lady's Book;' the women appear too insensible of the treat the post-rider is bringing them. We must treat Godey to a daguerreotype of our family when the 'Book' arrives; such a scrambling and nimble cutting of leaves as take place on these occasions, would make a spirited illustration for one of the numbers. Root shall do it up some day, and then there will be a natural picture, with some point in it."

And depend upon it, friend Wallace, we will publish the picture.

TWENTY-FOUR years and six months, friend "Reveille," have we published the "Book." Six months more makes our quarter of a century, then for "the silver wedding." Thank you for your compliment!

WHITE'S BONNET ESTABLISHMENT.—We give in this number nine patterns of bonnets and boys' caps from this extensive establishment, and we can truly say that ladies and wholesale merchants will find there fifty other different styles. Brodie has also again laid us under obligations to him for the beautiful styles of dress that we publish in this number.

LONG-A-COMING.—Who does not remember this delightful mosquito retreat in Jersey, so properly named?—for it is so long after you leave the last watering-place before you reach Long-a-coming. But this is not what we intended to write about. We intended to say, Long a coming out; that is, Harry Long and his brother have moved from that dreadful dingy Ann Street store into a marble palace in Nassau Street. This is a building worthy of this enterprising house, and, when they get up that new sign, "Godey's Lady's Book," it will be perfect. We are glad thus to chronicle the prosperity of H. Long & Brother, which has made it necessary for them to enlarge their business accommodations, and to render their book establishment, No. 121 Nassau, one of the most splendid and extensive depots of books now in the United States.

ANTI-MACASSAR.—The "Evansville Inquirer" says: "We have learned what an Anti-Macassar is, and are therefore wiser than all other men in town." That same term puzzled us for a time, and probably an explanation would not be amiss. It is the tidy that is put on the back of a chair to prevent any grease from the head soiling the chair. It is an English term, and no doubt the name was suggested by Rowland, of London, the manufacturer of Macassar hair oil, as a puff for his establishment.

THE SCHUYLKILL BOATS.—These boats have commenced their delightful trips on the Schuylkill. There is no pleasanter way of spending a couple of hours on a hot day than to take a trip up this beautiful river as far as Manayunk. Strangers should not neglect it; our citizens hardly need urging. The boats are commodious, and the captains gentlemanly and obliging.

SUMMER BEVERAGES.—Now is the time for our subscribers to provide themselves with these excellent and temperance receipts. See advertisement on cover.

"'ALONE.'—This is the title of a new book, a Virginia book, written by a young Virginia lady, and treating chiefly of Virginia, which will be brought out in the best style by Mr. Morris, of this city. Lest the fact that it is a Virginia book, and the authoress a Virginian, may induce the Virginia public to lay aside this notice without reading farther, we will state at once that the literary merits of the fair young authoress have been approved beyond the waters, and her productions, coming back with English and French endorsement, will henceforth pass current, as a matter of course, in American literary circles. Godey's Lady's Book, speaking of a story which she had contributed to its pages, says: 'It may be interesting to this lady to know that the story of "Marrying Through Prudential Motives" has been copied from the Lady's Book for March, 1853, into two of the English magazines—recopied into the New York Albion, that professes to give nothing but the cream of the English magazines, and now, being an English story, will no doubt be published by half the papers in the United States.'"

We copy the above from the "Richmond Dispatch," and our readers will remember that, in a late number, we published the amende of the "Germantown Telegraph," who also copied the story and credited it to an English magazine. We have another story by the gifted authoress, the first part of which will be published in our July number, that will convince the most sceptical that she is one of the most powerful writers of the day.

We have been favored with some of the early sheets of "Alone," and we have been delighted with their perusal. Our only regret was that we had not the whole book. We predict a prominent place among the fair writers of America to the authoress of "Alone." The paper and typographical execution of the work are a credit to the publisher, Mr. Morris.

OUR PATTERNS.—Ladies do not seem to be aware that these patterns are fac-similes of the originals in color, trimming, &c. At a distance, they would be taken for the garment itself. They could be worn in a tableau without being detected.

"PIONEER."—A new magazine from San Francisco. An excellent work, well printed, and favored with the effusions of Mr. Pipes, of Pipesville, a most humorous and excellent writer. We exchange with pleasure.

MRS. SHEPARD'S POEMS.—The many friends and admirers of the late Mrs. Shepard, of Springfield, will be glad to learn that the collection of her poems, that have been for some time in preparation, has been published by Bessey & Co., under the attractive title of "CUT-FLOWERS," who now offer it for sale at their counter, and through their agents. The editor has presented a brief notice of her life, and an estimate of her literary character, and, in his selections from her large mass of printed and manuscript writings, has presented those poems which bear that general character which is necessary in a volume prepared for the public. The work is well printed, and well got up every way, and deserves an extended patronage.—Daily Republican, Springfield, Mass.

We will answer for it that, if Bessey & Co. have anything to do with it, it is well done, for theirs is an enterprising firm.

THE third edition of "How to Make a Dress," and the fifth edition of the "Book of the Toilet," are now ready. We are also able to supply all orders for our "Gallery of Engravings," at 50 cents each.

THE WORD "SELAH."—The translators of the Bible have left the Hebrew word Selah, which occurs so often in the Psalms, as they found it; and, of course, the English reader often asks his minister, or some learned friend, what it means. And the minister or learned friend has most often been obliged to confess ignorance, because it is a matter in regard to which the most learned have, by no means, been of one mind. The Targums, and most of the Jewish commentators, give to the word the meaning of eternally forever. Rabbi Kimchi regards it as a sign to elevate the voice. The authors of the Septuagint translation appear to have regarded it as a musical or rhythmical note. Herder regards it as indicating a change of tone; Matheson as a musical note, equivalent, perhaps, to the word repeat. According to Luther and others, it means silence. Gesenius explains it to mean, "Let the instruments play and the singer stop." Wocher regards it as equivalent to sursum corda—up, my soul. Sommer, after examining all the seventy-four passages in which the word occurs, recognizes in every case "an actual appeal or summons to Jehovah." They are calls for aid and prayers to be heard, expressed either with entire directness, or, if not in the imperative, "Hear, Jehovah!" or "Awake, Jehovah!" and the like, still earnest addresses to God that he would remember and hear, &c. The word itself he regards as indicating a blast of trumpets by the priests. Selah, itself, he thinks an abridged expression used for Higgaion Selah—Higgaion indicating the sound of the stringed instruments, and Selah a vigorous blast of trumpets.

WE never have "assisted" at one, as the French say; but, from the description that follows, we should like very well to join a "sugar party"—a sweet business:—

"MY DEAR GODEY: Did you ever attend an old-fashioned sugar party in the woods? If you have not, you have missed a pleasant hour, and the enjoyment of that open-hearted hospitality for which our Eastern farmers are distinguished. Imagine yourself in a forest of sturdy maples, averaging from seventy-five to one hundred and twenty-five feet in height, and from three to five feet in diameter. Before you are two or three large kettles, hung on a pole, and beneath them is a blazing fire. The kettles are half full of the amber-colored syrup; and you, with dish and spoon, together with some fifteen or twenty others, are testing its quality. You enjoy it heartily, for the parties are all in high spirits, and the woods echo to the songs that are sung, and the jokes that are perpetrated on all sides. Around you the violets and arbutus are blooming, and you are induced to wander away along the paths that wind through the woods in every direction in search of the flowers that are springing up in their dim recesses. If you have never attended one of those good old-fashioned sugar parties, allow me to invite you to visit us another season; and, if you have, you will be equally welcome.

"H. L. S."

LE CONTINENT EUROPEAN.—Mr. P. Beaugereau, aided by several of his countrymen, has begun the publication in our city of a French weekly newspaper. He looks for patronage not only to the French residents in this section of the country, but to foreigners and Americans who speak or read French. We wish him a large share of success!

"MRS. HALE'S COOK-BOOK" we will furnish at $1.25, and pay the postage. Mrs. Hale's "Household Book" on the same terms.

BACK numbers of the "Lady's Book" can be supplied from January, as the work is stereotyped.

WE have lost a friend in Philip G. Collins, a member of the firm of T. K. & P. G. Collins, who print the "Lady's Book." We have been acquainted with him for many years, and had many opportunities of studying him closely. Few men possessed a clearer mind, or could better express themselves than Mr. Collins. His reading was very extensive, and his retention wonderful. We copy the following notice from the "North American" of this city, written by one who knew him well:—

"PHILIP G. COLLINS.—The demise of Philip G. Collins, of the well-known firm of T. K. & P. G. Collins, of this city, has left a vacancy in the ranks of practical printers among us, which few are competent to fill. His knowledge of his art was equally intimate and exact. He was, we believe, one of the founders of the Typographical Society, in the welfare of which he manifested, to the day of his death, a warm interest. His qualities of head and heart won the esteem of all who knew him; and his loss will be deeply regretted, not only by his immediate family, but by a large circle of admiring acquaintances who partook of his friendship."

IN answer to our friend of the "West Philadelphia Reporter," we must say that we do not wonder that the mistake is made. He will see that when our name is set in capitals it does make LOUISA GODEY. But that portrait will show them that we are not of the same gender as Lingos dulcinea.

Amo amas, I love a lass,
As cedar tall and slender;
Sweet cowslip's grace is her nominative case,
And she's of the feminine gender.

"GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK.—We have received this beautiful periodical from its polite and accomplished editor. It is filled with reading matter of the highest order, and in engravings it surpasses anything we have seen. In this department it is far ahead of any other American Magazine. Godey is particularly fortunate in catering for the literary public, and especially does he please the ladies. In fact, we believe that about three-fourths (and a little over) of his fair subscribers have fallen in love with 'THAT LIKENESS.' (We hope friend G. will not step out of his boots to be told so.) No lady's table should be without the 'Book.'"—Tenn. Christian Universalist.

No! not a bit! For that would detract from our height, and we have nothing to spare in that respect. We are only sorry that we published our likeness at that time. It was taken at a season when few subscriptions are received. Were it taken now, it would be quite a different-looking affair. The great influx of subscribers for the last six months has made us look at least ten years younger—and of course brighter.

YES! that very thing has been bothering us, as our friend of the "Salisbury Banner" says: "How any man that has a wife can live at peace at home without subscribing for the 'Lady's Book,' passes our comprehension." And it does ours. We wish they could not.

WE did not think that our "Book" afforded so good a subject for an alliteration. The "Genesee Flint Whig" says:—

"It is replete with attractions of every kind that a lady's book ought to possess. Amusement and instruction, fine arts and fashion, music and model cottages, nouvellettes and needlework, drawing and domestic recipes, poetry and patterns—are all interspersed with good taste and judicious arrangement."

CASHMERE SHAWLS.—The great mart for the wool of which these shawls are made is at Kilghet, which is said to be a dependency of Ladak, and situated twenty days' journey from the northern boundaries of Cashmere. There are two kinds of it—that which can be readily dyed is white; the other sort is an ashy color, which, being with difficulty changed, or at least improved by art, is generally woven of its natural hue. About two pounds of either are obtained from a single goat once a year. After the down has been carefully separated from the hairs, it is repeatedly washed with rice starch. This process is reckoned important, and it is to the quality of the water of their valley that the Cashmerians attribute the peculiar and inimitable fineness of the fabrics produced there. At Kilghet, the best raw wool is sold for about one rupee a pound. By the preparation and washing referred to, it loses one-half, and the remainder being spun, three rupees' weight of the thread is considered worth one rupee. Shawls are made of various forms, size, and borders, which are wrought separately, with the view of adapting them to the different markets. Those sent to Turkey used to be of the softest and most delicate texture. Carpets and counterpanes are fabricated of the hair or coarser part of the wool.

"GODEY'S GALLERY OF STEEL ENGRAVINGS.—We are indebted to the publisher of 'Godey's Lady's Book' for Nos. 1 and 2 of these Splendid Steel Engravings. Over thirty of the finest are neatly done up in each number, and are furnished for the low price of fifty cents per number—a very pretty ornament for the parlor."—Litchfield Inquirer.

HOW TO MAKE DEAF PERSONS HEAR THE PIANO-FORTE.—The instrument should be opened, and a rod of deal wood provided about half an inch thick, three-quarters wide, and long enough to reach from the bridge of the sounding-board to the mouth of the deaf person. If one end of this rod be made to rest firmly on the bridge, and the other end be held between the teeth, the softest sounds will be distinctly communicated.—Musical Transcript.

A DEFENCE OF STORY WRITERS.—The "Marysville Advocate" says:—

"Godey's Lady's Book has been received; it contains some excellent tales, that bear a moral on every page. We are at issue with those who are opposed to this class of reading. Whenever scenes are portrayed that resemble such as are of frequent occurrence in the world, even should the narrative be drawn entirely from the fertile imagination of its author, we approve of its perusal. The reader gleans a knowledge of events from it, that might otherwise remain a sealed book. Who, for instance, would ever dream (had they never witnessed them) of the sufferings of widows and orphans in cities, so graphically and pathetically depicted by that prince of writers, T. S. Arthur, in his 'Trials of a Needlewoman'?

"'Letters left at the Pastry-Cook's' are written with great naïveté, and display considerable familiarity with human nature."

NEWS FOR THE LADIES.—An extraordinary custom prevails among the Vizres, a tribe occupying an extensive district in Cabul, among the mountains between Persia and India. The women choose their husbands, not the husbands their wives. If a woman be pleased with a man, she sends the drummer of the camp to pin a handkerchief to his cap, with the pin she uses to fasten her hair. The drummer watches his opportunity and does this in public, naming the woman; and the man is obliged to marry if he can pay her price to her father.

THE "Covington Kentuckian" is responsible for the following:—

"Somebody says 'there ought to be in every well-regulated family at least one baby, just for the fun of the thing;' so we say of the 'Lady's Book;' every family ought to have at least one copy, 'just for the fun of the thing.'"

TO writers in general, and for those of the "Lady's Book" in particular. We regret that we cannot reply to all the kind letters sending us articles for insertion, as our time will not permit.

MARRY.—Jeremy Taylor says: "If you are for pleasure, marry; if you prize rosy health, marry. A good wife is Heaven's last best gift to man; his angel and minister of graces innumerable; his gem of many virtues; his casket of jewels; her voice is sweet music; her smiles, his brightest day; her kiss, the guardian of his innocence; her arms, the pale of his safety, the balm of his health, the balsam of his life; her industry, his surest wealth; her economy, his safest steward; her lips, his faithful counsellors; her bosom, the softest pillow of his cares; and her prayers, the ablest of Heaven's blessings on his head."

TWO charming women were discussing one day what it is which constitutes beauty in the hand. They differed in opinion as much as in the shape of the beautiful member whose merits they were discussing. A gentleman friend presented himself, and by common consent the questions were referred to him. It was a delicate matter. He thought of Paris and the three goddesses. Glancing from one to the other of the beautiful white hands presented to him, which, by the way, he had the cunning to hold for some time in his own, for purposes of examination, he replied, at last: "I give it up; the question is too hard for me; but ask the poor, and they will tell you that the most beautiful hand in the world is the hand that gives."

CURIOUS EFFECT OF THE CENSUS.—Punch, most ungallantly, makes the following remarks: "One of the most remarkable of the Results of the Census was its effect on the age of that beautiful production of nature, familiarly known as the British female. The census had, in fact, the same sort of operation on the ages of women as a declaration of war would have on the public funds. Our own cook, who had been familiarly quoted in the house as upwards of fifty, fell suddenly to thirty-eight, at which she has nominally remained; but no settling day has been appointed, nor is it likely that there will be any settling at such a clearly ideal figure."

WE published some time since a statement that cranberries were an excellent remedy for erysipelas. The "New Haven Palladium" says:—

"We are able to record another case of the complete cure of erysipelas by the simple application of the raw cranberries pounded fine. The patient was a young lady, one side of whose face had become so much swollen and inflamed that the eye had become closed and the pain excessive. A poultice of cranberries was applied, and after several changes, the pain ceased, the inflammation subsided, and in the course of a couple of days every vestige of the disease had disappeared. The case occurred in the family of one of the editors of the 'Palladium,' and we can therefore vouch for its truth."

MISS LESLIE'S NEW RECEIPTS FOR COOKING.—T. B. Peterson of this city is about to bring out a new edition of "Miss Leslie's New Receipts for Cooking." A very excellent work.

PEACH-STONES.—We acknowledge the receipt of several peach-stones from that celebrated tree, the fruit of which we chronicled some time since. They were sent us by our ever-attentive friend, Mr. Andrews, editor of that popular paper, the "Macon Citizen."

THE following remarks were endorsed on an Augusta, Ga., bank note received a few days since, in payment for a subscription to the "Lady's Book":—

"I give you very freely, although it is in payment of an unjust debt. The cheerfulness with which I part with you results from the fact that it will save me from innumerable duns.

H. I. P."

"I part with this bill as cheerfully as did Mr. H. I. P. I spend it for supper, lodgings, and breakfast, at the poorest tavern on earth. I spend it cheerfully, because it enables me to get away.

L. C. K."

"And I for hitching my horse to a fence in Pulaski, Tenn.

W. O. W."

"And I part with you for the best magazine in the world, 'Godey's Lady's Book.'

A. D. S."

The following was on a note, Bank of South Carolina, received from the same person:—

"I part with you freely, as you go to pay for the best magazine in America, 'Godey's Lady's Book.'

A. D. S."

YOUNG ladies had better try the following before they say "Yes!"—

If a man waits patiently while a woman is "putting her things on," or "shopping," he will make a good husband.

WE shall begin to make a stir by and by, about not crediting articles taken from the "Lady's Book." We can't prevent the English Magazines from copying without crediting, but we shall certainly take the liberty of cutting from our exchange any paper that we find doing it in this country. A Boston paper recently published a story without credit, and when informed that it was our article, they made the amende; but in the same paper that contained the apology was one of the very best articles we ever published, "The Fountain very far Down," with the name of the author, Mrs. Virginia F. Townsend, omitted, and no credit given to the "Book." Look out, gentlemen, if —— pay for stories and give you the privilege of copying them, the least you can do is to give us credit for them.

BIZARRE.—A new volume of this interesting work is now being published. We do not know who is the editor, but he makes an excellent work. The publisher is G. A. Correa, No. 232 Chestnut St. The price per annum is $2.

ORDERS for the new fashions continue to pour in upon us. Every one is attended to and forwarded within two days after its receipt. We have lately had three orders for lady's wearing apparel, amounting to $275, and have sent any number of White's bonnets and Mrs. Suplee's patterns.

SCIENTIFIC AGREEMENT.—A California paper tells the story of a showman who delighted an "appreciating public" with a view of the Mammoth Cave. It was his custom, as each scene was exhibited, to explain it. When the great cave came to view, he stepped forward and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a great phenomenon, indeed the greatest in the world. The learned of all nations have visited it; but none could agree as to the cause which had produced it; they all came to this grand conclusion, that it was one of the most tremendous holes in the ground they had ever seen."

GERANIUMS.

(From Mrs. Hale's New Household Receipt-Book.)

THE shrubby kinds are commonly increased by cuttings, which, if planted in June or July, and placed in the shade, will take root in five weeks. They are the most tender, and when placed out of doors, should be defended from strong winds, and be so placed as to enjoy the sun until eleven o'clock in the morning. As the shrubby kinds grow fast, so as to fill the pots with their roots, and push them through the opening at the bottom, they should be moved every two or three weeks in summer, and the fresh roots cut off. They should also be newly potted twice in the summer: once about a month after they are placed abroad, and again towards the end of August. When this is done, all the roots outside the earth should be pared off, and as much of the old earth removed as can be done without injuring the plants. They should then be planted in a larger pot; some fresh earth should first be laid at the bottom, and on that the plant should be placed, so that the old earth adhering to it may be about an inch below the rim of the pot; it should next be filled up, and the pot slightly shaken; the earth must then be gently pressed down at the top, leaving a little space for water to be given without running over the rim; finally, the plant should be liberally watered, and the stem fastened to a stake, to prevent the wind displacing the roots before they are newly fixed.

As the branches grow, and new leaves are formed at the top of them, the lower ones may die, and should be plucked off every week.

Geranium slips should be planted in May, June, or July, taking only the last year's shoots, from which the leaves must be stripped. When planted, give them water, and place them in the shade: when they have taken root, let them have the sun in the morning. The slips chosen for cutting should not be such as bear flowers; and they should be inserted about half their length in the earth.

Geraniums, except the shrubby kinds, require shelter from frost only, and should have free air admitted to them, when the weather is not very severe. In sultry weather, they should all be watered liberally every morning, except some few of a succulent nature, which must be watered sparingly; the latter may be known by plucking a leaf from them. Geraniums may be watered three times a week, when not frosty, in winter.

DR. R. MONTGOMERY BIRD.—We have been favored with a lithographic portrait of our lamented friend, and it is the best likeness, we can safely say, that we ever saw of any person. "It is his image as he lived." The drawing is by Alfred Newsam; the printing by Duval.

WE found the following beautiful article in the "Rochester Daily Democrat":—

A GRAVE IN THE DESERT.—The grave of JAMES F. DEWEY, a brother of D. M. D., of this city, was recently visited by a friend, who found it upon a knoll, on the bank of a stream, near the village of Rag Town, the first station west of the Great Desert. The resting-place of our young townsman was inclosed with a novel description of paling. At this point—the desert having been crossed, and El Dorado in full prospect—the emigrants abandon and break up their wagons, and throw aside all heavy lumber, going through the remainder of the journey light. The wagon-tires that are found there cast away were set up around the grave, interlocked so as to form a fence, and about them were twined trace chains, to render it more substantial and slightly ornamental. In the silence of the plain, by the side of running waters—the first that gladdens the eyes and soothes the lips of the emigrant on the other side of the Great American Desert—he sleeps well. His death was caused by the bite of a scorpion.

PHILADELPHIA AGENCY.

A WORD FROM THE FASHION EDITOR.—We are desired by this lady to mention one or two things to her patrons; the first is, that sufficient time must be given her when orders are received to have dresses made. A case in point has just occurred. A gentleman brought an order to have several dresses made up. He arrived on Wednesday; they must positively be done on Saturday following, to be packed with his goods here. Knowing the impossibility of having the material and trimming purchased, and the dresses made in that time, the articles and trimmings only were purchased, and the patterns to make them by were sent. Besides, there were books, mantle ornaments, &c., to procure. They were all ready and packed on the day. The gentleman did not call until thirteen days had elapsed, and then we were desired to send them by express. The dresses could have been made, if our Fashion Editor had been allowed the thirteen days from the time the order was received. There is one other matter she wishes us to express: cheap as articles are in this city, she cannot procure ten dollars' worth of any articles for five dollars.

Since writing the above, another case has occurred. A lady sent on for materials for a dress, and the same to be made up. The order and money were received on Monday. On Wednesday, early in the morning, an order was received to deliver the dress to the bearer. The people of Philadelphia are pretty smart; but dressmakers—good ones—are perfect autocrats. They are like what the lover said of fathers: "they have flinty hearts; no tears can move them." From one to two weeks is necessary to have a dress made.

LADIES all, do put the State your town is in when you write.

"Mrs. M. E. C."—Sent apron pattern and music on 21st.

"Miss M. S. G."—Sent all your goods in one large box by Adams's Express on 22d, and sent you receipt by mail.

"Mrs. J. H."—Sent patterns on 22d.

"Mrs. A. P."—Sent patterns on 22d.

"Mrs. B."—Sent patterns on 22d.

"Mrs. E. C."—Sent patterns on 23d.

"S. E. A."—Sent shawl by Adams's Express 24th.

"Eustatia A."—We have more of your No. 1 inquiry than we can use in three years. In answer to question 2, our own cotton has entirely superseded Evans's. Can furnish you at 8 cents a spool. Remittance received and "Book" sent.

"C. F. B."—Sent materials for dress by Adams & Co. on 25th.

"Mrs. S. J. F."—Sent patterns by mail on 25th.

"A. L. M."—Pronounced Gódey; accent on first syllable.

"N. W."—Sent bracelets by mail on 27th.

When information is asked, a stamp must be inclosed to pay return postage.

"A Subscriber," at Fredericksburg, O.—Answer by Fashion Editor: Only plain colors. Send $1.50, and I will send you a pattern of a dress. The watch-pocket should be on the left side; they are made plain, as they are on the inside of the dress, and not seen.

"Miss R. W. T."—Sent patterns on the 27th.

"Miss A. L. O."—Sent brushes by Kinsley & Co. on the 28th.

"Miss A. P."—"Spectator," one volume $2.50, in six volumes $9. Have nothing to do with eye-cups.

"Miss A. B. H."—Sent two parasols by Kinsley's Express on 28th.

"Mrs. M."—Black velvet.

"Mrs. N. M. T."—Sent jewelry by mail 29th.

"Miss A. H."—Can get at White & Co. any kind of bonnet you may want.

"J. W. L."—Sent patterns and Condor Pen by mail 28th.

"Mrs. J. C. T."—Sent patterns on the 28th.

"M. T."—Sent patterns on the 28th.

"S. E. D."—Sent patterns on the 28th.

"S. F."—Sent gold pen on the 28th.

"S. H. D."—Sent articles by mail on 30th.

"Mrs. J. B. B."—Sent patterns on the 1st.

"Miss S. F. L."—Sent patterns on the 1st.

"Mrs. L. L. G."—Sent box by Adams's Express on 1st.

"H. C. P."—Sent chart by mail on 4th.

"W. L. A."—The two bonnets delivered to Dr. A., April 4, '54.

"Mrs. S. H. A."—Sent bonnet by Adams & Co., April 4, '54.

"J. C. W."—Sent box by Adams & Co. on 5th.

"Miss C. V. J."—Sent box by Adams & Co. on 5th.

"Miss J. H."—Sent needles on the 7th.

"H. E. G."—Sent pattern on the 7th.

"New Bedford."—We were obliged to paste your name on the back of letter; could not make it out. It is not pleasant, we know; but every lady should write her name plain, and put before it Miss or Mrs., as the case may be.

"Mrs. C. B."—Sent patterns by Adams's Express on 8th.

"Mrs. T. S. S."—Sent patterns by mail on 11th.

"Mrs. J. C. C."—Sent patterns by mail on 11th.

"Mrs. S. W. B."—Sent patterns by mail on 12th.

"Mrs. D. E. H."—Sent blonde by mail on 12th.

"Mrs. M. T."—Sent patterns and cotton by mail on 13th.

"A. M. M."—Sent patterns by mail on 13th.

"Mrs. M. L. C."—Sent patterns by Adams & Co. on 13th.

"Mrs. J. B. H.," California.—Sent jewelry and patterns by mail on 15th.

"An Old Subscriber," Detroit.—Can you inform us in or about what number the crochet alphabet was published? Perhaps we can supply you the numbers. Many thanks for your good wishes.

"Ella H."—We will publish it in our July number.

"A. H. O."—Gold spectacles sent by mail 17th.

"Miss C. L. B."—To engrave and publish the diagram you request will cost us $50, and we can send you a pattern that will only cost you $1.25.

"Mrs. General P."—Sent patterns by mail on 17th.

No orders attended to unless the cash accompanies them.

All persons requiring answers by mail must send a post-office stamp.

"The wicked borroweth and payeth not again."

THE "Southern Sentinel" says: "We do not see how the ladies can do without this admirable work." They don't; those who are not subscribers borrow. It is a fair calculation to suppose that there are at least five persons who read each number of the "Lady's Book." Now, as we have only 80,000 subscribers, this would make 400,000 readers, 320,000 of whom borrow the "Book."

"GODEY AGAIN.—'Have you received the Lady's Book for April?' says a lady friend to us. 'Really,' she continued. 'I do think that GODEY is the most enterprising and shrewd publisher in the Union. He is always "ahead of time," and I can hardly wait even then! Will you lend it to me as soon as it comes?' Of course, we wanted to accommodate a friend—and especially awkward was it to say no to a lady; but we told her that we wanted to keep them neat and clean for binding, and gently hinted that for $3 she could get it without being dependent upon the printer! After second thought, however, we have concluded to lend this incomparable number, making the borrower promise to immediately subscribe."—Palmyra Sentinel.

THE "Lawrence Journal" says:—

"We want to raise a club of about one hundred in Newcastle; so please hand in your names, with the cash, and hereafter don't ask us, or our better half, to lend it when you can get it for two dollars per annum."

THE "Manheim Sentinel" vows that he will not lend his number. "We have been already asked by several to lend ours, but our answer is, 'Ladies, we don't lend Godey.'"

THE "Newark Democrat" is positive. It says:—

"Remember, we can't lend our 'Book.' Godey has interdicted it expressly."

"GODEY FOR MARCH.—We came very near forgetting our old friend and always welcome visitor, 'Godey's Lady's Book.' Our apology is that the ladies—bless their precious souls!—took possession of it instanter, and we have not seen it since. But in subsequent discussions of matters of feminine delicacy and taste, we have been reminded that GODEY is the primum mobile of fashion, and the oracle of parlor conversations. According to the ladies, he is a 'jewel'—with us, he is a 'trump.'"—Geo. Am. Union.

DECOMPOSITION OF WATER.—Take a grain of potassium, wrap it up in a small piece of thin paper, and introduce it into a test tube, or small phial, inverted under water, and full of the same fluid. It immediately rises to the top, and, combining with the oxygen of the water, an equivalent of hydrogen gas is given off, which expels the water from the tube or phial, and occupies its place. A lighted match brought to the mouth of the tube will prove the presence of the hydrogen.

THE ILLUMINATOR AND EXTINGUISHER.—Take three glass jars, of equal heights, the first containing common air, the second carbonic acid gas, and the third oxygen gas; plunge, successively, a lighted candle into these jars, first into that holding common air, then into the carbonic acid, and, lastly, into the oxygen gas. In the jar containing atmospheric air, the candle will burn with ordinary brightness; in that filled with carbonic acid gas, the flame will be instantly extinguished, but the glowing wick will be relighted in the oxygen, and burn with increased brilliancy.

MINERAL CHAMELEON.—If one part of the oxide of manganese, and three parts of the nitrate of potass, be heated to redness in a crucible till no more oxygen gas be given off (the heat must be very considerable), a friable green powder is obtained, generally known by the name of mineral chameleon, from its property of changing color during its solution in water. If a small quantity of the powder be put into a glass of water, it soon forms a green solution, when it passes into a violet hue; and lastly it becomes of a beautiful red color. If put into warm water, the changes take place more rapidly, and are much more diversified. Mineral chameleon is a manganate of potass, and it rapidly absorbs oxygen from the atmosphere. The changes of color that occur are owing to the different degrees of oxidizement of the metal.

ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS IN MAY NUMBER.

16. Eternity. 17. Flea. 18. Prayer-book. 19. A bullet.

ENIGMAS.

20.

I COME from Nova Zembla's coast,
Greenland's realms of ice and frost,
Where the Arctic's waters white
Glisten in the moon's chill light;
Where the sunbeam's ardent ray
Burns but for a single day.
O'er the "living and the dead"
I my restless course have sped,
And many a work of woe, I ween,
Showeth where my flight hath been.
At a noble's dwelling, rich and high,
A beggar waited, with downcast eye;
His timeworn locks were silvery white,
And he prayed for shelter a single night;
But the haughty menials within the wall
Heeded not his weary call.
I breathed on him with my icy breath,
And lo! his limbs were stiff in death!
A pale young mother by want opprest
Clasped her babe to her aching breast;
I listened as in accents wild,
She prayed that God would save her child.
Then I swept along in the hurricane's play,
While skylit torches illumed my way.

With the shade of my measureless wing I embraced

That mother and child, and they both are at rest.

I hurried me on in the tempest's black car,

With the thunder to herald my coming afar;

I stayed not, nor stopped till I reached the broad main,

Where I lashed the bright waves till they maddened with pain.

I call to the clouds; at my voice they arise,

And ope, at my bidding, the gates of the skies.

No law have I but to work my will;

And where is the power that can bid me "Be still?"

LUCIA C. PENDLETON.

21.

OF brethren seven
The youngest by birth,
But, favored by heaven,
I'm chiefest on earth.

I'm regarded with love
By my friends good and wise,
And am honored above
Every crown 'neath the skies

There's a charm in my name,
All so radiant and pure,
That my canonized fame
With the world must endure.

Such a glory I shed
Upon each mundane scene—
On the dungeon of dread,
Or the court of the queen.

The fair landscape I gild
For contemplative eyes,
As all nature seems filled
With a radiance they prize.

My six brothers, in twin,
May bring riches and pleasure,
But in me you'll discern
That unparalleled treasure—

That alleviates care,
That reanimates labor,
And man's peace should repair
With his God and his neighbor.

22.

A WARRIOR and a man I am,
And gallant fame have I;
Yet my humanity's a sham,
For I neither live nor die.

DOMESTIC RECEIPTS.

EGGS AND OMELETTES.

TO CHOOSE EGGS.—In choosing eggs, hold them to the light; if they are clear, they are fresh; if they are thick, they are stale; if they have a black spot attached to the shell, they are worthless. Eggs should be new, or not more than twenty-four hours old, when they are stored, else their flavor cannot be relied on. The safest mode of choosing them is by holding them to the light of a candle. Unless an egg is perfectly fresh, it is unfit for any purpose. Bought eggs ought always to be suspected; therefore, let an earthen pan be kept with charcoal or lime-water to put them in. The longer they are kept in it the better they will be, as these waters destroy must, and even corruption. You may try the freshness of eggs by putting them in a pan of cold water. Those that sink the soonest are the freshest. Eggs may be preserved a short time by putting them in a jar of salt or lime-water, with the small ends downwards. The salt should not afterwards be used. They may be preserved several months by greasing them all over with melted mutton suet, and wedging them close together in a box of bran. The small ends always downwards.

TO KEEP EGGS FOR WINTER USE.—Pour a full gallon of boiling water on two quarts of quicklime and half a pound of salt; when cold, mix it into an ounce of cream of tartar. The day following put in the eggs. After the lime has been stirred well into the boiling water, a large part of it will settle at the bottom of the vessel, on which the eggs will remain. Keep them covered with the liquor, and they will keep for two years.

TO BOIL EGGS TO EAT IN THE SHELLS, OR FOR SALADS.—The fresher laid the better; put them into boiling water; if you like the white just set, about two minutes' boiling is long enough; a new-laid egg will take a little longer; if you wish the yolk to be set, it will take three, and to boil it hard for a salad, ten minutes. A new-laid egg will require boiling longer than a stale one, by half a minute.

POACHED EGGS.—The beauty of a poached egg is for the yolk to be seen blushing through the white, which should only be just sufficiently hardened to form a transparent veil for the egg. Have some boiling water in a teakettle; pass as much of it through a clean cloth as will half fill a stewpan; break the egg into a cup, and when the water boils, remove the stewpan from the stove, and gently slip the egg into it; it must stand till the white is set; then put it over a very moderate fire, and as soon as the water boils, the egg is ready; take it up with a slice, and neatly round off the raged edges of the white; send it to table on bread toasted on one side only, with or without butter.

TO POACH EGGS IN THE FRYING-PAN.—Put very little butter, oil, or top-pot into the frying-pan; break the eggs gently into a deep cup, of the size the egg is to be of, sometimes smaller, sometimes larger; with a quick slight turn of the hand, turn the cup over with the egg into the pan, and leave the cup upon it, and continue to turn over the cups till all the eggs are put in; the fire must be very slow. When the first egg has taken, raise the cup a little to ascertain it. They must be done very slowly, otherwise the under part will be overdone. Dress them over parsley, spinach, or on toasted bread.

CUPPED EGGS.—Put a spoonful of very nice high-seasoned brown gravy into each cup; set the cups in a saucepan of boiling water, and, when the gravy heats, drop a fresh egg into each cup; take off the saucepan, and cover it close till the eggs are nicely and tenderly cooked; dredge them with very fine mace, or nutmeg and salt. Serve them in a hot-water plate, covered with a napkin.

ŒUFS BROUILLES.—Break four or six eggs; beat them and put them into a saucepan with a piece of butter, a little salt, and a spoonful of sauce or gravy, which makes the eggs softer; stir them over the fire until sufficiently thick; serve on a plate garnished with toasted bread. To eggs dressed in this way, ham, mushrooms, &c., minced, may be added. The difference between this and an omelette is, that an omelette is compact and turns out smooth, whereas œufs brouillés are less done, and are, therefore, broken. In Ireland, where it is in general use, it is usually served upon hot buttered toast, and is there called "buttered eggs." It is also very common in France, where it is usually served for breakfast.

Or: Butter a dish well, and sprinkle it with salt; then break the eggs very carefully, so as not to disturb the yolk; add a little more salt, and some white pepper; melt a small quantity of butter, and pour it gently over, with one or two spoonfuls of cream. Put the dish over a slow fire, and finish the eggs by covering them with a red-hot shovel.

SOUFFLE FRANCAISE.—Put into a stewpan one ounce of butter; when melted, add two table-spoonfuls of flour; stir them well over the fire, so that the flour be thoroughly cooked, but not colored; add by degrees a wineglass of boiling cream, and four times that quantity of boiling milk; work it quite smooth, take it off the fire, add four yolks of eggs, sugar to palate, a grain of salt, and a table-spoonful of orange-flower water; whip up strongly the whites of eight eggs, mix them lightly in the batter, put the whole into a soufflé-dish, and bake for an hour. The flavor of this souffle may be varied according to fancy, omitting the orange-flower water, and substituting either vanilla, curacoa, noyeau, maraschino, chocolate, coffee, &c.

A COMMON OMELETTE.—From four to eight very fresh eggs may be used for this, according to the sized dish required. Half a dozen will generally be sufficient. Break them singly and carefully; clear them, or, when they are sufficiently whisked, pour them through a sieve, and resume the beating until they are very light. Add to them from half to a whole teaspoonful of salt, and a seasoning of pepper. Dissolve in a small frying-pan a couple of ounces of butter; pour in the eggs, and as soon as the omelette is well risen and firm throughout, slide it on to a hot dish, fold it together like a turnover, and serve it immediately. From five to seven minutes will fry it.

A SWEET OMELETTE WITH PRESERVE.—Beat up four eggs with a little salt; add sugar; fry the omelette in fresh butter, make a half pound of preserve liquid by shaking it in a little water over the fire; spread half upon the omelette, double it up, and pour the remainder over the top.

FRENCH OMELETTE.—Beat up four eggs with a table-spoonful of milk, a little salt and pepper; put two ounces of fresh butter in the pan, and let it remain for five minutes; beat the eggs for the same time; pour them into the pan, and let them remain quiet for a few minutes, taking care to separate the omelette gently from the bottom of the pan with a fork; now shake it to keep it from burning at the bottom. It will not take more than five minutes in cooking. Chopped parsley, shallot, or grated ham may be added.

THE SICK ROOM AND NURSERY.

FAINTING.—In cases of fainting, apply to the nostrils and temples some spirits of compound spirits of ammonia, and give a few drops in a wineglass of water inwardly.

LINSEED TEA.—Pour a quart of boiling water on one ounce of linseed, bruised, and half an ounce of sliced liquorice-root; let it stand in a covered vessel near the fire four or five hours; then strain.

CHILBLAIN LOTION.—Mix two ounces of sal-ammoniac with a pint of water.

TO MAKE BARLEY-WATER.—Well wash two ounces of pearl barley; boil it a few minutes in half a pint of water, which is to be thrown away; then add four pints of boiling water; keep it boiling till two only are left, and strain. A small quantity of lemon-juice may be added.

WORM POWDER.—Take of rhubarb and jalap, each fifteen grains, and mix with them four grains of calomel; take in honey.

THE NAUSEOUS TASTE OF MEDICINE PREVENTED.—By chewing aromatic substances, such as orange or lemon-peel, cloves or other spice, before taking medicine, little or no taste will be perceived. The mouth can also be thus prepared beforehand by a peppermint lozenge, or even a lump of sugar.

ALMOND PASTE.—Half a pound of bitter almonds; two ounces of raisins, stoned and well pounded in a mortar till they become quite a paste. Add a small wineglassful of French brandy, and rather less than half a glass of fine sweet oil. Beat it well, and put it in a pot for use.

LAVENDER WATER.—One pint of the best rectified spirits of wine, one ounce of oil of lavender, one teaspoonful of ambergris, and half an ounce of bergamot.

FOR CHAPPED HANDS.—Mix a quarter of a pound of unsalted hog's lard, which has been washed in common and then rose-water, with the yolks of two new-laid eggs and a large spoonful of honey. Add as much fine oatmeal or almond-paste as will work it into a proper consistence, and rub in well before going to bed.

A GOOD DENTIFRICE is equal parts of powdered myrrh, chalk, and orris-root.

THE black spots on the face are occasioned by obstructions in the skin. Rubbing well with soap and flannel is better than the application of spirit. Pressing on the spots firmly with the spill of a watch-key will sometimes cause the black marks to come out. Friction will prevent their occurring, as they are occasioned by languid circulation and a want of frequent scrubbing. In such a state of the skin, frequent warm bathing would be beneficial.

MANAGEMENT OF THE FINGER NAILS.—According to European fashion, they should be of an oval figure, transparent, without specks or ridges of any kind; the semilunar fold, or white half-circle, should be fully developed, and the pellicle, or cuticle which forms the configuration around the root of the nails, thin and well defined, and, when properly arranged, should represent as nearly as possible the shape of a half-filbert. The proper management of the nails is to cut them of an oval shape, corresponding with the form of the fingers; they should not be allowed to grow too long, as it is difficult to keep them clean; nor too short, as it allows the ends of the fingers to become flattened and enlarged by being pressed upwards against the nails, and gives them a clumsy appearance. The epidermis, which forms the semicircle round the nail, and adheres to it, requires particular attention, as it is frequently dragged on with its growth, drawing the skin below the nail so tense as to cause it to crack and separate into what are called agnails. This is easily remedied by carefully separating the skin from the nail by a blunt, half-round instrument. Many persons are in the habit of continually cutting this pellicle, in consequence of which it becomes exceeding irregular, and often injurious to the growth of the nail. They also frequently pick under the nails with a pin, penknife, or the point of sharp scissors, with the intention of keeping them clean, by doing which they often loosen them, and occasion considerable injury. The nails should be cleansed with a brush not too hard; and the semicircular skin should not be cut away, but only loosened, without touching the quick, the fingers being afterwards dipped in tepid water, and the skin pushed back with a towel. This method, which should be practised daily, will keep the nails of a proper shape, prevent agnails, and the pellicles from thickening or becoming rugged. When the nails are naturally rugged or ill-formed, the longitudinal ridges or fibres should be scraped and rubbed with lemon, afterwards rinsed in water, and well dried with the towel; but if the nails are very thin, no benefit will be derived by scraping; on the contrary, it might cause them to split. If the nails grow more to one side than the other, they should be cut in such a manner as to make the point come as nearly as possible in the centre of the end of the finger.

COSTLY CHINA.

HAVING seen much of primitive districts ourselves, where "china" is known as crockery, and dinner sets are "dishes," we can tell how incredible it will seem to some of our more remote readers, when we tell them there is a single set in our city now on sale, at the price of two thousand dollars. The cost of a small farm swallowed up in one set of dinner dishes, liable to breakage, too—more liable than less precious ware. We quite agree with a favorite handmaid, to whom the advertisement was read—

"La, ma'am, I shouldn't like to have the washin' and handlin' of 'em."

Imagine the ease with which the possessor of this treasure would preside over his table, with his property at the mercy of careless or hurried waiting-men; his most elegant courtesies cut short by the imminent danger of a soup-tureen, valued at fifty dollars; the point of his choicest bon mot lost by the capsizing of a gravy-boat. Better a dinner of herbs, from white stone ware, so far as equanimity is concerned.

As a work of art—for only a true artist could design these graceful shapes and trace the exquisite designs—the set cannot be too highly valued, and the owners of the palatial residences on Fifth Avenue, who have their billiard-rooms and bowling-saloons, their picture-galleries, and their stables grained in oak, might thank the good taste of the importer, who has placed such a gem within their reach. Rare china, in these luxurious days, is a fashion and a taste which our fashionable circles are just beginning to cultivate. Collecting it has long been a favorite pursuit abroad with those whose wealth would permit so expensive a hobby. What will be thought of a sale like this, which we copy from an English print?—

"The chief attraction of the sale at Bedford Lodge, the late residence of the Duchess of Bedford, was a collection of rare old Sèvres, Dresden, and other porcelain, and some magnificent specimens of the now almost obsolete Chelsea ware, together with a number of very fine old marqueterie cabinets. Among the more remarkable lots sold may be instanced a set of three small toilet-cases of rare old Chelsea ware (measuring only four or five inches square), mazarine blue ground, richly embellished in gold, with birds and flowers, which realized, after an active competition, two hundred guineas; a pair of fine old Chelsea china vase-shaped candelabras, painted in figures and flowers, on a turquoise ground, sold for seventy guineas; a pair of elegant small Sèvres vases, with handles, on white fluted pedestals, forty-nine guineas; a cabinet of turquoise Sèvres, consisting of plateau, a two-handled cup and saucer, and a sugar-bowl and cover, delicately painted, with cupids, camaien pink, fifty-five guineas; a superb Sèvres vase, with handles, lapis blue ground, richly decorated with gold, and painted with medallion portraits, in grisaille, and garlands of flowers. This beautiful vase, which stands about thirteen inches high, realized one hundred and fifty-six guineas; two Dresden vases, with handles of elegant form, and painted with flowers, forty guineas; a Palissey ware candelabra, for four lights, and supported by néreides and masks, sold for fourteen guineas; a sculptured hand, with a bunch of grapes, in statuary marble, realized seventeen guineas; a jewel casket, with ormolu enrichments and Sèvres plaques on each side, painted with landscape and figures of a female at a fountain, forty-two guineas; a fine jewel casket, composed of plaques of rare Oriental enamelled china painted, with ormolu, fifty-eight guineas; a superb Sèvres écuelle, with cupids and bouquets of flowers, delicately pencilled in camaien pink, seventeen guineas; two fine old Dresden verrières, richly gilt borders, and painted with birds, fifteen guineas; a large Dresden ink tray, of the finest period, with scroll borderings, nineteen guineas."

A CONSIDERATION.

"SERVANTS are such a trial!" is now the general complaint. Mrs. A. has five cooks in one winter; Mrs. B. changes her chambermaid every month; Mrs. C.'s nurse neglects the baby; and Mrs. D.'s waiter is impertinent to her mistress and cross to the children. To hear a knot of ladies discuss their respective domestic grievances, one would suppose that there was no honesty of purpose and little ability left among "those of our own household." And yet in the old times which we now look upon as dark ages, in the days of our youth, when we should have been learning better lessons than idleness and extravagance, servants grew old and gray-haired in the employment of one family.

It can not be all the fault of those in service. If those who complain the most would spend half the time wasted in talking over their trials, in gaining the interest, and enlightening the ignorance of their servants, half their lamentations would be spared. Many an indifferent cook might be made capable and grateful with a little instruction, and the impertinence and idling often come from a spirit fretted by accumulated task-work, that should have been arranged to a methodical routine.

There is a good lesson worth laying to heart in the memorable last words of Justice Talfourd, the wise jurist and elegant poet. It will be remembered that he died the past spring, in the discharge of his judicial duties, in the midst of an appeal from the bench for sympathy with those we employ:—

"I am afraid we all keep too much aloof from those beneath us, and whom we encourage to look upon us with suspicion and dislike. Even to our servants, we think perhaps that we fulfil our duty when we perform our contract with them; when we pay them their wages and treat them with the civility consistent with our habits and feelings; when we curb our temper and use no violent expressions towards them. But how painful is the thought that there are men and women growing up around us, ministering to our comforts and necessities, continually inmates of our dwellings, with whose affections and natures we are as much unacquainted as if they were the inhabitants of some other sphere. This feeling, arising from that kind of reserve peculiar to the English character, does, I think, greatly tend to prevent that reciprocation of kind words and gentle affections, gracious admonitions and kind inquiries, which often, more than any book education, tend to the culture of the affections of the heart, refinement and elevation of the character of those to whom they are addressed."

EVERY LADY HER OWN DRESSMAKER.

A NICE time we should have of it, in the spring and fall, if some ingenious "Singer" would invent a machine that would cut and fit our own and our children's dresses. With the aid of Godey's "How to Make a Dress," the agony of weeks would be over in a few days, and wardrobes and closets have their full supply of dresses, jackets, and aprons. In the absence of this useful domestic aid, several parties have done their best to simplify the process of measuring and fitting that every one dreads to go through with, whether they stand up to it themselves or exhaust entreaties and commands to make the younger members of the flock "keep still" under the trying ordeal of pins and scissors.

Among the best of these methods, the simplest and most expeditious that we have seen are the dress charts of Madame Demorest, to whose establishment we have made frequent allusion, for ladies and children. Three measures only are taken, the pencil, chart, and paper put in requisition, and the thing is done. Madame D. evidently "keeps a poet," from the verses which we find on the back of her circular. Listen to "the consummation devoutly to be wished for" by all who dread fall and spring dressmaking:—

"Dressmakers made artists by this magical chart,

All flee from the old tedious and wearisome art;

A pleasure succeeds to what once was a task,

As they fashion the jacket, the bodice, and basque.

Each lady with skill now may cut her own dresses,

When she once the Excelsior Dress Model possesses;

Of good taste and model she only asks aid,

And a beautiful garment is speedily made.

"While sitting content in her snug sewing-chair,

We see the fond mother the dresses prepare.

She calls up her children and fits them so neatly

By the children's dress chart that has charmed her completely."

Even the old lady "that lived in a shoe" would find her way out of the difficulties in which she is historically enveloped, by the aid of this magic chart, if it effects half that is promised for it.

ORNAMENTS.

AS many of our lady readers know, there is generally a rage for some one stone, or style of setting, in jewelry. We do not speak of costly sets, as pearl or diamonds, but of those accessible to ordinary purchasers.

The topaz had its day, and was succeeded by turquoise; for a time every one, without regard to complexion, wore brooch and ear-rings of cerulean blue. Then garnets; then enamel of blue or green; and now, with a proper mixture of pearl, garnet and enamel, turquoise being entirely out of date, coral ornaments seem to be the favorites.

We mentioned, in a late number, the costly sets found at Ball & Black's, imitating flowers and fruit. When last coral was in vogue, the carvings were more in the style of cameo cuttings, as figures, heads, etc., in medallion, and of the dark red hue generally seen in the necklaces of infants. White and rose color are now the favorite shades. There are many new designs in setting; a branch highly polished, for instance, encircled in coils of gold; a single blossom or fruit, as a pear or a fuchsia, set in the same way, and forming the centre of the pin, or the drop of the ear-ring. A very pretty brooch—we speak now of simple ornaments—in this style costs from seven to twelve dollars.

Garnets are sometimes set on a glowing red or crimson ground, which gives them a singular flashing, vivid color. One of the favorite designs is in imitation of the section of a branch or stem of a tree, encrusted with gold and garnets. These are, of course, large and showy brooches. We have seen a few encrusted with turquoise in the same style. Enamelled ornaments are still worn, but are not so much the rage as for a few years past. For mourning brooches, see the fashion article of the present month.

Pearls are still in high favor with those whose purses and whose complexions can afford them.

THE NURSERY-BASKET.

IT is as well to mention in our chat the reason of the unavoidable delay of the promised volume on nursery matters, announced some three months since. Its design and scope were altered when the illustrations and much of the text were prepared, which has delayed its appearance. It is, however, now nearly ready, and will be forwarded as early as possible to the numerous subscribers who have sent us their orders. They will scarcely regret the delay, when the volume in its present form reaches them. If, however, there are any who are tired of waiting "for the play to commence," they can have the price of tickets refunded at the office—or, to speak plainly, we will willingly return any moneys received in advance, if any desire it, by sending post-office stamps to the amount. However, our readers need not fear that their claims will be forgotten as soon as the book is ready. It will be found simple, practical, and reliable in its various directions for the preparation of an infant's wardrobe, short clothes, flannels, etc. etc.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

WOOD-CUTTING is not so difficult as our correspondent, "L.," seems to imagine, and seems to us especially adapted to be an employment for females. It has been taught successfully in the Philadelphia School of Design. She is right in thinking it the first established. A history of its commencement and progress has been already given in the "Lady's Book." The designs for wood-cutting are drawn on the block, usually of pear-tree wood, made as smooth as satin letter-paper. The designer is not always, or often the engraver.

"A BOARDER" will find it very convenient to make chintz covers to her trunks, if she has no place to pack them. They are very simple, and effectually disguise travelling boxes, transforming them to ottomans and lounges. She has only to purchase furniture chintz at twelve and a half cents a yard, fit a piece to the top of the trunk, and run a plain flounce the height of the sides around it. This will leave one end seam to be closed. A binding of worsted or cotton braid, some neat dark color, gives a finish to the chintz, and is run on the top seam around the trunk, and down the four corners. This gives it still more the appearance of an ottoman or lounge, as their covers are made in the same way. Many housekeepers have boxes made in this way, to contain silver or bed linen, where closet room is needed.

"MRS. N.," of Rose Hill, Ga.—A lambrequin is the fall or top piece of a curtain; see any of Carryl's advertisements in the "Lady's Book." It is generally of a heavy material, as damask, satin laine, etc., finished with gimp, or cords and tassels. In a summer country house, where heavy curtains are not needed, a lambrequin depending from the cornice gives a finish to lace or muslin draperies. We should advise her to order them.

"MRS. GEO. P."—The appearance of the gum probably was the result of injury from a hard substance, an ivory or wooden plaything, possibly. Some children do not get any teeth before they are a year old, though six months is usually looked upon as the commencement of dentition. In selecting a baby's toys, it is necessary to see that they are not hard enough to hurt the mouth, or rough, so as to scratch and inflame it, as a child naturally tries to bite everything it can lay hands on. Common cheap toys are objectionable, as the paint comes off on the mouth and face. A plain ring of bone or ivory, tied by a broad string of tape or ribbon to a child's waist, will amuse it for hours, and is perfectly safe. Knit dolls are excellent, and the old style "rag baby" is worth a dozen of wax or composition. If a child has a plaything that will be likely to scratch its mouth or put out its eyes, it should be held by the nurse or mother, and never trusted to its powerless little hands.

"THE READING CIRCLE OF E., PA.," will find "Markland," by the author of "Margaret Maitland," and the "Memoir of Mrs. Ware," added to their list. We think the plan an excellent one; and, as the books are to be taken in turn when read through, do not see how any ill feeling can grow out of it. We should advise them to take "Household Words," if they can afford but one English magazine.

"MRS. S."—Flannel will not answer the purpose. A half handkerchief of oiled silk, bound with ribbon or flannel binding. Nursery aprons of gingham or chintz, with an oil-silk lining, are much used.

"A. L. S."—For grafting, we have seen the following highly recommended in a paper read before a State agricultural society: Two-thirds resin to one of common beeswax. It will not melt or run.

"A YOUNG AUTHOR" has need of "good courage." In presenting his MSS. to a publisher, send it by express or post, prepaid, with a plain, sensible letter on the subject of the book, and leave it to him or his editor to praise it. Never say "that a partial friend, or friends, advise its publication." If you wish it done, you need offer no excuse; if not, keep it to yourself. Do not expect to make a fortune on your first venture. If you can have it printed free of expense, it is all you ought reasonably to expect. Many are glad to do this. Remember that poems rarely pay for print and binding at the present time, and no young writer can be a finished and original essayist. The essay, above all other forms of composition, needs purity of style, original thought, acute observation, and wide experience.

"MRS. K.," of White Plains.—We would recommend "Kane's Arctic Expedition," and "St. Herndon's Valley of the Amazon;" they are the most popular recent books of travel, and suitable for family reading.

"ALICE" will find we have attended to her request. Cambric sets are still fashionable.

NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS.

Having had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, etc., by ladies living at a distance, the Editress of the Fashion Department will hereafter execute commissions for any who may desire it, with the charge of a small percentage for the time and research required. Bridal wardrobes, spring and autumn bonnets, dresses, jewelry, bridal cards, cake-boxes, envelopes, etc. etc., will be chosen with a view to economy, as well as taste; and boxes or packages forwarded by express to any part of the country. For the last, distinct directions must be given.

Orders, accompanied by checks for the proposed expenditure, to be addressed to the care of L. A. Godey, Esq., who will be responsible for the amount, and the early execution of commissions.

No order will be attended to unless the money is first received.

Instructions to be as minute as is possible, accompanied by a note of the height, complexion, and general style of the person, on which much depends in choice. Dress goods from Levy's or Stewart's; cloaks, mantillas, or talmas, from Brodie's, 51 Canal Street, New York; bonnets from Miss Wharton's; jewelry from Bailey's or Warden's, Philadelphia, or Tiffany's, New York, if requested.

DESCRIPTION OF FASHIONS FOR JUNE.

Fig. 1st.—Walking-dress of green taffeta, a skirt and basque. The skirt is made on a band, very full, long, and plain. The basque is close, and much sloped at the hip. It will be noticed that it is very long, approaching the size of the velvet street basques worn last summer. Sleeves demi-long, and flowing, finished with three ruffles, pinked. Large collar of cambric embroidery. Bonnet of drawn taffeta, the same shade as the dress, a light plume at the right. A simple full cap of blonde inside the brim. Rich scarf, oriental style.

Fig. 2d.—A graceful and serviceable riding-dress, one of the best styles we have had for several seasons, being at once suited to the road and becoming to the figure. The skirt is on a band, or under waist, the ordinary fulness and length. The jacket, with its coat sleeves and rolling collar, fits the figure easily, and rounds over the hips into a short basque. A buff chemisette, in the fashion of a close vest, finished by upright linen collar and small flat necktie. Beaver hat and plume, the crown rather higher than has been worn of late. The material may be either habit cloth, cashmere, or merino. Habit cloth, being heavier, seems more serviceable for the road, and keeps in place better.

CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS FOR JUNE.

This is the favorite month in the year for the display of light and airy styles in our Atlantic cities, the few who have gone to their country houses in advance of the season being replaced by the arrival of Southern and Western belles, refitting at Stewart's, Levy's, Lawson's, Miss Wharton's, and every other fashionable establishment, for the summer campaign at Saratoga and Newport. Every resident has her favorite spring walking-dress, in which to pay her last round of calls, when she leaves her P. P. C., and is "not at home," until autumn comes again, to her dear five hundred friends.

These street dresses are mostly silks, varying from the rich dark poplins and moir antique to the lighter glacé stripes and plaids, or the India foulards, with their close glossy folds. The heavier silks are usually entirely plain in the skirt; even poult de soie, the heavy plain-colored silk that comes next to a poplin in richness of effect, has usually only a deep hem at the bottom of the skirt. The basques and sleeves have all the novelties of style and decoration. For these there are new galloons and ribbons appearing daily, matching the silks in shade, or used as a contrast, as taste may dictate. Velvet uncut, plain, and embossed; moir antique, richly watered; brocaded and embroidered ribbons, varying from one to three inches in width, are used for these heavier stuffs, which are now nearly out of season.

The lighter silks are in stripes and plaids of infinite variety. Green and violet seem to be the favorite shades. These are made with flounces, usually three, nearly the same width, the top one measuring the same from the top of the skirt. Fringe in alternate stripes, to correspond with the silk, is used where much trimming is desired on the edge of these flounces, or they may be simply bound or pinked. Pinking is used more than of late, and, in every establishment where it is done, there are a great variety of patterns, many of them elaborate. We have seen a very tasteful walking-dress, of violet and white plaid—a "quadrilled" silk, the manufacturer calls it—made with three flounces as above, the basque trimmed with fringe (alternate white and violet, instead of being mixed, as was the style) three inches deep. This was, in turn, headed by violet satin ribbon an inch wide, box-plaited on, and continuing around the front of the corsage. The sleeves were flowing, with three rows of fringe much narrower, but exactly corresponding, also headed by the plaiting, and fastened on the inside by a knot of rich brocaded ribbon with flowing ends. This, of course, had an exceedingly elegant effect, and could only be worn by a tall, full figure. We describe it to show how elaborate and costly the trimming of dresses are made the present season, while the materials, silks, tissues, barèges, etc., remain much the same as the past year. Box-plaited ribbons, whether plain, pearl-edged satin, brocaded, or plaided, are much used. It is usual to allow twice and a half the desired length of the trimming in purchasing them. Bows of broader and more expensive ribbon are still used for the sleeves and front of the corsage.

For thin materials, as barège, tissues, etc., in all the fanciful names by which they are called, most of which are manufactured by the importers' clerks, there is every variety of trimming in the shape of gauze ribbons. They have usually a coarse thread in the plain edge, by which they can be drawn up into quillings, ruches, and even box-plaitings. So many yards are used in a full trimming, and it is so expensive, never less, and usually more than a quarter of a dollar a yard, that the trimming and making often cost as much, and even more than the original material.

No city dressmaker, with any pretence to a good style, will undertake to make a dress for less than three dollars. In the really fashionable shops, $4 75 is the charge for making a basque waist, apart from the skirt—silk, buttons, all trimmings charged separately in the bill; so that you have from seven to nine, and even fifteen dollars, to add to the cost of your two yards and a half of silk, the quantity usually purchased for a basque.

We have seen no more tasteful bonnets at any establishment than at Genin's bazaar, which, as most of our readers know, has been elegantly fitted up, and so arranged as to be nearly double the original size, thus leaving plenty of room for a large millinery and dressmaking establishment, carrying out more fully the first design of Mr. Genin. The workwomen have two large and cheerful apartments assigned to them, and the show-room adjoining is always thronged. The nursery department has been removed to this more spacious suite, and the space below the dome is now filled by rows of industrious workers, with the silks and muslins they are manufacturing for the juveniles expressly.

Leghorn bonnets are still worn, though in July and August more dress hats of silk, crape, and lace will be seen. The Leghorns are in unusually good shapes, and trimmed very simply, either with straw, marabout plumes, or plain white ribbons. We speak of the prevailing styles; of course, many tastes are to be suited, and some people would flounce a moir antique with the same, if they thought it would look more expensive, and for this class of community ribbons and garlands cannot be too profuse even on a Leghorn, which, if handsome, is generally considered, like a rich silk, to "have no need of ornament." There is a profusion of plain straws of every shape and cost. We notice that they come close, or nearly so, under the chin, and the whole bonnet is a gradual slope from the brim to the crown. They are trimmed in every variety of style, ruches of narrow ribbon box-plaited on, numerous flat bows of ribbon an inch in width disposed as a wreath, etc. etc. Ribbons, as a general thing, are much narrower than the past season, and those long scarf-like strings are not considered in good taste. We have before spoken of the profusion of trimming inside the brim. Blonde caps—a narrow edge of blonde usually sewn upon a broad or wash-blonde lace—are usually almost invariably used to soften the effect of the flowers and ribbon bows that encircle the face. The flowers used are of the most delicate description, made of crape, in strict imitation of nature. Flag flowers, convolvulus, lilac sprays, field violets, and all the more delicate blossoms, are exquisitely reproduced.

FASHION.

Footnotes

[1] Hence the term employed by Liebig and his followers, eremacausis, or slow-burning.

[2] "The colorless, fresh-cut surfaces of a potato, of a turnip, or of an apple, when exposed to the air, soon become brown. In all such substances, the presence of a certain quantity of water, by which the molecules are enabled to move freely on one another, is a condition necessary to the production, by temporary contact with air, of a change in form and composition, a resolving of the original body into new products, which continues uninterrupted till no part of the original compound is left. This process has been distinguished by the name of putrefaction."—Liebig.

[3] The flour and biscuit which are taken out to sea in the British navy are packed in casks of wrought-iron. These were formerly painted, to prevent rust, and also to make them water-tight; but the paint was found to give a bad taste to the flour, &c., and they are now coated outside with a waterproof composition of caoutchouc, black resin, and Venice turpentine.

[4] Hereafter the subject of Perspective will be fully treated of; before Perspective can be mastered, it is absolutely necessary that the pupil should be able to sketch by the assistance of the eye.

[5] Anoonk, a star.

[6] The Indians of some tribes loose a bird over the grave of a friend, laden with caresses, which they believe will be borne to the departed one.

[7] The moving rays of the northern lights are supposed by them to be the souls of their people in glory.

[8] Succannesset, Indian name of Falmouth.

[9] Entered according to Act of Congress, by T. B. PETERSON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

[10] Dr. Faraday found that, by first exhausting the lungs by several deep exhalations, so as to expel the carbonic acid, and then taking a deep inspiration of fresh air, he was able to hold his breath for two minutes and a half.

[11] Sterne's Sermons.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES:

P. 486. 'Novado' changed to 'Novada'.

P. 501. 'toffe' changed to 'toffee'

P. 506. 'com' changed to 'come'.

P. 507. 'mocassin' changed to 'moccasin'.

P. 561. 'nna' changed to 'Anna'.

Fixed various punctuation.

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Table of Contents

- NOTE:

- GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, JUNE, 1854.

- THE PYRAMID TALMA.

- THE SCARF VOLANT.

- THE PALACE WALTZ.

- TABLE OF CONTENTS

- EMBELLISHMENTS, &c.

- EVERYDAY ACTUALITIES.—NO. XX.

- PRESERVATION OF FOOD.

- THE PEDESTRIAN TOUR.

- LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

- THE SIXTH LETTER LEFT.

- A SONG.

- GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.

- LESSON VI.

- CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.—JUNE.

- LEGEND OF LONG-POND; OR, LAKE OF THE GOLDEN CROSS.

- MRS. CLARK'S EXPERIENCE AS A SERVANT.

- TIME'S CHANGES; OR, FASHIONS IN THE OLDEN TIMES.

- A STRANGE INCIDENT.

- THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYMOW.

- NIAGARA.

- THE WILD FLOWERS OF THE MONTH.

- PHYSICAL TRAINING.

- PART I.

- THE TRIALS OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.[9]

- CHAPTER X.

- HISTORY OF PEARLS, NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL.

- ILLUMINATED, OR VELLUM-PAINTING.

- THE LAST KISS.

- SECRET LOVE.

- THE SCHOTTISCH PARTNER.

- TWO MOTHERS?

- A LOVING HEART.

- EVENING THOUGHTS.

- SONNET.—FLOWERS.

- MY TULIPS.

- THE DEAD TREE.

- LET ME DIE!

- LINES TO A BRONCHITIS BIRDIE.

- L'ISOLEMENT.

- TO A FRIEND ON THE DAY OF HIS MARRIAGE.

- CAPS AND HEADDRESS.

- JUVENILE FASHIONS

- FASHIONABLE BONNETS AND CAPS.

- CHINESE SAYINGS.

- BRAID FOR CHILD'S DRESS.

- WHY DON'T LADIES LEARN TO COOK?

- A LACE BASQUE.

- TRUTH.

- LADY'S RIDING BOOTS.

- LADY'S SLIPPER ON CLOTH.—SMYRNA EMBROIDERY.

- BREAD-CLOTH.

- EMBROIDERY.—DRESS COLLAR.

- PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY.

- DOMESTIC RECEIPTS.

- Footnotes

- TRANSCRIBER NOTES:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE