CHAPTER VII.

AS little Henry, after parting with his mother, hurried on by the side of Mr. Sharp, who took his way directly across the bridge leading over to Charleston, where he had left the chaise in which he had ridden from Lexington, a handsome carriage, containing a mother and three happy children, about the age of himself, Emma, and the sister who had just died, drove rapidly by. The children were full of spirits, and, in their thoughtless glee, called out gayly, but with words of ridicule, to the poor, meanly clad child, who was hurrying on at almost a run beside the man who had become his master. Their words, however, were heeded not by the full-hearted boy. His thoughts were going back to his home, and to his much-loved mother.

This incident is mentioned here, as a striking illustration of the practical working of that system of grinding the poor, especially poor females, by which many men make fortunes, or at least acquire far more than a simple competence for life. That carriage belonged to Berlaps, and those happy children were his. But how could he buy a carriage and horses, and build fine houses, and yet not be able to pay more than the meagre pittance for his work that the reader has seen doled out to his half-starving workwomen? How could his children be fed and clothed sumptuously every day, and the widow, who worked for him from early dawn until the silent watches of midnight, not be able to get wholesome bread and warm garments for her little ones, _unless he took more than his just share_ of the profits upon his goods? If he could only afford to pay seven cents for coarse shirts, and so on, in proportion, up through the entire list of articles made, how came it that the profits on these very articles enabled him to live in elegance, build houses, and keep his own carriage and horses?

Such questions apply not alone to the single instance of Berlaps, here introduced. They are pertinent in their application to all who add to their profits for the purpose of a grand aggregate, at the expense of reducing the pay, even a few cents, upon the hard toiling workwoman whose slender income, at best, is barely sufficient to procure the absolute necessaries of life. This cutting down of women's wages, until they are reduced to an incompetent pittance, is a system of oppression too extensive, alas! in this, as well as many other countries. It is one of the quiet and safe means by which the strong oppress the weak--by which the selfish build themselves up, cruelly indifferent to the sufferings of those who are robbed of a just compensation for their labor. The record of a conversation overheard between two of the class alluded to will illustrate this matter. They were tailors--or, rather, what are sometimes called slop-shop or clothing men. Let it not be supposed that tailors alone are the oppressors of workwomen. In most of the employments at which females engage, especially such as admit of a competition in labor, advantage is taken of the eager demands for work, and prices reduced to the lowest possible standard. In the eager scramble for monopolizing more than a just share of custom, or to increase the amount of sales by the temptation of extremely moderate rates, the prices of goods are put down to the lowest scale they will bear. If, in doing this, the dealer was content with a profit reduced in some proportion to the increase of his sales, no one would have a right to complain. He would be free to sell his goods at cost, or even below cost, if that suited his fancy. Instead of this, however, the profits on his articles are often the same that they were when prices were ten or fifteen per cent. higher, and he reaps the advantage of a greatly increased sale, consequent upon the more moderate rates at which he can sell. The evil lies in his cutting down his operatives' wages; in taking off of them, while they make no party to his voluntary reduction of prices, the precise amount that he throws in to his customer as a temptation to buy more freely. But to the promised dialogue:--

"Money don't come in hand-over-fist, as it ought to come," remarked Grasp, of the flourishing firm of Grasp & Co., Merchant Tailors, of Boston, to the junior partner of the establishment. "The nimble sixpence is better than the slow shilling, you know. We must make our shears eat up cloth a little faster, or we sha'n't clear ten thousand dollars this year by one-third of the sum."

"Although that would be a pretty decent business these times."

"I don't call any business a decent one that can be bettered," replied Grasp, contemptuously.

"But can ours be bettered?"

"Certainly!"

"How?"

"By selling more goods."

"How are we to do that?"

"By putting down the prices, and then making a confounded noise about it. Do you understand?"

"I do. But our prices are very low now."

"True. But we may reduce them still further, and, by so doing, increase our sales to an extent that will make our business net us beyond the present income quite handsomely. But, to do this, we must cut down the prices now paid for making up our clothes. In this way, we shall be able to greatly increase our sales, with but a slight reduction upon our present rates of profit."

"But will our workmen stand it? Our needle-women, particularly, work very low now."

"They'll have to stand it!" replied Grasp; "most of them are glad to get work at any price. Women, with half a dozen hungry mouths around them, don't stand long to higgle about a few cents in a garment, when there are so many willing to step in and take their places. Besides, what are three or four cents to them on a vest, or pair of pants, or jacket? The difference in a week is small and will not be missed--or, at the worst, will only require them to economize with a little steadier hand; while upon the thousands of garments we dispose of here, and send away to other markets, it will make a most important aggregate on the right side of profit and loss."

"There is no doubt of that," replied the partner, the idea of the aggregate of three or four cents on each garment occupying his mind, and obscuring completely, for a time, every other idea. "Well, I'm with you," he said, after a little while, "in any scheme for increasing profits. Getting along at the rate of only some two or three thousand a year is rather slow work. Why, there's Tights, Screw, & Co., see how they're cutting into the trade, and carrying everything before them. Tights told me that they cleared twenty thousand dollars last year."

"No doubt of it. And I'll make our house do the same before three years roll over, or I'm no prophet."

"If we are going to play this cutting down game, we had better begin at once."

"Oh, certainly. The sooner the better. But first, we must arrange a reduced scale of prices, and then bring our whole tribe of workwomen and others down to it at once. It will not do to hold any parley with them. If we do, our ears will be dinned to death with trumped-up tales of poverty and distress, and all that sort of thing, with which we have no kind of concern in the world. These are matters personal to these individuals themselves, and have nothing to do with our business. No matter what prices we paid, we would have nothing but grumbling and complaint, if we allowed an open door on that subject."

"Yes, there is no doubt of that. But, to tell the truth, it is a mystery to me how some of these women get along. Very few make over two dollars a week, and some never go beyond a dollar. Many of them are mothers, and most of them have some one or more dependent upon them. Food, rent, clothes, and fuel, all have to come out of these small earnings. By what hocus-pocus it is done, I must confess, puzzles me to determine."

"Oh, as to that," returned Grasp, "it is, no doubt, managed well enough. Provisions, and everything that poor people stand in need of, are very cheap. The actual necessaries of life cost but little, you know. How far above the condition of the starving Irish, or the poor operatives in the manufacturing portions of England, is that of the people who work for us! Think of that for a moment."

"True--very true," replied the partner. "Well," he continued, "I think we had better put the screws on to our workwomen and journeymen at once. I am tired of plodding on at this rate."

"So am I. To-night, then, after we close the store, we will arrange our new bill of prices, and next week bring all hands down to it."

And they were just as good as their word. And it happened just as they said--the poor workmen had to submit.

* * * * *

But we must return from our digression.

The child who, under the practical operation of a system of which the above dialogue gives some faint idea, had to go out from his home at the tender age of ten years, because his mother, with all her hard toil early and late, at the prices she obtained for her labor, could not earn enough to provide a sufficiency of food and clothes for her children--that child passed on, unheeding, and, indeed, unhearing the jibes of the happier children of his mother's oppressor, and endeavored, sad and sorrowful as he felt, to nerve himself with something of a manly feeling. At Charlestown, Mr. Sharp got into his chaise, and, with the lad he had taken to raise, drove home.

"Well, here is the youngster, Mrs. Sharp," he said, on alighting from his vehicle. "He is rather smaller and punier than I like, but I have no doubt that he will prove willing and obedient."

"What is his name?" asked Mrs. S., who had a sharp chin, sharp nose, and sharp features throughout; and, with all, rather a sharp voice. She had no children of her own--those tender pledges being denied her, perhaps on account of the peculiar sharpness of her temper.

"His name is Henry," replied her husband.

"Henry what?"

"Henry Gaston, I believe. Isn't that it, my boy?"

Henry replied in the affirmative. Mr. Sharp then said--

"You can go in with Mrs. Sharp, Henry. She will tell you what she wants you to do."

"Yes, come along." And Mrs. Sharp turned away as she spoke, and retired into the more interior portion of the house, followed by the boy.

"Mrs. Sharp will tell you what she wants you to do!" Yes, that tells the story. From this hour the child is to become the drudge--the hewer of wood and drawer of water--for an unfeeling woman, whose cupidity and that of her husband have prompted them to get a little boy as a matter of saving--one who could do the errands for the shop and the drudgery for the house. There was no thought for, and regard towards, the child to be exercised. He was to be to them only an economical little machine, very useful, though somewhat troublesome at times.

"I don't see that your mother has killed you with clothes," said Mrs. Sharp to him, after taking his bundle and examining it, and then surveying him from head to foot. "But I suppose she thinks they will do well enough; and I suppose they will. There, do you see that wooden pail there? Well, I want you to take it and go to the pump across the street, down in the next square, and bring it full of water."

Henry took the pail, as directed, and went and got the water. This was the beginning of his service, and was all well enough, as far as it went. But from that time he had few moments of relaxation, except what the night gave him, or the quiet Sabbath. All through the first day he was kept busy either in the house or shop, and, before night, had received two or three reprimands from Mrs. Sharp, administered in no very affectionate tones.

When night came, at last--it had seemed a very long day to him--and he was sent to bed alone, in the dark, he put off his clothes and laid himself down, unable, as he did so, to restrain the tears and sobs. Poor child! How sadly and yearningly did his heart go back to the narrow apartment, every nook and corner of which were dear to him, because his mother's presence made all sunshine there! And how earnestly did he long to be with her again! But he soon sank away to sleep, from which he did not awaken until the half angry voice of Mrs. Sharp chided him loudly for "lazing it away" in bed until after sunrise. Quickly getting up and dressing himself, he went down and commenced upon a new day of toil. First he had to bring in wood, then to grind the coffee, afterwards to bring water from the pump, and then to scour the knives for breakfast. When these were done, he was sent into the shop to see if Mr. Sharp didn't want him, where he found plenty to occupy his attention. The shop was to be sprinkled and swept out, the counter to be dusted, and various other little matters to be attended to, which occupied him until breakfast-time. After he had finished this meal, Mrs. Sharp managed to find him plenty to do for some hours, and then her husband laid out work for him, at which he devoted himself all the rest of the day, except when he was wanted in the kitchen for some purpose or other. And so it continued, day after day, from morning until night. Not an hour's relaxation was allowed the child; and if, from weariness or disheartened feeling, he sometimes lingered over a piece of work, a severe scolding or some punishment from Mrs. Sharp was sure to follow.

Thus things went on, every day adding to the cold of a rapidly advancing northern winter. But Mrs. Sharp still thought, according to her first conclusions in regard to Henry's clothes, that "they would do." They were not very warm, it is true--that she could not help admitting. "But then he is used to wearing thinner clothes than other children," she reasoned, "or else his mother would have put warmer ones on him. And, any how, I see no use in letting him come right down as a dead expense upon our hands. He hasn't earned his salt yet, much less a suit of winter clothes."

But the poor little fellow was no more used to bearing exposure to the chilling winds of winter than she had been when a child. He therefore shrunk shiveringly in the penetrating air whenever forced to go beyond the door. This did not fail to meet the eye of Mrs. Sharp--indeed, her eye was rarely off of him when he was within the circle of its vision--and it always irritated her. And why? It reproved her for not providing warmer clothes for the child; and hurt her penurious spirits with the too palpable conviction that before many weeks had passed they would be compelled to lay out some money for "the brat," as she had begun frequently to designate him to her husband, especially when she felt called upon to complain of him for idleness, carelessness, dulness, stupidity, wastefulness, uncleanliness, hoggishness, or some other one of the score of faults she found in a child of ten years old, whom she put down to work as steadily as a grown person.

A single month made a great change in his external appearance; such a change as would have made him unfamiliar even to his mother's eye. While under her care, his clothes, though poor, had always been whole and clean--his skin well washed, and his hair combed smoothly. Now, the color of his thin jacket and trowsers could scarcely have been told for the dust and grease which had become imbedded in their texture. His skin was begrimed until it was many shades darker, and his hair stood stiffly about his head, in matted portions, looking as if a comb had not touched it for weeks. One would hardly have imagined that so great a change could have passed upon a boy in a few weeks as had passed over him. When he left his mother's humble abode, there was something about him that instantly attracted the eye of almost any one who looked at him attentively, and won for him favorable impressions. His skin was pure and white, and his mild blue eyes, with their expression of innocent confidence, looked every one in the face openly. Now there was something repulsive to almost every one about the dirty boy, who went moping about with soiled face and hands, a cowed look, and shrinking gait. Scarcely any one seemed to feel a particle of sympathy for him, either in or out of the house where he dwelt.

Time passed on, and New Year's day rapidly approached, that anxiously longed-for time, to which Henry had never ceased to look forward since he left his mother's presence. Every passing day seemed to render his condition more and more uncomfortable. The air grew colder and colder, and the snow lay all around to the depth of many inches. A suit of cloth clothes had been "cooked up" for him out of an old coat and trowsers that had long since been worn threadbare by Mr. Sharp. Thin though they were, they yet afforded a most comfortable substitute for those their welcome appearance had caused him to throw aside. But the pair of shoes he had worn when he left Boston were still considered good enough, if thought of at all, notwithstanding they gaped largely at the toes, and had been worn so thin in the soles that scarcely the thickness of a knife-blade lay between his feet and the snow-covered ground. In regard to sleeping, he was not much better off. His bed was of straw, upon the floor, in a large, unplastered garret, and but scantily supplied with covering. Here he would creep away alone and in the dark every night, on being driven away to bed from crouching beside the warm kitchen fire after his daily toil was done, and get under the thin covering with all his clothes on. There he would lie, all drawn up into a heap to keep warm, and think of his mother, and long for New Year's day to come, until sleep would lock up his senses in unconsciousness.

At last it was New Year's eve, but the poor child had heard no word about going home. He could sleep but little through that night for thinking about the promised return to his mother on the next day, and for the dread he felt lest Mr. Sharp had forgotten, or would disregard his promise. The bright morning of another new year at length arose, clear and piercingly cold, and Henry crept early from his bed, and went down stairs to make the fires as usual. When Mr. Sharp at length made his appearance, he looked wishfully and inquiringly into his face, but no notice whatever was taken of him, except to give him some order, in the usual short, rough tone in which he always addressed him.

"Ain't I going home to see my mother to-day, sir?" was on his tongue, but he feared to utter it.

After breakfast he watched every movement of Mr. Sharp, expecting each moment to see him go out and get the chaise ready to take him to Boston. But no such idea was in the mind of the thoughtless, unfeeling master. Nine, ten, and eleven o'clock came and went, and the poor child's anxious heart began to fail him. Several times he was on the point of recalling to the mind of Mr. Sharp his promise to his mother that he should be sent home at New Year's, but as often his timid heart caused him to shrink back. At last dinner-time came, and yet nothing was said, nor were there any indications that the boy was to go home. The meal passed, and then Henry was directed to go on some errand about a mile away.

"But ain't I going home to-day, Mr. Sharp?" said he, with a sudden, despairing resolution, looking up with tearful eyes, as he spoke.

"What's that?" eagerly asked Mrs. Sharp, coming forward. "What's that, ha?"

The frightened boy slunk back, and stood with his eyes upon the floor.

"Go where, did he say, Mr. Sharp?"

"Go to see his mammy, to be sure!" replied the hatter, in a half-sneering tone of surprise.

"His mammy, indeed! And pray what put that into his head, I should like to know?"

"Mr. Sharp told mother he would send me home to see her on New Year's day," the child ventured to say, in explanation.

"Clear out! Off with you, Mr. Assurance!" exclaimed Sharp, in an angry voice, at this, half raising his hand to strike the lad. "How dare you!"

Henry started back trembling, at once conscious that all hope of seeing her he had so pined to meet for many long and weary days of suffering and privation, was at an end. Slowly he left the house, shrinking in the cold blast, and went on his errand through the hard frozen snow.

"Did any one ever hear such impudence!" ejaculated Mrs. Sharp, in breathless surprise. "Sent home on New Year's day to his mammy! A pretty how-do-you-do, upon my word! the dirty little ill-conditioned brat!"

"I believe, now I come to think of it," said Sharp, "that I did say something of the kind to his mother, just to pacify her, though I had no thought of doing it; and, indeed, I don't suppose she cares any great deal about seeing him. She didn't look as if she could keep soul and body together long."

"If she wanted to see him so dreadful bad, why didn't she keep him at home with her, tied all the while to her apron-string?" said the unfeeling woman.

"She would have had to work a little harder to have done that. No doubt she was glad enough to get rid of the burden of supporting him."

"Well, all that I can say is, that any mother who is not willing to work to take care of her children, don't deserve to see them."

"So say I," returned the husband.

"And as to Henry's going home, I wouldn't hear to any such thing. He'd not be a bit too good to trump up any kind of stories about not being treated well, so as to prevail upon her not to let him come back. I know just how boys like him talk when they get a chance to run home. Even when they do come back, they're never worth a cent afterwards."

"Oh, no! As to his going home, that is out of the question this winter," replied Sharp. "If his mother cares about seeing him, she'll find her way out here."

With a sadder heart than ever did poor Henry grope his way up into the cold garret that night, with but one thought and one image in his mind, the thought of home and the image of his mother. He dreamed of her all night. He was at home. Her tender voice was in his ear, and his head rested on her bosom. She clothed him in warmer garments, and set him beside her at the table, upon which was tempting food. But morning came at last, and he was awakened from visions of delight to a more painful consciousness of his miserable condition by the sharp, chiding voice of his cruel mistress. Slowly, with stiffened limbs and a reluctant heart, did he arise, and enter upon the repulsive and hard duties of another day.

As he had not been permitted to go home, his next consolatory thought was that his mother would come out at once to see him. This hope he clung to day after day, but he clung to it in vain. It mattered not that, every time the shop door opened when he was in it, he turned with a quickened pulse to see if it were not his mother, or that he would pause and listen, when back in the house, to hear if the strange voice that came suddenly from the shop, were not the voice of her he so longed to see. She came not; nor was any word from her brought to him.

And thus passed the whole of the severe month of January, the long and cold winter adding greatly to his other causes of suffering.

(To be continued.)

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 2: 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.]

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 FOURTH LETTER LEFT.

(_Dated March 9th._)

SHOWING WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME MORE OF HER SCHOOLFELLOWS.

IN my last letter, I forgot to tell you about the two Miss Suetts, Emilia and Julia. They are fat, and round, and heavy, like (Meggy says) a couple of yeast dumplings. Their parents are in India, and they never go home. No one cares much about that, however; for they are great _teazers_, and the most dreadful _tell-tales_. But they are never without preserves and pickles of some kind, and have such delicious pomegranates and guava jelly sent to them, in such large blue jars, that, after all, I doubt if any two girls would be more missed from the school than the two Suetts--disagreeable things as they are. You should only taste their tamarinds, Nell!

There is also Ada Steele, the poetess, who writes verses, some of which have actually appeared in print (in the "Family Page," I think), and you cannot imagine how conceited she is about it. I am told she knows every line of poetry that ever was written. She is such a dreadful plague, that I never go near her if I can avoid it. You cannot ask her what's the day of the month, but she'll give you a hundred lines of poetry right off from some poet or other. Meggy calls her "a tap of poetry," which once turned on, will go on running till you stop it. Byron is her especial favorite, and she always calls him "dear." His works are not allowed in the college; but Ada Steele has got a copy of them, and she puts it under her pillow every night.

But the girl I dislike most is Susan Carney. Fancy a tall, thin creature, with hair the color of blotting-paper, and with eyes like an owl's, that cannot look at you, and you have her standing before you. She is the "_sneak_" of the school; and moves about like a cat. When we are talking secrets, and turn round, there she is--pretending to look for something, but in reality listening. Or, if a girl has comfortably got one of James's delicious novels inside her grammar, and looks up to see that it is all right and snug, there is Carney's cold, fishy eye sure to be fixed sideways upon her. Meggy says her eye is so sharp, she's confident that, like a needle's, _it would cut thread_. We cannot have a bit of fun but Miss Carney is sure to spoil it. We cannot read or write a letter in class without her knowing it. We cannot talk to the masters, or have a comfortable bit of gossip about the filthy dinners and the lady principal, without our being requested, before the day is half over, "to step to Mrs. R.'s boudoir," after which you will see the girls coming back with red eyes and burning cheeks.

The oddest thing is, no one is sure that it is Carney who tells, though every one is convinced that she does. She manages it so cleverly that she is never found out. We tease her as much as we dare, calling her "policeman," "spy," "tell-tit," and everything we can think of; but it takes no effect upon her. She turns a little pale, talks morality in a whining tone, and leaves it to Mrs. Rodwell to redress her wrongs.

Another curious thing is the way in which she wheedles a secret out of you. Though on your guard, she flatters and fawns, and coaxes and lectures till you have parted with your secret long before you are aware of it. You would imagine she was chloroform, so cleverly does she extract it, without the smallest consciousness on your part. The fact is, _she crawls over you_, Nelly; and as for talking, it is my firm belief she would talk a letter out of a letter-box. She is exceedingly neat and clean, with not a single hair out of bounds; and, somehow, her dresses do not rustle, nor her shoes creak, as other persons' do. She is down upon you, like a shower at the horticultural _fête_, before you have time to run for it. What with her crawling, and her sleek appearance, and her gliding so noiselessly about the room, she looks like a big lizard, or some slippery serpent, that was advancing towards you; and I always feel inclined to scream, or to put up my parasol, when she comes near me, to frighten her away.

Nor is she much a favorite with the remainder of the school. The little girls bribe her with oranges and cakes, and lend her small sums of money, to prevent her telling. But the big girls know it's no use, and waste nothing upon her; they know well enough she will take the bribe one minute, and go and _blab_ the next. The governesses are even afraid of her, and begin talking of the weather whenever she approaches.

But what shocks me the most, Nelly, is that she is righteous. She moans and groans, and turns up the whites (or the yellows, rather) of her eyes, and is _so_ pious at church, and is always inveighing against "the shameful wickedness" of the school. Then she reads hymns, and is embroidering a _prie-dieu_ for her godpapa, who is something in the church, and exceedingly rich; and she writes such insufferably long sermons, twice the length of anybody else's; and after service she begs to see Mrs. Rodwell, _pour confier son cœur_ as she calls it, but we all know what that means, for as sure as plum-pudding on Sunday, some one is sure to be punished that same afternoon! I only wish we could find her out in anything. I really believe the entire school would rush up to the lady principal, and tell of her. But Miss Carney is far too cautious to be caught tripping! They tell me she even sleeps with her eyes open.

Let us turn from this hateful creature (I can't help hating her, Nelly) to some more agreeable subject. I will not tire you with descriptions of Miss Smiffel, the butcher's daughter, or Miss Embden, the baker's daughter, except to tell you that they have a sad time of it, and are called rare ugly names, because their papas happen to be butchers and bakers, just as if they could help it. I need not tell you, either, about Lizzy Spree, a little, merry, fidgety, laughing thing, with black eyes, who is the romp--the "bad girl" of the school. She is always playing tricks, making apple-pie beds, or sewing up the tops of our stockings, or hiding the dancing-master's shoes, or tying the cat's tail to the parrot's leg, or filling Miss Blight's bed with bread-crumbs and cockchafers, or breaking a window, or tearing her dress every day. The consequence is, she is always in punishment; but she cares no more for it than a duck cares for an umbrella. She spends all her pocket-money on crackers and detonating balls and valentines, and is always going to be expelled; only Mrs. Rodwell relents, and gives her "one chance more." The maid fell down stairs with the soup-tureen yesterday, from the fact of her strewing the kitchen-steps with marbles and orange-peel. It was too bad. We had to go without soup in consequence.

But, Nelly, you would quite love little Jessie Joy; she is the wee'st little thing you ever saw. You might hang her to your _châtelaine_. You would declare that she was not more than ten, and yet she was sixteen last birthday. She has a rosy round face, and little flaxen curls, exactly like a pretty doll, if you could only keep her still for a moment to look at her. She plays about the room like the sun on a looking-glass, and her whole body seems to quiver with light. I defy you to catch her, unless, perhaps, it was in the dark. We call her "pet" and "tiny."

I don't know how it is Jessie cannot be taught; and yet she is far from being an idiot, for the little thing understands; nor is she stupid, for she is quick enough to outwit us all. Still, they have never been able to teach her anything. Her eyes (I don't know what color they are) fly away like butterflies directly you attempt to catch them, and settle on all places but on her book. We think she can read, but no one is sure of it. If told to learn, she pouts her lips like cherries, until you feel inclined to bite them; and her little head swings to and fro, Nelly, like the bells on a fuchsia when set a dancing by the wind. The lady principal cannot scold her. The utmost she can do is to call her to her in an angry tone, when she takes up her little head in her two hands as if it were a bowl of milk, and kisses her gently on the forehead. This is all her punishment; and the little culprit runs back into her place as quick as a rabbit.

But if she can't read, or spell, or learn, you should only hear her sing, Nell! It is like a wild bird. She warbles every air she hears. Music seems to gush from her like water from a fountain. Once she was caught playing, and they say it sounded like the rejoicing of good spirits; but she cried when they wanted her to do it again, and has never touched the instrument since. She dances more like a fairy than a human being. And yet when Monsieur Viaulon (the French dancing-master) attempted to teach her the polka, she ran away and hid herself behind the great globe in the music-room. The truth is, her dancing has nothing of the ball-room in it. She flits about so restlessly, it makes your eyes wink to look at her. Her feet never seem happy on the ground, and I always have a curious fear when the window is opened that Jessie will fly out of it.

The girls are rather frightened at her restless ways and her strange beauty, which seem to belong more to the air than to the earth. They declare that she is a fairy changeling; and that the tale which is told of her father being shot in a duel, and of her mother dying when Jessie was born, is all a story. Jessie rarely goes home. The only person who comes to see her is an aged aunt, with a face all over lines, like a railway map. She brings her plenty of toys and plenty of sweeties; but Jessie, apparently, does not care the least about her. The only person her flighty disposition stops in its giddy career to alight upon is Amy Darling. She listens to no one else without impatience--she will play with no one else, except it is a young kitten that belongs to the cook--she will obey no one else. But then I believe, if Amy spoke to the lightning, that she would stop it.

I am so tired of scribbling, dear Nelly, that I can't write any more to-day, though I could fill a whole band-box with particulars about this place. So no more at present from your dear affectionate.

KITTY.

SOME THOUGHTS ON TRAINING FEMALE TEACHERS.

BY MISS M. S. G.

IN a former communication, we sought to awaken the more lively and _practising_ interest of ladies generally (especially those possessed of large means and influence), in the subject of teacher-training to an extent and thoroughness of method which have hitherto been scarcely deemed requisite, especially in those portions of the country where education has been conducted too much, if we may say so, at _hap-hazard_. Such of our readers as have traversed various sections of our wide-spread land will realize what we mean, as they recall juvenile groups, collected or _bustled_ together, because something must be done with them, to be coaxed, awed, or driven by a leader who occupied the post as a _pis aller_, or as a mere half-way house to some less wearisome or more lucrative avocation. We are not fearful here of wounding the self-love or better feelings of any truly estimable or conscientious teacher, for such we have ever found the most prompt to welcome improvement, the most open to suggestions of amendment. But perceiving, as we do, throughout the community, marked signs of a willingness, a desire to assign to instructors a more elevated position, a post of honor among the benefactors of the race, and knowing, by experience, the readiness of many to meet the requisite claims of expenditure, it is to teachers themselves, to young teachers especially, and to those aspiring to that high and responsible office, that we would now offer a few earnest, and we trust heart-stirring questions and remarks.

We would ask on whom and on what must _mainly_ rest the position they are to hold, the _character_ of the work to be effected? Surely, in themselves and in the disinterested and docile spirit with which it is entered on and pursued. Short of high aims and pure motives, no course can leave its valuable impress, and it is an acknowledged, even if too little credited, maxim, that they who best learn to obey and submit to lawful rule, best know how to govern. Let us therefore be permitted to persuade the young and high-spirited to remember that _their time will come_ to take the lead, and that no premature assumption of authority or airs of control will avail for half the benefit to be derived from a teachable spirit, and quiet observing and waiting for opportunity. We know full well and practically that this simple method is capable of eliciting the most harmonious and beautiful results, and that between teachers of experience and those seeking preparation for the work, a friendship will grow of a character the most extended and the most varied in its points of interest. We will not pause to enlarge on the sad contrast to this state of things, its multiform evils--for we do not like looking on the dark side of subjects which should bring out every latent grace and virtue of the soul. Moreover, we are fully persuaded of better things, so far at least as intention and desire are concerned, yet a friendly hand may offer some warning hints of evils which are wont to creep in and mar the benefit and beauty of fulfilment.

A trite motto tells us that "manners make the man!" It is, at least, by all conceded that they are the outward garb and indication of that which is within, and that to a degree of which the actor is often unaware and unconscious. Can the young teacher then deem unimportant any measure of care in deportment, or regard as too severe a self-sacrifice the gentle and habitual control of those ebullitions of spirits, those out-of-place familiarities which we have oftentimes seen sweeping away the outguards of reverence by action, word, or look? If these are in an isolated individual annoying or unseemly, how great are their effect and potency when a sympathetic influence pervades a number met for the same purpose, and that avowedly one of the highest improvement and culture! A little true _reflection_ on this point would, we are assured, convert many a well-meaning, but unpolished, and therefore ill-prepared young woman into the well-mannered lady, the true helper of her presiding teacher, and, in time, the consistently dignified instructress of others.

Again, we know that _simplicity_ is ever the expression of the highest truth, of elegance, and of purity. We need not rake up classical authority, or quote the poets, to prove what makes its own way to every unsophisticated mind and heart. But would indeed that the "daughters of the land" might consider this, and reflect on St. Paul's caution, "Not the outward adorning of plaiting the hair, or of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel," ere they present themselves as examples to the young, so especially, on _this_ point, prone to imitation and emulation. Far higher, we feel assured, would they then rise in the _true_ esteem of their juniors, far more secure would they be of reaching and maintaining that position to which _every_ teacher should aspire, that of feeling that in a _real_ superiority none has the claim or the power to surpass them.

Our time and space are limited, and we do not desire to crowd on our readers too much of our own practical experience, and "notes taken from life by the way." If welcomed, however, with the sincere good-will with which they are offered, other "thoughts" may yet find utterance, and, we would fondly trust, find their counterpart in the efficient action of many an unknown young teacher, and their reflection in many a childish scholar.

DON'T OVERTASK THE YOUNG BRAIN.

THE minds of children ought to be little, if at all, tasked, till the brain's development is nearly completed, or until the age of six or seven years. And will those years be wasted? or will the future man be more likely to be deficient in mental power and capability, than one who is differently treated? Those years will not be wasted. The great book of nature is open to the infant's and the child's prying investigation; and from nature's page may be learned more useful information than is contained in all the children's books that have ever been published. But even supposing those years to have been absolutely lost, which is anything but the case, will the child be eventually a loser thereby? We contend, with our author, that he will not. Task the mind during the earlier years, and you not only expose the child to a greater risk of a disordered brain--not only, it may be, lay the foundation for a morbid excitability of brain, that may one day end in insanity--but you debilitate its bodily powers, and by so doing, to all intents and purposes, the mind will eventually be a loser in its powers and capabilities.--_Dr. Robertson._

THE SOUVENIR; OR, THE ARRIVAL OF THE "LADY'S BOOK."

A SKETCH OF SOUTHERN LIFE.

BY PAULINE FORSYTH.

(_See Plate._)

"You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist, Or you may inveigle The Phœnix of the East; The lioness, you may move her To give up her prey; But you'll ne'er stop a lover, He will find out the way."--_Old Song._

A SOUTHERN plantation lying, as so many of them do, at some distance from any town or village, presents a phase of life peculiar to itself, and very singular to one unaccustomed to it from childhood. It has not the loneliness of isolation, for each planter's house is in its way a sort of a palace, the residence of the superior authority, while at a little distance are clustered together the cabins of his retainers, sometimes in such numbers as to form almost a little village of their own. Yet the members of the family are often separated for weeks or months from all congenial companionship, excepting what they can find in each other; for, besides the distance, the state of the roads is often an insuperable obstacle to all intercourse with their far-off neighbors. Eminently social as Southerners usually are, this is no slight drawback to their enjoyment, and the arrival of the post is looked forward to as the one great weekly event to relieve the monotony of "the leaden-footed hours."

Bessie Egerton was in this respect more fortunate than many of her companions, her father's plantation being but about five miles from the village of Oxford, in South Carolina. This was only a pleasant ride when the roads were good; but there were weeks during the winter and early spring when even Bessie Egerton, general belle and favorite as she was throughout the surrounding country, had nothing but the mails to remind her that there were other interests and more stirring events in the world than those of which her home was the centre.

Mr. Egerton was not one of those wealthy planters whose income rivals that of the merchant princes of the North, and would be a pretty fortune for a person of moderate wants; but he was in comfortable circumstances, and Bessie's home was a very pleasant one. The house stood on a gentle slope, and with its wide verandas covered with roses, jessamine, and honey suckles, and overhung by live-oak trees, from whose gnarled branches hung drooping long fringes of the gray moss, giving them the venerable appearance of age, it suggested ideas of coolness and shade, the peculiar comforts of that part of the country.

It was in the latter part of February; the early spring was already coming on with the laggard steps of one sure of its dominion, and therefore in no haste to assert it. The rose-bushes, that had but a few weeks before shaken off their summer's burden of leaves and flowers, gave tokens that they were about to take it up once more, and the yellow jessamine in the woods, with those many beautiful, but as yet unnamed vines and flowers that adorn the swamps and marshes of the South, had already begun to awaken from their winter's slumber.

Bessie had been busy all the morning. Her mother was a confirmed invalid, and upon the eldest daughter of the house were devolved all the active duties that belong to the mistress of a plantation--much heavier and more arduous than those of a Northern housekeeper, requiring the exercise of more thought and discretion. After breakfast, with her basket of keys, that invariable accompaniment of a Southern housekeeper, she went to the store-room to give out the dinner for the family. There, after having measured out the flour and spices, and counted the eggs, and portioned off the vegetables required, she stood to see that everything was replaced in its proper order. Her next visit was to the smoke-house for the meat, and there she was often required to superintend the distribution of certain portions of it, both to the house and field-servants on her father's place. Then giving a scrutinizing glance at the poultry-yard as she passed, she sought the spring-house, which was a dairy also, and remained there for an hour overlooking the operations of the dairy-woman. From thence she bent her steps to the negro-quarter, where there were two or three sick servants, of whose condition her mother wished to have a particular account. To obtain an idea of their ailments and their needs was the work of no little time, for to be sparing of words is not a characteristic of either the ignorant or the suffering. She ended her duties here by a visit to her nurse, now a bedridden old woman, and, after talking with her for a little while, and reading to her, as was Bessie's daily practice, she returned to what was called, _par excellence_, "the house."

When she entered her mother's room to give a detailed account of all that she had done, she was greeted with--

"Bessie, dear, I want you to cut out directly a shirt and a pair of trowsers for Peter. He has just been in to say that his old ones are not fit to wear to church, and, if he don't have some new ones, he cannot go next Sunday; and, as it is communion-day, I do not like to have him compelled to stay away by any neglect of mine."

"But he ought to have given us a little more time, I think," said Bessie. "To-day is Friday."

"Yes, dear; but Dinah can make the shirt, and you can have Elsie, your little maid, to help you with the trowsers. She is quite a neat seamstress."

"But I told Elsie to sew on my new dress to-day. I intended to wear it next Sunday."

"You have plenty of old ones that you can wear, my dear. Peter must be attended to first in this case, I think."

Bessie was so accustomed to be the hands to do the bidding of her mother's thoughtful and considerate head and heart, that she made no farther objection to complying with Mrs. Egerton's suggestion. Since she was fifteen, she had been in the habit of cutting out, under her mother's supervision, not only nearly all her own clothing, including her dresses, that very abstruse and difficult portion of female attire, but also the clothing for all the servants, men, women, and children, on her father's place; so that the particular portion of the work assigned her was quickly and skilfully performed. But, pressed for time as they were, she had also to assist in the sewing, and she was busily employed with her needle, preparing for Peter his Sunday habiliments, when the noise of a carriage driving up to the door attracted her attention.

"It is Nannie and Virginia Lanning," said Bessie to her mother, after a glance from the window, and she ran to welcome her guests.

"Now, I hope you have come to stay with me two or three days," said Bessie, after the first greetings were over, with the hospitable warmth common to the class to which she belonged; an invitation to pass the night at their houses being usually the shortest time to which a Southern planter restricts his invitations, equivalent to the "Stay and take tea with us," of the Northerners.

"Yes," replied Nannie, "we have come to pass Sunday with you, and the idea of going to church once more is quite a treat; it is three months since we have been off our place. The roads have been so bad, and Prince got lame, and pa, who thinks almost as much of his horses as he does of us, would neither sell him and buy another, nor allow him to be used till he was quite well; so that we have really been prisoners. It is a great favor that he allowed us to drive with him so far, but we promised to come very slowly. We have been nearly six hours coming these ten or eleven miles."

"Don't you often feel very lonely?" asked Bessie.

"Yes, indeed. Sometimes for two or three weeks we do not see a human being out of our own family; and it comes very hard at first, after we have been travelling about all summer; but it is astonishing how soon we get accustomed to it. We have occasional visitors, though, that break in on the monotony, if they do nothing else. You know we have no tavern within twelve or fifteen miles of us, and, as father has the largest house in the neighborhood, travellers are often directed there to pass the night, and sometimes they prove to be very agreeable people."

"Yes," said Virginia, "there was a lawyer from Philadelphia travelling through the country on business, that Nannie declares she fell in love with; and then there was a Yankee quack doctor that stayed with us nearly a week, and amused us very much. He took our house for a tavern, and ordered the servants about, and made himself quite at home. He told father that he thought that he had rather a tumble-down sort of a place, but, if he would just spry up a little and go to work, he might fix up considerable."

"And," continued Nannie, "when he was going away, he pulled out an old pocket-book and said, 'Wall, Squire, what's the damage?' And when pa told him, 'Nothing, that it was a private house, but that he was very happy to afford travellers the shelter they could procure nowhere else,' the man looked quite confounded. 'Wall, really,' said he, 'ef I ain't beat out. I hadn't the least idea that this wasn't a public house; but I thought you had a dreadful shiftless way of doin' business. Why, there was enough on your table at dinner to last our folks to hum for a hull week. But, I must say, you've treated me fust rate; and, of you ever get up as far as old Connecticut, and will come to Peterboro', just ask for Isa Jeffries, and I will do as much for you.' And he went to see if his horse was ready; but he soon came back with a bottle in his hand. 'Here, Squire,' said he, 'that youngest darter of your'n has a very peaked sort of look. Ef she will take some of my Electron here, it will do her a sight of good.' And so he left the bottle for Virginia. Poor Virginia! It was quite a shock to her to hear herself called peaked-looking, especially since Mr. Chapman has persuaded her that she was sylph-like."

"It only shows with what different eyes different people look on the same thing," said Virginia, with philosophic composure. "And now let us go to your mother."

"You seem to be very busy, Bessie," said Nannie, after they were seated in Mrs. Egerton's room. "What are you doing?"

"Making some clothes for Peter, our waiter. He is something of a dandy, and made the discovery this morning that he had nothing fit to wear to church next Sunday, so we have been a little hurried about it."

"Oh, we can help you after dinner; and, together, we can soon finish them," said Virginia.

At dinner, Bessie asked her father if he could not send Peter to the post-office that afternoon.

"Why, Bessie," said her father, "I sent him for you yesterday, and I cannot conveniently spare him to go every day. You seem to have a post-office mania lately, coming on at regular intervals."

"Yes, father," said Agnes, Bessie's younger sister; "ever since the 'Lady's Book' began to come so mysteriously, Bessie is never easy till she gets it; and I want it quite as much. Do, please, send for it."

Of course, Mr. Egerton could not resist his children's entreaties, and Bessie had the satisfaction of seeing Peter set out for Oxford soon after dinner.

Towards the close of the afternoon, Bessie proposed that the work now nearly completed should be left to Elsie to finish, while they went out to enjoy the fresh, soft air, full of the sunshine and life of the early spring.

"Don't you think the other side of the house is less sunny?" suggested Nannie, as Bessie seated herself on the green bank by the house, with Agnes standing at her side.

"This is much pleasanter, I think, and the sun will soon be away. But take my parasol, dear; I have a bonnet, and do not need it."

"Oh no, thank you; I am going to finish this story, and could not trouble myself to hold it. Virginia and I pride ourselves on complexions that neither sun nor wind can affect."

And, in truth, their clear, dark, colorless, yet healthful complexions gave to their features the firm, unimpressible look of finely polished marble.

"I will tell you," said Agnes, "why sister always chooses this seat. We can see Peter from here long before he reaches the gate."

"Then," said Nannie, "I quite agree with her in thinking it decidedly the pleasantest. I am as impatient as she can be to see the 'Book;' but I candidly confess that the fashions are its chief attraction to me. It is a great thing to know exactly how other people dress, so as to be sure, when you come out of your winter's shell, that you are not making a fright of yourself."

"Pa and I like the stories," said Agnes.

"So do I," said Virginia.

"But ma likes the serious part of it," continued Agnes, "and Bessie the poetry, especially if it is marked. I see her crying over it sometimes."

"Oh, Agnes!" said Bessie, while her face flushed suddenly.

"I would like to know what all those blushes mean," said Nannie; "whenever we mention the 'Lady's Book,' I see Bessie's cheeks growing red. What can be the association of ideas that produces such a remarkable effect?"

"You know Wallace Cuthbert?" said Agnes.

"Agnes, hush; you do not know anything about it," interrupted Bessie.

"Yes, dear, I know Wallace Cuthbert. Go on," said Nannie, encouragingly.

"Do, just let me tell this," said Agnes, too eager to impart what she considered her wonderfully acute conjecture to show her usual deference to her elder sister. "You know, Wallace Cuthbert asked pa if he might not write occasionally to Bessie when he went away, and pa would not consent to it. But ever since he first went to Philadelphia the 'Lady's Book' has been coming regularly, and I have no doubt he sends it, and marks the poetry, too."

"Now, Agnes, I hope you have finished your revelations," said Bessie, a little impatiently. "Of course," continued she, turning to Nannie, "this is a mere conjecture of Agnes's, and a very childish one."

"On the contrary, I think it a very shrewd one; it is putting cause and effect together in a wise and discreet way that is entirely satisfactory to me. For one, I feel myself under great obligations to Wallace Cuthbert, and intend to tell him, when I see him, that he could not have chosen a more judicious means if he wished 'to keep his memory green,' and connect pleasant associations with thoughts of himself. Pa has promised me that, when I am eighteen, I may take the 'Lady's Book' for myself, and I am quite impatient for my next birthday to come."

"See, there is Peter!" said Virginia, who had, with her usual quiet sagacity, seated herself so that she could catch the first glimpse of him. "He seems to be waving something."

"Oh, he has brought it!" said Agnes, springing up joyfully. "I am so glad! I was afraid it would not come before Monday, because, when you wait and watch so for anything, you are almost sure to be disappointed."

"Peter seems to understand what we are expecting, and to be as delighted as any of us," said Nannie.

"Oh, yes," replied Agnes; "he knows how glad we are to get it; besides, he feels sure that it comes from Wallace Cuthbert, and he has always been very fond of him. He said to me one day, after the 'Book' first began to come regularly, and when we were all wondering about it, I am certain sure, Miss Agnes, Mas'r Wallace has a finger in dat pie.' That gave me my first suspicions about Mr. Cuthbert; and I asked pa about it, and he said, 'Very likely.' Peter says, too, that if 'Miss Bessie will only marry Mas'r Wallace, and take him for her head waiter, his earthly hopes will be suspended.'"

"Agnes, how can you repeat such nonsense?" said Bessie, in a state of desperate confusion.

"I like to hear little people talk," said Nannie; "a great deal of useful information can be obtained from them. You seem to have a wonderful faculty, Agnes, for putting this and that together; but I have a little sister at home that is almost equal to you."

"Give it to me, Peter," said Virginia, springing forward to take the offered prize; "the others seem to be absorbed in such an interesting discussion that they will not care about it."

But, notwithstanding this assertion, the cover was no sooner torn off, which Bessie took an opportunity, when unobserved, to slip into her pocket, than the four heads were crowded together over the engravings and fashion plate with an eagerness and delight that it would be difficult to express. For the first few minutes they all talked at once, exclaiming, "Isn't this pretty?" "Isn't it lovely?" "I wonder what it means!" "Let's read the story about it."

"Do look, what an odd fashion! It is pretty, though. I mean to make my new dress so."

"See here, girls," said Mr. Egerton, leaning over the veranda, "if you go on in that way I shall have to make the same rule the Scotch laird did with his thirteen daughters--that not more than seven of them should speak at a time. What has caused this outburst of enthusiasm?"

"The 'Lady's Book,' pa," said Bessie. "Look at that picture; isn't it beautiful?"

"It is, indeed," replied he, taking the "Book." "How much they have improved lately in the art of engravings! Why, when I was a boy, a picture like that would have been considered wonderfully fine, and would have been carefully laid away and preserved as a rare treasure; and now they are flying about on the wings of the post-office department into the most distant parts and by-places of the country. They must be of no small advantage in cultivating the taste of the community, coming as they do to many persons who see but few other books during the year. Here, Bessie, you had better take the 'Book' to your mother; she is always pleased to see it, and this evening we will have a family reading party."

Excusing herself to her companions, Bessie hastened to comply with her father's suggestion, but returned with the welcome arrival after a few minutes, when an animated discussion was held over the fashion-plates and the descriptions of them. The conversation was serious and earnest. No assembly of divines ever debated a knotty point in theology with more intent gravity than these young girls wasted over the questions as to whether bodices, which were evidently going out, were not in the main superior to round waists, which were coming in; whether basques were likely to be a permanent fashion, or a mere fleeting freak of fancy, was also warmly discussed; and the question of trailing skirts, or those just long enough to touch the ground, might have caused a schism, if Bessie, with great presence of mind, had not changed the conversation to the arrangement of the hair. Here all differences were swept away by the unanimous agreement that _bandeaux_ of curls, _à la_ Jenny Lind, was a much prettier and easier way of dressing the head than any other.

A summons to tea interrupted all farther discussion. After tea, the whole family assembled, as was their custom, in Mrs. Egerton's room. Mr. Egerton, without his hat, which many Southerners seem to think as useful in the house as out of it, was seated in the large arm-chair by the side of a blazing fire, which the chilliness of the evenings still rendered necessary; Nannie heaped up the cushions on the lounge, a home-made, chintz-covered affair, and made herself perfectly comfortable; the other two girls, constituting themselves the readers for the rest, seated themselves by the centre-table; while Agnes sometimes sat on the bed by her mother, and sometimes hung over the reader, to make sure with her own eyes that they were scrupulously giving each word--skipping was, in her eyes, a most unjustifiable and unpardonable act.

"There is still enough to occupy us to-morrow evening," said Bessie, as she closed the "Book;" "but it is time now for mother to go to sleep."

As she bent over to kiss her mother for good-night, Mrs. Egerton whispered--

"That was a very cunning plan Wallace hit upon, dear, to evade your father's prohibition about letters. He gives us all so much pleasure that we do not think of objecting to it. Don't you think he must be a very designing sort of a man?"

"We don't know at all that it is Wallace," said Bessie, stoutly.

"We shall see what we shall see. Has he marked anything?"

"There are a few foolish verses marked; but I do not know who did it," replied Bessie.

"Well, leave the 'Book' with me; I would like to read them."

That was very hard. Bessie had only had time to glance hastily over some lines signed W. C., and speaking in woful strains of the pangs of absence and hope deferred, but breathing the most devoted constancy and love. These verses which, in her reckless confusion, she had stigmatized as foolish, she was longing to read over and over in the silence of her own room. But she would not, for the whole of Carolina, have expressed her wish. She quietly laid the "Book" on her mother's bed, placed the candles near her, and retired with her companions.

"Did you hear, my dear," said Mrs. Egerton to her husband, when they were left alone, "what Mr. Littleton, who has just returned from Philadelphia, says of Wallace Cuthbert--about the high estimation in which the professors of the university hold him? One of them told Mr. Littleton that he regarded Mr. Cuthbert as one of their most promising students, and that he bid fair to become one of the first physicians in the country."

"No, I have not heard it before; but I always had a good opinion of him. I refused to allow him to write to Bessie when he went away, three years ago, because they were both too young, I thought, to entangle themselves in any way. Bessie was hardly sixteen, and he but four or five years older. And he had not only his profession to acquire, but also to establish himself; for he has little else than his own talents to depend upon. Besides, I did not think Bessie cared much about him; she did not appear to."

"I think she always preferred him; but her preference was not a very decided one when he went away," said Mrs. Egerton. "Indeed, she was too young to know herself exactly whether she loved him or not; but it has happened that in each one of these monthly souvenirs that Mr. Cuthbert has been sending, there has been some pathetic story or touching little poem, by marking which he has contrived to indicate his own feelings, and not only preserve, but deepen Bessie's interest in him. I can perceive, I think, that her liking for him has grown stronger almost day by day. It is very clear that she cares for no one else. Here were George Musgrave and Robert Linn, two of the richest and finest young men about, whom Bessie dismissed without a moment's hesitation."

"Well," said Mr. Egerton, "I am perfectly willing to trust Bessie to make her own choice, now that she is old enough to judge for herself. We will leave the matter to time to settle."

Time justified Mrs. Egerton's previsions. Wallace Cuthbert did not disappoint the high expectations that had been formed of him, and was soon able to claim Bessie's hand as a reward for his assiduity and devotion to his profession.

"I think you may thank the 'Lady's Book' for Bessie's constancy," said Mrs. Egerton one day to Mr. Cuthbert. "If it had not been for some such suggestive memorial, I am afraid she would hardly have resisted all the attacks made upon her."

"Very likely," said Mr. Cuthbert, smiling. But, though his words expressed such proper humility, in his inmost heart, with that generous self-appreciation so unusual perhaps in his modest sex, he attributed the love and the patient waiting of Bessie Egerton entirely to his own peculiar merits.

Peter's "earthly hopes _were_ suspended."

THE WILD FLOWERS OF EARLY SPRING-TIME.

"There is at times a solemn gloom Ere yet the lovely Spring assume Sole empire, with the lingering cold Content divided sway to hold; A sort of interreign, which throws On all around its dull repose; Dull, not unpleasing; when the rest Nor snow, nor rains, nor winds molest; Nor aught by listening ear is heard Save first-fruit notes of vernal bird, Alone, or with responsive call, Or sound of twinklings waterfall; Yet is no radiant brightness seen To pierce the cloud's opposing screen, Or hazy vapor to illume The thickness of that solemn gloom." MANT.

THOSE accustomed to the gay and busy life of a city know little of the _ennui_ that _generally_ attends a rural life. Those who live in the bosom of nature, as it were--in the very midst of God's beautiful works--ought not to feel wearisome; and they would not if their eyes were open to the interesting phenomena that continually go on around them. Every season of the year, every day, nay every hour, brings about some instructive change on the face of Nature; and there is no more interesting and improving pursuit than the observation of natural phenomena. To watch the opening of the buds, the leafing of the trees, the blooming of the flowers, the ripening of the fruit, and the decay and death which autumn brings, is of itself an interesting occupation; but when we connect these various events with their proximate causes, and endeavor to trace those general laws by whose operation they are regulated, then the study becomes a truly philosophical as well as a pleasant one. We may also gather spiritual wisdom from such contemplations. Our beloved Saviour sought to illustrate his teachings by a reference to the phenomena of plants; we are directed to "Consider the lilies how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." Every reader of this page may have "considered" the lilies and admired the beauty of their various parts; but in the passage which has been quoted there is, perhaps, a deeper meaning than many have guessed at. Consider the lilies _how they grow;_ examine their structure, and their beautiful mode of development; see how the fair form of this beauteous flower rises, "like a resurrection from the dead," out of its scaly, withered-like bulbous root, perfects its fruit, and then decays. To know _how_ the lily _grows_ is to know the most important principles of vegetable physiology. It is a gratifying fact that the physical sciences are now becoming important branches of general education, and no department is more popular than botany. It is a science peculiarly adapted for ladies; the objects whose purpose it is to investigate are beautiful, and esteemed by every one--a striking contrast to the forbidding directions and dirty experiments which are necessary in the prosecution of many other departments of natural science; even Entomology--the study of insects--requires the bottling of poor beetles in spirituous solutions, the pinning of innocent moths and gay butterflies, and other cruel operations, at which every kind-hearted woman ought to shudder.

In pursuing botanical investigations, even very slightly, it is necessary to form a _herbarium_, or collection of dried specimens of plants. In these collections much taste may be displayed in the arrangement, as well as in the careful drying of the specimens; and the writer of these observations--a public teacher of botany to extensive classes of both ladies and gentlemen--can testify to the fact that the herbaria formed by ladies are, as a general rule, pre-eminent for neatness and artistic beauty in the arrangement of the specimens. It is difficult, however, for ladies who have not the benefit of a teacher, nor friends devoted to botanical pursuits, to get an acquaintance with the method of preserving plants properly; and it is therefore deemed advisable to offer a few observations on this subject on the present occasion, before going on to consider the characteristics of the Spring Flora.

The process of preparing botanical specimens may be shortly described to be, the pressure of plants between sheets of soft absorbent paper for the purpose of extracting their moisture without destroying their beauty, and thus enabling them to be kept for an indefinite period in an arranged form, for future reference and study. When well dried, plants may be kept for hundreds of years; they are almost as indestructible as books, if properly cared for.

German botanists excel in the beauty, and well-preserved specific characters, of their specimens; as is well evidenced by the beautiful specimens which they send to this country. One reason of their success is no doubt to be attributed to the very soft paper (made from woollen rags) which they use in the process; but it is no doubt due, in a larger measure, to the great care which they take, and the time and patience which they bestow upon their specimens.

Plants ought, in all cases where practicable, to be gathered when _dry_; or, if moist with rain or dew when gathered, they ought to be exposed to the atmosphere of a dry room for an hour or two previous to being put into papers. For the conveyance of specimens a tin box, called a _vasculum_, is used, which prevents the plants withering during a long journey, and otherwise protects them. Some of our readers may not think the japanned tin vasculum a very elegant accoutrement, but it is quite usual for ladies to carry such along the streets of Modern Athens, where, through the labors of Professor Balfour and others, botany has, of late years, become of high repute as a feminine accomplishment.

In proceeding to dry the plants, procure a quantity of soft blotting-paper. Four or five sheets are to be laid down on the table (each folded within the other, as in a ream), and on the uppermost one the specimen is to be laid. Spread it out carefully, separating the branches and leaves so that they do not overlap; and after this is done, a slip of paper or "label" put beside the specimen, indicating its botanical name, the locality where collected, and the date when; then another four or five sheets, folded as before, are to be laid over the plant. On the surface of this latter layer of paper, another specimen or specimens may be spread--an additional layer of four or five sheets being placed over them--and so on until all the specimens collected are spread out. A board of the same size as the paper is to be placed above the uppermost sheet, and on the top of that a heavy weight, fifty or sixty pounds. A bundle of large volumes will serve the purpose of a weight, if no better is at hand. Some recommend a screw-press for pressing the plants, instead of a weight; but presses of all kinds are objectionable, as the shrinking of the plants renders the pressure unequal from the want of elasticity, which is so easily attained by means of an ordinary weight. After the specimens have been allowed to stand in this manner twenty-four hours or so, they should be taken carefully out; such leaves as are disarranged should be spread out properly, and the whole put into _dry_ paper, in the same way as in the previous operation. The moist paper from which they are taken should be spread before the fire to dry; it will be ready for use another time. The plants are to be supplied with dry paper, in this manner, once every twenty-four hours, until they have become quite dry, when they may be taken out and put apart in single sheets of gray paper.

The operation of _drying_ the specimens has been here described, but that of _mounting_ them on _white_ paper is equally important. Gum Arabic is generally used for this purpose, but it is very bad; does not adhere sufficiently, and thus allows the specimens to spring off from the sheets. Fine glue, prepared in a very thin state, is the best material for fixing the plants. The melted glue should, when very hot, be spread over the specimen carefully with a brush, a sheet of dirty absorbent paper lying beneath the specimen to prevent the glue soiling anything, and then the specimen is to be put down upon the sheet of white paper previously laid out for its reception. A towel is then taken to press the different branches or leaves gently down upon the surface of the paper. After this is done, a few sheets of drying paper are to be laid over the specimen, and on the top of this another sheet of white paper for the reception of another glued specimen, and so on until all are completed. A board is then to be placed over the whole, and a weight, in order to press all parts of the plants equally to the sheets of paper, until they are made firm by the drying of the glue. After the specimens have stood in this manner a few hours, they are to be taken out, their names, localities, and dates written at the bottom of the sheet, and the whole arranged in such manner as the possessor may think proper. Any refractory stems or branches that have sprung up from the paper in spite of the glue, may be fastened down by slips of gummed paper. The marginal portion of postage-stamp sheets supplies these to those who can obtain them in sufficient quantity.

The plants of each genus are to be put together inside of a double sheet of paper, with their _generic_ name written at the bottom of the sheet upon the outside at the left hand corner; for instance, the pansy, the sweet violet, the dog violet, the yellow mountain violet, &c., are all to be put inside of one double sheet, the generic name "VIOLA" being written upon the corner of it. This is to facilitate references.

We now proceed to point out what spring flowers are likely to reward the exertions of those who go in search of them among the woods and fields. And first of all the primrose and the cowslip demand attention as general favorites. The wild plant, with its modest flower of pale yellow hue (which has given rise to the name of a tint known as primrose yellow), is probably familiar to every one, but it may not be so well known that the gay polyanthus of our florists, and the rich double-flowered primroses of every hue which decorate our gardens, all owe their existence to the wild plant as their original stock. The cowslip, although local in its geographical distribution, is abundant in many localities, and is associated right pleasantly with cowslip wine. Beneath the hedges in early spring-time there is a pretty little plant which seldom catches the eye of the passer-by; it is aptly styled the "gloryless," for its little flowers are of greenish-yellow hue, and so small as to be inconspicuous to any one save the botanical explorer. When examined, however, it is an object of great, though simple beauty. It sends up a delicate stem, which bears a little rosette of divided leaves, and from amidst this rises the flower-stalk, pale and slender, bearing on its summit a compact head of a few tiny showless flowers. Its botanical name is Adoxa Moschatellina.

It is summer time before the buttercups begem the pastures; but one member of the family already welcomes us by hedge-rows; it is the Lesser Celandine of Wordsworth, which received a special favor from his pen in the dedication of a pretty little poem. The Lesser Celandine (Ranunculus Ficaria) grows abundantly on wet shady banks, and produces a profusion of its bright glossy golden flowers, which, in fading, assume a pure white hue. This ranks as one of the economical plants of Britain; and humble as it is, it has been brought forward as a substitute for that unfortunate vegetable, the potato. Plants of the Lesser Celandine, raised from roots which had been gathered in Silesia by the Rev. Mr. Wade in 1848, were grown in the Edinburgh Botanic Garden, and exhibited by Mr. M'Nab, the curator of the garden, to the Botanical Society. These roots had been exposed over a large extent of country in Austria by heavy rains, and the common people gathered them and used them as an article of food. Their sudden appearance gave rise to various conjectures as to their nature and origin, and in the Austrian journals they were spoken of as if they had fallen from the sky. The "small bodies" (roots) were used as peas by the inhabitants. Either in a dried state, or when fresh, they are found, on boiling, to be very amylaceous; that is, they contain much starchy matter. There is no acridity in the roots even in a fresh state, which is a remarkable fact when we take into consideration the acrid and poisonous nature of the entire race of plants allied to it in structure, viz., the Ranunculaceæ, to which order it belongs. For instance, one of these plants, the Indian Aconite, is thus spoken of by Professor Balfour:--

"The root of the plant possesses extreme acrimony, and very marked narcotic properties. It is said to be the most poisonous of the genus, and as such has been employed in India. Wallich says that in the Turraye, or low forest-lands which skirt the approach to Nipal, and among the lower range of hills, especially at a place called Hetounra, quantities of the bruised root were thrown into wells and reservoirs, for the purpose of poisoning our men and cattle. By the vigilant precaution of our troops, however, these nefarious designs were providentially frustrated. In the northern parts of Hindoostan, arrows poisoned with the root are used for destroying tigers. The root, according to Rayle, is sent down into the plains, and used in the cure of chronic rheumatism, under the name of _Metha tellia_. Roots, apparently of this plant, were sent by Dr. Christison from Madras under the name of Nabee. Pereira made a series of experiments on the roots which had been kept for ten years, and still retained their poisonous properties. The roots were administered to animals in the form of a powder, and spirituous and watery extract. The spirituous extract was the most energetic, the effects produced being difficulty of breathing, weakness, and subsequent paralysis, which generally showed itself first in the posterior extremities, vertigo, convulsions, dilatation of the pupil, and death apparently from asphyxia."

One grain of the alcoholic extract killed a rabbit in nine and a half minutes, and two grains introduced into the jugular vein of a strong dog caused death in three minutes.

This is the general character of the crowfoots, and they are indeed the most destructive cattle poisons that infect our pastures; it is a curious fact, therefore, that one of them should be so harmless and so nutritious as we have seen the Lesser Celandine to be; and a still more curious fact that Linnæus, the father of naturalists, should have thought that agriculturists should endeavor to extirpate this pretty flower, not only as acrid and poisonous, but as injurious to all plants growing near it.

BEAUTY.

BY MISS M. H. BUTT.

YES, there is beauty in this world of ours. In looking throughout Nature, we see its impress everywhere. At early morn, wander forth to the verdant fields, mark the flowers of every tint, and inhale their perfume. When Spring dawns, see the trees laden with delicate blossoms, foretelling a plentiful harvest; watch the tall grass waving so gracefully as the zephyrs sport there. Surely such a sight is beautiful.

Stop for a moment and list to the murmuring of the streams as they skip on joyfully; watch the pearly bells which dance upon their brow all sparkling and bright. Look above, and view the thousand birds on gay wing, singing so merrily, welcoming the dawn of Spring, and chanting a lay as a requiem to the departure of Winter. Look around still, and view the myriads of insects sporting in the sunlight or sipping nectar from flowers. Oh, is not beauty there?

When Night comes forth with spangled robes and diadem of gems upon her brow, while each planet and star with tiny harps welcome her coming, touching those gentle chords, the echo of which glides like a bright meteor to earth, charming the very soul--is this not beautiful? Or, when spirits from dream-land watch by our couch during the hours of repose, painting scenes to enchant us--are they not beautiful?

Nor are all these scenes alone lovely. There is that which hath greater beauty: it is woman. She stands forth, like some brilliant star, to guide man through the path of life and cheer his way. Whether she be in the lofty or lowly walks of life, if she possess certain mental qualifications and traits of character, she is beautiful. Her beauty does not consist alone in the bright flashing eye, which seems to speak the sentiments of her heart; it depends not upon the graceful form or gorgeous equipage; it is her mind, well cultivated and endowed with all those intellectual qualifications, which will make her a brilliant star, and which will enable her to enlighten those with whom she may become conversant. It may be found, also, in her heart, one which possesses all those fine and exquisite feelings whereby she can sympathize with the sufferings of others and minister to their wants. Woman holds a dignified position in life, and she should cultivate all those traits which will cause her to be the very pillar of the society in which she moves. Yes, woman is truly beautiful; she is earth's greatest ornament; of her too much cannot be said. In whatever light we view her, she is lovely.

Although Nature possesses so much beauty, Art has also her share, for she endeavors to copy her works and invest them with beauty, as one has said of man--

"He plucks the pearls that stud the deep, Admiring beauty's lap to fill; He breaks the stubborn marble's shape, And mocks his own Creator's skill."

Look at the artist, who toils day after day upon a painting which he has copied from Nature; he endeavors to paint the flowers with accuracy, give that exquisite emerald hue to the leaves of the trees, the same tints to the horizon, and that gorgeous light to the sun. Why? He saw beauty in Nature, and desired to imitate it. The sculptor works with all his skill upon the bust of some celebrated person, all his power is employed; he wishes to delineate every feature with accuracy, and determines, if possible, to accomplish it. Soon he has the gratification of seeing the soulless and once rugged block of marble transformed into an image of symmetry and beauty.

Is there not great pleasure to be felt while beholding works of art? We can but admire and love the fruits of genius. It is very true that there are many who can look upon the works of art, still no effect will be produced; yet a person of nice perception and correct taste could gaze for hours upon them, and see each time something to admire. It is so in Nature even. Many might walk forth on a lovely morning when Spring first smiles, yet see no beauty whatever, but merely cast a careless eye upon all around. One may see much to admire in the storm-cloud which rises darkly o'er the sea, while streaks of lightning dive 'neath the briny waves, and the peals of thunder rattle furiously; we may have feelings of awe, yet, at the same time, see sublimity, and in our hearts we exclaim, "How beautiful!"

Yes, beauty dwelleth everywhere; from the tiny flower which blooms, to the stupendous heavens at night lighted with innumerable stars, being the impress of the One who created all things.

DRESS--AS A FINE ART.

BY MRS. MERRIFIELD.

ORNAMENT--ECONOMY.

ORNAMENT, although not an integral part of dress, is so intimately connected with it that we must devote a few words to the subject.

Under the general term of ornament, we shall include bows of ribbon, artificial flowers, feathers, jewels, lace, fringes, and trimming of all kinds. Some of these articles appear to be suited to one period of life, some to another. Jewels, for instance, though suitable to middle age, seem misplaced on youth, which should always be characterized by simplicity of apparel; while flowers, which are so peculiarly adapted to youth, are unbecoming to those advanced in years: in the latter case, there is contrast without harmony--it is like uniting May with December.

The great principle to be observed with regard to ornament is that it should be appropriate, and appear designed to answer some useful purpose. A brooch, or a bow of ribbon, for instance, should fasten some part of the dress; a gold chain should support a watch or an eye-glass. Trimmings are useful to mark the borders or edges of the different parts of the dress, and in this light they add to the variety, while by their repetition they conduce to the regularity of the ornamentation.

The subject of economy in dress, an essential object with many persons, now claims our attention. We venture to offer a few remarks on this head. Our first recommendation is to have but few dresses at a time, and those extremely good. If we have but few dresses, we wear them, and wear them out while they are in fashion; but, if we have many dresses at once, some of them become quite old-fashioned before we have done with them. If we are rich enough to afford the sacrifice, the old-fashioned dress is got rid of; if not, we must be content to appear in a fashion that has long been superseded, and we look as if we had come out of the tombs, or as if one of our ancestors had stepped out of her picture-frame and again walked the earth.

As to the economy of selecting the best material for dresses, we argue thus: Every dress must be lined and made up, and we pay as much for making and lining an inferior article as we do for one of the best quality. Now, a good silk or merino will wear out two bad ones, therefore one good dress, lining and making, will cost less than two inferior ones, with the expenses of lining and making them. In point of appearance, also, there is no comparison between the two; the good dress will look well to the last, while one of inferior quality will soon look shabby. When a good silk dress has become too shabby to be worn longer as a dress, it becomes, when cut up, useful for a variety of purposes, whereas an inferior silk, or one purely ornamental, is, when left off, good for nothing.

Plain dresses, that is to say, those of a single color, and without a pattern, are more economical, as well as more quiet in their appearance, than those of various colors. They are also generally less expensive, because something is always paid for the novelty of the fashion; besides, colored and figured dresses bear the date on the face of them as plainly as if it was there in printed characters; the ages of dress fabrics are known by the pattern, therefore dresses of this description should be put on as soon as purchased, and worn out at once, or they will appear old-fashioned. There is another reason why dresses of various colors are less economical than others. Where there are several colors, they may not all be equally fast, and, if only one of them fades, the dress will lose its beauty. Trimmings are not economical; besides their cost in the first instance, they become shabby before the dress, and, if removed, they generally leave a mark where they have been, and so spoil the appearance of the dress.

Dresses made of one kind of material only are more durable than those composed of two, as, for instance, of cotton and silk, of cotton and worsted, or of silk and worsted. When the silk is merely thrown on the face of the material, it soon wears off. This is also the case in those woollen or cotton goods which have a silken stripe.

The question of economy also extends to colors, some of which are much more durable than others. For this we can give no rule, except that drabs and other "quaker colors," as they are frequently called, are amongst the most permanent of all colors. For other colors, we must take the word of the draper. There is no doubt, however, that the most durable colors are the cheapest in the end. In the selection of colors, the expense is not always a criterion; something must be paid for fashion and novelty, and perhaps for the cost of the dye. The newest and most expensive colors are not always those which last the longest.

It is not economical to have the dresses made in the extremity of the fashion, because such soon become remarkable; but the fashions should be followed at such a distance that the wearer may not attract the epithet of old-fashioned.

We conclude this part of our subject with a few suggestions relative to the selection of different styles and materials of dress.

The style of dress should be adapted to the age of the wearer. As a general rule, we should say that in youth the dress should be simple and elegant, the ornaments being flowers. In middle age, the dress may be of rich materials, and more splendid in its character; jewels are the appropriate ornaments. In the decline of life, the materials of which the dress is composed may be equally rich, but with less vivacious colors; the tertiaries and broken colors are particularly suitable, and the character of the whole costume should be quiet, simple, and dignified. The French, whose taste in dress is so far in advance of our own, say that ladies who are fifty years old should neither wear gay colors nor dresses of slight materials, flowers, feathers, or much jewelry; that they should cover their hair, wear high dresses, and long sleeves.

Tall ladies may wear flounces and tucks, but they are less appropriate for short persons. As a general rule, vertical stripes make persons appear taller than they really are, but horizontal stripes have a contrary effect. The latter are not admissible in garment fabrics, "since, crossing the person, the pattern quarrels with all the motions of the human figure, as well as with the form of the long folds in the skirts of the garment. For this reason, large and pronounced checks, however fashionable, are often in bad taste, and interfere with the graceful arrangement of drapery." Is it to show their entire contempt for the principles of design that our manufacturers introduced last year not only horizontal stripes of conspicuous colors, but checks and plaids of immense size, as autumnal fashions for dress fabrics? We had hoped that the ladies would show the correctness of their taste by their disapproval of these unbecoming designs, but the prevalence of the fashion at the present time is another evidence of the triumph of fashion over good taste.

A white and light-colored dress makes the wearers appear larger, while a black or dark dress causes them to appear smaller than they actually are. A judicious person will therefore avail herself of these known effects, by adopting the style of dress most suitable to her stature.

To sum up in a few words our impressions on this subject, we should say that the best style of dress is that which, being exactly adapted to the climate and the individual, is at once modest, quiet, and retiring, harmonious in color and decoration, and of good materials.

We conclude with the following admirable extract from Tobin's "Honeymoon," which we earnestly recommend to the attention of our fair readers:--

"I'll have no glittering gew-gaws stuck about you, To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder, And make men stare upon a piece of earth, As on the star-wrought firmament--no feathers, To wave as streamers to your vanity-- Nor cumbrous silk, that, with its rustling sound, Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorned Amply that in her husband's eye looks lovely-- The truest mirror that an honest wife Can see her beauty in!

_Julia._ I shall observe, sir.

_Duke._ I should like well to see you in the dress I last presented you.

_Julia._ The blue one, sir?

_Duke._ No, love--the white. Thus modestly attired, A half blown rose stuck in thy braided hair, With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of, No deeper rubies than compose thy lips, Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them, With the pure red and white, which that same hand Which blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks; This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter) In graceful motion to harmonious sounds, And thy free tresses dancing in the wind, Thou'lt fix as much observance as chaste dames Can meet without a blush."

THE TURKISH COSTUME.

"I REMEMBER," says Mr. St. John, "once seeing a Falstaff fasten his Kashmire, six or seven yards long, to a door-handle, and having gone with the other extremity to the opposite side of his court-yard, began to wind his huge form into it with as much gravity and decorum as if he were performing a pious mystery. He had a peculiar theory as to the position of every fold, and if he failed in arranging them exactly, would unwind himself again with a rapid rotary motion, his hands raised in the air. The operation, with all its vicissitudes, generally lasted about half an hour; and I have rarely seen a magnificent Effendi, without thinking of how he must have looked whilst putting on his shawl."

DAIRY-HOUSE AND PIGGERY.

WE do not present our readers the following as model cottages; but we give them a model "Dairy Building" and a model "Piggery." They are from C. M. Saxton's work on "Rural Architecture."

CHEESE DAIRY-HOUSE.

This building is one and a half stories high, with a broad, spreading roof of 45° pitch; the ground plan is 10 feet between joists, and the posts 16 feet high. An ice-house is at one end, and a wood-shed at the opposite end, of the same size. This building is supposed to be erected near the milking-sheds of the farm, and in contiguity to the feeding-troughs of the cows, or the piggery, and adapted to the convenience of feeding the whey to whichever of these animals the dairyman may select, as both, or either are required to consume it; and to which it may be conveyed in spouts from the dairy-room.

_Interior Arrangement._--The front door is protected by a light porch _a_, entering by a door _b_, the main dairy-room. The cheese-presses _c_, _c_, occupy the left end of the room, between which a passage leads through a door _l_, into the wood-shed _h_, open on all sides, with its roof resting on four posts set in the ground. The large cheese-table _d_ stands on the opposite end, and is three feet wide. In the centre of the room is a chimney _e_, with a whey and water boiler, and vats on each side. A flight of stairs _f_, leading into the storage-room above, is in the rear. A door _b_, on the extreme right, leads into the ice-house _g_. There are four windows to the room--two on each side, front and rear. In the loft are placed the shelves for storing the cheese, as soon as sufficiently prepared on the temporary table below. This loft is thoroughly ventilated by windows, and the heat of the sun upon it ripens the cheese rapidly for market. A trapdoor, through the floors, over which is hung a tackle, admits the cheese from below, or passes it down when prepared for market.

The cheese-house should, if possible, be placed on a sloping bank, when it is designed to feed the whey to pigs; and even when it is fed to cows, it is more convenient to pass it to them on a lower level than to carry it out in buckets. It may, however, if on level ground, be discharged into vats, in a cellar below, and pumped out as wanted. A cellar is convenient--indeed, almost indispensable--under the cheese dairy; and water should be so near as to be easily pumped or drawn into the vats and kettles used in running up the curd, or for washing the utensils used in the work. When the milk is kept over night for the next morning's curd, temporary tables may be placed near the ice-room, to hold the pans or tubs in which it may be set, and the ice used to temper the milk to the proper degree for raising the cream. If the dairy be of such extent as to require larger accommodations than the plan here suggested, a room or two may be partitioned off from the main milk and pressing-room for washing the vessels and other articles employed, and for setting the milk. Every facility should be made for neatness in all the operations connected with the work.

Different accommodations are required for making the different kinds of cheese which our varied markets demand, and in the fitting up of the dairy-house, no _positive_ plan of arrangement can be laid down, suited alike to all the work which may be demanded. The dairyman, therefore, will best arrange all these for the particular convenience which he requires. The main plan and style of building, however, we think will be generally approved, as being in an agreeable architectural style, and of convenient construction and shape for the objects intended.

PIGGERY.

THE design here given is for a building 36 feet long and 24 feet wide, with twelve-feet posts; the lower, or living-room for the swine, 9 feet high, and a storage chamber above for the grain and other food required for his keeping. The roof has a pitch of 40° from a horizontal line, spreading over the sides and gables at least 20 inches, and coarsely bracketed. The entrance front projects 6 feet from the main building, by 12 feet in length. Over its main door, in the gable, is a door with a hoisting beam and tackle above it, to take in the grain, and a floor over the whole area receives it. A window is in each gable end. A ventilator passes up through this chamber and the roof, to let off the steam from the cooking vats below, and the foul air emitted by the swine, by the side of which is the furnace-chimney, giving it, on the whole, as respectable an appearance as a pigsty need pretend to.

_Interior Arrangement._--At the left of the entrance is a flight of stairs _b_, leading to the chamber above. On the right is a small area _a_, with a window to light it. A door from this leads into the main room _c_, where stands a chimney _d_, with a furnace to receive the fuel for cooking the food, for which are two kettles, or boilers, with wooden vats on the top, if the extent of food demands them; these are secured with broad wooden covers, to keep in the steam when cooking. An iron valve is placed in the back flue of the furnace, which may fall upon either side, to shut off the fire from either of the kettles, around which the fire may revolve; or the valve may stand in a perpendicular position, at will, if both kettles be heated at the same time. But, as the most economical mode is to cook one kettle while the other is in process of feeding out, and _vice versa_, scarcely more than one at a time will be required in use. Over each kettle is a sliding door, with a short spout to slide the food into them when wanted. If necessary, and it can be conveniently done, a well may be sunk under this room, and a pump inserted at a convenient place; or, if equally convenient, a pipe may bring the water in from a neighboring stream or spring. On three sides of this room are feeding pens _e_, and sleeping partitions _f_, for the swine. These several apartments are accommodated with doors, which open into separate yards on the sides and in rear, or a large one for the entire family, as may be desired.

_Construction._--The frame of this building is of strong timber, and stout for its size. The sills should be eight inches square, the corner posts of the same size, and the intermediate posts 8 by 6 inches in diameter. In the centre of these posts, grooves should be made, two inches wide, and deep, to receive the _plank_ sides, which should be two inches thick, and let in from the level of the chamber by a flush cutting for that purpose, out of the grooves inside, thus using no nails or spikes, and holding the planks tight in their place that they may not be rooted out or rubbed off by the hogs, and the inner projection of the main posts left to serve as rubbing posts for them. Above the chamber floor thinner planks may be used. The centre post in the floor plan of the engraving is omitted, by mistake, but it should stand there, like the others. Inside posts at the corners, and in the sides of the partitions, like the outside ones, should be also placed and grooved to receive the planking, four and a half feet high, and their upper ends be secured by tenons into mortices in the beams overhead. The troughs should be made of cast-iron, or the hardest white oak plank, strongly spiked on to the floor and sides.

Poetry.

* * * * *

THE INTERVIEW.

BY T. HEMPSTEAD.

THERE are oracles true in the depths of the mind, There are prophecies borne on the wings of the wind, There are omens that dwell in a flower or a leaf, To unbosom the future, its rapture and grief; There are voices of night with a language as plain As the accents of love or the moanings of pain, And I turn from the glare and the murmur of day, To the warnings and woes which their whispers betray.

There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye, There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh, And thy summer of beauty has faded away, Like a dream from the brain, like a leaf from the spray Oh! dark must the cloud of thy sorrow have been, And mighty the fetter that bound thee, and keen As the fangs of despair, as the arrows of Death, As the terrors that rain from the hurricane's breath, Thus to wilder thy brain, thus to wither thy brow, As thou standest before me all tremblingly now. Thou art come to my hall with the sound of the storm; Oh, the tears of his pity flow fast from thy form, And the beams on thy face but a shadow impart Of the strength of the woe that is wringing thy heart. In the silence that midnight around me hath thrown, In moments the brightest my bosom hath known, In the gloom of the tomb, on the slope of the wave, Where the green hills grew red with the life of the brave, In its desert of sorrow, its garden of bliss, My heart hath dreamed never of meeting like this! My Inez, the love of my manhood, my bride, Who art won from the arms of the grave to my side, From the last hour thy brow to my bosom was prest, Have thy tones and thy form been a shrine in my breast; Thou hast haunted my steps when the breathings of spring, The light swallow and bee to the water-brink bring; In the calm of the hills, by the blue rushing streams, I have gazed in thine eye through the mist of my dreams; Thou art come with the storm and the banners of night, Pale Inez, the love of my youth, my delight! Like a wreck from the wave, like a shade from the tomb, Thou art now at my side, and thy step in my room, But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone, There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone, And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thine Has died with the lustre that made it divine. Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vows Were the audible steppings of God in the boughs; By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine, Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine! Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour-- May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower; They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow, But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!

Thou wast won by the perishing glitter of gold, From my heart to the arms of another wast sold, Who hath cast thee away as a scorn, as a weed, On the love of a world that hath doomed thee to bleed. Like a palace whose feasting and music are ended, Whose lights to the dim gulf of death are descended, Whose footfalls are silent, whose arches lie strown, Where the cold wind of night makes a desolate moan, Thy trusted hath left thee, deserted, alone, To the rains and the ivy, sad, beautiful one! Had thy heart been as true--ah, no! never my tongue May add gall to the grief that thy spirit hath wrung; 'Tis enough that I gaze on thee here as thou art, On the wreck of thy hope, in thy ruin of heart, Who art drifting right on to that desolate shore Where the storm of thy sorrow shall chase thee no more.

As I slept, o'er my spirit strange terrors there came, Wrought with drapery of midnight, in crimson and flame, Dread as death-fires that burn on the fear-smitten eye, When the far-shaking thunder-tramp reels through the sky. On a fragment that flew from the van of the blast, Like a leaf on the stream of the hurricane cast, Now spurned from their bosom, now hid in the abyss Of black waves that sparkle, crack, thunder, and hiss, It was thou on my breast through the war of the storm, Pale, pale as the shroud that shall compass thy form. There was death on the gale, there was night on the sea, Where I sat on that wreck with the tempest and thee; Through darkness and thunder, flash, shriek, din, and foam, Now deep-clasped in the vale, and now rocked on the dome Of the wave, I was borne o'er the windy expanse Of chill vapor and spray by the terrible glance Of the lightning; I pressed thy cold cheek unto mine; From thy locks fast down-trickled the luminous brine; By thy breath on my brow, by the serpentine path Of the death-flame that blazed on its journey of wrath, I knew thee; I knew, my beloved, thou wast there, In the battle of waves, through my night of despair. Lips of blood through the gloom, and pale phantoms of fear Howled the peals of their horrible glee in my ear; The thin fingers of demons stooped round me to clasp, To wring thy cold form from the strength of my grasp; With their dim eyes upturned, newly torn from the grave, Glared the dead from their weltering shrouds on the wave; Oh! dark was the struggle and fearful and vain Thy cold limbs from their place in the deep to restrain; Dread as Death the black bulk of a surge rumbled o'er, I clasped thee, I felt thee, I saw thee no more!

That vision of woe, that wild dream of the sea, Is fulfilled, O pale, desolate weeper, in thee; No more shall the joy of thy glance on me shine; While the sun on me beams, I may never be thine; Yet know in thy sorrow, sad Inez, my love, Thou art mine in the Eden that blossoms above! Ah, the pent tears, at last, 'neath thy dark lashes start, And the words that would heal it have broken thy heart.

* * * * *

SONNET.--CLOUDS.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

YE welcome clouds! what praises have ye won! Host after host ye ever thronging come, Careering on athwart the ethereal dome, To tell of tempests past or hastening on. With magic hues ye often deck the sky, Enamelling it with red and purple, gold; Like molten silver oft ye are unrolled, And oft changed into palaces, ye lie. The rainbow oft is pictured on your breast, To tell of peace and plenty ye do bring; Hail, snow, ye bear oft 'neath your ebon wing, And tempests in your blackest mantle rest. The thirsty earth ye wet with freshening showers, Floods flowing from ye speak your desolating powers.

* * * * *

WILLIE MAYLIE.

BY CORNELIA M. DOWLING.

OH! do you not remember, love, The sunny morn when we were plighted? Your eye was bright in loving light, And dancing like a star benighted. That eye is dim and sunken now, But still around it love reposes; And bright the smile upon your cheek, Though withered long are all its roses. Oh! my Willie Maylie dear, My true, my noble Willie Maylie, Years have rolled, And we are old, But _still together_, Willie Maylie!

And do you not remember, love, The baby bright we used to cherish, Not dreaming that so fair a bud Might early fade away and perish? Oh! sad it seemed to lay the form So bright upon an earthy pillow; Now, she is softly sleeping, love, Alone, beneath the drooping willow! Oh! my Willie Maylie dear, My loving, earnest Willie Maylie, Roses bloom Upon the tomb Of her we loved, my Willie Maylie!

And do you not remember, love, That we have journeyed long together, The heart-light ever gilding o'er The path of life in wintry weather? We've almost crossed the ocean now, Still breasting every billow gayly; We soon shall reach the heavenly shore, And rest together, Willie Maylie! Oh! my Willie Maylie dear, My own true-hearted Willie Maylie, Heart to heart, And ne'er to part, We'll rest together, Willie Maylie!

* * * * *

ELLIE MAYLIE.

BY JENNIE DOWLING DE WITT.

THE light of other days, my love, Is o'er my vision softly stealing; The music of thy bridal vows, Like harp-notes, up the past is pealing. But lip, nor eye, nor sunny brow, Nor cheek with witching dimples lighted, Were half so dear to me as now, When years have proved the love we plighted. Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear, My ever-winning Ellie Maylie, Love like thine To hearts like mine Is air and sunlight, Ellie Maylie.

Down Youth's bright tide, our shallop light Went floating on through banks of flowers; But riper years brought clouds and night, For Life must have both _sun_ and _showers_ Well _might_ thy Willie brave the storm, And "breast the adverse billow gayly;" For what were Youth and Flowers to Love, Or all the world to Ellie Maylie Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear, My artless, clinging Ellie Maylie, Breath to being, Eye to seeing, Wert thou to me, my Ellie Maylie.

Not where above a little grave The early summer buds are springing, Where willows in the sunlight wave, Not there--not there my heart is clinging; But _there_, amid those deathless flowers, That up from Heav'n's pure soil are springing, Where waits that angel-babe of ours, 'Tis there--'tis there my heart is clinging! Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear, My gentle, trusting Ellie Maylie, Lulled to rest On Jesus' breast, We'll meet in Heav'n, my Ellie Maylie!

* * * * *

THERE'S MUSIC.

BY HORACE G. BOUGHMAN.

THERE'S solemn music in the billows Of the mighty, restless sea; Lively music poured from brooklets, As they gambol in their glee.

There's stirring music in the gale; Soft music in the breeze; Music sweet when winged minstrels Carol 'mid the verdant trees.

There's awful music in the thunders; Lulling music in the rains; Music echoed from the forest, In a thousand living strains.

There's silent music in the flowers, And in the planet's genial fires; Music grandest in the rivers, Where they tune their cat'ract lyres.

There 's cheering music all around us, Thrilling music from above; And those magic tones should teach us Sweeter, nobler strains of love.

* * * * *

DREAM PICTURE.

AN IMPROMPTU.

BY MRS. A. F. LAW.

BEHOLD, upon Life's swelling tide, A little boat doth gently glide! Its freight a Soul; Sin guides the helm, And steers for Pleasure's baseless realm: At prow, the gay-robed Tempter stands, Obscuring, with his jewelled hands, The Spirit's view; whilst shines afar Hope's radiant, but _deceiving_ star; For, see, _it fades_, e'en as we gazing stand, And leaves that bark a wreck upon the strand!

* * * * *

I WAS ROBBED OF MY SPIRIT'S LOVE.

BY JARONETTE.

ON! give me some strong human will, To lull this dream of woe; It binds me with its iron chain, And will not let me go. Oh! give me strength to curb this strife, And make my spirit know My early days of happy life, Of days long, long ago.

But now there's darkness on my path, A shadow on my heart; I each fond feeling seek to hide, Trembling in ev'ry part! They think that I'm forgetting thee; But ah! they do not see The coursing tears, when I'm alone, Flowing so fast and free!

I list my bird's sweet matin song, Its wild and gladsome chants; But no, the dead'ning weight is here, And still my spirit pants For long-lost dreamy hours of joy, When thou wert by my side, And care seemed but a thing of name, Not to my life allied.

Now, when the smile is on my lip, It turns that smile to tears, Stemming the life-blood of my heart With weary weight of years. It makes the strong proud limbs refuse To roam this gladsome earth, And sends me reeling, mad, within, From out the sounds of mirth.

I pet each blossom from my shrubs, And call them by thy name; I ask them if their spirits tell That I am still the same. A pure white rose that bloomed this morn I went this eve to take; "The spirit of the flow'r" had fled, The _cold_ its _heart_ did break!

They tell me that thou carest not For woman's love or fame; That thou speak'st _lightly_ of them all That bear the gentle name. But oh! I heed them not the while, _They_ have not read thy heart; I know you have not chang'd so much Since we were forced to part.

And though they bid me see thee not, My spirit meets thee oft In dream-land, where the flow'rs bloom bright, The air so calm and soft. The angels then are by my side, They kiss me with thy lips, And clasp hope's rainbow round my heart, In that dream-hour of bliss.

And sometimes in thy weary hours Recall the past, and weave The dream of hallowed love and hope I'll ever for thee breathe. Then wander forth amid the throng, And seek some gentle one, One that will honor thy dear name, And take her _to thy home_.

* * * * *

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

BY CHARLES ALBERT JANVIER.

The following lines were suggested by a remark in Washington Irving's "Student of Salamanca," that the old alchymist died just as he was on the point of discovering the philosopher's stone.

THE walls were sweating with a festering damp, An icy coldness filled the dreary room, A little solitary flickering lamp With sickly radiance glimmered through the gloom, While on a tattered couch an old man lay, Half-starved with hunger, weary, gaunt, and gray.

His feeble eyes with ardor yet were strained Upon a yellow parchment dull with age, As, while one lingering ray of life remained, That single ray must shine on Learning's page; And while he lay immersed in study deep, He murmured thus, as one who speaks in sleep:--

"One little hour more, and all is mine! Mine the bright prize so long I've sought in vain! Mine the lost secret, which for countless time Philosophers have labored to regain! Mine wealth, and youth, and joy, and nevermore, O Death! shall I be subject to thy power!

"One hour more, and all these golden dreams Which still have cheered me on from day to day, Shall be no more like fleeting radiant beams, Glancing one moment bright, then snatched away; But all my visions, howe'er bright their hue, No more be false, no more be aught but true!

"Ye elementary spirits, who so long With ready wiles have baffled all my art One hour more, and I in power strong Shall see ye all in helpless rage depart! At last your devilish malice all o'erthrown, At last the great elixir all my own!"

Thus spoke the alchymist; but ruthless Death, Who strikes alike the mighty and the low, And stops the monarch's and plebeian's breath With equal haste, and with the selfsame blow, Had laid his icy hand upon his heart, While bidding him in iron tones "depart!"

The lamp burnt lower, still his eye was fixed Upon the parchment, while his trembling hand Within a crucible the compound mixed, With which completed he would soon command Unending treasure, boundless glittering wealth, The priceless draught of endless youth and health.

But from his stiffening band the parchment dropped, As from his lips broke forth a hollow moan, The coursing current of his life-blood stopped, His spirit fled just as its task was done! Closing his eyes upon the lifelong strife, He left untouched the sparkling cup of Life.

* * * * *

THE SONG-BIRDS OF SPRING.

BY NORMAN W. BRIDGE.

FROM out the airy balcony Of many a sylvan cot and dome, Is poured soul-melting minstrelsy, That cheers my lonely heart and home. Around each warbler's chosen haunt Are heard sweet notes of joy and praise; From fruit-trees comes the robin's chant, And from each bush the sparrow's lays.

Amid the poplar's trembling lyre, That o'er the lawn its shadow throws, Rich warblings of a linnet-choir My soul with melody o'erflows; While from a willow waving near, And where the vine its trellis girds, Steals softly o'er the tuneful ear The symphony of yellow-birds.

Upon the elm-tree's lofty bough The oriole serenely sings, While from a puerile branch below His loved one in her castle swings: And in the flower-enamelled leas, Where alders grace the streamlet's brink, I hear the charming melodies Of many a sweet-voiced bobolink.

And from yon wildwood's emerald crown Come oft, in notes of heavenly tone, The hymns of thrushes, "wood," and "brown," And warbling throats to me unknown. Bird-notes are all so rich and clear, It seems as though their vocal powers Were borrowed from some higher sphere Than this discordant world of ours.

Nor is their magic gift of song The only charm they o'er me throw; They ne'er the poor and helpless wrong, Nor swell the tide of human woe. Their voice is ne'er with slander fraught, Or friendships in misfortune change, Nor speech or deed betrayeth aught Of av'rice, hatred, and revenge.

They seek not, with malicious tongue, To stir the bosom with mistrust, By telling what 's been said and sung, How all our faults have been discussed; Till Jealousy within awakes, And Love with doubt is much annoyed, The golden clasp of Friendship breaks, And peace of families destroyed.

No rival's fame they derogate, A brother falsely charge with sin, Hoping thereby to elevate Their name above more worthy kin: They seem not e'er to envy those Whose brilliant plumes their own outshine, Or to rejoice at others' woes Whose powers of song are more divine.

Nor have their hearts the cruel pride O'er humbler garbs and gifts to sneer; The lame, their hapless fate deride, Or o'er the weak to domineer. No bitter taunt, unfeeling jest, The boast of pow'r, wealth, rank, or birth, E'er flow from soaring warbler's breast, To wound the heart of lowly worth.

Nor do they play the hypocrite With faithful, fond, confiding friends, Looks, manners, language counterfeit, To gain ignobly selfish ends. No word or act their aim belies, Or yield they e'er to sin's control, And sell, for worldly merchandise, The jewels of a virtuous soul.

* * * * *

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

BY MARY NEAL.

THY heart is young and light, maiden; Thy sunny brow is fair; For Love, and Joy, and Hope now weave Life's brightest sunbeams there. Brothers and sisters turn to bless Thy ever-welcome form, And a father's arm is near to shield Thee from life's lightest storm.

But more, still more than this, maiden-- A mother's heart is near, To watch thy fair cheek, pale or flush-- To note each starting tear-- To gaze upon thy happy face, And pray that thy young heart May long be spared the bitter woe From cherished friends to part.

Oh, Love will make fond hearts, maiden, To offer at thy shrine; And Friendship many a blooming wreath Around thy path entwine: But the tears that o'er thy restless couch From a mother's eyes were shed, Will moist a green spot in thy heart When _those_ bright flowers are dead!

Then watch those loving eyes, maiden, That beam upon thee now; And cherish every silver hair That stealeth o'er that brow: For a mother's love's the purest ray, The brightest day-star given, To light us o'er Life's darkened way, And lead us up to Heaven.

* * * * *

TO AN ABSENT DEAR ONE.

BY FANNIE M. C.

OH, where art thou, beloved one, at this hour, So meet for fond affection's holy power, For all the tender memories that will The lonely bosoms of the absent fill?

Far, far away! Yet as my tearful eye Dwells on yon little watchfire in the sky, This thought comes stealing on its beam of light, _Our hearts shall meet at Mercy's throne to-night_!

* * * * *

TO IDA.

BY HORACE PHELPS, M. D.

THE gale is fresh upon my brow, The evening dew my cheek has wet, The bark moves merrily, and now The moonlight and the wave have met; The mountain heights their shadows throw, In dark and frowning majesty, Upon the rolling waters' flow, As sorrows cross young memory: What wants this scene to be divine? Thy gentle heart to beat with mine.

The lover's star her watch doth keep In the blue vault of yonder sky; While all around is hushed to sleep, I deem thy angel spirit nigh; 'Twere rapture never felt before In this serene and midnight noon, To hear from yonder lonely shore The watch-dog bay the full bright moon, Couldst thou be here to share this hour My heart's beloved and buried flower.

There is a spirit rides the air; I hear its murmur on the stream, I see its form of beauty fair Disporting in the moonlight beam It is the spirit of delight Of young affection's ecstasy, And in its form and features bright Thine own fair face and form I see: It hovers o'er my head, and now I feel its hand upon my brow.

I see the light of feeling play And sparkle in its winning smile, To chase my brooding cares away, And all my sorrows to beguile; I hear the voice I loved to hear Mix with the music of the stream; The well-known accents strike my ear: Away! 'tis fancy's wildest dream: I am alone beneath the star, And thou art in thy grave afar!

* * * * *

THE _WAS_ AND THE _IS_.

BY O. EVERTS, M. D.

AWAY in the mist of past ages, The _was-life_ of wondrous renown-- (Which lives but in History's pages, And the tales which Traditions hand down, Or in marbles that still o'er us frown)--

Yet looks as if towering away Far above all the _Is_ or _To-be_ And a power still seemeth to sway, Though the present convulse to be free, And the future no prophet-eyes see.

But only it seemeth--not real! A shadowy monster untruth! An image of vapors ideal, That floats in the sky of our youth, Ere we see with strong visions in sooth!

And thus, while we gaze it departs, And a better, a nobler appears; The _Is-life_ more wonderful starts From its home in the heavenly spheres, And fills us with hopes and with fears!

And we rise, while our hearts strongly beat, And say to our fears, all begone! They vanish, like clouds that retreat Before the all-conquering sun-- And we nerve for the deeds to be done!

Ah! now does the youth feel his strength! See his cheeks, how they glow! and his eye, How it sparkles and gleams! till at length His soul reaches out to the sky, And his thoughts through the universe fly!

And his steps are elastic as air, Yet consciously proud--and his tread Over ruins of temples that were-- And religion whose priesthoods are dead, Is as if _there_ no prayer had been said.

The _Is-life_ is now all to him! With a glance toward the future, inspired He moves with his might every limb-- His soul with ambition is fired-- And he grows in his task never tired.

He triumphs! The truth is his sword, And the _shams_ and the _phantoms_ that are, Shrink back to antiquity's horde, To be buried with falsehoods that were, Whilst fame everlasting's his share!

Oh! the _Is_ is the life then for me! The _Was_ had its tasks and its men; And others will crowd the _To-be_, And laugh at all this that hath been-- But to me, what matters it then?

* * * * *

THE LAST MOMENTS.

BY R. GRIFFIN STAPLES.

IT was a beauteous eve! On high, The moon's bright silver ray, And stars gleamed softly down, to guide The traveller's weary way.

Gently the balmy breath of night Sighed o'er the distant lea, And birds their cheerful warblings hushed With eve's serenity.

The shades of death were falling slow Within a chamber, where A meek one lay, and, sinking, gazed Into a world more fair.

Sweet hour for one so pure to die, To pass from earth away To that bright land where naught corrupts, And all is "perfect day."

"Father!" she breathed, "Thy will be done!" And closed her eyes in death; "Father!" re-echoed through the sky, "Thy will be done on earth!"

OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR.

LADY'S SCARF MANTELET.

THE newest style of mantle is the Scarf Mantelet. Its graceful shape, lightness, and elegance have made it a great favorite. This mantle is made of muslin or silk, and trimmed with lace as fancy dictates.

DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S SCARF MANTELET.

Fig. 1.--Front.

Fig. 2.--Back. Join _a_ to _a_ and _b_ to _b_.

We also add the diagrams of a very pretty jacket.

DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S JACKET.

Fig. 3.--Front.

Fig. 4.--Back.

Fig. 5.--Side-piece. Join _a_, _a_, _a_.

Fig. 6.--Sleeve _in full_. (This shape is very much worn for morning and evening dress.) A Shoulder.

CROCHET TASSEL COVER.

_Material._--Crochet thread, No. 1; Penelope needle, No. 3.

COMMENCE with 12 chain, make it round by working a single stitch in the first chain stitch.

_1st round._--(4 chain and 2 plain in the foundation chain, 7 times.)

_2d._--1 chain (2 treble, 3 chain and 2 treble, all in the 4 chain of the first round), then 1 chain, 1 plain on the 2 plain. Repeat 6 times more.

_3d._--Miss 1, 1 plain in the 1 chain, 3 chain, miss 2 (3 treble, 3 chain and 3 treble, in the 3 chain of the last round), then 3 chain, miss 2, 1 plain in the next 1 chain. Repeat 6 times more.

_4th._--5 chain, keep this chain at the back of the last round, and work 1 plain between the 2 plain stitches of the last round. Repeat 6 times more, leaving the points formed in the last round in front.

_5th._--(2 chain and 1 plain, 3 times, in each of the 5 chains of the last round.)

_6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th._--(2 chain and 1 plain, in the 2 chain, 21 times.)

_10th._--(1 chain and 1 plain, in the 2 chain, 21 times.)

_11th._--42 plain.

_12th._--41 plain, 1 single.

_13th._--(6 chain, miss 4, and 2 plain, on the _lower edge_ of the stitches of the last round, 7 times), the upper edge of the stitches of the 12th round are left at the back to form the foundation of the inner part of the tassel.

_14th._--2 chain (3 treble, 3 chain, and 3 treble, all in the 6 chain); then 2 chain and 1 plain, on the 2 plain of the 13th round. Repeat 6 times more.

_15th._--1 chain, miss 2, 1 plain in the 2 chain; then 2 chain, miss 2 (3 treble, 3 chain and 3 treble, in the 3 chain), 2 chain, miss 2, 1 plain in the 2 chain. Repeat 6 times more; then 1 plain in the 1st chain stitch.

_16th._--4 chain, miss 6, 3 treble in the 3 chain; then 5 chain, turn, miss 4, 1 single on the 1st stitch of these 5 chain to form a round loop; turn, and work (5 chain and 1 plain, in the round loop, 5 times), then 3 treble in the same 3 chain of the 15th round as before, 4 chain, miss 6, 1 plain in the 1 chain. Repeat 6 times more, and fasten off, which finishes the outside.

To form the under part of the tassel, return to the 12th round, the upper edge of the stitches having been left on the inside of the tassel, and commencing on the first stitch, work for the

_1st round._--42 plain, 1 single on the 1st stitch of the round.

_2d._--(5 chain, miss 2, and 1 plain, 14 times.)

_3d._--(5 chain, miss 4, and 1 plain, in the 5 chain, 14 times.)

_4th._--1 chain, miss 4, 1 plain in the 5 chain, then 9 chain, 1 plain in the same 5 chain, then 1 chain, 6 treble in the next 5 chain. Repeat 6 times more.

_5th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 treble in the 9 chain (then 3 chain and 1 treble in the same 9 chain, 3 times); 1 chain, miss 5, 3 treble in the 3d stitch of the 6 treble, then 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6 times more.

_6th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 3 chain, miss 3 (2 long, 5 chain and 2 long, all in the next 3 chain), 3 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the next 3 chain, 1 chain, miss 5, 3 treble in the 3d treble stitch, and 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6 times more.

_7th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 2 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the 5 chain, then (5 chain and 1 plain, in the same 5 chain, 5 times) 2 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 1 chain, miss 5, 3 treble in the 3d treble stitch, and 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6 times more.

_8th._--3 chain, miss 9, 1 plain in the 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 treble in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 treble in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, 1 treble in the same 5 chain as before, 3 chain, miss 5, and 1 treble in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 9, 1 plain on the centre of the 6 treble. Repeat 6 times more; then 3 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the first 3 chain.

_9th._--3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble in the next 3 chain, then 3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble in the next 3 chain, 3 chain, miss 3 (1 long, 3 chain, 1 long, both in the 3 chain), 3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble, 3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble, 3 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the 3 chain, miss 1, 1 plain in the next 3 chain. Repeat 6 times more.

_10th._--Miss 2, 3 plain in the 3 chain, *, miss 1, 1 plain, 1 treble, 3 chain, 1 treble, and 1 plain, all in the next 3 chain. Repeat from * 4 times more; then miss 1, 3 plain in the 3 chain. Repeat from the commencement of the round, 6 times more, and fasten off.

NETTED CAP, FOR MORNING WEAR.

_Materials._--Crochet thread, No. 4; and, to embroider the pattern, a skein of pink or blue Shetland wool, or embroidery cotton, No. 16; steel mesh, No. 14, and a flat ivory mesh, one quarter of an inch in width--this will make an ordinary cap; but, if any other size is required, the meshes and thread must be coarser or finer.

COMMENCE with the crochet thread, and No. 14 mesh, on a foundation of 20 stitches; work 40 rows of 20 stitches each. This piece forms the centre of the crown, cut it off the foundation, and run a string along the four sides, about four or five stitches from the edges, so as to work all round the square.

_1st round._--Work down the first side thus: net a stitch plain, then net 2 stitches in one stitch, 15 plain, 2 stitches in one, 2 plain, and along the other side, *, net 2 stitches in one, 15 plain, 2 stitches in one, and 2 plain. Repeat from * twice more.

_2d._--Net 3 plain then (2 stitches in one, and 10 plain, 8 times).

_3d._--Plain.

_4th._--(Net 11 plain, and 2 stitches in one, 8 times.)

It will now be advisable to take out the string, and run it into the 1st round to keep the work even. Net 15 rounds plain.

_20th._--Net 2 stitches in one, then 20 plain, 2 stitches in one, 79 plain. Net 4 rounds more the same as last, working 2 stitches more at the end of each round, so that the 20 plain stitches are always over those of the preceding round; when finished, turn back. Net to within 20 stitches of the end of the round, turn back again, and leaving the 20 stitches to form the back of the cap, work for the front, 8 rows plain, netting two stitches in the last stitch of each row. Then 12 rows plain without increasing; and for the foundation of the border double the cotton and work 6 rows plain.

Embroider the cap with the pink wool in darning stitch, passing the needle about 6 times in each square of the netting.

THE BORDER.--With the thread, and No. 14 mesh, net 6 stitches plain, and continue working backwards and forwards for about 9 yards; then to form.

THE EDGE.--Run a string in the loops which form the selvedge, so as to work on the other selvedge.

_1st row._--With flat mesh, net 4 stitches in every other stitch of the selvedge.

_2d._--With 14 mesh, plain netting, working a stitch in every stitch of the first row. Then, with the pink wool, embroider the plain netting.

To make up the cap, sew a row of the border to the last thick row of the cap, fulling it at the ears, plain across the front to the centre, then draw 5 loops close together to make it rather pointed, plain again, and full at the other ear, and across the back, sew on another row of the border the same, attaching it to the first thick row; then sew on a third border, very full, and in a zigzag form on the ears, but the same as before across the front.

THE STRINGS.--With the thread and No. 14 mesh, net 12 stitches, and continue working backwards and forwards for 5 inches, then net 2 stitches in one at the end of every third row, until it is increased to 28 stitches; then net 8 rows, leaving 3 stitches unworked at the end of each row; and for

THE EDGE.--With the flat mesh, commence in the last stitch of the side, and net 4 stitches in every other stitch across the uneven rows; then one row plain, with No. 14 mesh. Work another string the same, and embroider them as the cap.

BORDER AND CORNER FOR POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

CHEMISETTES, UNDERSLEEVES, AND CAPS.

OUR readers can scarcely imagine the difficulty we meet with in presenting _novelties_ in this department. The shades of fashion are so various, and yet so slight, that, in giving new designs from month to month, those not accustomed to scrutinize closely may not notice the peculiarities they are intended to present, or that each month has its peculiar and seasonable adaptation. For instance--

Fig. 1, a wrought lace chemisette and stomacher, is intended for the mild opening season, when cambric embroideries would be too heavy for the style of dress. The prevailing form of the opening of the basque corsage is also denoted by it--low, square, or a broad oval on the bust. The construction of the chemisette of broad scalloped lace, is simple enough, on a foundation of Grecian net or coach blonde.

Fig. 2 is an undersleeve to correspond, made sufficiently loose at the wrist for the hand to pass through. The box plaiting or quilling of satin ribbon, which heads the lace in both Figs. 1 and 2, is fastened in the sleeve by a rosette. This is of course only caught on, and is easily removed when the lace is to be done up; it may be of any shade, and is very stylish in evening dress.

Fig. 3 is a rather close morning cap for a lady of middle age, made of alternate rows of clean muslin puffs and fine Valenciennes insertion. It has a crown, front piece, and frill. The border is a medium Valenciennes edge sewn in the insertion, two rows slightly frilled. Bows and strings of violet-colored satin ribbon.

Fig. 4.--Breakfast cap for a young married lady, consisting of a crown piece, and two rows of edging, of Maltese lace. Bows and ends of rich ribbon, medium width between the rows, a knot of broader ribbon behind, a little to the right. For description of _Maltese_ lace, see fashion article.

APRON IN BRODERIE EN LACET.

(_See Blue Plate in front of Book._)

_Materials._--Seven-eighths of a yard of wide black glace silk, two knots of cerise Russia silk braid, one knot of pale vert-islay ditto, and a dozen skeins of sewing-silk to match each braid.

BRODERIE EN LACET signifies a design out-lined as if merely for braiding, but with the flowers and other parts filled in with point lace stitches, so as to make a solid piece of embroidering on the silk. For no article is this novel style of work more suitable than for aprons, which it renders exceedingly ornamental, at a very small expenditure of time and trouble, the very simplest of the point lace stitches only being used in this work. Of course, the size of our page precludes our giving even the half of the apron the full size. The design must be enlarged according to the size required, the pattern procured, and the silk marked in the same way as ordinary braiding or embroidery.

Braiding should always be done with a strand of the silk of which the braid is made. Before beginning, cut off a yard of the braid and draw out the threads for sewing with. Thread the end of the braid on a large darning-needle, and draw it through the silk to the wrong side for the commencement, and do the same at every necessary break, sending the ends down. Run the braid on very smoothly, taking the stitches across it slanting and cut along the centre, as is usually done. The braid should lie perfectly flat, and the edges be smooth and even.

The knots at the side suspending the wreath are done in the green braid, the two parallel lines of which are connected by close herring-bone stitch, or point d'Alençon, as it is called in lace-work. All the fancy stitches are done with the common sewing-silk, not with the strands of the braid. The leaves need have merely the veinings worked in Venetian bars; those, however, who do not mind the trouble, will do well to fill them first with Brussels lace, and work the fibres over that; the improved effect will quite repay the extra work. The roses are filled up closely in the Brussels and Venetian lace, the narrow parts being connected with English bars. The lower part of each bud has a rosette in it, the remainder is filled with Venetian lace.

LADY'S SLIPPER.

Gold braid on velvet or cloth.

JACKET FOR A RIDING-DRESS.

THE material is merino, or very fine lady's cloth; the color a light shade of cinnamon brown. The basque, or skirt, at the waist is rather long, and the jacket is edged all round with a Greek border in soutache. It is made rather open in front, so as to show a waistcoat of plain blue cashmere fastened with gold buttons. The collar to be worn with this jacket is of cambric, and may be either worked or plain. The undersleeves, also of cambric, are full, and the fulness gathered at the wrists on bands of needlework. Necktie of black velvet. Our illustration shows only the jacket of this riding-dress; but we may mention that the skirt of the habit should be of the same material, and that the hat worn with it should be of gray felt, ornamented with a feather of the same color, and the crown encircled by a band of blue ribbon fastened in a rosette on one side.

COTTAGE FURNITURE.

PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY.

EDITORS' TABLE.

WE put aside, for this month, a number of short articles, in order to give our readers the pleasure of an introduction to the celebrated singing-master, to whose instructions the Swedish Nightingale owes, in a great measure, the restoration of her wonderful voice, and her unequalled power in using it. Very important lessons are contained in this interesting sketch, translated from the German of Elise Polko.

* * * * *

_Rue Chabannais, No._ 6.--In one of the most insignificant streets of splendid Paris, the narrow little Rue Chabannais, there stands a tall, dark-looking house known as No. 6. Ugly, rambling, old-fashioned buildings stand on each side, and have posted themselves opposite to it also, like old duennas mounting guard, squinting down incessantly with their dim eyes, their unwashed windows, upon the gray house with its broad doorway. The inhabitants of the little street, on the contrary, regard it with a certain pride mingled with a tender friendliness of feeling, and rejoice like children over each brilliant equipage that stays its rapid course before No. 6, as well as over every unpretending fiacre that there deposits its light burden.

At all hours of the day, graceful female figures glide over the threshold of the large dark house, and the _modiste_ of the Rue Chabannais, who arranges her fluttering caps, ribbons, and veils so invitingly in the corner window, might make valuable studies for costume from the many and divers figures, great and small, who so heedlessly pass by her well-displayed treasures. One may see rich heavy silks, and simple black woollen robes, superb velvet mantillas and delicate light shawls, the careless and yet striking costume, the carefully-chosen and usually brilliant garb of slender German women, the elegant and coquettish French bonnet, and the great roof-like straw hat which shelters the fair brow of the English lady. One might be tempted to think some skilful gardener must have his abode here, and all the flowers were flocking to him for advice about their tender lives, from the glorious exotic of the greenhouse to the humblest field flower that needs only its drop of dew.

But men too, young and old, whose figures and faces remind us neither of flowers nor spring, enter mysterious No. 6 with rapid steps, and strangely do their countenances differ in expression as they come out again. Sometimes there is a bright smile and a beaming eye, but most of them have a deep and earnest look, and a brow furrowed with anxious thought--traces which vanish soon enough in the Place Louvois or the gay and brilliant Rue Richelieu.

"Perhaps a second Lenormand has fixed her residence in the large house, disclosing strange secrets to the curious, and uttering dark oracles!" Ah, no! such magicians are sought only under cover of twilight and the dark shadows of night--never in bright day.

Now, shall I solve the riddle of the gray house? Will you follow me up the broad stone stairway? Forward, then! Many a light foot has lingered anxiously on these steps, doubtful whether to go further; this iron railing has been touched by many a trembling hand, and these white walls have echoed many a sigh. At last we have mounted the third flight; let us take breath! Many a young heart has beat audibly before this closed door, believe me! for we are standing before the dwelling of

MANUEL GARCIA,

the greatest singing-master of our time.

One of the most charming of fairies (and I tell you for your comfort there are still many of them who, to escape the roar and tumult of our mad world, hide themselves far down in the flower-cups), at my earnest request, has lent me her fragrant veil for an hour or two; we wrap it around us and are invisible, and now we can boldly enter the rooms of the artist. Passing through a small antechamber, we carefully open a folding door on the right, and enter a simple apartment, partially darkened, and tastefully and comfortably furnished. Two beautiful busts arrest our attention; one bears the inscription "Eugenie Garcia," the other the immortal name "Marie Malibran." Two familiar portraits adorn the walls: the pleasant kindly face of the Swedish Nightingale, and the earnest countenance of Pauline Viardot.

Silvery sounds, full and powerful, reach our ear from the adjoining room; they attract us irresistibly; we follow them, gently open a side door and find ourselves in the very sanctum of the master, in the atelier of the artist. The long folds of the red silk curtains are partially drawn, so that a rosy light falls upon every object; a fine piano stands in the middle of the room; arm-chairs by the fireplace; a luxurious divan on one side covered with scattered music; the elegant marble table loaded with books, portfolios, music-books, papers of all kinds; music-stands in every direction, on one of which, beside the singer, we see an open volume of exercises. "L'école de Garcia, l'art du chant." A breath of poetry seems to pervade the apartment. Garcia sits at the piano, his scholar stands at some distance before him.

The maestro is very tall, unusually slender, and of a truly feverish vivacity. His face is small and deadly pale; his dark, slightly curled hair falls over a high forehead. His eyes are dark, restless, flashing, and inspired. Now he listens with fixed attention to the full, swelling notes that flow from the lips of the songstress; the next he throws back his head impatiently; a word of warning or of blame is rapidly addressed to the pupil; sometimes a kindly smile, a slight sarcasm, a pleasant jest, all strangely intermingled with sudden starts, angry stamping of the feet, and stern frowns of displeasure. How rarely a word of praise! But one single warm word of commendation from such a master is a sunbeam that has power to penetrate and unfold every fast closed bud of zeal and earnest effort.

How cautiously Garcia handles the precious possession intrusted to his care, the human voice! How tenderly he protects it! how carefully he watches it! how anxiously he strives to preserve that pure, brilliant freshness of youth which is the greatest charm a voice can possess.

It is really impossible to lose this flower-like bloom under Garcia's guidance; whatever may be said or has already been said to the contrary, such a reproach can never come home to a master whose whole method is so entirely according to nature. And how strenuously does he insist upon resting pauses in his hours of instruction! Hear what he says to that listening pupil who looks up to him with such eager expectation:--

"Freshness and spontaneousness are the most precious qualities of the voice, but they are also the most fragile. The voice which loses them never regains them; its tone is gone, never to return."

"During the first days of practising, the pupils should not devote themselves to their exercises more than five minutes consecutively; but studies thus regulated may be resumed four or five times a day, provided they be separated by long intervals. Afterwards, the time devoted to practice, by increasing it five minutes at a time, may be extended to half an hour, a limit which should never be exceeded. At the end of five or six months, you may increase the number of half hours of exercise to four, but be careful in going beyond it, remembering always that these periods be separated by long rests."

The singer begins again. Her own figure stands before her in the large mirror that hangs behind the master's back; no movement of her face can escape her; every contraction of her eyebrows, every slight wrinkle in her forehead, every ungraceful movement of her mouth is truly reflected there. And no trick passes unreproved, for Garcia's piercing eye watches with fixed attention every feature of the singer. But he does not arrange and prescribe how the cheekbones are to move, or the lips to open; he does not confuse the ideas of his pupils by incomprehensible, wordy descriptions of the position of the mouth and the posture of the head; he simply repeats the teaching of the famous old Italian singing-masters, Tosi and Mancini: "Every singer should hold his mouth as he is in the habit of doing when he smiles naturally, that is, so that the upper teeth may be moderately and perpendicularly separated from the lower ones." Without directing the posture of the body like a drill-sergeant, Garcia says briefly, but decidedly: "Keep the body erect, tranquil, well-balanced on the two limbs, and at a distance from any other point of support." The arms must be held a little back, "so as not to interfere with the play of the chest." The lesson is finished. The maestro kindly dismisses his pupil, again repeats, with condensed brevity, the main point of to-day's instruction, appoints the task for home practice, and encourages the timid departing scholar with heart-cheering words of courage and hope.

But look! scarcely has the door closed when it is again opened. A pale young man, accompanied by some sober-looking, elderly gentlemen, bows in an awkward and yet assuming manner, and, with a smile of conscious self-satisfaction, presents different letters of recommendation, among which such names as Meyerbeer, Auber, Spontini, shine out. It is a singer from one of the provinces; enchanted with the praises of his table-companions, he is about to devote himself to the stage. His rich father and richer uncle have come with him to Paris; Cousin Meyerbeer sends him to Garcia, as he has already sent him from Pontius Auber to Pilate Spontini. With what indifference Garcia throws aside these great letters, but how carefully he begins to test the young man's abilities! The aspiring devotee to art has brought with him his favorite air, his show-piece; Verdi is his idol among composers! The recitation begins; Garcia accompanies him. The voice is weak and yet sharp, already half-cracked; the flow of it unnatural and cramped; the most terrible effort is apparent at every note; false respiration too, and indistinct pronunciation. The master grows more and more impatient; his feet begin to jerk as if seized with sudden cramps; he plays faster and faster; with feverish haste, his slender hands run over the keys, his face changing with every sound; his eyes flash more and more restlessly; his teeth are pressed against his lips; suddenly, he springs from his seat, with the half-smothered exclamation, "Assez, Monsieur, assez, je vous prie!" He sinks exhausted into a chair; an awful pause ensues. At last the master quietly and decidedly explains to the singer the grounds upon which he is obliged to refuse his request, in spite of all the recommendations of Meyerbeer and Spontini. His candor and calmness towards the offended amateur are worthy of admiration. He concludes by kindly advising the astonished aspirant, if he has not implicit faith in his words, to seek another teacher, and dismisses the deluded worshipper of Verdi with the most refined courtesy.

How frequently does he reject lady pupils who, with great assumption and half-ruined voices, come to him that his hand may scatter a few flowers over their remains! How impatient he is of all musical narrowness, want of talent, and laziness! His severity in such cases has given him a bad reputation, his violence has forced tears from many eyes; but his justice remains unimpeachable. He will not for a moment feign for a scholar an interest he does not feel, or that has been forfeited by any of the defects I have mentioned; he is unsparing in making them feel how little he cares for such pupils. Holding a book in one hand, with the other he carelessly strikes an accompaniment, and as he diligently reads on, only the monotonous "encore" at the end of a solfeggia proves that the ear of the master has been attending.

The more untrained and untutored the voice that is brought to him, the more thankfully he receives it. How joyfully does he then devote himself to his arduous task! how unwearied is his attention! how carefully and conscientiously does he watch over the treasure intrusted to him! On the other hand, he is most unwilling to under-take "repairs" and "final embellishments," which, artist-like, he confesses without disguise; and singers who, with this in view, seek the master's studio, will have but little satisfaction in his lessons. * * * * * *

But hush! hush! My gracious protectress gives me a gentle warning, and touches the magic veil we had wrapped about us. Let us obey her timely hint, nor provoke one kind spirit to anger! Farewell, good master Garcia! Heartily do we rejoice that we have listened to thee; believe me, we shall often wing our way back to thee without fairy help, even in the spirit, that we may look on thee with gratitude and admiration. And the golden and silvery sounds which thy magic power draws from young rosy lips will again flow forth and bear us on in their clear stream; the bright, pearly drops of brilliant roulades will refresh and quicken us into new life; and oh, joy! the poor troubled heart will hear no more the sharp, cutting, irreconcilable discords of the everyday world.

* * * * *

AN AMERICAN ARTISTE ABROAD.--Miss Adelaide Phillips, of Boston, has lately made a very successful _débût_ at Brescia (Italy), in the character of _Arsace_ in Rossini's _Semiramide_. "The public were lavish of well-merited applause," says the Italian critic. Miss Phillips first sang, as a child, at the Boston Museum. She went, about two years since, to Italy, to complete her musical education. Biscaccianti sang for her benefit, and Jenny Lind, though she refused to sing for her, it is understood, gave her $1,000, and letters of recommendation to her old teacher, Garcia. Miss Phillips is the fifth American who has, within the last few years, succeeded on the Italian stage.

* * * * *

TRUE HAPPINESS IN A PALACE.--Frederick William III., King of Prussia, married, in 1793, Louisa, daughter of the Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. The union was one of elevated love and perfect confidence, the character of the wife presenting a combination of excellencies that dignify her sex and ennoble humanity. Among her graces, that of doing good to the poor was always in exercise. The king allowed her a certain sum for her charities, which she often exceeded, and when the treasurer informed the king of this, he had a way of gradually replenishing the drawer in her desk.

She would say, "What angel has filled that drawer for me again?" To which the king--that the angels were legion, although he knew only _one_; and then repeated the beautiful verse--

"He gives his favors to his favorites while sleeping."

This high and tender appreciation of the queen's graces and virtues appeared at all times. Himself grave, often morose, silent, and somewhat sarcastic, he knew well how to make use of and shelter himself behind the serene smiles and ever-genial, gracious demeanor of the queen, to whom he used to say, when assailed by the plaudits of their subjects: "Now, Louisa, you must salute them for me; you can do it better than I; but how you can hold out so long, I cannot think."

Much is said of her sly playfulness and ready repartee, one anecdote of which we cannot resist giving. The king, who was extremely careful and judicious in his expenditure, and whose maxim it was that the secret of dollars lies in _groschen_--exactly similar to our saying about pennies and pounds--on entering the queen's apartments one morning, espied a pretty new headdress, of which he jestingly inquired the price.

The queen replied in the same tone: "It is not always right that men should know the price of women's dress; they don't understand it, and think everything too dear."

"Well, but do tell me the price for this cap, for I should like to know."

"Oh, certainly I will! I bought it a great bargain; I only gave four dollars for it."

"Only! an enormous price for such a thing. What a large sum of money!" and running on in the same vein, he saw from the window an old invalid veteran of the guard, whom he beckoned to come in, saying to him as he entered: "The lady who is sitting on that sofa has a great deal of money; now, what ought she pay for that little cap on the table? You must not be dazzled by the beautiful pink ribbons, but say what you think it is worth."

The old soldier shrugged his shoulders, and said, after a pause: "Why, I suppose it would cost some _groschen_" (pence).

"There, now!" said the king; "do you hear that? _Groschen_, indeed! That thing cost four dollars. Now go and ask that pretty lady for four dollars. She can well afford to give you as much as she can afford to pay for _that_."

The queen smilingly opened her purse, and presented the four dollars to the old man. "And now," continued the queen, archly imitating the king's tone, "you see that noble gentleman standing at the window; he has much more money than I have. All I have is from him, and he gives very freely. Now go and ask for double of what you have got from me: he can afford to give you eight dollars."

The king saw at once that he was caught in his own trap, and laughingly gave the old man the sum she had so charmingly forced from him.

Such domestic happiness is seldom found in a palace; when it is, we see how it adds to the glory of royalty. Every married pair are royal in their own home, and if every husband and wife would study to make each other happy, like Frederick and Louisa of Prussia, there would be no question about the "rights" of either. Both would find their best happiness in their respective _duties_.

* * * * *

A MISTAKE.--The following paragraph we are sorry to see ascribed to the lady editor of the "Book":--

"Mrs. Hale says there is more talent and general information displayed by the press of the United States, taken collectively, than can be found in Congress and all the Legislatures taken collectively."

Mrs. Hale never presumed thus to criticize or compare the merits of editors and statesmen. The opinion belongs to Mr. Godey--he can answer for himself.

* * * * *

TO CORRESPONDENTS.--The following articles are accepted: "Mrs. Clark's Experience as a Servant," "The Schottisch Partner," "Stanzas," "Autumn Dying," "The Thrice Wedded," "Memory's Retrospect," "The Mother's Lesson," "My blighted Rose-buds," "Come unto me," "To Miss Laura," "Lines," "Two Mothers," "I Pray for the Loved at Home," "The Smiling Boy," "A loving Heart," "Legend of Long Pond, or Lake of the Golden Cross," "Deacon Downright."

The following articles are declined: "Valuable Copyrights," "The Grave;" "The Sabbath of the Soul." (Poetical in idea, and evinces genius as well as taste; but unequal, and the closing lines poor. The writer may feel sure of success if energy does not fail.) "Turkish Battle Song," and the translation of the "Forty-seventh Ode of Anacreon," are both declined. Neither war nor wine is a fitting theme for our "Book," nor do we need poetry of any kind. "To Belle Irene." The following, the first and best stanza, is all we have room for. (There is power in the writer, and he does not lack imagination, but he dashes off his lines in such hot haste, that he often leaves metre and measure far behind. A little more care in the versification would be a great improvement.)

"I may not love thee, yet within my heart, When night and darkness set my spirit free, And I am musing from the world apart, Soft low requiems murmur words of thee; And upward gushing from joy's smouldered fire, Shadowlessly, in fresh and tameless glee, A wind-wail sweeps through Hope's halcyon lyre, Like zephyr's music o'er summer's golden sea."

"Lines about Tecumseh," "To Mary," "I Would;" "Tears." We give below an extract, the poem being too extended for its one idea; the writer is capable of better things:--

"Tears my bleeding heart hath known, Tears of sorrow sadly shed, Tears I've mingled with thine own, Tears while weeping for the dead. Tears so brightly let them flow Tears from eyes too freely given, Tears that none but angels know, Tears from kind hearts wildly riven."

"Mrs. Penelope Pennington's Disappointments." (The article is well written, the subject commonplace.) "A Leaf from the Life of an Old Maid" was declined; the _acceptance_ noted in September was by mistake; the "Book" is sent, nevertheless, as the author will undoubtedly succeed, and we can wait. Many articles on hand are not yet examined.

Literary Notices.

* * * * *

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

A NEW AND COMPLETE GAZETTEER OF THE UNITED STATES. Giving a full and comprehensive review of the present condition, industry, and resources of the American confederacy; embracing, also, important topographical, statistical, and historical information, from recent and original sources; together with the results of the census of 1850, and population and statistics in many cases to 1853. By Thomas Baldwin and J. Thomas, M. D. The enterprising publishers of this valuable and important work may very justly feel gratified in being able to present it to the public, and with equal truth do they claim it to be the most elaborate, comprehensive, and perfect "Gazetteer" of the United States that has ever issued from the press. Instead of 800 pages, to which the work was originally restricted, it has swelled to 1,400 pages, embracing at least 10,000 names of places not to be found in any other "Gazetteer," together with the appropriate statistics and information. Neither the hope of profit, nor the pressure of competition has induced the publishers to present their work before it was complete, or before all the ample materials furnished by the census of 1850, and other statistics and important facts in the hands of editors, were "fully digested and arranged." The expense incurred in the production of this unequalled "Gazetteer," in which, besides the editors and their assistants, several thousand correspondents in all parts of the United States were engaged, has consequently been very great, amounting, as we learn, to more than $30,000.

But, if the publishers have reason to feel gratified in the result of their labors, we think the American public should be congratulated in having within command and ready for use a volume which presents so faithfully the present condition of the country, in all the ramifications of population, trade, commerce, wealth, etc., and which foreshadows the future as unerringly as it records the history of the past. The great public, therefore, always alive to its own interests, will lose no time in discovering the propriety, as well as the justice of rewarding the spirited publishers of the "New and Complete Gazetteer," by purchasing the volumes as fast as they can be got ready. And this, we think, will be the result as soon as its merits are generally known. As a book of reference, it will be indispensable to editors, authors, merchants, and men of enterprise in all the departments of business. In families, it will also be found to furnish the readiest means in impressing the young inquirers with an amount of history in relation to the extent, climate, soil, productions, and general statistics of their country, which they might search in vain for in the various histories prepared for their exclusive benefit.

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From A. HART (late Carey & Hart), corner of Fourth and Chestnut Streets, Philadelphia:--

HEROIC WOMEN OF THE WEST: _containing Thrilling Examples of Courage, Fortitude, Devotedness, and Self-Sacrifice, among the Pioneer Mothers of the Western Country_. By John Frost. LL.D., author of "Pictorial History of the World," "History of the United States," etc. etc. This is a handsome and interesting volume, in which are graphically narrated the heroic deeds of forty of the pioneer women of the West. It has many beautiful illustrations.

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From TICKNOR, REED, & FIELDS, Boston, through C. G. Henderson, Philadelphia:--

HAPS AND MISHAPS OF A TOUR IN EUROPE. By Grace Greenwood. This is a very clever and readable book, its style fluent, flashy, and flowery. Every sentence is highly wrought and carefully polished, and every sentiment, good, bad, and indifferent, is expressed in the highest pitch the English language will bear; and, when it would bear no more, the climax has sometimes been given in words borrowed from softer, sweeter, or stronger and more thrilling vocabularies than our coarse mongrel Saxon. We know Grace Greenwood to be a graceful and polished writer; but in this volume she has evidently labored too ardently to dignify and garnish poetically common incidents and common sayings, which would have appeared to much better advantage in commonplace prose. But all this, we presume, proceeds from her determination to let her feelings have their full sweep; and thus, as they have directed her, and as she has been differently impressed by similar sights and images, we find her at one time subdued and almost in tears before a painting of the Madonna, and at another hurling impassioned imprecations upon the heads of those who foster a worse than pagan superstition. We do not wonder, therefore, after reading her book, that, near the close of her tour, the over-excited author felt an inexpressible longing for rest "in a _comfortable_ home among her dear English friends."

* * * * *

From R. T. YOUNG, New York, through J. L. GIHON, Philadelphia:--

HISTORY OF NEW AMSTERDAM; _or, New York as it was in the Days of the Dutch Governors. Together with Papers on Events connected with the American Revolution, and on Philadelphia in the Times of William Penn._ By Professor A. Davis, Corresponding Member of the N. Y. Hist. Society, Hon. Member of the N. Y. S. of Letters, and formerly Chaplain to the New York Senate. Six fine illustrations. The younger classes of historical readers will find this a very attractive and very instructive volume.

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From TICKNOR, REED, & FIELDS, Boston, through W. P. HAZARD, Philadelphia:--

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS; _or, Eight Years on the Stage_. By Anna Cora Mowatt. These simple and unaffected memoirs will greatly interest the many warm and ardent friends of the authoress. They will, at the same time, endear her to a numerous class of readers who have hitherto had no opportunities to form just judgments of her character, her talents, and her noble struggles through a professional life, such as is generally supposed to be more dangerous to those who enter upon it than almost any other they could make choice of. We see, however, in this instance, as in many that have passed before, that where the virtues of the heart and the energies of the mind are combined in motive and effort, the profession itself is elevated, and the professor triumphs.

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From PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO., Boston, through R. H. SEE & CO., Philadelphia:--

OUTLINES OF THE GEOLOGY OF THE GLOBE, AND OF THE UNITED STATES IN PARTICULAR: _with two Geological Maps, and Sketches of Characteristic American Fossils_. By Edward Hitchcock, D.D., LL.D.: President of Amherst College, and Professor of Natural Theology and Geology. This work has been prepared as a sequel to "Elementary Geology," published by the author in 1847. It forms a most valuable addition to the original work, as will be seen by a single glance at the maps.

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From M. W. DODD, opposite the City Hall, New York, through C. G. HENDERSON, Philadelphia:--

THE LECTURES COMPLETE OF FATHER GAVAZZI, _as Delivered in New York_. Reported by an eminent Stenographer, and revised and corrected by Gavazzi himself. Including translations of his Italian addresses with which the greater part of the lectures were prefaced. To which are prefixed, under his authority and revision, the life of Gavazzi, continued to the time of his visit to America. By G. B. Nicolini, his friend and fellow-exile, author of the "History of the late Roman Republic." The fulness of the title, and the great celebrity acquired by the author in the delivery of his lectures, release us from any obligation we might otherwise be under of explaining the controversial character of this work.

ORIENTAL AND SACRED SCENES, _from Notes of Travel in Greece, Turkey, and Palestine_. By Fisher Howe. This is a very beautiful volume, with maps and colored illustrations. The incidents narrated, the descriptions of the cities and monuments visited, and the just and appropriate reflections of the author, are calculated not only to gratify the curiosity, but to leave deep and salutary impressions upon the mind of the reader. The Christian public will be the more interested in the sale of this handsome volume, when informed that the profits are specifically devoted to the cause of promoting the Gospel in the East under the American Board of Commissions for Foreign Missions.

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

SKETCHES OF THE IRISH BAR. By the Rt. Hon. Richard Lalor Shiel, M. P. With Memoir and Notes, by R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L. In two volumes. These volumes will greatly interest such readers as may desire to investigate the Irish character, as displayed under the higher influences of education, talents, and patriotism, and when aroused into action by motives of rivalry or ambition for place and power. Independent of these personal characteristics, the volume contains a great deal of information connected with the actual history of Ireland not yet embodied in any other work that has come under our notice.

THE PARTISAN. _A Romance of the Revolution._ By W. Gilmore Simms, Esq., author of "The Yemassee," "Guy Rivers," "Martin Faber," etc. etc. A new and revised edition. The first edition of this work was so favorably received by the critics, and was so generally read, it would seem unnecessary for us to call particular attention to its merits as a history or a romance. We may say, however, with great justice, that in his revision of the work the author has availed himself of all the new facts brought to bear upon his subject by the critical observations of friends, and that the volume now presents a complete history of all the leading events in the war of the Revolution in South Carolina, dating from the fall of the city of Charleston, in 1780.

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From J. P. JEWETT & CO., Boston:--

DRESS AS A FINE ART. By Mrs. Merrifield. The publisher, in his preface, says: "This work of Mrs. Merrifield's has been circulated among the forty thousand subscribers of the 'London Art Journal.'" He might have added, "and also among the hundred thousand subscribers of the 'Lady's Book;'" for we have published nearly every word of it. Still, the book before us is beautifully got up, and, the articles being gathered together and placed before the reader upon beautiful type and paper, it must command a great sale, as it is an admirable work. That may be taken for granted, or it never would have appeared in "Godey." The book is a splendid specimen of typography.

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NOVELS, SERIALS, PAMPHLETS, &c.

From Garrett & Co., 18 Ann Street, New York, through T. B. Peterson, 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia: "Dashes of American Humor." By Howard Paul. Illustrated by John Leech. This is a collection of amusing stories.

From Bunce & Brothers, New York, through T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia: "Annie Vincent; a Domestic Story." By the author of the "Twin Sisters."

From D. Appleton & Co., 200 Broadway, New York, through C. G. Henderson & Co., Philadelphia: "An Attic Philosopher in Paris; or, a Peep at the World from a Garret." From the French of Emilie Souvestre. There are many excellent thoughts and worthy examples within the unpretending paper cover of this little volume.--"Linny Lockwood: a Novel." By Catharine Crowe, author of "Susan Hopley," etc.

From T. B. Peterson, 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia: "The Young Duke; or, the Younger Days of George the Fourth." By B. D'Israeli, M. P., P. C., author of "Henrietta Temple," etc. etc. With a beautiful portrait of the author. Complete. Price 37 cents.--"Memoirs and Correspondence of Thomas Moore." Edited by the Rt. Hon. Lord John Russell, M. P. Part 6. Price 25 cents.--"Contarini Fleming: an Autobiography." By B. D'Israeli, M. P., P. C., author of "The Young Duke," etc. With a portrait of the author.

From J. S. Redfield, New York, through W. B. Zieber, Philadelphia: "The Partisan: a Romance of the Revolution." By W. Gilmore Simms, Esq., author of "The Yemassee," "Guy Rivers," etc. etc. This is a new and revised edition of one of the author's most popular works.--"Poems, Descriptive, Dramatic, Legendary, and Contemplative." By William Gilmore Simms, Esq. In two volumes. The first of these volumes contains "Norman Maurice: a Tragedy;" "Atlantis: a Tale of the Sea;" "Tales and Traditions of the South;" "The City of the Silent." The second volume embraces "Southern Passages and Pictures;" "Historical and Dramatic Sketches;" "Scripture Legends;" "Francesca da Rimini." These, and the prose writings of Mr. Simms, have established his fame as a chaste and brilliant writer. We hope he will receive from the publication of his prose and poetical writings, in their present complete and uniform editions, the pecuniary reward to which his incessant literary labors so justly entitle him.

From Ticknor, Reed, & Fields, Boston, through W. P. Hazard, Philadelphia: "Poems and Parodies." By Phœbe Carey. The name of this author and the character of her poetry are familiar in every town and country in the United States that can boast a newspaper. This is a handsome collection, and will be sought after by her numerous friends.--"The Young Voyagers; or, the Boy Hunters in the North." By Captain Mayne Reid, author of the "Boy Hunters," "The Desert Home," etc. With twelve illustrations by W. Harvey. Captain Reid has been a great traveller, and he describes men, and birds, and beasts, and strange and startling incidents with wonderful minuteness.

From Herman J. Meyer, New York: "The United States Illustrated; in Views of City and Country." With descriptive and historical articles. Edited by Charles A. Dana. We have received Parts 8, 9, and 10, East and West, of the first volume of this beautiful and truly national work. All connected with this work deserve great credit for the literary and artistic excellence exhibited in every number.

Godey's Arm-Chair.

OUR APRIL NUMBER.--We do not perceive any falling off in the "Lady's Book." As we commenced, so we go on. We have, at a very considerable expense, procured the very latest style for bonnets, dresses, and mantillas, for spring wear. These may be depended upon, as they are not mere reprints taken from other publications, but designed and engraved expressly for Godey. We will furnish patterns of the dresses for $1 50, and of the mantillas for $1.

* * * * *

THE Dairy House and Piggery in this number are from the excellent work on Rural Architecture published by C. M. Saxton, New York. We can furnish the work complete, postage free, on receipt of $1 25.

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"THE Trials of a Needlewoman" continues to increase in interest. Our exchanges and private letters pronounce this Mr. Arthur's best story.

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BY the way, for the last ten or fifteen years, we have considered Godey's Fashions unrivalled. No other magazine equals him in this particular. So says the "Illinois Union," and so says almost every one of our exchanges. It is useless to enlarge upon this subject. It is conceded.

* * * * *

THE "Germantown Telegraph," whose editor was also caught with the imported story--"Marrying through Prudential Motives"--comes out like an honorable gentleman, as he is, and thus speaks he:--

"JUSTICE, THOUGH THE HEAVENS FALL!--Some two or three weeks ago, we found in one of our respectable New York exchange papers an excellent story, purporting to have been taken from 'La Belle Assemblée;' entitled 'Marrying through Prudential Motives,' which was no doubt much admired by our readers; but the paternity of which belongs to 'Godey's Lady's Book,' instead of the Parisian journal, which, it appears, had unhandsomely appropriated the production without any acknowledgment of the original ownership. Coming back to us with a French godfather, of course, it was a thousand times better than the domestic article, and therefore it 'took' surprisingly. Our own apology is, not that we ever deny our friend Godey any of the merit that belongs to his elegant and popular magazine, but simply that the story in question was overlooked at the time of its publication, in the multiplicity of good things always filling its pages, and that when it was published in our own columns, it came under our eye for the first time at the opportune moment. Our desire is at all times to do 'justice though the heavens fall;' and to none would we yield it more promptly than the gentlemanly proprietor of the 'Lady's Book.'"

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BACK numbers from January can be supplied throughout the year, as the work is stereotyped.

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WHITE'S BONNET ESTABLISHMENT IN SECOND ABOVE CHESTNUT STREET.--Mr. White has got into his new building, and we unhesitatingly pronounce it one of the handsomest fronts in the city. It is of brown stone of the finest quality, and is now the palace of the longest business street probably in the world. Second Street is about five miles long, and if one side of the street was placed at the end of the other, it would make a straight line of ten miles of stores.

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THE "Georgia Times" has caught us. We certainly must plead guilty to his charge:--

"Godey is up to the highest notch, and seems determined that none shall outstrip him. Our junior has just given us an idea. Oh, we've got you, Uncle Louis--caught you in a mistake one time! You said there should be no 'difference between your January and February numbers:' and there is, for the February number is the better! Now then, sir, ain't you caught?"

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A PROPER ACKNOWLEDGMENT.--We find in the New York journals copies of a correspondence between W. C. Bryant, Gulian C. Verplank, Jonathan Sturges, F. W. Edmonds, A. B. Durand, and other eminent citizens, as a committee, and Abraham M. Cozzens, Esq., President of the American Art Union, on the occasion of presenting a service of plate to the latter, as a testimony on the part of the donors of their "appreciation of his long and faithful services to the cause of Art in the United States." We can add our own assurance to that of the committee--for circumstances have made us familiar with the fact--that, "for a series of years," Mr. Cozzens has "devoted both time and labor, at a great sacrifice of his personal interests, to the promotion of a taste for the Fine Arts among his countrymen, and to the encouragement of native artists," and we cordially agree with them that his "distinguished services render him worthy of this tribute"--the tribute being a complete and costly dinner set of massive silver. We may add, moreover, that besides his special merits as a patron and promoter of Art, Mr. Cozzens is a fine, frank, generous, right-minded, true-hearted gentleman, who wins his honors fairly, and knows how to wear them gracefully.

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BURTON has produced "Shakspeare's Midsummer's Night Dream" in most splendid style at his theatre in New York, and Marshall has brought it out at the Bowery. Opinions seem to differ among the New York press as to which house has produced it in the best manner.

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A HAPPY HIT.--"The Three Bells," gratefully dedicated to the noble Captain Crighton. A very pretty piece of music, which everybody ought to purchase. It will keep before them the memory of "the greatest captain of the age."

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THE Sewing-Machine published in our February number is Messrs. Grover, Baker, & Co.'s patent, whose advertisement will be found on our cover.

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THAT "Republican" man of McArthur is hard to please. We have not a. little "Godey" to spare. There are five of them, and we wish there were a dozen.

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FRENCH FURNITURE.--The furniture which is now made in the ateliers of Paris is unparalleled in magnificence and extravagance. Bedroom, as well as drawing-room furniture, is laden with sculpturing and ornaments. Gilt furniture is much in vogue for drawing-rooms; the rich brocatelles and damasks produce a beautiful effect in the gilt frames. The superb furniture of the state-rooms of the Tuileries is of gilt; when illuminated by a thousand wax lights, the effect is gorgeous. This style of furniture is only suitable for large reception-rooms.

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THE following is dreadfully touching, and what is more, it is pointed. It cannot possibly affect any of our subscribers, however, for there is not one of them but would scorn the implication of being a delinquent to the "Lady's Book." We need hardly say that it is an imitation of Hood's "Song of the Shirt":--

"Toil, toil, toil! As the constant drop on a stone, So this ceaseless, endless work, Wears away body and bone! Though the Poet sputter and write, Though the Orator bully and bawl, If it were not for the Editor's pen, What were the use of it all?

Toil, toil, toil, Christians, Mormons, and Jews: Is there a man on this weary earth But grows richer by reading the news? Richer, richer, richer, As they read it by sunlight and taper? And yet there isn't a soul of them all But grudges to pay for his paper!"

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THE INSTRUCTIVE CHARACTER OF THE LADY'S BOOK.--This is the point that we wish to urge upon the public; that every number is full of instruction as well as amusement. Several of our exchanges have commented upon this matter. Our title would seem to mislead--and why it should, it is hard to tell. We would not publish a book for a lady, and pay so poor a compliment to her understanding as to fill it with mere trifling matter. We aim at nobler purposes, and we challenge an investigation and a comparison with any magazine, as to which contains the most instructive matter, either to a lady or gentleman. Look at our descriptions of Factories of various kinds; our Model Cottages; our receipts upon every subject; our essays; our practical instructions to every lady how to cut and make her own dresses; the various kinds of needlework for ladies; our accounts of the several gold regions, Nineveh, Babylon, &c. The editor of the "Ithaca Chronicle" says: "We have just received the January No., for 1854, and can truly say it is more welcome to our table than any other magazine we now receive. The present number contains one hundred pages of reading matter--not flimsy trash--but of such as is instructive to any person who will read it with a desire to gain knowledge."

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YOUNG HYSON AND POTATOES.--The "Stroudsburg Jeffersonian" says: "Our wife would rather go without her Young Hyson at any time (and she is passionately fond of it too), than miss the smiles of Godey; or a new dress, rather than to be without his patterns for making it." The "Christian Advocate" of Missouri expresses his astonishment that we are acquainted with the virtue of the potato:--

"Mr. Godey, at the back of his ARM-CHAIR, gives a list of excellent receipts for cooking potatoes. From the nice and superb manner in which he has always gotten out his book for the ladies, we had no certain evidence that he had much acquaintance with that invaluable _esculent_, the potato. It seems, however, we were mistaken. Success to him."

Not acquainted with potatoes! Why, my dear sir, it is the A B C of cooking, and is the first thing to be learned; besides, as a caterer for the ladies, we are bound to know a little of everything.

* * * * *

THE NEW MANTEAU DE LA COUR, required to be worn by the ladies at the French court, is even more unpopular than was anticipated. Husbands don't like it on account of the expense, and wives shrink from the dancing-master's drill, without which, the wearers of the costume cannot hope to avoid appearing ridiculous. The Empress alone has train-bearers; but other ladies must concentrate all the powers of their mind upon their trains to escape a catastrophe. At the last reception-night there were not more than two hundred ladies present out of eight hundred invited. Under these circumstances it is thought impossible to enforce the regulation announced, that ladies not availing themselves of invitations on January the first, would not be again asked to court during the year.

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VERY neat and pretty compliment from the "North Carolina Whig and Advocate":--

"Godey is always prompt, always welcome, and always interesting. If we were asked to point out the best number of the 'Lady's Book,' we should reply in the language of Dr. Johnson when asked which of Shakspeare's plays he most admired? 'The last I read,' the Doctor answered."

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THERE has been some pleasantry on the part of the press touching that unfortunate milkmaid in our February number being on the wrong side of the cow. Our answer is very plain, and gentlemen should make inquiry before they criticize. The girl was _left-handed_, and the cow would not be milked on the other side. She was--that is the cow--a queer creature.

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DEDICATORY ADDRESS, delivered before the members of Hesperian Lodge, upon the opening of their new hall, by Anson G. Chester, of the "Morning Express." In as short a notice as our space will permit us to give, we cannot do justice to the merits of this beautiful address. We could only do so by publishing the whole of it. Mr. Chester is well known as one of the best poets in this country. His prose is poetic, and worthy of its distinguished author. We wish also to pay a compliment to the handsome dress in which the pamphlet is presented to the public. Messrs. A. M. Clapp & Co. may well be proud of it. The cover is the prettiest piece of type-work we have seen in a long time.

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FRANKLIN INSTITUTE REPORT of the twenty-third exhibition. The address, by George Harding, Esq., that is given in this number, is an able production, and worthy of its author. There is perhaps no similar case on record of a young man, who has hardly been at the bar for two years, who has taken so high a stand as Mr. Harding. He is engaged in almost every patent case that is brought before our courts.

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THE "Charleston Weekly News" says of Mrs. Hale's "New Book of Cookery," and the "New Household Receipt Book":--

"These two works will prove invaluable to housekeepers. Mrs. Hale has absolutely exhausted her subject. There is nothing in the wide world, we believe, appertaining to the '_cuisine_,' from the homeliest to the most _recherché_ dishes, receipts for the preparation of which cannot be found in these volumes. We think that all the ladies who have the direction of 'a home department,' should send a vote of thanks to the author of this Encyclopædia of what should certainly be ranked among the fine arts."

We can furnish one or both.

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WE enter our protest against those children's sayings that are now going the rounds of the press. They are horribly blasphemous; and the whole wit in them seems to be in making a familiar use of God's holy name.

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THE "Boston Olive Branch" comes to us in a new dress, and looks very handsome. It is an excellent paper, and well conducted. Its circulation is very large. Mr. Norris, the publisher, has authority from us to club his paper with the "Lady's Book." We wish also to say a word of another excellent paper published in another part of our Union, the "Georgia Citizen," L. F. W. Andrews, editor and publisher. There is no paper we open with more satisfaction. It is sprightly and solid. Mr. Andrews, its editor, is a man of sterling sense and honesty. We know him well, and esteem him highly. Our merchants would do well to select it for their advertising patronage. The price is $2 50 a year.

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"DORSEY'S DISPATCH," at Wetumpka, Ala., is another of our excellent exchanges. Mr. D. formerly edited the "State Guard," which is now the "Dispatch." Dorsey is as well known in Alabama as we are in Pennsylvania, and the reason is that he publishes an excellent paper.

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RAPP'S PENS.--If those persons ordering these pens will please say whether the order is their own writing, we shall be the better able to tell what kind of a pen will best suit them.

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MUCH obliged to "A. T. T.," and publish her acrostic:--

ACROSTIC.

God speed thee, beauteous book, in thy pathway to fame! Oh, may thy life be long, and cherished be thy name! Deem not my humble song one-half thy charms could tell, E'en if I were a bard of some romantic dell; Yet can I sing thy praise in my own humble way: Sweet friend of lonely days, despise not thou my lay. Long may thy coming be welcomed by young and old, As, gathering round the hearth, they do thy leaves unfold! Dressed in thy wintry garb, or in thy summer sheen, Yet beautiful art thou, our literary queen. Bright are the smiles thou bring'st unto the humble cot, Our lonely hours to cheer, to ease our humble lot. Oh, may'st thou ever be admired as thou art now, Kind wishes thee attend, and laurel wreath thy brow! THERESA.

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BEDCHAMBER OF THE EMPRESS EUGENIE OF FRANCE.--The upholsterers have furnished it a magnificent sky-blue silk _tenture_ along the walls, which is fixed by gold frames, in the style of Louis XV. The arm-chairs, chairs, sofas, and lounges are of the same style and like silk. As for the bed, all made with gilt carved wood, it is covered with a _couvre pieds_ of Maline lace, and the curtains, of blue silk and lace, are hung down all around it, in the same manner as the old beds of our grandmothers. The carpet is also of a blue color, and so thick that one would take it for a bear skin. It was made at Aubusson, expressly for the place in which it lays. The ceiling of the room was painted by Mr. Bresson, and it represents a group of geniuses throwing flowers from rich baskets. The painting is so well done that no one could believe that the figures are not alive. In short, this magnificent bedroom is the _ne plus ultra_ of riches and elegance.

Well, this is all well enough in its way; but who would not prefer being plain Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Godey, or any other Mrs.--never being certain, for a moment, when your husband goes out, that he is not to be shot at. Even if you want to go and pay a friendly visit only one or two squares off, you must wait until six horses are harnessed up, a body of cavalry dressed and mounted, the streets cleared of the crowd, and a host of other little etceteras. Dear me, we should soon be tired of royalty!

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FEMALE SHOEMAKERS.--It is stated that in Washington some of the most respectable women, married and single, engage in the shoemaking business as an agreeable pastime, as well as from motives of economy. "The gaiters which cost us three dollars at the stores," writes a female, "cost us one day's labor and sixty cents for the best material bought at retail. One of us has made five pair of ladies' gaiters in a week. Many of us make shoes for ourselves and children, without neglecting other household duties. On Capitol Hill, alone, there are thirty ladies thus employed, and about two hundred in the city. We find it very easy to make two pair of children's shoes in a day, and they cost here one dollar and twenty-five cents a pair."

We understand that many ladies in this city stitch and prepare their own gaiter boots, and have them made up by the shoemaker. Others again find out the journeymen and employ them. We understand that at least one to one and a half dollars are thus saved on one pair of boots.

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PUNCH--than whom there is no greater satirist upon women--says:--

A LIVING SUPERIORITY.--Woman has this great advantage over man--she proves her will in her lifetime, whilst man is obliged to wait till he is dead.

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"NEW YORK SPIRIT OF THE TIMES."--This excellent paper, under the editorial supervision of W. T. Porter, Esq., continues to flourish and take the lead as a paper of genius, wit, and humor. It is one of the most successful and popular publications of the day.

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A COMPLIMENT TO TWO.--"I inclose you the amount necessary to pay for 'Godey's Lady's Book' and 'Arthur's Home Gazette,' which I have taken and paid for since the first number was issued. The 'Lady's Book' I have taken for fourteen years. I would not be without either of them for twice the amount of the subscription.

S. A. M."

It is a pleasure to record such instances as the above. This is one of our long-continued subscribers.

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PRECOCITY.--A young lady, twelve years of age, has sent us a club of subscribers to the "Lady's Book." She will make a good wife some day for one of the unfortunate bachelor editors who loan their "Lady's Books."

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TEARS AND LAUGHTER.--God made both tears and laughter, and both for kind purposes; for as laughter enables mirth and surprise to breathe freely, so tears enable sorrow to vent itself patiently. Tears hinder sorrow from becoming despair and madness, and laughter is one of the very privileges of reason, being confined to the human species.

* * * * *

AN old maid, who confesses to thirty-five, says "she doesn't believe--not a bit of it--in the nonsense that men talk about breaking their hearts!" It's her firm belief that there never was a man yet who broke his heart, or, if there was, that he broke it as a lobster breaks one of his claws, another one shooting up very gradually in its place.

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LITTLE CHILDREN.--"No man can tell," wrote Jeremy Taylor, "but he who loves his children, how many delicious accents make a man's heart dance in the pretty conversation of those dear pledges. Their childishness, their stammering, their little anger, their innocence, their imperfections, their necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and comfort, to him that delights in their persons and society."

* * * * *

WE are receiving repeated applications from our subscribers to publish in some number this year the celebrated engraving of "CHRIST HEALING THE SICK," from Benjamin West's great picture. If we thought it would be agreeable to the mass of our subscribers, we would do so with pleasure, but we don't like the idea of publishing one engraving twice, it looks as if we were short of engravings. Shall we republish it for the benefit of the new subscribers this year? What say you?

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THE spring patterns in this number, from the establishment of Mrs. Suplee, must command general attention. They are the style for the present season.

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"RAILROAD POLKA" and the "Reading Polka," the first dedicated to R. L. Stevens, President of the Camden and Amboy Railroad, and the other to the Rev. W. A. Good, A. M. "The Grave of my Mother," and "Mary's Beauty," two songs. These last have the prettiest colored vignettes we have ever seen printed on music sheets. J. W. Gougler, of Reading, is the publisher of the above, and our city music publishers must look to their laurels, for such attractive music is seldom found. J. G. Gould, Swaim's Buildings, has all the above for sale.

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THE "Keeseville Gazette" is responsible for the following:--

"When is 'Godey's Lady's Book' as great a source of self-abnegation as a certain observance in the Catholic Church? When it is _Lent_."

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"HOW TO MAKE A DRESS."--By the time this number reaches our subscribers, the second edition of this work will be ready. We have been obliged to delay numerous orders: but we shall now be ready with a very large edition to supply all who may order the work.

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THE editor of "Moore's Western Lady's Book" says:--

"We have heard it said that Godey is a bachelor, but WE don't believe it, for we cannot see how he can remain such in his present business. How is it, Godey? Suppose you 'let the cat out.' The Western ladies are very CURIOUS to know."

Yes, my dear madam, we are married. Sorry to disappoint the Western ladies; but we have a son fast growing up to man's estate. He will be in the market soon, and is almost as good-looking as his father. It was to him that the following lines were addressed:--

"I believe you isn't married, Ned? You doesn't know the sweets Vat waits upon that happy state Ven man and vomen meets. The buzum's warm emotions, Ned, The drops within the eyes; The nice vashed things, the darned stockings, And all them tender ties."

* * * * *

VERY brief, expressive, and complimentary:--

"P. S. When ----'s subscription runs out, don't stop her 'Book.' Next to myself and her sister, loves she 'Godey's Lady's Book.'"

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WORTHY OF BEING IMITATED.--A subscriber in Maryland, who was in arrears, sent on his subscription at the full price, $4 a year, and added the interest. Another, a lady, sent us $4 a year for three years, and paid her subscription to 1855. Another, a gentleman, remitted his subscription in full up to 1860. We fancy that there are few other publications can give such instances as these.

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SOMETHING ABOUT COOKS.--We heard an anecdote about "the new cook" that is worth telling. "Betty," says the mistress, "I want those shells warmed for dinner"--meaning the pastry shells. "Yis, ma'am." And, sure enough, Betty brought up the shells after dinner--a large tray full of them. "Why, what have you there, Betty?" "The shells, ma'am; and they are quite hot." "Shells!" exclaimed the indignant mistress. "Why, those are oyster shells!" "Sure they are, ma'am; and, as you had oysters last night, and I didn't see any other shells, I thought it was these you wanted warmed."

* * * * *

WE extract the following from Mrs. Partington's "Carpet Bag of Fun":--

A STRING OF EPITAPHS.

"WEEP, stranger, for a father spilled From a stage-coach, and thereby killed: His name was John Sykes, a maker of sassengers, Slain with three other outside passengers."

"Here lies the body of James Monk, Suddenly drowned when he was drunk; He paid his score, and cheated no man-- _De mortius nil nisi bonum_."

"_His jacet_, Tom and Titus Tressel, Lost by the swamping of their vessel. A leak she sprung and settled fast; Payment of Nature's debt was asked, And it was paid--the debtors failing To give security by bailing. Full many a storm they nobly braved, And tho' they're lost, we hope they're saved."

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MRS. PARTINGTON ON FUNNY-GRAPHY.--And Ike read, "Mr. Wightman submitted a detailed report on the subject of introducing phonotopy, as a study, into the primary schools." "Stop, Isaac," said Mrs. Partington, threateningly holding up her finger, and slightly frowning, "don't make light of anything serious that you are reading--it isn't pretty." "But it's so in the paper, aunt," said Ike; and he again read the sentence, emphasizing the word "_phonotopy_" prodigiously. Mrs. Partington adjusted her specs, and looked at it, letter by letter, to be assured. "Well, if ever!" said she, holding up her hands; "I declare I don't know what they're gwine to do next. They're always organizing or piano-fortin the schools, and now this funny topy comes along to make 'em laugh, I s'pose, when they ought to be getting their lessons. Sich levity is offal. They do have sich queer notions, nowadays! I can't make head nor tail of 'em, I'm shore."

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CONCERT HALL, PHILADELPHIA.--We beg leave to recommend this splendid room to all who wish to occupy it for exhibitions of any kind, concerts, balls, lectures, &c. Mr. Andrews, the lessee, is very attentive, and he is ably seconded by his right-hand man, Mr. Hood. In fact, politeness to visitors by all concerned seems to be the ruling feature.

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THE EYELASHES AND EYEBROWS.--In Circassia, Georgia, Persia, and India, one of the mother's earliest cares is to promote the growth of her children's eyelashes by tipping and removing the fine gossamer-like points with a pair of scissors, when they are asleep. By repeating this every month or six weeks, they become, in time, long, close, finely curved, and of a silky gloss. The practice never fails to produce the desired effect, and it is particularly useful when, owing to inflammation of the eyes, the lashes have been thinned or stunted.

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LA PIERRE HOUSE.--The Boston "Olive Branch" says of this magnificent hotel:--

"'_La Pierre House._' Such is the name of a new hotel just opened in Philadelphia, of the most magnificent character. As described in the 'Inquirer,' we should deem it to surpass, in finish and in splendor of furnishment, the regal glory of a palace. Hear how it describes one of the suite of rooms: 'It consists of a parlor and chamber, is extremely beautiful, and furnished in the very richest possible manner, yet with a quietness and repose of taste that are very pleasing and striking. The rooms are separated by a rose-colored and white brocatelle curtain, intertwined with a graceful drapery of lace, suspended from a golden arch. The bedstead is of the richest carving in rosewood, exquisitely adorned with rose and lace drapery, pendent from an ornamental canopy above.'"

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A CIRCUMSTANCE of this kind could only happen in Paris, and we somewhat doubt that it ever occurred there:--

On Thursday, a beautiful equipage was seen in the Champs Elysées, containing an elderly gentleman and a lady; the latter, though her face was covered with a thick veil, appeared to be young and handsome. The gentleman, an Englishman, Sir Edward ----, is said to be one of the oddest and most eccentric fellows ever produced by prolific Albion. A talented pianist was lately summoned to his house. His services were required for an evening party, and a generous recompense was promised. The musician came early, and he was introduced into a spacious drawing-room, where many persons were already assembled. This apartment, which was magnificently furnished, was but dimly lighted by two lamps, and scarcely heated at all--the splendid fireplace, adorned with costly bronzes, containing only a wretched fire, which cast a sepulchral glare over the rich furniture. The host went to meet the musician as soon as the footman had announced him, and received him in a most flattering manner. A lady, most sumptuously and elegantly dressed, was seated on a sofa. "Allow me to introduce you to Lady ----, my wife!" said Sir Edward. The musician made a profound obeisance, which the lady, nevertheless, took no notice of; she sat straight and immovable, and fixed an unearthly gaze on the new-comer. There was another lady in an arm-chair, leaning with her elbow on a round table, and apparently reading a book with the greatest attention. "My sister, Miss Emily," said Sir Edward. "Mademoiselle," said the pianist, with a bow; but in vain did he repeat the word and the salutation to call the attention of the young lady; she neither moved nor raised her eyes from the book. "She has always loved reading very much," said Sir Edward. "Rather more than politeness would warrant!" thought the _artiste_ to himself. The remainder of the company consisted of five or six gentlemen. The _artiste_ observed, with astonishment, that all these persons affected a strange immobility, just like the lady and sister of Sir Edward. "Will you take a seat at the piano?" said Sir Edward. "What do you wish me to play?" asked the musician. "Shall I select the pieces, or will madam have the kindness to point out some favorite _morceau_?" Miladi did not reply, and Sir Edward, answering for her, said, "My wife and I have the same taste in music, so play a piece of Mozart or Listz, and one of your own compositions." "I will begin my own, therefore; for after those masters mine would not be acceptable!" modestly replied the _artiste_. The sofa on which Miladi was seated was very near the piano, and placed in such a manner that the _artiste_ had the lady opposite him. He looked at her while he was playing, in order to read in her countenance the impression which the music might produce on her. The handkerchief which Miladi held in her hand, having, after a while, fallen to the ground, the musician rushed forward to pick it up: and, in doing so, could not refrain from uttering an exclamation of surprise. "What is the matter with you?" said Sir Edward. "Oh, sir, the lady--the pretended lady!" "Alas!" interrupted Sir Edward, "I only possess the image of an adored wife!" And it was then explained that the worthy baronet, being inconsolable for the loss of certain friends, always travelled about with their image in wax! A party of _living_ friends afterwards assembled, and the evening was spent very agreeably.

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HOUSEKEEPERS, look at this; and, before you engage a cook, inquire if she has a husband. This is an illustration of that that said husband going to the paternal abode, with something to feed the young ravens, after having paid a visit to his wife. It is simply "the husband of your cook leaving your house."

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SOUND REASONING--and, as such, will be recognized by those who have been humbugged by the Brown and other lecturers who have honored us with visits from abroad:--

_Lectures_ vs. _Books_.--Why a man should put on his overcoat and comforter, and a woman wrap herself in furs, mufflers, cloaks, and shawls, and the children bundle up, to face a strong nor'-wester, and go out to hear a lecture of dubious excellence, or a concert that, after all, is little better than a bore, while at home a goodly array of philosophers and poets, story-tellers and grand advisers, stand waiting to offer their services; yet not one of which looks sad if his neighbor is preferred before him--this we would wonder at, if it were not everybody's habit. If a man has weak eyes, or his thoughts find no anchorage, and if he cannot afford the luxury of a private reader, let him visit the public lecture-room, and he can get much good from it. Or if, for his sins, he has lost his home, let him go to the concert and mortify himself. But we who have homes cannot afford, first, the sacrifice of our home comforts, second, the loss of precious winter evening hours, and third, the price of tickets, unless we know of a surety that they will admit us to choice performances.

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SINGULAR INSCRIPTIONS ON TOMBSTONES.

On the Duke of Marlborough:--

Here lies John, Duke of Marlborough Who run the French through and through; He married Sarah Jennings, spinster, Died at Windsor, and was buried at Westminster.

In St. Bennet's, Paul's Wharf, London:--

Here lies one _More_, and no more than he: One _More_ and no _More!_ how can that be? Why one _More_, and no more, may well lie here alone, But here lies one _More_, and that is more than one!

From Broom Churchyard, England:--

God be praised! Here is Mr. Dudley, senior, And Jane, his wife, also, Who, while living, was his superior; But see what death can do. Two of his sons also lie here, One Walter, t'other Joe; They all of them went in the year 1510 below.

In St. Michael's Churchyard, Aberystwith, is another, to the memory of David Davies, blacksmith:--

My sledge and hammer lay reclined, My bellows, too, have lost their wind, My fire's extinct, my forge decayed, And in the dust my vice is laid; My coal is spent, my iron gone, My nails are driven--my work is done.

The following epitaph is transcribed from one of the local histories of Cornwall:--

Father and mother and I, Lies buried here as under, Father and mother lies buried here, And I lies buried yonder.

From Cunwallow Churchyard, Cornwall. [It may be read either backwards or forwards.]

Shall we all die? We shall die all, All die shall we-- Die all we shall.

In St. Germain's, in the Isle of Man, the following very singular epitaph is yet to be seen, in Latin, over the tomb of Dr. Samuel Rutter, formerly prebendary of Litchfield, and afterwards Bishop of Sodor and Man:--

In this house, Which I have borrowed from My brethren, the worms, lie I, SAMUEL, by Divine permission, Bishop of this island. Stop, reader; Behold and smile at THE PALACE OF A BISHOP! who died May 30, in the year 1653.

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SOME FEW INSTRUCTIONS IN CROCHET-WORK, which may be of use to some of our lady readers.

In the first instance, the crochet-hook should be very smooth, made of fine steel, and fixed in handles. The stitches used are _chain_, _slip_, _single_, _double_, _treble_, and _long treble crochet_.

_Chain Stitch_ (ch) is made by forming a loop on the thread, then inserting the hook, and drawing the thread through the loop already made. Continue this, forming a succession of stitches.

_Slip Stitch_ is made by drawing a thread _at once_ through any given stitch and the loop on the needle.

_Single Crochet_ (sc). Having a loop on the needle, insert the hook in a stitch and draw the thread through in a loop. You have then two on the hook; draw the thread through both at once.

_Double Crochet_ (dc). Twist the thread round the hook before inserting it in the stitch, through which you draw the thread in a loop. There will then be three loops on the hook; draw the thread through two, and then through the one just formed and the remaining one.

_Treble Crochet_ (tc), and _Long Treble_ (long tc), are worked in the same way; in treble the thread is put _twice_, in long treble _three times_, before inserting it into the stitch.

_Square Crochet_ is also sometimes used. The squares are either open or close. An open square consists of one dc, two ch, missing two on the line beneath before making the next stitch. A close square has three successive