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GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

VOL. XLVIII.

    A Bloomer among us, by Pauline Forsyth,                        396

    Advice to a Bride,                                             405

    A Few Words about Delicate Women,                              446

    A Great Duty which is Imposed upon Mothers,                    464

    A Lesson worth Remembering,                                    478

    Annoyance, by Beata,                                           452

    Blessington's Choice, by Fitz Morner,                          424

    Bright Flowers for her I Love, by Wm. Roderick Lawrence,       450

    Celestial Phenomena, by D. W. Belisle,                         403

    Centre-Table Gossip,                                           477

    Charity Envieth Not, by Alice B. Neal,                         417

    Cottage Furniture,                                             454

    Directions for a Letter-Band,                                  458

    Directions for Knitting a Work-Basket,                         458

    Directions for taking Leaf Impressions,                        443

    Disappointed Love, by W. S. Gaffney,                           449

    Dress—as a Fine Art, by Mrs. Merrifield,                       412

    Editors' Table,                                                462

    Embroidery with Cord,                                          458

    Enigmas,                                                       474

    Evangeline and Antoinette.—Mantillas,                          457

    Everyday Actualities.--No. XIX                                 393

    Farm House,                                                    444

    Fashions,                                                      479

    Female Medical Education,                                      462

    For the Lovers of Jewelry,                                     478

    Godey's Arm-Chair,                                             467

    Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing,                          410

    House Plants, from Mrs. Hale's New Household Receipt-Book,     472

    Instructions in Knitting,                                      472

    Intellectual Endowments of Children,                           409

    Interesting Discovery at Jerusalem,                            395

    Lace Mantilla and Tablet Mantilla,                             457

    Letters Left at the Pastry Cook's, Edited by Horace Mayhew,    414

    Literary Notices,                                              465

    Mantillas, from the celebrated Establishment of G. Brodie,
      New York,                                                    458

    Manufacture of Pins,                                           404

    Marquise and Navailles.—Mantillas,                        389, 457

    May-Day,                                                       423

    May First,                                                     477

    New Revelations of an Old Country,                             427

    Ode to the Air in May, by Nicholas Nettleby,                   452

    Our Fashion Department,                                        478

    Our Practical Dress Instructor,                                453

    Painting on Velvet,                                            393

    Patterns for Embroidery,                                       456

    Plain Work,                                                    460

    Poetry.                                                        449

    Receipts, &c.,                                                 475

    Remembered Happiness,                                          433

    Silent Thought, by Willie Edgar Tabor,                         440

    Sonnets, by Wm. Alexander,                                     450

    Spring,                                                        464

    Spring Bonnets,                                                459

    Spring Fashions,                                          390, 457

    Stanzas, by H. B. Wildman,                                     450

    Stanzas, by Helen Hamilton,                                    450

    Teaching at Home.—Language,                                    442

    The Borrower's Department,                                     475

    The Economics of Clothing and Dress,                           421

    The Gleaner, by Richard Coe,                                   449

    The Mother's Lesson, by Elma South,                            441

    The Practical,                                                 463

    The Spring-time Cometh,                                        463

    The Toilet,                                                    477

    The Trials of a Needle-Woman, by T. S. Arthur,                 434

    They say that she is Beautiful, by Mary Grace Halping,         451

    'Tis O'er, by I. J. Stine,                                     452

    To Miss Laura,                                                 416

    To one who Rests, by Winnie Woodfern,                          451

    To our Friend Godey, by Mrs. A. J. Williams,                   468

    Treasures,                                                     420

    Truth Stranger than Fiction,                                   406

    Work-Table for Juveniles,                                      455

    Yankee Doodle with Variations,                                 473

May.

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

[Illustration: Preparing for Church.]

    EVANGELINE.      ANTOINETTE.

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

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

LET US BE FRIENDS.

WORDS BY DAVID BATES, ESQ.

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

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

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

Moderato.

PIANO.

VOICE.

    Let us be friends, though far and near
      The outward world contends;
    With noble souls, and true hearts here,
      Dear friends, let us be friends.
    Let us be friends when fortune smiles,
      And blesses all our ends;
    She often cheats us with her wiles;
      Dear friends, let us be friends.

2

    Let us be friends; that heart is best
      That freely treasure spends,
    To cheer the drooping and oppressed;
      Dear friends, let us be friends.
    Let us be friends when, lifting high,
      The threatening wave impends;
    T'will harmless break or pass us by,
      Dear friends, if we are friends.

3

    Let us be friends, for life is brief,
      And friendship makes amends
    For days of toil and nights of grief:
      Dear friends, let us be friends.
    Let us be friends, for one by one
      The grave its summons sends;
    When we must tread life's path alone,
      Dear friends, let us part friends.

    LACE MANTILLA.       TABLET MANTILLA.

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

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

    MARQUISE.             NAVAILLES SHAWL-MANTELET.

PARISIAN FASHIONS RECEIVED BY THE LATEST ARRIVALS.]

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

[Illustration: Spring Fashions.]

[Illustration: _Letters_

(Description on page 458.)]

[Illustration: THE ALBUERA.

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

(_For description, see page_ 458.)]

GODEY'S

LADY'S BOOK.

PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1854.

EVERYDAY ACTUALITIES.--NO. XIX.

ILLUSTRATED WITH PEN AND GRAVER.

PAINTING ON VELVET.

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

[Illustration: Formula 1.]

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

[Illustration: Formula 2.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

INTERESTING DISCOVERY AT JERUSALEM.

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

A BLOOMER AMONG US.

BY PAULINE FORSYTH.

    "There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle,
    But etiquette forbade them all to giggle."--BYRON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She replied in the negative.

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

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

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

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

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

"Is this Miss Atwood--Cousin Jane?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you?" asked Charley.

"No; I am your cousin Janet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am quite well, I believe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Janet bowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.--MAY.

BY D. W. BELISLE.

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

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

    "There Berenice's locks first rose so bright,
    The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light."

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

    "Immortal Conon, blest with skill divine,
    Amid the sacred skies beheld me shine;
    E'en me, the beauteous hair, that lately shed
    Refulgent beams from Berenice's head;
    The locks she fondly vowed, with lifted arms,
    Imploring all the powers to save from harm
    Her dearer lord, when from his bride he flew,
    To wreak stern vengeance on the Assyrian crew."

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

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

    "The raven once in snowy plumes was drest,
    White as the whitest dove's unsullied breast,
    Fair as the guardian of the capitol,
    Soft as the swan, a fair and lovely fowl;
    His tongue, his prating tongue, had changed him quite
    To sooty blackness from the purest white."

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

                  "The color left his look,
    The wreath his head, the harp his hand forsook;
    His silvered bow and feathered shafts he took,
    And lodged an arrow in the tender breast
    That had so often to his own been prest."

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

    "For, as my arms I lifted to the skies,
    I saw black feathers from my fingers rise;
    I strove to fling my garments on the ground,
    My garments turned to plumes and girt me round;
    My hands to beat my naked bosom try,
    Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I;
    Lightly I tripped, nor weary, as before,
    Sunk in the sand, but skimmed along the shore,
    Till, rising on my wings, I was preferred
    To be the chaste Minerva's virgin bird."

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

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

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

    "Thus once in Marathon's impervious wood,
    Erigone beside her father stood,
    When, hastening to discharge her pious vow,
    She loosed the knot and culled the strongest bough."

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

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

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

MANUFACTURE OF PINS.

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

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

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

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

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

ADVICE TO A BRIDE.

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

"TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION."

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

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

    Yours, faithfully,
    HELEN MASHUM.

    _April_ 1, 1854.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "APRIL FOOL."

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

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

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

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

"April fool, old lady!"

He deserves to be sent to the House of Refuge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    ABIGAIL SNIPE.

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

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

INTELLECTUAL ENDOWMENTS OF CHILDREN.

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

GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.

LESSON V.

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

[Illustration: Fig. 54.]

[Illustration: Fig. 55.]

[Illustration: Fig. 56.]

[Illustration: Fig. 57.]

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

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

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

[Illustration: Fig. 58.]

[Illustration: Fig. 59.]

[Illustration: Fig. 60.]

[Illustration: Fig. 61.]

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

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

[Illustration: Fig. 62.]

[Illustration: Fig. 63.]

[Illustration: Fig. 64.]

[Illustration: Fig. 65.]

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

DRESS--AS A FINE ART.

BY MRS. MERRIFIELD.

CONCLUSION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

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

EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.

THE FIFTH LETTER LEFT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Yours affectionately,
    KITTY CLOVER.

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

TO MISS LAURA.

    SO let it be: what shall I lose or gain
      By looking less within those eyes?
    The promise made shall therefore firm remain,
    Though it may cause me care and pain;
      My passion will not die, but rise
      Beyond the earth, and pierce the skies.
    Thine image is impressed upon my heart,
      And though you hate, and even spurn,
    I still will love, though I do bleed and smart
    I'll be as true, nor seek to part;
      The love which binds me still shall burn.
      Though friends to foe should choose to turn.
    So it may be: yet hate me not, I pray;
      'Tis a pure love that fills my breast;
    Yet I have sought to tear that love away,
    To crush it in its dawning day,
      And, failing, am I curst or blest
      In living void of hope or rest?
    Curst you will say, and you may pity me,
      And look less cold, or even smile;
    A sweet, kind smile will not impov'rish thee,
    Or make thy heart less light and free;
      Me from my grief 'twill part awhile,
      From sadness and despair beguile.

CHARITY ENVIETH NOT.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

"You don't say so!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There's the cape, you see."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Poor folks _had to_," she said, taking up her work and stitching away
vigorously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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