Godey's Lady's Book,
Philadelphia, March, 1854

SELLING THE WEDDING RING OR LOVE TOKEN.

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

GODEY'S UNRIVALLED COLORED FASHIONS.

Note:

The table of contents are extracted from the January edition of this volume.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

VOL. XLVIII.

EMBELLISHMENTS, &c.

March.

• Selling the Wedding-Ring or Love-Token.
• Godey's Unrivalled Colored Fashions.
• Embroidered Antimacassar.
• Watch-Pocket.—Broderie en Lacet.
• Embroidery Pattern.
• Model Cottage, printed in tints; and ground-plan.
• Fashionable Bonnets.
• MUSIC.—Pop Goes the Weasel.
• The Arragonese and the Valencia.
• Design for Embroidered Screen.
• The Manufacture of Paper.
• Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing.
• Babylon and Nineveh.
• Vegetable Physiology.
• Instructions for making Ornaments in Rice Shell-Work.
• Braided Slipper.
• Lady's Walking-Dress and Diagrams.
• Cottage Furniture.
• Chemisettes and Sleeves.
• Madame Caplin's Corsets.
• Taper Stand.
• Patterns for Embroidery.
• Bird's-eye View of Boardman & Gray's Piano-Forte Manufactory, Albany, N. Y.
• Little Girl's Sack and Outdoor Dresses.
• Oakford's Spring Fashions for Hats, Caps, &c.

EMBROIDERED ANTIMACASSAR.

WATCH-POCKET.—BRODERIE EN LACET.

EMBROIDERY PATTERN.

FASHIONABLE BONNETS.

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

No. 1.—OPERA BONNET.

No. 2.—SPRING FANCY.

No. 3.—ENGLISH STRAW.

No. 4.—MISS'S FLAT.

POP GOES THE WEASEL.

THE FIGURES.

This is an old and very animated English Dance, that has lately been revived among the higher classes of Society.

It is danced in a line, the Gentlemen opposite the Ladies.

1st.	Top couple down the middle and return.	8 Bars.
2d.	Cast off outside and return.	8 Bars.
3d.	The same couple execute hands three with the Lady next them.	8 Bars.
4th.	Top couple raise their arms and the Lady passes under, at which time all sing Pop goes the Weasel	8 B's.
5th.	The same couple repeat the last figure with the Lady's partner.	8 Bars.

The same couple repeat till down line, after passing three or four couple the top commences till all are in motion.

PRESENTED TO GODEYS' LADY'S BOOK BY THE PUBLISHER,

T. C. ANDREWS, No. 66 Spring Garden Street, Philada.

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THE ARROGONESE

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

(For description, see page [267].)

THE VALENCIA.

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

(For description, see page [267].)

EMBROIDERY.—DESIGN FOR SCREEN.

(See description.)

PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1854.

EVERYDAY ACTUALITIES.—NO. XVII.
ILLUSTRATED WITH PEN AND GRAVER.
BY C. T. HINCKLEY.

Fig. 1.—PAPER-MAKING BY HAND.

THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.

The advantages which the civilized world owe to the invention of paper are beyond calculation, and almost out of the reach of thought. The great blessing of knowledge which it has conferred on mankind, together with its peculiar mission, renders it a subject of interest to all classes of society. The material of which the sheet of paper which the reader now holds in her hand, a few months ago, perhaps, hung with its ragged fellows from the back of some mendicant, fluttering along the street—or perhaps commenced its career in the lining of some dress, in all its purity of white and stiffening, and gradually descended through the various grades of usefulness, until at last it was fished up out of the gutter and thrust into the rag-picker's bag to meet a host of others that had travelled over the same despoiling scenes of ragdom. Rags have, at times, held no mean position in the political arena, for we read that "the chiffoniers, or rag-dealers of Paris, rose against the police some years ago, because it was ordered, in certain municipal regulations, that the filth of the streets should be taken away in carts, without time being allowed for its examination by those diligent savers of capital."

Many experiments have been made upon substances proposed as substitutes for rags in the manufacture of paper. The bark of the willow, the beech, the aspen, the hawthorn, and the lime have been made into tolerable paper; the tendrils of the vine, and the stalks of the nettle, the mallow, and the thistle, have been used for a similar purpose; and bind of hops; and patents have been granted for making paper of straw. The process of bleaching the coarser rags, so as to render them fit for the purposes to which only those of the finest qualities were formerly applied, will, however, render the use of these inferior substances unnecessary for many years. The advance of a people in civilization has not only a tendency to make the supply of rags abundant, but, at the same time, to increase the demand. The use of machinery in manufactures renders clothing cheap; the cheapness of clothing causes its consumption to increase, not only in the proportion of an increasing population, but by the scale of individual expenditure; the stock of rags is therefore increasing in the same ratio that our looms produce more linen and cotton cloth. But then the increase of knowledge runs in a parallel line with this increase of comforts; and the increase of knowledge requires an increase of books. The principle of publishing books and tracts to be read by thousands, instead of tens and hundreds, has already caused a large addition to the demand for printing-paper. If, therefore, the demand for books in all civilized countries should outrun, which it is very likely to do, the power of each individual to wear out linen and cotton clothing to supply the demand, paper must be manufactured from other substances than rags.

A species of paper was manufactured at a remote period in Egypt, from the papyrus or paper-reed, a plant growing freely on the banks of the Nile. A manufacture of paper from the bark of trees and other substances existed also in China from a very early date; but among the nations of antiquity, before the introduction of paper, such substitutes were used as lead, brass, bricks, and stone, on which national edicts and records were written or engraved; or tablets of wood, wax, and ivory, skins of fishes, intestines of serpents, backs of tortoises, and the inner bark of trees for ordinary purposes. Indeed, there are but few sorts of plants that have not been used for making paper and books, and hence have arisen the terms biblos, codex, liber, folium, tabula, tillura, philura, scheda, &c., which express the several parts of the plant which were written on. The use of these was discontinued in Europe after the invention of papyrus and parchment, but they are still used in other parts of the world. The two early kinds of manufacture above alluded to must first be noticed, before we describe the later invention of making paper from cotton and linen rags, which, in the greater part of the world, has superseded all other methods of producing a material for writing on. The Egyptian papyrus was made by laying thin plates of bark, taken from the middle of the paper-rush, side by side, but close together, on a hard, smooth table: other pieces of the same size and thinness were then laid across the first at right angles; the whole was moistened with the water of the Nile, which was supposed to have some agglutinating property (though this probably resided in the plant itself), and pressure was then applied for a certain number of hours. Thus a sheet of paper was formed which required no other finishing than rubbing and polishing with a smooth stone, or with a solid glass hemisphere, and drying in the sun. This very simple process was rather a preparation of a natural paper than a manufacture—properly so called. The process adopted by the Chinese comes more legitimately under that head. The small branches of a tree resembling our mulberry-tree, are cut by them in lengths of about three feet, and boiled in an alkaline lye for the sake of loosening the inner rind or bark, which is then peeled off, and dried for use. When a sufficient quantity of bark has been thus laid up, it is again softened in water for three or four days, and the outer parts are scraped off as useless; the rest is boiled in clear lye, which is kept strongly agitated all the time, until the bark has become tender, and separates into distinct fibres. It is then placed in a pan or sieve, and washed in a running stream, being at the same time worked with the hands until it becomes a delicate and soft pulp. For the finer sorts of paper, the pulp receives a second washing in a linen bag; it is then spread out on a smooth table, and beaten with a wooden mallet until it is extremely fine. Thus prepared, it is put into a tub with a slimy infusion of rice and a root called oreni; then it is stirred until the ingredients are properly blended: it is next removed to a large vessel to admit of moulds being dipped into it. These moulds are made of bulrushes cut into narrow strips, and mounted in a frame; as the paper is moulded, the sheets are placed on a table covered with a double mat. The sheets are laid one on the other, with a small piece of reed between; and this, standing out a little way, serves afterwards to lift them up leaf by leaf. Every heap is covered with a board and weights to press out the water; on the following day, the sheets are lifted singly by means of the projecting reeds, and are placed on a plank to be dried in the sun. This paper is so delicate that only one side can be written on; but the Chinese sometimes double the sheets, and glue them together so neatly that they appear to be a single leaf.

This manufacture of the Chinese extended also to the making of sheets of paper from old rags, silk, hemp, and cotton, as early as the second century of the Christian era, and is supposed to have been the source whence the Arabs obtained their knowledge of paper-making. The latter people first introduced the valuable art of making paper from cotton into Europe, in the earlier half of the twelfth century, and established a paper manufactory in Spain. In 1150, the paper of Xativa, an ancient city of Valencia, had become famous, and was exported to the East and West. Notwithstanding its fame, this paper was of a coarse and inferior quality, so long as its manufacture was confined solely to the Arabs, in consequence of their employing only mortars, and hand or horse-mills for reducing the cotton to a pulp; but when some Christian laborers obtained the management of the mills of Valencia and Toledo, the different processes of the manufacture were greatly improved. Cotton paper became general at the close of the twelfth and beginning of the thirteenth centuries; but, in the fourteenth century, it was almost entirely superseded by paper made of hemp and linen rags. The paper made of cotton was found not to possess sufficient strength or solidity for many purposes; a very strong paper was therefore made of the above substances, not weakened by bleaching, according to the present mode, which, by removing the natural gum, impairs the strength of the vegetable fibre. Some of these old papers, having been well sized with gelatin, are said to possess their original qualities even to this day.

The manufacture of paper from linen rags became general in France, Italy, and Spain in the fourteenth century; the first German paper-mill was established at Nuremberg in 1390. English manuscripts on linen paper date as early as 1340; but it is believed that the manufacture did not exist in England until the end of the fifteenth century, when the Bartolomæus of Wynkyn de Worde appeared (1496), in which it is stated that paper of a superior kind was made for that work by John Tate, Jr., at his mills in Stevenage, Hertfordshire. In 1588, a German named Spielman, jeweller to Queen Elizabeth, established a paper-mill at Dartford. In 1770, the manufacture of fine paper was established at Maidstone, in Kent, by a celebrated maker, J. Whatman, who had worked as journeyman in some of the principal paper-mills on the Continent. Not long before this, wove moulds had been invented by Baskerville to obviate the usual roughness of laid paper, and these, attracting attention in France, led to the improvements which characterized the vellum paper of that period. Holland, too, contributed its share to the advancement of this manufacture, by inventing cylinders with steel blades for tearing the rags, and thus facilitating their conversion into pulp, which, by the old method of stampers only, was a very slow and defective process.

In 1799, the first attempt to produce paper in an endless web was made in France by a workman in the employ of M. Didot. The invention was brought to England by M. Didot, in 1801, and made the subject of patents, which, in 1804, were assigned to the Messrs. Fourdrinier. Mr. Bryan Donkin, the engineer, carried out the desired plans, and produced, after intense application, a self-acting machine or working model, on an improved plan, of which he afterwards constructed many others for home use and for exportation, which were perfectly successful in the manufacture of continuous paper. In 1809, Mr. Dickinson, the celebrated paper-maker invented another method of making endless paper, the highly ingenious details of which will be noticed hereafter. The Fourdrinier machines have been greatly improved by the inventions of other skilful manufacturers.

At one time there were serious apprehensions that the supply of linen rags would fail, and various researches were entered upon by ingenious individuals to find substitutes. A book written in German by M. Shäffers, so long ago as 1772, contains sixty specimens of paper made of different materials. This ingenious person made paper from the bark of the willow, beech, aspen, hawthorn, lime, and mulberry; from the down of the asclepias, the catkins of black poplar, and the tendrils of the vine; from the stalks of nettle, mugwort, dyer's weed, thistle, bryony, burdock, clematis, willow-herb, and lily; from cabbage-stalks, fir-cones, moss, potatoes, wood-shavings,[1] and sawdust. Paper has been likewise made from straw, rice, hopbind, liquorice-root, the stalks of the mallow, and the husks of Indian-corn. The fear of a failure of linen rags, and the consequent necessity for these experiments, were obviated by the discovery of chlorine. This powerful bleaching agent will restore many varieties of colored linen to their original whiteness, as well as discolored papers and manuscripts, so that the same substances may be used over and over again as a material for paper.

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

SUPPLY OF RAGS—SORTING—WASHING—GRINDING, AND BLEACHING.

The quality of the paper depends greatly on that of the linen worn in the country where it is made. Where that is coarse and brown, the rags and the paper made from them must be so too.

The quality of the rags depends very much upon the state of civilization of the countries which produce them; the lower the degree of civilization, the more coarse and filthy are the rags. When the rags are received at the mill, they are sorted according to their respective qualities; for if rags of different qualities were ground at the same engine, the finest and best parts would be ground and carried off before the coarser were sufficiently reduced to make a pulp. In the sorting of rags intended for the manufacture of fine paper, hems and seams are kept apart, and coarse cloth separated from fine. Cloth made of tow should be separated from that made from linen, cloth of hemp from cloth of flax. Even the degree of wear should be attended to, for if rags comparatively new are mixed with those which are much worn, the one will be reduced to a good pulp, while the other is so completely ground up as to pass through the hair strainers; thus occasioning not only loss of material, but loss of beauty in the paper; for the smooth velvet softness of some papers may be produced by the finer particles thus carried off. The pulp produced from imperfectly sorted rags has a cloudy appearance, in consequence of some parts being less reduced than others, and the paper made from it is also cloudy or thicker in some parts than in others, as is evident on holding a sheet up before the light. When it is necessary to mix different qualities of rags together to produce different qualities of paper, the rags should be ground separately, and the various pulps mixed together afterwards.

The rag-merchants sort rags into five qualities, known as Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. No. 1, or superfine, consisting wholly of linen, is used for the finest writing-papers. No. 5 is canvas, and may, after bleaching, be used for inferior printing-papers. There is also rag-bagging, or the canvas sacks in which the rags are packed; also cotton colored rags of all colors, but the blue is usually sorted out for making blue paper. Common papers are made from rag-bagging and cotton rags.

An operation sometimes required after unpacking the rags, is to put them into a duster, which is a cylinder four feet in diameter and five feet long, covered with a wire net and inclosed in a tight box to confine the dust. A quantity of rags being put into this cylinder, it is made to rotate rapidly on its axis, and thus a good deal of dust is shaken out, which might otherwise vitiate the air of the rag-cutting room.

Fig. 2.—CUTTING RAGS.

The sorting is done by women and children in a large room; each sorter stands before a table frame, covered at the top with wire cloth, containing about nine meshes to the square inch. To this frame a long steel blade is attached, in a slanting position, as shown in Fig. 2; and the sorter divides the rags into shreds by drawing them against the sharp edge of this knife; a good deal of the dust which is shaken out in this operation falls through the wire-cloth into a box beneath. The sections of rag are thrown into the compartments of the frame, according to their fineness. In importing rags, some attention is paid to their quality by the foreign dealers, so that each bale is tolerably uniform. Formerly, this was not the case, and in sorting a bale the woman had a piece of pasteboard hung from her girdle and extended on her knees, upon which with a long sharp knife she unripped seams and stitches, and scraped off any adhering dirt. The rags were sorted, according to their fineness, into the superfine, the fine, the stitches of the fine, the middling, the seams and stitches of the middling, and the coarse. These divisions are more or less observed at the present day. The very coarse parts are rejected or laid aside for making white-brown paper.

The sorted rags are washed with hot water and alkali, in an apparatus formed exactly on the principle of the bucking keirs or puffers, described under BLEACHING (June number, 1852); or the washing is performed at one of the mills or engines described below.

The rags are ground into pulp in mills, now made sufficiently powerful to reduce the strongest and toughest rags. Formerly, before the invention of mills, or when they were of much less power, it was customary to pile the rags in large stone vats, and leave them for a month or six weeks with frequent stirring and watering to ferment or rot, by which means the fibres became sufficiently loose to be reduced to pulp by pounding in wooden mortars with stampers.

Fig. 3.

Fig. 4.

The vats were superseded by what are called engines, a Dutch invention well adapted to the purpose. The engines are sometimes arranged in pairs on different levels, the bottom of one being higher than the top of the other, so that the contents of the higher engine may be let off into the lower. In the upper engine, called the washer, the rags are first worked coarsely with a stream of water running through them to wash and open their fibres: this reduces them to what is called half stuff; they are then let down into the beating engine to be ground into pulp fit for making paper. Each engine consists of a large wooden vat or cistern V V, Figs. 3, 4, of oblong figure on the outside, with the angles cut off; the inside, which is lined with lead, has straight sides and circular ends. Or the vat may be entirely formed of cast-iron. It is divided by a partition P P, also covered with lead. The cylinder C is firmly fixed to the spindle s, which extends across the engine, and is put in motion by the pinion w, which engages other wheels set in motion by water or steam-power. The cylinder is of wood, but is furnished with a number of teeth or cutters attached to its surface parallel with the axis, and projecting about an inch from it. Immediately below the cylinder is a block of wood B, also furnished with cutters, so that when the cylinder revolves its teeth pass very near those of the block, the distance between them being regulated by elevating or depressing the bearings l l, on which the necks of the spindle s s are supported. These bearings are made on two levers l l, which have tenons at their ends fitted into upright mortises made in stout beams bolted to the sides of the engine. The levers l l are movable at one end of each, the other ends being fitted to rise and fall on bolts in the beams as centres. The front one of these levers, or that nearest the cylinder C, can be raised or lowered by turning the handle of the screw; the cylinder is thus made to cut coarser or finer by enlarging or diminishing the space between the two sets of cutters. At one part of the vat is a breasting B', made of boards and covered with sheet lead, curved to the form of the cylinder and nearly in contact with its teeth. An inclined plane I, passes from the bottom of the vat to the top of the breasting which terminates in the block B. The vat is supplied with water from the mill-dam by means of pumps worked by the water-wheel. The water is first discharged by the pipe P, Fig. 4, into the cistern c, the supply being regulated as occasion may require. A grating covered with a hair strainer is fixed across the cistern to prevent any solid impurity from passing into the vat; or the water may be strained through a flannel bag tied over the mouth of the pipe P, as shown in the figure. The vat being full of water and a quantity of rags put in, the cylinder is set in motion, the effect of which is to produce a regular current in the water in the direction of the arrows, by which the rags are drawn between the cutters of the cylinder and the teeth of the block; this cuts them to pieces: they are then thrown over the top of the breasting upon the inclined plane, down which they slowly slide and pass round the partition, and in about twenty minutes are again brought between the teeth of the cylinder and the block. The mode in which the rags are cut will be understood by considering that the teeth of the block are placed somewhat inclined to the axis of the cylinder, while the teeth of the cylinder are parallel to its axis, so that the cutting edges meet at a small angle and pass over each other something like the blade of a pair of shears, and the rags between them are cut up in a similar manner; and as they are brought many times under the action of the cutters, and must necessarily present their fibres each time in different directions, they are reduced to the condition of pulp.

Fig. 5.—BEATING-ENGINE.

The beater, with sixty teeth, and twenty to twenty-four cutters in the block, makes 180,000 cuts per minute, the effect of which is a low musical note or hum, audible at a distance from the mill. In the washing-engine the rags are opened, their fibres separated, and the dirt removed. Any small solid impurities are collected in the trough a, Fig. 4. When first put in the beating-engine, the rags are worked gently, the cylinder is raised some way above the block, so as to rub rather than cut the rags; at the same time a copious stream of water is admitted; after twenty or thirty minutes, the cylinder is let down so as to cut the rags, and the operation is at first so violent that the cylinder is often jerked or heaved up. After three or four hours the engine works steadily; the rags are cut up very small, and form what is called half stuff; this is let out into a basket, which retains it while the water flows off. For some kinds of paper the half stuff is left to mellow, or ferment; but it is usual at this stage to bleach the stuff, which is done by a solution of chloride of lime, in stone vats, or by using this solution instead of water in the engine at the last stage of the washing process, the slides g g being put down in the cover to prevent the loss of the solution. In the course of an hour, the yellow rags or half stuff are converted into a snow white. This is then put into the beating-engine, and in four or five hours it is ground into a fine pulp, a little water being let in from time to time, but none being allowed to escape. The quality of the water has considerable influence on that of the paper; the purest water is of course the best; water from chalky soils introduces lime into the pulp, and this forms a slight incrustation upon the moulds, which is washed off from time to time by vinegar.

In order to prevent common ink from running upon paper, size is introduced at a certain stage of the manufacture; but printing-ink being oily instead of watery, and, moreover, of greater consistence than common ink, is not so liable to run. Hence, for certain printing-papers, the sizing is done in the beating-engine towards the close of the operation. The size consists of finely pounded alum mixed with oil, about a pint and a half of the mixture being thrown into the engine at intervals during the last half hour of the beating. The blue is produced by smalt, or artificial ultramarine.

PAPER-MAKING BY HAND.

When the stuff is properly prepared, it is run out by the pipes o o', Fig. 4, into the stuff-chest, where the different kinds are mixed preparatory to moulding. From this chest it is transferred to vats or tubs, each about five feet in diameter and two and a half feet deep, provided at top with planks inclosed inwards to prevent the stuff from running over during the moulding. Across these planks is a board pierced with holes at one extremity, for supporting the mould. The stuff in the vat is kept at the proper temperature by a small grate placed in a hole lined with copper, at the side of the vat. The fuel is charcoal or coke, or the fire is entirely confined to the other side of the wall, a hole through it being made into the side of the vat. In this way smoke is prevented.

The paper is made into sheets by means of the mould and deckle, Figs. 6, 7. The mould is a square frame, or shallow box of mahogany, covered at the top with wire-cloth; it is an inch or an inch and a half wider than the sheet of paper intended to be made upon it. The wire-cloth of the mould varies in fineness with that of the paper and the nature of the stuff; it consists of a number of parallel wires stretched across a frame very near together, and tied fast through holes in the sides; a few other stronger wires are also placed across at right angles to the former; they are a considerable distance apart, and they are bound to the small wires at the points of intersection by means of fine wire. In several kinds of writing-paper the marks of the wires are evident from the paper being thinner in the parts where the pulp touched the wires. In what is called wove paper, there are no marks of the wires; these are avoided by weaving the wire in a loom into a wire-cloth, which is stretched over the frame of the mould, and being turned down over the sides is fastened by fine wire. The water-mark in paper is produced by wires bent into the shape of the required letter or device, and sewed to the surface of the mould;—it has the effect of making the paper thinner in those places. The old makers employed water-marks of an eccentric kind. Those of Caxton and other early printers were an ox-head and star, a collared dog's head, a crown, a shield, a jug, &c. A fool's cap and bells employed as a water-mark, gave the name to foolscap paper; a postman's horn, such as was formerly in use, gave the name to post paper.

Fig. 6. Fig. 7.

The deckle is a thin square mahogany frame, bound with brass at the angles; its outer dimensions correspond with the size of the mould, and its inner with that of the sheet of paper. The use of the frame is to retain the pulp upon the wire-cloth; it must be quite flat, so as to fit the cloth of the mould, otherwise the edges of the paper will be ragged and badly finished. When the deckle is placed upon the wire of the mould it forms a shallow sieve, in which the paper-maker takes up a quantity of the pulp suspended in water, and, the water draining through, leaves the pulp in the form of a sheet upon the wire. The deckle is not fastened to the mould, but is held to it by the workman grasping the mould and deckle together in both hands at the opposite sides. When the sheet is moulded the deckle is removed, and the sheet is taken up from the wire by laying it on a piece of felt or woollen cloth. These felts prevent the sheets from coming together, and they also serve to imbibe a portion of the water from the damp and loosely cohering sheet.

The wood-cut at the commencement of this article represents the process of making paper by hand.

Upon looking at the cut, it will be seen that one of the two men employed is dipping the deckle into the vat. This vat is supplied with stuff from the chest already described; and that stuff is kept warm by a copper within the vat, to which heat is communicated by a steam-pipe. It is also agitated by machinery within. The workman forming the sheet, who is called a vatman, is provided with two moulds. These are slight frames of wood, covered with fine wire. Fitting to each mould is a deckle, or movable raised edging, which determines the size of the sheet. The vatman, putting the deckle on one of the moulds, dips it vertically into the stuff; and bringing it to the surface horizontally, covered with pulp, shakes it gently. It must be evident that this operation requires the greatest nicety, both in determining the general thickness of the sheet, and in producing it of an uniform thickness throughout. The vatman then pushes the mould with the sheet towards his fellow-workman, who is called the coucher; and, taking off the deckle, applies it to the second mould, and proceeds as before. The coucher, who receives the first mould, having a heap of porous pieces of flannel by his side, called felts, turns the mould over upon a felt, upon which the sheet remains; and, placing a felt on the sheet, he is ready to turn over another from the second mould. Thus the vatman and the coucher proceed, the one moulding a sheet of paper and the other placing it upon felt, till they have made six or eight quires. The heap is then subjected to the action of a powerful press. The sheets, after this pressure, have acquired sufficient consistency to enable them to be pressed again by themselves. The felts are accordingly removed, and one sheet being laid upon another, the heap is subjected to a moderate pressure.

When the paper is taken out of the press, it is separated into small parcels of seven or eight sheets in each, for the purpose of drying. The drying is conducted in extensive lofts in the upper parts of the mill. The sheets are taken up upon a piece of wood, shaped like a T, and hung upon hair lines stretched across large horizontal wooden frames, called tribbles, and as these are filled they are lifted up between upright posts to the top of the room, and retained by pegs put into the posts; another frame is then filled, and put up in its turn, until the loft is filled. Air is admitted to the lofts by means of louvre boards. When sufficiently dry, the paper is taken down, and sleeked, dressed, and shaken, to get rid of dust, and to separate the pages. It is then laid in heaps in the warehouse, preparatory to sizing. The size is made from the shreds and parings of leather and parchment; it is nicely filtered, and a little alum added. A number of sheets are then dipped into the size and separated, so as to expose both surfaces of each sheet; the sheets are taken out, turned over, and dipped a second time. About a dozen handfuls being thus dipped, they are made into a pile, with a thin board or felt between every two handfuls, and pressed to get rid of superfluous size, which flows back into the size vessel. The paper is again transferred to the lofts, and dried. This being complete, it is taken down, carried to a building called the Saul (probably a corruption of the German saal, or the French salle, a hall, or large room), where it is examined, finished, and pressed. The imperfect sheets are removed. The press called the dry-press is a powerful one, or the hydrostatic-press is used. After one pressing, the heaps of paper are parted; that is, they are turned sheet by sheet, so as to expose new surfaces: the press is again used; then there is another parting, and so on, several times. The paper is next made into quires and reams, and once more pressed.

Connected with the sizing of papers is the blueing, which is said to have originated in the suggestion of a paper-maker's wife, who thought that the practice of improving the color of linen while passing through the wash, by means of a blue bag, might also be advantageously applied to paper. A blue-bag was accordingly suspended in the vat; and the effect proved to be so satisfactory that it led to the introduction of the large and important class of blue writing-papers. It was soon found that smalt gave a better color than common stone-blue; and smalt continued to be used for many years; but when artificial ultramarine came to be manufactured at a very low cost, and in a great variety of tints, this beautiful color gradually superseded smalt in the manufacture of writing-paper.

PAPER-MAKING BY MACHINERY.

The slow and difficult process of moulding the separate sheets of paper by hand has, to a great extent, been superseded by the introduction and gradual improvement of the very beautiful machinery of Fourdrinier, referred to in our introductory remarks. By means of this machine, a process which, under the old system, occupied about three weeks, is now performed in as many minutes. Within this brief space of time, and the short distance of thirty or forty feet, a continuous stream of fluid pulp is made into paper, dried, polished, and cut up into separate sheets ready for use. The paper thus produced is moderate in price, and, for a large number of purposes, superior in quality to that which was formerly made by hand. In fact, the machine-made papers can be produced of unlimited dimensions; they are of uniform thickness; they can be fabricated at any season of the year; they do not require to be sorted, trimmed, and hung up in the drying-house—operations which formerly led to so much waste, that about one sheet in every five was defective.

The paper-machine moves at the rate of from twenty-five to forty feet per minute, so that scarcely two minutes are occupied in converting liquid pulp into finished paper, a result which, by the old process, occupies about seven or eight days. If the machine produce ten lineal yards of paper per minute, or six hundred per hour, this is equal to a mile of paper in three hours, or four miles per day of twelve hours. The paper is about fifty-four inches wide, and, supposing three hundred machines to be at work on an average twelve hours a day, the aggregate length of web would be equal to 1,200 miles, and the area 3,000,000 square yards.

Paper is sent into the market in various forms and sizes, according to the use for which it is intended. The following table contains the name and dimensions of various sheets of paper:—

Many of the papers above enumerated are made by hand, of the exact size indicated; but, if made by the machine, the roll of paper has to be cut to the required dimensions. In order to do this with precision and expedition, various cutting-machines have been contrived, in which the paper, as it comes from the manufacturing machine, is cut to any size required.

HOT-PRESSING, GLAZING, AND FINISHING—STATISTICS.

Fine papers are, in some cases, hot-pressed and glazed. In hot-pressing, a number of stout cast-iron plates are heated in an oven, and then put into a screw-press in alternate layers, with highly glazed pasteboards, between which the paper is placed in open sheets; and the hard polished surfaces of the pasteboards, aided by the heat and pressure, impart that beautiful appearance which belongs to hot-pressed paper. A yet more smooth and elegant surface is produced by the process of glazing. The sheets of paper are placed separately between very smooth clean copper-plates. These are then passed through rollers, which impart a pressure of from twenty to thirty tons. After three or four such pressures, the paper is called rolled, and sometimes also hot-pressed; but, if passed more frequently through the rollers, the paper acquires a higher surface, and is then called glazed.

The general introduction of steel pens has increased the demand for smooth papers, and has led to improvements in finishing them.

As an improvement in the manufacture of paper sized by the machines now in use, it is proposed to conduct the web of paper, after it has been either partially or completely dried, through a trough of cold water, then to pass it through a pair of pressing-rolls, and afterwards to dry it on reels, or over hot cylinders. The paper thus treated will be found to "bear" much better, and admit of erasures being made on the surface of such paper, and written over, without the ink running in the way it does when the paper is sized and dried in the usual manner.

It has been found that when paper is dried, after sizing, by the drying-machines in present use, the paper is very harsh; and, until it stands for some time to get weather (as it is technically termed), great difficulty is experienced in glazing the paper. This inconvenience is proposed to be overcome by passing the paper partially round a hollow cylinder, through which a small stream of cold water is made to run. By this means the heat in the paper is carried off, and the paper is rendered more tractable, and brought to a proper state for undergoing the glazing operation.

It is stated that, "in England, writing-papers are sized with gelatin, and are stronger and harder than those of other countries; they are also cleaner, generally better put up, and show greater care in the manufacture, than those of France and of other countries. The old cream-laid papers, now so fashionable, were reintroduced a few years since, and they are still preferred for letter and note-paper. The thinner post writing-papers, however, are much better manufactured in France, Belgium, and other parts of the Continent, than in England. Those exhibited at the World's Fair from Angoulême, in France, and Heilbronn, in Germany, are the best; those made in Belgium are not sufficiently hard-sized. The white of the letter-papers of France, Germany, and other foreign countries is of great purity and beauty; and these papers being sized in the vat with farina, in addition to rosin-soap, instead of gelatin, they are less greasy under the pen, and consequently can be written on more freely than those which are sized with animal size; they do not, however, bear the ink so well. English printing-papers generally maintain a superiority over those of foreign countries; as also drawing-papers and strong account-book blue-laid papers. Tinted printing and drawing-papers, formerly made exclusively in England, are now produced by most foreign paper-makers."

LITTLE CHILDREN.

I am fond of children (says a celebrated author). I think them the poetry of the world—the fresh flowers of our hearths and homes—little conjurors, with their natural magic; evoking by their spells what delights and enriches all ranks, and equalizes the different classes of society. Often as they bring with them anxieties and cares, and live to occasion sorrow and grief, we should get on very badly without them. Only think—if there was never anything anywhere to be seen but great grown-up men and women! How we should long for the sight of a little child! Every infant comes into the world like a delegated prophet, the harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose office it is "to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children," and to draw "the disobedient to the wisdom of the just." A child softens and purifies the heart, warming and melting it by its gentle presence; it enriches the soul by new feelings, and awakens within it what is favorable to virtue. It is a beam of light, a fountain of love, a teacher whose lessons few can resist. Infants recall us from much that engenders and encourages selfishness, that freezes the affections, roughens the manners, indurates the heart, they brighten the home, deepen love, invigorate exertion, infuse courage, and vivify and sustain the charities of life. It would be a terrible world, I do think, if not embellished by little children.

SELLING THE LOVE-TOKEN.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

(See Plate.)

"Very well done!" said my grandmother; "very well done, sir—you have succeeded better than I expected."

The foreign-looking gentleman bowed and smiled, showing his white teeth through a dark overhanging moustache, as my grandmother bent forward again from the easy-chair, and raised her double silver-rimmed eye-glass.

Now, Josephine and myself had been sent to her room on some household errand connected with the coming festivities of Christmas, and were not sorry to find the door slightly ajar. We had seen the strange-looking gentleman, with the large square case, arrive, and knew that it was not his first visit to the sitting-room, which we young people never entered without knocking first for admittance. Everybody said Madam Evelyn was peculiar; but everybody loved her, or rather regarded her with that mingling of trust and respect which we call deference, in its warmest and most grateful sense. This was one of her peculiarities, that her room was held free of all intrusion, except from such visitors as she chose to admit. I do not believe papa, her favorite son, ever broke through the rule of asking audience, though she had made his home her home for many a year. Poor mamma used to declare that she envied her this privilege. Her chamber was a perfect thoroughfare. The seamstress always occupied one corner. The servants were coming for orders incessantly. Maude, my oldest sister, who had her grandmother's name, retreated to mamma's lounge if she chanced to disagree with Elizabeth, and at any hour of the day a little horde of Goths, in the shape of us younger children, were liable to overrun and take possession of this neutral territory between the parlor and the nursery.

Poor mamma! no wonder her favorite expressions were—"I'm sure I shall go distracted some day," and "I am just ready to die." I dare say she was at any time; but there seemed to be no refuge. Grandmother often remonstrated with her, and told her that every person needed some time in the day to collect their thoughts, and balance accounts with themselves. After these talks, mamma would sometimes make the attempt to have an undisturbed five minutes, "sitting with closed doors;" but nurse would come with the baby, Charley with his cut finger, Josephine with her torn frock or hard spelling lesson, and I with a mutilated doll that required instant surgical aid. Maude and Elizabeth were sure to have a dispute about the joint occupancy of some desk or closet; the cook was in want of some receipt, or the newspaper carrier insisted on sixty cents for the "Journal," and could not be put off. No wonder that mamma was always "nervous" and delicate, and that those periods of seclusion were few and far between.

But our grandmother's room, as I said before, was sacred from intrusion. It was a large, cheerful apartment, with old-fashioned, heavy mahogany furniture, and chintz curtains lined with colored cambric in the winter season, as you may see in the bedrooms of old-fashioned English houses. Her bed was in an adjoining "light closet," as she called it, for she never yet could conquer a prejudice against sleeping in a room with a fire; and hence we all of us, from oldest to youngest, esteemed it a wonderful favor to visit her.

And now, thought Josephine and myself, stealing in on tiptoe, we should find out what the errand of the strange gentleman is, and what he has brought to grandmother in the square packing-case.

But, alas for our hopes! she very quietly closed the cover as she discovered us in the background, and the only satisfaction we had was seeing her go to the tall cabinet in the corner, and take out five bright gold pieces, which she gave to the stranger, and which seemed to please him quite as much as her commendation had done. I dare say he needed the gold more than the praise, though both were grateful to the friendless foreigner.

We did not mean to betray our unlawful curiosity, but I suppose we must have done so, for grandmother said—

"All in good time, children," and nodded a little towards the mysterious box. I took Josephine to task, as we hastily retreated in the wake of the strange gentleman, while she, on the contrary, was convinced it was me who had drawn forth the implied reprimand.

We always made a great account of Christmas, much more than any of our friends, to whom Thanksgiving Day was the high festival of the year. I suppose it was on account of our English descent; and then our grandmother always took such an active and happy part in the day's household festivities.

On this day she always came down stairs to dinner, carefully dressed in an old-fashioned brocaded silk, the snowy lawn handkerchief crossed on her breast, fastened with a brooch containing my grandfather's hair, in a setting of alternate pearls and garnets. My uncle John and his family were usually of the party, but she leaned on papa's arm, and always called him "my son."

The evening of the coming Christmas we were to pass in grandmother's room, by special invitation. Chester Adams, who was in papa's counting-house, and indeed always treated like one of the family, was the only stranger present. Our grandmother was always especially kind to him, for he was a frank, modest young man; an orphan, with no home circle but our own. Papa thought him possessed of unusual business talents and integrity, but he had no other fortune; while Robert Winthrop, the next most constant visitor at the house, was the son of a rich man, and member of Congress. We used to wonder, Josephine and I, why Maude always sent us to bed the instant either of them came, and why our favorite, Chester Adams, would sometimes take up his hat and go away again, when he heard young Winthrop was in the parlor, without so much as saying good-evening. However, we are older now, and have visitors of our own.

I think Maude was in hopes Robert Winthrop would be asked to stay, for he called in the afternoon, and brought her a bouquet from his mother's conservatory, one of the few kept up through our rigorous Boston winters. But though he paid a very long call, sitting almost until the candles were lighted, no further invitation was given. Maude consoled herself, however, by coming to the dinner-table with a branch of the scarlet geranium in her dark hair, which suited the coral ornaments, papa's gift, and was wonderfully becoming. Chester Adams moved a little, to make way for her, and then spilled the gravy he was helping grandmother to, as she sat down. We children thought he was very dull—he did not tell one amusing story, or eat philopœnas with us, as he generally did.

Our Christmas dinner was the great feast of the year. On other days, the orthodox two o'clock rule of our neighbors was adopted, but there was a lunch after church on Christmas, and the dinner was not served until it was quite dark. The shutters were closed, lights placed along the table, a great dessert-dish of fruit, ornamented with evergreens, occupied the centre, while the roast beef before papa, and the turkey in mamma's vicinity, were the finest the market could afford. We used to wonder how people could eat beef, when there was roast turkey with dressing!

Then, at dessert, the plum-pudding made from our grandmother's receipt came on all in a blaze, which we thought the most curious thing in the world, and used to excite the incredulity of our schoolmates with describing. Then there were raisins and almonds, figs and apples, and a dish of sugar-plums, which mostly fell to our share. There, too, we could not account for the indifference of our elders and betters, though we were so much the gainers by it. There never will be such dinners as those again—never, never, Josephine and I both agree, though we should live to have houses of our own, and be able to order almonds and raisins every day for dessert.

After we young people had disposed of all we could, and much more than was good for us, I dare say, the whole party adjourned to grandmother's room. Chester Adams had never been in it before, and exclaimed at its cheerful air of comfort, which pleased grandmother—and papa, too, for that matter, for he was still an affectionate and dutiful child. The chintz curtains were let down, the round-table drawn up near the blazing grate, and the brass-headed nails that studded the old-fashioned furniture glowed in the light of the wax candles in the high silver candlesticks on the mantle and table. Our grandmother never took kindly to lamps. I don't know what she would have said to gas.

This was the way we sat—papa on one side of the fire, with Joe on his knee, and Charlie nestling up to mamma's side, already half asleep. Then Uncle John opposite, and quiet Aunt Mary, with Cousin Kate and Ellis, their only children. Elizabeth was on that side, for she and Ellis were great friends; and so it happened that Chester Adams was left the place on the sofa between Maude and myself. Maude drew her dress up carefully when he sat down and put his arm around me. I was only ten years old, and we had always looked upon him as our brother. I thought Maude need not have been so careful, though she did have on her best silk, for Chester was very nice. Maude often spoke of how particular he was.

Grandmother had promised us a story that evening. She and papa often talked about England on Christmas evening, and sometimes of our grandfather. Uncle John was too young when they came to this country to remember much that happened before.

"Tell us about the old stone Grange, grandmother, where you were born," pleaded Josephine.

"Yes—about your tumbling into the moat, like pussy in the well and little Johnny Green," Charlie called out, suddenly rising up from mamma's shoulder.

Grandmother pulled up her black silk mitts, and smiled very kindly. I can see her now, sitting up as straight in her high-backed chair as if she had never known any burden of care, or sorrow, or disappointment. Mamma always stooped much more. Just then, Josephine and I discerned the square case standing on the shelf of the cabinet. We both saw it at the same time, and even papa's eyes wandered curiously in that direction.

He certainly had the best right to solve the mystery—it contained his Christmas present from grandmother; a picture in a bright gilt frame, which he brought forward, at her request, and placed in an excellent light. I never saw my father more affected than when he had the first glimpse of that picture. He did not say one word; but the tears rose to his eyes, and he went directly to grandmother, and, stooping down, kissed her forehead, putting back the silvery hair as he would have done to one of us, and holding his hand there a moment as if he said, "God bless you!" in his heart. It was the only affectionate caress I ever saw him give her, for he was usually self-composed, almost stern in manner, which was her own way.

"But what is it about, grandmother—the story?" asked Josephine.

"What a funny little baby!" commented Charlie. "Not half so pretty as ours. And such an ugly old gentleman! What is he doing with that eye-glass, mamma? It isn't double, like grandmother's."

Maude and Elizabeth seemed interested to know whether it was to be hung in the parlor, and said the frame was very handsome. For myself, I saw in the picture a dark room, not at all like any in our house, with an old gentleman, whose long pointed beard reminded me of the Jewish doctors in the Temple—one of the prints in grandmother's large Bible. He seemed to be examining a ring through an eye-glass, and before him stood a lady with a very sad, anxious face. She wore a dark robe, of a quaint, though graceful fashion, and held a little child in her arms. I thought it was as pretty a picture as any in the annual Chester Adams had given Maude that morning, though I felt almost inclined to cry; the lady's face was so very sorrowful.

"Who will read my story for me?" said grandmother, by and by, when papa had moved away from the back of her chair, and stood looking at the picture again with his hand over his eyes, to get a better light, I dare say. "I have written it, because there are some of these little people who would forget if it was only told them, and I should like to have it remembered as long as the picture is kept in the family; when you do not come to pass your Christmas evenings in grandmother's room," she added, after a little pause. It was the first time I heard her allude to her going from us; not that I think she dreaded death—no one was ever better prepared to meet it—but she was naturally reserved.

I wondered papa did not offer to take the manuscript she held out; but he did not change his position; and Aunt Mary, always kind and thoughtful, volunteered her services. Grandmother said she was afraid the children would not be interested, and that it might trouble Aunt Mary to make out an old lady's crabbed handwriting. "It was not very long, to be sure," and then she straightened herself to listen, holding a little Chinese screen to shade her eyes from the fire, while Aunt Mary read:—

"THE TEMPTATION OF ALICE GRAY.

"It was a long time ago," said my grandmother's story, "that Alice Gray left her English country home, to follow the fortunes of her husband, a generous, kind-hearted sailor. It was hard parting with the old place, though her parents were dead, and she was an only child. She was going to foreign countries, where even the language was strange to her, with no one to turn to but Richard Gray, and, though he was very kind and noble-hearted, she knew there would be hours of loneliness when her heart would travel back to the old haunts of her childhood, yearning for the household faces that were familiar in her cradle. Injustice had made her poor, as well as an orphan, though she had never yet felt the lack of abundant means; nor did she know, until she had been long a wife, what a painful dependence the love and protection of Richard Gray had saved her from. The frank-hearted sailor loved her the better that she needed his care; she tried in turn to be cheerful and brave, in looking forward to their long separations, and to welcome him home with a new happiness and trust. For a time, these partings, which shorten the life of every sailor's wife, were not necessary. She had a bold heart, and went with him to many strange countries, seeing more wonderful things than she had ever dreamed of in her old home in Devon. So their first parting was very hard; and while she could scarcely close her eyes to rest, for fear of the hour that was to take him from her, he stole away from her side as she lay asleep. He never trembled at the wildest gale; but he could not bear the agony of parting with one he loved better than life. You can imagine how weary and desolate that waking was to Alice Gray, and how she tried to shut out the daylight, and put away for a time all comfort that was offered to her. It was not as now, when letters can come from those in distant lands almost with the swiftness of a loving thought—it was months, and sometimes years, before any tidings could arrive. The dangers of the sea were little understood, but greatly dreaded, and loss and shipwreck far more frequent. So Alice Gray shut up her sorrows in her own heart from the strangers around her, and listened to the sobbing wind and moaning sea through the long dreary nights, until her child, her first-born son, was given to her arms. There was pain even in that new happiness; for there was no father's blessing for her little one, and no kiss of tenderness for herself, as she pressed her child to her heart.

"But the boy grew so like his father. The same curly rings of hair lying on his broad forehead, though many shades fairer, and the clear blue eyes, haunted her with a well-remembered look. She had need of all comfort, for she passed through many trials, sickness, loss, and at last poverty, still among strangers, though not where her husband had left her. She could not stay so far from the sea, where it would be many days after he landed before he could reach her. So she came to the little seaport from which his vessel had sailed for the far-off Indian Ocean, and there watched for the first glimpse of its white sails. Months passed on in sickening, harassing anxiety; and then came news of disaster, shipwreck, death; an awful certainty for the fear that had haunted her day and night. She and her child were doubly orphaned.

"Midwinter, and death, and pressing poverty! She could not give up all hope at once, but, through the long autumn, paced the rocky line of coast day after day, her child cradled warmly in her arms, and looking out with straining eyes towards the horizon. She thought she must go mad, and almost prayed for it, if forgetfulness came to—but, then there was her child—there would be no one to care for him, and she could not abandon him with the new mother-love growing up in her heart. Many pitied the 'poor English lady,' as they saw the chill sea-breeze tossing her thin garments, she standing on the very verge of the bleak rocks, with the cold, black waves breaking sullenly beneath her. There was one who did more than pity. She welcomed him as a friend first, for he came with sympathizing looks and kind words, and would have relieved the pressure of her poverty. But Alice Gray was still too proud for that, and she parted one by one with the few treasures, costly toys, her husband had gathered in foreign lands, to keep away starvation. She had no idea of toiling for a subsistence, as the poor creatures around her did, and was too much wrapt up in her grief to think or plan any lighter task. He saw it all, rich and prosperous as he was, and patiently waited his time. It came at last, when, with a shudder, she drew off her ring of betrothal, scarcely dearer or more sacred than the wedding-ring itself, and offered it in exchange for gold, to buy bread for herself and child. Heaven help her when that was exhausted! It was all she had. It was very late when she hurried through the narrow street, to offer it, where all her trinkets had gone before. They were celebrating Christmas night in her own land, with its blazing fires, and tables spread with plenty. She hurried as if to put aside such goading memories, past low wine-shops, and groups of fishermen, and common sailors, until she came to the house of the Israelite, who exchanged whatever was brought to him, without questions, so he could get it at half its worth. The dingy shop was closed, but she was admitted for the first time into the inner apartment, which the broker had fitted up with the spoils of his hard trade. Pictures, goblets, and vases, musical instruments, and embroidered cushions, and antique carved chairs, gave it a novel, but curious air, this cold, wintry night. There was no light save the broad glare of the brands on the hearth, and of the lamp that burned still in the outer room, and fell through the casement, by which all visitors were reconnoitred. A heavy curtain of velvet, a little faded, but once the hangings of a palace-like mansion, concealed the rough wall on one side, as she stood there noting all these things with a strange, minute interest she did not feel, and wondered at even then. It seemed as if he would never name the value of the ring. She could not bear to see him handle it so carelessly, when it was so dear to her.

"Outside the gusty wind was sweeping the narrow streets, and coarse songs and jests, hard trampling feet went by, and she had yet to go out and encounter these perils of darkness and storm: she, who had been so tenderly reared as a child, and so closely sheltered as a wife. She had removed the brown braided tress that filled the centre of the ring; but it was of virgin gold, massive and antique in design, as suited the sailor's fancy, with a circlet of precious stones. She knew little of its real value; to her it was beyond all price as the first love-token from her husband, who was gone forever. The careful dealer saw this, and noted the indifference of her manner as she stood before him in her dark robes and linen coif, for she had thrown down the coarse mantle that had wrapped herself and child at the entrance of the outer apartment. He did not anticipate much wrangling as he slowly drew forth the key of his treasury, and as slowly counted out the price at which he valued the token. He was right; for the sacrifice had cost her too much for words, and she went out slowly from his presence with that same fixed, hopeless expression. When that small sum was exhausted, she had no other earthly resource.

"Still pressing his child to her bosom, Alice Gray passed along the dingy street to her miserable home, though it was no home, with its blank walls and fireless hearth; but it served to shelter her when night came, as she was driven from her lonely watch on the beach. But, before she reached it, a roving band of sailors, landed that day from a ship she had seen enter the harbor, filled up the narrow path, shouting and rolling with the wine they had quaffed, and singing a wild bacchanalian song. She shrank aside to let them pass; but the foremost seized her with an oath and rude grasp, and would have torn the mantle from her face in another instant, had not a blow struck him breathless against the wall. The strong arm of her deliverer set aside the assailants, and conducted her safely on her way. It was the one friend who seemed always to mark her movements, and to whom she was indebted for many kindnesses.

"He, too, was a stranger; and, wandering on the cliffs, had first noted the pale, unquiet woman that haunted them. When he had learned her story from the fisherman, his pity grew to sympathy, and ended in love. He was rich and free; and that night, as she clung gratefully to his arm, it was offered to her, with protection from all care and want and contact with the world. He had come out to seek her, he said, and that very night stood ready to make her his. The priest awaited them; his arms should shelter her; he urged and pleaded with her to become once more a wife.

"You must not blame her, children—you must not, at least, judge her too harshly that she listened to the temptation, knowing, as she did, that the new vows would be an empty mockery; that all her love was buried fathoms deep with Richard Gray. She still trembled from the insult of the sailors; the night was black and pitiless; she was alone, and almost starving. It was like one, benumbed with cold and hunger, standing on the threshold of a mansion blazing with light and warmth and costly cheer. Many a young maiden has bartered her hand for gold without Alice Gray's bitter need, now, even in our own day, or for the baubles of rank and position.

"Oh, it was cruel in that kind voice to plead so earnestly, knowing her heart was starved—craving for kindness and care! For her child's sake, he said, and pictured the boy growing up under his fatherly protection, or, skilfully reversing the lines, showed him to her neglected and abandoned among the rude fishermen. No wonder that consent hung on her very utterance, when the child stirred in her bosom, and passed its little hands caressingly over her haggard face as she bent towards it. Richard's child! She could not give another the husband's right he had been proud to claim; no, she would work, ay, starve, if it must be so, but not wrong his memory by falsehood and the endurance of caresses from which she must ever shrink, as the memory of his love came between her and the present.

"Her child saved her from the great sin of going to another home and another love that night, when she had nothing to offer in return.

"So her last friend was repulsed, and deserted her, trying to keep down the bitterness of spirit that pride called up to take the place of rejected love. She sat alone and hopeless with her child through the midnight darkness, and the love-token sparkled beneath the lamp of the grasping broker, who sat counting the day's gains.

"A knock at the outer entrance did not startle him, for he conducted many a shrewd bargain while others slept; but he looked to see that all his treasures were within a sweep of his arm before he admitted the visitor.

"It was a sunburnt, swarthy-looking man, with jewels from the Orient to be exchanged for gold. He knew their full value, and demanded it; but, while the Jew demurred, his quick eyes scanned the whole room at a glance. Travel-worn as he was, something arrested his gaze that made his lips tremble and grow white, and his heart beat fast as he bent forward and clutched, heedless of the old man's remonstrances, the love-token he had given years ago to his wife, Alice Gray.

"You can see it all now, my children, from what a fearful sin the sacrifice of that night saved her, though you are too young and too untried to imagine even the swoon of joy in which she lay clasped to her husband's bosom, till the dim morning light revealed those dear features, and the nut-brown curls threaded with silver from the toil and exposure he had endured. No wonder that she shuddered at the remembrance of her temptation, or that she loved the unconscious child, who had saved her from it, above all that were afterwards given to her arms."

So ended Aunt Mary's reading, while papa still shaded his eyes from the light, and grandmother's hand trembled as she supported the screen. Mamma's eyes were full of tears, and she kissed Charlie, now sleeping on her shoulder, over and over again, as if stooping down over him could hide them: Josephine and myself could not understand the scene till we were much older, and the picture had come to be spoken of as an heirloom in the family. But I saw something else that interested me very much, for I thought she might better have given it to me—Maude pull Robert Winthrop's scarlet geranium from her hair, and finally crush it under her slipper, as the decision of Alice Gray was told. Some one else saw it, too, I fancy, for presently Chester Adams's hand dropped from my shoulder upon Maude's, lying near me, and she did not withdraw it. Maude was crying, too; but a smile, like sunshine, came into her eyes as she stole a timid, wistful look up into his affectionate eyes, as I have seen children ask for pardon.

When we separated for the night, grandmother took a hand of each of them in one of hers, and said, "Good-night, my children; be true to yourselves and to each other!" and it was in this way I noticed a ring, like the love-token in the picture, on my grandmother's wedding-finger.

A CHAPTER ON NECKLACES, OLD AND NEW.

BY MRS. WHITE.

It is curious to trace the first appearance of necklaces amongst the Egyptians, in the same form as they exist at the present day upon the necks of the Patagonians, and the natives of the islands of the Pacific; for the ancient dwellers by the Nile wore necklaces of the seeds of leguminous plants, berries, and feathers (especially those of the poule de Numidie), precisely the same substances which are used in this ornament by the above people, except that the emu supplies the feathers, and that shells are occasionally mingled with the bright-colored berries. But shells were also used in necklaces by the Egyptians, as our readers may perceive in the table-cases of the Egyptian gallery in the British Museum.

Here, we may trace the next appearance of this trinket, when art began to be applied in its composition, and spherical beads of various substances were used; as well as its progression from a simple ornament to its superstitious use as an amulet.

In one of these cases some very interesting specimens of our subject may be seen, tracing, as plainly as more important things might do, the gradual advance of art; there is one of round blue beads capped with silver, another representing deities and symbols, and a third with pendants in the form of the lock of horns, fishes, and cowries, which are well deserving of attention.

The two latter were of course worn as amulets, and, being impressed with sacred images, were supposed to ward off danger and infection, to render the wearer courageous or agreeable, or invest him with the various qualities which their symbolism, or the substances of which they were composed, represented in the mythic language of the East.

Perhaps it might have been with such intentions that we find the necklace so favorite an adornment with the warriors of antiquity. The Medes, Persians, Indians, and Etruscans wore them in the valuable shape of strings of pearls, sometimes enriched with jewels; while the chiefs and great men amongst the northern nations were distinguished by necklaces and collars of gold, called torques, so that, when conquered, the necklaces of both oriental and Celtic nations must have made an important part of the spoils. Hence, probably, the adoption of the monile by the Romans as a reward for military valor, and hence also the surname of Torquatus Manlius, who was so called from his having torn the golden torque from the neck of an enemy on the field of battle.

Necklaces were worn by both Greek and Roman women, but only within doors, and on occasions of domestic festivity, as at weddings and dances; they were especially used as bridal presents, and the learned in mythology will remember that it was upon the occasion of Hermione's marriage that Vulcan, to revenge her mother's infidelity, bestowed upon her the fatal necklace which worked such wondrous evils on her race. Here we perceive that the Eastern superstitions connected with this ornament had accompanied the fashion of wearing it into Greece: the rich and beautiful necklace of Hermione was a talisman—not to counteract evil, but to produce it; so that by-and-by we find this very necklace, which Ovid tells us was of gold, and to the description of which Nomus devotes fifty lines of his Dionysica, bribing Eriphyle, the wife of Amphiaraus, to betray her husband.

At Rome, as with the old Egyptians, the materials of the necklace soon altered from a simple row of berries or small spheres of glass, &c., to pearls and amber, and precious stones; the single chaplet, which primitively encircled the throat, gradually extended to a second, and even a third row: after which we find the original necklace adorned with drops or pendents, which, when worn, fell round the neck like rays from a centre.

For this description of monile, emeralds, and other gems of a greenish hue, were greatly prized; and amongst the treasures which time has restored to the museums and cabinets of the curious, from the buried toilets of Pompeii, a golden necklace is enumerated, which was enriched with twelve small emeralds.

Etruscan graves have also yielded up their treasures, and amongst a variety of other matters affording the most interesting illustrations of the domestic economies of the ancient Tuscan people, have preserved for us the fashion of these ornaments. Those purchased from the Prince of Canino, and deposited in the British Museum, are of gold; one represents a wreath of ivy-leaves in pairs, the stems of the leaves joining; and the ornaments of the others consist of circles, lozenges, rosettes, hippocampi (sea-horses), and a heart depends centrally from one of them.

Necklaces in the shape of serpents were worn by the Greeks and Romans, by whom this emblem was regarded as a charm against witchcraft and the "evil eye;" they were made to coil round the neck of the wearer, and it is remarkable that the necklace so fatal to Hermione and Eriphyle was of this form. Some years back an inscription, found in France, mentioned a torque dedicated to Æsculapius, having been made by twisting together two golden snakes, and offerings of trinkets in this shape were often made in honor of him by persons during illness, or on their recovery from it.

Besides decorating the necks of brides and conquerors with these ornaments, the Romans carried their admiration of the necklace so far as to adorn the statues of their divinities with them; thus, a statue of Fortune, found at Herculaneum, had the representation of a necklace incrusted with silver, and a figure of Mercury, in the gallery of Greek and Roman antiquities in the museum (thought by some to be the most exquisite bronze in Europe), has a gold torquis round its neck; this honor, however, the deities shared in common with favorite domestic animals; and horses were frequently adorned with them.

So much more remains to be said of the use of them by the ancients, that we leave, reluctantly, these classic reminiscences, to trace the history of the necklace at home, where it appears to have an existence coeval with Stonehenge, and to have preserved its memoirs in the funeral barrows of the Britons and Anglo-Saxons. In these tumuli, necklaces of various kinds have been found, and beads of crystal, jet, amber, and colored glass, are quite common in them. In some, necklaces of bone and ivory have been discovered, and the Archæological Society have engraved one in their Journal, which is formed of beads of bone and canel coal.

In the wills of the Anglo-Saxons, we find the neck-bracelet, as its name implied in their language, frequently mentioned: and amongst other articles of jewellery, we read of golden vermiculated necklaces. Boadicea wore a golden necklace, and subsequently the torquis, or collar of honor, commonly of gold, was made the insignia of dukes and earls, both by the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans. The Norman kings wore a collar or necklace of gold, adorned with jewels, and which depended on the breast, like the collar or knighthood, of which, no doubt, these antique ornaments were the prototypes; while such of our Saxon ancestors as could not procure the precious metals, rather than be without this favorite ornament, wore them of brass, and even iron.

Amber appears, from the very earliest period, a favorite material for the necklaces of women, probably on account of its perfume, which Autolycus, the roguish peddler, in the "Winter's Tale," alludes to in his rhyming list of wares—

"Necklace amber,

Perfume for a lady's chamber."

In Italy, we learn from an ancient chronicle, that ladies wore them made of bent gold coins, and that whistles, in the shape of a dragon, set with gold and pearls (probably to call servants), sometimes depended from them.

A picture of Joan of Navarre, wife of Henry IV., in whose reign necklaces were much worn by ladies, represents her wearing a collar of Esses.

A necklace on the ancient effigy of Lady Peyton, at Isleham Church, Cambridgeshire, is formed of pear-shaped stones or pearls, attached to a string or narrow band of gold, while another, represented in the Harleian MS., looks like a wreath of small stars, and was, in all probability, of the same precious metal.

In the Middle Ages, we read that the necklaces of women were set with jewels and stones; and that some, called serpents, from the fashion of them, were also in vogue; and in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the necklaces of English ladies were arranged in the same manner as the rayed ones of the Romans.

Queen Elizabeth is always represented wearing strings of pearls, or jewelled carcanets, and the royal example appears to have been very generally followed by the dames of her realm, whose taste for a profusion of such ornaments has been handed down to us by the dramatists and other writers of the period; though in her reign, as in her father's, sumptuary laws were made to prevent persons below a certain rank from appearing in them.

Barclay, in his "Ship of Fools," printed A. D. 1508, speaks of some who had their necks

"Charged with collars and chains,

In golden withes."

And in a curious work called "The Four Pees," of John Heywood, written 1560, he makes the Peddler vaunt, amongst other vanities of women, "of all manner of beads." The penalty for wearing anything of gold or gilt about the neck, in Henry VIII.'s time, unless the wearer was a gentleman, or could prove that he possessed, over all charges, 200l. yearly value, was the forfeiture of the same; a regulation well calculated to maintain the restriction in fact.

All this while certain superstitions existed with regard to the necklace, as well as to all other trinkets of which gold and precious stones made part, occasioned, probably, by the antique use of gems as amulets, and from the pretended occult powers ascribed to them by the alchemists. Even Elizabeth, with all her keenness and masculine strength of mind, save where vanity and its natural craving, the love of admiration, were concerned, appears to have been just as impressible upon such subjects as a peasant girl; and we find the Lord Chancellor Hatton sending her a ring (in all probability of agate), to be worn on her breast, against infectious air. The physicians of those days did much to sustain the "charm" of our subject. Necklaces made of the root of the male peony were worn for the prevention of the falling sickness, while those made of amber were deemed good against infection; and to the doctrine of signatures, which connected the medical properties of substances with their forms and color, we may safely trace the common practice of ornamenting young children with necklaces of coral, as well as the invention of the silver-belled trifle, so called.

With the same purpose (that of assisting their teething), the anodyne necklace, which is made of beads of the white bryony, is sometimes hung around the necks of infants, sustaining, even in our own times, a lingering faith in the medical virtues of the amulet.

But that our space forbids, the necklace worn by nuns might lead us to a dissertation on the religious uses of this ornament; but we must briefly glance at its secular history in modern times, when its most powerful spells have been those of fashion.

Coming down to the seventeenth century, we find the necklace quite as much in vogue as in the reign of Elizabeth: in Massinger's "City Madam," after her husband's knighthood, we find her brother observing to the lady,

"Your borrowed hair,

Powdered and curled, was by your dresser's art

Formed like a coronet—hang'd with diamonds,

And richest orient pearls—your carkanet,

That did adorn your neck, of equal value;"

so that the love of gems and jewellery was by no means on the decline. In the picture of Charles and his queen, in "Heath's Chronicle," (1662), Catherine of Braganza wears two necklaces, one clasping the throat, and the other, to which a pendent is attached, falling low on the shoulders. Planché tells us that in Mary's reign, jewelled necklaces sparkled on the bosom, a fashion continued in that of her sister Anne of Denmark, who is usually drawn wearing one.

With the accession of George III., the maudlin sentimentality of the belles and macaronies of the period gave the name of esclavage to the necklace then in fashion, which consisted of several rows of gold chains, or beads, or jewels, arranged one under the other in successive festoons, so as to cover the entire neck.

This was again displaced by the carcanet, or band of jewels set in gold, and we ourselves remember the négligé, with its tasselled ends falling gracefully beneath the throat; since then the necklace has gradually grown into disuse, so that our friend's information, that short golden ones were again in fashion, sounded pleasantly as news of an old acquaintance.

GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.

LESSON III.

Fig. 23.

The pupil may now proceed to more ambitious attempts in the art of delineation. Fig. 23 is the representation of a box supposed to be standing on a table. It is formed entirely of straight lines. She should draw the front oblong first, then the end, taking care to make the perpendicular boundary line farthest from the eye rather shorter than the first line, in order to give the perspective appearance to the representation. In this section we do not give the rules of perspective delineation, preferring to let the pupil become acquainted therewith after she has acquired the necessary facility for copying objects as they appear presented to her eye; this to us appearing the most natural course, as perspective cannot be taught unless the objects which illustrate the rules, and which are to be found in all perspective delineations, can themselves be sketched with ease. As soon as a pupil can copy an object correctly, so far as her own ideas go, she will at once perceive the utility of an art which, by stated rules, will enable her to test the accuracy of her proceedings.

Fig. 24 is a free outline sketch of a pump; by drawing the lower square first, thereafter the end and top, and next the upright oblong, finally putting in the handle and spout, the delineation will speedily be effected. The pupil at this stage should attempt to delineate the forms presented by placing boxes, square blocks, bricks, &c., in various positions.

Fig. 24.

Fig. 25.

Fig. 25 is the representation of a book lying on its side; it is formed of both straight and curved lines. She should draw the horizontal lines first, then the oblique, taking care to make the two lines forming the top nearly parallel, and the others slightly to approach each other, to give the idea of distance; the under lines may be strengthened as in the figure, which will compensate for the absence of light and shade.

Fig. 26.

Fig. 26 affords a good exemplification of the use of the oval or ellipse in forming leaves, &c. In the first place, a correct ellipse is to be drawn, thereafter the top a and the end b of the leaf, rubbing out the parts c c not required, and, lastly, putting in the fibres, as in the figure. The leaf is finished by putting in the serrated or saw-like edges, as in Fig. 27.

Fig. 27.

Fig. 28 is formed in the same way, the only difference being that the leaf is comprised within the ellipse; the parts a a being rubbed out, and the edges filled as in Fig. 29.

Fig. 28.

Fig. 29.

Fig. 30 exemplifies the use of the circle in delineating natural objects. A pear is drawn by first making the circle, as in Fig. 30, thereafter finishing it, as in Fig. 31. The use of the circle is further demonstrated by Figs. 32 and 33, which show the method adopted in drawing an acorn. The method here indicated, of using ellipses and circles as the foundation of the outlines, is applicable to the formation of a vast variety of objects; thus, vases and other forms can be rapidly delineated, as shown in Figs. 34 and 35.

Fig. 30.

Fig. 31.

Fig. 32. Fig. 33.

Fig. 34. Fig. 35.

THE TRIALS OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

(Continued from page 127.)

CHAPTER III.

On the next morning, at the earliest dawn, Mrs. Gaston arose. She found Ella's fever still very high. The child was restless, and moaned a good deal in her sleep.

"Poor little thing!" murmured the mother, as she bent over her for a moment, and then turned away, and commenced kindling a fire upon the hearth. Fortunately for her, she had saved enough from her earnings during the summer to buy half a cord of wood; but this was gradually melting away, and she was painfully conscious that, by the time the long and severe winter had fairly set in, her stock of fuel would be exhausted; and at the prices which she was receiving for her work, she felt that it would be impossible to buy more. After making the fire, she took her work, and drew near the window, through which the cold faint rays of the morning were stealing. By holding the work close to the light, she could see to set her needle, and in this way she commenced her daily toil. An hour was spent in sewing, when Emma aroused up, and she had to lay by her work to attend to her child. Ella, too, had awakened, and complained that her head ached badly, and that her throat was very sore. Half an hour was spent in dressing, washing, and otherwise attending to her children, and then Mrs. Gaston went out to get something for breakfast. On entering the shop of Mrs. Grubb, she met with rather a more courteous reception than had been given her on the morning previous.

"Ah! good-morning, Mrs. Gaston! Good-morning!" said that personage, with a broad, good-natured smile. "How is Ella?"

"She seems very poorly, Mrs. Grubb. I begin to feel troubled about her. She complains of a sore throat this morning, and you know the scarlet fever is all about now."

"Oh, no! never fear that, Mrs. Gaston. Ella's not down with the scarlet fever, I know."

"I trust not. But I have my fears."

"Never take trouble on interest, Mrs. Gaston. It is bad enough when it comes in the natural way. But what can I do for you?"

"I think I must have a cent's worth of coffee this morning. My head aches so that I am almost blind. A strong cup of coffee I am sure will do me good. And as I have a hard day's work before me, I must prepare for it. And then I must have a pint of milk and a three cent loaf of bread for the children. That must do me for the present. We have some molasses left."

"You'll want a little dried meat, or a herring, or something to give you a relish, Mrs. Gaston. Dry bread is poor eating. And you know you can't touch molasses." Half in sympathy did Mrs. Grubb utter this, and half as a dealer, desirous of selling her goods.

"Nothing more, just now, I believe," the poor woman replied. "I must be prudent, you know, and count over every cent."

"But you'll make yourself sick, if you don't eat something more than you do. So come now; treat yourself to a herring, or to a penny's worth of this sweet butter. You'll feel all the better for it, and do more than enough work to pay the cost twice over."

Mrs. Gaston's appetite was tempted. The hard fresh butter looked inviting to her eyes, and she stooped over and smelled it half involuntarily.

"I believe you are right, Mrs. Grubb," she said. "You may give me a couple of cents' worth of this nice butter."

An ounce of butter was carefully weighed out, and given to the customer.

"Isn't there something else, now, that you want?" said the smiling shop-keeper, leaning her elbows upon the counter, and looking encouragingly into the face of Mrs. Gaston.

"I've indulged myself, and I shall not feel right, unless I indulge the children a little also," was the reply; "so weigh me two cents' worth of your smoked beef. They all like it very much."

The smoked beef was soon ready, and then the mother hurried home to her children.

After the morning meal had been prepared, Mrs. Gaston sat down and ate her bread and butter, tasting a little of the children's meat, and drinking her coffee with a keen relish. She felt braced up on rising from the table, and, but for the illness of Ella, would have felt an unusual degree of cheerfulness.

Henry attended the common school of the district, and, soon after breakfast, prepared himself to go. As he was leaving, his mother told him to call at Doctor R——'s, and ask him if he would be kind enough to stop and see Ella, She then seated herself once more beside her little work-table. The two foreparts of the jacket had been finished, except the button-holes; and the sleeves were ready to put in as soon as the body of the garment was ready for them. As the button-holes tried the sight of Mrs. Gaston severely, she chose that part of the day, when her eyes were fresh, to work them. The jacket was double-breasted, and there were five holes to be worked on each side. She had nearly completed one-half of them, when Doctor R—— came in. He looked serious upon examining his patient. Said she was very ill, and required immediate attention.

"But you don't think it the scarlet fever, doctor?" the mother said, in a low, alarmed voice.

"Your child is very sick, madam; and, to tell you the truth, her symptoms resemble too closely those of the fever you have named," was the undisguised reply.

"Surely, my cup is full and running over!" sobbed Mrs. Gaston, clasping her hands together, as this sudden announcement broke down, for a moment, her self-control, while the tears gushed from her eyes.

Doctor R—— was a man of true feeling. He had attended, in two or three cases of illness, the children of Mrs. Gaston, and had observed that she was a woman who had become, from some cause, greatly reduced in circumstances. His sympathies were strongly awakened at seeing her emotion, and he said, in a kind but firm voice—

"A mother, the safety of whose child depends upon her calm and intelligent performance of duty, should never lose her self-control."

"I know that, doctor," the mother answered, rallying herself with a strong effort. "But I was over-tried already, and your sudden confirmation of my worst fears completely broke me down."

"In any event, however," the doctor replied, "you must not permit yourself to forget that your child is in the hands of Him who regards its good in a far higher sense than you can possibly. He never permits sickness of any kind without a good end."

"I know that, doctor, but I have a mother's heart. I love my children, and the thought of losing them touches me to the quick."

"And yet you know that, in passing from this to another state of existence, their condition must be bettered beyond comparison."

"Oh yes. Beyond comparison!" replied the mother, half abstractedly, but with touching pathos. "And yet, doctor, I cannot spare them. They are everything to me."

"Do not suffer yourself to indulge needless alarm. I will leave you medicine now, and call again to-morrow. If she should be decidedly worse, send for me towards evening."

After the doctor went away, Mrs. Gaston gave the medicine he had left, as directed, and then forced herself from the bedside, and resumed her work. By the time the button-holes of the garment she was engaged upon were all completed, and the back and shoulder seams sewed up, it was time to see about something for dinner. She put aside the jacket, and went to the bed. Ella lay as if asleep. Her face was flushed, and her skin dry and hot. The mother looked upon her for a few moments with a yearning heart; then, turning away, she took from a closet her bonnet and shawl, and a little basket. Passing quickly down stairs, after telling Emma to keep very still and be a good girl until she came back, she took her way towards the market-house. At a butcher's she obtained, for three cents, some bones, and then at one of the stalls bought a few herbs, a head of cabbage, and three turnips; the whole at a cost of sixpence. With these she returned home, renewed her fire, and, after preparing the bones and vegetables she had procured, put them into an iron pot with some water, and hung this upon the crane. She then sat down again to her work.

At twelve o'clock Henry came in from school, and brought up an armful of wood, and some water, and then, by direction of his mother, saw that the fire was kept burning briskly. At one, Mrs. Gaston laid by her work again, and set the table for dinner. Henry went for a loaf of bread while she was doing this, and upon his return found all ready. The meal, palatable to all, was a well-made soup; the mother and her two children ate of it with keen appetites. When it was over, Henry went away again to school, and Mrs. Gaston, after administering to Ella another dose of medicine, sat down once more to her work. One sleeve remained to be sewed in, when the garment would only require to have the collar put on, and be pressed off. This occupied her until late in the afternoon.

"Thirty cents for all that!" she sighed to herself, as she laid the finished garment upon the bed. "Too bad! Too bad! How can a widow and three children subsist on twenty cents a day!"

A deep moan from Ella caused her to look at her child more intently than she had done for half an hour. She was alarmed to find that her face had become like scarlet, and was considerably swollen. On speaking to her, she seemed quite stupid, and answered incoherently, frequently putting her hand to her throat, as if in pain there. This confirmed the mother's worst fears for her child, especially as she was in a raging fever. Soon after, Henry came in from school, and she dispatched him for Doctor R——, who returned with the boy. He seemed uneasy at the manner in which the symptoms were developing themselves. A long and silent examination ended in his asking for a basin. He bled her freely, as there appeared to be much visceral congestion, and an active inflammation of the tonsils, larynx, and air passages, with a most violent fever. After this she lay very still, and seemed much relieved. But, half an hour after the doctor had left, the fever rallied again, with burning intensity. Her face swelled rapidly, and the soreness of her throat increased. About nine o'clock the doctor came in again, and upon examining the child's throat, found it black and deeply ulcerated.

"What do you think of her, doctor?" asked the poor mother, eagerly.

"I think her very ill, madam—and, I regret to say, dangerously so."

"Is it scarlet fever, doctor?"

"It is, madam. A very bad case of it. But do not give way to feelings of despondency. I have seen worse cases recover."