Puslapio vaizdai

clothes." Miss May was away for her holidays. Harry fol-
lowed me up-stairs, and I poured out the tea and gave it to
"Have you come from school to-day?" I said, to break

the silence.

"I've come from home, but I've no home now-I've passed passed my examination—I'm a silor, and she never knew it. Mother! mother!" he said, and, hiding his face on the table, he sobbed as if his heart would break.

I never could cry that way, and I looked at him half-wondering, half-frightened. At last I said, "You have had a mother for fourteen years-I never had one at all to love me." He looked up "Worse than me, poor Sue," he said: "but she was so anxious about my examination. If she could but have known I had passed, and passed well too-I was third; she knew the day for it, and would not let them write for me, hoping to go on a little longer; and when they wrote it was too late. I went by the night mail, but it was over. I could not tell her—at least I did tell her-but she could not hear me. I would not listen to them; I would not believe them. I went straight up-stairs to her room, and knelt down by her bedside. Mother, dear mother, I have passed,' I said. I'm third out of forty-six. Do say one word, mother, only once more. Say my own boy' just once, mother; for I did my best—indeed I did!'-and there was no answer, only a terrible stillness, and then I knew I should never see her smile any more, and never bave her hand stroking my hair again, and I could not bear it. 'Mother, mother, speak to me!' I said, and then I fainted, or something; for I was dead beat, what with the examination, and the journey, and everything."

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I listened in wonder with the tears in my eyes. Should I ever be able to open my heart to Harry, as he was doing to me with the tears running fast down his cheeks? My aunt's directions came across me, and I told him to drink his tea and come to his room and change his clothes, and then we went downstairs to the drawing-room.

He was with us three weeks, and he often talked of his mother; indeed, he seldom talked of anything else they had been so much together, he had idolized her quite. He would "Mospeak calmly sometimes, and gradually forget, and say, ther does this ;" and then it seemed all to come back that mother could do it no more, and his grief would break out as violently as on the first evening, and he would throw himself on the lawn under the large chestnut tree, and sob, "Mother! mother!" as if he could not be comforted.

Still it seemed a relief to speak of her, and he would rouse himself and tell no more. "She used to lie on the couch so white and still, and I used to carry up her breakfast for her. Sarah, let me do it. She used to say, 'Poor Master Harry, he's the best right to do it, surely! and mother liked it best when I brought it.' And then she liked me to read to her; she liked the Burial Service, with all the rubrics, just as it comes. 'It helps me to realize it, my darling,' she used to say. You know, Harry, they will meet me at the entrance of the churchyard, and, going before me, they will say, "I am the Resurrection and the Life ;" and when they come to the grave, while I am made ready to be laid in it, the priest will say those beautiful sentences, my darling, for you and for all who may be standing round. I shall have passed then my last hour and all the pains of death; and, Harry, it is in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life I commit you, fatherless, to God's mercy.'

"Then sometimes she would tell me to read her the prayers to be used at sea, because I was to be a sailor, like my father -rubrics and all-and it made it all clear--one saw the sense of it-it was not dull a bit. There is the prayer before we engage with the enemy. Won't it be grand work, Sue? Can't you fancy our noble ship all ready for a broadside, bang on the frog-eating Frenchmen?

The captain hailed the Frenchman-" Ho!"
The Frenchman then cried out, "Hallo!"
"Bear down, do you see, to our admiral's lee."
"No, no, said the Frenchman," that can't be."
"Then I must lug you along with me,"

Said the saucy Arethusa.

Then there are prayers before and after a storm. I've read them so often with dear mother, that I never can forget them. It's a grand thing to be a sailor, with the blue above and the blue below.' I can't think how any one stays on the dry land,

not I-some of them writing on a high stool at a desk all day. Two fellows that were at school with me are gone as clerks in a merchant's office. I am sorry for them-quill driving all day.

"Mother liked my being a sailor, because papa was; and, though his vessel was lost, she said she would not thwart me, i I don't know for he always said he should like me to be one. what I should have done if she had not liked it-dear mother !" He talked unceasingly in this way when we were alone, mixing his mother and the prayer-book with verses of sea-songs just as the ideas crossed him-sometimes with a tear--sometimes with a smile. With my aunt he was different, and would sit reading James's Naval History all the evening, with his head on his hands, when we were in the drawing-room with her. At the end of three weeks he joined his ship, and three years passed before we saw him again.

I was seventeen, and he nearly eighteen, when he came back. I had grown, but my face had not changed. I was plainvery plain. I felt as old then as many girls at five-and-twenty. It is a weary, weary thing, to feel that no one cares for you.

There was one thing of which I believe my aunt was proud. I sang well-my voice had not been much cultivated, but I had a beautiful one-I knew I had; and I could sing from my heart, though I never could speak of anything I really felt. Even in that I had some mortification: my aunt told me always to put a piece of music before me if I had my face turned towards the room. I knew what she meant; I was too plain to be looked at singing, even when beauties would have given something for my voice. I never tired; I could sing by the hour-it seemed given to make up for all my ugliness and awkwardness. I sang, and singing, forgot almost every care I had.

Well, Harry came. Such a happy, merry sailor, such a tall handsome boy; a pleasant word for every one, and always kind to me. His leave ended so soon! My aunt had a party the last evening. He laughed and talked to every one, and I could see that my aunt admired him, and was proud of him.

He came up to me. "Susan, you look so grave; is it because I'm going? Do you never look happier than you do now?"

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I could not explain then.

"Hush, Susan; she's never angry with me, and I would rather be scolded from morning till night than see you look so moped."

I told her next day. She was glad I was truthful, but wished she could see me as neat-handed as he was. She could not wish it more than I did; I would have given worlds to be like him in everything.

And so passed away six more years of my life; Harry spending his leave with us whenever his ship returned home. He had obtained his lieutenancy, and came to us one bright evening in August. After a warm kindly greeting, he said:

"I had an adventure near the gate, aunt Dora; two young ladies riding, one of their horses shied at a boy in the hedge and then reared up. The other young lady screamed, but I got to the horse's head in a moment, and quieted him, and then led him past the boy. Such a pretty girl! Who can they be?" "The Miss Wests," I said; "they are the only riders here." The Wests were rich people who had lately taken a large house in our neighborhood. My aunt, always proud as the proudest, resented the splendor of the nouveaux riches and had never called on Mrs. West; but the next day Mr. and Mrs. West came to thank her for her nephew's kind assistance to

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their youngest daughter. Both the girls had said so much of | cried as I had never cried before. She drew me to her and the danger, &c. Mrs. West begged the acquaintance might kissed me; then she made me promise to go to bed, and left continue, and hoped we would all dine with them the follow- me. I heard her moving about in her room some time after; ing day. From that time during the three months Harry was then all was quiet. Next morning she was found quite dead! on shore, we saw a great deal of the Wests. At first I felt un- Her maid said that, receiving no answer after knocking several easy; Elinor, the youngest, was very pretty, and on the first times, she went in. She was in bed just as usual. On her not day, when she blushed and thanked him. I was more anxious moving when she drew the curtain, she became alarmed. Wilthan I dared own; but gradually the feeling wore off; he was son told me, afterwards, she had often complained of great and always so shy with her, and so kind to me, constantly joining sudden pain in her side, and our medical man knew she had a me when he saw I was not mixing with other girls ; for I never tendency to heart complaint. He questioned me, as I had been felt at my ease in society, and constantly looked neglected, I the last to see her that night, and I told him she had been believe greatly my own fault. Then he constantly brought me speaking of what had distressed her. The coroner returned a little presents and always was near me when I sang. I forgot verdict, "Died by the visitation of God." On her table was a Elinor and her pretty face, and saw no danger. note addressed to her lawyer, begging he would come over as soon as he could. I felt certain, when her will was read, her last conversation with me had made her write that note; in the will everything she had was left to Harry. By the note was my father's miniature. Harry gave it to me. I had the money my father left me, about one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Harry wished to make it up to two hundred pounds. I told him I would try to live on my own, if I could not I would apply to him. "Don't be proud, dear Sue," he said. I had no pride of that sort; it would have been a pleasure to take anything he gave me had I required it.

One evening, the Wests had dined with us, and several other friends came in afterwards. Harry came to open the pianoforte for me. "Susan, dear, you are looking so well to-night, with that white bindweed in your hair. Sing your very best; I want to speak to you by-and-bye; I have wished to tell you something; you must know what?" He lingered over the last few words, looking at me with his great blue eyes.

Unthankful and ungrateful I have been for many mercies. In this I cannot reproach myself for either; all my life long have I been thankful that neither by word nor look did I answer my consin Harry then. Those few moments were the very happiest of my life. I look back to them and to those songs I sang; yet, I would not have called them back for worlds-I never picked a bit of bindweed any more-and I never, never, sang those songs again. I did sing well that night. I was singing for him; I sang his favorite songs, and thought, poor fool! he was listening to me.

The Heath was Harry's. Wilson married, and took a pretty small house just outside the village, and it was arranged I should have two rooms in it. Thither I went; Harry and his wife went to London. It was a comfort that the last words my aunt had spoken to me were kinder than any that had ever before passed between us. I tried to act up to what she had told me; not to get stern and cold. I went about among the

I turned round; he was standing by Elinor. She had pulled poor; I tried to forget myself; tried to remember being lonely a rose to pieces, and was playing with the leaves.

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The power of controlling my feelings enabled me to cross the room, to sit down by her, and say something, I knew not what. Truly words are given us to conceal our thoughts! smiled and blushed, and said I knew what a lucky girl she was. At last they went away. I watched him find her cloak and whisper something as he wrapped it round her, then drew her arm through his and take her to the carriage. Then his quick light step sounded so happy as he came back; he went up to my aunt and told her. I felt her look at me, but I was putting out the candles and closing the pianoforte; I was not required to say much. We wished good-night and I followed my aunt up-stairs; to my own room, I was alone at last!

The moon was shining brightly in. I threw myself on my knees by the window where I always said my prayers, and buried my face in agony. I know not how long I was kneeling there; I did not notice the door opening; I heard nothing till I felt some one standing by me; lifting my head I saw it was my aunt. At the moment I would rather have seen Harry himself, than the sharp cold outline of her face in the moonlight; but when she spoke, her voice trembled.

"Child, child, I was afraid of this; he has deceived us both."

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"No, never!" I said, rising; "he never deceived me; he felt as a brother, and he was as a brother; he never was more." My poor child," she answered kindly, "my poor child! Susan, you are feeling now all that your father made me feel." I placed a chair for her, and seated myself on the ground near her. "Tell me all," I said, gasping, "tell me all."

"As is soon told, child. I was engaged to your father; mark me, engaged; engaged for weeks. A "ortnight before the day fixed for our marriage, he eloped with my half-sister, your mother. Child, child, I have never spoken of it since; don't get hard and cold as I did. I have been hard and cold to you, Susan. You were so like your mother, name and all. Why were you not like him, and I could have loved you at once ? But I will, Susan, I will indeed-forgive me all the harshness I have shown you-only forgive me, child, and we may yet be a comfort to each other. You don't speak, Susan; can't you forgive me?"

and forlorn-for I felt that too-was to fit me for not being "cast out" hereafter; and so a year passed away. I heard sometimes from Harry, and at the end of that time he wrote to tell me of the birth of a little girl. It was only a few lines; Elinor and the baby both doing well.

A few days after I received another letter, begging me to go instantly to them. Elinor was not so well; her own family were abroad, and she had asked for me. I had no time to think; my trunk was soon packed, and I started.

"Mrs. Danvers is yery ill," the doctor said, meeting me on the stairs, "and the baby is a delicate little thing." He opened the door; the nurse was sitting by the fire with the usual bundle of flannels on her knee. "How is it, nurse?" he whispered.

"I think she's a little more lively just now," the woman answered. Harry's voice called her from the next room; she turned to


"Perhaps, ma'am, you'd just hold baby a minute?''

The doctor followed her and I was left alone, with Harry's child in my arms. My aunt's feelings regarding me rushed through my mind, and I was thankful mine were different-oh, so different! I felt I could love that little helpless thing with my whole heart, for Harry's sake.

He came in and thanked me for coming. He was looking careworn and anxious. "Not better yet," he said. I helped the nurse, who was very weary, all that night; I was quite happy sitting by the fire with baby, while the poor woman got a little sleep when she could be spared from the sick room; but the next morning the doctor was alarmed, and said she should be baptized. Harry came and looked at her, Do as you like, Susan; I can only think of my darling there," looking towards Elinor's room. 'Send for a clergyman; I leave it all to you."

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The clergyman came that afternoon. Baby had been lying quite still, gradually fading away, the nurse said. I gave her name, Elinor. The little thing quivered all over as the clergyman returned her to me; then there was one smile, and the angels carried her away-away-up far into the great blue heaven, as he finished the last words. I was standing with her still in my arms when Harry a few moments after came hastily in. "She wants baby," he said; "she is crying for her child." The tears came into his eyes, poor fellow, when I shook my head and told him she was gone. He bent down and kissed I rested my head on her lap for the first time in my life, and away the drops that had made her what she now was.



they can only save my Elinor," he said, "I will not grudge this little innocent; but I dare not tell her she has no baby now!"

I knew how ill she was-how little hope there was of saving her, but the thought struck me she would be content to feel it by her; and it could do it no harm now. Wrapping the little thing carefully up, I told Harry so. A wild cry reaching us at that moment, he said hurriedly, "Bring her, Susan, bring her," and I followed him into Elinor's room, and gently laid the little empty cage in her arms. She clasped her child close to her burning face, murmuring fondly, "She is fast asleep, I won't wake her, I won't indeed."

and said, ‘( Harry, you are very blind-women see things that you men never do.'"'

He put his arms on the table and hid his face on them as he had done years ago in the schoolroom at the Heath, and in a broken voice he said, "Susan, you are happier, far happier, loving and caring for no one, than if you had lost your all, like me! The whole world is a blank now!" And I had to bear it and make no sign! only as I wrung my hands tight together, the nails of one went deep into the other wrist. I did not feel it till afterwards. I could feel nothing but the sharp, sharp pain, his blind words sent through me to the very quick, till my heart seemed breaking.

And so Harry sailed in May, 1845. I heard from him once-only once. They were not to return before the end of 1847; but 1847, 1848 came, and then gradually came anxiety, sus

Harry was kneeling by her; he waited some minutes, they seemed to me hours. "Let Susan take baby away now, darling," he said at last, "and you must try and get to sleep." "Not yet, Harry-my own little girl, not yet. Harry, dar-pense, agony, certainty-and yet certainty that could not be ling, is Susan here?" She was looking at me, but the fever believed-could not be borne. was too high for her to recognise me, and she went on: "Tell Susan she must take care of baby; tell her, Harry darling, she must forgive me, forgive me for having been so very happy such a very little while, and I leave my baby to her to love. I wanted to see Susan; but perhaps she won't come to me-perhaps she cannot quite forgive me yet." My knees shook; I felt breathless. What wild words might she not shy? I felt she had read my secret, though Harry did not; for bending over and kissing her, he said, "Darling, Susan has come. She has been taking care of baby whilst you are ill; she has nothing to forgive my Elinor. Don't vex yourself, darling."

She put out her hand and clasped the sheet in the peculiar way those do who are on the brink of the dark waters, as if yet clinging to earth, and looking into his face, she said distinctly, "Tell Susan there's nothing but love where I am going; nothing-not like this-we shall all love each other there, and it won't vex me her being happy."

I could bear it no longer, and I sobbed aloud. She suddenly

became aware of my presence.

"Susan," she said, and smiled, "Baby is so good-you'll take care of her. I never, never shall do that. She will never miss me, but Harry will-Harry will for a long time."

I stooped down and kissed her-poor Harry's young wife. If I could but have died for her, I would, so gladly! Her hand in his, her face resting on his shoulder-she was the one to be envied, not I, standing alone in health and strength. I could have died to save Harry the agony of parting. Kissing her, I whispered, "I must take baby away now."

"Don't wake her-such a little, little while to be so, so happy! One day in Thy courts is better than a thousand-Oh, Harry, Harry, think of that! better than our happy days even, darling!" They were the last words I ever heard her say; the fever and delirium increased, and she died at midnight. Mother and child met again; they were not parted long.

Harry sailed a few months after with Sir John Franklin, in May, 1845. He came down previously to the Heath, to arrange his affairs and settle about letting the house. It was difficult to recognise the bright joyous Harry in the grave sad man that one evening he spent with me. Yet in this he was like himself; as he spoke of his mother, so he could speak of Elinor.


I thought of giving up one room; then I thought I might make more by keeping it and opening a small school for the daughters of rich farmers around me, to collect a fund towards the expeditions that were sent to search for the missing ships. That succeeded; I soon had as many children as I could manage; all the parents knew I was working for Mr. Harry, and they all sympathized with me; they had al! known and liked him. All I could save from my own income was for him. It was the one object of my life. Tea, coals-everything I could do without; and what was there I could not do without, when I thought of him? It was a pleasure to be hungry, to be cold, to feel I was in some little degree suffering like Harry-that anyhow it was for Harry. Then my voice-why should not that be turned to some account? I had not thought of it, till one day, when I went to Horeham to place some money in the bank for my fund, I heard a concert was to be given, but that one of the singers had been taken ill that morning. It flashed across me-could

I supply her place? I found out the manager, sang, was accepted, and took my place among the performers. I did not care who listened-I did not care what was said. It was for Harry I was singing. After that I sang in public whenever I had the opportunity, and added to my hoard to search for Harry.

Years have gone by-till now suspense seems almost beyond endurance; sometimes I think he cannot have stood out against all they have had to go through. Sometimes I can think almost calmly that he may have reached the baven where he would be-where there is no more sea.

November 25, 1859.-M'Clintock has returned-two found in a boat, one under a heap of clothing; the other had no one to cover him. Was Harry one of them? Was he one of those who dropped by the way as they went towards the Great River? or is he still one of those who are yet hoping against hope? Another winter must pass before any further search can be made for them! Another winter! Harry, Harry, surely every one will help now-they know where to look for them; bless M'Clintock for that. The Benedicite was chanted last Sunday in church. Oh how hard it was to say "Oh ye ice and snow, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever!"

'Susan, some of her last words were asking you to forgive THE MONASTERY OF ST. AUGUSTINE, CANTERBURY, her! what had my poor darling ever done to vex you? or was ENGLAND. she wandering then ?"

I was truthful; my aunt had acknowledged that, even when THE splendid remains of this once vast monastery are quite

she did not love me.

"She was not wandering, Harry," I said.

"Then what was it?"

sufficient to show the scale of grandeur on which it was built, They have lately been restored, and promise to last as long as they have hitherto stood. The site of this magnificent building

"They were her dying words, let them rest. with her. Death is at the south-east angle of the City of Canterbury, in the makes all clear-only death made her say it, Harry."

"If I had vexed you, I should not have wondered. I used to be thoughtless and say all that came into my head; but she was so gentle. Susan, I need scarcely ask you-you have forgiven her?"

"Harry, with my whole soul, as I hope for heaven!" "She never said anything but kind words of you, Susan. I remember one day her telling me you were very lonely, and she wished you could be as happy as she was; and I said, 'Dear Sue, she is happy her own way, she always was just as you see her now; and my darling put her arm softly round my neck

county of Kent, famous in history for the murder of St. Thomas à Beckett, and in poetry by Chaucer's celebrated poem of the Canterbury Tales.

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a tour of her kingdom, kept her court here. Fire and Vandal ism have, however, much reduced the ancient dimensions of this magnificent superstructure, and even the antiquary cannot trace with certainty the wide circuit of its original walls. In several places they have been knocked down to admit the view of modern buildings; in other places they have been cleared away to make room for houses.

In 1655, when Dugdale's "Monasticon" was published, the apartments were of a truly regal magnificence, and the area covered sixteen acres of land. But the most rapid decline of this splendid relic of the past has taken place during the last hundred years: and so far had this desecration been carried at the commencement of this century, that part of the building was converted into a brewery and a dependent public-house. The great room over the archway of the principal gate was a cockpit, another ancient room was a taproom, and the sound of skittle-playing, quoits and jolly songs were hear where once rose the joyous swell of Jubilate and the mournful cadence of the Miserere. But a change was destined to come over the shadow of this disgraceful dream, and eighty years ago Mr. Hope, father of Anastasius Hope, restored the great gateway and built within the walls a college for the education of Church of England missionaries.

The profanities of brewery, public-house, fives-courts and skittles were swept away, and the destroyed was restored, and an image of past magnificence rose on the site of the old original. When time shall have mellowed and softened these new works, and the harmony between the old antique and the modern antique restored, the fout ensemble will be very solemn and impressive. The great gate looks now as well as it did in the days of its pristine splendor, and the quadrangle, into which you enter on passing through the gate, is exceedingly fine, as indeed are chapel, hall and library. The cloisters are eminently picturesque and gloomy, and carry the spectator into the feudal times as if by a stroke of magic. The corridors are lined and and roofed throughout with solid oak, narrow and very long, which has a most powerful and romantic effect. In the chapel, the hall-indeed, in every part, the greatest attention has been paid to detail, and the sculptured ornaments will bear a comparison with the greatest triumphs of the middle ages. Rarely has one city bad, in such close proximity, two such marvels of ancient architecture as Canterbury boasts in her cathedral and the monastery we have been briefly describing.


As a general rule in a bride's bouquet, as well as in the general arrangement of wedding-flowers, white is certainly the color to predominate.

will see at once that an ordinary Bouquet deprived of its gayer
flowers would be at once green and white, and this we have to
guard against. At the same time, to have green is essential-
no bouquet can do without it; and, I think, the way of best
avoiding this serious objection is to have flowers to which green
belongs so naturally that they can scarcely be deprived of it.
White clematis, snowdrop, banksian roses, flowering myrtle,
strike me at once to mention as amongst this number, and even
here I prefer naming the common flowers-unsurpassable, in-
which cannot
deed, in loveliness, but such as all must know. All flowers
almost, however, have some green of their own,
be unconnected mentally from the flowers when they are seen

The white rose, for instance, with the spray peeping up be-
side it; the white camelia, with its large shiny leaf; the lily of
the valley, with its snowy bells lying in their cool sheath, if
we want green-and we must have green-it must be brought
in thus.

Perhaps this is one reason why it is often well to make up such bouquets piece by piece on the smallest and lightest sticks, adding to each flower its peculiar green, and then grouping them together with a filling-up of clematis or of white heath, or of something similar. White jasmine is not amongst the most desirable, as the flowers drop so readily. A ground of lilies of




It is, however, far more difficult to arrange white flowers well than to do those which give the help of color, and some of the the valley would, I think, look extremely lovely. difficulties are even difficult to describe; though as I have my-violets would do tolerably, though a little too broken. White self made up a great many of these white designs, I will try my best to describe the principal things that are essential in them. Every one knows that there are shades of white, we may call them three-the yellow, blue and pink tinge; and there is, also, the perfectly snow-white, which is of all the loveliest.

The grand thing is to get plenty of this snow-white, and then to add whichever of the other colors may be preferred. The pink tinge, if not more than that of a blush-rose, is much the most effective; but it must not be allowed to be deeper than the rosy tint of a pale pink shell.

I do not think any other color is really good for bridal flowers. Other colors require a more foncé shade; and even the beauThe tiful blue quite alone with white would look rather poor. only way, I think, at least, in which it comes in well, is as a fringe of blue encroaching here and there on the perfect white, and running all round it in little sprays of blue. I once saw a very pretty white bouquet thus edged round with blue. I am not certain now what the flowers were, but they had exactly the effect of pale nemophilas or forget-me-not; and I think that the latter would be, at least, ben trovato. These blue flowers peeped out like little stars amidst a shower of the lightest ferns. The mention of the ferns brings to mind one of the greatest Unless this is done the green itobjects in introducing color. self is hard to keep sufficiently in the background. My readers

lilac does very well; and double Chinese primroses are only so far objectionable that they are a little stiff and perhaps somewhat solid. I have seen white azaleas, also, answer very beautifully. Perhaps camelias, azaleas, lilies and orange blossom are of all the very best things to have; but it does not do to use azaleas for the filling up, or ground, unless they are smaller than the principal flowers used.

I will now proceed to give three or four separate designs, which may be done very shortly.

Centre camelia, azaleas 1st. A perfectly white design. gathered round it, but yet put in lightly, and without trying to force a quite level surface, which is nearly impossible, and quite undesirable. Five more camelias at intervals, mixel again with a few of the largest azaleas standing lightly. A If the former, a few leaves few orange flowers may be interspersed, and then lilies of the valley, or white heath or clematis. of their own may be used, but they should be of the youngest and palest kind, belonging to roots which have not flowered, If clematis or heath is used, the orange and should only just show their heads between the lilies and their frame or case. flowers and some lilies may be mingled with it; but in these snow-white groups a very little green tells quite sufficiently, and no separate foliage need be used at all. The small pale green fronds of the maiden hairs could hardly, however, fail to


add some grace and lightness, whatever may be the centre. In | moment are. I gained exactly fifty francs a month in a school arranging all these flowers it is very essential not to cut off the leaves a little below the flower as far as they are good; they tend to keep the arrangement lighter, and also to obviate the appearance of unnaturalness in removing green.

at Chaillot, where I taught Greek and Latin to a herd of illreared children six days in the week, and assure you that I had an unruly orchestra to conduct. No sooner was my daily task accomplished, than I set to work on my own account to study. 2nd. White edged with blue. In this arrangement a little I was then, as you are now, twenty years of age, and that sufmore green is to be admitted in the central part; it also will ficed for my joys, my fortune, and my diurnal fêtes. I had bear somewhat heavier flowers, such as the double primrose; and friends also, and good ones, who were as poor as myself. I banksian roses look very well in this case. They ought, how-knew that text of the Book, 'It is not good for man to be


to be mingled with larger flowers roses or camelias. The half-opened gardenias and the delightful thick-petalled stephanotis are amongst the most charming flowers that can be employed, either in this or any other case.

The last line should be of small broken sprays mingling with blue. Lobelia, forget-me-not, small campanula and prettiest almost of all, blue harebells, may make this border and break into a waving fringe of fern. Where fern is used the beautiful little harebells seem to be quite at home, shaded by it and peep

ing out amongst it.

alone,' and I, therefore, lived among my fellow-creatures, sought their society, and say that I have existed by doing so with great enjoyment. You see me now old, or at least not far from it, and am happy to say that I do not look back with regret to a single day of my past life. It is true that I was not resigned to remain the second fiddle of the master of my pension, and got up to be a writer, as you would do well in imitating, by getting out of the Bal Victoire, and planting yourself in the orchestra of the Italian Opera to accompany the voice of Grisi, which would soon blow up these gourginades of yours. I am far from approving your dreams, your solitude and your lonely walks. At your age you are not made to go about with

For a blush bouquet the smaller flowers should be quite white, and only a few half open roses tinted; or the flowers should be white with a delicate mixture of the palest pink-your hands in your pockets and a snake in your breast, when tinged rosebuds. The multiflora roses are amongst the very best to use in this way, their long, tapering buds having such a waxen look.

Many camellias and azaleas have the faint stripe or shade of rose I speak of. In these cases, of course, care must be taken to have a sufficiency of real snowy white, and so to arrange it as to make it harmonious.

you should, bow in hand, continually force the rebellious violin to reply to the desires of your heart. Such is my opinion upon the great difficulty of your existence, which, if you submit to, like a child, is serious, but nothing if you have the zeal and ardor of an artist."

The circular sent to Proudhon was, judging from the answer of the rough Franche-Compté Socialist “philosophe," consider

In any case where flowering myrtle is used it should be con-ably modified, and had the effect of eliciting a letter as long as tinued, or at least repeated several times. It is, however, rather too dark a green for a quite white bouquet, though, sometimes, the fresh shoots do well to mount other flowers



A CONSIDERABLE sale of autographs has lately attracted to the Rue des Bons Enfans a number of those who feel an interest in deciphering the characters of celebrated persons from their handwriting. The catalogue was drawn up by M. Laverdet, who follows a profession, which is elsewhere unknown, of export des autographes.

These autographs were collected by an individual of the oddest dress and manners, who, from 1843 to 1859, made use of the most varied devices to accumulate the contents of the catalogue. One of the methods he adopted was to send to any famous person, a specimen of whose handwriting he wanted to possess, the following, which was a circular that nearly every celebrated Frenchman of the present day has received by post

at some period of his life:

"I am twenty years old, a violinist at a certain ball-room of inferior class. I have lost the woman I adored. I have sought reckless'y to distract my grief for her in the lowest dissipations, but am no longer able to resist the misery that overwhelms me, when she persists in keeping her place in my recollection. I do not believe in God, and am about killing myself; but, before I go to throw myself into the arms of Nothing, I address myself to you, monsieur, the object of my constant admiration, to demand, in the shape of advice, your aid and succor, and if you do not reply, I know well what I will do with myself."

Jules Janin, Felicien David, Pierre Dupont, Reber, Sivori, Henri Reber, P. J. Proudhon, Delphine, Girardin, Reybud, aud Georges Sind, ministered to the supposed sufferer the consolation he desired, and gave him the advice he asked.

Georges Sand wrote with greater brevity than the others: "Life is a great school for entering a great battle-field, in which we struggle for a great prize, the right to win which only belongs to man. All I can therefore say is, to be a man, and rise above the cowardly feelings that harass you."

Jules Janin said in substance the same thing, but stretched it out into an epistle of three or four closely-written foolscap pages, in which he gives, as an example of how a man in difficult circumstances should act, a sketch of his own life:

Jules Janiu's. M. Proudhon was also delightfully taken in by his correspondent, as much as when he supposed he could cross arms with impunity with Madame d'Hericourt. He says:

"Your whole letter, even to your handwriting, testifies to me of a strong character, and a man completely master of himself. It is firm, angular, close, and has nothing of that cowardly and soft Anglicism that marks our generation. Above all, the signature is flourished round by an iron hand, which shows nothing whatever of the Anglicised Romeo of the nineteenth century. On looking at it I said to myself, 'Is it possible that the writer of such a griffe could have ever disgraced himself by whining about love?' "'


A QUAINT Writer takes the following view of the trades, arts, with

callings and avocations of the animal kingdom:

Bees are geometricians. The cells are so constructed, as,

the least quantity of materials, to have the largest sized spaces

and the least possible loss of interstice.

The mole is a meteorologist.

The bird called a nine-killer is an arithmetician; and also the crow, the wild turkey and some other birds.

The torpedo, the ray and the electric eel are electricians. The nautilus is a navigator. He rises and lowers his sail, casts and weighs anchor, and performs other nautical acts.

Whole tribes of birds are musicians.

The beaver is an architect, builder and woodcutter. He cuts down trees, and erects houses and dams.

The marmot is a civil engineer. He does not only build
houses, but constructs aqueducts and drains to keep them dry.
The white ants maintain a regular army of soldiers.
Wasps are paper manufacturers.
Caterpillars are silk mercers.

ANIMAL FOOD.-It is a well established fact, that amongst those classes who get the least animal food mortality is greatest, and disease is most rife. One of the most common forms of disease generated by the exclusively vegetable diet is scrofula, and when traceable to this cause, the most speedy remedy is the addition of animal food to the diet. There are also many other forms of disease produced by the want of animal food, which require for their cure only an abundant supply of the

"I who write to you was, in my day, as unhappy as you this needed material.

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