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No. 19. M'iy, 1865.— Published Monthly-Price One Penny. 

Reffistf-red for Transmission Abroad. 





" A 'Woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. — Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her." — Prov. xxxi. 




[May 1, 1865. 





KnxT mornini; at treakfast time, John Isleworth 
talked again o? Eliza, and blamed liimselt bitterly 
fur having consented to her ivild scheme; sometimes 
declaring he would go and horsewhip her home, then 
allowing that harsh means never would do with Liz.: 
slie would only go and do something still more rash 
if she were thwarted, — be running away with that 
icUow of drawing master, or something. 

" Oh no, no, dear father," said Rose, "Eliza is much 
too good, with all her faults, ever to disgrace herself 
in that way; her very pride will keep her steady, and 
she is not the girl 1 hope and believe her to be if she 
were so easily deceived : I almost think it will be best 
to leave her to herself, till her better judgment 


Well, of course," said Mrs. Islewood, who had not 
before spoken, "I'm sure I can't see what there is 
for you and father to keep such a clatter"^out, — do 
leave the gal alone, can't you? she'll do well enough, 
you'll see that." 

The artist, Mr. Damergue, who had undertaken 
to give Miss Islewood (as she chose to be called) 
lessons in drawing, had lately come to Winchester 
and engaged lodgings at Mr. Bell's, print and colour 
shop, in High Street. 

Nobody knew anything of his antecedents — he was 
a stranger in the Town ; but his card in the window 
announ'ced hiin as Mr. Alonzo Damergue, Professor 
of Drawing; that he received pupils at his_ Studio 
from ten till two, and attended private families from 
three till si.\. He was a flashy-looking man, with 
long brown whiskers and a large moustache, and wore 
sundry rings, chains and charms. His drawings 
seemed to partake of the same flashy character; 
highly coloured and effective enough were those dis- 
played in his window, but with very little finish, 
suggestive of sign painting or scenes at a theatre. 

However, they possessed a kind of merit of their 
own, and in Eliza's opinion were perfeclion ; for she had 
no eye but for glaring colour, 'and not the slightest 
taste for the Art; indeed, her grand motive for taking 
lessons was merely as a means to an end. "Ladies 
painted pictures," she said, "and she meant to be a 
lady, by hook or by crook." And in her inmost-heart, 
another idea had began to dawn, — of which more anon. 
A few days after the outbreak with her father, 
Mr. Damergue called at Mr. Cramp's, to enquire what 
Miss Islewood woiUJ like to do about continuing her 
lessons ; could he see her for a few minutes. Mrs. 
Cramp hesitated, holding the door in her hand; but 
Eliza coming out of the parlour, begged him to walk 
in, as she had made up her miud, and was wishing to 
speak to him. 

She bean by apologising for her father's conduct, 
savinc that he was a very "centric" man, and had no 
call fx> work, as he had had plenty of money left him 
by his own brother, who was a gentleman, living out 
in foreign parti (she would not trust herself to say 
where, her geographical knowledge being rather defec- 
tive), and that indeed she had plenty of money of her 
own, she might say, and didn't at all mean to give up 
her drawing on account of poor dear father's whim- 
sies; and so, if Mr. Damergue pleased, she would 
attend at his studio any hour he might be disengaged. 
Mr. Damergue was all smiles and acquiescence ; and 
five in the evening twice a week was arranged as the 
hour for her attand.ance: so Sir Damergue, with a 
double allowance of polite speeches, and a gentle 
pressure of the hand, took his leave. But his face 
wore an odd expression. 

Eliza sat down for some time in deep thought, with 
her head resting on her hand ; at last she started up, and 
crossin'' over to the glass, which hung above the 
chimney-piece, smoothed back the braids of her glossy 
hair, and contemplatmg herself with a self-satisfied 
smile, after a i&vf moments murmured, "Yes, I don't 
see why not; there isn't a prettier young woman in all 
Winchester, say what they may — and ' where there's a 
will there's a way.' " 

Poor, silly Eliza — her folly was only equalled by her 

And poor, weak Eliza continued to take her draw- 
ing lessons, now surreptitiously, at Mr. Danicrgue]s 
liouse— not in his studio, fearing discovery, but in his 
I)rivate sitting-room, — where sh; would frequently 
remain in conversation with him long after it was too 

dark to see to make a stroke,— altogether a very 
questionable proceeding on. her part. She made, 
however, not the slightest advance in the art, — she had 
neither talent, industry', nor patience; and though she 
insisted on being allowed, as she said, to paint her 
pictures, they were the most horrid daubs ever beheld; 
her master, in fact, cared very little about instructing 
so stupid a pupil, who seemed to perfer his society to 
any efforts to succeed in her undertakings. And as 
he' soon found out her object, and how acceptable 
flattery was to her, he fooled her in that respect to 
the top of her bent. He talked to her of London, 
and its amusements and gaities, and how admired she 
would be, could she but be seen, — how he should like to 
introduce her into societi/, — how very laily-Ulce was her 
manner and appearance ; in fact, that she would be 
certain to create quite a sensation. All this Eliza 
actually listened to and believed, and felt hcrseU 
quite elated, quite a superior person, and only longed 
more madly than ever to be freed from the old life, 
her real self, her whole antecedents, and to step 
forth like the butterfly from its chrysalis — a ladi/. 

Rose, in the meanwhile, continued, perseveringly, 
to study her old book, though it was but little time she 
could spare from her needle artd other household 
occupations; which devolved more upon her than 
ever, as her mother became more indifferent, and 
spent usually part of every morning with Eliza. But 
the more Rose read the more she felt the beauty 
and piety of its pages, which c-cercised a powerful 
influence on her mind, giving her the habit of deep 
and grave reflection. Her anxiety on her sister's 
account increased daily ; the more so, as she was not 
only repulsed by Rose in every attempt to open her 
eyes to the absurdity, if not danger, she was incur- 
ing, and was generally told when she called to see 
her, either that she was busy, or going out, or "didn't 
care to hear any of her preachments." 

After Rose's meeting in the rain with Mr. Adams, 
he had called ti-equently of an evening to have a 
quiet chat with John Islewood. One evening Rose 
shewed him the curious old book, and explained how 
it had come into her possession, and he seemed quite 
amused at the quaint inscription on the title page, 
saying, that whoever should persevere in getting 
Ijhrough so much diflicult manuscript, must be a 
model of patience and perseverance. 

"Well, and that's our Rose, here," laughed John; 
'• for she's made out to read it off quite easy, Mr. 
Adams, — only you hearken to her." 


POOR Eliza's infatuation increases — rose makes 

AN effort to save HER — FLATTEET WILL DO ITS 

Weeks and months rolled away. It was late in the 
autumn, and Eliza still remained with Mrs. Cramp. 
Her extensive crinolines and g,iudy attire were 
ludicrous to behold! Even Mrs. Islewood began to 
wonder how Eliza managed to hold on so long ; but 
she said nothing to John, who had grown to dislike 
talking of Eliza, and would frequently go to drown 
thought of her of an evening at the " Five Bells." 
But at length such uncomfortable remarks about her 
sister reached Rose's ears, that she determined, come 
what might, to make one more ellbrt to awaken her 
to a sense of duty and propriety; and with this 
intention, she followed Eliza home one evening firom 
ilr. Damergue's, into her lodgings. 

lu kind and loving language she spoke, — told her of 
the evil reports which were getting abroad, connected 
with her, and implored her to return to her family 
and her home, and thus prove herself unworthy of 
the slander which otherwise would inevitably be 
coupled with her name. 

" I don't care one morsel," cried Ehzo, stamping 
her foot — her flaming with passion. "You only 
want to keep me down like yourself, and you're talk- 
ing nothing but a parcel of nonsen-se! I know what 
I'm about, fiist enough, and I shan't be under your 
preachments, nor anybody else's long. Ain't afl 
Winchester a talking about father's legacy ? and why 
shouldn't I make the best of that piece of luck, such 
as it was! They say, 'twas some thousands father had ; 
and so let 'em— more fools they, ha! ha! ha!— they'll 
find out their mistake some day, perhaps." 

"Oh, Lizzie, dearest!" said Rose, sorrowfully, 
" don't! —pray don't talk so ; what can you be thinking 
of! Oh, do come back to us, and give up .all this wild 
folly; you will get into trouble, indeed you will, 
before you know where you are. Why should one 
in our station of life desure to learn accomplishnients 
we have no right to, or ape those whom the Almighty 
has been pleased to place above us in life? It will 
not bring peace, it will not give happiness. Lizzie. 

' Lizzie, pause and think, I beseech you, before it ig 
j too late ! " 

" What a pack of nonsense you do talk ! " cried 

I Eliza, with violence ; " there, do get along, before 

Mr. Damergue comc^ in, and don't disgrace me like 

father did; I never was so ashamed in my life; I felt 

just fit to drop, — 'twas too bad of him." 

"Eliza, you ought to feel ten times the shame and 
sorrow now, to speak in such terms of a father — a 
father who is ready to receive his poor prodigal back 
to his arms, forgiving all the past. Oh, will you not 
fly to him, my sister, before it be too late ? Too 
late ! think of those cruel words, and be advised in 

time, for " 

"There, do be quiet, Rose; father's well enough 
at home without me, and so you needn't keep flinging 
that in my teeth." 

" But, dear Lizzie, how wrong it is to allow Mr. 
Damergue to come here, or go to him ; I thought 
father had forbidden it ; O, you must not do these 
things, you must not, indeed ! " 

"What things, pray. Miss? Not have a friend to 
look in upon me when I please ? I dare say ! " 

"No, Eliza, not a person — a gentleman in sach a 
very diff'erent station in life to yourself." 

"He's glad enough of a help though from me, 
however much of a gentleman he may be, and that 's 
flat," blurted out Eliza, who could have bitten her 
tongue for saying so the next moment. 

" Help from i/ou, Lizzie ! what can you mean?" 
"Mean what I say, and that's enough, and so now 
you may go ! " 

Rose could get her to say no more, but she guessed 
pretty nearly the truth, which was that Mr. Damergue 
had cajoled her sister into lending money to him, 'and 
consequently she had, from that moment, felt more 
upon an equality with him. This feeling was very 
agreeable to her. Mr. Damergue paid her privately 
all kinds of pretty attentions, leading her, in her 
ignorance and vanity and folly, to believe he was 
deeply smitten by her charms; and she believed that 
her foot was on the first step of the ladder to her 
future elevation. 

From day to day Eliza's love of dress and ad- 
miration grew more ridiculous. Rose would not have 
been seen walking down High Street with her, in her 
gay silk dress and hat and feather, on any account. 
And to see her mincing her steps, and bridling and 
smiling as if she fancied herself the ])icture of beauty 
and fashion, was calculated to make her the laughing 
stock of the town. 

Oh ! if young women in the humbler walk of life 
could but be aware of the ridicule and contempt they 
bring upon themselves, by trying to imitate those 
above them, whose appearance and manner they en- 
deavour (though all in vain) to assume, they would 
rather wear the plainest attire, and never, never try to 
swerve from the position in which their lot has been 
cast. I say try "all in vain" to imitate, advisedly, because 
the very best imitations bear such an unmistakable 
stamp of origin, and lack of that natural ease which 
ever accompanies superiority of birth, that it must be 
only those very little acquainted with the world, who 
could be deceived. There is a something which can 
neither be bought nor taught;— and of all this Rose 
was fully aware, though she might scarcely have been 
able to explain it farther than by saying, as she one 
day did to Eliza,— 

" No, Lizzie, you never could be a lady were you 
to try to be ever so grand, — there is a sound in the 
voice of ladies and gentlemen, and a tcaif in their ways 
that such as we can never learn nor copy — and 
clothes will never do it let one be ever so smart." 

Rose was very unhappy about Eliza, dreading lest 
she should be cajoled into some step which might 
cast her into sorrow and disgrace ; and although she 
knew that she would never deliberately, and with, 
her eyes open, bring misery upon herself and them, 
she felt the most poignant anxiety lest Mr. Damergue 
should be acting a dishonourable part, for her own 
good sense and sound judgment told her that such 
unequal matches were rare, and that even should 
Eliza's ambition be thus satisfied, she could only 
expect a life of disappointment and mortification, as 
altliough Mr. Damergue was acting as an artist and 
teacher of drawing, his language, manners, and 
education, were far, far removed from their own. 

She attempted several times to warn her father of 
Eliza's dangerous position, but he always cut her 
short by askin; how Rose dared to think a daughter 
of his could degrade herself. " No, no," he would 
say, "let her brew as she bakes, she's made her own 
bed, and she may lie on it — she'll come to her senses 
some day I'll be bound, and be glad enough to come 
home then, but I'll be hang'd if a rag ol all her 
trumpery shall ever come issidfe these door?." 

May 1st, 1SC5 



Poor silly Eliza was herself living in fairy-land ; the 
only thing that worried her was Kose's desire to open 
her eyes and bring her back to reason and common 
sense, and tliat Mr, Damerj;ue had not as yet declared 
himself, although his conduct led her to the belief 
that he was about to do so every day. Matters had 
gone on so long in this state, and she had lent him 
trom time to Lime so much of her little fortune, that 
she was kept in a continual state between hope and 
fear ; for, do what she would to overcome the feeling, 
a sort of vague doubt of his meaning would at times 
creep into her bostm with a sickening sensation, but 
a few honied words and looks would soon again lay 
her better judgment to sleep, and again would the 
flatterer becnme the pole-star of her existence. Her 
mother and Mrs. Cramp, too, began to be impatient, 
the former asking her " what in the world she was 
about, and why she didn't get married, and a done 
with it?" 



We were speaking in our l;ist paper of the hardships 
servants have sometimes to put up with from the 
faults of their employers. Such cases are, however, 
rare. Good servants commonly find good places, and 
with the exercise of forbearance and good temper, 
can get on comfortably. The surest way to prevent 
getting a bad character is not to deserve one; and 
the greatest hardships which servants have to bear 
are those they bring upon themselves. 

Still, troubles will occaiionally arise without fault 
on their part, and the question is, " How are they to 
be met?" 

Perhaps you say, " Well, if missus is not fair to 
me, I should just give her as good again ; speak out 
my mind plainly ; show a proper spirit ; and let her 
see I 'm not going to be put upon." 

But is this a right spirit? Do but look into your 
Bibles, and see how very dilTcrcnt was the mind of 
Christ: "As a lamb dumb before his shearers, so 
he opened not his month." He returned good for 
evil; blessing even lor cursing: and it is written, 
" If any man have not the spirit of Christ he is none 
of his." 

It is hard to anyone to be unjustly accused of a 
fault, particularly so to a servant, whose character is 
everything to her; yet do not despair, though you 
may not be able at once to prove yourself in the 
right, ^y " patient continuance in well doing," your 
character will, in the end, be cleared; in all like- 
lihood in this world, but certainly in the next. 

It is not, remember, the stiff and sturdy oak that 
best resists the fury of the winter's storm. It is the 
gentle aspen, which, while it seeks to reach the skies, 
trembles in every leaf, and hends before the blast. 

Vexations frequently arise to those in service from 
the faults of i\ic\r fellow-servant.i. Where those who 
were before strangers arc brought into close contact, 
and where their several duties clash and cross each 
other, little jealousies and trials of temper, which are 
often hard to bear, are almost sure to spring up. 

Your fellow-servants may, perhaps, make unkind 
remarks about you, or your relations : they may 
criticise your dress, or your personal appearance ; 
they may take offence without any reason; and may 
eren, in order to screen themselves from blame, 
misrepresent your conduct, and charge you with the 
very faults that they have themselves committed. 
And all this may come upon you when you are 
sincerely trying to act rightly. 

For instance, there is Sarah Cox, just gone to her 
first place at the Grange, where her business is to 
help both cook and housemaid. She has been very 
carefully trained at home, and is really anxious to do 
her duty ; but, as yet, her principles have never been 

The trial begins the very first night of her 
arrival. She opens her Bible to read her accustomed 
chapter before going to bed ; but, from the constant 
chattering of her fellow-servants, she is unable to 
attend to what she reads, and she shuts the book in 
despair. While she is on her knees, she hears the 
whisper, " So, Sarah is one of the godly ones !" — and 
has hardly risen before the giggling begins again. 
The thought comes home to her, that now the battle 
of her life is beginning ; but she is a brave girl, and 
inwardly determmes (perhaps she is too ready to think 
so) that she will not give way. 

The next morning finds her with a clean print 
gown, a tidy apron and cap, and a cheerful face, 
ready to set about her work. All is new to her, and 
she makes some blunders. But, notwithstanding 

that, Ellen, the cook, is very hard to plca?e; and 
Fanny, the housem^iid, having had a quarrel with 
nurse, is excessively cross with everybody else. Yet 
Sarah is so good-humoured, and desirous to do her 
best, that the day passes away more pleasantly than 
she had expected. 

In a little while she becomes accustomed to her 
work ; and though she has sometimes no easy task to 
please all parties, is frequently kept on the run all 
day, and has little or no time for herself ; yet, having 
made up her mind to expect such hardship.-, she is 
not disappointed. 

But she soon finds that she has more than these 
outward vexations to bear — there come temptations 
to sin, and if her religion is not real heart-work, she 
will be sure to fail. 

Because she does not join with Fanny in her idle 
gossip, and improper discussing of the aOairs of the 
family with whatever acquaintance they may happen 
to meet, she gets called sulky and ill-natured. Cook 
she makes her enemy, by daring to say to her one 
day, that she should think It nothing less than 
dishonest to squander the property of her master. 

" I '11 teach her to mind her own business, and not 
come preachinir to me," said Ellen, in a passion, one 
day, when having asked Sarah to bring up the veal 
pie, and bread and cheese, for her cousin, she 
replied, that she would go and. ask her mistress 

" Ah ! she would be ready enough to do one an 
ill-natured turn, I'll be bound," answered Fanny. 
"It was only yesterday, when William came over, 
you know, and I wanted to see him off, that I asked 
her to answer the drawing-room bell for mc, and say 
that I was busy cleaning ; when she flatly told me, 
that though she would answer the bell, she should 
say where I was, if she was asked. She thinks herself 
a precious deal too good for any of us, it 's pretty 

Poor Sarah ! it is, indeed, hard for her to steer a 
clear course. It seems almost as if the more she tries 
to do right the more she meets with worry and 
vexation. It is difficult sometimes for her to see 
what is her duty, yet more difficult to perform it. 
She has no one to counsel her. If she is cast down 
and wearied with the strife, there is no one to cheer 
her, or to sympathize; with her. Both Ellen and 
Fanny seem to take pleasure in thwarting her, and 
putting all the work they can, as well as the blame, 
upon her shoulders. Each day she has to go through 
the same round of ceaseless, cheerless toil. One 
thing would help her. To cast her burden on the 
Lord; in faith and earnestness to seek the help of 
His Holy Spirit. But at night she is tired and sleepy ; 
in the morning she has barely time to dress herself; 
and it i.s hard for one so young and untried to with- 
stand, day after day, the unkind sneer, the mocking 
laugh. Thus, by degrees, she learns to neglect the 
very thing that, more than all else, she needs to be to 
her a strength and a support. She neglects prayer, 
and begins to live without God. If she was unhappy 
before, she Is miserable now, wandering further and 
further away from the only source of real happiness 
— God. If she has hitherto found the path of duty 
irksome and difficult, she now finds, by bitter 
experience, that "the way of transgressors is," 
emphatically, beyond all comparison " hard." 

Is this the case of anyone now reading this paper? 
Then we would earnestly and afiectionately entreat 
you to pause and consider your ways. You cannot 
possibly find anything but misery in departing from 
God, The world may promise you pleasures and 
enjoyments, but they are but husks; they will not 
satisfy. Satan may promise you happiness in the 
ways of sin ; but those promises you will find, sooner 
or later, are but a snare and a delusion; — "The 
wa^es of sin is death." — " There is no peace to the 
wicked." Sorrow and remorse are their portion 
here ; unspeakable anguish and torment throughout 
the ages of eternity. 

But, at "God's right hand there are pleasures for 
evermore. In his presence there is fulness of joy." 
In heaven there are glorious mansions, " and crowns 
of righteousness ;" there is an " inheritance Incor- 
ruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away." 

God, who " willeth not the death of the sinner," is 
even now holding out His arms to receive you ; to 
" heal your backsiidings, and to love you freely." 

Return, then, to Him in faith ,ind penitence. 
Seek by earnest prayer His promised help, and then 
you will find that all the trials and difficulties of your 
daily life may be aids to you in your upward path, 
and not hindrances ; because they will not only 
teach you your own helplessness, but they will lead 
you to the strong for strength, and to the mighty for 
deliverance. C. H, 


This is often printed in conspicuous letters in the 
kitchens of noblemen and persons of large fortune. It 
is displayed in the kitchen of the Lord Mayor of Lon- 
don, and, we believe, also in that of the Queen. It 
expresses a sentiment, however, which is, more often 
than not, entirely neglected in the dwellings of the 
poor; and, we fear, neither master, mistress, nor 
servants regard It with that seriousness with which 
they ought. They do not lay it to heart, and look at 
it in all its bearings and relations. They consider it 
as a mere rule for saving and good management, a 
question of how much further it will make their money 
go; without considering there arc other mattci'S besides 
mere worldly economy connected with it. It ij;, indeed, 
a very homely and very useful maxim ; but what is 
more, it is not a mere worldly maxim — it is a religious 
duty. Jesus himself has taught it, and given us an 
example of it in His own practice. St. John tells us 
(chap, vi.) that he fed " five thousand people with five 
barley loaves and two small fishes." He could, if He 
pleased, have produced bread enough for five millions 
of people as easily as for five thousand, — yet He 
expressly said, when the people were filled, " Gather 
itp the fragments, that nvthing he lust." Herein 
" Waste not'' is put upon a still higher ground than 
that which comes from ''Want not." Jesus Himself 
has taught us not to waste. — wastefulness is sinfulness. 
It is wicked to waste those good things which God 
hath in mercy given us. He hath given us of all 
things plentifully to enjoy, but not waste. It is 
wicked to waste, not only food or money, but time, 
talents, power, character — in short, every good gift and 
opportunity which the Almiglity places at our disposal, 
and by which we may promote the temporal or spiritual 
welfare of ourselves or our fellow-creatures. Every 
good gift, or opportunity, ought to be employed to its 
best purpose, and ^vith the utmost economy. Wc shall 
have to account, on the day of judgment, for every 
thing we waste. It is entrusted to us for good, and 
we must not throw any portion of it away, or abuse 
it. Jesus Himself commanded the fragments to be 
gathered up, that nothing might be lost. No oro, 
whether rich or poor, has a right to waste the gifts of 
God. The rich man, who wastes, robs the poor; the 
poor man, who wastes, robs his follows ; the servant, 
who wastes, robs her mistress ; the mistress, who 
wastes, tempts her seiTants — and robs their souls. 
All who waste, despise the goodness of G«d, and 
spurn His gifts— they commit a breach of the trust 
He has reposed in them, and they try to intercept 
and obstruct His bounty. If, then, reader, you arc 
a poor woman, let not this pass, saying you cannot 
waste, — but take heed and nse these good gifts and 
talents which God has been pleased to give you. 
You are a mother, — use the gift of motherhood, and do 
not waste it. Yon are a daughter, — use filial affection, 
in shewing filial duty ; " Honour thy father and thy 
mother, that thy days may be long in the land which 
the Lord thy God giveth thee." You are a sister, — oh I 
use the gifts which God has given you, in striving to 
bring back that way^vard brother of thine to the ways 
of peace, in striving to make thy motherless home 
happier for thy father, that he may learn to shun that 
den of destruction — the gin palace. Woman, whoever 
thou art, use thy gifts, make the best of them, waste 
them not,— remember, 

" Wilfol waste makes woeful want." 

_^_^ A. H. C. 

A CoxsiDEEATE Bride. — A marriage was taking 
place recently in Paris. The bridegroom, an honest 
and industrious locksmith, was uneducated, and when 
called on to sign the register marked a cross. The bride, 
on the contrary, although belonging to a poor family, 
had received an excellent education. Nevertheless, 
when the pen wa.s passed to her, she also signed a cross. 
The bridesmaid, a former schoolfellow of the bride, 
having expressed her astonishment, the young ^vife 
replied : — "Would you have me humiliate my husband? 
To-moiTow I will commence myself teaching him to 
read and write." 

A Mother's Wages.— It was an uncouth bird's 
nest of rushes in which Jochebed moored her birdling 
" among the flags by the river's brink." Little did she 
know what precious freight she was entrusting to that 
basket- cradle. And little did Pharaoh's daughter know, 
when she took the little foundling out of the floating 
basket, what manner of child he yet would be. As .she 
gives back the handsome boy into the verj' bosom that 
first gave him life, she says to Jochebed, "Take this 
child away, and nurse it forme. sxiA I n-'ill give thee 
thy 7vages. '* I will give thee thy wages," says the 
^gypfiS'i^ princess to the Hebrew nurse. She got her 
wages in better coin than silver or gold. She got them 
in the joys a mother feels when she yields up a part 
of herself to sustain her darling child; she got them in 
the love of the babe she nursed; she got them in the 
glorious service which her child wTought for Israel in 
after years. She was paid in the heavenly coin with 
which God pays good mothers. For all her anxieties 
and all her efforts to preserve the life of her " goodly 
child " was she abundantly rewarded. 



[May 1, 18C5. 


MAY, 18G5. 


THAT HAS YET BfiEN DONE." — -Earl Shaftesbury, 


Wh ich are the more plentiful in this merry month 
of May, Children or Flowers ? We find them 
everywhere. Children are on tlie doorstep, in 
the streets, in the market-places, roaming- 
among- the woods and lanes, and meeting; us at 
every turn. 

So are the flowers. What wealth of heauty 
is beneath and upon our hedg-erows ! What 
sweetness arises from the primroses and 
violets ! What countless numbers of wild 
anemonies are luxuriating in the woods ! 
Even in our crowded cities and to\vns, we 
can enjoy the flowers, though we get 
them from the market. The flowers are 
the glory of the spring- time, 

But after all, it is the children who most love 
flowers. Look at the little girl's e3'e full of 
laughter ; look at the g-Iadness all over her face, 
making her dance with very glee as she clutches 
her lapful of beautiful flowers ! It matters 
little wliether she be a city child, or whether her 
home is among them, — she loves them better tlian 
she can ever say. How she will clap her little 
hands and skip about all May-day ! How many 
changes of place will the flowers undergo, irom 
glass to jug, from table to window, and mantel- 
piece. How lovingly she will bind them into 
garlands, and twine them among her sunny hair ! 

How children love, when the aay's heat is over, 
to run about the white meadows, and gather the 
daisies, to fling; at each other in play. It cannot 
be said that because the flowers are plentiful, 
they think less of them — they delight in their 
numbers, and go right merrily about the fields, 
drinking' in their beauty. There must be a sort 

' Because they are so plentiful, 
So free for every child to pull.- 

Which are the more beautiful — children 
or flowers ? Indeed, it is difficult to say; 
though, doubtless, most of us would 
yield the preference to our bright, spark- 
ling, pleasant human flowers. How 
dull the earth would be without them. 
What a sad monotony our lives would 
appear ; all the freshness and sunshine 
and joy would depart with the children. 
They make this world musical with song. 
They glance about our homes like sun- 
beams. The}' scatter mirth and gladness 
over our lives, making them ever spring- 
like, spite of winds of fear, and rains of 
adversity, because ever bright and full of 

Oh, though the world has enough of 
card and sorrow; let us not forget to 
bless God for our two beautiful things — 
children and flowers. 

Love of flowers seems to be implanted 
in our nature. Is there anything more 
pleasing to the tired denizens of London, 
than a walk away from the dim and crash, 
into the daisied meadows ? Are there 
many joys to compare with an idle hour 
among the violets and primroses ? What 
are. the first things that attract us as we 
enter a well-furnished room ? Not the 
chairs, nor the carpets, though they be 
never so splendid or unique; not even the 
books and paintings, though they rank 
second in interest. It is to the flowers in 
the vases or the conservatory, to which 
our eyes turn lingeringly and lovingly. 
"How beautiful!" is the exclamation of our 
hearts, even if it does not pass our lips. And un- 
willingly we pay glad homage to the Maker! 
How far beyond all human productions. 

Js there any gift so welcome to the invalid as 
a bunch of fresh Spring flowers ? How the dim 
eyes bri"hten, and the whole countenance 
kindles a? sight of them ! How eag-erly, thougli 
tenderly, the thin fingers caress the delicate 
leave* " We may talk well during the remainder 
of our visit, but we shall only have divided 
attention The flowers are first m those poor 
weary thoughts. Ah, we may leave them with 
their gentle teachings. They will say more than 
could we of the love and care of the Father, who 
brings them every year through the death of 
wintCT, and the resurrection of sprin"-, and will 
certainly not be less tender with Ins fragile 
human flowers. 

Take this child away and nurse it for m' 

1 -will give thee thy wages.— Exod. ii. 9. 
Jesus said. Suffer little children and forbid, 

them not, to come unto me.— Matt. xix. 14. 

As long as he [the child] liveth, he shall he 
lent to the Lord.-! Sam, i. 28. 

Train up a child in the way he should go: and 
when he is old he will not depart from it.— 
Prov, xxii. C. 

Provoke not your children to wrath: but 
bring them up in the nurture and adTUonition 
of the Lord.— Eph, vi. 4. 

I -will walk -within my house with i. perfect 
heart. — Psalm ci. 2. 

The Children ought not to lay up for the 
parents, but the parents for the children.— 

2 Cor. xii. 14. 
And these words, which I command thee this 

§' day, shall he in thine heart: and thou shalt 
teach them diligently nnto thy childrea.— Deut. 

The Angel which redeemed me from all e-vil, 
bless the laxis.- Gen. xlviii. 10. 
Let your speech be always -with grace.— 


to loTe their 

Teach the young women- 
children. — Titus ii. 4. 

Only take heed to thyself, and keep thy soul 
diligently, lest thou forget the things which 
thine eyes have seen, and lest they depart from 
thy heart all the days of thy life: but teach 
them thy sons, and thy sorts' sons.— Demt. iv, 


What is a greater mystery than the bud of a flower? 
There is before us a little green calyx, shaped like a 
button, or knot, or little spire. Within it, -what can 
be so mysteriously enfolded ? Therein, tight and 
tiney, is -wrapped up as yet the daisy bloom, with its 
golJen centre and delicate white petals, tipped and 
lined with rose. In that small sheath is mysteriously 
hidden the deep purple and rich scent of the violet. 
In that green globe is sphered the golden chalice of 
the buttercup, or the pearly goblet of the wood- 
anemone. What Is more mysterious than this ? Let 
us not say that truth is without mystery; nature is as 
mysterious as God. The works of God are in 
mystery, like the parables of Jesus. We must not, 
however, confuse in our uiinds the distioction of 
mystery and mystification. A mystery may have its 
revelation, but mystifieation is a concealment. The 
rays of the sun soon reveal the mystery of the buds ; 
they burst into blossom and display their various tints 
of pink and lilac, of gold and silver, and we caU them 
by their names. So in the order of nature may we 

- expectthat, in due season, the other mysteries 

of God will be opened to our understandings. 
The flowers of Spring have likewise lessons 
for us. Again, the snowdrop and wood- 
anemone, silver and pearl the glade. Again, 
the crocus rears its golden spire, and the 
violet shews its blue eyes amid its dark green 
leave.«. God tlius operates through a fixed 
order in nature, and His providential plan is a 
system of seasons. 

In Spring we have also a beautiful type of 
spiritual regeneration. Regeneration, reani- 
mation, resm-rection, are typified in all the 
objects of the season. The quickening spirit 
is in the breath of Spring. From their wintry 
graves the flowers arise to a new life. In the 
words of the Apostle, "What is sown in 
corruption, is raised in incorruption ; what is 
sown in dishonour is raised in glory." In the 
season of Spring our planet undergoes a 
general reformation. All things become new. 
There is a new heaven and a new earth. 
Everything is revivified, new-bom, lives 
another life, arises as from death. Let us 
pray for a spring in our souls, for a quicken- 
ing of our spirits, for a death unto sin, and a 
new lile unto righteousness. 

Beautiful is Spring ! Beautifiil are its blue, 
dewy skies, and its green grassy earth ! 
Beautiful are the buds and blossoms of its 
flowers ! Beautiful are the songs of its birds ! 
Beautiful is the new life which speeds through 
every artery, which throbs in every pulse ! 
Let us raise our hearts to the giver of all this 
good, to the bestower of all this loveliness. 
Let us make its verdant hills God's altars. 
Let our eyes rise reverently up to its azure 
heaven. Let our moral beauties bud and bloom 
with its flowers. Let our anthems harmonize 
with the glad ehants of its birds. Let a spiritual 
spring difluse its current of worship, praise, 
and tbanksgrving, anew through our souls. — 
Aids to Devotion, 


of affinity between children and flowers'— the 
latter are never more beaiitrful than wlien held 
to the blooramg cheeks of the former, and 
children are never more wiiasome than when their 
tiny hands are full of liowers. 

it is a very beautiful and refining thing-, the 
children's love of floweis. Let all Eng-lish 
mothers foster it in their little ones. It is strong- * 
let it be made still stro-nger by encouragement 
and example. Tiiere wHl be less of coarseness 
and vice in the world; more of att and refinement, 
and g-entlencss, as the love of flowers increases. 

" Our outward life requires them not, 

Tlien wherefore had they birth ? 
To rainister delight to man, 

To beautify the earth. 
To comfort man — to whimper hope 

"Whene'er his faiih is dim, 
For God, who careth for the flowers, , 

Will much more care for him." 


Yes, — I can fancy, in the spring 

Of childhood's sunny hours. 
That nature's infant Priest and King 

Loved to gaze on flowers ; 

For lightly, mid the wreck of all, 
"When torn from Eden's bowers, 
Above the biUows of the fall 

Floated gentle flowers : 
TJnfallcD, sinless, undefUed, 

Fresh bathed in summer showers, 
What wonder that the holy Child 
Loved to play with flowers ? 

In these he saw his Father's face, 

All Godhead's vaiied powers, 
And joy'd each attribute to trace 

In sweet unconscious flowers : 
In these be found whore Wisdem hidea 

And modest Beauty cowers, 
And where Omnipotence resides, 

And Tenderness,— in flowers ! 

Innocent Child, a little while. 

Ere yet the tempest lours, 
Bask thy young heart in Nature's smile, 

Ker lovely smile of flowers ; 
Thy young heart, — is it not array'd 

In feelings such as ours ? — 
Yes, being now of thorns afraid, 

I sec thee ciown'd with flowers. 


May 1, 1865.] 




John xix. S»— 42; 1 Cor. xr. 55—67; 1 Peter 
1,2; Rct.t.6; iiii.I7. 

Listen, children, to the story 
How He came, the Lord of Glory — 
Came to earth on Mercy's wings, 
Lord of lords, and King of kings, 
As a poor unfriended stranger. 
Cradled in the humble manger, 

How he came to die! 

How He worked and how He prayed, 

In a human form arrayed ; 

Wept and fasted — scorned, reviled — 

He, the Spotless, UndeBled; 

Giving everywhere relief, 

Yet the intimate ef grief, 

He who came to die ! 

! how great the pain that rends 
His great heart, when all His friends 
Leave Him in His saddest hour. 
And He feels the Tempter's power; 
Hears no words but those of scorn,' 
Feels the cruel crown of thorn. 

He who came to die ! 

See Him nailed upon the tree, 
Bearing all to set us free 
From the power of sin and death, 
Yielding up his latest breath. 
Shall we dare refuse His love. 
Doubt His power who lives above, 
Never more to die ? 

See, they lift Him from the cross ; 
Weeping friends who feel their loss, 
Never more to hear His voice, 
Nor in His company rejoice. 
His eyes are closed, His heart is still; 
Bow the head — it is God's will, 
Jesus came to die ! 

Swathe His body for the tomb. 
Bear Him to His silent home. 
Drop the tear, but hush all strife ; 
Dead is He who promised life ; 
We had hoped that he should reign ; 
Foes have triumphed, He is slain. 
Yet He came to die ! 

And, when vanquished, victory won 
Dying — so the work was done ; 
He, who bowed His head, and died, 
Christ— the slain— the crucified— _ 
Kose from the dead, no more to die, 
And dwells for ever in the sky — 
No more to die I 

For us He bore the heaviest woes. 
For us He died, for us He rose ; 
For us He pleads His dying love, 
And bids our guilty fears remove : — 
May Jesus all our steps attend. 
Our faithful, living, dying fViend— 
No more to die! 


" Yon seem very poorly and low-spirited, Mrs. Doite," 
said Mrs. Manning to a poor woman whom she had 
for a short time past employed to sew for her. "I 
will not give you the trouble of coming again to bring 
home the work, but will call for it myself when it is 

" Oh ! no, ma'am ; pray do not think of such a 
thing ; my place is very hard to find. If I cannot 
come myself, I can get some one to send with it," 
said Mrs. Doite, hastily, and with a frightened air, 
quite diS'erent from the dull and downcast manner 
that was usual with her. 

The fear which the poor woman showed lest Mrs. 
Manning should visit her, made that lady all the more 
anxious to do so. So terribly low in spirits and weak 
in health did the needle-woman seem, that her case 
raised the kindest feelings in her employer's breast. 
It was the thought that, perhaps, Mrs. Doite might 
be more willing; to talk freely, and tell the cause of 
her sorrows in her own house than in a stranger's, 
which made Mrs. Manning wish to call. She had 
tried in the most gentle manner, but at present, as it 
seemed, without doin"; any good, to gain the poor 
woman's heart, when she had sent for her to give her 

" Have you a good husband, Mrs. Doite ?" once 
asked Mrs. Manning. 

"As good as my neighbonrs, ma'am, thank you;" 
was the reply. 

" Is he in constant work ?" 

" Yes, ma'am." 

" Does he attend a place of worship ?" 

"Very seldom, ma'am." 

" That is grievous; I hope you do." 

" No, ma'am ; I cannot leave the children.** 

" How many have you ?" 

" Three, ma'am." 

"Are they healthy?" 

" Middling, ma'am, thank you." 

And thus would Mrs. Doite give the shortest and 
dryest answers to Mrs. Manning's questions, as if 
quite unmoved by her kind interest. 

A few days after, Mrs. Manning made her way to 
Mrs. Doite's home, which was indeed hard to find. 
It was in Blank Mews, among a perfect mass of 
stables, in a thickly crowded part of London. No 
slight labour was needed to pass in and out the many 
windings of the ill-smelling place. She had to thread 
her way through what might be called streets, lanes, 
and alleys, which formed almost a small towji of 
themselves. The air was filled with the stench of 
manure heaps; there was no foot pavement; and 
the rough stones were hidden in niujiy places by 
pools of filth, which could but be sickening in the 
extreme to a 1-ady not used to such scenes. Happily, 
however, Mrs. Alannii.g was one who desired to 
follow in the steps of Him, who " went about doing 
good," and so v/as not .o be turned from her wish to 
visit Mrs. Doite by the unpleasant spot in which she 
had to seek her. After almost giving up the hope 
of finding the right house, she at length managed to 
reach it. She had to pass through a stable, close to 

the very heels of some horses ; climb 
up a steep staircase, so narrow that 
her shoulders rubbed against the wall 
on either side, and then found herself 
in a loft, Khich smelt close and was 
almost dark, but on the opposite side 
of which she could just see a door, 
at which she knocked. Itwas opened 
by Mrs. Doite, who asked her to walk 
in, with a manner that seemed to 
show anything rather than pleasure. 
One glance at the inside of the room 
was quite enough to explain lier 
dislike to receive the calls of anyone 
respectable. Though no signs of 
deep poverty were to be seen, it is 
impossible to speak of the dwelling 
except as a mass of filth and un- 

Heaps of cuttings, and pieces, and 
fag-ends, and selvedges of the work 
which she had had to do, most likely 
for years past, with almost all other 
sorts and kinds of litter, lay about 
upon the table, floor, and chairs. 
A wardrobe-bedstead stood in the 
room, with the bed unmade, the 
bed clothes rumpled and untidy, just 
as those who had slept in it had left 
it in the morning. The floor had 
certainly not been washed for 
months. The walls, which called 
themselves whitewashed, were as 
black with smoke, finger marks, and 
soils of all kinds, as those of a black- 
smith's shop. Cups and saucers, 
plates and dishes, knives and forks^ 
lay about in the greatest confusion, 
and the room smelt horribly close. 
A bed-room beyond, the door of 
which was open, looked just as 
unneat and dirty, and was lighted 
but by a tiny window of one pane, 
which would not open. Not a 
pitcher, or bason, or anything else 
for washing was to be seen in it. 
These two rooms and the loft formed 
the dwelling of Mrs. Doite, her hus- 
band, and three children. Upon 
looking back at the loft, after she 
had passed through it, and when it 
was better lighted by the door being 
open which led into the first room, 
Mrs. Manning saw, from the pail, 
washtub, brushes, plate-rack, and 
such things, that jt was meant to 
serve as a kitchen, scullery, wash- 
house, and so forth. Had it only 
been so used it would have saved the rooms the 
look of litter which reigned over them. 
_ Mrs. Manning tried to hide what she felt at the 
sight of the dirt and disorder of the place, and seated 
herself to talk with Mrs. Doite. She had, however, 
sat but a few minutes, when she found the closeness 
of the room more than she could bear. The scent 
from the stables below, the stale fumes of tobacco, a 
smell like dirty water which had been suffered to 
stand about for days, the state of the children, who 
seemed never to be properly washed or cared for in 
other ways, and the want of all means of airing the 
house, made her feel so faint, that she was obliged to 
ask Mrs. Doite to open the window. After having 
tried in vain to push up one of the two dirty sashes, 
which looked as if they had never been cleaned since 
the glass was fixed in them, she turned to the other, 
and, with a great deal of trouble, opened it a little 
way at the bottom. 

" Perhaps you could open it from the top, too," 
said Mrs. I\IaHning ; " if you could, that would change 
the air of the room much more quickly." 

" No, ma'am, it is not made to open at the top," 
was the reply. 

Having In part lost her feeling of falntness, Mrs. 
Manning tried to draw Mrs. Doite to speak of herself, 
in the hope that she might have the chance of giving 
her that advice and comfort which she saw she so 
much needed. The want of energy, both of mind 
and body, that she showed, was plainly caused by 
the thick suflbcating air which she was in the habit 
of_ breathing. The children were poor little lifeless 
tilings. The eldest, a boy of five, had a cough, 
seemed growing deformed, and looked half-stupid. 
The next, a girl of three, was deaf and very weakly, 
while the baby, a boy of eighteen months old, had 
not the least idea of \yalking, could not, in fact; 



I May 1st, 1^03 

stand by himself, and was then suffering from a bad 
attack of bowel complaint. 

Nor could Mrs. Manning wonder. All the signs of 
weakness and suffering which she noticed, both in 
mother and children, were due, she was sure, to 
the want of pure air to breathe, and to the dirt 
which covered them and the house. When she first 
entered the room, so close was it as scarcely to 
supply enough air to keep up life; how much less 
to keep it up in health and strength. The poor 
seamstress's weakness, and her neglect and untidi- 
ness, were but the consequence of her own ignorance 
of the natural laws which govern health. None but 
the strongest constitution can possibly bear up, even 
for a time, under the injury arising out of the daily 
breaking of these laws, and the strongest must, in 
the long run, suffer, and, at length, break down. 

As Mrs. Doite sat and talked with Mrs. Manning, 
she grew less and less shy. She begged pardon for 
the uproar in the room, and said that she had been 
forced to finish some work in a great hurry, and with 
that and the illness of the baby, which would not be 
happy out of her arms, she had been so muddled 
that she had not had time to wash a cup, saucer, 
or plate,— make a bed, or do any washing for her 
family all the week. Thus they must have used 
their crockery-ware dirty, time after time; slept 
in their beds over and over again without ever 
having the feather bed or bedding shaken or thrown 
open to the air, and worn their clothes soiled to an 
imhealthy degree. Mrs. Manning could have wept 
over the bad efl'ects produced, not, in this case, by 
poverty, but by want of care for the simplest rules 
of ventilation and cleanliness. Evil of every kind 
is pregnant with evil, and springs up afresh from its 
own seeds like the rank weed. This poor woman 
had neglected her house until she had brought her- 
self into such a state of illness and low spirits that 
she had no will left to set about bettering it. 
Her illness and listlessncss made her careless about 
its lost desolate condition: thus the bad state of 
both was kept up, and daily grew worse; until, at 
last, improvement in health and house seemed alike 
hopeless and impossible. Fortunately, for her, Provi- 
dence had sent her a most juclieious friend in Mrs. 
Manning. That lady was too wise to make any 
strong iremarks, in the first instance, upon what she 
saw, lest she should dishearten and displease Mrs. Doite. 
In her first visit, she contented herself with telling 
her the benefit which she and her children would find 
from keeping the window open as much as possible. 
, " True," said she, " the air outside is not very 
pure or fresh, but still it is far better than that 
which has passed in and out of your lungs, time after 
tune, until it has become stale and putrid." 

"Putrid!" exclaimed Mrs. Doite, "I did not know 
that air became putrid." 

" Well, I give you that as a hint to think about. 
If you will try to get as much fresh air as you can, 
and will frequently wash yourself and your children, 
you will see that you will suffer less with your head, 
and that they will soon be much stronger." 

Fearful of trying to do too much at once, and 
wishing to come again soon, Mrs. Manning was not 
sorry to hear that her work was not ready for her. 
So fixing a day to call for it again, she took her leave. 

Chapter II. 
Upon Mrs. JIanning's next visit she had the 
pleasure to see that Mrs. Doite received her as a 
friend, and seemed disposed to lean upon her for 
advice and help. In reply to Mrs. Mannin|s hope 
that she would attend worship on the coming Sunday, 
" I am very sorry, ma'am," she said, " but I cannot 
leave the children." 

"But will not your husband be at home ?" asked 
Mrs. Manning. . , , . , 

" Yes, ma'am ; but I could not trust them with hira. 
"Why not?" 

" He wants rest on a Sunday. He is always asleep 
or smoking wlien he is in the house." 

From this Mrs. Manning found that the suffocating 
air of the place had the same bad effect upon the 
man as upon his wife and children, although he 
had the advantage of being away from it several 
hours of the day. 

Mrs. Doite's was a sad case with regard to her 
soul as well as her body. Before she married she 
had been a regular attendant and communicant at a 
place of worship, had real pleasure in her i-cligious 
duties, and enjoyed reading her Bible alone. While 
keeping company with her, her husband had been 
used to go with her to God's house; but since they 
had been married, they had given up religious exer- 
cises of every description, now scarcely by any chance 

went to a meeting where Christ's name was mentioned, 
and almost as seldom opened God's word at home. 

" My poor, poor, friend!" exclaimed Mrs. Manning, 
as she listened to her tale, "no wonder you are ill 
and miserable. Formerly, when you were happy and 
well, you found delight in God as your Father and 
friend ; now, when in weakness and low spirits, you 
feel left utterly alone. Is it not so ?" 

" Indeed, it is," said the poor woman, weeping 
bitterly. "I have never known one moment's joy these 
five years. I do not know how it came to be so, for 
I continued to attend worship and a Bible class 
until a little before my first baby was born. But 
since then it seems as if everything had been looking 
blacker and blacker every day ; though I had never 
thought about it until you mentioned it. I feel some 
way always too stupified and tired to take the trouble 
to think, and I just let the day go over as quietly .ts 
I can ; and so the weeks, and the months, and the 
years go round." ... 

"Ah, yes!" sighed Mrs. Manning, "it is just that 
letting things go on, that puts everything wrong, in 
our houses, our health, and our souls. Time never 
stands stiU. The world is always moving; and it is 
quite impossible for us to keep exactly in the same 
state, however much we may wish. If we do not go 
on we shall certainly go back. You see, by the very 
dust that enters your rooms, that you have nothing 
to do but sit with your hands folded, if you wish to 
have your house lost in dirt. If you take no care to 
tniard yourself from heat, and cold, and wet, and 
Things that you know will hurt you, you will soon be 
ill. And so with the soul ; if left to take its chance, 
it soon grows dead, and starved as yours is now." 

"Very true," said Mrs. Doite ; "I only wish I had 
thought of all this before it was too late." 

" It is not too late, yet— far from it ;" exclaimed 
Mrs. Manning, cheerfully. " If you will only strive to 
take a bright view of things, all will soon be set right," 
Mrs. Manning was so tully persuaded that the 
unhappy state of Mrs. Doite would never be really 
improved until her house was in a more healthy 
plifrht, that she felt it a Christian duty to speak more 
piiSnly than before upon the point, and thought the 
present was the right time to do it. She mentioned 
several things that w«re needed to brin" the place 
into a state of decency and neatness, and Airs. Doite 
promised to attend to them all. 

" It is fan too often lost sight of," said Mrs. Man- 
nin<r, "that God is a God of perfect purity, and that 
all "uncleanness of every kind is displeasing and 
dishonouring to Him. The stnct rules which He 
crave to His own chosen people, the Jews, about the 
cleanliness of themselves and their dwellings, as 
stated in the Old Testament, show how great was 
His hatred of all that was foul and impure. And 
though we live not now under the law but under 
grace we are still under Him, the same God, whose 
nature never changes. In the New Testament 
washing, purifying, and cleansing, are constantly used 
as terms to express the change (rom sin to holiness, 
to which God calls all His children. If the thmg 
itself were not what God loved and delighted m, we 
may be sure He would not use it as a figure of the 
most important of aU things— that change of heart, 
"without which no man shall see the Lord. He 
who has said with regard to the soul, " Wash you, 
make you clean," can certainly not be pleased to see 
the body and the body's dwelUng-place always in a 
dirty state. It is, in fact, impossible that anyone who 
really loves God, and strives to do His will m every- 
thing, will sink so low as to be contented in the midst 
of dfrt and filth." ' 

" Then you think that is why I have never telt 
contented of late years, do you, ma'am?" asked 
Mrs. Doite. , , j^ „ 

"Certainly I do. We cannot let ourselves tall 
into dirty, negligent habits without doing wrong to 
others, losing our own respect, and placing ourselves, 
more or less, at a distance from God. I can see, 
plainly, that the uncomfortable state of your home 
has been the cause of your present poorliness and 
low spirits. While you are in this state, it is impos- 
sible for you to rejoice in the hope of being saved 
throu<'h the death of Jesus, your Saviour, as you 
ou<»htT or as you used to do. Thus, I think it must 
be^clear enough to you, that it is your duty as a 
Christian woman to keep your house and yourself 
clean, for Christ's sake, no less than for your own, 
your husband's, and your children's." 

" Well, to be sure !" exclaimed Mrs. Doite ; " who 
would ever have thought that a dirty house, or dirty 
skin, would keep the soul from faith and joy m 
Christ'? I never should ; but you are right enough, 
.as I can now very well sec." 

"Oh, what a delightful change!" was Mrs. Man- 
ning's exclamation when she again entered Mrs. 
Doi°te's house. The floor had been scrubbed to a 
det^ree of whiteness which, in its former state, would 
have seemed quite impossible to anyone but a 
person of the most hopeful turn of mind. The walls 
were so white they seemed to dazzle tjie eye of the 
visitor used to the dingy hue of the rooms before. 
The bed was made. Plates, dishes, and other things 
of the kmd, wore ranged in order in the loft, which 
had been lime-washed, and smelt much less close than 
before. The windows of the sitting-room were made 
to let down from the top. Upon looking into the 
bed-room, with Mrs. Doite's permission, Mrs. Man- 
ning saw that it was tidy, and that the window in it 
had also been made to open. 

The flush of pleasure and pride which Mrs. Man- 
ning's delight and surprise brought to Mrs. Doite's 
usually pale, stone-like face, made her look as if she 
might once have been fair in her husband's eyes, and 
might hope to be so still. 1'he children, too, looked 
as "if the change in their usual habits attending the 
bustle of cleaning, had roused them out of their sleepy, 
dreamy, manner, and given them something of the life 
and spu-it that belonged to their age. 

Mrs. Manning feelingly expressed her sympathy 
with Mrs. Doite in the fatigue and inconvenience 
which she must have felt during the time of the 
cleaning, and then tried to show her the necessity of 
keeping things in a comfortable state by daily and 
hourly attention. 

In any house it is of the utmost importance to 
keep ever putting things straight, and not to let dirt 
and untidiness gl-ow to a height. But of how much 
more importance must this be in the house of the 
poor woman who has no servant, and no one to assist 
her! K she suflers everything to get into confusion 
and uproar, time and strength will fail her to get her 
rooms set straight again, and she will settle down into 
Mrs. Doite's way of not seeing and not thinking 
about the disorder ; while, at the same time, it is 
slowly and surely ruining her health and spirits, as 
well as those of her husband and family. 

But should anyone who reads this have allowed 
herself and her house to fall into this uncomfortable, 
wretched state, the best thing she can do is to follow 
Mrs. Doite's example, call in the help ot a neighbour, 
and make a thorough clearance. Then, by cleaning , 
one room on a certain day of the week, another on 
another, washing-up everything immediately after it 
has been used, at once removing everything that can 
cause an unpleasant smell, never failing to air the 
beds before 'making them, and, as a rule, having 
them made by noon ; not allowing dirty linen to lie 
loni' unwashed — by these, and other easy simple 
rules, the poorest woman may k^ep her home com- 
fortable, healthy, and attractive to her husband. 

The expense of the cleaning was most kindly met 
by Mrs. Manning, who now had real pleasure in 
paying Mrs. Doite a visit from time to time. During 
one of her calls the husband came home, and she 
spoke to him most earnestly about the duty of 
attending public worship. Touched by the interest 
which she took in him and his family, he promised to 
do so, and kept his word. 

After a few weeks, he seemed really influenced by 
the truths which he heard preached. Taught the 
duty of doing to others .as he would have them do to 
him, he grew more thoughtful of his wife's comfort, 
and took his turn with her in minding the children 
while she went to worship. Sometimes they were 
able to go together and take the elder ones, leavmg 
the baby with a neighbour or relation. 

Twelve months after Mrs. Manning's first visit to 
Blank Mews, the Doite family would scarcely have 
been known by those who knew them before. The 
children had gained a nice colour. The eldest was 
f^rowin'T stronger, and losing his tendency to 
deformity. The little girl looked bright and iiitel- 
liirent, and could hear as well as other children. The 
youngest ran about briskly, and no longer suflered 
from°weakening attacks of bowel complaint. Mrs. 
Doite had quite regained her health, cheerfHluess, and. 
more important still, her trust in God, and joy ii>. 
Jesus, her Saviour. Her husband was now a real 
companion to her. He had become a total abstainer, 
and felt so happy in her society that he had no desire 
to spend his leisure away from his own eloan and 
comfortable fireside, where he read the Scriptures 
and useful books aloud to her almost every evening. 
All these blessed changes were due, under God's 
providence, to Mrs. Doite having learned the im- 
portance of air, cleanliness, and order in a house, and 
the plentiful use of water to the persons of its 

E. D. 

May 1, 1865.] 




"It's of no use, I can't bear it, and I won't ; to be 
spoken to so ; mistress doesn't seem to think us 
made of the same flesh and blood." 

Susan's cheeks were flushed, and her brown eyes 
flashing ; her mother, like a wi-e woman, let the pas- 
sion bum itself out before she tried to reason with 
her ; and she went on : — " The children are brought 
up to be just the same — the other day Miss Florence 
said, ' Oh, mamma, baby kisses Susan ; only fancy, kis- 
sing a servant !' and me standing there all the while." 
"Baby's i;ood, isn't he?" 

"He's the dearest little fellow that ever lived ; I 
believe he knows who has most trouble with him, 
too ; for he'll alwavs come to me from his mimma : 
and he coos, and gurgles, and tucks his little fat face 
into my neck, 'till I'm ready to eat him — but they'll 
spoil him, too, as soon as he's old enough." 

"It's strange, though, what a comfort a baby can be; 
if you could anyhow manage to stay for a year, as it's 
your first regular place, it would be the making of you?" 
"Well, I'll try, mother— I'm better now; I've had 
my grumble out, and I don't want to come home and 
live upon you and father." 

" 'Tisn't that, my girl — you're always welcome ; as 
long as we've gut a roof over our head it's yours as 
much 09 ours, but I know it is better for you to try 
and bear things : there's something to put up with 
everywhere, and it ruins a girl to get into the habit 
of changing — but you don't think I don't feel for 
you, do you ? ' ' 

" No, indeed, mother, I know better than that, but 
I must go;" and, after exchanging a hearty kiss, 
Susan went. 

When the housemaid opened the door to her she 
said, "Snmetliing 's up ; master has been blowing up 
missus, sky hi^h, and telling her it's all her fault." 
"AVhat'is?" said Susan. 

"Goodness knows; something about shares, or a 
bank, or something." 

The vague sense of trouble in the household put 
away the last remnant of Susan's anger. "How's 
baby ?" she asked. 

" Oh, he's well enough ; but didn't his ma and me 
have a piece of work to jret him to bed ? — he kept 
caUin? for vou, '.Nunan, Nunnn.'"' 
" The rorjue, I'll go and look at him." 
The little fellow's face had the paleness of a flush 
passed away, and his tiny mouth had settled into 
the sweet, sad lines of a child's grief. "I couldn't 
leave you, baby," she said, softly kissing him. Even 
in his sleep baby knew the touch : he said dreamily, 
"Nunan, Nunan;" and his head sought Susan's 
cheek, and rested there. 

The next morning, when Susan awoke, she found 
her mistress standing by her bedside ; she concluded 
at once that she must have overslept herself past the 
children's hour of dressing, but the first words she 
heard dispelled this notion. 

"I think I can trust you; — your master has gone 
to Jersey." 

" Eh, ma'am ?" said Susan, wondering whether it 
was herself or her mistress that was crazy. 

"Your master has gone — no matter where — I want 
you to help me." 

"Certainly, ma'am," Susan answered, with some 
dim idea that insane persons ought to be humoured; 
adding, not at all with the air of one stating a self- 
evident proposition, " perhaps I should be of more 
use if I was to put some clotiies on." 

" Yes, be quick ; I want you to take the children 
to their aunts' ; all but Miss Florence." 
"And baby, ma'am." 
" He must stay too, for the present." 
Susan rose, dressed the children, and took them to 
her mistress's sisters, who seemed more astonished 
and angered than sympathetic on reading the note 
she brought them. 

"Shameful! preposterous!" said they to one- 
another ; adding, " say that we can have nothing to do 
with the baby." 

When Susan came home she found cook and 
housemaid both gone. 

" Rats leave the sinking ship," said her mistress, 
bitterly ; "you will stay and take care of baby ?"' 
"Oh, yes, ma'am." 

That was a terrible day — the mistress seemed to be 
stealthily packing her jewels and some clothes into a 
carpet-bag; and clamorous angry men kept coming 
to the door with enquiries for the master — at last 
came two who, it ?eemed, could not be kept out. 
They entered, and took possession of everything, 
while Susan was sent with the carpet-bag to fetch a 
cab, which was not to come up to the house. 

" I will meet it at the comer, Susan, with Miss 
Florence — put the bag inside." The haughty woman 
was completely broken down, and there was some- 
thing pitiful in the evident falsehood, when she said — 

"I shall be back in half-an-hour — take baby to 
his grandmamma, Mrs. Ashdown, Ilex Lodge, Kew ; 
here is a note for her," 

" And the house, ma'am ?" 

" Oh, those men will take care of that." 

One of the men offered to help Susan dovm with 
her boxes — so she sent word to her father to fetch 
her things, and hurried off, in the fast decreasing 
daylight, to catch the Kew train, saying — 

"Ob, baby! I wonder— perhaps there isn't such 
a place afler all." 

But there was; and when the dignified old lady 
came at Susan's request, she felt half-ashamed of her 
doubts, and handed the note she had brought with 
her with an abashed air. 

" So, this is my son's son — he shall be as my own ; 
to be reared, I hope, more wisely that his father was." 

Su=an had never seen her master's mother before — 
there had been a long estrangement; but she felt at 
once that baby would be safe with her. " And I 
shall never see him any more." The sorrowful 
thought coming after the day's fatigue and excite- 
ment was too much ; the girlish head bent down, 
and a heavy rain of tears fell on her hands. 

" What is the matter, child ?" said Mrs. Ashdown, 
so kindly, that Susan's heart opened. 

" I'm rather tired, I suppose, ma'am ; and I had 
got to be so fond of baby." 

"You can come to me as his nurse, If you like; I 
suppose you can have a character from a former 
mistress ?" 

" I haven't been out before, ma'am; but there's 
mother, if you wouldn't mind seeing her." 

"Very well ; tell her to come to-morrow." 

Susan went to Ilex Lodge, and in the peaceful life 
she led there her old troubles melted away as 
thorouc;hly as the snow from off the smooth green 
lawn ; but the comfort grew out of the discomfort 
of her first place. ^ sadie. 


Generally, in English famiiies of- the middle-class, - 
the bread-wimier is but one. Husband and father is 
the pillar on which the house depends. It is recognised 
in the very name of the relationship : being properly 
"house-band," the bond that keeps together the family. 
An old versifier writes :— ;- 

"The name of the husband, what is it to say? 
Of wife und of household the Ijand ^d the stny. " 
And proud is he to be this, in most cases : proud to 
think that the comforts and enjoyments of those he 
loves flow from his work and his care. 

The other head of the family — does her title contain 
any allusion of the same sort? We think it does. In 
her name of wife — being one of the same kindred of 
words as ■' weave," " woof," — is implied her connection 
with a noted branch of industry carried on in every 
provident household formerly. " She layeth her hands 
to the spindle." says the king of the model woman : 
*'and her hands hold the distaff. She maketh fine 
linen, and selleth it. She seeketh wool and flax, and 
worketh willingly with her hands." And so was she 
a bread-^vinner also. 

Modem society having changed all that, and con- 
centrated in a comparatively few factories the needful 
spinning and weaving of a million households, — the 
name wife has lost its olden significance so far. And 
it is happy for the families where she need not be 
bread-winner ; where she is left to her peculiar sweet 
duties about her children. Sad revelations have been 
made of the condition of those poor men's households 
where the mother i.s obliged to leave the little ones and 
go forth to work. What think you of having to go out 
charing where the baby is not quite a month old ; 
leaving the tender little thing to some child, who, in 
richer families, would be considered scarcely able to 
care for itself! This has originated the Paris 
"crfeches," where lured nurses take into a public 
nursery as many babies as are paid for at twopence a 
day. In 184B there were nine of them in the poorest 
quarters of Paris; where the infantswcre well warmed, 
washed, and led, from six in the morning till eight in 
the evening. Something of the sort has been tried in 
English towns too, as a poor substitute for the loving 
maternal care of home. Ah, it is a blessing from God 
where the second head of the family, the mother, is not 
required to be bread-winner aLso. 

But, though she is not an actual maker of money, on 
her depends that essential part of the domestic econ- 
omy — how it- is spent and spared. I have known women 
grumble because ihey could not earn, who were every 
day performing a part in their households more 
valuable than earning, in their management about 
cookery and clothes. Doable the sum might have been 
expended on these items by father or brother, without 

the same s-itisfactory result, but for the woman's work 
that laid out the gold to usury, as women kn ow how. 

I have known the daughters of a house complain that 
they could take no part in the bread- winning, and 
envy those who did. ^V^le^c the middle-class family is 
poor and pinched, it is indeed to be wished that there 
were more ways of employing the superabundant 
female labour. 

If the women, daughters and sisters, would but look 
round their lives wisely and closely, I imagine they would 
find that work lies nearer them than they think. " But 
remunerative work 1" Well, even that. How many a 
father, in a moderate way of business, would be spared 
the expense of a clerk, if his daughter, on whose educa- 
tion he has spent much money, would copy his letters, 
write from dictation, cast his accounts ! How many a 
school-fee would be saved by a sister's taking the small 
children of the family, and teaching them those rudi- 
ments which she is generally quite competent to teach? 
Then there is the dressmaking and millinery of the 
family, which a little practice and a few lessons would 
enable the girls of the house to perform neatly and 
tastefully. These several ways would keep money in 
the father's pocket. And, after all, is it not a thing 
to be deeply thankful for, O restless daughter or sister, 
that the bread is won for you, and the most at which 
you can gi-umble is the want of the butter I Believe 
me, that earning for one's-sclf is one of those things 
which looks fairest at a distance. To be earned for is 
one of your woman's privileges. Grim enougli is bread- 
winning when you are brought close to it as a fact. So 
much labour, or no bread, — thank your God that you 
have never seen an alternative like this. 

I remember hearing of a young woman who acted as 
I have above hinted, and kept her father's books with 
all the accuracy of a practised clerk. Thus she saved 
him cost and trouble for many years. But the poor 
man failed in business, and when liis creditora came to 
inspect his accounts, their admiration was excited by 
the workmanlike regularity with which his daughter 
had kept them. The creditors went farther than 
admiration : they settled a sum of money upon her, in 
token of their approval and gratitude for the accuracy 
which saved them a great deal of trouble. Thus virtue 
obtained a more immediate reward than is usual. 
— Christian World. 

What a dreaded name to most girls is that of " Old 
Maid," and how ready they are too often to laugh at 
those who bear it. Now. what reason is there for 
either their fear or their derision .' When a woman has 
lived single a certain or uncertain number of years, 
she is often regarded as one to be pitied, or ridiculed as 
unable to get a husband; whereas, in most cases 
the fact is, that she has remained single not because 
she has had no opportunity of changing her condition, 
this being in the power of almost any woman — but 
from some cause, which if we did but know it, would 
make us respect her instead of deriding. Of course, 
we don't mean to say that the condition of the Old 
Maid is a desirable one; but we should like girls to think 
that they may be in many ways worse off, if they marry 
unwisely, and that it is their duty and should be their 
pleasure to give comfort and sympathy to those who 
have been denied by circumstances the happiness 
springing from family associations. 

There are, we are satisfied, many women who would 
gladly thow off, if they could, the cares and troubles of 
their married life. They thought atone time to escape 
from the task of providing for their own wants, and now 
they have to support not only themselves but their 
husbands, and it may be a troop of young children in 
the bargain. Such cases as these are within every- 
body's experience, while our police reports furnish 
ample proofs that married folks are not always the best 
off. But supposing they were (and this is only 
what ought to be), even then the oM maids should 
be looked upon with no unkindly eyes. Now and then, 
perhaps, we meet mth one of this class, whose temper 
has been soured by disappointment, and who does nob 
make an agreeable impression. It is to be regretted; 
but is there not a cause? On the other hand, how [ 
many old maids are there, to whom we are continually 
indebted for little acts of kindness and help rendered at 
the right moment. Depend upon it these women 
have learned in the school of suffering and trial ; 
they might have been mamed long ago had they 
chosen, but the man they loved best died, or 
perhaps deceived them ; and with stoutness of heart 
they kept on loving just the same, and nothing has 
ever been able to get the memory of that first love 
out of them : whereas, you know, you would have 
loved half-a-dozen men in succession, if it only 
appeared likely that you might bear the names of one 
of them. Others have had some one dependant upon 
them, whom they could not make up their minds to 
leave to shift for themselves, and so they let their own 
chances slip by, and now they stand alone in the world; 
those for whom they cared have been buried, or have 
started on a new track of their own, and the faithful 
friend has nothing on earth to look to for support and 
sympathy. Does not such life demand some solace — jp 
it a worthy thing to ridicule— surely not/— Let us ev 
think kindly of Old Maids, and be grateful to them. 



[May 1st, latio. 


The " merry month of May" is one of tlie best of all 
the twelve. Our ancestors were accustomed to 
celebrate the first of the mouth with rural pleasures, 
to rear May-poles, decorated with flowers, and to 
trip lightly round the shaft to the sound of pipe and 
tabor." It was a sort of feast of First Flowers. 
"Up, up! let us greet 
The Kca-son so sweet. 

For \\'inter is gone, 
And the flowers are springing, 
And little birds singing, 
Tbeir soft notes ringing, 

And bright is the san! 
Wbere all was drest 
n a sunny vest. 

There graiss is gi'owing, 
With dew-drops glowing; 
And flowers are seen. 
On beds of green. 

Up, maidens! repair 
To the meadows so fair. 
And dance we away 
This merry May." 
So sings an old poet — and so speaks the human 
heart. God is good. " Lo, the winter is past, the 
rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the 
earth, the time of the singing of birds is come." 
(Son" of Solomon i. 11, 12.) "Bless the Lord, O 
my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy 
name." (Psalm ciii. 1.) Let us rejoice in God's 
goodness, and accept His mercies with thankful 

May comes to us with a lapful of flowers, it is the 
childhood of the year— and in the childhood of the 
day,— when all the pearly dew hangs on the flowers, 
making it wear its sweetest and its happiest aspect. 
See how the little child, a stranger yet to care, un- 
spoiled by the world's flattery or falsehood, light of 
heart as the birds, and as full of gaiety,— see how she 
spreads out in her lap her gathered flowers, and 
caUs to us to look at them ! 

Jesus Christ made both flowers and children cur 
teachers. "Consider the lilies." "And he took a 
little ch'dd and sat him in the midst— whosoever 
shall humble himself as this little child, the same 
shall be called first in the kingdom of heaven." Let 
us give heed to the lesson, and in this season of hope 
and promise learn to be humble and trustful in our 

" Use May, while that you may. 
For May hath but her time--- 
When all the fruit is gone it i.-s 
, Too late the tree to climb." 

"Diet and degradation are closely allied; and so long 
as the poor arc denied the me.ins of pei-sonal cleanli- 
ness so long will the efforts of well-meaning people to 
raise them morally be attended mth but very unsatis- 
factory results. Great are the virtues of soap and 
water; and until these are recognized much more than 
they are even in this advanced age, the social and 
moral amelioration of the people \vill make but slow 

"That which we have urged so frequently as a pubhc 
duty has been performed to some extent by a private 
individual. In Golden Lane, Barbican, there has arisen 
an extensive range of premises, the ol>]ect of w-tach can 
scarcely fail to be appreciated by the inhabitants of 
this densely-populated locality. That, mdeed, it ».s- 
appreciated, is shown by the fact that the advantages 
offered have already been largely partaken ot even 
though the project is as yet but partially developed 
The City of London Baths and Washhouses, whilst 
advancing towards completion, have been used by 
thousands ot persons: and no doubt, when the building 
is nerfect, the numbers will be greatly enhanced. The 
two swimming baths are about ninety feet each in 
length by thirty-three wide, and the charges for the 
use of them are exceedingly moderate- for first-class 
bathers id.; second-class, 2il. There are many private 
baths fitted up with all necessary accommodation, with 
a copious supply ot hot and cold water, at a charge of 
ed first-class and 3d. second. The value of the public 
laundry in a social and sanitaiy point of view, can 
scarcely' be over-estimated. In the ■best-regulated 
famUies,' the miseries ot washing-day arc proverbial; 
these miseries must be greatly augmented in cases 
where a family have but one room, or at most a couple. 
in which to live, and wash, and cook and sleep. In 
such cases, it is no wonder that the male portion ot the 
family betake themselves to the public-house, on was i- 
in"-days especially; and that the females are ill- 
tempered and in a muddle, and the chikU-en neglectc. 
At the above-named establishment, for the smaOl sum 
o£ three-halfpence an hour, a woman is supplied witi 

all sorts ot conveniences tor cleansing her clothes and 
tor quickly drying, mangling, and ironing them ; and 
her labour is lightened bysteam, the subtle vapour being 
brought into requisition in working the mangles and 
wringing machines. In connection mth the baths arc 
some model dwellings, in which all the modem im- 
provements tor securing health and comfort have been 
adopted; and there is, moreover, in course ot con- 
struction, a large dining and reti'cshment saloon, in 
which good and wholesome food will be supplied at a 
low price on the principle adopted in Glasgow and 
elsewhere. We may add, in conclusion, that the estab- 
lishment owes its existence to the spirit and enterprise 
of a gentleman to whom the neighbourhood is in other 
respects much indebted, Mr. Vieweg ; and we hope his 
exertions will meet with the success they so richly 
deserve." — CItt/ Press. 

In lace-making the women who live in towns are far 

superior to those who live in the country. They are not 
so well paid, because, though the price is the same, 
living in a town is much deai-er, and their health soon 
declines. Hence this sort of work has emigrated to the 
country ; and, not to mention Belgium where lace is a 
staple, and the females employed in making it amount 
to about 130,000, there are iu the neighbom-hood of 
Arras alone, 0,000 lace-makers, who earn about a franc 
aday, withoutneglectingtheirhouseholdduties. Glove- 
making also is gradually leaving the towns to settle 
in the country. Thus in the Haute-Marne a single firm 
gives employment to upwards or 2,000 hands ; in the 
Isere there arc 1.5,000 needlewomen engaged in the 
trade ; and around Grenoble there are about 1,200 cut- 
ters, who turn out 000,000 pair ot gloves a year, which, 
at the rate ot 30t. a dozen, represent a sum ot fiom 
l,60D,000f. to l,700,000t. The Grenoble manufactory 
employs about GOO women in putting the glove on the 
pattern, then under the cutting-press, and otherwise 
preparing it tor the needle. Such women, when clever, 
earn from 70f. to 80f. a month. The remuneration for 
sewing gloves is at the rate ot about 4t. 50c. a dozen, 
with one button, and it. 75c with two, but the sewer 
must find her own thread. The cutting of precious 
stones, whether genuine or imit.ation, is a trade that 
has taken up its abode on the heights of the Jura, at 
Septmened, except the diamond, which is cut by ma- 
chineryat Amsterdam. At the place we have mentioned, 
the women are constantly emyloyed in makingimitation 
jewels, in drilling holes into rubies for watchmakers, &c., 
and they earn about 75 centimes a day ; the earnings of 
the men in the same sort of work being 1 franc 50 

Tune, — "Beautiful Star." 
Beautiful flowers of early spring, 
Ye are welcomed by everything— 
Come and gladden this world ot ours— 
Blossom around us, beautiful flowers. 
Beautiful flowers ! 
Beautiful flowers ! 
Blossom near us, beautiful ! beautiful flowers ! 

Ye we seek in field or wood. 
Where the sheltering trees have stood; 
Wc will hunt ye everywhere. 
Sweet spring flowers, so fresh and tail*. 
Beautiful flowers, &cc. 

We shall bring ye home each day. 
Love you better than e'en our pla 
Mother's eyes iviU brighter be. 
When we bring her ^vreathes of ye. 

Beautiful flowers, &c. 
Beautiful flowers of sweet spring-time, 
How we love you in your prime ; 
God has made ye wondrous fair. 
For we little girls to wear. 

Beautiful flowers, kc. 

May we be like to you, sweet flowers. 
Making beautiful the hours ; 
Making glad our happy home. 
Winning smiles where'er we come. 
Beautiful flowers, &c. 

Some time ago the pupils ot the Queen's Institute, 
Dublin, presented to Her Majesty a beau ifully 
executed address. Her Majesty's approval ot this 
interesting specimen of educated labour has been con^ 
veyed in a letter to Lord Talbot de Malahide, the Vice 
President ot the Institute:— , „ lae- 

" Windsor Castle, March 9, 18Cj. 
" Mv dear Lord Talbot,— The Queen has commanded 
me to assure you ot the pleas.u:e with which she has 
learned, from the address which you have presented to 
her Majesty, the increased success of the Queen s In- 
stitute for the Training and Employment ot Educated 

Women. There could be no object more in hai-mony 
mth the feelings of her Majesty than to provide em- 
ployment, such as is peculiarly suited to them, for those 
women whose early education has qualified them to 
cultivate other fields of action than those usually open 
to female industry; nor is it less desirable that such 
instruction should be available for those that are 
younger as may contribute to extend as widely as pos- 
sible the limits of profitable and honourable exertion. 
The Queen was much pleased to remark the peculiarly 
appropriate mode that had been adopted of proving to 
her Majesty that talent and ability were not wanting 
(where a fitting opening could be found), by the very 
beautiful and tasteful illustrations and adornments of 
the address presented to her. The illuminations, the 
water colour views, and the embroidery were all much 
admired by her Majesty. 
" Believe me, very sincerely yours, C. B. Phipps." 





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WORSE THAN DEATH : a Talc. By Haebiit PoWEn, Author 
of Beatrice Langton,"" After To-morrow," 8tc. 
This tale shows the fatal effects of parental indulgence in chjrthooa 
and of self-indnlgencc in youth, especiaUy ejemplilied in habits of 
intemperance yielded to through the influence of temptation. It teljs 
how directly or indirectly, lives were darkened hy the shadow of this 
sin, affections bhghted, and sorrow and death brought into once happy 

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