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. "OH I LOOK AT MY PRETTY FLOWERS I"
THE BRITISH WORKWOMAN.
[May 1, 1865.
THE UNEXPECTED LEGACY;
"LIGHTLY COME, LIGHTLY GO."
BLIZA. PURSUES HER STUDIES — ME. DAMERGUE 9
ATTENTIONS TO EEIZA — ROSE's PERSEVEEING STUDY
OF THE "ODD UOOK."
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 f.ice 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
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
THE BRITISH WORKWOMAN.
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
THE HARDSHIPS OF SERVICE,
AND HOW TO MEET THEM.— Xo. II.
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
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
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
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,
"WASTE NOT—WANT NOT."
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.
THE BEITISH WOEKWOMAN.
[May 1, 18C5.
OUT AND AT HOME.
"I BELIEVE THAT ANY IMPROVEMENT WHICH COULD
BE BROUGHT TO DEAR ON THE MOTHERS, WOULD
EFFECT A GREATER AMOUNT OF GOODTHAN ANYTHING
THAT HAS YET BfiEN DONE." — -Earl Shaftesbury,
CHILDREN AND FLOWERS.
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
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
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,
THE TEACHINGS OF SPRING.
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."
INFANT SAVIOUR, WIl^H FLOWERS.
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.
M. F. TTIPPER.
May 1, 1865.]
THE BRITISH WORKWOMAN.
TAKING DOWN FROM THE CROSS.
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!
CLEANLINESS & CHRISTIAN ENJOYMENT.
" 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;
THE BRITISH WORKWOMAN.
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.
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.
" 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
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
May 1, 1865.]
THE BRITISH WORKWOMAN.
SUSAN'S FIRST PLACE.
"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,
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
" 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
" 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.
THE BREAD-WINNEES OF THE FAMILY.
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
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.
THE BEITISH WOKKWOMAN.
[May 1st, latio.
MAY: "LOOK AT MY PEETTY FLOWERS."
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."
CITY OF LONDON BATHS AND WASH-HOUSES.
"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.
EARNINGS OF CONTINENTAL WOEKWOMEN.
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
SONGS OF THE WORKERS.— No. 7.
A LITTLE GIRL'S SONG.
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.
A ROYAL LETTER.
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."
BY EOTAL LETTERS PATEMT.
THE "SINGER" MANUFACTURING CO.'S
£8 10»., MACHINES,
Tlie cheapest and most reliable Machine in the market, combining the
greatest simplicity, convenience and elegance, mth all improTcments
that have been invented, expressly for General Family Sewing.
New styles received.
llluBtrated Catalogues Gratia and Post Free.
The "Singer" Manufacturing Company,
147, Cheapside, London, E.C
THE "WANZER" NEW IMPROVED LOCK-
STITCH SEWING MACHINE, so favourably recommended m
this paper, in the February Number. It has all tlic latest improve-
ments and is the best for Families, Drcssmakars, Tailors and
Manufactureis Instruction gratis to purchasers. Prospecluses Post-
IVee. The"Wanzer" "
side, E.C , London.
wing Maciiine Company (Limited), 4, Cheap-
Just published, price 23. 6d., cloth gilt.
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
Londoii: S. W. PARTRn)GE,9,Paternoster Row, and all BookseUeis.
PENMANSHIP.— A neat, elegant, and Self-instructing System of
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A tow kind friends being desirous ot increasing the
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by extending its circulation, have formed themselve.e
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arranged to give, as an appropriate reward,
A FIRST CLASS SEWING MACHINE,
Bit one of tlie hest Manufacturers,
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■.■ The First Yearly Volume of "THE BEITISH
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