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Foolscap 8vo cloth, One Shilling. ” For One Shilling, ETIQUETTE, SOCIAL ETHICS, AND DINNER-TABLE OBSERV¬ ANCES. Foolscap 8vo., cloth. For Sixpence, ETIQUETTE AND SOCIAL ETHICS. Abridged Edition, foolscap 8vo., sewed. LONDON: HOULSTON AND WRIGIIT, G5, PATERNOSTER ROW. THE CORNER CUPBOARD A FAMILY REPOSITORY BY THE EDITOR OF “ ENQUIRE WITHIN UPON EVERYTHING,” “ THE INTERVIEW,” “ NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS,” “ THE REASON WHY,” ETC. ETC. K c m p \\ “ May heaven (’tis all I wish for) send One genial room to treat a friend, Where decent cupboard, little plate, Display benevolence, not state.” FOURTEENTH THOUSAND LONDON HOULSTON AND WRIGHT 63, PATERNOSTER ROW MDCCCLX V. WORKS OF THE SAME SERIES. DAILY WANTS, DICTIONARY OF. 7s. 6d. USEFUL KNOWLEDGE, DICTIONARY OF. 10s. MEDICAL AND SURGICAL KNOWLEDGE, DICTIONARY OF. 5s. REASON WHY. PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY AND GEOLOGY. 3s. 6\ olf and the sheep, the.. 247 Ihat reminds me ... Think of a number . 97 PAGE Tricks of skill. 359 Twirl the trencher . 4 Where do you like it . 6 Whirligigs. 332 Why and because. 96 GAMES, OUT OF DOOKS— Battledore and shuttlecock 100 Bow and arrow. 137 Chipstone . 135 Climbing. 167 Cricket . 248 Fgghat .330 Fly the garter . 330 Follow my leader. 331 Hoops. 56 Hoops with sails . 95 T S P7 it . 330 Jumping. 166 Kite-flying. 97 Leap-frog ..’ 330 Raping . 166 £°P-£ un . 135 Puss in the corner . 58 Kunning. 166 See-saw . 136 Skip-jack.!.”! 56 Skipping rope . 57 Snow castle . 93 Snow giant. 93 Snow target . 94 Sucker. 136 Trap, bat, and ball . 56 Tom Tiddler’s ground. 331 Tops, humming. 134 Tops, peg . 134 Tops, whip. 134 Touch . 330 Vaulting. 166 Whoop. 330 Genius, struggles of.. 296 Get knowledge. 180 Giblets, to stew. 231 Gingerbread, to make. 13 Ginger-beer, recipe for . 239 Ghost stories. 50 Globe silver trees. 22 Glue, liquid, to make. 286 Good wife, a, what makes ... 191 Goody two-shoes (forfeit . 6 Goose, to carve. 26 Goose, to roast. 26 Goose, braised . 222 Goose, green, to roast. 231 Gooseberry jam, for tarts ... 287 Grammar in rhyme. 22 Grapes, to pickle. 262 Grapes, to preserve in vinegar . 281 Gravy soup, to make . 339 Green-pea soup, to make ... 339 Grey hair, the reason of.. 303 Grouse, to dress . 27 Grouse soup, to make.339 Guinea fowls, to dress . 27 Gum, liquid, to make. 270 Gums and teeth, to strengthen. 296 Gymnastics, instructions in. 165 CONTEXTS. PAGE H Hair, to remove superfluous 204 Hair wash, recipe for. 204 Hair wash, recipe, another, for. 204 Hair, directions for treat¬ ment of . 252 Hairs, grey, to remove . 288 Hands, paste for chapped ... 14 Ham, to boil. 71 Hams, York, to cure . 132 Ham, to choose,... 294 Ham, to cure. 294 Ham, to cure, 2s r ew England way . 294 Hams, to boil. 295 Hams, to roast. 295 Handcuffs unfastened (trick) 360 Hanging, treatment in cases of. 314 Happy couple, the (forfeit game) . 6 Hare pie, to make . 30 Hare, or leveret, to choose.. 73 Hare, to carve . 73 Hare, to roast . 73 Hare, to jug . 73 Hare, to pot . 73 Hare, Oxford, to dress . 107 Hares, how trapped . 112 Hare, track of, to detect ... 114 Hares, how netted . 114 Hare soup, to make. 339 Harmless duel (parlour game) . 5 “ Have you read the new book ?” (game to play) ... 97 Heart trefoil, history and advantages of . 238 Heart, ox . 63 Heat, lasting effects of . 318 Heat, experiments relating to . 63 Heat, reflected intensity of. 104 Heat, absorption of, how known. 105 PAGE Ilot boiled beans and butter (game to play) . 168 Hotels, modern, a few words about . 270 Household words, explana¬ tion of. 20 Housewife, reasons for the.. 357 How to secure good pud¬ dings . H Humanity, exercise of . 180 Humming-top, directions for spinning . 134 Humorous thoughts on puddings. 12 Hush-a-bye baby (forfeit game) . 7 Hymn, to content . 311 I “ I had a little basket ” (game to play) . 96 Ice, antispeptic powers of... 64 Ice in India . 356 Ice, sliding on . 18 Idleness, evil effects of . 160 Ill-breeding . 329 I’m blowed (forfeit game)... 6 Ingoldsby’s Christmas pud¬ ding . 10 Incrustations, to prevent ... 143 Indexes . 326 Indulgence bad for children 191 Industrious apprentice going to service (forfeit game)... 6 Infantine fits, remedy for ... 364 Ink, sympathetic. 31 Insect’s feet, peculiarity in.. 312 Insects in vines, to destroy . 306 Instinct and reason. 20 Irish stew, to make. 108 J Heat, internal, of the earth explained . 105 Heat, absorption of, by plants . 105 Here’s a pretty thing, and what is it? . 7 Hit or miss (forfeit game)... 6 Hoar frost, consideration of. 79 Hoar frost, explanation of... 79 Hodge-podge, to prepare ... 132 Hobsons choice (forfeit game) . 7 Holding at arm’s length. 167 Holly, description of. 2 Hook, directions for baiting 308 Hooks for fishing, to choose 308 Hooping cough, symptoms of. 299 Hooping cough, treatment for. 299 Hoops. 56 Hoops, more about. 95 Hoops, with sails. 95 Horse-bread, to compound.. 271 Januaries,remarkable events in past. 46 January, things in season ... 40 January for the boys and girls .... 56 January, phenomena of. 62 Jay, anecdotes of a. 329 Jelly, restorative, for in¬ valids . 193 Jelly, strengthening, Sir Kiehard Jebbs* . 200 Jelly, currant, red or black. 211 Jelly, apple . 218 Jelly, gooseberry. 230 Joints of beef, their names.. 36 Jug a hare, to . 73 July, phenomena of.. 225 July, things in season. 233 July for the boys and girls .. 247 Jumping up to the ceiling, instructions in . 95 Jumping, directions for. 165 June, things in season . 197 PAGE June, phenomena of . 201 June for the boys and girls . 207 K Ketchup, walnut . 193 Kail stalks, use of, in Jersey 251 Kettles, why partly bright... 101 Kettles, why partly black ... 104 Kidneys, sheep’s, to broil ... 10S Kidneys, ox . 71 Kitchener’s, Dr., plum- spudding sauce. 12 Kitchener’s, Dr., directions on cake making. 13 Elite, to make . 97 Kite, to ornament . 93 Kite, cloth, described. 99 Kites, good shapes for . 99 Knight of the w'histle (par¬ lour game). 4 Knowledge, get. ISO Knowledge, pour in, gently. 192 Knotted thread, the (trick). 359 Knot dissolved. 360 Labour, compulsory . 156 Lamb, to choose . 130 Lamb, joints of, denoted ... 130 Lamb, time required for cooking . 130 Lamb, hind-quarter of, to roast. 130 Lamb, leg of, to force. 130 Lamb, neck of, to boil . 131 Lamb, breast of, to stew with peas . 131 Lamb, fore-quarter of, to roast. 131 Lamb’s head and appurte¬ nances, to dress. 131 Lambert, Daniel . 337 Lamp shades, designs for ... 48 Lard, to make . 295 Larks and other small birds, to stew. 355 Law . ...?. 326 Lead trees . 22 Leap of life (tale). 182 Leap-frog (game). 330 Leaping, directions for . 166 Leg of mutton piece, to pot. 68 Lemonade, portable, recipe for.. 239 Lemon cheesecakes, to make 133 Lemons, to preserve in jelly 287 Lesson in itself sublime (poetry) . 123 Libraries for the poor. 302 Life doubled by the economy of time. 305 Lift a bottle with a straw (trick). 361 Light, influence of, on foliage 356 xii CONTENTS. . page Light, influence of, upon the constitution . 315 Light, irradiation of, ex¬ plained. 288 Likeness, the (forfeit game) 6 Lily, the (poetry). 293 Linen, to mark. 204 Lines for fishing, to choose.. 307 Liniment, volatile, to pre¬ pare. 32 Linseed tea. 31 Lips, chapped, paste for ... 14 Liquid blacking. 32 Liquor plumbi, to apply....*.,’ 364 Little children . 20 Live for something . 333 Lizzy, lines to . 298 Lobster sauce, to make.. 194 Lobster salad. 19c Lobsters, to choose. 196 Lobsters, to stew. 196 Longevity, statistics of ...... 147 Longevity, instances of. 147 Looking-glass, experiment with ..... . 104 Lover s wishes, the (poetry) 168 Low-billing, description of... 116 Lozenges, rhubarb . 32 Lungs, soundness of ...”!!!! 368 M Macaroni soup, to make. 339 Mackarel, to choose . 196 Mackarel, to boil. 190 Mackarel, to souse . 196 Mad dogs, remedy for . 286 Madness in cats . 221 Magic circle (game) ’ 358 Magical amputation (trick) . 360 Make a beginning . 173 Males, how trapped. 117 Man, the, whom nobody could benefit, and the man whom nobody could injure (tale) . 41 Man and woman, relative position of. 306 Mange in dogs. Highland cure for . 271 Mantel-pieces, low, incon¬ veniences of. 319 March for the boys and girls 97 March, things in season. 109 March, phenomena of. 119 March winds, peculiarity of. 119 Marmalade of pears. 211 Marriage vow, the (poetry).’ 159 Marriage ring, symbolized... 304 Marrow bones, to boil . 70 Mary Wilton (tale). 101 May for the boys and girls.. 165 May, things in season. 165 May, phenomena of.. 173 Meals, stated times for . 15 Meals, intervals between ... 312 Measles, nature of . 149 Measles, symptoms of.. 149 Measles, malignant. 150 PAGE | Measles, treatment of.. 178 1 Meat in season in December 24 MEDICAL NOTICE. 148 Meditations on a pudding ... 11 Medlar jelly, to make. 336 Melancholy truism . 352 Men and women, natures of, contrasted. 23 Metal, bright reflection of... 104 Metal, dark, why non-re- flective. 104 Mice-field and garden, how trapped . 117 Mice-haunts . 302 Milk of roses, to make . 221 Milk soup, to make. 3*10 Milk pans, to keep sweet ... 287 Mince pies, to make . 30 Mince pies without meat, to make . 30 Mince pie of lemon. 30 Mint sauce, to make . 131 Mirrors, reflection of. 104 Mistletoe, description of. 2 Mistletoe as a kissing bush.. 2 Mistletoe, ballad . 3 Modern Christmas . 3 Monks of old (poetry) . 265 Month, memorial lines on the 158 Monsoon, nature of. 120 Moon, has it an atmosphere. 157 Moor game, to dress .. 27 Moselle, sparkling, to make. 211 Mouse buttock of beef . 38 Mullets, to choose . 353 Mullets, to boil. 353 Mullets, to broil . 353 Mullets, to fry . 353 Mushrooms, to choose . 355 Mushroom catsup, to make. 356 MUTTON, shoulder of, to boil . 39 Mutton, saddle of, to dress . 71 Mutton, saddle of, to carve. 71 Mutton and all its use3 . 105 Mutton, to choose . 105 Mutton, time required for cooking . 106 Mutton, haunch of, to roast. 106 Mutton, haunch of, to roast, another way . 106 Mutton, to hash, venison fashion, without onions... 106 Mutton, to harrico . 107 Mutton chops, to cook . 108 Mutton, to hash, in the homely way . 106 Mutton, saddle of, to roast.. 106 Mutton, leg of, to roast. 107 Mutton, leg of, to boil . 107 Mutton, leg of, boiled with cauliflowers and spinach... 107 Mutton, leg of, stuffed with oysters. 107 Mutton cutlets, to cook. 107 Mutton, shoulder of, to roast 107 Mutton, shoulder of, to boil. 107 Mutton, loin of, to roast. 107 Mutton, names of joints of.. 108 Mutton, breast of, to boil... 108 Mutton, breast of, collared . 108 PAGE Mutton, neck of, to boil. 108 Mutton, shoulder of, novel method of cooking . 286 Mutton broth, to make . 341 Mutton broth for sick people, to make . 341 N Napoleon I. an adept at snow-forts . 93 Naturalist, the (forfeit game) 6 Nose, bleeding at, remedy for. 32 November, things in season. 356 November for the boys and ^ girls. 358 November, phenomena of... 366 o Oats, the best, are always the cheapest . 365 October for the boys and girls... 330 October, things in season ... 341 October, phenomena of. 348 Oh, the time when we went raaying (poetry) . 327 Oil for furniture . 32 Ointment for piles . 32 Old woman’s story . 253 One thing at a time. 55 Onions for stock gravy, to stew. 37 Onions, to fry . 40 Onion sauce, the best. 198 Onions, to pickle. 232 Onions, Spanish, to pickle... 262 Onion soup, to make . 339 Onions, to stew. 37 Oranges, to preserve in jelly 287 Oyster sauce. 39 Oyster wager. 334 Ox-cheek soup, to make. 70 Ox-heart, to hash. 68 Ox-heart, to roast. 68 Ox-kidneys, to broil. 71 Ox-tail soup, to make. 36 Ox-tongue, collared. 69 Ox-tongue, to pickle . 69 Ox-tail soup, to make. 340 P P’s and pea soup (allitera¬ tive stanza) . Ill Pain in pleasure (poetry) ... 361 Painters, impressment of ... 156 Painted glass, to prevent injury to, by moss. 239 Pancakes, with snow, to make . 30 Pancakes, Northampton¬ shire, to make. 264 CONTEXTS. Xlil PAGE Pancake, common, to make. 264 Parlour magic . 358 Parsnips, to preserve. 32 Partridges, to dress. 27 Partridges, to carve. 27 Partridges, to choose. 355 Partridges, to roast. 355 Pastiles, aromatic . 337 Pastime, a new “that re¬ minds me ” (to play) . 109 Patchwork sofa cushion (il¬ lustration) . 176 Patchwork quilt (illustra¬ tion) . 177 Patchwork patterns for borders . 304 Patchwork table cloth. 336 Patchwork quilt . 336 Pea-soup, to make . 339 Peg-in-the-ring, to play. 134 Peg-top, directions for spin¬ ning . 134 Perry, to make. 197 Perry, still, to make . 224 Pheasant, to carve . 27 Pheasant, to roast . 27 Pheasants, to choose . 355 Pheasants, to roast. 355 Phenomenon of all pheno¬ mena (game). 358 Philosophy, practical. 157 Physical organization, its mysteries . 317 Piccalillo, or Indian pickle, to prepare . 263 PIE, lamb, to make . 131 Pie, pork, with apples. 223 Pie, giblet, to make. 232 Pie, rabbit, to make . 263 Pie, hare. 30 Pies, mince . 30 Pigeon, to carve . 27 Pigeon pie, to make. 39 Pigeons, in surprise. 75 Pigeons, to stew . 133 Pig-feeding, statistics of.. 55 Pig, roasting a . 72 Pig, roast, to carve. 73 Pig’s feet and ears, souse for 76 Pig’s head, to dress. 295 Piles, ointment for . 32 Pills, strengthening, recipe for. 238 Pipes, freezing of, to prevent 31 Pith dancers. 331 Plaice, to boil, in gravy. 194 Plants, distribution of.. 174 Plants, structure of. 174 Plants, functions of. 176 Plants, skeleton, to instruct 193 Plants, to preserve, from frost. 296 Plants, watering . 199 Plaster, for stomach cough , 30 Plovers, to choose . 355 Plovers, to dress . 355 Plum fool, to make. 200 Plum-pudding sauce, recipe for. 12 Plum-pudding sauce, Dr. Kitchener’s . 12 PAGE Plum-pudding, Mrs. Rundel’s receipt. 10 Plum-pudding, Miss Acton’s receipt. 10 Poetic numbers (forfeit game) .. 7 Poetry, original . 327 Poised coin (trick) . 359 Pomatum rosemary. 221 Pop-gun, to use. 135 Pork, leg of, to dress, a favourite way. 131 Pork, to boil. 294 Pork, to roast . 294 Pork, chine of, to stuff. 294 Pork chops, to cook . 294 Pork, to pickle. 294 Pork, directions for choosing 294 Pork, different joints of.....! 294 Pork with boiled apples. 223 Potatoes, to cook. 39 Potatoes, frozen, to revive.. 301 Poultices, to make . 363 Poultry, to roast. 25 Poultry, to choose . 354 Pound cake, a good. 12 “ Pour in knowledge gently ” 192 Presentiments (a tale) ... ..289 Preserving, general instruc¬ tions for. 214 Prize of ten guineas offered by the editor. 79 Profession, choice of . 14 Profit and loss . 333 Progress of the human min d 326 Proteus Cupid (game to play) . 247 Proverbs, a string of . 265 Prudence, the end of. 122 PUDDINGS, Christmas, recipes for . 10 Pudding, Ingoldsby, Christ¬ mas, to make. 10 Pudding, Miss Acton’s own Christmas, to make. 10 Pudding, Mrs. Rundle’s plum, to make . 10 Pudding-cloths, to wash. 11 Puddings, good, how an old lady secured . 11 Pudding, meditation on a ... 11 Puddings, humorous thoughts upon . 12 Puddings, with snow, to make . 30 Pudding-sauce, teetotal. 12 Pudding, Yorkshire, to make 39 Pudding, lark, to make . 39 Pudding, roll, to make . 40 Pudding, Brackly, to make . 73 Pudding, American, to make 109 Pudding, custard, to make .. 133 Pudding, apple, an incom¬ parable . 200 Pudding, sausage, with apple and onion . 218 Puddings, hog’s, to make ... 132 Pudding, lemon, to make ... 233 Pudding, veal suet, to make 264 Pudding, batter, to make ... 264 Pudding, oatmeal, to make.. 264 page Pudding, a fine boiled rice, to make . 264 Pudding, common currant, to make . 264 Pudding, an excellent plum, to make . 264 Pudding, apple, to make ... 264 Pulsation, human. 29S Pumpkin, preserved . 198 Puss in the corner (to play) 58 Puzzle (a piece of worldly wisdom) . 8 Puzzle (orthographical enigma) . S Puzzle (a piece of worldly wisdom), answer to. 9 Puzzle (orthographical enigma), answer to . 9 Puzzle (geometrical! . 59 Puzzle (geometrical), solu¬ tion of. 65 Puzzle (in French) . 334 a Quarrels, to prevent . 169 Query, a. 20<> Query, a. 333 Quiet lodger, the (forfeit game) . 6 R Rabbits, young, rolled . 74 Rabbits, how trapped. 114 Rabbits, how snared . 115 Rabbits, how netted . 115 Rabbit, to boil . 231 Rabbit, boiled, sauce for ... 232 Rabbit, to roast . 232 Rabbit on the wall . 333 Rags, conversion of. 155 Rain, cause of . 139 Rain, extraordinary falls of. 14<) Rain, local peculiarities of... 140 Rain in tropical regions. 140 Rain, where unknown. 140 Rainwater taps,advantages of 197 Rainy days, average number of . 29 Raspberry vinegar, to make. 326 Raspberry jam . 337 Raspberry cream, to make.. 239 Reason why . 104 Reason and instinct. 20 Red letter days of the month of December. 29 Red letter days for January 46 Reflected heat and primarv heat contrasted.f. 104 Reflectors of heat, the best. 104 Reflectors of heat, why bad absorbers . 105 Refuse of London, value of.. 156 Refuse of the United King¬ dom, value of.. 156 Reigns of English sovereigns 66 XIV CONTEXTS. PAGE Relation of the senses. 235 Remarkable events in past Decembers. 29 Reputation. 143 Reverie (poetry) . 356 Rhubarb lozenges. 32 Rhyme, grammar in . 22 Ribs of beef, roasted, cold, fried, and hashed. 37 Ribs of roast beef, rolled and boned. 37 Ring, catch the. 4 ROAST turkey. 25 Roast goose . 26 Roast pheasant. 27 Roast partridge. 27 Roast guinea-fowl. 27 Roast blackcock . 27 Roast grouse. 27 Roast moorfowl. 27 Robin redbreast, anecdote of 111 •Rods for fishing, to preserve 307 Rods for lishing, to choose.. 307 Roots, to preserve . 319 Rose water, to compound ... 221 Round of beef, silver-side, fresh or salted. 38 Ruffs and reifs, to dress. 355 Rump of beef, roasted. 36 Rump of beef, slices of, cold and fried. 37 Running, directions for. 166 Russian caviar . 342 Rust, to prevent . 31 Rust from steel, to remove.. 32 Sailing packet, the old Irish. 365 Salmon, crimp, to boil . 133 Salmon, to pickle. 192 Salmon, to choose . 194 Salmon, to boil. 194 Salmon, to broil . 195 Salmon, in cases . 195 Salmon, to bake . 195 Salmon, to pot . 195 Salmon, to dry . 202 Salmon, to pickle. 204 Salmon, to pickle, another way . 251 Salmon fishing . 296 Salt aitchbone of beef, boiled 37 SAUCE, plain plum pudding 12 Sauce, teetotal pudding. 12 Sauce for wildfowl . 32 Sauce, oyster. 39 Sauce, sweet. 40 Sauce, white. 37 Sauce for puddings. 40 Sauce, colouring for . 40 Sauce, caper. 107 Sauce, tomato . 108 Sauce for turkey . 118 Sauce, mint . 131 Sauce, white. 194 Sauce, lobster . 194 Sauce, fennel. 196 Sauce for poultry. 193 PAGE Sauce, onion . 198 Sauce, celery. 218 Sauce for boiled rabbit . 232 Saucepans, why partly black 104 Saucepans, why partly bright 104 Sausages, Spanish, to make. 295 Sausages, pork, to make. 295 Sausages, beef. 71 Scald, remedy for. 200 Scalds, remedy for . 343 Scarlet fever, symptoms of.. 205 Scarlet fever, treatment of.. 205 Scarlatina, malignant, symp¬ toms of . 206 Scarlatina, malignant, treat¬ ment of . 206 Scotch farmer’s daily bill of fare . 310 Sea, depth of. 158 See-saw (game). 136 September, things in season 295 September for boys and girls 307 September, phenomena of... 313 Servants, hiring of . 318 Seven in two . 334 Shadow-buff (to play). 94 Sheep’s feet, cure for rot in. 32 Sheep’s tongues (in papers). 74 Sheep’s-head broth, to make 108 Sheep-fold . 334 Sheep-skins, to cure with wool on . 316 Shooting-stars . 14 Shuttlecock, to make a . 100 Silk and silkworms . 144 Silkworms, a substitute for.. 144 Silkworms, natural history of 145 Silkworms, annual produce of 146 Sirloin of beef.. 24 Sirloin of beef, to roast . 25 Sirloin of beef, to carve . 25 Sirloin of beef, lines on . 25 Sirloin of beef, a few more w ords about it . 36 Sirloin of beef, stewed . 37 SKATING, directions for... 16 Shin-wash, recipe for . 265 Skip-jack (to play) . 56 Skipping-rope . 57 Sliding, instructions in . 18 Small cakes. 13 Small-pox, symptoms of.. 233 Small-pox, treatment of. 234 Small talk . 123 Smoking, a woman’s idea on 216 Snails, destruction of. 335 Snares for birds. 112 Snipe, to carve . 27 Snipe, to dress . 27 Snipe, to roast . 355 Snow, beautv of.. 64 Snow, pancakes and puddings made with . 30 Snow, nature of . 64 Snow, protective qualities of 78 Snow, red, description of ... .78 Snow, experiments with. 78 Snow (why white) . 78 Snowballs, a few words about 93 8now giant. 93 TAGE Snow castle (a play) . 93 Snow target, exercise with... 94 Soapsuds, recovery of.. 155 Solar heat, how disposed of. 105 Soles, to choose. 195 Soles, to stew. 195 Soles, to fry . 195 Soles, to fricasee . 195 Song of the labourer . 351 Soon tired (game) . 359 Soot in kettles—why bad ... 104 Sound, nature of. 222 SOUP, mock-turtle, to make 132 Soup, lobster. 132 Soup, pumpkin. 222 Soup, giblet . 231 Soup, ox-tail . 36 Spider’s web, medical virtues of. 338 Spirits of the past (poetry) . 215 Spirits, to make . 364 Sponge cake, to make. 13 Sprain, cure for . 32 Spy (a game). 330 Square hole and round stopper . 334 Stars, shooting, explanation of. 14 Stars, number of. 153 Stars, I would be with thee to-night . 327 Starch from potatoes, to prepare . 203 Steel-traps, description of... 114 Steel, to take out rust from 32 Stew onions, to, for sirloin.. 37 Stings of insects, remedy 0 for. .346 Stir the batter (game to P%) . 167 Stock-pot, to prepare. 35 Stones useful in fields. 239 Stoops to conquer (forfeit 0 & a me) . 6 Storms, theory of.. 313 Strawberry jam, to make ... 251 Strawberries, to preserve whole .'239 Stuffing, for goose . 26 Stuffing, for duck. 26 Stuffing, for roast turkey ... 26 Stuffing, for veal . 26 Stuffing, for fowl, &c.. 26 Sucker, the explanation of.. 136 Sugar, to clarify, for pre¬ serves . 230 Sun s heat, influence of. 77 Sun’s rays, diffusion of heat e fr ? m ... 105 Sun s rays, influence of on the air. 105 Sunburns, to remove . 271 Sunstroke, treatment for ... 344 Superficial knowledge. 351 Suspended animation, to renew . 344 Swallows, services of. 110 Swallows, habits of. 348 Swallows, flight of . 343 Sweet sauce, to make. 40 4 PAGE Sweetbreads, to fry. 164 Swellings, remedy for. 346 Swifts, habits of . 349 Swine-fattening, rotten wood for. 288 SWIMMING, instructions in . 207 Swimming, anecdotes of. 211 Sympathetic ink . 31 T Take feathers out of an empty handkerchief (trick) 359 Talk with time (poetry). 65 Talkers, folly of.. 20 Taps, rain water . 197 Tea, linseed . 31 Tea, beef.. 71 Tea-cake, to make . 13 Teal, to dress. 354 Teapot of bright metal, ad¬ vantages of.. 103 Teapot, earthenware, supe¬ riority of. 104 Teapot, metal, on the hob... 104 Teetotaller, the (forfeit game) . 6 Teetotal pudding sauce. 12 Tee-to-tum. 331 Tell your wife . 21 Temperance, annual, how to determine. 140 Temperature in England ... 140 “ That will do ”. 82 Thermometer, the explana¬ tion of. 23 Think of a number (game to play).. 97 Think, instructions how to... 160 Thinking in town and country . 319 Things to be found out . 21 Things thrown away . 155 THINGS TO BE REMEM¬ BERED IN DECEMBER 29 Things in season in January 40 Things in season in February 74 Things in season in March... 109 Things in season in April ... 133 Things in season in May ... 165 Things in season in June ... 197 Things in season in July. 233 Things in season in August.. 265 Things in season, September 295 Things in season in October. 341 Things in season, November 356 Thunder, nature of. 284 Thunder, to calculate dis¬ tance of . 285 Timber, time for felling. 223 Time required for cooking... 106 Time. 326 Tinder-box, the old, reflec¬ tions concerning . 150 Tipe (form of trap) de¬ scribed. 115 Tobacco a panacea for horses 298 Tom Tiddler’s ground (game) 331 CONTEXTS. PAGE Tomato sauce, to prepare ... 108 Tomato salad. 106 Tomato catsup. 215 Tomato, best way to dress... 222 Tongue, ox. 69 Tongue, collared . 69 Tongue, sheep’s . 74 Toothache, cure for. 32 Top, humming . 134 To P> Peg. 134 Top, whip . 134 Touch (game) . 330 Trap, bat, and ball, to play.. 56 Trap, bat, and ball, antiquity m of...:. 57 Traps for birds, with horse¬ hair loops . lie Trapping birds, quadrupeds, flsh, vermin, &c. 112 Trapping, necessity of.. 118 Treatment of bruises . 32 Tree, silver globe. 22 Tree, lead . 22 Tree, tin. 22 Trees, Christmas . 9 Tripe, to boil. 69 Tripe, to fry . 70 Tripe, double. 74 Tripod of pipes (game) . 361 Trout, to choose . 196 Trout, to broil . 196 Trout, small, to fry. 196 Trout, to boil... 196 TURKEY, to roast. 25 Turkey, poults, to roast. 25 Turkey, to carve . 26 Turkey, sauce for, to make . 118 Turkey cock, to choose. 353 Turkey hen, to choose . 353 Turkey, to boil. 353 Turkey, to stew, brown. 353 Turkey, to roast, with oysters 353 Turkey, to hash . 354 Turbot, to fry . 194 Turbot, boiled in gravy. 194 Turbot, to choose. 194 Turbot, to boil. 194 Turtle, mock. 132 Twelfth night, customs on... 3 Twelfth cake, to make. 30 Twenty good forfeits . 6 Twenty conundrums . 7 Twirl the trencher (forfeit game) . 4 Two preachers, the (poetry) 157 V Vapours, influence of, on the air. 122 Vapours, nature of. 140 Variable truss of hay . 334 Varnish for baskets. 31 Varnish for pictures . 32 Varnish, blue, copal . 32 VEAL and all its uses . 161 Veal, to choose. 161 Veal, different joints of. 161 Veal stock, to make. 161 XV Veal, knuckle of, to boil. 161 Veal, knuckle of, to boil, another way. 161 Veal, to roast. 161 Veal, breast of, to stew ... .. 161 Veal, neck of, to stew, with c^ery . 161 \ eal, breast of, to stew, with peas or asparagus. 161 Veal, knuckle of, to hash, Northamptonshire way ... 161 Veal, fillet of, to stew . 162 Veal, to fricasee . 162 Veal, to harrico . 162 Veal, cold slices of, to cook. 162 Veal, breast of, in liodge Podge . 162 Veal, breast of, collared. 162 Veal, loin of, to serve, a favourite way . 163 Veal, dressed with rice . 163 Veal eollops, to prepare. 163 Veal cutlets, to dress. 163 Veal olives, to prepare . 163 V eal fried, with lemon . 163 Veal, to hash. 164 Veal, to mince . 164 Veal, to pot . 164 Veal ham, to cure . 164 Veal broth, to make. 341 Vegetable life, observations on. 151 V egetables, preservation of. 319 Vegetables in season in De¬ cember . 24 Venison, mock, to dress. 106 Venison, to keep sweet, or to improve when near changing. 232 Venison, haunch of, to roast 232 Venison, to hash . 232 Venison, to choose . 232 Ventilation, hints on ... . 154 V ermicelli soup, to make ... 339 Vice and virtue... 159 Vinegar, from apples. 200 Vinegar and water, as a beverage. 287 Violet powder, to apply. 364 Virtue without fear .. 313 Volatile liniment . 32 w Wager, the (game) . 358 Walking, directions for. 165 Walnut catsup. 198 Walnuts, to pickle . 232 Washing pudding-cloths ... 11 Wash, a, for the skin. 235 Wassail bowl, description of 3 Watering plants, instruc¬ tions in . 199 Water bottle, to cleanse ... 200 Water, preservation of . 200 Water-spouts, nature of.. 219 Water, going into the. 207 Weather indications, af¬ forded by plants. 303 XVI CONTENTS. PAGE Weaver bird . 347 Weeding, industrious, by Flemish fanners . 251 Week’s work, a (poetry) ... 20 Weep no more (poetry). 327 What is life ? (poetry) . 316 Whip-top (to play) . 134 Whirligigs . 332 Whirlwinds, motion of . 314 Whistle, knight of the. 4 Whitebait, winter . 3S White sauce, to make. 37 White sauce, to make. 194 White sauce, for poultry or boiled veal. 193 White soup, without meat, to make . 340 Whitlows, cure of . 362 Whoop (game). 330 Why and because. 96 Widgeon, to dress . 354 PAGE Wife-beating, its cause and its remedy. 328 Wild fowls, sauce for. 32 Wild ducks, to dress . 354 Wind, nature of, explained.. 119 Wind, action of, explained.. 120 Winds, trade winds, what are they? . 120 W ind current, singular in¬ stance of. 120 Winds, regular operation of. 121 Winds, local, illustrations of. 121 Wind, velocity of. 121 Winds, why sent . 122 Wines, to preserve, on draught . 356 Wire snares, description of. 114 Wolf, goat, and cabbages ... 333 Women of Flinder’s Island.. 352 Wonderful, love of the . 315 PAGE Wonderful number nine. 333 Wonderful wafers (trick) ... 360 Wonderful filter, the (trick) 360 Woodcocks, to dress . 27 Woodcocks, increase of, summer . 311 Woodcocks, to choose. 354 Woodcocks, to roast . 355 Words, value of . 180 Words, household . 20 World in miniature. 191 Wounds in trees, to heal ... 318 WOUNDS, INCISED . 347 WOUNDS, PUNCTUKED. 347 Y Yeast, to make. 329 Yule log, why so named. 3 THE CORNER CUPBOARD. OUR MOTTO. M Could we with ink the ocean fill. And were the heavens of parchment made, Were every stalk on earth a quill. And every man a scribe by trade; To write the love of God alone, Would drain the ocean dry; Nor could the scroll contain the whole, Though stretch’d from sky to sky.” 1. CHRISTMAS.—Christmas is the fes¬ tival of the Christian churches, in comme¬ moration of our Saviour’s nativity, on the 25th of December. It is celebrated in the various churches by special services; and it THE HOLLY. (I Aqutfolium). (See 6 ). is a frequent custom to decorate sacred edifices with branches of the holly, the mistletoe, the cedar, and the pine. No. 1. 2. Christmas takes its name from Christ, and mass , the high mass of the Catholic churches, by which the advent of the Sa¬ viour was celebrated. 3. The origin of Christmas may be thus briefly explained. The Greeks and the Romans held a festival in honour of Saturn which commenced annually about the mid¬ dle of December. These festivals were called Saturnalia, and during the days of festivity slaves were reputed masters; they were at liberty to say what they pleased; B n THE CORNER CUPBOARD: and it is said that they sat at table, and were waited upon even by their own masters. These festivities were of a very riotous nature. When Christianity dawned upon the world, its disciples sought to do away with heathen customs and their de¬ basing extravagancies, and they therefore instituted the festival of the nativity of Christ. 4. The origin of Christmas, in our own country, differs somewhat from the account already given of its origin in Rome. Here • the ancient Druids held three grand festi¬ vals annually, commemorative of the re¬ spective idols, Thor, Frea, and Odin. Of these, the former, which represented the sun, and called the Prince of the Power of the Air, was celebrated with the most mag¬ nificence. It was to commemorate the cre¬ ation, and was kept at the winter solstice ; for that being the longest night in the year, they assigned to it the formation of the world from primeval darkness, and called it Mother Night. The festival itself was de¬ nominated luel or Yeol, whence our Yule, and was a season of universal enjoyment. When Christianity was introduced, in ac¬ cordance with the system of indulgences permitted by Gregory I., this festival was transferred to the Nativity of Jesus; and the Y ule feast accordingly, in the course of time, received the more suitable name of Christmas. [The history of Christmas would of itself form a pleasing volume. We have given the few pre¬ ceding particulars, because the mind is more easily impressed with knowledge when it is ex¬ cited by any circumstances that can render that knowledge interesting. Everyone who enjoys the festivity of Christmas should know why, at this season, we so universally give ourselves’ to merry-making.] 5. Christinas in the olden time was ob¬ served in a manner widely different from the present. The difference arose chiefly from the constitution of society, which in early days presented a wide contrast from the present time. Each parish had an offi¬ cer, who was designated “The Lord of Misrule,” and whose duty it was to direct the Christmas fetes, and the festival of Christmas was celebrated with plays, masques, grand spectacles, games, dances, and romps. Instead of masters waiting upon their servants, they mixed with them, gave them hearty fare, and for a time for¬ got the distinctions of rank. 6. THE IIOLLY.—The holly is a beau¬ tiful and well-known evergreen, of the ge¬ nus Ilex, which includes several species. Its name is supposed to be a modification of holy, as early writers speak of it as a holy plant or tree. It probably derived this appellation from having been used to adorn holy places, and from the fact that its red berries are in perfection about the time of the festival of Christmas. The wood of the holly is the hardest of all white wood, and it is much used for purposes of inlaying’ &c. In Germany the holly is termed C'-iristdorn; in Denmark, Christthorn; in Sweden, Christtorn; and it has other names in various countries, all signifying that it is a plant adopted as a holy emblem. 7. THE MISTLETOE.—The mistletoe is a parasitic plant, growing on trees, and its history is peculiarly interesting. From its habit of growing upon trees, it was formerly thought to be a vegetable excrescence, but it has been ascertained to be propagated by the white seeds or berries, which are con¬ veyed by the missel thrush from the mistle¬ toe to other trees. It is supposed that the viscous juice of the berry adheres to the beak of the bird, and that in striking his beak against the bark of trees to free him¬ self from the berry, he propagates the plant ; for if the berry sticks to a smooth part of the bark it will take root, and sprout out the next winter. Among the Druids the mistletoe was held as a sacred plant, because they reverenced the number three, and the leaves and berries are found frequently in clusters of three. It also grows upon the Oak, and this being a tree sacred to the Druids, doubtless gave them another cause of veneration for the mistletoe. At the end of each year the Druids marched in solemn procession to gather the mistletoe from the sides of a stately oak ; they then presented the mistletoe to Jupiter, invoking the blessing of that deity, and inviting all mankind to assist them, exclaiming: “ The new year is at band; gather the mistletoe 8. THE MISTLETOE AS A KISSING BUSH.—-That oracle of all out-of-the-way information, Notes and Queries, has searched in vain for a satisfactory account of Why the mistletoe came to be adopted as a kiss¬ ing bush ? But Mr. Alfred Crowquill has given a fanciful interpretation of the cir¬ cumstance in the following lines :_ A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 3 “ The winter came, poor Cupid fled. His wings were wet and dripping; llis bed of roses withered quite, •Twas so severe and nipping. He never slipped so oft before, Though never sure his footing; His Angers were quite blue with cold, ’Twas useless trying shooting. " So to Ma Venus off he sped, Complaining sadly to her That victims were so scarce on earth— They never had been fewer. He told his tale, all drowned in tears Which froze as they were dropping, And on his cold and marble cheek Like pearls of price were stopping. “ Fair Venus seized the precious gift, And quickly so disposed them, She into one small fairy branch Of'Mistletoe composed them. «Let this for ever be/ cried she, * The talisman of misses; And you’ll find victims fast enough, For your great trap is kisses/ ” [The music is published by Jullien, Regent- street.] 9. THE YULE LOG.—Yule being the ancient name of the Christmas festival, the large log burnt on the Christmas fire ob¬ tained the name of the Yule log. 10. THE WASSAIL BOWL.—This was a large drinking vessel, in which our Saxon forefathers drank health to each other in their public entertainments, exclaiming, “ Wses hsel,” or “ Health be to you!” It was a Saxon custom to go about during Epiphany (11) singing a carol, drinking the health of the inhabitants, and collecting aims to replenish the bowl. Hence arose the present system of carol singing, Christ¬ mas waits, Christmas boxes, Christmas ale &c &c. 11. EPIPHANY (AND TWELFTH NIGHT) is a Christian festival held on the twelfth day after Christmas, January the Sixth, in honour of the greeting of our Saviour by the wise men. It is a custom in families to divide plum cakes on the even¬ ing of this day, which is called Twelfth Night, and to draw lots for imaginary cha¬ racters, which are to be sustained through¬ out the evening. 12. MODERN CHRISTMAS.—The Christmas of the present time is marked by very different features to those which dis¬ tinguished the festivals of bygone times. Bacchanalian revelry and grotesque fetes have given way to religious services, family gatherings, friendly parties, convivial games, Christmas waits, and pantomimes at the public theatres. The press lends its aid to render the season interesting. The Illus¬ trated News comes out with a double num¬ ber, filled with appropriate illustrations. If Charles Dickens gives us no Christmas story in the book form, he speaks to us in Household JVords. And every newspaper and magazine throughout the kingdom will be found to have its Christmas story, or its Christmas lore, and the “ Poets’ Corners” will give ample evidence of the reigning influence of “ Father Christmas.” It is regarded, and very wisely, as a season of mutual forgiveness, and of renewed hope; and the most practical suggestion for good which we can offer under this head is, that we should “forgive our enemies” before another year may dawn upon us, and ex¬ amine ourselves strictly upon the point, and pray to Almighty God for his help and guidance in the future. Having done this, we may participate w'itli joy in the innocent festivities of the season, as a help to which we give some Games, Enigmas, Charades, and Conundrums (14). 13. THE ETIQUETTE OF CHRIST¬ MAS PARTIES.—Etiquette is less rigid at Christmas than at any other season of the year. Christmas parties, being intend¬ ed for the re-union of relations and inti¬ mate friends, it would be a gross mistake to uphold those rigid laws of fashion which govern other entertainments. The good things provided by the host and hostess should be more homely than upon other occa¬ sions ; and there should be a marked hearti¬ ness in their demeanour towards those whom they entertain. Those who assemble may be more free in their intercourse than upon ordinary occasions, the good wishes of the season being upon every tongue. Dress should be less displayed now, than at the fashionable parties that will commence about the middle of January. At a Christmas party everybody should cheer¬ fully join in the most simple pastimes. Old Age and Youth ^should shake hands and unite in the general mirth. A Christmas should be an era in everybody’s history, and it should be our especial pleasure to con¬ tribute by each word and act to the happi¬ ness of those around us. 14. CHRISTMAS GAMES.—It is a very difficult thing to describe in print the various games known as “Christmas,” or 4 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: “Parlour Games.” And further, their variety and number is so great that they would fill a moderate volume. We intend, therefore, at present to give half-a-dozen games that we consider most appropriate to Christinas, and which will be sufficient to afford a merry evening wherever they may be adopted. And having given these, we shall enumerate about a dozen more, the rules for which we shall publish at a future time. We have frequently found at Christmas that these games are forgot¬ ten. Some one is asked to start a game, but nobody complies, because they have all forgotten their old amusements—“it was so long ago,” &c.—but no sooner has the name of one familiar game been started than memory comes to their aid, and soon the cheerful circle is alive with laughter. 15. Twirl the Trencher (Forfeit Game ).— A . wooden platter, or a plate, is brought in, and given to a person who is to be the leader. The leader then takes a name himself, and gives a name to each of the company. Numbers will do, or the Chris¬ tian, or familiar names by w'hich they are usually known, or the names of animals or flowers may be adopted. Each person must be sharp enough to remember his or her name directly it is mentioned. Each per¬ son has a chair, and a large circle (the larger the better) is formed around the plate. The leader then gives the plate a spin, and calls out the name of the person who is to catch it. Leader then runs to his seat, leaving the plate spinning, and when the person named fails to catch the plate before it has done spinning, he or she must pay a forfeit, which must be held until all the players have forfeited. (See 22). [This game excites a great deal of merriment, and should be played in a spirited manner. The plate should be fairly spun, and the names dis¬ tinctly but quickly called out. A little strata- gem should be employed by looking towards one person, and then calling out the name of another quite unexpectedly. Nobody should demur to ft forfeit fai/ly fined, and each person should remember his own forfeits.] 16. The Knight of the Whistle. —This, though a very simple game, is one of the most amusing we have ever seen. The person who is to be made a Knight of the Whistle, must not have seen the game before. He should be asked if he has ever been made a Knight of the Whistle ? If he answers “No!” his consent must be asked, and he must then be told to kneel down to re- ceive the knighthood. Some one must then sit down, and the knight kneeling rests his head in the lap of the person who is sitting, and all the persons gather round and pat gently on his back, while they re¬ peat these words:— J Here we unite With fond delight. The Rose, the Shamrock, and the Thistle And with due state * We now create— The one who kneels Knight of the Whistle!” A whistle and a piece of string , some 12 to 14 inches long , should have been pre ¬ viously prepared , and while the person lias been kneeling down, it should be fastened to his back, by the button on his coat, or bv the aid of a pm. This done, he should be told to listen to the sound of the whistle, that he may know it again. Some one should then sound the whistle, and when the knight has confessed that he should know the sound again, he is told to stand up, and the company form a circle all around ! u “; ^en the fun consists of some one behind his back catching the whistle (with¬ out pulhng at the string), and sounding it— dropping the whistle the instant it has sounded. The knight (having been pre- viously told that he is to catch the whistle) will jump round and probably seize hold of the hands of the person who sounded it, but at the same moment he will unconsciously have conveyed the whistle to those on the opposite side. And thus, the more anxious the knight gets, the more he embarrasses lbT Sel vf- !f C t USe ’ at ever ^ tu ™, he conveys the whistle to some one behind him This creates very good laughter. f.I^ are s,10u , 1(1 be taken not to have the gtrim* on V e e tha h t e i^ C iuy Sd^’wfff But a small keybetter^caSte ’ hanTOTa^ ^5^36 Sfie from knights.] 8 Wdl ^ gentleme »> “*y be made ^ ATCH TIIE Ring-. —A good game to follow the preceding one, is catch the ring as the company will have the opportunity ot sitting down. The chairs are placed in a circle, just so far apart, that each per- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 5 son sitting can easily reach the hand of another person on either side of him. One person stands in the middle of the circle. A piece of string with a wedding, or a larger ring of brass, upon it, is then tied, of a sufficient length to reach all round the circle, so that each person may catch hold of it. The players are then to slide the ring along the string, passing it from one to the other, and the game is, for the per¬ son who stands in the centre to try to catch the ring. When he catches it, the person with whom he finds it is to go into the centre. [Forfeits may be added to this game, if pre¬ ferred, each person caught with the ring paying forfeit.] 18. Blind Man’s Buff. —This is a lively (Tame, very well known, and one that will do very well to follow “ Catch the Ring, during which the company sat down. One of the company is blindfolded, and must then endeavour to catch another of the company, who is then to be blindfolded, and so on in turn. It is usual to induct the blind-folded person by some such process as the following. He is led into the centre of the room, and some one addressing him, while the company stand up round him, says:— “ How many horses has your father got ?” He answers “ Three!” “ What colour are they ?” He replies 4 Black, White, and Grey! “ Then turn about and catch whom you may! The fun then begins, and everybody must look out for himself. When any one is caught, all the company keep immediate silence, and the blindfolded person is to call out the name of his prisoner. If he makes a mistake, the prisoner must be liberated, and the sport recommenced. [This is a capital game, if played with modera¬ tion, and in a right spirit. There should be no unpleasant t ricks played upon the blindmau, and everybody should take a share in the risk of being caught.] 19. The Dutch Concert. —This game will do to follow the preceding one, as all the parties again sit down. Each person makes a selection of an instrument—say one takes a flute, another a drum, a third the trombone, a fourth the piano, and each person must imitate in the best way he can the sound of the instrument, and the motions of the player. The leader of the band, commencing with his instrument, all the others follow, tuning some popular air, such as “ Pop goes the Weasel,” “ Bobbing around,” “ In the Days when we went Gipseying,” or any other air. The fun consists in this, that the leader may take any instrument from either of the players, who must watch the leader, and take the instrument which he was previously playing. If he fails to do so, he pays forfeit . Or if he makes a mistake, and takes the wrong instrument, he pays forfeit. Suppose A to be the leader, playing the viDlin, and B to be one of the band, playing the trom¬ bone. Directly A ceases to play the violin and imitates the trombone, B must cease the trombone, and imitate the violin, and immediately A returns to the violin, B must take the trombone, or whatever other instru¬ ment A was playing the moment before he took the violin. If he makes a mistake he pays forfeit. [This is a very laughable, though rather noisy game. It should not be continued too long. A good leader will soon be able to impose for¬ feits upon all the players]. 20. The Harmless Duel (Anew Game). —This will afford a great deal of amusement. A circle is formed, and all sit down but one person, who holds in his hand a cup with soap suds, and a tobacco pipe, or a large quill. He then calls one of the company, and tells him to go and pull somebody^ nose—of course he does so making as much fun as possible the w’hile. The person whose nose is pulled gets up and challenges his antagonist to a duel. Then they stand face to face, and the cup-holder blows a large bubble between their two faces, and then the one who succeeds in blowing the bubble into the face, or anywhere on the head of the other, is considered the victor* This will excite screams of laughter. Three or four bubbles between each pair of com¬ batants is considered sufficient to satisfy the highest sense of honour, and the cup-holder either challenges some one himself, or names another combatant to commit another insult. This may be made a forfeit game, by each person w T ho is vanquished paying forfeit. [The pipe and suds should be obtained the morning before the party. To makegood suds, some soap should be cut into shavings, and put to dissolve in a little hot water, and allowed to stand for some hours, so as to produce good elastic bubbles that will not easily break.] 21. Six other Games. —The following games will probably be remembered upon the mere mention of their names. “ Runt the Slipper.” «Row do you Like it? Where do you Like it ? and When do you Like it ?” “ The Gig ” otherwise called “ The Traveller ” (in which a tale is told, and whenever allusion is made to the assumed name of any one of the players, all the company rise up and turn round, or shift to each other’s seats). “ The Mena- gerie;” “Shadow Buff” and “ The Blind Pointer” S J re o a11 games, and the rules of tnem maybe found by referring to our Index.] 22. TWENTY GOOD FORFEITS._ Here are some good forfeits to be used* in connection with the following games :_ i. Pm Blowy.— Blow a bubble, and catch it on the tip of your nose.— See 20. ^-j 1e Teetotaller. —The owner of the forfeit is to be blindfolded, and to be fed with water from a spoon until she guesses who is feeding her. in. Collins’s Ode. —Give illustration of the passions, by holding a candle or lamp in your hand, and at the bidding of the orfeit-holder, make your face express, in the following order—smiles, tears, laugh¬ ter, hatred, love, terror. iv. Goody Two-shoes. —You are requested to take two chaii-s, and then place them back to back. Then take off your shoes and jump over them. (You will naturally suppose that you are thit 1 vmi°^h Jn ?e cnAIES > b . ut 11 is only intended that you shall jump over the shoes !] g Industrious Apprentice going to THE CORNER CUPBOARD: ing what they have agreed to, might say, “ Put it m water until it dies.” “ What will you do in m , y hair when I go minp?” 1 “ di " v at . Will you do with your jas- “‘?i ?.T Place it between the leaves of a book *t is quite dry. Then the interpreter will tell you aloud that you must put William Tho¬ mas into water until he dies; that you must 15“? Hannah Smith in your liair at a ball, and that you must put Mary Briggs between the leaves of a book until she is quite dry. This, al- laughtcr.] lere nonseuse ' wil1 ex cite roars of vil. The Adept. —Laugh, then whistle; cry, then whistle; cough, then whistle. Tin. The Naturalist.— Imitate six ani¬ mals—the dog, the duck, the cuckoo, the ciow, the donkey, and the unicorn ! [The last is intended as a puzzler.] ix. The Aspiring Orator.— Speak a brief sentence, sounding the H where it should not be sounded, and omitting it where it should be sounded. [This is performed in the following wav The owner of the forfeit is asked what situation hi will take. Perhaps he will say a carpenter. Tiien ask him how he will plane, and saw and" & and hammer, &c./and he mult go through all the motions, or he will not be eii- titled to receive the forfeit. Any trade may be imitated in the same way.] ‘ VI. The Boquet. —Choose Three Flowers wsssspe: -ss? decide that William Thomas shall be your met William, Hannah Smith your lily,‘and Marv Bnggs your jasmine. Then when vou return some one will ask you aloud, “ what will you do With your sweet William,” and you, not , [You can escape in this way.—” I Hobiect to ave Hanythmg to do Hin such a manner ’Ow aHidean eit? ^ J '° U eVer such X. The Quiet Lodger. —The person who owns the forfeit may be called upon to choose one or two musical instruments. Haying done so, he may be requested to imitate them. XI. Stoops to Conquer. —Crawl around , le ,™ m °” a j 1 /'°urs forwards, your forfeit shall then be laid upon the floor, and you must crawl backwards to it, without seeing where it is placed. ° xii. The Likeness.— A lady may be called upon to put on a gentleman’s' hat and give an imitation of the gentleman, or a gentleman may put on a lady’s bonnet, xiil. Hit or Miss. —You are to be blind¬ folded, and turned around two or three times. Then you are to walk towards one of the company, and the handkerchief is to be taken off, that you may see the person you have touched. Then you are to kiss that person, and each alternate one all around the room. q«Si?eS i, ^ , ot n Sh“/5 rC,d - ” m fro - XIV. The Rappy Couple.— Two forfeits may be redeemed by two persons at once. I hey may be requested to whistle a duet to dance a pas de deux, or to see which can s, ng Rule Britannia (or any other air, with words) the most rapidly. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 7 xv. The Egotist. —Propose your own icalth in a complimentary speech, and sing he musical honours. xvi. Dot and Carry One. —Hold one mcle in one hand, and walk round the room. [This is suited only to gentlemen.] XVII. Sing one line of four different songs vithout pausing between them. [It would be well to find four lines that i fiord humour taken consecutively, such as •‘ All round my hat,” We saw the Frenchman lay “ Let us speak of a man as we find him,” “ Down where the aspens quiver!”] xvin. “ Hobson’s Choice .”—Burn a •ork one end, and keep it clean the other, fou are then to be blind-folded, and the •ork is to be held horizontally to you. fou are then to be asked three times which md you will have ? If you say “ right, 3 ’ hen that end of the cork must be passed dong your forehead; the cork must then >e turned several times, and whichever md you say must next be passed down , T our nose; and the third time across your •heeks, or chin. Yqu are then to be illowed to see the success of your choice. [This will afford capital fun, and should be daycd fairly, to give the person who owns the orfeit a chance of escape. The end of the cork diould be thoroughly well burnt. As a ioke ’or Christmas time, this is perfectly allowable; md the damp corner of a towel or handker- •hief will set all right. It should be allotted to t gentleman, and one who has a good broad md bare face.] Xix. Poetic Numbers. —Repeat a pas¬ sage of poetry, counting the words xloud as your proceed, thus : — [Full (one) many (two) a (three) flower (four) s (five) born (six) to (seven) fade (eight) unseen .nine) and (ten) waste (eleven) its (twelve) sweetness (thirteen) on (fourteen) the (fifteen) lesert (sixteen) air (seventeen)! This will prove a great Puzzle to many, and afford con¬ siderable amusement. xx. Hush-a-bye Baby. —Yawn until you make several others in the room yawn. [This can be done well by one person w ho ran imitate yawning well, and it will afford in¬ describable mirth. It should be allotted to one of the male sex, with a large mouth and a sombre or heavy appearance, if such a one can be found in the party.] These forfeits, it will be seen, have each a separate name and number. Now a good plan would be for a person who is to take an active part in the evening party to read them over during the day, and to be¬ come acquainted with them. Then, in allotting the forfeits, when they are called thus : — “Here’s a pretty thing, and a vert TRETTY THING, AND WHAT SHALL THE OWNER OF THIS THING DO?” The person awarding the forfeits may call out “ No. 1,” “No. 10,” “No. 15,” or any other number; or may say (which would be more amusing), “ Hush a bye baby /” “ Hobson’s Choice /” “ Dot and Carry One ! ” &c. The Corner Cupboard may be laid on the table to afford further explana¬ tion of the forfeits, or be held in the hand of the person who is holding up the forfeits while they are being cried, and this person can at once explain what is to be done. In this way the redemption of the forfeits will go on freely, without stoppage or hesi¬ tation, and a capital evening’s amusement be derived. 23. TWENTY CONUNDRUMS, each of tchich is warranted to excite a laugh ! I. When was beef tea first manufactured upon a large scale in England ? II. When does a man devour a musical instrument ? III. Why is a pig’s tail like a carving knife ? iv. Why arc crows the most sensible birds ? v. What is the difference between the sun and bread ? VI. What kind of wine is both meat and drink ? VII. Why should a man, when he’s eating salt-fish on Good Friday, take no egg-sauce with it ? viii. Why is a soldier like a vine ? ix. Why is hot bread like a caterpillar r X. Why is a short negro like a white man ? XI. Which has most legs, a horse or no horse ? XII. Why is a thief in a garret like an honest man ? XHI. Why is a man searching for the philosopher’s stone like Neptune ? xiv. Why is a fender like Westminster Abbey? xv. Where did Charles the First’s exe¬ cutioner lunch, and what did he take ? xvi. Why did the accession of Victoria to the throne throw a greater damp over Eng¬ land than the death of King William ? 8 THE CORNER CUPBOARD. xnr. Why should a gouty man make his will? xvm. "Why are bankrupts more to be pitied than idiots ? xix. When may a gentleman’s estates be said to consist of feathers ? xx. Why is a sailor like a member of Parliament ? (See 29.) 24. PUZZLE.—A Piece of Woeldly Wisdom. —Young 16, 7, 13, I advise you to 20, 12, 15, 5, 27, 11, to your 27, 20, 29, 7, 4. 30, with 29, 19, 24, 27, 6, 7,13, 8, 27 —to 16, 17, 19, 7, the 16, 10, 15, 5 of your 5, 12, 16, 27—to 25, 12, 30, 27, with the 20, 17, 6, 9—to 19, 17, 5, and 29, 25, 12, 11, 18, with 16, 21, 29, 27, 25, 17, 5, 26,10, 22—to aim at 23,6, 27,17, 5 things, but not to despise 20, 26, 5, 5, 20, 19 ones, because 20, 12, 24, 27 itself, is 16, 17, 29, 7 up of 16, 3, 16, 19, 28, 5, 1—to 15, 7, 5, 5, 20, 27, your bills 21,24, 5, 19, 28, and never to 24, 3, 6,14, 27, 5, this proverb which con¬ sists of thirty letters. (See 30.) 25. PUZZLE. — Obthogbaphical Enigma.—A Lesson fob Young Ladies. —Let your 19, 23, 12, 24, 2, 11, 31, be 15, 17, 14, 30, 1, 21—1, 23, 9, 4—1, 35, 22, 2 and free from 32, 7, 13, 9, 29— your con¬ versation 31, 21, 24, 31, 28, 16, 1, 29, and without 32, 2, 9, 23, 14, 30, 34, 4—your 3, 17, 19, 32, 2, 11—19, 29, 2, 22—32, 8, 30, 13, 29, 12, 3 and 5, 16, 1, 33, 15, 28, 24, 15, Let not your 9, 34, 2, 31, 31 be 15, 18, 6, 9, 4, but 12,2,8, 3 and 31, 6, 13, 36, 17, 9 to your 11, 8, 14, 22. Be 22, 35, 24, 9 to your 2, 26,6,18, 1, 31—15, 29, 12, 3, 1, 17 to those 6, 14, 25, 21, 11, you, and 5, 16, 33, 9, 28, 2, 12, 30 to your 32, 18, 7, 20, 14, 36, 31. Thus you will obtain the 17, 31, 3, 20, 29, 19 of your companions, and the 8, 32, 32, 7, 10, 16, 18, 36, 13, 5, 24 of the wise. A sentence containing 36 letters. (See S1.J 26. CHARADE. But if by misfortune you’re cursed. With such source of connubial wars— To cure this inveterate ill. Of remedies divers I’d tell, Did not Shakespeare prescribe with great skill, And where could you learn them so well! Should his means no contentment beget, Nor patience, nor time bring relief, Oh! do not my second, as yet, To yourself, w ith your hopes or your grief— Who knows, if you live, and are kind, (Though of course ’tis a terrible blow). But Fate has my second behind, In store for the source of your woe. But Husbands! whate’er lbe your dole If my second you’ll alter in ineaning, It may be you’ll visit my whole ; With envy, or sympathy beaming. But hush! such injurious thoughts And its false,—a misnomer besides; Though implied, do not whisper that ought. Of my first, in my whole e’er resides. Oh! come then, ye Spouses that raise, Or are vexed by domestic unrest; Unlearn your disconsolate ways. Example will teach you the best. Fair whole! how thy beautv I’d raise, were it needful to do thee such wrong- But thy learning, thy fare, and thy praise, Have been themes for far loftier song. [We have found this charade in an old scrap¬ book, but have been unable to alight upon the answer to it. As it will interest lovers, hus¬ bands, and wives, we offer it to their rivalrv, to see whether a lover, a husband, or a wife, will be the first to supply the answer.] 28. ENIGMA. Oh! source of all our joys, and all our woe. Type of Creation, in its mingled flow Of good and evil; how may we receive, Thine all-productive name! should we not grieve That thou wert ever made so frail, so fair- For all the ills to which our flesh is heir, From thee arise—from thee our loss of wealth, Poison to life, to happiness, to health, From thee our ruined hopes, from thee the earth, Mourns its sad blight, its pestilence, and dearth. Change we the picture—and in thee behold Oh wondrous mystery! blessings yet untold, a ee—we £ ain ? nr loss > for P ain our ease, And the great med’eine for our sore disease Hope springs exulting in the troubled breast. That still through thee, cur sorrows shall find My first is never out, you may rely; My second at a ball we oft espy; My TniRD will do as well to solve charade, As when some great experiment is made; My whole at Waterloo and Cressy’s field Was seen, and helped to make the foemen yield— (See 32 .) 27. CHARADE. Ye Lovers, beware of my first, If you’d ’scape matrimonial jars, too, who now onr cares be- -Lilies cnannors, guile. Now vex us with a frown, or with a smile Present thy image, whether dark or fair, thy weakness, as thy grace they share, ©till tis of thee, they brighten every scene. Nay, without thee, who knows if they had And, at that hour, when daylight dies away And the sun setting, sheds a mellower ray; Oi when the stars in heaven’s deep azure gleam, A F AMI IA REPOSITORY. II And dew-drops glisten in the moon’s pale When whispering lovers breathe the oft-told tale, Or wander slowly through the accustomed vale; We may not see thee there, yet still thy name. Springs to our lips, another, yet the same. (See 33). 29 ANSWERS TO THE TWENTY CONUNDRUMS. i. When Henry the Eighth dissolved the Pope's bull. ii. When he has a pianoforte. (Piano for tea.) III. Because it is flourished over a ham ! iv. Because they never complain without caws. Y. The sun rises in the east , but bread rises with the yeast in it. Yl. Old port, with a crust. yii. Because his appetite would get egg- sauce-ted! (Exhausted.) yiii. Because he is ’ listed, trained, has ten-drills, and shoots. IX. Because it’s the grub that makes the lutter-fly. X. Because he’s not a tall black. XI. A horse has four legs— no horse has five legs. xii. Because he is above , doing a wrong action. xin. Because he’s a sea king (seeking) what never was. xiy. Because it contains the ashes of the great. xy. He took a chop at the King's Head. xvi. The King was missed (mist), while the Queen was raining (reigning). xvii. That he may have his leg at ease (legatees). xvm. Bankrupts are broken, while idiots ar 2 only cracked. XIX. When they are all entails. (Hen- tails!) xx. Because he ensures his return by canvas. 30. ANSWER TO A PIECE OF WORLDLY WISDOM. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 91011 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 Short Reckon i n g s Ma ke 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 Long Friends 31. ANSWER TO THE ORTHOGRA¬ PHICAL ENIGMA. Let your adorning be 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 a meek and lowly 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 spirit 31 32 33 34 35 36 32. ANSWER TO THE CHARADE.— In-fan-try. 33. ANSWER TO THE ENIGMA.— Eve. - 34. CHRISTMAS TREES.—The custom of having illuminated trees at Christmas, their branches laden with pretty little trifles as mementoes to be presented to the guests of the Christmas party, and to be cherishedby them as remembrancers of a bye • gone Christmas, until another year comes round, is derived from Germany. It is a very poetical fancy, and is gaining ground in this country. A young flr is generally selected for the Christmas tree, and for a week before Christmas the daughters and sons of the family are busy engaged in in¬ venting and bringing together all sorts of curious things to hang upon its branches. There are little presents of all kinds, crochet purses, bonbons, preserved fruits, alum baskets, charms, dolls, toys in endless variety, &c., distributed over the tree according to fancy ; and the whole is illuminated by a hundred little wax tapers which are lighted just before the guests are admitted to inspect the tree. This custom, which is still new to us, dates as far back as Luther’s time, and is worthy of all con¬ tinuance. The following account of a Christmas tree is from Dickens’s House¬ hold JVords, 1850 :— " I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Chrstmas Tree. The tree was planted in the middle of a great round table, and towered lngli above their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multi¬ tude of little tapers; and everywhere sparkled and glittered with bright objects. There were rosy-cheeked dolls, hiding behind the green leaves; there were real watches (with moveable hands, at least,andan endlesscapacitvof being wound up) dangling from innumerable twigs; there were French-polished tables. 10 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: chairs, bedsteads, wardrobes, a eight-day clock and various other articles of domestic furniture (wonderfully made, in tin, at Wolverhampton), perched among the boughs, as if in preparation for some fairy housekeeping; there were jolly, broad-faced little men, much more aggreable in appearance than many real men—and no wonder, for their heads took off, and showed them to be full of sugar-plums ; there were ndules and drums; there were tambourines, books, work-boxes, paint-boxes, sweetmeat- boxes peep-show boxes, all kinds of boxes; there were trinkets for the elder girls, far brighter than any grown-up gold and jewels; there were baskets and pincushions in all devices- there were guns, swords, and banners ; there were witches standing in enchanting rings of pasteboard, to tell fortunes; there were teetotums, humming-tops, needle-cases, pen¬ wipers, smelling-bottles, conversation-cards, bouauet-holders; real fruit, made artificially dazzlng with gold leaf; imitation apples pears, and walnuts, crammed with surprises- in short, as a pretty child before me delightedly whispered to another pretty child, her bosom friend, There was everything and more.” This motley collection of odd objects, clustering on the tree like magic fruit, and flashing back the bright looks directed towards it from every side —some of the diamond-eyes admiring it were hardly on a level with the table, and a few were languishing in timid wonder on the bosoms of pretty mothers, auntsand nurses—madea lively realisation of the fancies of childhood ; and set me thinking how all the trees that grow and ail the things that come into existence on the earth have their wild adornments at that well remembered time.” Before the tapers are burnt out, the guests all assemble around the tree, and the souvenirs are taken off and presented to the guests whose names have either been previously appended to them, or at the discretion of the distributor. The tree is then set aside, and the Christmas games begin (14). 35 CHRISTMAS PUDDINGS. — At Christmas time good housewives vie with each other in the production of puddings. We, therefore, offer for their assistance a selection of the very best receipts that can be obtained:— 36. Ingoldsby Christmas Pudding —(Mu>s Acton's. Receipt.)—Mix very tho- roughly one pound of finely-grated bread with the same quantity of flour, two pounds ot raisins stoned, two of currants, two of suet minced small, one of sugar, half a pound of candied peel, one nutmeg, half an ounce ot mixed spice, and the grated rinds of two lemons; mix the whole with sixteen eggs well beaten and strained, and add four glasses of brandy. These proportions will make three puddings of good size, each of which should be boiled six hours. Bread-crumbs, 1 lb.; flour, 1 lb.; suet, 2 lbs.; currants, 2 lbs.; raisins, 2 lbs.; sugar, 1 lb.; candied peel, £ lb.; r nds of lemons, 2; nutmegs, 1 • mixed spice, i oz.: salt, i teaspoonftil; eggs, 16; brandy, 4 glassesful: 6 hours. . Obs. -A fourth part of the ingredients given above, will make a pudding of suffi¬ cient size for a small party ; to render this very rich, half the flour and bread-crumbs may be omitted, and a few spoonfulls of apri¬ cot marmalade well blended with the re¬ mainder of the mixture. Rather less liquid will be required to moisten the pudding when this is done, and four hours and a quarter will hoil it. 37. Miss Acton’s Own Christmas Pud- ding.— To three ounces of flour, and the same weight of fine, lightly-grated bread¬ crumbs, add six of beef kidney-suet, chopped small, six of raisins weighed after they are stoned, six of well-cleaned currants, four ounces of minced apples, five of sugar, two of candied orange-rind, half a teaspoonful ot nutmeg mixed with pounded mace, a very little salt, a small glass of brandy, and three whole eggs. Mix and beat these ingredi¬ ents well together, tie them tightly in a thickly-floured cloth, and boil them for three hours and a half. We can recommend this as a remarkably light small rich pud¬ ding : it may be served with German, wine or punch sauce. Flour, 3 oz.; bread-crumbs, 3oz.; suet stoned raisins, and currants, each, 6 oz • minced apples, 4 oz.; sugar, 5 oz.; candied peel, _ oz.; spice, £ teaspoonful; salt, a few grains; brandy, small wine-glassful; egcr S o : 3£- hours. ’ 38. Mrs. Rundle’s Plum Pudding. t li e £ h T Fading. —Stone carefullv 1 lb. of the best raisins, wash and pick 1 lb. of currants, chop very small 1 lb. of fresh beef suet, blanch and chop small or pound 2 oz. of sweet almonds and 1 oz. of bitter ones • whole we N together, with 1 lb. of sifted flour, and the same weight of crumb of bread soaked in milk, then squeezed drv and stirred with a spoon until reduced to a mash, before it is mixed with the flour Cut in small pieces 2 oz. each of preserved citron, orange, and lemon peel, and add A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 11 \ oz. of mixed spice; 4 lb. of moist sugar should be put into a basin, with 8 eggs and well beaten together with a three-pronged fork; stir this with the pudding, and make it of a proper consistence with milk. Re¬ member that it must not be made too thin, or the fruit will sink to the bottom, but be made to the consistence of good thick batter. Two wine-glassfuls of brandy should be poured over the fruit and spice, mixed togetherina basin,and alio wed to stand three or°four hours before the pudding is made, stirring them occasionally. It must be tied in a cloth, and will take five hours of con¬ stant boiling. When done, turn it out on a dish, sift loaf-sugar over the top, and serve it with wine-sauce in a boat, and some poured round the pudding. The pudding will be of considerable size, but half the quantity of materials, used in the same proportion, will be equally good. In addition to the wine-sauce, have a metal sauce-boat filled with brandy; set it alight on the table, and pour a portion of it in a flame upon each slice of pudding. It will be found a great improvement. 39. THE BEST MODE OF CLEAXS- SING CURRANTS.—The best method of cleansing currants is to put them into a common colander, over a pan with sufficient water to cover them, rub them well between the hands in the water to separate the knobs, and stir them about. The small sand and gravel will then tall through the holes and sink to the bottom of the pan. After being washed clean, and the water drained from them, the large stones can then be easily picked out by sorting them over on a large dish .—Family Herald. 40. Currants, previous to putting them into the pudding, should be plumped. This is done by pouring some boiling water upon themwash them well, and then lay them on a sieve or cloth before the fire,—pick them clean from the stones;—this not only makes them look better, but cleanses them from all dirt .—Dr Kitchener. 41. Washing Pudding Cloths, &c. —Pudding-cloths should be ^washed as soon as possible after the puddings are taken out of them. They should be washed in clean warm water, without soap, rinsed and thoroughly dried before being folded and put in the kitchen drawer, otherwise they will give a musty smell to the puddings that are next boiled in them. The paste-brush, egg-whisk, and sieves, must also be washed, first in cold and then in warm water, and put away olean and dry, or they will spoil whatever you use them for afterwards. All things through which eggs are strained, should be washed, first in cold and then in hot water. 42. HOW AX OLD LADY SECURED GOOD PUDDINGS.—An old gentle¬ woman, who lived almost entirely on pud¬ dings, told us it was a long time before she could get them made uniformly good—till she made the following rule—“ If the pudding was good, she let the cook have the remainder of it—if it was not she gave it to her lap-dog but as soon as this resolution was known, poor little Bow-Wow seldom got the sweet treat after.— Dr. Kitchener. 43. MEDITATION ON A PUDDING. —Let us seriously reflect what a pudding is composed of. It is composed of flour, that once waved in the golden grain, and drank the dews of the morning; of milk pressed from the swelling udder by the gentle hand of the beautiful milk-maid whose beauty and innocence might have rc commended a worse draught; who while she stroked the udder, indulged in no ambitious thoughts of wandering in palaces, formed no plans for the destruction of her fellow- creatures—milk that is drawn from the cow, that useful animal, that eats the grass of the field, and supplies us with that which made the greatest part of the food of man¬ kind in the age which the poets have agreed to call golden. It is made with an egg, that miracle of nature, which the theoretical Burnet has compared to Creation. An egg contains water within its beautiful smooth surface; and an unformed mass, by the in¬ cubation of the parent, becomes a regular animal, furnished with bones and sinews, and covered with feathers. Let us consider—Can there be more wanting to complete the Meditation on a Pudding ? If more be wanting more can be found—It contains salt, which keeps the sea from putrefaction—salt, which is made with the image of intellectual excellence, contri¬ butes to the formation of a pudding.— Boswell's Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Dr. Johnson. 8 vo. 178o, p. 440. 12 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 44. HUMOROUS THOUGHTS UPON PUDDINGS.—The head of man is like a pud¬ ding ; and whence have all rhymes, poems, plots, and inventions sprung—but * from that same pudding ? What is poetry but a pudding of words. The physicians, though they cry out so much against cooks and cookery, yet are but cooks themselves; with this difference only— the cook’s puddings lengthen life—the physi¬ cian’s shorten it; so that we live and die* by pudding—for what is a clyster but a bag pudd¬ ing—a pill but a dumpling—or a bolus but a tanzy, though not altogether so toothsome. In a word, physic is ouly a puddingising, or cook¬ ery of drugs:—the law is but a cookcrv of Quibbles. The universe itself is but a pudding of ele¬ ments,—empires, kingdoms, states, and repub¬ lics, are but puddings of people differently mixed up. The celestial and terrestrial orbs are deci¬ phered to us by a pair of globes, or Mathemati¬ cal puddings. The success of war, and the fate of monarchies, are entirely dependent on puddings and dump¬ lings,—for what else are cannon-balls but mili¬ tary puddings, or bullets but dumplings—only with this difference, they do not sit so well on the stomach as a good marrow pudding or bread pudding. In short, there is nothing valuable in nature but what more or less has an allusion to pudding or dumpling. Some swallow every thing whole and un¬ fixed, so that it may rather be called a heap than a pudding. Others are so squeamish, that the greatest mastership in cookery is required to make the pudding palatable:—the suet, which others gape and swallow by gobs, must for these puny stomachs be minced to atoms, the plumbs must be picked with the utmost care, and every ingredient proportioned to the greatest nicety, or it will never f o down.—From a learned Dis¬ sertation on dumplings, 8vo. 1726, p. 20. 45. DR. KITCHENER’S PLUM PUD- DING SAUCE.—One glass of sherry, half a glass of brandy, two tea-spoonfuls of pounded lump sugar (some like to add a little finely grated lemon peel) in a quarter of a pint of thick melted butter. 46. ANOTHER PLUM PUDDING SALCE.—To four ounces of melted butter, or of thick arrowroot, add one ounce and a half of sherry, the same of brandy, and the same of curacoa (the latter may be omitted); sweeten to palate, and add a little grated lemon peel and nutmeg. 47. TEETOTAL PUDDING SAUCE is made with melted butter, to which a little cream has been added, sweetened to taste, and flavoured with any of the favourite spices. 48. CHRISTMAS CAKES. — Cttbbant Cake.—T wo pounds of flour, into which rub half a pound of butter, half a pound of moist sugar (more or less according to taste), carraway seeds to taste, four table-spoon¬ fuls of yeast, and a pint of milk lukewarm, beat up with three eggs and half a pound of currants. To clean currants, see 39. Colour the cake with a slight infusion of saffron, if approved. 49. Fine Almond Cake .—(Miss Ac¬ ton’s Receipt.) —Blanch, dry, and pound to the finest possible paste, eight ounces of fresh Jordan almonds, and one ounce of bitter; moisten them with a few drops of cold water or white of egg, to prevent their oiling ; then mix with them very gradually twelve fresh eggs which have been whisked until they are exceedingly light; throw in by degrees one pound of fine, dry, sifted sugar, and keep the mixture light by con¬ stant beating, with a large wooden spoon, as the separate ingredients are added. Mix in by degrees three-quarters of a pound of dried and sifted flour of the best quality ; then pour gently from the sediment a pound of butter which has been just melted, but not allowed to become hot, and beat it very gradually, but very thoroughly, into the cake, letting one portion entirely disappear before another is thrown in; add the rasped or finely grated rinds of two sound fresh lemons, fill a thickly-butteied mould rather more than half full with the mixture, and bake the cake from an hour and a half to two hours in a well heated oven. Lay paper over the top when it is sufficiently coloured, and guard carefully against its being burned. Jordan almonds, \ lb.; bitter almonds, loz.; eggs, 12; sugar, 1 lb.; flour, \ lb. ; butter, 1 lb.; rinds lemons,2 ; 1J to 2 hours. Obs .—Three quarters of a pound of al¬ monds may be mixed with this cake when so large a portion of them is liked, but an additional ounce or two of sugar, and one egg or more, will then be required. 50. A Good Pound Cake. — (Mrs. Bundle's Beceipt .)—Beat lib. of butter to a cream, and mix with it the whites and yokes of eight eggs beaten apart. Have ready, warm by the fire, lib. of flour, and the same ot sifted sugar; mix them and a few cloves, a little nutmeg and cinnamon, in fine pow¬ der together; then by degrees work the dry ingredients with the butter and eggs. When well beaten, add a glass of wine and some carroways. It must be beaten a full A FAMILY REPOSITORY 13 hour. Butter a pan, and bake it an hour in a quick oven. The above proportions, leav¬ ing out 4 oz. of the butter and the same of sugar, make a less luscious cake, and to most tastes a more pleasant one. . 51 Gingerbread. —A\ bisk four strained or well-cleared eggs to the lightest possible froth (French eggs, if really sweet, will answer for the purpose), and pour to them, by degrees, a pound and a quarter of treacle, still beating them lightly. Add, in the same manner, six ounces of pale brown sugar free from lumps, one pound of sifted flour, and six ounces of good butter, just sufficiently warmed to be liquid, and no more,—for if bo«, it would render the cake heavy; it should be poured in small portions to the mixture, whic should be well beaten up with the back of a wooden spoon as each portion is thrown in: the success of the cake depends almost entirely on this part of the process. When properly mingled with the mass, the butter will not be perceptible on the surface; and if the cake be kept light by constant whisking, large bubbles will appear m it to the last. When it is so far ready, add to it one ounce of Jamaica ginger and a large teaspoonful of cloves in fine powder, with the lightly grated rinds of two fresh fu sized lemon! Butter thickly, in every part, a shallow square tin pan, and bake the gingerbread slowly for nearly or qui e an hour in a gentle oven. Let it cool a little before it is turned out, and set it on its edge until cold, supporting it, if need¬ ful, against a large jar or bowl. 52 Sponge-cake.— Beat some eggs as light' as possible. Eggs for sponge or almond-cakes require more beating than fi>r any other purpose. Beat the sugar, by degrees, into the eggs. Beat very hard, and continue to beat some time after the sugar is all in. No sort of sugar but loaf will make light sponge cake. Stir in, gradually, the spice and essence of lemon; then, by degrees, put in the flour—a little at a time—stirring round the mixture very slowly with a knife. If the flour is stirred in too hard, the cake will be tough It must he done lightly and gently, so that the top of the mixture will be covered with bubbles. As soon as the flour is all in, begin to bake it, as setting will injure it. Put it in small tins, well buttered, or in one large tin pan. The thinner the pans, the better for sponge-cake. Fill the small tins about half full. Grate loaf-sugar over the top of of each, before you set them in the oven. Sponge-cake requires a very quick oven, particularly at the bottom. It should be baked as fast as possible, or it will be tough and heavy, however light it may have been before it went into the oven. It is, of all cakes, the most liable to be spoiled in baking. When taken out of the tins, the cakes should be spread on a sieve to cool. If baked in one large cake, it should be iced. A large cake, of twelve eggs, should be baked at least an hour in a quick oven. 53. Fob small Cakes, ten minutes is generally sufficient. If they get very much out of shape in baking, it is a sign that the oven is too slow. 54. Tea Cake.— Rub into a quart of dried flour of the finest kind, a quarter of a pound of butter; then beat up two eggs with two teaspoonfuls of sifted sugar,, and two tablespoonfuls of washed brewer s, or unwashed distiller’s yeast; pour this liquid mixture into the centre of the flour, and add a pint of warm milk as you mix it; beat it up with the hand until it comes ofl without sticking; set it to rise before the fire, having covered it with a cloth; alter it has remained there an hour, make it up into good-sized cakes an inch thick; set them in tin plates to rise before the fire during ten minutes, then bake them in a slow oven. These cakes may be split and buttered hot from the oven, or split, toasted, and buttered after they are cold. 55. DR. KITCHENER’S DIRECTIONS UPON CAKE-MAKING i. The goodness of a Cake or Biscuit de¬ pends much on its being well baked; great attention should be paid to the differen degrees of heat of the oven; be sure tohave it ofa good sound heat at first, when after its being well cleaned out, may be baked such articles as require a hot oven.afteriOiic such as are diiected to be baked in a w ell- heated or moderate oven, and, lastly, those in a slow soaking or cool one. >' ® little care, the above degrees may soon be k T n in making Butter Calces, attention should be paidto havethe butter well creamed for should it be made too warm, it would 14 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: cause the mixture to be the same, and when put to bake, the fruit, sweatmeats, &c. would in that event fall to the bottom. nr. Yeast Cakes should be well proved before put into the oven, as they will prove but little afterwards. In making Biscuits and Cakes where butter is not used the different utensils should be kept free from all kinds of grease, or it is next to impossible to have good ones. iv. In buttering the insides of Cake moulds, the butter should be nicely clarified, and when nearly cold, laid on quite smooth,’ with a small brush kept for that pur¬ pose. v. Sugar and Flour should be quite dry, and a drum sieve is recommended for the sugar. The old way of beating the yolks and whites of eggs separate (except in very few cases) is not only useless, but a waste of time. They should be well incorporated with the other ingredients, and in some in¬ stances they cannot be beat too much.— Kitchener’s Cook’s Oracle. 56. PASTE FOR CHAPPED HANDS —Mix a quarter of a pound of unsalted hog’s lard, which has been washed in water, and then in rose water, with the yolks of two new laid eggs, and a large spoonful of honey. Add as much fine oatmeal, or al rnond paste, as will work it into a paste. 57. For Chapped Lips. —Put a quar ter of an ounce of benjamin, storax, and spermaceti, twopenny-worth ofalkanct-root, a juicy apple chopped, a bunch of black grapes bruised, a quarter of a pound of un¬ salted butter, and two ounces of bees’ wax, into a new tin saucepan. Simmer gently till all is dissolved, and then strain it through linen. When cold, melt it again, and pour it iilto small pots or boxes; if to make cakes use the bottoms of tea-cups. 58. Another. —Mix an ounce of sper¬ maceti with an ounce of bitter almonds, and some powdered cochineal; melt it all together, strain it through a cloth in a little rose-water, and rub the lips with it at night. 59. THE CHOICE OF A PROFES¬ SION.—1st. Be cautious not to choose as you like. It is a fact, that we are apt ever to admire those excellences which we perceive in others, but do not ourselves possess; and hence he, who has little flow of speech, appreciates most highly the elo- quence of the orator. The tardy writer longs to express his own and others thoughts with the facility of the stenographist. ''The choice of a profession, guided merely by l.ke and dislike,” is almost sure to be a blunder of a most serious character. 2nd. Be cautious to examine your own abilities by recognised tests; and select that employ¬ ment which affords the greatest opportuni¬ ties for the exercise of your mental qualifi¬ cations. How many a youth, delighted by a forensic display of talent, has rushe l impetuously into the study of the law for¬ getting totally that his natural activity of habit sanguine temperament, and want of adaptation to laborious sedentary pursuits was at variance with the life he had too hastily chosen ? How many boys, fascina¬ ted by the travels of Basil Hall, or the nar¬ ratives of Captain Marryatt, have resolved upon a seafaring life, forgetting that their delicate constitution, and want of physical strength unfitted them for the laborious duties of a sailor! We have advised self- examination by recognised tests of ability because neither parents nor children are free from the liability to believe as theu wish. 3rd. As a general rule, it is an error to decide upon a particular profession bc- cause a relation will undertake the education of the student m the preliminary steps. In almost all cases both pupil and master ex¬ pect too much from each other when they are connected by ties of relationship, which circumstance leads to a diminution of re- spect on the one part, and of discipline on the other, until at last the supposed advan¬ tages of the connection are more than coun¬ terbalanced This rule is liable to many exceptions, however, and it is possible t<> conceive cases in which master and pupil though they be related, understand their relative positions correctly. Finally, as we have opened this subject, we feel ourselves bound to advise Fourthly. That the moral slmuld 6 be° U3 . ten , dencies of the student should be seriously considered before he enter upon a course of study for the minis- frmn fhl v iT J ex P erienc e no happiness rom the highest preferment in it, if he be ZTZZT of .: manta £onism between his duties and his religious and moral feelings 60 . SHOOTING STARS. _ ShootL stars, or meteors, are objects; The naS A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 15 and origin of which is involved in some obscurity, but which have excited, of late years, an increasing interest, o\s ing o ien periodical appearances in unusually great numbers. Their apparent magnitudes are widely different; but the globular form ap¬ pears in all. They are equally numerous in •ill climates and weathers, and appear at ail times of the year, though they have been seen in greater numbers in this country in August and November than at other periods. Some of them leave trains of light, which continue for a few seconds, or even minutes, behind them. These trains usually assume the form of a cylinder, the interior of which is devoid of luminous matter. The subject was involved in complete uncertainty till Chladni published his celebrated work on the causes of the masses of iron, and other similar substances, found in ^.lbena by Pallas, in which he clearly established, bj comparing the circumstances of a great multitude of observations, that the fire¬ balls are meteors having their origin beyond our atmosphere; that, in tact, t. ey art masses of nebulous matter, moving m space with planetary velocities, which, when they come in the way of the earth in its revolu¬ tion about the sun, and enter the atmo sphere, are inflamed by its resistance and friction, and become luminous, some¬ times scattering masses of stone and iron on the ground. The predominating direction of the shooting stars is from north-east to south-west, con trarv to that of the earth m its oroit. Their altitude varies from 6 to 600 miles, aud their velocity, from 10 to 240 miles in ■i second It is not probable that they are substances thrown out of lunar vcdcanoes The hypothesis generally accepted is, that independently of the great planets, tlieie exist in the planetary regions myriads ot small bodies, which circulate about the sun, generally in groups of zones, and that some of these zones intersect Lhe ecliptic, and are, consequently, encountered by the earth in its annual revolution. But there are many difficulties which appear to beset this theorj, _p s t The irregularity of the direction of 'shooting stars. 2nd Their enormous velocity. 3rd. Their luminosity. 4th. Their near approach to the earth without drawn to it. 5th. The convexity of their orbit towards the earth, ic. The presumptions of a cosmical origin of the shooting stars, are chiefly founded on their periodical recurrence at certain epochs ot the year, and the extraordinary displays es¬ pecially on the 12th and 13th of November, the 10th of August, the 18th of October, the 23rd and 24th of April, and the 6th aud 7th of December, and the 2nd of Janu¬ ary. [The meteoric epochs have been ar¬ ranged in the order of their importance, the greatest number of shooting stars having been observed upon the days first men¬ tioned.] Connected with the subject ot shooting stars, is that oi aerolites, the ia of which is accompanied by the appearance of fire-balls. They resemble each other so closely in composition, that it may be saul to be identical. Their exterior is black, as if they had been exposed to the heat ot a furnace \ while their interior is a grej is white. They are composed of sliex, mag¬ nesia, sulphur, iron in the metallic state, nickel, and some traces of chromium, lhe rarity of the components in the earth, aud the identity of composition, indicate an extramundane but common origin. About the end of November, 1849, a shower ot aerolites fell between Tunis and Tripoli, ex¬ tending over the whole intermediate dis¬ tance. 0 A brilliant stream of light acc®m* panied this tall of meteoric stones. On the 11th of February, 1850, a splendid meteor passed over Greenwich from west to east; which was also seen at Rugby aud Hull. , .. f 61. MEALS.—The practice of eating at certain conventional periods of the day is never attended by any bad consequences and is actually necessary in the present state of society" Habit exercises the great¬ est influence in the matter, and the man who has been in the practice of taking food at a certain hour of the day, will always, whilst in good health, feel hungry at that hour. Indeed, it sometimes happens that the stomach will only work at those hours to which it has been long accustomed, and infirmity has frequently been traced to a change in the hour of taking a meal, more especially dinner, which, with inost people, is the chief meal of the day. 1 he habit of eating to repletion which many are too apt to indulge in, should be carefully avoided, as more evils result from it than is generally imagined. 16 THE CORNER CUPROARD: 62 . SKATING.—Beginners should make their first attempt upon ice which is neither too smooth nor too rough. 63. It is im¬ portant, in the first instance, to see that the skates are firmly fixed on, which may he ascer¬ tained by a few movements of the feet prior to com- Fig. 1. mencing skating. 64. For putting on the skates the young begmner should kneel down, and fasten the skates on one foot first. 65. There are different kinds of skates; but we need only mention two, the fluted and the 'plain . The fluted are the best for young beginners who can scarcely keep their footing, and who can travel over only a small surface of ice, because the groove or flute, of the skate bites into the ice, and obtains a certain hold, just as the point of a knife does in soft wood. But for rapid skaters the fluted skates are unfit, as the grooves are apt to become filled with loose ice, and to throw the wearer. Fig. 3. 66. In starting, strike out slowly with the right foot, bending a little forward, and bearing upon the inner edge of the skate. When the effect of the first step is lessening strike out with the other foot, throwing your weight upon it gently, and agaiS bearing on the inner edge of the skate. r\g. 1 shows the position to be taken at starting, and Fig. 2 indicates the position into which the body is to be thrown when you desire to stop. The toes are to be raised up, the body bent gradually for- bod^’ aUd the armS empl °y ed to steady the ^*£ Du r ing t he skating season in London, and other large towns, there are numerous persons who attend in the parks, and lend skates and ffo»L-i eSS ® om ? P ersons call in the aid of sticks and chaws, hut it is better to dispense them if possible. It is a good pian to tthc nioyemen ts of the best skaters, and Huhl * mPof em ‘- In ~ he *P etr0 P° lis the Skating Clubs meet m Kensington-garderis and Regent s-park, and afford beginners* (rood opportunities of gleaning instruction.] S 67. Where instruction cannot be oh- tamed, the aid of a skilfnl friend, as in Fig. 4, will be of much service. Fig. 4. 68. The skater should content himself with plain or straight skating, before he attempts to form figures, and he should learn to use both sides of his skates. The hands are essential to balance the body and motions - The right hand should he held up towards the head in skating on the outside edge of the left skate, and the left hand should be raised IslT P at ? s x the r! S bt outside edge. (bee Fig . 5 and 6.) 6 6!). Ihe most difficult movement is that nnfoW Van ?i"!? b} ’ crossin S the feet alter- nately, and throwing the body in a leaning position to the opposite sides. This is one ot the most graceful and pleasant move- and can onI y be accom- pScLcy" C " nCr b “ aC 1 uiml 17 A FAMILY REPOSITORY. Fig. 7. Fig. 8. 71. To describe circles and curved ^crures is the chief accomplishment of tae sfe* 1 er. The best way is, to select a good piece of ice, in the centre of which a sma object, a piece of stone, or bit ot broken ice, is lying. Take a run proportionate to the number of circles you wish to accomplish. To form a curve on the outside edge, strike out on that edge, and balance the body so as to turn in a curve round the adopted Fig. 10. Tig. 11. out backwards, the heel of the skat€ being slightly raised. The feet being occa- centre. Turn your head towards the centre, and elevate the outer arm, to guide the motions of the body. Fig. 8. 72. To perform a curve on the inside edge, you must, as in the former instance, select some object to indicate the centre, and, taking a sufficient run, strike out in the inner edge. The head and body should be in pretty nearly the position indicated in figure 8, but the leg on which you are skating should be held straight. The other leg should be held stiffly, with the suspended foot about eighteen inches from the other. Fig. 9. 73. Stopping, in the formation of curves, circles, &c., is effected as in ordinary stop¬ pings, already ex¬ plained (66), but it is considered more graceful to pirouette , by turning round quickly, and throwing the foot which is free, over that on which you are skating. 74. In skating backwards, the . a Q «d body should be inclined forward, and the feet should be struck 70 Another motion, called “ The Salute,” is somewhat difficult. There is the salute in a curved line, and also in the straight line That in the straight line is the most difficult. The salute in a right line is ac- Fig. 5. Tig. 6. complishedby, after having well struck out, throwing the feet in a horizontal line, and placing the arms in the position indicated at Fig. 2. To describe the salute, in a curved line, place the feet in a similar position, but so that the skates may describe the lines of a curve, and place_tlie arms in the position indicated at Fig. i • 18 6ion£ % brought together will steady the movements and give confidence. Figure 10illustrates the position assumed in skatin°- backwards, ° 75. Backward circles can only be per¬ formed by persons of some experience, rig. 11. indicates the position in makino- backward movements, and Figs. 12 and 13 indicate the variations of those positions. Then- movements may also be terminated by the pnouette. THE CORNER CUPBOARD: Fig. 12. 76. In skating backwards, the oblique stop is frequently adop¬ ted. It is ac¬ complished by setting down the raised foot in an oblique direction, and stiffening the leg. This may be done with either foot. 77. Turning round is accom¬ plished by bring¬ ing one heel be hind the other, and giving the body a Wist in hannS with the position of the feet. 78. The figure of go ‘is effected by outside” R •^ and .. striki ”g from the outside. It is accomplished by forming a perfect circle with one foot, thin crossing the legs and forming the other circle. Fig. 13. Fig. 14. The figuie co is formed by striking out on he inner edge, backwards, and gradually inclining side ways. ItlTsomewhat morJ difficult than the figure of 79. Other figures that may be formed are the spiral, the kite, the fish, the oval six! ™V he lovcrs ’ knot ’ the fisure °* [The best plan will be for the learner nffor laving perused these instructions and naid o ice until you are certain of its ability to support your weight, and avoid the parts ivheie numbers of people congregate. 1 Select those places for skating wh*re the water is not very deep. Look out sharply for loose objects lying upon the ice by coming in contact with which you might be tripped up. If you are unlucky enough to fall in where the water is deep, spread out your arms oyer the broken ice, and keep as still as possible, waiting for assistance. Upon being taken out of the water, let some one take off your skates, and then run home as quickly as possible. Pull 0 ff your wet clothes, and take a table spoonful of spirits, and go to bed. I or skating, the clothes should fit rather closely without being too tight. L on c skirted coats, and loose trousers will be found very inconvenient. . [AVedo not offer these precautions wif-h *! ltlraici ating beginners, but because our mfonnation upon all subjects must bo complete Skating is not only a most healthful but delightful and graceful exercise and mu nf thousands of p/rsons who skatl’ in‘the \vttef I ina ?. ! fi ln a thousa »d meets with an accident’ f/- SLIDING.—Sliding is a modifica¬ tion of skating, and affords a healthy exercise, and capital recreation to youno- people. To slide well, take a good run° striking off with both feet, and maintaining your equilibrium by elevating the arms* and leaning the body slightly forward. The instructions given for skating will assist persons learning to slide. For although the movements of sliding cannot be varied as m skating, persons may slide forward backward, upon one foot, upon two feet" J he mid ?fc of sliding. The best plan is first to acquire skill and confidence A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 19 in tlie straight-forward slide, and gra¬ dually to vary the movements, r a void cutting out slides upon public pave- 82 DEATHS IN COLD WEATHER. Diseases of the chest, which arise in winter form a more fatal class than those of the bowels which prevail in summer. This ot itself is a cause of increased winter mor- tality,butitis to be rememberedalso that dis¬ eases of the chest do not arise Ai winter only; that consumption is a disorder common m Ln g- land that asthma and chest complaints of many persons who are advanced in years are dangerous all the year round, and are in winter not produced but aggravated. Very young children and old people who maintain their vital heat with difficulty are liable to be destioyed by a succession ot frosts ; everything, in fact, tells against the truth of the old proverb that "a green Christmas makes a fat church} ard. 83. Constant proof of the fallacy of such a proverb is afforded by the yearly reports of the Registrar-General; but we shall find no more striking illustration of its false¬ hood than the comparison made by Dr. Heberden between the mortality ot the winter of seventeen ’ninety-five and that of the winter of seventeen ’ninety-six. 1 he ti s e first weeks of the former year were un¬ usually cold; the corresponding weeks ot the year following were unusually mild. Of the two winters the one was the coldes and the other the warmest of which any accu- rateaccountwasextant. Therewasadiflerence between the one January and the other of quite twenty degrees. The mortalit} \ the cold winter month was nearly double that of the mild one. In the first five weeks of the one year, there were two thousand eight hundred and twenty-three deaths; in the corresponding weeks ot the year following, the deaths numbered only one thousand four hundred and seventy-one. 84. What made the difference ? MTio were the people whom the cold weather killed and the mild weather spared ? I hey were the very young and the very old In January, ’ninety-five, of persons above sixty years old there died in London seven hundred and seventeen; in January, mnety- six, of persons above sixty years old there died only one hundred and fifty-three, or scarcely more than one-fifth of the former number. Dr. Heberden srys that the number of deaths among persons older than sixty maintains a steady correspondence with the state of the thermometer, and that you might tell when a frost came or went by looking at the ages in the tables of mortality. 85. Inthecold January, ninety-five,there died in London of consumption eight hnndred and twenty-five persons; in the warm January, ’ninety-six, the number ot deaths from consumption was three hundred and forty-two. 86. In thecold January,’ninety-five,ofpei sons afflicted with asthma or shortness ot u. w ii/Li - breathing, there died two hundred and forty-nine; in the warm January,’ninety- six, there died of such persons, twenty- nine. „ , . 87. The number of deaths from palsies or apoplexies is also greatest in very cold weather, because then the blood is driven from the surface, and, accumulating in in ternal parts, is liable to press with in¬ creased force upon the head. To healthy men this is a cause of increased vital energy; to some unhealthy men it is a cause of death. In January, ninety-five, the deaths from apoplexy and palsy numbered fifty-two; in the same month ol the year following they were but thirty- one. The cold kills some persons at once; in others it causes diseases which prove fatal in five or six weeks. Aged Persons, infants, and persons who have any affection of the chest ought therefore in winter never to sleep in a room of which the tempera¬ ture falls lower than within eight degrees of freezing. Fatal privation often at this season is the want of fuel and warm clothing to the weakly bodies of the pool. —Household Words Almanac. TThrsp facts may be turned to pood account on?l P the repulation of the temperature of them "Af vsjsn enemies of man. disease aud death, are mate- rially aided.] 88. A WEEK’S WORK. h -V Ch fl00rS enter ill » Kest from toil, repent of sin • fctnve a heavenly rest to win. cl° NI) A T ~^ 0 your calling go, Tn ^Vi 6 L ? rd; lovc fric,ul and foe; lo the tempter, answer No. Tuesday— do what good you can • £‘ ve ln peace with God and man ’ Remember life is but a span! ’ Teach"*™ m a ve away a,ld earn; » SE'rl"* 1 t "" ,S l "™' Ghrb^ S ?h J bnild your house upon Whom ^mightycomer stone; Whom God helps, his work is done. rw I o DAT ~C 0r tlle tru th be strong • P,h/h Ur „ fault ' if in the wrong f ’ Put a bridle on your tongue. -jv lu IV/UJJUC, Tribute J 1 an k God and sing; irioute to his treasure bring • Re prepared for Terror’s king’! Thus & h ° PeS on Jesus ca «t J.nus let all your weeks be nast And you shall be saved at 1^ ’ m 89, ^U'TLE CHILDREN_ “T ft • , them the poetry of the world—the I f flowers of our hearths and homes S conjurors, with their ‘natn-oi tt,e ‘ n o by their spells what delio-hf 3 ^ 10 ’ , evo ^‘ rjchc, all ra „ k , P a ,,V;™ u " ,g t t 2Z classes of society. Often as thmr i • ^ er ? n ^ them a,«i e tle/a„ ( l » iH > sion sorrow and o- r i e f , Ilv ® to °cca- badly without them/ Only Udnf 71^ ==»eb£*e 5 the hearts of the fathers toll, vu ra oMh 1 :^ ■ r^sfsr 1 to th “ r '>- the heart, wj**" J°^ JMta gentle presence; it enriches the. ^ bls feelings, and awakens within itT/ “c"’ vourable to virtue It i * " bafc 13 fa ’ endurates the heart- thTV • nners » home, deepen lcZ S - - y bn ^ hten the infuse courage, and vivifv 0xe . rt!on * charities of lif e /’_.# et , j, Kinney**'*' 11 tbe i 90 - INSTINCT AM) DF.cnv- 'the actions and movements o/th^'^ 1 . world may be divided into*) ^ ammal sssna? sir' r ” 2! proportions, both by man 2?’“ Vari ,° US ^Sab=sSS propnate means. b adapting ap- in that kind to IZ b f 1 “ Predominant disgust of all the resf^Eufc 01134 ™' 116 and H« ! p s , hbS^r h promises to tell you when°th’ ^ he comes back regularlv to l.;t m' 3 done >' readily call to minri ^ 1S sub J ecfc i cannot bolding h s head “ d S / me Peon’s name; the w&e ^comly SS °?!’ Pcnse; at ta^kT-^? 6 “ in *“■ SSS-AATJ^SSS: company hVheM?^fifty t ' 88 ' f ? 0Iy th ith its merrv-makings, its good fare, its holly branches, and kissing bushes. You properly make up your accounts with the world at this'season, and see how you stand in matters of debit or credit. Now is the time to “ tell your wife,” to give her a living and active interest in your welfare. Let her know, not only the balance-sheet of your books, but the true state of your heart; re¬ member that she is a partner in all that con- cerns you most deeply; and depend upon it, if vou act upon our advice, before another year has flown vou will have reason to rejoice that von have “ told your wife!”] 95. THINGS TO BE FOUND OUT.— Nature is not exhausted. Within her fer¬ tile bosom there may he thousands of sub¬ stances, yet unknown, as precious as the only recently found gutta percha. To doubt this would be to repudiate the most logical inference afforded by the whole his¬ tory of the earth. Corn and grapes ex¬ cepted, nearly all our staples in vegetable food are of comparatively modern discovery. Society had a long existence without tea, cotton, sugar, and potatoes. Who shall say there is not a more nutritious plant than the sugar-cane—a finer root than the pota- toe—a more useful tree than the cotton ? Buried wealth lies everywhere in the bowels of the earth. 9Q THE CORNER CUPBOARD : 96. the Pronouns GRAMMAR IX RHYME. 10R 0UR YOUNG readers. *• A hre f 1 , i . tfc , le ' vords you often see. Are Articles — a, an, and the. II. A Noun’s the name of any tiling As, school, or garden, hoop, ° or swing. nr. Adjectives tell the kind of Noun; As great, small, prettg, to kite, or brown. IV. Instead of Ncuns stand— ^hand*' 1, ^ faCG ’ ^° Ur arm > mi J V * ^ C done te11 ° f sometll5n S being To read, write, count, sing, jump, or run. r VI H °tell thin?S ai * e tl0 ’ le thc Adverbs As slowly, quickly, ill, or well. vri. Conjunctions join the words to^e- ther, ° As, men and women, wind, or weather. Vm ' 7xr Prc P° s itio,i stands before A N oun; as, in or through a door. ix. The Interjection shows surprise • As, oh! how pretty; ah! how wise. ^SpS 16 arc raIW Niuc p ” ls °< Speaki„ g , 97. CRYSTALISATION. — The illus- tratmns given below are charming parlour and attach itself to the zinc, and form a metallic tree pi bush, the leaves of which are laminal or m plates of metallic lustre. ’ Ti ? t ' tkee -—Into a vessel, similar to add ?, reg01 ”»’ P our rain-water, as before- add three drachms of muriate of tin and seTu itn'the 1116 ?^" 1, and Shilke tbe ves - c, 1 , tb ? sab; 1S completely dissolved inetKll?nrk° f ZitlC QS before > an(1 the* etal will m like manner be precipitated— appearing similar to the lead-trees but having more lustre. This and the preceding experiment, and all others similar^Them are in reality galvanic, and show the powers of electricity m producing chemical actToT the crystalisatioif of salts,*see Index/f entS UJ)0n 101. AD"\ ICE TO BUSINESS MEN — In your converse with the world avoid anv. thing like a jugglino- de\terRv v use of dexterity circumvented by the cunning? .u ? It should not be aggressive. g ° thers ’ Concessions and compromises fo™ •vrge and a very important part of our dn t** ral y be looked upon as distinct defeats - I a n firf 118 6XP - ecfc n ° ? rat!tu de for them’ >» — In making compromises, do not think r„ gr»,-n ded „„ a wfidg, of jour Shel ' adviSl ,: 5 It‘° be S" -«J 3 S imnd is so occupied with one idea, that he A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 23 completely over-estimates its relative im¬ portance, he can hardly be brought to look at the subi ectcalmly by any force of reasoning. For this disease time is the only doctor. A "ood man of business is very watchful, both “over himself and others, to prevent things from being carried against his sense of right in moments of lassitude. After a matter has been much discussed, whether to the purpose or not, there comes a time when all parties are anxious that it should be settled; and there is then some danger of the handiest way of getting rid of the matter being taken for the best. It is often worth while to bestow much mins in raining over foolish people to your way of thinking; and you should do it soon Vour reasons will always have some weight with the wise. But if at first you omit to put your argument before the foolish they will form their prejudices; and a tool is often very consistent, and very fond of re¬ petition. ‘ He will be repeating his folly m season, and out of season, untd at lsust it lias Shearing; and it U hard if it does not sometimes chime in noth external circum- 8t Tman of business should take care to con¬ sult occasionally with persons of a nature quite different from his own. To very few are riven all the qualities requisite to form a .ood man of business. Thus a man may have the sternness and the fixedness ot pu pose so necessary in the conduct ot affairs, vet these qualities prevent linn, perhaps, from entering into the character ofthose about him. He is likely to want tact. He will be unprepared for the extent of ver - tilitv and vacillation in other men. these defects and oversights might he ^ e ' died bv consulting with persons whom he knows‘to be possessed of the qualities sup- pk ^en t of > much S depth of mind can bear a great deal of counsel; for it does not easdy deface their own character, nor render their P "SrTHi ti THERMOMETER.-Tbi ?> word means literally “ measure of heat The idea of determining the mtensi y this subtle agent emanated with Sanctario, an Italian philosopher, in the year 16-0. 103, His plan was improved upon by Fahrenheit, a German philosophei^ w i lived about the year 1720, and who was the inventor of the therometer now used in this country and America. The form of Fah¬ renheit’s thermometer is too well known to need description. Fahrenheit’s thermometer is deficient in this respect, viz., that the inventor laboured under a mistake when he imagined 0, or zero, to be the extreme ot cold. Zero is the temperature of equal parts of snow and salt, and Fahrenheit thought that point was destitute of all heat. Repeated experience has proved that the mercury often falls lower, even in temperate latitudes. The freezing point of water he marked by plunging his thermometer into water in that state, after having marked the degrees on his scale, and found it 3- deo\, the heat of boiling water 212 deg., while other temperatures, such as summer heat, blood heat, and fever heat, are merely arbitrary marks supposed to be correct on the average. The only positive marks art the freezing point, 32 deg., and the boiling point, 212 deg. 104. French thermometers are differently marked, but equally wrong, as the freezing point is placed at the temperature of mingled snow and salt, or zero, when in realitv water freezes at a much higher tern- perature The boiling point in the ther- mometer in use in France is markeu 100 deg. In Germany and Russia the freezing point of the thermometer is also marked zero, and the boiling point 80 deg. 105 -U40 deg. below zero, mercury becomes solid; consequently, to mark the degrees of cold sometimes experienced in Russia and the Arctic Regions, spirits of wine is used, which has never been known to freeze from natural causes, although it is said that a Scotch chemist once succeeded in producing such an extreme degree of cold as to freeze even alcohol. If he did so, he never di¬ vulged the secret of chemical agency by which he effected it. 106 MEN love things, as facts, posses¬ sions, and estates; and women, persons. Even in childhood the girl loves an imita¬ tion of humanity—her doll, and \\orks/o/ it; the boy gets a hobby-horse or tools, and works with them. But the noblest quality wherewith nature has endowed woman for the good of the world, is love—that love which seeks no sympathy and n0 r f^ rn ‘ The child is the object of love, and kisse*. and watching; and answers them only by 24 WrS? 8 and an S er i and th e feeble crea- But the ZT eS m ° Sfc ’ r W s least. mt the mother goes on; her love only grows stronger, the greater the need and —aifd whil “ lc “ lltllailkf “ I >>css of its object audvihde fathers prefer the strongest of “rthefS"' ° “ 0 " ,erfed » ""“love NOTH JTp 0F ENGLAND security wli f? Bank of _ England possesses no security which may not be known by any • make v himself acquainted D-mer tL* 1 - ° g .characteristics of the paper, the plate prmting, and the tvne S7T«T- ^paper bdisS gunned—1. By peculiar colour sucli ns IS neither sold in the shops, nor used for any other purpose. 2. By its thinness and transparency-qualities which prevent any portion of the printing on theCte bS to»gh„eSZf„/L\hStSt?h“e e ^ t d p^Xtr^JiT, s°a * £S» - rts& 5 £ » r h™“t S he Cjg “'■ * 4 “ io'p^hS J.,“ d Thl h d T, ' 1 ' “ nd divilv,„es”oi velvet, hla S ck P to ihc nit hi the* fi y machine which cannot err ; and lastly The“,nnot b; ' ‘ he 8i ?" atu, e of th « «1«£ Dank n , otes are printed on the side nf that P S e k Which receives watermark so that, ,f the paper be split, the „„pX5 the CORNER CUPBOARD: retainS ‘ he vUglttwt trace of 108. DECEMBER.—December was the tenth month in the old Roman world Mon/h »T 6 Call6d Dccemb er the « Holy Month because the festival of Christ’s R ln n ■ The Saxons called ($2 ^ter-month, orGuilerra, the first yule. CEMBER H -M G E S AT - Ilf 0 ? IN , DK ’ mutton, pork, doe venison, and veT ^’ 110 Poultry and Game.— Geese Tm- r-tridg” 5ui„r l k b r,Vi,d h Zct' terei, SS,.^ ™6eon. Do.: sSeS^ L v j =rwf^ SUot’I °\ i0nS ° g kni*h)° teks^SaTO^ Soiesf Gurnets, ’g k*’’ Smelts, Doric,: Cra£, L, SIELOIN OP BEEP A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 25 Hashed and minced, or made into mock hare, when cold. . 117. Roasting Sirloin. — A Sirloin ol about fifteen pounds, will require to be be¬ fore a large sound fire about three and a half or four hours; take care to spit it evenly, that it may not he heavier on one side than the other; put a little clean dripping in the dripping-pan (tie a piece of paper over it to preserve the fat), baste it well as soon as it is put down, and every quarter of an hour all the time it is roast¬ ing till the last half hour; then take off the paper, and make some gravy for it; stir the fire and make it clear; to brown and froth it, baste it with butter and dredge it with flour and salt mixed to¬ gether in equal qualities; let it go a few minutes longer, till the froth rises; take it up. Garnish it with a hillock of horse¬ radish, scraped as fine as possible with a very sharp knife. A Yorkshire pvidding is an excellent accompaniment. The joint should hang, before cooking, as long as possible. The marrow which was along the back bone may be removed prior to roasting; and the fat freed from ker¬ nels. Wipe away any moisture from the surface of the meat. The joint should at first be set at a distance from the fare, and drawn nearer as it has gradually been warmed through. In hot weather, the joint wiU take less time to roast than in cold. [The following interesting account of the “creation” of “ Sir Loin,” is given by Dr. Kitchener in his invaluable “ Cook s Chicle This joint is said to owe its name to King Charles the Second, who dining upon a Loin of Beef and being particularly pleased with it, asked the name of the Joint; said tor its merit it should be knighted, and henceforth called Sir-Loin. “ Our second Charles, of fame facete. On Loin of Beef did dine; He held his sword, pleas d, o er the meat, ‘ Arise thou famed Sir-Loin. Ballad of tile New John Barleycorn. The ballad of “The Gates of Calais” “ Renowned SiE-Loin, ofttimes decreed The theme of English Ballad; On thee our Kings oft deign to feed, Unknown to Frenchmen’s palate; Then how much doth thy taste exceed Soup-meagre, frogs, and solad ! J 118. Carving the Sirloin. —The fillet, which lies underneath the bone, as the joint is placed (115) is usually very tender. and is much approved. The joint should l»o turned over, and slices cut from the fillet in the direction of 3—4, that is across. The meat above the bone is usually cut in the direction of 5—6 ; but may be cut in the direction of 3—4. The carver should ask the guests whether they prefer the upper or the under cut. Slices of the thin end, 6, should be served with the other parts. And pieces of the rich fat, 1, should be distributed with the lean. EOAST TURKEY. 119. Roast Turkey, Turkey Poults, and other Poultry. —A fowl and a turkey require the same management at the fire, only the latter will take longer time. Let them be carefully picked, break the breast-bone (to make them look plump), and thoroughly singe them with a sheet of clean writing paper. Prepare a nice, brisk fire for them. Make stuffing according to 120; stuff them under the breast where the craw was taken out; and make some into balls, and boil or fry them, and lay them round the dish; they are handy to help, and you can reserve some of the inside stuffing to eat with the cold turkey, or to enrich a hash. Score the gizzard; dip it in the yolk of an egg, or melted butter, and sprinkle it with "salt and a few grains of cayenne; put it under one pinion, and the liver under the other; cover the liver with buttered paper, to prevent it getting hardened or burnt. When you first put your turkey down to roast, dredge it with flour, then put about an ounce of butter into a basting ladle, and as it melts baste the bird. Keep it at a distance from the fire for the first half hour that it mav warm gradually, then put it nearer, an when it is plumped up, and the steam draws towards the fire, it is nearly done enough ; then dredge it lightly with flour, and put a bit of butter into your basting 26 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: ladle, and as it melts baste the turkey with it; this will raise a finer froth than can be produced by using the fat out of the pan. A very large turkey will require about three hours to roast it thoroughly ; a mid¬ dling sized one, of eight or ten pounds, about two hours; a small one may be done in an hour and a half. Turkey poults are of various sizes, and will take about an hour and a half. Fried pork sausages are a very savoury accompaniment to either roasted or boiled turkey. Sausage meat is sometimes used as stuffing, instead of the ordinary force meat. If you wish a turkey, especially a very large one, to be tender, •'ever dress it till at least four or five days (in cold weather, eight or ten) after it has been killed, unless it be dressed imme¬ diately after killing, before the flesh is cold; be very careful not to let it freeze. Hen turkeys are preferable to cocks for whiteness and tenderness, and the small tender ones, with black legs, are most esteemed. Send up with them oyster, egg, and plenty of gravy sauce. , 120. Stuffing for Roast Turkey, Veal, Fowl, tyc .—Mince a quarter of a pound of beef marrow (beef suet will do), the same weight of bread crumbs, two drachms of parsley leaves, a drachm and a half of sweet marjoram (or lemon thyme), and the same of grated lemon peel, an onion, chopped very fine, a little salt and pepper, pound thoroughly together, with the yolk and white of two eggs, and secure it in the veal with a skewer, or sew it in with a reedle and thread. Make some of it into balls or sausages; flour and fry or boil them, and send them up as a garnish, or in a side dish, with roast poultry, veal, or cutlets, Ac. This is sufficient quantity for a turkey poult; a very large turkey will require twice as much; an ounce of dressed ham may be added to the above, or use equal parts of the above stuffing and pork sausage meat. ° 121. Carving .—A turkey should not be divided till the breast is disposed of; but if it bo thought proper to divide, the same process must be followed as directed in a fowl. The following is the best mode of serving this delicious bird:— Be¬ gin cutting close to the breast-hone, scooping round so as to leave the mere pinions. Each slice should carry with it a portion of the pudding, or force-meat, with which the craw is stuffed. vJTJL® directions for carving a fowl, which will ^ r - eafte ; pl X en ’ W1 *l contain illustrated in¬ structions for the complete dissection, and as these directions will apply to the casing “ 'f 6 S la - raakc further reference to^the method of carving roast turkies.] GOOSE. 122. Roast Goose.— When a goose is well picked, singed, and cleaned, make the stuffing with about two ounces of onion, and half as much green sage; chop them very fine, adding four ounces of stale bread crumbs, a bit of butter about as big as a walnut, and a very little pepper and salt i to this some cooks add half the liver, par¬ boiling it first), the yolk of an egg or two, and, incorporating the whole together, stuff the goose; do not quite fill it, but leave a little room for the stuffing to swell. From an hour and a half to an hour and three- quarters will roast a fine full-grown goose. Send up gravy and apple-sauce with it. Geese are called green till they are about four months old. The only difference be¬ tween roasting these and a full-grown goose, consists in seasoning it with pepper and salt instead of sage and opions, and roasting it for 40 or 50 minutes only. I**- Goose or Buck Stiffing.—Two- tlnrds onion, one-third green sage, chopped fine, bread crumbs equal in weight to the sage and onions; season with a little pepper and salt. Some omit the bread crumbs and some again do not like the onions, while others add to them a, clove of garlic. 124. Carving a Goose or Buck .—Cut off the fP r ° n f 7' 1 'r 1 ,~ 1 ~ of thc goose, and pour into the body a large spoonful of gravy which should be mixed with the stuffing Some persons put, instead of the gravy a glass of port wine, in which a lar^e tea- spoonful of mustard has been previously stirred. Cut as many slices from the breast o "~ as Possible, and serve with a por¬ tion of the apron to each plate. When the breast is all served, and not till then, cut off A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 27 the joints; but observe, the joints of water fowl are wider spread and go farther lack than those of land fowl. 125. A Roasted Pheasant should have a smart fire, but not a fierce one; baste it, butter and froth it, and prepare sauce for it. Some persons (the pheasant being a dry bird) put a piece of beef or rump-steak into the inside before roasting. It is said that a pheasant should be suspended by one of the long tail-feathers till it falls, it is then ripe and ready for the spit, and not before If a fowl be well kept, and dressed as a pheasant, and with a pheasant, few persons will discover the pheasant from the fowl. PHEASANT. 126. Carving a Pheasant.— Fix your fork in the centre of the breast, slice it down, in the direction 1—2; remove the leg by cutting in the sideway direction, then take off the wing, taking care to miss the neck- bone. When the legs and wings are all taken off, cut off slices of the breast, lhe merrythought is separated by passing the knife under it, towards the neck ; the other parts are cut as before directed in a fowl. The breast, wings, and merrythought, are the favourites, particularly the former, but the leg has a higher flavour. partridge. 127. Partridges, Guinea Fowls, Pea fowls, Blackcock, Grouse, and Moor- game, are dressed in the same way as phea¬ sants. Partridges are sent up with rice sauce, or bread sauce, and good gravy. Blackcock, moorgame, and grouse, are sent up with currant jelly and fried bread crumbs. 128. Carving Partridges and Pigeons .— Partridges are carved like fowls, but the breast and wings are not often divided, the bird being small. The wing is the prime bit, particularly the tip; the other choice parts are the breast and merrythought. Pigeons may be cut in two, either from one end to the other of the bird, or across. SNIPE. 129. Snipes and Woodcocks are never drawn; they should be tied on a small bird spit, and put to roast at a clear tire; a slice of bread is put under each bird, to catch the trail, that is, the excrements of the intestines ; they are considered delight¬ ful eating; baste with butter, and :roth with flour; lay the toast on a hot dish, and the birds on the toast; pour some good gravy into the dish, and send some up in a boat. They are generally roasted from twenty to thirty minutes—but some epi¬ cures say, that a woodcock should be just introduced to the cook for her to show it the fire, and then send it up to table. Gar¬ nish with slices of lemon. Snipes are dressed in the same way, but require kss time- ... . 130. Carving a Snipe consists sirnp.y in cutting it in two. 131. THE PHENOMENA OF DE¬ CEMBER.—The trees are bare and vegeta¬ tion seems dead. M hen the first frosts set in the effect of the cold upon growing vegeta¬ tion are most singular. A plant which was green the day before is white with frost m the early morning which follows, and fades into a dismal black as soon as the sun¬ beams beo'in to warm the frozen branches, and melt the fringe of hoar-frost which sparkles upon thefoliagewhich it killed while it adorned. The explanation is not difficult, for we find an anology in the experiences of animal life. There are many animals which bear an exposure, for a considerable time, to severe cold, without suffering ma¬ terial injury; and these same creatureswil. often be able also to resist the injurious effects of an equal extreme of heat; but it 28 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: they be suddenly removed from the cold to the heat, or the reverse, they suffer inflam¬ mation, mortification, and death. The . human subject often, from severe cold, loses sensation in parts of the body; and these are precisely in a similar condition to the parts of plants under the influence of frost. 1 be vital functions are suspended; the blood, like the fluid sap in the plant, ceases to flow; the nerves of sensation refuse to perforin their office, either wholly or in part. If such a part of the body gradually passes from its dead condition, no ill effects will ensue; but if an attempt be made, by the injudicious application of warmth, to promote a sudden reaction, the most serious results may follow. In slight cases chilblains will result; in severe in¬ stances of frost-bite, mortification and death. In arctic regions the fingers, toes, cars, and noses are sometimes frozen; but the ex¬ perience of the inhabitants of such regions has guided them to the true treatment of such injuries—viz., to rub the injured parts with frozen water pounded, or with snow. In like manner experience has shown that the life of the plant, or the vitality of its leaves, may be preserved, if by shielding it from the rays of the sun, a sudden reaction is prevented. For this reason gardeners, before sunrise, take care to cover up the shrubs and crops they wish to protect when an early and unexpected frost has “ bitten ” them; for they say, “the sunshine will do more mischief than the frost.” 132. The temperature of vegetation is above that of the atmosphere in winter, unless the plants are completely frozen, when their life is suspended in some cases, in others destroyed. But this supply of vegetable warmth is sufficient to resist cold to a greater extent than would be supposed; a covering of woollen or of matting being found, in practice, sufficient to preserve plants from injury by very long and severe frosts. 133. When, nevertheless, a succulent plant, the cells in whose stem and leaves are are filled with fluid sap, are so situated as to be fully under the influence of freezing air, a complete death of the plant ensues. I have before explained, that when water is cooled to within about ten degrees of the freezing point it ceases to contract, and that, unlike other substances, in passing from a fluid to a solid state it expands considerably. The sap of the plant consists for the most part of water, confined in the passages and cells of the tissue in the leaves and stem; and this fluid, when frozen, expands and lacerates the vital organs so as totally to destroy the life of the plant. If the leaves are placed upon the hand, they will be found to be soft and pulpy, as if they had been boiled; so complete has been the destruction of the minute cells of which their tissue was composed. 134. Another phenomenon associated with the advent of frost, was long the theme of superstitious and ignorant wonder. The pedestrian who crosses a meadow in the middle of the day after a frosty night, will see, occasionally, the print of footsteps ap¬ parently burned into the sod. The grass may be two or three inches in height throughout the meadow, but where these mysterious footsteps have been, the herbage seems singed or seared close to the earth. Before people knew better, and while religion was more completely in the fetters of unreasoning superstition, good folks were wont to point to these footprints, as the physical proofs of the existence and per¬ sonal wanderings of the impersonation of evil. But the “ old wives’ tale” fell a victim to the progress of science, which discovered how these mysterious foot-prints could at will be produced by the best of men, if they walked over frozen grass in the early morn¬ ing, and proved that the supposed Satanic agency was quite unnecessary. The blades of the grass, being completely frozen, were as brittle as the ice which filled and ex¬ panded their cells, and consequently snapped off under the pressure of the foot. When the sun rose the greater part of the field was exposed very gradually to its rays, and the grass, therefore, suffered little in general; but the broken blades were only the more completely withered and blackened, because ;hey would be sheltered by the surrounding herbage till the sun was high in the sky and his beams of considerable power. 13°. 'I he year has now run its course, and the succession of the seasons has been accomplished. The earth has carried us through the immensity of space, completely round the great luminary on whose beams days and seasons depend, under the guid¬ ance of Him “who set the stars in the fir- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 29 The aid of the microscope will greatly en¬ hance your perception of the beauties of these crystals. 137. Take a piece of glass, on a frosty day, and hold it over the steam of a tea¬ kettle. Drops of water will be condensed thereon. Lay the glass in the open-air, and the pure drops of water will become frozen into beautiful crystals. You will then see, in a few minutes, water in its three forms— vapour , liquid , and solid . Fill a phial with w r ater, and cork it tightly. Place it in the frost, and when freezing it will break the bottle, showing that freezing water expands. 138. THINGS TO BE REMEMBERED IN DECEMBER.—Be charitable to the poor, and be just to your connections. Ex¬ amine the state of your affairs, and prepare to impiove your position by fresh energies. Take care of your health, not by reading m ament, and guidcth the wanderers of heaven.” 136. EXPERIMENTS UPON THE PHENOMENA OF DECEMBER.—Upon 1 a black garment catch the flakes of snow i that fall in a snow-storm, and, if you have I good sight, you will discover that these ! flakes consist of most beautiful crystalised forms, of which we give the following micro- | scopic illustrations :— the puffs of “ quackery,” and swallowing quack nostrums, but by exercise in fine weather, and by warmth at home in foggy and damp days and nights. (See 82.) 139. REMARKABLE EVENTS IN PAST DECEMBERS.— Calendar of the Month :— 1. Dr. Warren died, 1835. 2. Flaxman died, 1826. 3. Richelieu died, 1642. 4. Galvanism discovered, 1790—Mozart d.1792. 5. Black died, 1799. 6. Nicholas. — General Monk born, 160S. 7. Dr. Aikin died, 1822. 8. Zimmerman born, 1728. 9. Scheele born, 1742. 10. Royal Academy of Arts instituted, 1768. 11. Grouse-shooting ends—CharlesXII.killed, 1718. 12. Sir J. Brunei died, 1849. 13. Lucy.—Dr. S. Johnson died, 17S4. 14. Washington died, 1799. 15. Brera born, 1772. 16. Leopold, King of Belgium, born, 1790. 17. Sir H. Davy born, 1778. 18. Rubens born, 1577. 19. Tycho Brahe born, 1588. 20. Gray born, 1716. 21. St. Thomas.—Shortest day. 22. Pott died, 1788. 23. Sir R. Arkwright born, 1732. 24. Christmas Eve. 25. Christmas Day. 26. St. Stephen's.—Peyer born, 1653. 27. St. John.—Munro died, 1791. 28. Innocents—Peter Bayle died, 1706.' 29. John Wycliffe died, 1384. 30. R. Boyle died, 1691. 31. St. Silvester.—Boerhaave born, 1668. The Red Letter Days of the month are as follow: — 6th.— “St. Nicholas” He was Archbishop of Myra, in Greece, a.d. 302, and is re¬ garded as the patron saint of children and mariners, and consequently churches built near to the sea are generally dedicated to this saint. 13th —“ St. Lucia ” was a young lady of Syracuse, who died in the year 304, and was remarkable for the devout and charitable life she led. 21st— “St. Thomas ” is said to have tra¬ velled and promulgated Christianity among the Persians, Medes, Parthians, and Ar¬ menians, and that he met wdtli his death by i>eing stoned, and having darts thrown at Aim by the Brahmins, who were incensed at lis preaching. 25th .—“ Christmas Lay” This is kept as a solemn festival by our Church. 26th .—“ St. Stephen .” This feast is held, according to Brady, “ in consequence of St. 30 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: Stephen having been the first who suffered for his steady adherence to the faith of Christ, so that his anniversary has been fixed immediately following the day held * by the Church in commemoration of the Nativity of our Saviour ” 27th.—“ St. John, the Evangelist. I his feast is observed in commemoration of this evangelist, because be drank poison with¬ out dying in consequence. 28th.—“ Childermas " or “ Holy Inno¬ cents' Day," is held in commemoration of the slaughter of the innocents by Herod, and is celebrated by the Church of Rome with masses. It is considered unlucky to begin any work upon this day. 31st.—“ St. Silvester" was a pope, and is said to have been the author of several rites and ceremonies of the Romish Church, as unctions, palls, asylums, &c. He died in 140. MINCE PIES.—Rub and pick clean seven pounds of currants, and three pounds and a half of beef suet chopped fine, three pounds and a half of the lean of a sirloin of beef minced raw, three pounds and a half of apples chopped fine (which should be the lemon pippin),half a pound of citron cut in small pieces, half a pound of lemon- peel, half a pound of orange-peel, two pounds of fine moist sugar, one ounce of spice (such us cloves, mace, nutmegs, and cinnamon, pounded together, and sifted), the rine of four lemons, and four Seville oranges; rub all this together till w ell mixed, then put it into a deep pan; mix one bottle of brandy, one of white wine, and the juice of the lemons and oranges that have been grated, together in a basin; pour half over, and press it down tight with your hand, then add the other half, and let it remain at the top to soak in by degrees , cover up close. It should be made six weeks before wanted; the pans must be sheeted with puff paste, and covered with the same. About ten minutes will bake them. __ 0 . 141. Mince Pins without Meat. Six pounds of apples, pared, cored, and minced; of fresh suet, and raisins stoned, three pounds eacli; to these add of mace and cin¬ namon, a quarter of an ounce each, and eMit cloves powdered, three pounds ot powdered sugar, three quarters of an ounce of salt, the rinds of four, and juice of two lemons, half a pint of port, and the same of brandy. Mix well, and put into a deep pan. Have ready washed and dried four pounds of currants, and as you make the pies, add candied fruit. 142. Lemon Mince Pie. —Squeeze a lemon, boil the outside till tender enough to beat to a mash, add to it three apples chopped, four ounces of suet, half a pound of currants, four ounces of sugar; put the juice of a lemon, and candied fruit, as for other pies. Make a short crust and fill the pattypans. 143. Habe Pie. —Cut a hare into pieces, season it with pepper, salt, nutmeg, and mace; put it into a jug, with half a pound of butter, close it up, set it in a copper of boiling water, and make a forcemeat, with a quarter of a pound of scraped bacon, two onions, a glass of red wine, crumbs of bread, winter savory, the liver cut small, and nutmeg. Season high with pepper and salt; mix it well up with the yolks of three eggs, raise the pie, and lay the forcemeat in the bottom of the dish. Then put in the hare, with the gravy that came out of it; lay on the lid, and send it to the oven. An hour and a half will bake it. 144. STOMACH PLAISTER FOR COUGHS.—Take an ounce each of bees’ wax, Burgundy pitch, and rosin ; melt them together in a pipkin, and stir in three quarters of an ounce of common turpentine, and half an ounce of oil of mace. Spread it on a piece of sheep’s leather, grate some nutmeg over, and apply it quite warm to the pit of the stomach. 145. SNOW PANCAKES AND PUD- DINGS.—It is not generally known that snow is a fine substitute for eggs in both puddings and pancakes. Two table-spoon¬ fuls may be taken as the equivalent of an egg. Take it from a clean spot, and the sooner it is used, after being taken in-doors the better. It is to be beaten in, just as the eggs would have been, and it should be handled as little as possible. As eggs are clear in the season of snow it is a help to economy to Jcnow the above . 14fi! TWELFTH CAKES.—Make a cavity in the middle of six pounds of flour, set a sponge with a gill and a half of yeast and a little warm milk ; put round it a pound of fresh butter in small lumps, a pound and a quarter of sugar sifted, four pounds and a A FAMILY REPOSITORY. ?1 half of currants, half an ounce of sifted cin¬ namon, a quarter of an ounce of pounded cloves, mace, and nutmeg mixed, sliced candied orange, lemon-peel, and citron. When risen, mix all together with a little warm milk; have the hoops well papered and buttered, fill and bake them. When nearly cold ice them over. 147. LINSEED TEA.—Take two tea- spoonsful of linseed, liquorice root half an ounce, boiling water three pints, let these infuse some hours and strain. An ounce of colt’s-foot leaves added makes a good pectoral infusion. These are both very good emol¬ lient mucilaginous drinks, and are taken as common beverages in complaints of the bladder, urinary passages, coughs, or any inflammatory complaint with advantage. 148. TO PREVENT RUST.—Mix with fat oil varnish four-fifths of well rectified spirits of turpentine. The varnish is to be applied by means of a sponge ; and, articles varnished in this manner, will retain their metallic brilliancy, and never contract any spots of rust. It may be ap¬ plied to copper, and to the preservation of philosophical instruments, which, by being brought into contact with water are liable to lose their splendour, and become tar¬ nished. 149. CURES FOR THE CRAMP.— Bathe the parts afflicted every morning and evening with the powers of amber; and take inwardly at the same time, on going to bed at night, for eight or ten nights to” gether, half a spoonful, in from a gill to half a pint of white wine. For sudden attacks of the cramp in the legs, relief may be in¬ stantly obtained by stretching out the limb affected, and elevating the heel as much as possible till the toes bend backward toward the shin ; this also may be considered as an infallible remedy, when only in the leg. 150. VARNISH FOR BASKETS.—Take either red,black, or white sealing wax, which ever colour you wish to make; to every two ounces of sealing wax add one ounce of spirit of wine, pound the wax fine, then sift it through a fine lawn sieve till you have made it extremely fine; put it into a large phial with spirits of wine, shake it, let it stand near the fire forty eight hours, shaking it often; then, with a little brush, rub your basket all over with it; let them dry and do them over a second time. 151. TO PREVENT THE FREEZING OF WATER IN PIPES.—By tying up the ball-cock during the frost, the'freezing of pipes will often be prevented; in fact, it will always be prevented where the main pipe is higher than the cistern, or other reservoir, and the pipe is laid in a regular inclination from one to the other, for then no water can remain in the pipe; or if the main is lower than the cistern, and the pipe regularly inclines, upon the supply ceasing, the pipe will immediately exhaust itself into the main. Where the water is in the pipe, if each cock is left a little dripping, th '19 circulation of the water will frequently prevent the pipes from beino- frozen. 152. SYMPATHETIC INK.—Take an ounce and a half of zaffre, which may be had at any colour-shop, and put it into a glass vessel with a narrow and long neck ; pour over it an ounce measure of strong nitrous acid diluted with five times the quantity of water. Keep it in a warm, but not too hot place, for about ten or twelve hours, and then decant the clearest part of the liquor. Having so done, pour nearly as much more diluted nitrous acid on what remains, which must continue in the same situation, and for as long a time as before, and then be decanted and mixed with what was at first obtained by the first operation. This being done, dis¬ solve in it two ounce of common salt, and the sympathetic ink is completed. Writing on common paper is legible only while the paper is hot; exposing it alternately to the air, and to the heat of the fire, whatever is written will appear or disap- pear at pleasure. 153. A CURE FOR CHILBLAINS.— Take of ammoniac gum (the real drop) half an ounce; reduce it into a smooth pulp with as little water as possible; then add half an ounce of extract of hemlock, and three drachms of the strongest mercurial ointment; the whole to be well mixed to¬ gether. When used it should be spread on soft leather and sewed on the feet, and need not be removed above once a week. For recent chilblains, and for their prevention, this plaister is infallible. The above quan¬ tity is sufficient for a family of three or four children for the winter if their feet are pro* perly attended to. 32 THE CORNER CUPBOARD. 154. LIQUID BLACKING.—Mix a quarter of a pound of ivory black with a table-spoonful of sweet oil; dissolve one penny-worth of copperas, and three table¬ spoonfuls of treacle, in a quart of vinegar; then add one pennyworth of vitriol, and mix the whole well together; it forms a good liquid blacking for boots or shoes. 155. TO CURE THE FOOT-ROT IN SHEEP.—Pare off, with a sharp knife, so as not to make the part bleed, all the spongy and decayed parts of the hoof and frog, and rub into the affected parts, every other day, a little of a mixture of equal quantities of powdered sulphate and acetate of copper, (blue vitriol and verdigris) mixed up with crab verjuice to the consistance of a pulp. The dis order will generally dis¬ appear in from two to four dressings, es¬ pecially if the sheep be kept on dry and hard ground, or boards, so as not to rub or wash out the applications to the feet. 156. CARROTS, PARSNIPS, AND BEET ROOTS.—Must be kept in layers of dry sand for winter use; and neither they "nor potatoes should be cleared from the" earth. Potatoes should be carefully kept from frost. 157. SAUCE FOR WILD FOWLS.— Simmer a tea-cup full of port wine, the same quantity of good gravy, a little shalot, pepper, salt, nutmeg, and mace, for ten minutes; put in a bit of butter and flour, give it all one boil, and pour it through the birds. 158. TO PRESERVE FISH.—Salmon and other kinds of fish are preserved by placing them in jars and pouring sweet salad-oil over them until covered, then bunging up quite air-tight. 159. VOLATILE LINIMENT.—Mix together equal portions of spirit of harts¬ horn and sweet oil. 160. OINTMENT FOR PILES.—Take of spermaceti ointment, one ounce ; extract of saturn, thirty drops; laudanum, two drachms. Mix. 161. FURNITURE OIL.—Alkanet root, one part; shell lac varnish four parts lin¬ seed oil, sixteen parts; turps, two parts; wax, two parts. Mix, and let them stand together for a week. 162. CURE FOR SPRAIN.—A large spoonful of honey and salt, and the white of an egg; beat it up well, then let it stand an hour, and anoint the place sprained with the oil which will be produced, keeping the part well rolled with a bandage. 163. RHUBARB LOZENGES.—Pow¬ dered rhubarb, one ounce; powdered cas¬ sia, one ounce; sugar, one pound. Mix with mucilage. 164. TREATMENT OF BRUISES.— Apply poultices, or dip flannels in hot water, wring out, and apply hot; in extreme cases, or when near a joint, it may be ne¬ cessary to apply leeches. 165. TO TAKE THE RUST OUT OF STEEL.—Cover with sweet oil well rubbed on it: in forty-eight hours use unslackened lime, powdered very fine. Rub it till the rust disappears. 166. DIAMOND CEMENT.—Take isin¬ glass, soak it in water until it becomes soft, then disolve it in proof spirit, and add a little resin varnish. Used for joining china, glass, and also for fixing precious stones. 167. BLUE COPAL VARNISH.— Indigo, Prussian blue, blue verditer, or ultramarine. All these substances must be powdered fine. Proceed as before. 168. TOOTHACHE.—Take half a grain of opium, and the same quantity of yellow snb-sulphate of quicksilver, formerly called turpetli mineral: make them into a pill, and place it in the hollow part of the tooth some time before bed time, with a small piece of wax over the top. 169. FINE PICTURE VARNISH.— Fine-picked mastic, twelve pounds; clean glass, coarsely pounded, five pounds; colour¬ less spirits of turpentine, five gallons. Put them into a suitable vessel, and agitate for four or five hours, repeat the same next day, then let it settle for several months, and pour off the clear. 170. FROST-BITES.—Keep the part away from all heat, and rub with snow until warmth in some measure returns; then dry well, and rub with hot flannel. 171. BLEEDING AT THE NOSE.— Holding the arms and hands at full length above the head will often stop it, or bathe the nostrils with cold water, or put a little bruised alum into water, or bathe with vinegar and water. To prevent a return, the bowels should be kept open. A FAMILY REPOSITORY S3 THE ENGLISH OX 172. THE “ BEEP OP OLD ENG¬ LAND/' and How to Make the Most of it. Also an Account of the Edi¬ tor’s ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE CELE¬ BRATED Cook, Mrs. Bodkin, and how the Editor Prevailed upon her to Write all her Experience in Cook¬ ery for the “ Corner Cupboard/’— llic Editor of The Corner Cupboard has for some years enjoyed the acquaintance of the amiable Mrs. Bodkin, a lady who is well known to a large circle of friends as the best cook in London. That is, the best cook ac- cording to English taste—the cook par excellence tor the people—who love whole¬ some, frugal, and satisfactory dishes—dishes giving to the teeth, and to the whole diges¬ tive system, a fair and healthful occupation, and not undermining the body, and cheating the appetite, by miserable innovations, d la Frangaise, d Vltalienne , and d VJEepagnole. No. 2. J 173. Well, the Editor of The Corner Cup¬ board has long enjoyed the acquaintance of Mrs. Bodkin—has often dined at her table, and listened with profound attention to her impromptu orations upon the qualities of meat, the economy of joints, and the rela- tivejnerits of inodes and systems of cookery. 171. Mrs. Bodkin’s success as a cook is such, that she is said to have thorough com¬ mand of the chances which Dr. Kitchener used to say preside over the history of every joint. The old doctor held that there were seven chances against even the most sim¬ ple dish being presented to the mouth in absolute perfection. For instance, a lea ol mutton :— 1st. The meat must be good. 2nd. It must have been kept a good time. 3rd. It must be roasted at a good fire. 4th. hv a good cook. 5th. ho must be in a good temper. 6 th. With all this felicitous combination you must have good luck, and J 34 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 7th. Good appetite: the meat and the mouths which are to eat it must be ready for action at the same moment. Mrs. Bodkin has such command over the first six of these chances, that she inva¬ riably ensures the seventh. Her cookery is really so good, that it whets the appetite of every one who sits at her table. 175. The Editor therefore determined, if possible, to secure the services of Mrs. Bod¬ kin for the Cookery Department of The Corner Cupboard , desiring that that depart¬ ment should be, as compared with cookery books generally, the best, the most com¬ plete, the most modern, and suited to the tastes and means of the largest classes of people. It is very true that there are many cookery books, cheap and dear, and many little magazines in which cookery forms a conspicuous feature. But with regard to Cookery Books that bear the names of Soyer or Francatelli, they are written up to a standard that is far too expensive, even for the middling classes; and, even if expense were of no importance, the dishes prescribed would, generally speaking, be unsuitable to the tastes and constitutions of the many. And as to the magazines that treat of cookery, their articles are got together from such a medley of sources—copied from old cookery books, adapted from American works, or altered from various authorities, to avoid the law of copyright—to such a degree, that they confuse those whom they are designed to assist; and, in too many instances, spoil the dishes they offer their instructions to improve. A friend of ours once asked us whether we thought Miss Acton’s Cookery Book was a book which cooks might act on ? Without endeavour¬ ing to prejudice Miss Acton’s claims to popu¬ larity, we have determined that The Corner Cupboard shall supply the best, the most simple, the most complete, and the best arranged Cookery for the Middle and Indus¬ trious Classes. 176. In order to give our friends con¬ fidence in our promise and our plans, we must lay before them briefly our pre¬ liminary communications with Mrs. Bodkin upon the subject:— December 8,1836. Dear Mrs. Bodkin, I enclose a copy of my little work, The Corner Cupboard , and I want you to enrich its pages, by writing a series of articles upon family cookery, wnich, being penned by your own hand, shall be eminently practical, and suited to those large classes uf persons who pre¬ fer good English dishes, served with refined taste, and with due regard to the ways and means of persons in moderate circumstances in life. The excellent dishes which I have had the pleasure of partaking of at your own table, and the hearty commendations that were always pronounced thereon by your guests, convince me that if you will undertake this duty, you will confer a great privilege upon the readers of The Corner Cupboard. Believe me, Dear Mrs. Bodkin, Your Friend, The Editor. Reply. My Dear Mr. Editor, I have received your letter, and reallv don t known how to reply. I can’t write. 1 very seldom take the pen in hand—and to think of writing a cookeiy book, quite frightens me. It is a work in which I should take a great deal of pleasure, if 1 could write so as to explain my¬ self. But there are so many things to describe and make plain to people, that I am afraid I should fail. The undertaking seems to me so large that I fear I must decline it; but I will think the matter over. December 10 ,1856. Yours truly, Mary Bodkin. Editor's Second Letter . Dear Mrs. Bodkin, December 11,1856. I am so anxious to encourage you to undertake the cookery department of my Corner Cupboard , that I must beg you to comply with my request. And, to encourage you to do so, let me remind you that you once wrote for a work that I edited some years ago. various receipts at my request, and those re¬ ceipts were so good, that the work in which they appeared increased very much in sale, and numerous correspondents wrote testifying their approbation of them, The idea of writing a cookery book probably alarms you. But if you can write a receipt for your excellent “Winter White Bait,” for “Oxford Hare,” and your “Lark Pudding,” which are the best I have ever eaten, for your excellent soups, and capital patties, pies," and stews — if you can write receipts separately, as I have already shown you have done—you have only to keep on writing until you have written all that you know; theu, if you put them altogether, you ’will find that you have accomplished the very thing that alarmed you at first, namely, written a cookery book , and a capital one I have no doubt it will be. Further to encourage you, I will state that for the work I have already alluded to, 1 once engaged a practical gardener to write a series of gardening papers, and I can assure you that, although the stiffness and eccentricity of his composition freq-^utly made the readers of my A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 35 work laugh heartily, his instructions were so plain and practical, went so directly to the work to be done, and so clearly pointed" out the way to do it, that his gardening papers are now deemed above all price by amateur gardeners. I intend all the departments of The Corner Cupboard to be written in this manner, by practical hands ; and my old gardening editor fs again about to undertake his department. I am quite sure that my readers, “theCup- boardonians,” as I begin to call them, will ap¬ preciate your sensible and practicable instruc¬ tions far before the literary hashes displayed in the “ Cookery Bookery ” of the present day. If this were a matter of popular election, I would placard the whole kingdom with “ Bod¬ kin for Cook,” and I am "sure if the lovers of good fare knew your works as I do, you would be elected unanimously at every dinner- table in England. Yours very faithfully, The Editor. Reply. Dear Mr. Editor, I have made up my mind to try my best, but you must help me in putting matters right for the press. The plan 1 think I shall com¬ mence, is one which I don’t remember to have seen before. It is to take Beef, say, and show all that can be done with every joint—how it can be served, hot, cold, stewed, hashed, broiled, fried, minced, and so on. Take every part of the animal, inside and outside, and show what can be done with it. So that if a person has any particular joint, they may know everything that can be done with it—what is the best way to cook it at first, and what meals and relishes can be got out of it afterwards. I believe, Mr. Editor, that one-half of our food is wasted by bad management, and, therefore, the very first receipt I shall give will be for the Stock-pot. You know I was always a great advocate for that. About the drawings, to show how things are, you will have to come and help me, for that is impossible for me to do. I’ve been trying, already, to draw a rump of beef, and, do all I can, 1 can’t help making it like a Scotchman's cap—I enclose it for you to see. Please to call, and we will try to make plans for doing the cookery as cookery ought to be done. Yours sincerely, Mary Bodkin. December 13,1856. It is only necessary to add that we called, and made all the necessary arrangements. And that we have promised to pay every attention to the literary arrangement of Mary Bodkin’s cookery. The opening paper scarcely does justice to her talent, as she is nervous, and could scarcely turn a pancake now, were she to try. But she will get confident in a little while, especially after she has seen her first paper in print; and we are quite sure “the Cupboardonians” will be delighted. 177. THE STOCK POT.—No house, how* ever small it may be, should be without a Stock Pot, it is the " save all ” of an establishment. There is nothing in the shape of meat, that is sweet and wholesome, that may not go into the stock pot. For the benefit of the stock pot, you should not allow any one to pick a bone. If you send a joint of cold meat into the kitchen for the servants’ dinner, never allow them to pick the bone, for the stock pot requires it, and will extract abundant nourishment from it. In trimming a joint of cold meat for the table, put the trimmings into the stock pot. Egg-shells should go into the stock pot; they tend to clear the stock. Hard crusts of dry bread may be put in; they gather the scam, which should be taken off three or four times in the day. Ham, beef, veal, mutton, lamb, pork, bits of poultry, game, in fact, the bones or remains of any kind of meats should go into the stock pot. Cold carrots and parsnips, or the remains of onion-sauce or gravy, the outside stems of celery, thoroughly cleaned and cut up, should go into the stock pot. In this you have the ground-work of almost all kinds of gravies and soups. The stock pot should be made according to the engraving. The tap not being quite at the bottom allows room for the sediment, and thus you can draw the stock off perfectly clear; it should be drawn off and thoroughly cleared out every twenty-four hours, when the bones, &c., should go into the pig-tub. Then fill up again with what you have saved for it in the preceding twenty-four hours, and so on from day to day, thus saving in the course of a year, something enormous [This is the first little sermon upon economy preached by Mrs. Bodkin. And there is really an amount of good sense in it, which we cannot help commenting upon. Bones contain a great amount of nourishment in the form of marrow, gelatine, and oil or fat, besides phos¬ phate of lime, and a cartilaginous substance which is wrapped around them. These sub¬ stances are all essential to health, in just those proportions in which the stock pot would ex¬ tract and hold them in solution. Bones in their natural state, are very heavy, but when all the nourishment has been extracted from them they are as light almost as corks.*] 36 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 178. THE JOINTS OF BEEF, THEIR NAMES AND SITUATIONS.—Very few cookery books are right upon this point. It is true that the ways of cutting up the carcass differ in some parts of the kingdom; but Mrs. Bodkin, having consulted with her butcher in Newgate-market, is able to offer the following as the most general:— D —The Rump. A—The Thick Flank. F F F —1 ho Sirloin. (Three cuts, each called Sirloin. The middle is the best.) G— The Thin Flank. II —Tile Wing, or l*’ore ribs. /—The Middle-ribs. /—The Chuck-ribs. A—The Brisket. A—The Chuck and Leg of Mutton Piece. M —'The Shin. N —'The Clod. O— The Sticking-picce, or Neck. 179. OX-TAIL SOUP. —(An Instance of the Utility of the Stock-pot).— Cut six large onions in slices; put them into a stew-pan, with half-a-pound of beef- dripping ; brown them over the fire. Then add two carrots, sliced thin, a bunch of savoury herbs, a small quantity of allspice and whole pepper, slightly bruised; stew them together about an hour. Put half-a- pound of flour in the oven to dry, and take care that it does not burn; add this, with one quart of stock , to the herbs, &c., and stir well together. Then have two gallons of stock boiling in another pot, into which put the herbs, thickener, &c., and boil well for an hour; strain it through a sieve, put in the ox-tails, and serve. The ox-tails should be allowed to simmer in water three hours, previously to putting them in the soup. Tut the bones in the Stock-pot. 180. A FEW MORE WORDS ABOUT THE SIRLOIN OF BEEF .—(See 117.)— The time required to roast a joint of beef depends more on the weather, heat of the fire, and thickness of the joint, than of the weight. Ten minutes to the pound has been found to be quite sufficient to roast a Sirloin, which should be put down to a good, brisk, and clear coal fire. The old-fashioned sys¬ tem of dangling, with a skein of worsted, is far the easiest and best plan of suspending a joint to roast before the fire. Do not baste it too much, as it tends to sodden the meat, and will almost entirely spoil the dripping. To preserve the fat, place a sheet of clean paper round the joint. Ten minutes before serving, take the paper off, and dredge the joint with a little flour and salt mixed, previously melting a little butter in the basting-ladle, and pouring it over the joint. Then serve, with about half a pint of boil¬ ing water poured over it, and garnished with horseradish. 181. COLD FILLET, FRIED IN SLICES.—The fillet, or undercut of the sirloin, if not eaten, can be taken out and cut in slices, not too thin, cross-way of the grain. Fry them in butter, over a brisk fire, until nicely browned. Then serve with a rich gravy, which may be made by taking a ladleful of stock ; slightly thicken with flour; add to which a small piece of butter, and a table-spoonful of mushroom catsup. 182. A ROAST RUMP OF BEEF.— This joint should be roasted, and served pre- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 37 cisely the same as the sirloin. It can also be stewed the same, with the exception that it will take more time to cook, in con¬ sequence of its being thicker and more solid. 183. THE SIRLOIN STEWED.—Tie it up lightly with tape; place it in a stew- pan, and partly cover it with stock gravy; add three large onions, a hunch of savoury herbs, and stew it gently four hours. Dry it before the fire ; then brush it over with colouring; and serve it w r ith a rich gravy C See Fillet of Beef, 181) and stewed onions. 184. TO STEW THE ONIONS.—Peel twelve large onions, and fry them in boil¬ ing lard until they are perfectly brown; then stew them for an hour in stock gravy, and serve round the beef. The remains of the stew'ed beef may be cut into slices and hashed in the gravy that is left, garnishing with stewed onions. Put the bones in the tock-pot. 185. SLICES OF COLD RUMP FRIED. —Slices from this joint, when cold, may be fried, with a little butter in the pan, until nicely hot through; then serve round some boiled or steamed potatoes, with a white sauce. 186. WHITE SAUCE is made thus.— One pint of milk boiled in a saucepan ; add a little flour to thicken it, a piece of butter, and a table-spconful of mushroom catsup, poured over the whole of it. The Rump of Beef is the part from whence the finest steaks are cut. 187. ROAST RIBS OF BEEF—COLD, FRIED, OR HASHED.—This is the finest joint in the whole ox, and may be roasted (See Sirloin, 180); or, when cold, may be fried ( See Rump of Beef, 182), or hashed thus:—Put a quart of stock gravy into a stewpan, to which add one onion, half a turnip, and half a carrot, cut up small. Boil half-an-hour. Mix a little flour in a basin with water, for thickening; put three table-spoonfuls in, well stirring it to keep it from burning; add three table-spoonfuls of mushroom catsup, or Harvey’s sauce; then season with two ounces of salt and one ounce of pepper to taste. Let it all well boil for ten mi¬ nutes; then put in the meat,which must be cut into thin slices, and dredged with flour. After the meat is in, it should not be allowed to boil, or it will make the meat eat hard . After gently simmering for about ten mi¬ nutes, serve in a hash-dish. Make a round of toast, cut it into triangular pieces, and place it round the dish. Some people who are fond of sharp sauces, put a little mixed pickles in, cut into square pieces. 188. ROAST LIBS OF BEEF BONED AND ROLLED.—These are generally the chuck-ribs. The bones are taken out by the butcher, and the meat is rolled round and skewered up. It may be dressed the same as the Ribs of Beef, 187. CHUCK-RIBS OP BEEF BONED AND ROLLED. 189. TO CARVE THE CHUCK-RIBS OF BEEF, BONED AND ROLLED.— This joint is very nice to stand cold for breakfast or supper. If the outside cut is preferred by any one, cut it thin off the top of the joint; if it is not required, cut a thick slice off. By so doing, you come to the underdone at once; and as most people like roast beef with the gravy in it, you will thereby be enabled to give satisfaction to the persons whom you are carving for, w T hich is the great secret in good carving. Cut the slices thin, and do not give too much gravy, unless asked for. Be sure to put the guard up on your fork; or, if your knife slips, you will, in all probability, cut ycur fingers. Do not help too much at a time, as it is easy for the persons wdiom you are carving for to send their plates again. You will find by doing this, that there will not be so much left on the plates to waste. 190. THE SALT AITCHBONE OF BEEF BOILED—COLD, AND AS BUB¬ BLE AND SQUEAK.—It should be placed in cold water, and allowed to boil gently, allowing a quarter-of-an-hour to the pound. The pot should be skimmed three or four times. Serve with half-a-pint of the liquor it w'as boiled in over it, and garnished wnth carrots. When cold, slices can be cut from it, and fried in butter until quite hot. Then 38 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: chop up any cold vegetables you may have, and fry them together in the same pan, and serve in the centre of the dish. This is called Bubble and Squeak. Put the Bones in the Stock-pot. l'o dress a fresh Aitchbone of Beef, see Sirloin, 180, and Ribs, 187. AITCHBONE OF BEEF. 191. TO CARVE THE AITCHBONE Ob BEEP. This, probably, is the easiest joint to carve in the whole ox. It is neces¬ sary, in the first place, to take a slice from A to B, at least half-an inch thick. If pro¬ perly cooked, the gravy will be found to rune rom the part that is cut; then cut the slices rather thin. Pat will be found to the right of A, and the soft fat on the other side of the joint. If it is required well- dressed, it will be found at C, by turning the joint over. 192. A THIN FLANK OP BEEP_ SAL l OR FRESH.—It is generally salted in red brine, and is called Corn Beef. It should be boiled twenty minutes to the pound, and sent to table. (See Aitchbone, 190.) If intended to stand cold, take the bones out and press it, by putting it on a dish and placing a piece of board over it. Put a half-hundred weight on the board, a large stone, or anything that is heavy will do as well; allow the weights to be on all night. In the morning take them off, put the beef on a clean dish, cutting a thick slice off one end of it, and set it on the breakfast table, garnished with three or tour nice bunches of parsley. When fresh, the thin flank may be dressed. (See Sirloin’ 180; and Ribs, 187.) 193. THE SILVER SIDE OP THE BUTTOCK, OR ROUND—FRESH OR S ^V T- ~ The silv . er side ^ far the best part of the buttock, being closer in the grain and more tender. To dress it salt, see Aitchbone, 190; do. fresh,see Sirloin, 180,and R : bs, 187 194. THE MOUSE BUTTOCK — FRESH OR SALT.—This is generally a very dry and hard piece of meat. It is the inside part of the buttock, or round. To dress it salt, see Aitchbone, 190; ditto fresh, see Sirloin, 180, and Ribs, 187. 195. THE BRISKET — FRESH OR SALT.—This is by some considered the best part of the ox to boil or stew, but butchers and experienced cooks say that it is harder and requires more dressing than any other joint. If salted, it may be boiled, see Aitch¬ bone, 190; if fresh, stewed, see Sirloin, 180; or, if hashed, see Ribs, 187. 196. WINTER WHITEBAIT. — You should get your fishmonger to pick you out some of the largest and soundest sprats. Shake them in flour to remove the scales, then egg them over with a brush, shake them in equal quantities of flour and bread crumbs, and fry them in boiling fat (See Cod I ish, 198) for three minutes. Serve them on a napkin, perfectly plain. Brown bread and butter, and a lemon cut into wedges, should be placed on table with them; added to which, a little cayenne pepper and salt is all that should be taken as sauce to them. [This is the dish alluded to in our correspon- r™fo e w ? tf \Bodkin. We recommend our readers to try it. Sprats are in season all the winter, and are best in frosty weather.j 197. COD FISH — BOILED OR FRIED -This fish is best when two days old, as it eats more tender and cuts more firmly than if only just killed. To boil, it should be placed in sufficient warm water to cover it, and will take from three- quarters-of-an-hour to one hour’s ^entle simmering, according to the size; the liver shou d be boiled with it. Serve on a napkin, the liver laid on one side of the fish, and oyster sauce in a tureen. Garnish with horseradish nicely scraped, a slice or two of lemon, and a little parsley. 198. TO FRY the tail part of the fish it should be cut into slices right through the fish, about three-quarters of an inch SfS' 1 !n “ C ‘“" -1 rXl brush the ?A an egg Up u in . a bason > and crumbs of breadThrough^a wire SVand “oif^r;- ith tbem: W fk • ? frymg-pan should be at least three inches deep, and there should be A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 39 two inches of fat in it, enough to cover the fish. When the fat boils, which you may ascertain by sprinkling two or three drops of water into it, when , if it splutters and spits out , it boils. Beef and mutton dripping makes the best fat to fry fish in. Then put your fish in, having shaken the loose bread crumbs off. When done it will float. Serve on a napkin, and garnish the same as Boiled Cod Fish, 197. 199. OYSTER SAUCE.—Take a dozen oysters; blanch them, by putting them in cold water, and boiling them for ten minutes. Make a nice melted butter, thus :—Take a pint of milk, let it boil; add a little flour for thickening; put in two ounces of butter, well-stirring it to keep it from burning. Then put in the oysters, with a pinch of cayenne pepper, a little salt, and a table- spoonfull of mushroom catsup. 200. BOILED SHOULDER OF MUT TON.—Put into cold water a shoulder of mutton, and boil it a quarter-of-an-hour to the pound. Then dish, smothering it com¬ pletely in Onion Sauce , made thus:—Peel six large onions, and boil them in water till they are perfectly tender; take them out, and chop them up, not too fine; then put them in a saucepan with a pint of milk, two ounces of butter, and let them boil gently ; add a little flour to thicken it, and a little pepper and salt. Serve over the mutton. 201. PIGEON PIE.—Make a good puff paste, thus: — Take three-quarters-of-a pound of flour, and a quarter-of-a-pound of butter. Rub as much butter into the flour as possible, without its feeling at all greasy; it must be rubbed in quite fine. Add suf¬ ficient water to make it into a paste, roll it out, stick bits of butter all over it, flour it, fold it up, the butter inside, and roll it out again. This should be done three times. Then take three pigeons, season them well inside and out, with two of salt to one of pepper; one pound of rump steak, cut into thin slices and seasoned the same as the pigeons. Place the steak at the bottom of the dish, the pigeons on the steaks; then on the pigeons two eggs boiled hard, cut into slices jiot too thin. Then wet the rim of the pie-dish with a little water, and put a thin layer of paste round the rim you have just wetted. After this, place a covering of paste over all; trim the pasto round the edge of the dish with a knife, and score the edge of the paste lightly with an iron skewer; cut some ornaments out with tin- shapes, lay them on lightly, and then brusli the yoke of an egg over the paste. Two or three of the pigeon’s feet should be stuck in the centre of the pie. 202. LARK PLDDING.—Hake a paste of half-a-pound of suet and one pound of flour. Roll it out, and line the dish with it. Then take one pound of rump steak, three sheeps kidneys, one dozen larks, nicely picked and drawn, and all well- seasoned with two of salt and one of pepper, and one dozen oysters blanched. Cut the steaks thin, and place them at the bottom of the dish, then the kidneys in a like man¬ ner, the larks on the top, with an oyster in each. It should be boiled four hours. 203. POTATOES.—To cook this vege¬ table, the steamer should be perfectly clean. They should be pared very thin, the eyes picked out, and you should endeavour to cook all the small-sized ones on one dav, and the larger ones on the next; otherwise! the smaller ones will be done to atoms, and the larger ones quite hard. Do not put too many on a dish. If good potatoes, and cooked according to this recipe, they will resemble balls of flour. (For Twenty Me¬ thods of Cooking Potatoes, See JEnauvre Within, 122.) 204. BRUSSELL’S SPROUTS.-Wash perfectly clean; put them in boiling water, with a little salt, and let them boil gently for half-an-hour. Then strain them through a cullender. Set the cullender over the saucepan, and cover it over with a cloth; the steam will keep them hot, and they will drain perfectly dry. Serve in a vegetable- dish. 205. YORKSHIRE PUDDING.—Well beat three eggs, then add a pint of milk, and make it into a smooth batter with half- a-pound of flour. The tin which is to re¬ ceive the pudding must have been placed, for some time previously, under the joint that has been put down to roast. One of beef is usually preferred. Watch it carefully that it may not burn, and let the edge's have an equal share of the fire. When the pudding is quite firm in every part, and well-coloured on the surface, turn it to brown. Serve it on a drainer, cut into square pieces. 40 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 206. SUET PUDDING.—To a pound of flour add half-a-pound of finely-chopped suet, half-a-teaspoonfull of salt. Mix these in a small paste with a well-beaten egg and a little milk, and boil it two hours, first tying it tightly in a cloth. 207. ROLL PUDDING.—Roll out thin a bit of puff paste, or a good suet crust, and spread equally over it, within an inch of the edge, any kind of fruit, viz., jam, orange marmalade, and mincemeat. Make excellent varieties of this pudding. Roll it up, carefully pinch the paste together at the ends, and boil it two hours. 208. SWEET SAUCE, OR DIP FOR PUDDINGS.—Take a little melted butter, made thus: — Half-a-pint of water in a saucepan; let it boil; add a little flour to thicken it, and an ounce of butter, a wine- glassful of brandy or sherry, and sweetened to taste with lump sugar. Serve in a tureen or butter-boat. 209. TO FRY ONIONS. — Take two large onions, cut them in rings, and fry them quickly in butter until perfectly brown. Serve them round the steak. 210. COLOURING FOR SAUCES.— Put two ounces of butter and a quarter-of- a pound of moist sugar in an earthern pip¬ kin on the fire. Keep it stirring all the time while the sugar is dissolving, that is, while the froth rises; hold it a little way from the fire when it is brown; put in a little port wine (two table-spoonfulls), stir it well together, and let it boil gently for an hour; pour it into a bason, when cold take off the scum, and bottle for use. 211. THINGS IN SEASON IN JA¬ NUARY. —Meat.—B eef, Pork, Mutton, Veal, Lamb’s-head, and Ham. Poultry and Game.— Hares, Phea¬ sants, Partridges, Woodcocks, Snipes, Tur¬ keys, Capons, Fowls, Tame Pigeons, and Rabbits. Vegetables.— Potatoes, Cabbages, Sa¬ voys, Sprouts, Brocoli, Spinach, Parsnips, Carrots, Turnips, Celery, Endive, Leeks, and Onions. Fish. — Cod, Soles, Turbot, Skates, Whitings, Smelts, Eels, Perch, Plaice, Flounders, Mulletts, Haddocks, and Sprats. 212. ADDRESS TO THE a CUPBOARDONIANS.” The winds their plaint are sighing, Around the Old Year dying, And the dead leaves thickly lying. Form a pillow and a bier! Hark, how the winds are trembling, The moans of grief resembling Of kindred, when assembling To weep when Death is near! The snow enwraps the mountain. And buries all the vale; The frost has bound the fountain And the skies wept tears of hail For the Old Year is dying, The winds their plaint are sighing. And the dead leaves thickly lying. Form a pillow and a bier 1 The holly with its berries red is hanging by the wa .^5 , [the" hall. I he mistletoe, with pearly eyes, is pendant in The yule log crackles on the hearth, and lights and shadows fly, [sky. Like the passing of the meteors across a summer In merry groups the old and young their festive games pursue; [blue; The hazel eyes are beautiful, bewitching are the The silver hairs of honoured age are charming to the sight, And the auburn locks of childhood, like an autumn s evening light. [dance; 1 he younger ones are treading the mazes of the I hey twine their arms, and like a throng of fairy forms advance: Oh, happy is the Christmas time, when hearts their loves unfold, And cherish thoughts more precious far than silver or than gold. m! ie 9! f } X ear * s ( ^ ea( L hut a New Year is born; 1 he Old One closed his eyes at night, the Young One woke at morn: The Old One taketh with him to the shadows of the dead The passions and the follies that to many griefs have led. Dei us iorgive our brethren, and hope to be forgiven— Flowers that have sprang with weeds have never rightly thriven; And there are weeds that round the heart their biting tendrils twine, And sap it of its virtues, and make it droop and pine. Away with all such weeds from the garden of the heart; Let the New I ear be our witness that we play a better part: Let Sisters’ arms round Brothers’ necks most lovingly entwine, And Children to their Parents now more wil¬ lingly incline: and^u^t UrS k° ^ishbours more generous And all mankind look up and strive in Heaven to put their trust. ^^indee^l ^ ew Year be to all a happy year And man from many sorrows and from many tears be freed J A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 41 213. THE MAN WHOM NOBODY COULD BENEFIT, AND THE MAN WHOM NOBODY COULD INJURE. THE PREFACE. The following story, although of the fabulous class, is one admirably adapted for perusal at this season of the year, and to young people especially, it is calculated to impart a most impressive lesson. In Queen’s county, Long Island, a body of water called “ Success Pond,” has long attracted the attention of the curious, by reason that one part of it seems unfathom¬ able. The late Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell, of New York, of learned memory, made many fruitless etTorts to reach the bottom; and that his labours therein might not be wholly barren of interest to posterity, he stocked the pond with perch, which are now become so numerous that between the pleasure of fishing for them, viewing the surrounding picturesque scenery, and searching for the unfathomable part of the pond, the place, under the name of “ Lakeville,” has be¬ come quite a fashionable resort, and good hotels accommodate the many visitors. The narrative is a part of the established amuse¬ ment of the place, and is preserved at the best hotel in the front pages of a book in which visitors write their names. 214 THE STORY. In this pond, many years ago, a boy was fishing immediately over the unfathomable spot, as is conjectured; and of a sudden he felt that something uncommon was nibbling at his bait; and on jerking the line, he be¬ came assured that he had hooked a large (. prize. He pulled cautiously, but expe¬ rienced much difficulty in raising liis line; and when he succeeded, he was astonished at finding attached to his hook not a fish, but a young lady of surpassing beauty. The hook had caught her by the under lip, and while she moaned piteously, she said, “ IIany, Hany, cut the line, and permit me to descend, for I am not mortal but a Naiad, who reside in the deepest recesses of the pond.” The boy possessed a turn for traffic, and he was determined to drag her ashore and exhibit her for money, as he had lately seen a live seal exhibited ; which was no¬ thing near as curious. The Naiad, how¬ ever, became angry when she found that her tears and entreaties were disregarded; and catching the line with one of her hands she snapped it asunder with ease; and as she was plunging to the bottom of the pond, she exclaimed, angrily, “You fool, since you will not benefit those whom Pro¬ vidence places within your influence, no man shall be able to benefit you.” The boy was not a little mortified at the result of the adventure, and particularly at the escape of so curious an animal; but as he never expected to need benefits from other people, he cared nothing for the male¬ diction ; and gathering up his fishing tackle, he departed towards home, reporting every¬ where as he went the curious adventure he had experienced, though he omitted the colloquy, as he suspected it would not re¬ dound to his credit. The narrative was not long in spreading over the surrounding neighbourhood, and another lad thought he would try his suc¬ cess in this strange fishing; but he kept his intention secret lest he should expose himself to ridicule for believing so impro¬ bable a tale. He accordingly resorted to the pond very early one morning with a fish-line sufficiently strong for the kind of fish that he was seeking, and casting his hook into the unfathomable hole, awaited the result with more patience than faith ; but he soon found that his bait was assailed, and on jerking up his line, dragged, with much difficulty to the surface, the beau¬ tiful being the other boy had hooked. She began to moan as she had moaned pre¬ viously, and said entreatingly, “ Richard, Richard, cut the line and permit me to de¬ scend.” At the sight of her distress his re¬ solution for capturing her forsook him, and he took from his pocket a knife to comply with her request; but she no sooner disco¬ vered his intention, than she raised her hand to her rosy mouth, and with ease ex¬ tricated herself from the hook, and with the sweetest smile that can be conceived, plunged below the surface of the pond, but not before she had exclaimed, “ Dear youth, since you are unwilling to injure the unfor¬ tunate, no man shall be able to injure you!” Richard was rather pleased with his ad¬ venture, though he had failed in the object for which he had left home, and he returned thither with a quiet conscience and a good 42 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: appetite for breakfast. The result of this experiment he intended to communicate to Harry, but he found Harry’s father, who was a man in easy pecuniary circumstances, had sent his son that morning to a board¬ ing-school kept by Mr. Halsey, in Eliza- betli-town, New Jersey, as he was deter¬ mined to give his son a good literary education. Mr. Halsey w T as one of the most thorough disciplinarians that our country ever possessed, but was ex¬ ceedingly kind; and he took every new scholar into an orchard full of choice fruit, of which the boy was permitted to eat his fill. Our young gentleman began, ac¬ cordingly, to eat with a good relish; and recollecting what the Naiad had threatened, he laughed and wondered whether Mr. Halsey was not benefitting him. His mirth invigorated his appetite, and he ate and laughed again; and kept eating and laugh¬ ing, swallowing cherry stones with his cher¬ ries in his eagerness to eat fast and much, till the cherries began to lose their good flavour. He, however, kept eating in con¬ sideration of their former flavour, till they began to taste bitter, and he could endure them no longer. Descending from the tree, he walked slowly towards the school, but he soon felt an ugly pain, with some nausea; and eventually became so much disordered with the quantity he had eaten of cherries and cherry-stones, that he discovered, to his disappointment and sorrow, that Mr. Halsey had not benefitted him by the indulgence he had granted. After several days and nights of severe pain, he recovered sufficiently to commence his studies, but he found them difficult and tedious. Why English people should trouble themselves to learn Latin and Greek seemed an enigma that ought to be solved before a young man should be required to study them; and in his endeavours to solve this perplexing question, he employed much of the time that ought to have been devoted to acquiring his lessons. Fortuna¬ tely, however, he enjoyed a room mate, by the name of Broughton, who kindly under¬ took, in consideration of a large share of Harry’s pocket money, to make his transla¬ tions, cypher all his sums in arithmetic, and enable him to appear like a thriving scholar, without any of the privations that must at¬ tend the acquisition of learning. He now laughed again, when he thought of the Naiad, and he wondered whether Brough¬ ton was not benefitting him in saving him from the irksomeness of study. Four years were passed in the above man¬ ner, and Harry had become old enough to enter college; but, behold ! when he pre¬ sented himself at Yale, he was found on ex¬ amination to be so deficient in the required preparatory studies, that he was rejected. Ilis father was as much grieved as surprised, and he would fain have induced his son to return to school and obtain the required proficiency; but the young man thought this would expose him to ridicule, and he could be neither threatened nor coaxed into the measure. His father seeing him ihus resolved, at length said, “My son, I have given you the best opportunities that money can procure for acquiring a literary educa¬ tion ; but since you refuse to be thus bene¬ fitted, I must abandon the hope of seeing you become a professional man, and you must take your chance in some less intellec¬ tual employment.” The son felt a secret mortification at the result, but as he should thereby escape the confinement of a college, he was more pleased than sorry; and concluded that he would become a merchant. This would be less sedentary than the law, for the profes¬ sion of which his father had designed him; and it would enable him to acquire a fortune in a less time; a consideration of no little im¬ portance to a gentleman who is not fond of labour. He resolved, however, to become rich, and perhaps as rich as Girard, though he did not approve entirely of Girard Col¬ lege. Some more personal gratifications would, he thought, be an improved dispo¬ sition of his fortune; and the gratification might be so regulated as not essentially to impair the residuary estate. These preliminaries being thus settled, his father procured him a situation in a large importing house on Long-Wharf, in Boston; the owner of which assured the father, that if the son merited patronage, he should be promoted by every means in the merchant’s power, and every care should be taken to give the young man a thorough mercantile education. Harry was a hand¬ some youth, with no obvious defect but a superabundance of whiskers, for by some natural connection, whiskers seemed to ex- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 43 liberate in proportion to the barrenness of the intellect. The merchant was, however, no philosopher, and never speculated deeply on abstruse connexions, and, therefore, placed the young man in the counting-house to copy invoices and letters, carry money to the bank, bring packages from the post- office, and to perform the various other small duties that pertain to the miuor department of a great commercial establish¬ ment. Unfortunately these duties were not suited to the taste of the young gentle¬ man, being far too unimportant; and he performed them in a way which evinced his opinion of their unimportance. In copy¬ ing a letter he would omit some words and misspell others; and write the whole in so crooked, unintelligible, and blotted a man¬ ner, that his employer, disgusted with his carelessness, dismissed him from the count¬ ing-house, after telling him that he had sincerely desired to benefit him, but he found that he could not. The information not only surprised the young man but offended him, for he felt confident that he could have performed well the higher duties of a merchant, though he had failed in performing the small duties “This time, at least,” thought he, “I am more sinned against than sinningand without waiting to announce the misadven¬ ture to his father, he packed up his clothes and went home, as a man who had been un¬ justly persecuted. The father, however, took a less partial view of the matter, and even ventured to hint that only those " who proved themselves faithful in a few things are ever made lord over many things.” But as expostulations could not reinstate the young man, the father, as a last resort, pur¬ chased a farm for him, and bade him try to gain a living by agriculture. This expedient harmonised well with the son’s taste, for he was fond of hunting, rid- ing, and fishing, and he thought farming would abundantly coincide with these amuse¬ ments. He accordingly took with him into the country plenty of gunpowder, shot, and fishing-tackle; not, however, neglecting due quantities of seeds ior the cultivation of his land. “ Business first, and then pleasure,” said the father, and so thought the son, who resolved that the present attempt to benefit him should not be thwarted by mismanage¬ ment. Ho was sedulous in ascertaining the latest improvements that had been made ir agricultural implements, and in supplying himself abundantly with the most approved patterns, but in his haste to commence his new business, he could not waste time in learning the art of cultivation; the simpli¬ city of the processes rendering any previous study unnecessary. Still the simplicity of the art, and the excellence of the farming utensils, proved to be not quite sufficient to supply the absence of experience; and he sowed wheat where he ought to have sown oats, planted corn where he ought to have planted potatoes, and was engaged in fishing and fowling when he ought to have been hoeing and harvesting. None of his crops yielded well, and what grew was in¬ jured by bad husbandry; till at the end of three years he was heavily in debt, and the value of his farm was insufficient to dis¬ charge his liabilities. Ilis father, also, was no longer able to assist him. Repeated disappointments in the hopes which he had formed of his son, had preyed upon his spirits, and impaired his health. lie was old, and had become feeble; while large pecuniary engagements into which a friend had betrayed him, nearly exhausted his property. In this condition of body, mind, and estate, he ascertained the result of the farming project of his son, who had returned home to obtain some assistance. He felt that death was busy with him, and calling his son to a last interview, he said (with bluntness that usually characterises a death-bed interview): My son, I am no longer able tominister to your extravagance, and no longer willing to "keep blind to your folly. Your miscarriages have not proceeded from the malediction of any Naiad, as you vainly insist, but from your own mismanage¬ ment. You have never tried to benefit yourself. You have always relied on me and other people for benefits; but be assured that the man who will not benefit himself, no person can benefit.*’ While Harry was thus realising the Naiad’s prediction, Richard, to whom the opposite prediction had been uttered, had also been sent to Mr. Halsey’s school; for though his father was poor, he copied the conduct of his rich neighbour in tb* education of his son. The schoolmaster had discontinued the practice of taking new comers into the orchard, for he had found 14 THE CORNER CUPBOARD . that they rarely possessed discretion enough to restrain their appetites within the bounds of health. The boys of the school were, however, not willing that a new scholar should escape the usual initiatory surfeit, which, from its frequent recurrence, they had brought themselves to witness as a good practical joke. They accordingly in¬ vited Richard to accompany them into the orchard on the first afternoon of his arrival at Elizabethtown; and taking him to one of the most fruitful trees they told him that the custom of the school permitted him to eat as many cherries as he could swallow. He liked cherries well, and ate as many as he thought wholesome; and then descend¬ ed from the tree gratified and refreshed. The boys began to laugh when they saw him descend, and expected that he had, of course, made himself sick; but when the dinner-bell rang, he was able to take his seat, and relish the boiled beef and potatoes as well as any of his companions. They watched him with no little surprise, and began to dislike him, since he had falsified their expectations; and they unanimously resolved that nobody should assist him in learning his lessons, nor should any one prompt him at recitations. He accordingly was compelled to depend entirely on his own industry, and to acquire all his lessons thoroughly ; especially as all his class-mates contrived to station him at recitations where the most difficult sentences would fall to his share. His patient application turned their malice so much to his advantage, that when the period arrived for his removal to college, he was thoroughly prepared to enter, and to derive from his collegiate course all the benefits it is adapted to ren¬ der. He found at college some young men who had been his school-fellows. Recollecting their old grudge against him they one day, while eating some strawberries, thought they would practice on him a practical joke. They filled a bowl with the finest straw¬ berries they could procure, and strewed over them a quantity of tartar-emetic in some finely powered loaf-sugar; and watch¬ ing the opportunity of his absence, placed them on a table in his room. He was sur¬ prised on his return to find the bowl of strawberries; but supposing a servant had mistaken his room for that of some other student, he carefully placed the strawberries on a shelf till they should be inquired after, without indulging his appetite so far as to eat one; because, as he acted from a prin¬ ciple of propriety, he was not disposed to violate the principle for one strawberry, after he had determined he would not violate it for the whole bowl full. The young men who practised on him this unworthy trick, were delighted in the anticipation of his sickness. They were very merry, and as they had provided them¬ selves with wine and cigars, they drank and smoked till they became so boisterous that a tutor overheard them; and going to the door he found it locked. He demanded admittance, which they refused with taunts and groans; till he became so incensed at the indignity offered to him, that he forced the door. The rioters immediately fell upon him and beat him, having first extin¬ guished the candles to prevent a re¬ cognition of their persons; but he knew several by their voices, and they were on the next morning called before the faculty. They refused to disclose their associates, and were all expelled except one who relented, and narrated the whole adven¬ ture, including the trick with the straw¬ berries. The president was much alarmed when he ascertained the quantity of tartar- emetic that had been thrown over the strawberries, and went immediately to ascertain in person the consequences. He entered the room with trepidation, and was surprised to find that no evil had ensued; and he was particularly pleased when he ascertained that the virtue of the young man had protected him from danger. From the above period, the president interested himself daily in the scholarship of Richard, and frequently related in society the escape which the young man had experienced from a danger that seemed almost inevitable. A New-Haven lawyer heard the anecdote, and as he had once delivered a lecture before a lyceum of the city, on the preservative influence of virtue, the conduct of Richard seemed to illustrate the theory, and produced in the lawyer a strong desire to benefit the illustrator. He accordingly, when tlieyoung mangraduated, received him into his office as a law student, and attended with much interest to his legal studies. A FAMILY REPOSITORY 45 This gentleman, Thomas Burlingston, will be well remembered at New-Haven, as a lawyer of distinguished celebrity through¬ out Connecticut, at the period in question. He possessed only one child, a young lady of much beauty, good humour, and intellec¬ tual cultivation, with whom the young student could not fail from being interested, as frequent opportunities brought them together in social intercourse. But he was poor, and her father was rich and aristo¬ crat? c; and, besides, she was known to be engaged to a gentleman of suitable wealth in the city of Hartford; all which caused the young student to restrain his feelings, rather avoiding than wooing theyounglady; and always addressing her with great respect and reserve. In this period of his clerkship, one of the young men who had been expelled from col¬ lege, resolved to make one more effort to injure him ; and to effectually revenge his own expulsion. He accordingly wrote an anonymous letter to Mr. Burlingston, alleg¬ ing that his daughter was in danger from the arts of the clerk, who was assiduously endeavouring to gain her affections. Mr. Burlingston was naturally indignant at the alleged treachery of a young man whom he was endeavouring to benefit; but that he might not condemn him unheard, he called him into his private office, and presented to him the letter. The young man read it w r ith emotion, and w’ith the frankness of innocence acknowledged the warm esteem that he felt for the young lady; but he repelled the imputation that he had in the slightest manner permitted his feelings to appear in his conduct or con¬ versation; on the contrary, he had sedulously avoided all unnecessary communication with her, even to the danger of being deemed by her rude or unaccommodating. The ingenuousness of this explanation and confession so enhanced the clerk in the estimation of the father, who never felt wffiolly satisfied with the moral character of the gentleman who was engaged to his daughter, that shortly after this private cclaircissement, the engagement was, for adequate reasons, rescinded; and in the course of another year the daughter and the clerk became man and wife, with the appro¬ bation of Mr. Burlingston, and to the great satisfaction of the young couple. On the day which witnessed the celebration of the marriage, the young husband obtained a license to practice law as an attorney, and he was immediately taken into partnership with his father-in-law. His subsequent career was more than ordinarily prosperous, IIis diligence in business, his faithfulness to the interests of his clients, and his acknow¬ ledged general probity, soon gained him property enough to maintain his wife re¬ spectably, and eventually to surround them with ease and elegance. At this period of his life, he was accustomed to travel during some part of the summer months ; and on one of these occasions, when he was visiting the scenes of his boyhood, he took a fancy to again try his luck at fishing over the un¬ fathomless hole in Success Pond; though his wife w r as not quite pleased with this new experiment, lest he should again fish up the Naiad, and receive some announcement less agreeable than the first. But he only good-naturedly laughed at her suspicion; and proceeding, early one morning, to the old spot, he cast in his line as he had done some fifteen years previously, and soon obtained a bite of something which seemed to be heavy. He felt no doubt it was the Naiad, and pulled up cautiously lest he should hurt her; but, on getting his hook to the surface, he found, to his great dis¬ appointment, that nothing was attached to it but an old fish net, which he was in the act of throwing back into the lake, when he observed in its folds a curiously- shaped stone or tablet; on it was en¬ graved, in large Roman letters, " The man who will not injure himself, no person can injure.” This is the last intercourse the Naiad has deigned to hold with mortals; and that no possibility of cavil may exist in relation to her existence, the stone with its original inscription is preserved under a glass case by the public spirited innkeeper of Lakeville, and may be seen at at all times on the mantle-piece of his best parlour; and what adds peculiar value to the relic is a tradition, that whoever will read the in¬ scription on the tablet, and confirm to its teachings, will succeed in life as successfully as Richard. The tradition rests, not wholly on faith, but on experience; and the land¬ lord’s parlour, like the ancient temple of iEsculapius, is ornamented with votive testimonials of persons w ho claim to have 43 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: been benefitted by the process. Among the beneficiaries we remember one name, because we happen to know the individual, lie is a banker, residing in a village some few miles west of Geneva, who, by adhering closely, from a boy, to the inscribed maxim, finds himself at the maturity of life, worth more than half a million of dollars, acquired without his having made any man the poorer. The casualties which make impro¬ vident persons fall down, make him get up; and, in contemplation of this peculiarity, the landlord intends this summer to add another tablet to the mantle-piece, to the effect, “ that the man who will take good care of himself, will be sure to receive the good care of Providence/* 215. THE FAMILY BIBLE. Thou art not in morocco bound; Thy leaves not edged with gold; Thou thumb-worn art in many a place, And very, very old. Bequeath’d unto my mother, thou ^ To her a guide didst prove, From this dark wilderness unto A paradise above. s Ti* forty years since at her grave The bitter tear I shed; And i can say these forty years, Blest book thou hast been read, And shalt while doth my vision last; And should I blind e’er be, Thy choicest texts will find a place Within my memory. I have a child, an only child, But have no will tohnake; “ Silver and gold,” as Peter said, “ I’ve none ” But she can take From these old hands what better is Than silver or than gold — A treasury, wherein she’ll find Things that are “ new and old.” Bristol. L. M. Thornton. 216. FORTITUDE UNDER DIFFI¬ CULT IES.—Let him not imagine, who aims at greatness, that all is lost by a single adverse cast of fortune; for if fortune has at one time the better of courage, courage may after77ards recover the advantage. He who is prepossessed with the assurance of overcoming, at least overcomes the fear of failure ; whereas, he who is apprehensive of losing, loses, in reality, all hopes of subduing. Boldness and power are such inseparable companions, that they appear to be born I together; and when once divided, they both I decay, and die at the same time. 217. REMARKABLE EVENTS IN PAST JANUARIES.— Calendar of the Month :— 1. Circumcision—Charles II. crowned, 1651, 2. Edmund Burke born, 1730. 3. Cicero born, B.C. 107. 4. West Indies discovered, 1492. 5. Duke of York died, 1827. 6. Epiphany.— Twelfth Day. 7. Allan Ramsay died, 1758. 8. Lucian— Galileo died, 1642. 9. Royal Exchance burnt, 1S38. 10. Penny Postage commenced, 1840. 11. Sir H. Sloane died, 1753. 12. Lavaterdied, 1804. 13. Earl of Eldon died, 1838. 14. Edward Halley died, 1742. 15. Dr. Aikin died, 1747. 10. Sir John Moore killed, 1809. 17. Benjamin Franklin born, 1706. IS. Prisca. —Houses of York and Lancaster united, 1486. 19. James Watt born, 1736. 20. Fabian— John Howard died, 1790. 21. Agnes. -Miles Coverdale died, 1568. 22. Vincent.— Vzqow born, 1561. 23. Duke of Kent died, 1820. 24. Fox born, 1749. 25. Cotiversion of St. Patel.— Dr. Jenner died, 1823. 26. Sunday Schools established, 1734. 27. Dr. O. Hutton died, 1823. 28. Sir P. Drake horn, 159;. 29. George III. died, 1820 . 30. Martyrdom of King Charles I., 1649. 31. Den Jonson born, 1574. The Red Letter Days of the month are as follows:— 1st. “ Circumcision or “ Neic Year’s -This was kept as a festival of the Greeks, in which they celebrated the com¬ pletion of the sun’s animal course, and re¬ joiced that it had again begun its enliven¬ ing progress; and in honour of Janus by the Romans, who were in the habit of sending presents of dried figs, dates covered " ith leat-gold, also honey and other sweet¬ meats, to their friends—expressing a wish that they might enjoy the sweets of the year into which they had just entered. They alsovisited and congratulated each other, anil offered up vows for mutual preservation. 1 he Day of Circumcision was instituted in the Christian Church by Pope Felix III. •A.D., 487, under the denomination of the Octave of Christmas-, and introduced into tke English Liturgy in 1550, in commemora¬ tion of the circumcision of Jesus Christ, ac- cording to the Jewish ritual, on the eighth day after his nativity. 1 lie first of January having been observed by 1 agan nations as a day ot rejoicing. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 47 and for offering up sacrifices to the idol Janus, the primitive Christians celebrated it as a Fast , in order to avoid even the semblance of joining in their customs and worship. According to the Catholic legends, it was held in such high esteem by the Romans, that they would not sullv it, even by martyring the Christians at such a joy¬ ful period! It is still kept as a holiday throughout the several nations of Europe and America; the bells of most of the churches being rung at midnight to welcome the New Year. 6th.—“ Epiphany." This day was kept in remembrance of the manifestation, or showing of Christ to the wise men, who, having seen his star in the East, went in search of him and found him at Bethelem, where they worshipped and offered sacri¬ fices. There was a great difference of opinion respecting the origin of Twelfth-day, but it appears to have been decided at last, as follows :—“ That the practice of choosing King on Twelfth-day, is similar to a custom that existed among the ancient Greeks and Romans, who, on the festival days of Saturn about this season of the year, drew lots for kingdoms, and, like kings, exercised their temporary authority.” Many curious local customs prevail respecting Twelfth day, which is called thus from its falling on the twelfth day after Christmas-day; but, as they would almost fill a good-sized volume, we abstain from any mention of them. 8th.— “ St. Lucian" was a learned Syrian who died in the year 312, and is said to have instructed Arius in the doctrine that distinguishes the sect of Ark ns from others. 18th.— “ Prisca" was a female who was beheaded in 275, by order of the Emperor Claudius, after enduring torture to make her abjure the Christian faith. 20th.— “ Fabian" was the nineteenth Bishop of Rome, being elected to that office in the year 241; and, after being bishop thirteen years, suffered martyrdom in the Decian persecution. 21st .—“ Agnes." St. Agnes was a young Romish maiden, who suffered martyrdom under Diocletian, 303, A custom prevailed, in various parts of England, of young women performing certain ceremonies, in order that they might dream of their future husbands. 22nd.— “St. Tencent" was a Spanish martyr, who died in 304, after enduring torture by fire. 25th.— “ Conversion of St. Paul." This is a festival held in commemoration of the conversion of St. Paul, and is kept by the Churches of England and Rome. 30th.—“ Martyrdom of King Charles I." This is observed by the Church of England, to perpetuate a remembrance of thebehead¬ ing of King Charles I. We believe that the sheet which received the head of the un¬ fortunate monarch, his watch, and some other relics, are preserved at Ashburnham. 218. SIMPLICITY OF DRESS.—Fe¬ male loveliness never appeared to so good ad¬ vantage as when set off with simplicity of dress; and our dear human angels—if they would make good their title to that name- should carefully avoid ornaments which properly belong ;o Indian squaws and Afri¬ can princesses. These tinselries may serve to give effect on the stage or on the ball¬ room floor, but in daily life there is no sub¬ stitute for the charm of simplicity. The absence of a true taste and refinement or delicacy cannot be compensated for by the possession of the most princely fortune. Mind measures gold, but gold cannot measure mind. Through dress the mind may be read, as through the delicate tissue of the lettered page. A modest woman will dress modestly. A really refined and intellectual woman will bear the marks of careful selection and taste, 219. CHEERFUL HEART.—There are some persons who spend their lives in this world as they would spend their lives if shut upin a dungeon. Everything is madegloomy and forbidding. They go mourning and complaining from day to day that they have so little, and are constantly anxious lest what they have should escape out of their hands. They always look upon the dark side, and can never enjoy the good. They do not follow the example of the industrious bee, who does not stop to complain that there are so many poisonous flowers and thorny branches on its road, but buzzes on, selecting his honey where he can find it, and passing quietly by the places where i f is not. 48 THE CORNER CUPBOARD THE FLOWER PATTERN LAMP SHADE 220. BEAUTIFUL LAMP SHADES.— We are happy to lay before our readers in¬ structions for making lamp shades of exqui¬ site beauty and endless variety, by a process so easy and inexpensive that it may afford evening occupation to ladies, the results of which cannot fail to be at once gratifying and useful. 221. By the process which we aie about to recommend lamp shades may be made so beautiful, that the two illustrations we give convey but a very inadequate idea of the rich effects that can be produced by the simplest materials. 222. In addition to the designs which we give, snow scenes, waterfalls, moonlight scenes, rnins of castles, groups of animals and of fruit, &c., may be produced according to the skill and taste of the manipulator. 223. The materials simply consist of glazed cardboard, of middling thickness, a few sheets of tissue paper of various colours, a black lead pencil, and a little gum or paste A few cake water-colours maybe used or bo dispensed with at option. 224. The tools consist simply of a cutting board of rather hard wood, a sharp pen¬ knife a scissors a stout pin, and a large needle or two, such as those used for mending stockings or for knitting. 2 . 25 : i W lu h these sim P le and inexpensive materials the most beautiful effects may be produced; and so readily do the effects conic up, when the shades are illuminated by being placed over the lamps, that the manipulator must be a rare blunderer who cannot produce them, and invent a variety of beautiful designs. * ^* THE SWAN PATTERN LAMP SHADE. 226. Ine art of making these beautiful lamp shades simply consists in cutting the outlines , and the leading lines necessary to denote the form of any object which it is desired to represent; and although these lines may appear to be exceedingly arbitrary and rough, the effect derived by the light of the lamp being transmitted through these cuttings is indescribably beautiful. 227. In order to obtain a good shape for the lamp shade cut one out of a piece of old newspaper or a sheet of thick brown paper, try it on to the lamp, and when you have" obtained a shape that will do, you may pro¬ ceed to cut out the shape in the glazed card¬ board. 228. The Flower Pattern Lamp Shade is made in precisely the same manner, with the exception that for this shade a white glazed cardboard is used, and coloured tissue papers, of the richest colours that can be obtained, are laid underneath, to give the ] »roper colours to the flowers, and green paper for the leaves. Roses, fuschias, dahlias, crysanthemums, pelargoniums, tulips, lilies, &c., &c., may all be represented with beautiful effect; and where peculiar tints, upon coloured grounds, are required, they may be obtained by colouring in water colours the spots or stripes upon the tinted papers that are laid underneath. This shade, and, indeed, all shades thus made, should be lined in and finished with white tissue paper, which not only conceals the patch- work from the eye, but moderates the light, producing a very soft and pleasing effect. 229. The Swan Pattern Lamp Shade, oi which we give an illustration, is made thus * 50 TIIE CORNER CUPBOARD: The cardboard is green glazed , and the green is kept on the outside. The white lines shown in the drawing indicate simply the cuts with the penknife, by which large broad leaves, water, rushes, and a willow tree are formed. The leaves, &c., are cut through, from the green side , but the dotted heads of flowers, rushes, &c., are punctured through, with a pin or large needle, from the inside , which gives them a more open and free appearance than could otherwise be obtained. The shape of the swan is cut out of the green cardboard , and a corresponding shape in white cardboard is cut, and let in, and is fixed in position simply by a piece of white tissue paper gummed over the back. The bill of the swan is rendered yellow, by a piece of yellow tissue pasted at the back ; and the upper part of the bill and the feet are rendered black, either by a piece of black paper pasted over them at the back, or by a thick coating of Indian ink, or common ink. This is all that is required to produce a most beautiful effect. When the shade is. completed, it is to be lined throughout with tissue paper merely gummed at the top and bottom edges. This serves to con¬ ceal the cuttings, &c., in the inside of the shade. The ends of the shade are to be firmly gummed together, and strengthened by a strip of paper on the inside. The feathers of the swan are indicated by cut¬ tings with the penknife, just as the other effects are produced. The black lines in the engraving, on the body of the swan, show the character of the cuttings. 230. The cardboard should be sufficiently opaque to prevent the passage of light in any part where the effect is not sought to be obtained. And to this end it may be necessary, in some instances, to line the shade with a dark-coloured paper. 231. The designs should be slightly traced out in 'pencil before the cuttings are com¬ menced, but the merest outline will suffice to guide the hand of the operator. 232. A very beautiful shade of poppies and wheat-ears may be made with great ease, and is probably one of the simplest patterns to begin upon. 233. Before lining the shade, hold it to the light, and study the effect. Open the leaves of the flowers, &c., to let the light pass through with greater power in some parts than in others. This will give rich¬ ness and freedom to the desigu Also, before lining, deepen the shade in some parts, by additional layers of datf-coloured paper, and do away with any ap>earance of patchiness from the paper belmd, which may be accomplished by additonal layers of paper, or by removing edgesM cuttings, where they have a tendency to slow through. 234. GHOST STORIE. The letters of Sir David Irewster upon Natural Magic, which were designed as a supplement to Sir Walter Scott’s Essay on Demonology and Witchci aft form an admir¬ able treatise of this cliaract«r, which should be put into the hands of e^ery child, as an antidote to the spurious jtiilosophy of the day. In it are to be found explained some of the most astonishing dienomena of na¬ ture, as well as many of /he surprising con¬ trivances of art, ancient and modern. For example, he shows us how, upon purely natural principles, we may account for many .marvellous deceptions of the sight. He points out why it is, that the involun¬ tary expansion of the eye in a very obscure light is unfavourable to an accurate percep¬ tion of the form, size and distance of objects —why .the brighter parts of an object are often visible, whilst the other parts are un¬ seen—why parts of one object thus seem to be combined, not unfrequently, with those of another—why objects sometimes appear to us in positions, and at distances, that are really impossible—and why, the focus of vision being in such cases ili adapted to the perception of near objects, they disappear at the very time when we expect to see them most distinctly. These suggestions go verv far to explain the apparitions, so generally seen at twilight, or after dark—of grotesque and misshapen figures—in situations where, by the laws of nature, they could not be found—and almost invariably clothed in tohite , which, from its contrast to surround¬ ing. objects, is most likely to attract the notice of the beholder. There are also the gigantic spectres of the Brocken—£ho pic¬ tures in the air of ships, castles, ana moun¬ tains, of men and horses trooping along the face of inaccessible cliffs—all of which are familiar to us now as the effects of reflected and refracted light. Such appearances have constantly been regarded in ignorant times A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 51 as the results of witchcraft and magic; and are still Viewed as alarming portents by the great majprity of those who witness them. Yet, in tit hands of the true philosopher, they are gripped of all their mysterious terror, and become pleasing manifestations of the wonderful perfection and variety of the works o\God. Rut our business is just now with things of much les^pretension; and, without fur¬ ther preface, we come to the promised stories, which we leave our friend to tell in his own wa\; to which he is the better entitled, as he professes to have derived them, for the \nost part, from actual wit¬ nesses. FIRST STORY. A youth, about 14 years of age, was sent to pass some weeks of his summer holidays with a great aunt, who lived in one of the old coun¬ ties of the Old Dominion. The venerable lady occupied one of those great mansion houses, memorials of the colonial aristocracy of Virginia, built of imported bricks, full of staircases and passages, and with rooms enough to accommodate half-a-dozen fami¬ lies, and scores of individual guests, when congregated for some high festival. Rut at this time it was almost deserted. The old lady and her grand-nephew were the only white persons within its walls. She occu¬ pied a bed-room on the first floor: our hero slept in the storey next to the garret: and the servants were all in the basement. During the day, his time passed merrily enough. Horses, dogs, and guns—boating and Ashing—filled up the hours with sports, in which he was sjpported by as many of l the Africans, great and little, as he thought r fit to enlist in his service. Rut the nights hung heavily. His aunt always went to i bed at an early hour. The few books in • her library were soon exhausted; and the short evenings of summer seemed to his sleepless eyes to be stretched out intermina¬ bly. Now and then a gossip with some old [ negroes, who had grown grey in the family, beguiled him with snatches of the history of the former occupants of the hall; and these narratives, as might be anticipated, were plentifully sprinkled with incidents of i the superstitious character, in which such old crones delight. One night, he had lain in bed a long | time, courting in vain a relief from ennv.i in sleep. lie had listened, till he was tired, to the ticking of the antique clock, to the whistling of the wind about the clusters of chimneys, and the echoes that repeated and prolonged every sound in the interior of the house, through its vast and empty spaces. The latter class of noises had entirely ceased : and the profound still¬ ness that pervaded the mansion was broken only by the monotonous voice, which told him how slowly the weary minutes were passing by. He had thought over more than one tradition of the olden time, as it had been related to him, with its concomi¬ tants of a supernatural description; until, in spite of his better reason and fixed dis¬ belief of such things, he found himself growing nervous and uncomfortable. He began to fancy that he saw strange things in the uncertain moonlight, and was almost afraid to look at them steadily enough to undeceive himself. Suddenly, he heard, right over his head in the garret, a dull knocking sound, which travelled back and forth—now in this direction and now in that, with a succession of thumps; Anon he thought he could distinguish something like a stifled voice; and this impression was confirmed when the knocking got op¬ posite the door of the garret, whence it came down the stairway and through the passage, unobstructed, to his room. A wild, unearthly cry, uttered as if by a person choked or muffled, and expressive of pain¬ ful suffering, smote upon his ear. He started up in bed: and at this instant the sound began to descend the stairs. At first, it came down two or three steps with successive thumps—then it seemed to roll over and over, with a confused noise of struggling and scratching—and so on, with an alternation of these sounds until it reached the floor of the passage. Here the dull knocking was resumed as it had been first heard in the garret, rambling hither and thither, at one time approaching the chamber door, till the poor boy strained his eyes in instant expectation of witnessing the entry of some horrible shape. Rut it passed by, and at last arrived at the head of the next flight of stairs, where it re¬ commenced the descent after the manner already described. At intervals rose the same stifled wailing, so full of mortal ter- THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 52 ror and agony, that it almost froze the marrow in his bones. When lie was assured by the sound that the traveller had arrived at the floor below him, he mustered courage, and by a great effort jumped out of bed, huddled on his clothes, and hurried to the head of the stairs, armed with an old sword that hung in his bed-room, and which had probably seen service in the Revolution or the old French war. But he had no mind to encounter his mysterious enemy at close quarters, and contented himself with fol¬ lowing its progress at a safe distance, and peeping over the balusters in the hope of catching sight of it. In this, however, he succeeded only so far as to get one glimpse, as it passed a window, of something with an enormous and shapeless head: and the slow chase was kept up, till he found him¬ self at the head of the steps leading down to the basement, while his ghostly disturber was at the foot, thumping and scratching at the kitchen door, and uttering the same indescribable cries as at first. Two or three of the servants had been aroused by the din, and were crouched together in the furthest corner, trembling with fear, and in momentary expectation of suffering death, or something still more dreadful! At last the latch ot the door gave way, to the repeated assaults of the unwelcome visitor, and he rolled into the middle of the floor, in the full hlaze of the fire light, and under the very eyes of the appalled domes¬ tics. The mystery was at an end—the ghost exposed—and an explosion of frantic mirth succeeded to the breathless terror which oppressed them. An old grey tom-cat, as it turned out, in his rambles through the house, had chanced to find in the garret a large gourd, in which the housemaids kept grease for domestic uses. Into the opening of the gourd Tom had worked his head with some difficulty, and without duly con¬ sidering how he was to get it out again. When be attempted to do this, he found himself tightly grasped by the ears and jaws, and secured in a cell which became every instant more intolerable. Hence his struggles to escape—hence his unearthly and smothered cries—and hence the ex¬ traordinary varieties of locomotion, hy which he accomplished his long journey | from the top of the house to the bottom. J Our hero drew from the issue of this ad¬ venture a confirmed resolution against a belief in the supernatural; anc detailed the particulars next morning, .vith great unction, to his good old aunt, wlo had slept comfortably through the whole of the up¬ roar. SECOND STORY. A carpenter w T as at work ore night, at a late hour, in the second storr of an unfi¬ nished house in Philadelphia He was a man of strong, plain sense, frie from super¬ stitious belief, and of cool courage and self- possession. On the side of the room oppo¬ site to his work bench, cami up the flight of steps from the first floor; and on the same side, but at the other end of the house, was the flight leading to the third story. The floor on that side was clear of all rubbish, and gave him an unobstructed view' of the space between the landing of the first flight ot steps, and the foot of the second. Sud¬ denly he was surprised to hear a heavy, regular, but seemingly muffled, footstep, proceeding along the floor of the room be neath. He knew that the two doors were locked, and all the windows secured, and lie wondered how any one could have' found entrance. How'ever, as he feared no harm, he waited with composure the coming of the intruder, whom he now distinctly heard ascending the stairway. But when the approaching steps at last reached the land¬ ing place, and no figure became visible, he was filled with astonishment. Without pausing, the mysterious visitor proceeded, with the same measured tread, in the di¬ rection of the next flight of stairs, passing directly in front of the carpenter, and where it should have been in his full view, but he could see nothing whatever. The place was well enough lighted, he looked sharply along the line of motion, following the sound with his eyes, but he could detect no trace of the person w'hose movements pro¬ duced it. At length, the step reached the foot of the second flight of stairs, which were also full in our hero’s sight, and began to ascend them also. By this time his amazement had reached a‘climax, not un- mingled with some vague apprehensions, which he had no time to analyse. Still he stood motionless, gazing eagerly, as the in¬ visible night-walker mounted step after A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 53 step, and had almost reached the top. And tho.i—as if the scales had fallen from his eyes, or the object which they sought so I long in van had flung aside the veil which concealed \t—he was aware of an enormous wharf rat,'jumping from step to step, with a noise pretisely like the heavy, dull, foot¬ fall, we have described. He now easily un- j derstood why it had escaped his notice. He had looked too high: and so failed to dis¬ cover “the gentleman in black,” until he had attained an elevation above himself. But he admitted very candidly that, had he not seen the rat at that last moment, his belief in ghostly visitations would have f been seriously shaken. THIRD STORY. A labourer, on his way homeward about j nightfall, was passing along the outskirts of a little village, wlien his ear was assailed by repeated groans, which seemed to issue out of the very ground beneath his feet. Looking about him, and listening, he presently disco¬ vered that they approached from an old well which had been abandoned, and was half filled with rubbish. Approaching the edge of it, he called aloud, but received no answer, except the same groans, which were uttered at intervals, with a hollow reverberation, that appeared to die away in subterranean ! passages. To see anything below the sur¬ face was impossible ; and the man set off at once to announce this strange occurrence, and seek assistance from the nearest houses. The alarm spread rapidly; and, in a little while, a busy crowd was collected at the spot, with torches, ropes, and other imple¬ ments, for the purpose of solving the mystery, and releasing the unknown sufferer. A windlass and a bucket were hastily procured, and rigged up; and one, more adventurous than his neighbours, vo¬ lunteered to descend. They let him down about twenty-feet, until he reached the bot¬ tom, which he declared to be covered by a large barrel, upon which he found firm foot¬ ing. At this time, the noise had ceased; and the new comers were disposed to question the truth of what had been told them. But those who had first reached the place stoutly and angrily reasserted the reality of what they had heard. The first exploier had been drawn up almost to the top, when the groans were renewed, to the discomfi¬ ture of the sceptics, and the dismay of the bystanders. Dark hints were conveyed in smothered whispers from one to another. A few were observed to steal out of the circle, and silently move oft' towards their homes. None showed any particular in¬ clination to repeat the descent in their own persons. But, at last, two or three, more resolute than the rest, “ determined at all hazards, and to the last extremity,” to know what was beneath this barrel. A pair of shears were sent for, such as are used for hoisting heavy packages into warehouses. Another descent was made, and, in spite of groans that might have shaken the nerves of Pilgrim himself, the shears were securely hitched on either side of the barrel. Several pair of strong arms were applied to the windlass, but all their efforts proved fruit¬ less for a time. It seemed as if the barrel had been anchored to the rock-fast founda¬ tions of the earth. At last, however, it yielded a little; and with a slow, interrupted motion, and a harsh, scraping sound, an empty barrel, with no heading, was de¬ tached from its fastenings, and then brought up rapidly to the top. Once more, a daring fellow went down, armed to the teeth, after giving repeated injunctions to his assistants to turn very slowly, and hold on hard. He encountered at the bottom a formidable animal indeed, at least, in such a situation It was no other than a cow, jammed into the lowest part of the well, with her branch¬ ing horns pointing directly to the sky above. The poor beast, indulging a natural taste, had thrust her head into an empty salt barrel. Her horns had stuck fast in the sides ; and retreating blindly, in her efforts to escape, she had backed down the dry well, dragging the barrel after her, which fitted so closely to the walls of the pit, as to break the force of her fall. With some difficulty, the poor creature was extricated from her sad plight, without injury, but probably not without matter for serious rumination . FOURTH STORY. The subject of the fourth and last story is the only one not derived from parties personally cognisant of the facts: but this circumstance is fully compensated by the notoriety of the occurrence at the time and place where it happened, as well as the pro- 54 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: rainent social position of the gentleman concerned in it. He was a lawyer of respectability in tbe State, and was riding alone one summer evening to attend a court. The clouds, which bad been threat¬ ening for some hours, shut out tbe expiling gleams of daylight by suddenly folding to¬ gether their dark and heavy skirts, and began to let fall those great drops of rain which precede a thunder-storm. The road was lonely; for it Lay chiefly through forest land, and where it skirted a planta¬ tion, it was generally at some distance from the mansion. The traveller was thus obliged to keep on his course, long after the increasing violence of the storm had made him long for some shelter, however humble. In vain did he endeavour, by aid of the lightning that flashed every instant around him, to descry some house; in vain did he hope, in the moments of darkness which intervened, to discover tl:e faint twinkle of light from some log cabin or negro-quarter. Meantime, the elements seemed to lash themselves into greater fury: the light¬ ning blazed incessantly, the thunder crashed into his ears, and the falling limbs of trees contributed to the danger and em¬ barrassment of his situation. His horse became terrified: now he stood still and trembled, resisting every attempt to urge him on; and now obeying a sudden and frantic impulse, he would spring forward with a force that menaced destruction both to his rider and himself. After some miles had been passed in this way—an experience which no man can well appreciate who has not endured it—the traveller was over¬ joyed to find himself in the neighbourhood of a house. It was one of the old glebe churches, deserted and partly in ruins; but the walls and the roof were still sufficiently good to afford some protection, and of this lie gladly availed himself. Dismounting at the door, he led in and tied his horse, and took his seat in one of the pews, until the abatement of the storm should allow him to proceed. The place, the hour, the scene, were calculated to excite impressions : of awe, and his first feelings of satisfaction naturally gave way to thoughts of a serious and solemn character. Thus occupied, he < sat for some minutes, taking advantage of ; the fitful light, which momently illumined the church, to survey its interior. At last his eyes rest on the pulpit, and li«» sees— no! it is impossible—yes, he d,es see a figure all in white, its face pale and ghastly, but its eyes gleaming with the fire of an incarnate fiend! Now it stretches itself upward, tall and erect, its long skinnv arm pointing to Heaven ! Now it leans oyer the sacred desk, gesticulating and gibbering, with wild and devili&i grimaces, that seem to mock those to whom they are addressed, with threats of hellish torture! Is there any one else in the charch P Not a soul is visible. There is our lawyer alone, with that strange and fearful preacher—no inattentive observer, we may be sure, of the pantomime, which is but half revealed to him; it is only a pantomime, for the roar of the elements drowns every other sound, and no voice falls upon the ear. What are his thoughts at this moment ? It would be hard to say. Let the man of firmest nerves imagine himself, fatigued and exhausted by such exposure and toil, placed in a situation so unusual, and witnessing a spectacle so terribly like the legends of infernal malice and blas¬ phemy, and let him pronounce, if lie can, that his courage and self-possession would he equal to the trial. But to return—for some time the presence of the sole spectator seemed to be unnoticed by the occupant of the. pulpit. But at last, during one long, vivid flash, their eyes met, and—oh ! the agony of that moment!—he saw that he was discovered! Instantly, the figure de¬ scended from the pulpit, and approached him with rapid strides. It was all over with his manhood now—he thought of nothing but flight—of taking refuge in that very storm, from which he had but recently escaped. He rushed towards his horse but the animal had broken bridle, and w as gone! Without stopping to look round, our hero gained the road, and set off at full speed; for he heard close behind him the yells and screams of his pursuer ! It was a race for life— aye, and for what be¬ sides life, he dared not think ; but he , strained every nerve to outstrip the fiend who held him in chase. Alas ! alas» his hour was come! Breathless, alike from exertion and from fear, his foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, while his enemy, with a shriek of triumphant hate, leaped upon him, and fastened her claw r s into his ! A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 55 face and throat! He was incapable of re¬ sistance, for lie had fainted. Fortunately, at this very juncture, a 1 number of other persons came to the rescue, whose approach was quickened by the cries which they had heard. They ex¬ tricated the insensible man from the hands of the maniac, and took measures for his restoration, and her security. The un¬ happy woman had escaped that day from the custody of her friends, and hid herself in the woods. The vicinity of the old church was a favourite haunt of hers, and the storm drove her within its walls. Her disordered mind, excited by the sights and sounds of the tempest, sought a vent for its tumult in imaginary declamation from the pulpit, till the sight of a human face and form gave her feelings another direction. With what motive she first approached the intruder, of course, could never be ascertained; but the confession of weakness which his flight implied, and the maddening stimulus of the pursuit, would have sufficed to change an indifferent, or even a kindly purpose, into one of bitterness and fury. Such is the explanation of this singular and painful adventure: an ex¬ planation, however, which, in the im¬ pressions left upon the mind, does approxi¬ mate nearly to the effect of tragic and supernatural fictions. 235. STATISTICS OF PIG FEEDING. —I have turned my attention to this branch of farming; I shall be happy if my experience can be of service, I breed all my own pigs. The sows are of the improved Essex breed, commonly known as Mr. Fisher Hobbs’s; the boars principally of Mr. Northey’s breed, which he called the improved Leicester, and which with the same prime quality are rather larger than the short Essex sort. I have accommodation for 57 feeding, 19 pens of 3. They require one responsible man, a woman and a boy to attend, to bed them, to scrape and steam the Swedes, to feed them, and throw out the dung. My steaming apparatus is very simple, but most effective; thanks to Mr. Mechi’s recommendation in your columns of Mr. C. W. William’s book on the “ Combustion of Coal,” &c., I can steam one ton per day of Swedes with less than fifty pounds of coal and a little wood. Owing to climate our corn is not of first- rate quality, but we make up in quantity bv sowing an equal mixture of barley and oats, which we call dredge-corn. This crop is also better suited to our land, which presents two or three different characters in everv field, from stiff clay to light barley soil. The expense of grinding is met by the miller’s customary toll of four pounds to the bushel. This covers waste and carriage. For the Dr. and Cr. account below, I have taken an average pen of three pigs for the sake of conciseness :— Dr. Account. 3 pigs put up to feed Nov. 1,18 mated market value 4 qrs. of dredge-corn, at 30s. 4 tons Swedes, at 13s. Fuel for steaming ditto ... Attendance 16 weeks 24 cwt. of straw Expense of feeding _ Cr. Account. 59i stone of pork sold on the higler, at 6s. 8£d. .. 16 loads of dung, at 2s. Cd. 3 pigs’ bellies ". Gross return . Deduct profit on 3 pigs ... £ s. d. iti- ... 9 0 0 ... 6 0 0 ... 2 12 0 ... 0 3 4 ... 0 16 0 ... 1 4 0 £19 15 4 £ s. d. to ... 19 19 If ... 2 0 0 ... 0 3 0 .. 22 2 1} ... 2 6 £19 15 4 Thus I calculate if I can clear the dung, it is as much as I can do after making the market value of my own farm produce at home. I cannot give any estimate of the expense ol rearing pigs to a proper age for feeding, unless the old saying is true, that it costs lid. per week to make a store pig gain Is.— Walter T. Bullock , Regadon , Ro Is worthy, Devon. 236. ONE THING AT A TIME.— Step among your neighbours, reader, and see whether those among them who have got along smoothly, and accumulated pro¬ perty, and gained a good name, have not been men who bent themselves to one single branch of business. It must be so. Go out in the spring, when the sun is far distant, and you can scarcely feel the influence of its beams, scattered as they are over the wide face of creation; but collect those beams to a focus, and they kindle up a flame in an instant. So the man that squanders his talents and his strength on many things, will fail to make an impression with either; but let him draw them to a point—let him strike at a single object, and it will yield before him. 56 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 237. JANUARY FOR THE BOYS AND GIRLS.—No doubt some guide to young people in the selection of their toys and games, month by month, will be very acceptable. It will enable them to select those pastimes which are seasonable, and calculated to promote health and enjoy¬ ment at the proper times, and under suitable circumstances. “ The right toy in the right place,” is as important a prin¬ ciple to the child, as “ the right man in the right place ” is to the grave politician. Some months, from their coldness, are suitable to active exercises, in which out-of¬ door games, some of which we now give, will be found highly conducive to health. Other months, from their dryness and warmth, are suitable to such games as marbles, whip-top, &c. Others are suitable to kite-hying, boat-sailing, &c., &e., and we shall proceed to point out these pastimes at the proper periods. While, in a climate which is ever varying, in-door games will be found acceptable, even at all seasous. We shall, therefore, give a number of them, varying them as much as possible, to suit the months of the year in which they are to be played. 238. Hoors.—In A cold, dry weather, hoops afford healthful and cheerful exer¬ cise. The best kind of hoop is made of a lath of good stout ash, round on the outside, and flat on the in¬ side. These are far preferable to Fig. 2. any other sort. Hoops made quite flat on both sides, are best for very young bowlers, as they re¬ quire less skill in keeping them up. Iron hoops are on many accounts objectionable. Besides the dust and noise which they make, they are liable to be driven through windows, or^ against the legs of persons walking. Nor are they so elastic as wooden hoops; which quality of elasticity is the very source of the pleasure derivabfe from hoop-trundling. Exercise with a good ashen hoop, is exceedingly good for both boys and girls, and a good run will warm them in the very coldest weather. There is a game with the hoop called “ toll,” which we don’t remember to have seen printed in any book of sports. Two pieces of stone are placed at the distance of two or three inches apart, and the game is to drive the hoop between them without touching either piece. See Fig. 1. Another game with hoops is called “en¬ counters,” and consists in two players driving their hoops against each other from long dis¬ tances the conqueror being he whose hoop beats the other down. Fig. 3. wiuu ^ uuys liictivu uieir noops musical by means of round or angular pieces of tin, tvvo of which are put together like cymbals, and attached by a short nail to the inner side of the hoop. A dozen pairs of these cvmbals is sometimes attached to one hoop. * 239. Skipjack.— This little amusement is almost peculiar to the end of the Christ¬ mas season, and is suitable for in-doors when rain or snow prevent the out-of-door sports The Skipjack is most commonly madeof the breast-bone,or the merrythought of a fowl, well cleaned. A piece of cat¬ gut, or strong string doubled, is to be tied securely round the two sides or arms of the bone, and a short stick introduced between the two strings forming the chord. This stick must he somewhat longer than the distance from the string to the arched part of the bone. The string has to be twisted by means of the stick until it begins to act like a spring. The stick has next to be shifted by forcing out one of its ends in such a manner that the longest end shall press against the toy at A by the t\\ isted string. A bit of cobblers’ wax must then be applied to the underneath side of the toy, and the stick forcibly brought round and pressed against it. If it be now laid upon the ground, or upon the table, the spring of the string soon overcomes the adhesion of the wax, and the toy will spring a considerable height. The same plan may be applied to little wooden figures of rats, mice, frogs, &c. 240. TiiAr Bat and Ball.—T his is a nrst-rate out-of-door game at any time ; Tig. 4. A FAMILY REPOSITORY 57 of the year and certainly not inappro¬ priate to that season when the snow has whitened the ground, there¬ by rendering the ball a most Fig. 5. conspicuous object on the landscape as it b o w Is or bounds along. The trap is something like a shoe in shape. It has a spoon or tongue, one end of which is at the bottom of the receptacle for the ball. Much of the science of the game consists in deal¬ ing the blow which strikes the ball out of the hole. The laws are as follows :— Two boundaries are formed, equally placed, and at as great a distance as possible from each side of the trap, between which it is essential that the ball should pass when struck by the batsman; if it falls outside either of them he is out. In playing the strict game, besides the side boundaries, a line or tape should be stretched across the ground several feet high, and twenty feet in front of the trap; over this line the batsman must send his ball or he is out ; but this mode of playing is seldom adopted by juvenile players. The game is played by any number, either singly or by choosing sides. The innings are tossed up for, and the player who is to commence, places the ball in the spoon or tongue of the trap, touches the other end called the trigger with the bat, and as the ball hops from the trap, strikes it as far as he can. One of the other players tries to catch it; if he does so before it reaches the ground, or if the striker misses the ball when he aims at it, or hits the trigger more than twice without strik¬ ing the baU, or makes an offer,” he is out, and the next in order, which must previously be agreed upon, takes his place. Should the ball be fairly struck, and not caught, the out player, into whoso hands it comes, bowls it from the place where he picks it up, at the trap; which, if it misses the striker is out. In case of his missing, the striker counts one towards the game. Any number may be said to be game-twenty, fifty, or a hundred. It is to be observed in playing that the trig¬ ger should be struck just hard enough to send up the ball about a foot and a half from the trap. With anew trap, or one with which you were not previously acquainted, it is a good prac¬ tise to strike the ball up and catch it in your hand once or twice before you really begin and call out “ Play.” This will enable you to judge the better where you should stand, so as to strike the ball with the greater force and to observe in what direction you should send it with the least chance of its being caught. Many players miss the ball from want of deliberation. This game should never be played in public thoroughfares, nor where glass may be broken, or other injuries sustained. Fig. 6. 241. Antiquity op Tbap Bat autd Ball. —In an illuminated manuscript of the fourteenth century, we have a representa¬ tion of persons playing at “ Trap bat and ball,” a copy from which is seen in the an¬ nexed figure. It will be observed that the form of the trap, differs from that in modern use; that it is raised from the ground; and that the bat used is broader. Certain comic images arise in the mind, in connecting the game of “trap bat and ball” with our ancestors of the time of the first Edward’s and Henry’s; and we feel some difficulty in realising the idea of King John’s barons occasionally relaxing from the cares of state by indulgence in an “ innings” or two at trap-ball. Neverthe¬ less, we are bound by the evidence to believe it to be not only a possible, hut a highly probable fact. Fig. 8. Fig. 9. 242. Seippixg-eope. — Skipping is an excellent exercise for girls in the winter seasons, providing that proper caution be observed. Why it should not do equally well for boys has never been clear to us. It is an exercise that may be taken in-doors, where there are large rooms devoted to nurseries, or school-rooms set apart for plav. 58 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: Care should be taken to select a good hard and smooth walk for the purpose; not so smooth as to be slippery, and perfectly dry. But it is not well to skip in-doors except where there are suitable rooms set apart for play, as the noise and vibration might cause annoyance to the elders of the family or household. A moderate use of the skip¬ ing-rope tends to promote grace in the attitudes and a healthy action of the body. Young skippers should avoid such feats as keeping up the action while long numbers are counted, such as a hundred, fifty, or even twenty. No good whatever, but a great deal of evil has been the consequence of such practice. A skipping-rope ought to be about twice the length of the body. Beginners should at first practice the method shown in fig. 8, of simply springing and passing the rope under the feet. They may then pass to the run¬ ning skip shown in fig. 9. Fig. 10 shows the arms crossed at the moment of throwing the Fig. 7. ro P e - . The other varieties of skipping are the hop- skip, where one foot is held off the ground. The “jump-skip,” where both the feet are held closely together in spring- Fig. 10. ing. “ Turn the mangle ” where the rope is swung round sideways, as in the action of turning a handle previous to skipping over it, and “turn the rope,” in which three or more children participate, two holding the ends of the rope, and the third jump¬ ing over it ; a variety upon this last is called “ one skip and away,” the girl in the centre has to spring over the rope once, and then run away before another circuit of the rope touches any portion of her dress—in which event she has to take her place at turning. i Si With regard to the promotion of health, skipping backwards is preferable to any other mode, as it throws out the chest, and tends to develope its healthy actions. Lo. ui twu may De given to parents here. D° not suppose that the time devoted by children to the skipping-cord is “ wasted.” It is one of the best exercises they can pursue. It causes the free inspiration of air, and promotes the mus¬ cular development of every part of the frame. Children both boys and $irls, should be en- couraged to take this exercise, daily, as a diitv • and every facility should be afforded to them for the purpose.] , Fig. 13. 213. Puss ik the Corner.— This is an easy game, but it affords a great deal of amuse¬ ment, and is very suitable for the winter sea¬ son. It is played by five only; and the place chosen for the game should be either a square court, or any open space between trees, four of which about equi’-distant from each other, should he selected and marked in some way as homes. Each of the corners is occupied by one of the players; the fifth, who is named “puss,” stands in the centre. The game now commences; the players calling out to each other, “ Puss! puss! give me a drop of water,” endeavour to ex¬ change corners. It is the object of the one who enacts “puss” to take possession of any one of the corners during the momen¬ tary absence of its occupant, i. e., during the exchanges. A\ lien he succeeds in doing this, that player who is left without a corner be¬ comes the “puss.” N.B.—In the case of A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 59 A and B exchanging corners, if A reaches B’s corner, but B fails to reach A’s before “ puss” gets there, it is B, not A, who be¬ comes “ puss.’" 244. All of a Row. — This game is played under various names, but in no way so pleasantly and simply as in the following manner :—Two players have three counters each. A board is constructed by drawing upon a piece of cardboard, or upon a slate, the holes and lines as in the Figure .— drums, acting charades, &c. &c. A variety of these will be found by our young friends looking through The Corner Cupboard .—. (See 261; but first try to solve the puzzle.) 246. A CHARADE DRAMA. Characters. Sir Anteek Yellowleaf Olivia } his Nieces. Masters Brown, Jones,') and Robinson j (from India). their Fricjids. The object is to get your three counters in a row; which your antagonist will en¬ deavour to prevent by placing his in the way. A row may be formed in any direc¬ tion. After the men have been all placed upon the board each player endeavours to effect his object by moving in the direction of the lines. The player who first succeeds in getting his men “ all of a row ” wins. It is a game that the youngest child may practice; it affords considerable amuse¬ ment ; and is the easiest introduction to draughts and chess. Anything will do for counters — three halfpence against three pence or farthings, or six pieces of china, or wood of different colours. Of course moves can only be made in a direction which is clear of impediment. It is not allowed to hop over the antagonist’s counters. 215. A Geometrical Puzzle. —Given a square—as in Fig. 14—to divide it into seventeen smaller, but equal squares. During the winter evenings great amusement will be derived from the enigmas, charades, conuu- ¥ig. 1L Scene I. An Elegant Interior . Music Books and Instru - ments lying about. Enter Lillie and Olivia. Lillie. —Well, now, dearest, I am de¬ lighted that you so cordially fall in to my views. Oh ! it will be charming! Dear uncle, who, as you know, arrived this morning from the East, where he had spent, I’m told, more than fifty years, but who was born uponthis very spot, is, nodoubt, passionately attached to old English customs. Among these, that one of celebrating ChristimS J with “waits” will probably be the most I cherished in his memory, and delightful to his feelings. Olitia. —Oh ! beyond question, my love; and your plan of bringing in the assistance of our friends and beaux , Masters Brown, Jones, and Robinson, as the musicians, is, 1 declare, a perfect inspiration. But you are so clever! Lillie. —Well, I don’t know that I can justly claim all the merit of the idea. You know what a perfect Jullien, at concert conducting Brown is, and how fond of getting up musical parties. It was this talent of his which suggested the notion to my mind. However,' it is all settled. Master Jones is to take the drum and pan-pipes, Robinson will be trombone, and Lyte Brown will lead off with his violin. Olivia. —And our parts will be the easy ones of listeners in our snug warm room, while our gentlemen friends are scraping and thumping away in the cold. Lillie. —Just so. But hark! I hear them coming. We meet in this room to make our final arrangements. [_Goes to side . Yes, here they are. (Enter Brown, Jones, and Robinson, car • rying Music Books and Instruments.) 60 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: Note. — Where the real things are imprac¬ ticable, it mill do to substitute imitations; the performers singing in such a may as to suggest the instruments required to be used. (They are arrayed in great coats, and muffled up to represent street performers of “waits” After the exchange of bows and the usual com¬ pliments). Brown. —Well, here we are; don’t you think, ladies, that tve look our parts well ? Oliyia. —To admiration. But then, you know, a musician is not usually tested by his looks. Brown. —Oh! its all right! we have had a jolly practice. Haven’t we boys ? down yonder in an out-house, adjoining the dog kennels. Jones. —And the best of it was that, al¬ though we went twice through all our pieces, we were never discovered. Olivia (archly). —No, folks mistook your performances for the howling of the dogs. Robinson.— Oh ! But, Miss Olivia, you are such a quiz. Come, come, time flies, let- us see what has to be done. Brown. —Yes. Well, I think that as we have had so many previous consultations, nothing remains to be settled. After supper, we repair to our posts. You, Miss Lillie, will give the signal when all is ready, by placing your candle in the window. Is there anything else, lads ? Jones and Robinson (together). —No¬ thing, 1 think. Olivia. —Except that as it is a season¬ ably cold night, I shall go and warm my¬ self by roasting a few chesnuts. Omnes, —Then, mind you don’t burn your fingers! Ha ! ha ! ha! [Rotes and exeunt. Scene closes. noise in the chimney. There’s another behind the wainscoat. The casement keeps up a continual rattle; and the bedstead creaks like that pair of Hessian boots which I threw last year at the head of Mumbo Jumbo, the Nadoub of Hubbaboo. Even the lamp spits and splutters as if it was a frying- pan full of dripping. And of all things in the world, I like quietness—especially of a night. I don’t like to hurt the feelings of these relatives of mine, who. I’ve no doubt, are very good people, and mean well, or I’d ask them to let me have another room. Well, I must try again to get to sleep, for I’m as tired as a dog—as the sayino- i 8 , ugh! ugh ! [lie retires into the room while speaking. Lillie and Olivia peep on from opposite cor¬ ners, and then stealthily approach each other. They speak in whispers. Lillie. —’Tis now quite midnight, and I think our friends may approach and com¬ mence their serenade. What does your watch say ? Olivia (looking at her watcK). — A quarter past twelve. Yes, do, for goodness sake, let them begin. # Lillie. —By all means. I will go and give the signal. No doubt, our good uncle is in a sound sleep. Let us be careful not to wake him. Sir Anteek V ellowleaf puts his head out of the door, projecting the rays of his lamp in evei'y direction. Sir A.—I feel certain I heard something. \\ hat could it be ? If I was not thoroughly conscious that these relatives of mine were good people, and meant well to me, I should be apt to think they were plotting to de¬ stroy my night’s rest. Scene II. An Ante-room, with a door at the back to open and shut. Lark. (Enter, as from Bed-room, Sir Anteek Yel- LOwleaf. He is attired in a long dressing- goion and nightcap, and has a rather deerepid and worn-out look. He carries a candlestick , or night-lamp, in his hand.) Sir A.—Ugh! Ugh! (coughing.) Oh dear! Oh dear ! Ugh! ugh! I’m afraid I’m not getting younger. I can't sleep. These relatives of mine are, no doubt, very good people, and mean well to me, but, ugh, ugh, they have put me into a room that is haun¬ ted. Not with one ghost, but with a dozen. I can't sleep, do what I will. There’s a U V . 1 , , , , \_jllg uu/utxs ui.il. gh! ugli! ugh ! I can’t get to sleep. I’ve tried and tried—and tried again. But, no. Tiiere I am staring, wide awake, like a wax figure. But it won’t do. If I lose my night s rest 1 shall be ill to-morrow, and that will never do, with the amount of business on hand that I have. Here goes, then, to make another attempt. I do hope I shall be more fortunate this time. Ugh! ugh ! ^loudlf'fiti h t ard ’ at f lrst faintkj, and, then loudly, bin Anteek again appears at his a (treat passion. (The music should he loud enough here to render his voice in- audible, or nearly so.) \ '• ’ A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 61 (S Sib A.—Now, this is too bad ! Some I rascally “ waits!” What can I do to get if rid of them ? Fd bribe them, only I fear | that that would make them play louder at I the next house. Ugh! ugh! Oh, this is i little short of felony. Oh, a lucky thought! £ {He retires into the room , and returns with [1 water-jug. I I’ll fling this at the head of the r leader. PH be bound that will quiet him. {Goes out at side. Crash heard. Music ceases. Sir A. returns, looking pale and angry .] Sib A.— I hope I did’nt hurt him, t but that’s his business. To be disturbed l in such a way ; and at my time of life ! too bad ! too bad ! ugh! ugh! {Exit into chamber. Scene closes. Scene III. A Breakfast Parlour. Lillie and Olivia seated. A vacant arm-chair near the table. Lillie. —Well, dearest, and what did you think of our friends’ performances last night ? I Olivia. —Oh, delightful in the extreme ! But, do you know, love, I am at a loss to account for one circumstance. Lillie. —Indeed ! What is it ? Olivia. —Why, either the tunes were so sleep-inducing that I went off into a slumber before they had played five minutes, or the music came to a sudden stop. Lillie. —How very surprising, to be sure! My own impressions exactly. But we shall see our gentlemen amateurs this morning, and receive their explanation of the circumstance. [Ball heard. i Ah! there is dear uncle’s bell. He will k be down in a moment. Let us be silent i as to the serenade, until we have ob- f served what kind of impression it may : have made upon him. t (Enter Sir Anteek Yellowleaf, leaning fee- Lillie.— Dearest uncle, we hope that you slept well, and that your night’s rest— Sir A (interrupting her ).—Nota word, my vlear neice, of last night—not a word. Oh ' dear, ugh ! ugh ! I did’nt sleep a wink— [Lillie and Olivia exchange glances. ’ At first, from fidgettiness—and then, oh, dear! from remorse- Olivia. —Remorse! uncle! Sib A.—Of conscience ! Yes, I fear that I have killed somebody. I fear—ugh ! ugh ! —my poor neices—that your old uncle is a homicide ! ! ! Lillie and Olivia {together). —Ilowverv dreadful! {Enter a Servant, who announces Masters Brown, Jones, and Robinson, in their usual attire. After which. Enter Brown with a cloth tied over his luad supported by Jones and Robinson.] Sir A .(aside). — Who aro these? In stature, they remind me of the musicians of last night. Pray, heaven, it may be so. Brown.— We have intruded upon you. Sir, and upon these ladies, in order to pre¬ sent the -earliest possible apology for the disturbance—which our well-meant—but, as it would appear, ill-timed music caused— Sir A (rising). — Then you are the mu¬ sicians of last night ? Brown, Jones, and Robinson.—W eare. Sir A.—And I did not kill anybody ? Brown. —No, Sir, only bruised in a slight degree—your very humble servant. Sir A.—Good ! Then, ’tis I who owe you an apology; for I perceive that your excel¬ lent intention was to honour me. I am sorry that the natural irritability of a warrior at my time of life led me to appreciate your performances so unworthily. If you will forgive me— {They approach , and shake hands. we will be friends. At any rate—if I dare invite you to breakfast in a house not my own, our fair hostesses will excuse the free¬ dom ; and if our neighbours here will excuse us also, all may yet be well. While they are considering their verdict, we will sing them an old air, which will awaken me¬ mories of the past, and give to the old friends who are present a watchword for the future:— 247. AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgot. An’ never brought to min’? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, An’ days o’ lang syne ? CHORU8. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne:" We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet. For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, An’ pou’t the gowans fine; But we’ve wander’d many a weary fit. Sin* iMild lang syne. For auld lang syne, Ac 62 TIIE CORNER CUPBOARD : We twa hae paidl’fc i’ the burn, Frae monhn , sun till dine; But seas atween us braid hae roar’d Sin’ auld lang sjme. Bor auld lang syne, &c. An’ here’s a han’,my trusty frieu*, An’ gie’s a ban’ o’ thine; We’ll take a right guid walie waught, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, &c. An’ surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp, An* surely I’ll be mine; We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, &c. New Verse . And now this Christmas time has come. And old friends gather here, May Christmas mercy to them be. And glad the coming year. (See 262.) For auld lang syne, &c. 248. ENIGMA. In olden times, when the warrior laughed To scorn all cowardly letter-craft, And learning found no place to dwell, But in the silent convent cell; A monk once sate in his cloister lone. And before him grimmed the ghastly bone Of a human skull. Horrid and grim— 'Twas all that was human there, save him. From early youth, in that cell so cold, ’Mid quires and tomes and dungeon mould, Hs had writ;—and now he was waxen old. Many a year since the task begun— The monk was old, aud the task undone. “ ’Twill never be finished, this book,” sighed he, “ Till this skull beside its comrade be, To preach to the brethren, eternity.” He dropped a tear; but my first was there. With face upturned, and smooth, and fair, To receive that tribute to fell despair. In regal halls my first doth dwell, As well as in the convent cell; And nobles proud, or sage alone. Approach not nearer to the throne. Soon came the peal of the vesper bell, The friar went out of his lonely cell; And his sandalled feet on the echoing floor, Resounded along the corridor. [door, When the monk returned, through the opening He saw what he never had seen before. My second was there;—the chance it took To run over the leaves of the mystic book, When none was near. It fled, but then It left a lesson that learned men Oft need to learn: and the friar smiled, As he spoke to himself in accent mild “ I’ve learned my lesson to-day,” quoth he; " And it came when ’twas needed much by me.” And he smiled again, for he knew the wise xMay learn from the humble, that fools despise. My whole , a toy, though built by crafty tools, Can only fill with wonder gaping fools; Designed for mimic spheres, where actors wage Wars of proud conquest on their bloodless stage. [A correspondent wishes to obtain the an¬ swer to the above. We have not yet received the answer to the Charade 27. Wliat are the u Cupboard^n«an«” «bout?] 249. COUNTY CONUNDRUMS. 1. Why would Dorsetshire suffer less from a long drought than other counties ? 2. Why should you go to Fifeshire to cook your fish ? 3. Why would Kent mike a good lunch- basket ? 4. Why is the Isle of Wight a good place to go to for milk and exercise ? 5. What is the difference between Northum¬ berland and Norfolk? 0. Why would the people of Nottinghamshire have the advantage in case of a deluge ? 7. Why is Suffolk like Cyclops ? 8. Why is Sussex the most warlike county ? 9. Why ought the people of Somersetshire to be clean and healthy ? 10. Why is Yorkshire like an emigrant ship r 11. Why would Warwickshire suffer less from a scarcity of corn than any other county ? 12. In what would Shropshire and Somerset shire have the advantage over other counties iu time of war ?—{See 263.) T. C. 250. PHENOMENA OF JANUARY. —The most striking phenomena of the season are known to us under the names of Frost and Snow. (See 131 and 136). At this season it is usual to find the brooks— whicli lately prattled a mournful music amidst the naked trees, and bore upon their bosom to¬ wards the ocean the brown leaves of autumn —sealed up and congealed into silence. During the day a haze obscures the oblique rays of the sun, but at night the watery va¬ pour being removed by the frost— “ The full ethereal round, Infinite worlds disclosing on the view, Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope Of starry glitter, glows from pole to pole” 251. The birds, which at other times found a plentiful, supply of food in the open fields find everything frozen and congealed into hard masses. The seeds and berries which were formerly accessible to their horny beaks, are so no longer, owing to the freezing of the water in the ground, or the snow which hides their food. Hence the feathered tribes are driven by hunger to approach the dwellings of man, where the heat generated by fires, and radiated from his habitations, tends to thaw and soften the ice-bound surface around, and whence unfrozen nutri- \ tion is continually thrown at the doors. The wild fowl, driven from the chilly north, where the streams on which they were wont to swim are no longer liquid, take* a south¬ ward flight, and in flocks of singular shape astonish the observer. The circumstance upon wh’ch these actions depend is the lia- * bility of water, when deprived of a certain A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 63 amount of heat, to pass from the state of vapour or fluid to the solid form. Snow is watery vapour suddenly congealed, while ice is liquid water frozen. In passing from the liquid to the solid form, water is a remark¬ able exception to the law that all bodies ex¬ pand when heated, and contract when cooled; inasmuch as water, after cooling to a certain degree, begins to expand, and con¬ tinues to do so till it is changed and be¬ comes ice. To illustrate the general law: —Fit exactly a rod of iron, when cold, to a hole in a piece of metal or stone, then heat the iron, and you will find that you will be unable to make it enter the aperture which previously admitted it. Again, having heated a bar of iron to redness, take it from the fire, and lay it upon the flag-stones, or on a brick floor, and place close to either end of the bar a brick or other body having a plain surface, which will fit against the extremity of the piece of iron; if you wait a few minutes, till the bar is cold, you will observe that there is an interval between the ends of the bar and the surface of the bricks, which did not exist when the bar was hot. All substances, except water, thus expand with heat, and contract with cold. But what is cold ? And what is heat P 252. Heat is a peculiar influence of a positive character, which can only be judged of by its effects upon matter; Cold is nega¬ tive heat—the absence of warmth. We can only judge of heat by its effects, and we are accustomed to measure its intensity by the power which it possesses to expand some substance exposed to it. Thus, in the com¬ mon thermometer we use the liquid metal mercury, to indicate the heat of a hot bath, or of the temperature of a room, because we know that mercury is expanded by heat, and contracts if heat be removed. The de¬ gree of contraction under similar influences varies in fluids, but not in gases. Chlorine, hydrogen, oxygen, carbonic acid, &c., are equally affected by exposure to heat, but alcohol is affected six times as much as quick¬ silver, and lead will expand, under the same circumstances, three times as much as iron. 253. But to this general law of expansion by heat, and contraction by its removal, water is a remarkable exception. Procure a Florence flask (which may be purchased for a few pence at any of the oil-shops), and pour some water into it till it is nearly filled, marking with a file upon the neck the exact height at which the fluid stands. In a deep basin or jar, provide a freezing mixture, composed of snow (or broken ice) and salt, in which let the flask be buried up to the neck. If the water which you have poured into the flask be above 40 deg. pf # Fahrenheit’s thermometer (as it will be if it has been kept in the house for a few hours before using), you will observe that it begins to contract till it is reduced to that temperature, when it will begin slowly to expand, and continue to do so till the fluid passes into the solid state. The increase or diminution of the volume of the water will be indicated by a rising or falling in the neck of the flask. To render this ex¬ periment complete, a small thermometer should be placed in the water, to indicate the changes of temperature, go that the observer may note with accuracy the cor¬ responding alterations. From this experi¬ ment we learn that the greatest density of water is attained at a temperature of 40 deg., and that whether heated above that tem¬ perature, or cooled below it, the expansion will be similar. At 48 deg. the water will occupy the same space as its ice at the temperature of 32 deg. If we take a bottle quite full of water, at the temperature of 40 deg., and close it so that no fluid can escape, the bottle will be burst by exposure to heat or to cold ; for both would increase the volume of the liquid. From this it follow's, that ice is lighter than w r ater at any temperature below* 48 deg. of Fahrenheit’s thermometer, and it will be shown that this increase of volume produced under the in¬ fluence of frost, is a most beneficial arrange¬ ment of the Divine Ruler of all things. [This freezing mixture is most active in the following proportions:—Snow, or pounded ice two parts; salt (known to the chemist as muriate of soda) one part. Ice can be purchased from most of the confectioners at all periods of the year, but should there be a difficulty in procuring it.the followingfreezingmixturemay be used*— 31 unate ofammonia, five parts; nit rate of potash live parts; sulphate of soda, eight parts; and water, sixteen parts.] 254, If w'ater, like other liquids, con¬ tinued to contract and to increase in density until it assumed the solid form—our lakes and large bodies of water, instead of being superficially frozen in winter, w*ould be hardened into solid masses of ice. The heat from the lake is abstracted by the cold o£ THE CORNER CUPBOARD winds which, blow over its surface; and the chilled particles being more dense would de¬ scend, allowing other and warmer portions of the water to rise and be exposed to the frosty air, till the whole mass of the water was reduced to 32 deg., when it would sud¬ denly freeze—to the destruction of most of thelivingthingstherein. Butthisisprevented by the phenomenon of which we have been speaking; for, as soon as the whole mass is cooled down to 40 deg. there is no chang¬ ing of position in the particles, since those on the surface which are rendered colder now become lighter than 4;heir fellows ; so that the cold water actually floats upon that which is comparatively warm. Water being a bad conductor ot heat, the warmth of the lower stratum is not removed, though the surface may be a sheet of ice. More¬ over, ice being also a non-conductor, the cold winds may continue to blow without avail; since the deep strata of water are protected from cold, and remain at the temperature of 40 deg., whatever may be the cold of the surrounding air. 255. Though the heat ot water, when boil¬ ing, varies considerably, in proportion to the density or rarity of the atmosphere, the freezing point remains always the same, and the chemist avails himself of this circum¬ stance in the construction of the thermo¬ meter. 256. The expansion of water, which has been described, is the cause of the bursting of pipes and closed vessels during the winter. It is related, indeed, that cast-iron bomb¬ shells, thirteen inches in diameter and two inches in thickness, having been tilled with water, and their fuse-holes firmly plugged with iron bolts, were burst asunder when exposed to the severe cold of a Canadian winter; thus demonstrating the enormous internal pressure to which they were sub¬ jected by the expansion of water in freez¬ ing. (See 136). 257. Herein we discover a great import¬ ant agency, which produces great benefits to the husbandman. During the autumn and early winter months the soil receives into its interstices the water from the clouds, which creeps into every creyice in every clod; when frost comes, the water expand¬ ing, pushes the particles asunder, and breaks the lumps into crumbling mould. The water, too, which during the long year has been collecting in some hidden cavity of the rock, suddenly, under the influence of cold, assumes a giant power, and hurls the mass from the mountain sides. The flag¬ stones and pavements are tilted up by the same mysterious power, and flakes of the ornamental plaster on our walls are pealed ofi. 258. Ice has a great antiseptic power; that is to say, animal substances contained in it are prevented from decay. In 1803 the body of a mammoth—a race of animals now extinct—slowly appeared from a moun¬ tain of ice, in which it had been preserved from decay for several thousand years; the flesh was in excellent preservation, however, and was eaten by bears, wolves, and dogs, with eagerness. During the winter, in the northern parts of Russia, meat is frozen and preserved in ice, and so sent to market in casks; and in Scotland salmon are packed with frozen water, which is an article ot ex¬ port from the lakes of North America. 259. We will now proceed to speak of snow; and first let us obseive how beautiful and varied are the forms of its flakes, when looked at through a magnifying glass, or microscope. ( See 136.) £ How light and gracefully they fall, and how hilariously we greet the snow storm! “ Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes Tall broad and white and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white/* How beautiful the naturalists of Scripture describes it- too:—“As birds flying he scattereth the snow, and the falling down thereof is as the lighting of the grass¬ hoppers, the eye marvelletli at the whiteness thereof, and the heart is astonished at the raining of it.” 2G0. Snow is watery vapour suddenly fro¬ zen. Occasionally in Lapland the phenomena of the formation of snow is witnessed when • the door of an apartment in which persons ; are assembled is suddenly opened, and a blast of cold air avlmitted, the watery vapour j exhaled by their respiration being instantly i frozen into flakes. Snow is a bad conductor of heat, or cold, and therefore acts as a most valuable covering for vegetables and ^ seeds; wheat continues to grow beneath its • covering, though every blade would be cut Gff if exposed to the frosty air. 261. SOLUTION OF THE GEOMETRI CAL PUZZLE (245.) Divide each side of the square into four portions. By draw¬ ing lines across each way to these points you produce sixteen of the squares. Unite the points by which the diamond is form¬ ed : within which you will find a square one quarter the size , -of the first. Next araw a diamond within this quarter-sized square, and by drawing lines—like a Saint Andrew s cross—through the whole figure, you nave the points for the seventeenth square, as in the figure.__ * 262. ANSWER TO THE ACTING CHA¬ RADE (216).—Band-age. 263. SOLUTIONS TO THE COUNTY CONUNDRUMS (249.) 1. Because there is always a large Poole in it. 2. Because you will always find a Kettle there, o. Because it has a Lydd to it, and always contains a Sandwich, ^Because you’ll always find Cow(e)s and a 5. One has a Newcastle every day, while the other has a Castle Rising, n. Because they have a New-ark there. 7. Because it has but one Eye. 8. Because there is always a Battle there. 9. Because they are supplied with Wells , and have a Bath every day. 10. Because it has a large Hull well peopled. 11. Because there is Nuneaton (none eaten) m it. 12. In having each a Wellington. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 65 flowers-* young chain I have twined with H Kr s - ened th ° SOn * in «he rose-crowned Have reared the trophv for wealth nnri And paved the road for the cars of flame! U ’ The*word hath learned from me t * la t it lisps at the mother’s knee • Thekfnd inl1freT W f h i°- fr . 0mmo hath caught fi . es of h,s heavenward thought • To wan? thn saint—wlt° hath nearer trod 3 ’ toward the angel-host at the throne of God. The fruits seed ? in > the sou,s ‘hat bear ine fruits of heaven m the world of care_ Ihagtealhe,! on the tee, tUU ts "Sgre, ii ‘5 e , tile tieldsof light- * * heart, hath it e’er coufest A germ so pure, or a tear so blest.” The clock struck twelve, from the steeple crav PnMi S itn mg i lus . hour-glass he strode awa/- * ’ For I slw P H rtins J fcared t0 dasp!' ror x saw the scythe in his earnest grasr> And read in the glance of his upward™ His secret league with eternity. J ’ J^FRAUBULiFT ADVERTISE- 11 ~ A corres Pondent obliges us with , toHowing copy 0 f au advertisement, and the reply thereto:— oo E S,° r ^ G Y^ Y Superseded bt Metal- tw^t^ -Lincolnshire.” 264. TALK WITH TIME. BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. Time, with the forelock gray, \\ liile the year in its dotage is passing away, Gome, sit by my hearth, ere the embers fail. t “« scythe on yonder empty nail, And teli me a tale, ’neath this wintry sky, by 6 decds thou hast done, as its month's swept widc° cnubod the babe in the chureh-yard Fr bride tUe husbaud ’ s arm3 1 have taken the cloven a path through the ocean’s floor M here many have sunk, to return no more ’ 1 breast. 111111,1611 the Strons with their dauntless And laid the old man on his staff to rest! Wh^Iti° 0Sen ^ the stone outhe ruin’s height IS 0. o. stamps :‘“"' Cr ' “ ret “ ra for «“ !«*•*• EsriS™” 1 ? 8 .* 0 ? / , N ™ Msthod os Metal. PM into a^Sb/tJo camel s hair pencil all the powder that does not adhere, and pour the fusible metal upon it. In this way. a copy ofthe drawing is obtained' im¬ pressed on the metal. If any gum adheres To casMn ir 1 ’ l\r y be remove d by immersing the cast in slightly warm water. By using common allTf wh vn k W^ons may be taken from it fnl°L7 il h W l be true /«c similes of the draw¬ ing on the paper. Two different impressions can be taken from the plates of metal ■ the first* h! th» d prcssil [ e ’ would produce theblack parts iu the original white in the proof, but 1 if a copper-plate press supplied with a PautogW- pher be used, the result in the proof w ould he equa 1 to the original. Great eiictness mav be ba 1 pasting an engraving or map on the dish fng Afore.” lm<5S and tben P r °ceed-’ D 66 THE CORNER CUPBOARD S66. THE REIGNS OF ENGLISH SOVEREIGNS f'QMPABED 'WITH TnE YEARS OF OUR LORD, AND CORRESPONDING WITH THE DATES OP HOLLINSHED AND OTHERS; INSTANTLY USEFUL FOR READERS OF HISTORY, and ant Ancient Recoeds. Will. I. 15th Oct. 1 1066 2 1067 3 1068 4 1069 5 1070 6 1071 7 1072 8 1073 9 1074 10 1075 11 1076 12 1077 13 1078 14 1079 15 1080 16 1081 17 1082 18 1083 19 1084 20 1085 21 1086 22 1087 Will. II. 9th Sept. 1 1087 2 1088 3 1089 4 1090 5 1091 6 1092 7 1093 8 1094 9 1095 10 1096 11 1097 12 1098 13 1099 14 1100 Henry I. 1st Aug. 1 1100 2 1101 3 1102 4 1103 5 1104 6 1105 7 HOG 8 1107 9 1108 10 1109 11 1110 12 1111 13 1112 14 1113 15 1114 16 1115 17 1116 18 1117 19 1118 20 1119 21 1120 1121 1122 1123 1124 1125 1120 1127 1128 1129 1130 1131 1132 1133 1134 1135 Stephen. 2nd Dec. 1135 1136 1137 1138 1139 1140 1141 1142 1143 1144 1145 1140 1147 1148 1149 1150 1151 1152 1153 1154 Hen. II. 25th Oct. 1154 1155 1156 1157 1158 1159 1160 1101 1162 1163 1164 1165 1160 1167 1168 1169 1170 1171 1172 1173 1174 1175 1176 1177 1178 1179 1180 1181 1182 1183 1184 1185 1186 1187 1188 1189 Riel hd. I. 6th July. 1 1189 2 1190 3 1191 4 1192 5 1193 6 1194 7 1195 8 1196 9 1197 10 1198 11 1199 Jc >hn. 6tli April. 1 1199 2 1200 3 1201 4 1202 5 1203 6 1204 7 1205 8 1206 9 1207 10 1208 11 1209 12 1210 13 1211 14 1212 15 1213 16 1214 17 1215 18 1216 Hen. III. 19th Oct. 1216 1217 1218 1219 1220 1221 1222 1223 1224 1225 1226 1227 1228 1229 1230 16 1231 17 1232 18 1233 19 1231 20 1235 21 1233 22 1237 23 1238 24 1239 25 1210 26 1241 27 1242 28 1243 29 1214 30 1245 31 124(5 ■ 32 1247 33 124S 34 1219 35 1250 36 1251 37 1252 38 1253 39 1254 40 1255 41 1256 42 1257 43 1258 44 1259 45 1260 46 1261 47 1262 48 1263 49 126*4 50 1265 51 1266 52 1267 53 1268 54 1269 c5 1270 56 1271 57 1272 Edwd. I. 16th Nov. 1 1272 2 1273 3 1274 4 1275 5 1276 6 1277 7 1278 8 1279 9 1280 10 1281 11 1282 12 1283 13 1284 14 1285 15 1286 16 1287 17 1288 18 1289 19 1290 20 1291 21 1292 | 1293 1294 1295 1296 1297 1298 1299 1300 1301 1302 1303 1304 1305 1306 1307 Edwd. II, 7th July. 1307 1308 1309 1310 1311 1312 1313 1314 1315 1316 1317 1318 1319 1320 1321 1322 1323 1324 1325 1326 Ed w. III. 25th J an. 1326 1327 1328 1329 1330 1331 1332 1333 1334 1335 1336 1337 1338 1339 1340 1341 1342 1343 1344 1345 1346 1347 1348 1349 1350 1351 1352 13-3 1354 1355 1356 1357 1358 1359 1360 1361 1362 1363 1364 1365 1360 1367 1368 1369 1370 1371 1372 1373 1374 1375 1376 1377 Richd. II. 2nd June. 1377 1378 1379 1380 1381 1382 1383 1384 1385 1386 1387 1388 1389 1390 1391 1392 1393 1394 1395 1396 1397 1398 1399 Hen. IV. 30th Sept. 1399 1400 1401 1402 1403 1404 1405 1406 9 1407 10 1408 11 1409 12 1410 13 1411 14 1412 Henry V. 20 March. 1 1412 2 1413 3 1414 4 1415 5 1416 6 1417 7 1418 8 1419 9 1120 10 1421 11 1422 Her (. VI. 30th Aug. 1 1422 J 2 1423 ( J 3 1424 4 1425 5 1426 - 6 1427 7 1428 ! 8 1429 9 1430 10 1431 11 1432 12 1433 , 13 1434 * 14 1435 " 15 1436 16 1437 17 1438 18 1439 19 1140 20 1441 21 1442 22 1443 23 1444 24 1445 25 1446 26 1447 27 1448 . 28 1449 29 1450 30 1451 31 1452 32 1453 33 1454 34 1455 35 1456 36 1457 37 1458 38 1459 39 1460 Edw. IV. 4 March. 1460 1461 1462 1463 1464 1465 1406 1467 1468 1469 1470 1471 1472 1473 1474 1475 1476 1477 1478 1479 1480 1481 1482 1483 1 1483 Rich. III. 1483 1484 1485 14S5 1489 1487 14^8 1489 1490 1491 1492 1493 1494 1495 1496 1497 1498 1499 1500 1501 1502 1503 1504 15(5 1506 1507 1508 1509 Hen. VIII |22d April 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 0 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 38 37 33 1509 1510 1511 1512 1513 1514 1515 1516 1517 1518 1519 1520 1521 1522 1523 1524 1525 1526 1527 1528 1529 1530 1531 1532 1533 1534 1535 1536 1537 1538 1539 1540 1541 1542 1543 1544 1545 1546 Edwd. VI. 28th Jan. 1546 1547 1548 1549 1550 1551 1552 1553 Mary. 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 1581 15S2 1583 15S4 1585 1586 1587 1588 15^9 1590 1591 1592 1593 1594 1595 1596 1597 41 1593 y. 42 1 1599 53 ^ 1600 t 44 1601 55 45 1602 James I. * ^ — 1 March. 1602 h 2 1603 1 v. 3 1604 , 4 1603 8 5 1606 1 0 6 1607 0 7 1608 1 8 1609 2 9 1610 3 10 1611 t 11 1612 5 12 1613 5 13 1614 7 14 1615 ^ 15 1616 > 16 1617 > 17 1618 L 18 1619 ■ 19 1620 1 5 20 1621 1 ^ 21 1622 1 ► 22 1623 1 ' 23 162-1 2 24 1625 2 9 Charles I. “■ 27 March. £ 1 1625 2 2 1626 2 3 1627 2 4 1628 2 ! 5 1629 3 i 6 1630 3 7 1631 3! 8 1632 3i 9 1633 3. 10 1634 3 ; 11 1635 3( 12 1636 37 13 1637 3S 14 1636 15 1639 1 G 1640 A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 1641 1642 1643 1644 1645 1646 1647 1648 Chas. II. * 1648 1649 1650 1651 1652 1653 1654 1655 1656 1657 1658 1659 1660 1661 1662 1663 1664 1665 1666 1667 1668 1669 1670 1671 1672 1673 1674 1675 1676 1677 1678 1679 1680 1681 16S2 1683 1684 38 1685 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 1697 1700 1701 Anne. 8 March. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 1702 1703 1704 1705 1706 1707 1708 1709 1710 1711 1712 1713 17U George I. 1 st Aug. 1714 1715 1716 1717 1718 1719 [i. ’ 1720 x 8 1721 '5 ^ 1722 !6 10 1723 >7 11 1724 ' 19 1725 * 13 1726 i. 14 1727 ' Ge *>. II. 11 June. 9 1 • 1727 1728 ! 3 1729 > 4 1730 ; 5 1731 6 1732 7 1733 : ! 8 1734 : ! 9 1735 : , ! 10 1736 ! ; n 1.737 ; , 12 1738 \ is 1739 \ 14 1740 1 15 1741 '{ 16 1742 3 17 1743 3 18 1744 3 19 1745 » 20 1746 3 21 1747 3 22 1748 3 23 1749 3 24 175» 3 25 1751 3! 26 1752 4i 27 1753 4! 28 1754 4: 29 1755 | 4 ' 30 1756 4ri 31 1757 4; 32 1758 41 33 1759 47 34 1760 48 4.0 Geo. ! HI. 25th Oct. “i 1 1 1760 53 2 1 1761 54 3 1 1762 55 67 1763 1704 1765 1766 1767 1768 1769 1770 1771 1772 1773 1774 1775 1776 1777 1778 1779 1780 1781 1782 J7S3 1784 17S5 1786 1787 1788 1789 1790 1791 1792 1793 1794 1795 1796 1797 1798 1799 1800 1801 1802 1503 1504 1805 1806 1807 1808 1809 1810 1811 1812 1813 1814 . Geo. IV. 29th Jan. 1 2 a 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 1820 1821 1822 1823 1824 1S25 1826 1827 1828 1829 1830 , Will. IV. [26th June. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 1830 1831 1832 1833 1834 1835 1836 1837 Victoria. !-0th June. 1 | 1837 to 1857 Whom God preserve for many Years. It was the usual custom formerly to reckon the reign of each Sovereign by the Ecclesiastical Year, which terminated on the 24th day of March (the last day of the reign of Queen Elizabeth of blessed memory); but since the year 1752 all dates of records, as well as Parochial Registers, have been made by Act of Parliament to accord with the Civil Year, commencing on the first of January. The Usurpation of the throne of Oliver Cromwell continued about twelve years after the Mar¬ tyrdom of King Charles I. Richard Cromwell succeeded him; hut either through incompetencv or indisposition to rule with an iron hand, he soon resigned all power, and retired to a private life; thus enabling Monk, the late Protector’s Commander-in-Chief, to favour the restoration of England’s lawful Monarch, Charles II. The reign of King Edward V. was the shortest, and that of King George III. the longest in the annals of England-the former only comprising a few months, the latter extending beyond fiftv- mne years. He ascended the throne near the close of the year 1760, and died in the first month 68 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 267. THE CHUCK OF BEEF is the part that is taken from under the fore-leg and shoulder, it contains about two ribs and necessarily a part of the chine, or back-bone. Generally speaking, it is baked over a Batter Pudding, made thus: take three eggs, a little salt, a quart of milk, and enough flour to make it into a nice consis¬ tent batter. Put it into a baking-tin about three inches deep; it will take from ten minutes to a quarter-of-an-hour to the pound to bake, according to the heat of the oven ( see 205). When cold it may be fried in slices (see 181), or as bubble-and- squeak {see 190), or hashed (see 187). But being rather a coarse joint, probably the best way to cook it would be to have steaks from it one day, fried with some onions cut into slices (see 209), on the next a beefsteak pudding (see 202, minus the larks), and the following day a Toad-in- XHE-HOLE, thus : make a batter as directed above, cut the beef into rather thick slices, well season with two of salt and one of pepper, and stick the pieces of meat in the batter, and send to the oven ; it will take two hours to bake. If there is any left after these processes, hash it. The boms in the stock-pot. 268. THE LEG OF MUTTON PIECE is the middle cut of the shoulder or fore¬ hand of the ox; it is a coarse piece of beef, and may be cooked the same as the chuck (267). It is the part that is generally potted, thus : cut off as much as you may require, say 61bs.; rub it with a little finely powdered saltpetre; let it lay twenty-four hours; then wash and dry it; cut into slices; put it into an earthern pan with a little water; lay four or five snips of butter on the meat, and tie it down with a piece of paper. Bake it until thoroughly tender; take it out and strain off the gravy ; take trom it all the fat and sinews; beat in a mortar with a little salt, pepper, and three or four cloves; add in the pounding the butter that cakes upon the gravy, if neces¬ sary, to make it stick together; add a little more butter; when thoroughly pounded put it into pots—old currant jelly pots are just the thing for it—when filled set the pots in the oven for five minutes, and pour over the beef a little clarified butter. 269. If you should hate any cold beef i,let, it may be totted in this way:— Cut it small; add to it some melted butter, a teaspoonful of anchovy sauce; season with pepper and salt, two and one; well pound it in a mortar; then put it into pots and cover it with the clarified butter as above. Don't forget the stock-pot. 270. THE LEG AND SHIN OF BEEF. —These parts are generally put into the stock-pot, and I should say it is the best thing to do with them; but there are people who think otherwise, and therefore I will give you a receipt now to stew a leg or shin of beef. Put it into an earthern pipkin, having first cut it into pieces. Take two large onions, one carrot, one turnip, a head of celery, four or five cloves, some pepper and salt, then stew seven hours. Have some more carrots, turnips, onions and celery ready boiled ; cut them into nice square pieces; then take the meat out and strain the liquor through a sieve; cut all the sinews out; lay the meat in the middle of a dish, the cut vegetables round it, then pour over the gravy, and serve 271. THE CLOD AND STICKING PIECE may be stewed (see 183), made into a pudding (see 202), or steaks—and the meat from being juicy makes it a famous toad-in-the-hole — (see Chuck, 267), or potted (see Leg of Mutton piece, 268); but 1 think the stock-pot is the best place for them, because then there is no part of them wasted. You may make beef tea, gravy soup, ox tail, vermicelli, maccaroni, and, in fact, nearly all kinds of brown soups from them. ox heart. 272. OX HEART.—Choose the fattest and finest heart you can ; cut off the neck and pack waxy parts. Thoroughly wash it in cold water; then make a stuffing of suet, parsley, sweet margerum, lemon peel, pep¬ per, salt, and nutmeg, the yolk ot an egg; A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 69 chop very small and well mix together. Put the stuffing inside the heart, and tie it up tight in a cloth. Boil in plenty of water for an hour, then take the cloth off; run a steel skewer right through the thick end ot the heart to fasten the worsted to; roast it an hour and a-half. Serve with a rich gravy made thus: a pint of stock gravy, a gill of port wine, and two teaspoonfuls of currant jelly, seasoned with salt and pepper two and one. Pour this gravy into the dish, then pour three or four tablespoonfuls of melted butter over the heart, and serve. Currant jelly should be on the table; when cold it may be hashed in the same sort of gravy. To hash, cut the heart into slices. The heart should be placed in the middle of the dish, on the thick end; in short, when dished, it puts us in mind of a diminutive mountain, with a valley of melted butter and rich gravy. To carve it, it will be necessary to turn it on its side, with the thick end towards you, cutting wedge-like slices not too thick or too thin. 273. OX TONGUE.—To pickle an ox tongue, get the largest and finest; rub it well with salt; let it lie for four or five hours ; beat two ounces of saltpetre very fine, and rub the tongue well with it, then mix a quarter of a pound of bay salt, and an ounce of salt prunella, pound them in a mortar very fine and rub them over the tongue. In this pickle let it lie three or four days; then make a brine of salt and water; continue adding salt until a new laid egg will float in the brine; put in two ounces of saltpetre and a quarter of a pound of bay salt. Boil this brine for a quarter of an hour, skim it well, and when quite cold put in the tongue. Let it lie in this pickle a fortnight or three iceeJcs, when it will be fit to boil. It should be steeped in cold water all night before you want to cook it. Put it in plenty of cold water, and let it boil from two to three hours. When done, peel it, and run a steel skewer from the root along the underneath so as to prevent anyone who may happen to carve it from cutting it in two in the middle, which they are very likely to do unless prevented by the skewer. [I may here relate an amusing occurrence that took place at my table one day. An old gentleman, a friend of mine, came to" dine with me at Christmas. I have been in the habit of having a real old-fashioned English dinner on that day—viz., boiled turkey and tongue, a roast rump of beef, and Yorkshire pudding, pl U m pudding, and mince pies. Well, this old friend of mine sat opposite the tongue. I asked him u he would be kind enough to assist it; he being very fond of tongue and of carving it, especially for himself, instantly said he would be most happy. I got on with my turkey, and, on look¬ ing up, to my surprise I saw him cutting with all his might to try to cut through the skewer, which he fancied to be a bone, for he said “ Mrs. B— I was not aware that a tongue had a bone in it before.” Of course I do not intend such bones as those to go into the stock-pot—M. B.] 274. A. COLLARED TONGUE.— It should be pickled as above, then boiled three hours. When done, beat it, and cut out the pack, wax, and grisle. Trim the root; roll it round, with the top part of the tongue outside, and while hot place it in a tin mould about 7 inches in diameter, and 7 in height, and then press it by putting on the °top one or, if possible, 2 half-hundred weights; let it stand until it gets cold; then take it out of the mould. You will find it in a solid mass, and perfectly round, and is a beautiful dish to place on a sideboard for a wedding breakfast or evening party; it should be cut in slices off the top. HONEY-COMB TRIPE—THE BEST FOE BOILING. 275. TRIPE.—Take 61bs. of tripe—the thick is the best—boil it gently in milk for two hours. In the meantime, peel a dozen large onions, and boil them in water gently until they are done thoroughly. Add a lit¬ tle thickening—flour and water mixed thin —into the tripe saucepan; then serve in a soup tureen, with the onions on the top, being careful not to mash the onions• send a little nice melted butter (see 207) in a 70 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: butter-boat, and some nice mealy potatoes steamed (see 201). THIN TEIPB—THB DEBT FOE FETING. 276. TO FRY TRIPE, cut it into squares of about three inches. Make a nice batter of (see 205); dip the pieces in, and then fry them in boiling fat (see 198). Peel twelve large onions, and boil them gently for an hour; then strain the water from them ; dip them in the batter and fry them (see 184) ; then place a bit of tripe and onion alter¬ nately round the dish, the tripe resting on the onions; serve perfectly plain, or with a little fried parsley, which some people like. cow-heel. 277. COW HEEL or OX FEET may be dressed precisely the same as tripe, viz.: —Boiled, and served with onions and melted butter, or Fried in boiling fat, as for fried tripe. But the more common way is to boil it plain, and serve it with a sauce made thus : a little melted butter (see 199), two tablespoonfuls of mushroom catsup, one ditto of Harvey or Reading sauce, and a little mixed pickle, cut into small squares, which sauce must be poured over the foot in the dish. 278. BEEF SKIRTS.—This is very nice broiled on a gridiron, being full of gravy, and very nutritious. But the best and most economical way to cook it is to stew it first; brown it in a frying-pan; then stew it as directed for the sirloin (see 183), and serve with stewed onions (see 184). The skirt likewise makes a good pudding, with a little kidney, an oyster or two, &c. &c. (see 202). 279. OX CHEEK.—The only way that the ox cheek ought to be cooked is to make it into soups, or to pot it. To make ox cheek soup, it should be boiled in enough water to cover it for two hours and a-half. Take it out and take all the meat off; cut it into squares, not too small. Having in the meantime prepared a nice soup, as directed for ox tail (see 179) ; then add the square pieces of meat, and serve. Put the bones, the remains of the meat, and the liquor it was boiled in into the stock-pot, being of more service there than cooked in any other way. To pot the ox cheek, see the direc¬ tions given for the leg of mutton piece. 280. THE MARROW BONES.—Put a bit of paste, made with flour and water, over the end where the marrow is visible; tie a cloth tightly over them; take the paste off before the bones are sent to table; serve them on slices of dry toast; they require boiling two hours. 281. TO SALT BEEF.—Let the meat hang a couple of days in mild weather, and four or five in cold, before it is salted or pickled; rub the meat to be cured in fine salt,-then let it drain for a day, in order to free it from the blood; then immerse it in a brine, taking care that every part of it be covered; it may remain from one week to two, according to its size, or the degree of saltness required. The brine should be three gallons of spring-water to six pounds of salt. 282. BEEF A LA MODE.—Take slices from the chuck, leg of mutton piece, or the clod and sticking piece; four pounds will be sufficient to make a good sized dish; cut some pieces of fat bacon into long bits, an equal quantity of beaten mace, nutmeg, pepper, and twice as much salt. Mix them together, dip the bacon into some vinegar, then into the seasoning. Put the meat on in a pot quite large enough to hold it, with a pint of stock gravy, two large onions, a bunch of sweet herbs, a gill of port wine, A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 71 and some lemon peel. Cover it down very close, and put a wet cloth round the edge of the lid, to prevent the steam escaping. When it fe half done, turn it, and cover it up again. It should be done on a hot plate or a very slow fire, and will take from four to five hours to cook. When done, if there is not sufficient gravy, add a little stock gravy. Serve, with potatoes, and a nice mixed salad on table. 283. OX KIDNEYS.—From all the ex¬ perience I have had, I have come to the conclusion that an ox kidney is not worth the trouble of cooking in any other way than in a pudding, with some good rump steaks, and a dozen or two of oysters in it. I certainly have seen it cut into slices, anc broiled on a gridiron; but it must be so peppered, salted, and dressed up, that you would not discover that it is a kidney at all. It burns your mouth, and is savoury; but there is not the least nutrition in it what¬ ever; in fact, I would not recommend any one to try it. 284. REEF TEA. — Take about one pound of chuck of beef to a pint of water, let it stew gently by the side of the fire. Do not let it boil; add one teaspoonful of salt, the same quantity of whole allspice and pepper. The meat must be fresh. In making all broths, the saucepan should be if such a size as to let the meat swim freely. It should be put into cold water. 285. BEEF SAUSAGES. — Take six poundsofbeef quitefreefrom skin, gristle, and fat; chop it very fine. Three pounds of fat dired very fine; season it with two ounces )f white pepper, a quarter-of-a-pound of salt, half quartern of the crumb of bread soaked in water; mix well together, put it nto skins well cleaned, or press it into a ar. When to be used, roll it up about the lsual size of sausages. A little allspice is a ^reat improvement. Having gone through as near as I can make out every joint and part of beef, and lescribed the modes of cooking them econo- nically—not expensively, for that was lot my intention, as I proposed to myself o give common and economical receipts >nly—I will now state what I consider -o be 286. THE ESSENTIAL QUALITIES )F A GOOD PLAIN COOK.—To be leanly in person is absolutely indispen¬ sable at least it would if you were to cook for me. Keep all your utensils perfectly clean. Regulate your fire according to the joints you may be going to cook during the day. Recollect if you get your fire too small your meat will not be done; and if it is too large you are wasting the coals and spoiling the joint. & Always in the morning get a bill of fare written cut of all you may be going to cook in the day, not forgetting the sauces and vegetables, all in the order they have to be served. Never do anything by guess-work. Mind that your plates and dishes are quite hot, your sauces not lumpy, or your gravies curdled. Never let your meat stand and burn before the fire. In fact, with cleanliness, attention, and good temper, your husband or employer will never have occasion to say the Almighty sends meat, and the-sends cooks. 287. SADDLE OF MUTTON. —To dress this favourite joint follow the instruc¬ tions laid down for the sirloin of beef (see 180). Serve it perfectly plain. There should be currant jelly on table. 288. TO CARVE THE SADDLE OF MUTTON.—Cut from A to B—keep your knife sloping—not too thick. This is the prime cut. If it is required lean, cut from C to D; if fat is required, cut from D to B. The fillet, which some prefer, is to be found underneath, cutting along the chine bone. Do not cut this joint too thin. 289. HAM.—For a ham weighing twelve pounds, boil it a quarter-of-an-hour to the x>und, keeping it well covered with water. Peel the rind off, and powder over it some 72 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: baker’s dressings, and a frill on the knuckle¬ bone and serve. 290. CALVE’S HEAD. —To scald a calve’s head it will be necessary in the first place to purchase a pennyworth of rosin. Pound it up quite small; then after well washing the head in warm water, rub the rosin all over the outside until the hair is completely clotted together; then put from six to eight gallons of boiling water into a tub and immerse the head, letting it remain from eight to ten minutes, when you will find that the hair will strip oft', which may be done with the back of a knife or scraper; after you have taken all the hair off it should be washed perfectly clean in cold water; cut it in two with a meat saw; take the tongue and brains out, and lay to soak in a tub or pan of cold water. calye’s head. 291. TO BOIL CALVE’S HEAD.— Tie it up in a cloth, and boil it for two-and- a-half hours in plenty of water. Tie the brains in a bit of cloth, with a little parsley and a leaf or two of sage. Boil them one hour; chop them small; warm them up in a saucepan, with a bit of butter and a little pepper and salt; lay the tongue, boiled the same time, peeled, m the middle of a small dish; place the brains round it; have in another dish bacon or pickled pork. 292. TO HASH CALVE’S HEAD.— Cut it into slices, flour it, and put it into a stew-pan, with some of the liquor the head was boiled in the day before, a little beaten mace, some salt, a few artichoke bottoms, parboiled, half-a-dozen oysters, a little flour to thicken it, an egg beat up in half-a-pint of milk ; stir all together, and see that you ha/e got it to its proper consistency; and just before it is taken up put in some pickled mushrooms; if they are put in be¬ fore they are apt to turn the milk; then serve in a liasli-dish. 293. TO STEW CALVE’S HEAD.— Bone it, and take out the eyes; make a forcemeat with lib. of beef suet, and the same quantity of veal, two anchovies boned and washed clean, a nutmeg grated, a little thyme and the peel of a lemon; chop all these together, with some stale bread grated. Beat up the yolk of two eggs, and mix with them. Make part of this force¬ meat into balls, then boil four eggs hard, two dozen oysters, and a dozen fresh button mushrooms, if they are to be got; mix these with the rest of the forcemeat, and stuff the head from where the bones were taken. Tie it up in a cloth; put it into three quarts of stock gravy, with a blade or two of mace; keep it close covered, and let it stew very gently for two hours; while the head is stewing, chop up the brains with some lemon thyme, parsley, and some grated nutmeg; mix it altogether with the yolk of an egg, as directed for the forcemeat; make them into balls, and fry them and the forcemeat balls in boiling fat ( see 198). When the head is done, keep it hot, with brain-cakes and forcemeat balls, before the fire; strain off the liquor the head was stewed in, add a little sherry, make it quite hot in a saucepan. Put the head in a hot dish, pour the sauce over it; lay the balls and the brain-cakes round it. 294. TO ROAST CALVE’S HEAD.— After having well washed it, take out the bones, and dry it well with a cloth; make a seasoning of beaten mace, pepper, salt, nutmeg, and cloves, and some grated bread; put this inside it where the bones came from; roll it up, run two or three skewers through it, and tie it round with tape. Roast it two hours; baste it with butter ; make a nice sauce, thus—take a quart of stock gravy, thicken it with flour, and a dozen oysters, and a little bit of butter; cut the tape off, take out the skewers, place the head on a warm dish, and pour the gravy over it, with a slice or two of lemon on the head, and a little fried parsley. To fry parsley, wring it quite dry, picking the finest pieces you can get, put it into boiling fat, and let it fry until quite crisp (see 198.) 295. A ROASTING PIG. —A pig weighing from eight to ten pounds should be roasted for two hours; it should be stuffed, and the stuffing should be sewn in the inside, and should be made thus:—Take A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 73 three good-sized onions, and a leaf or two of gage, and a little bread crumb; chop them all very fine and put it inside the pig. When done, cut the pig down the back, having previously taken the head off and cut it in two. In the meantime take a quart of stock gravy and season it with salt and pepper, add a little flour to thicken, and pour it over the pig in the dish. When cold it may be hashed in the gravy that is left. BOASTING PIG. 296. TO CARVE A ROAST PIG.—Cut the side of the pig in two from D to E ; then place the fork in at B; then cut from C to A, and round underneath the fore leg to C again, thereby taking the shoulder off. To take off the hind leg, follow the direc¬ tion for the fore leg; then cut the remain¬ der of the pig as directed for the first cut, with at least two spoonsfull of gravy on each plate. 297. HARE OR LEVERET.—In the the choice of hares, both the age and the freshness are to be considered. If the claws arc blunt and rugged, the ears dry and tough, it is old; if, on the contrary, the claws are smooth and sharp, the ears tear easily, it is young. If fresh and newly killed the body will be stiff and flesh pale. A hare is never bad till it smells. To know a leveret from a hare, in the former there should be a knob or small bone near the foot on its fore leg. BOAST IIARE. 298. TO CARVE A HARE.—First take off* the legs; then cut the back in two at D, A, and C. Some prefer to cut it along the chine bone, as dotted in the engraving, but I think the best way is as I have directed; then take off the shoulders, and split the head in two; to hold it firmly stick the fork into the eye, when the opera¬ tion will be more easily accomplished. Serve ample gravy on each plate. 299. TO ROAST A HARE.—Stuff it with a stuffing made thus :—Bread crumbs, suet, the liver parboiled, pepper, salt, grated lemon peel, parsley, lemon thyme, nutmeg, and the yolk of two eggs, all chopped and mixed together. Put it inside the hare and skewer it up; boil the hare for an hour, then take it up and roast it for an hour, thereby gettiug it thoroughly done without its being"burnt to a cinder. Make a gravy by taking one pint of stock gravy, a little flour to thicken it, a tablespoonful of mush¬ room catsup, half a gill of port wine, two teaspoonsful of currant jelly, a little pepper and salt, and a bit of butter; pour it into the dish with the hare. It may be hashed in the same gravy ; mind and do not let it boil or it will go all to rags. 300. TO JUG A HARE.—Cut it up, and put it in an earthern pipkin, with one quart of stock gravy, a large onion stuck with cloves, pepper, and salt, and a slice of lemon; cover it close; set it into a kettle of boiling water, which keep boiling three hours, until the hare is tender; then pour the gravy into a saucepan; put into it a glass of port wine and a little more stock gravy, if there is not sufficient; a little cayenne, and thicken with flour; boil it up, and pour it over the hare. 301. TO POT HARE.—Let it hang some days; cut it into pieces; bake it with a little beer at the bottom of the pan, some butter at the top; pick the bones and sinews from it; having strained it from the gravy, beat it in a mortar with the butter from" the top of the gravy, adding enough to make it very mellow; salt, pepper, and pounded cloves. Put it into pots; set it in a slack oven for a few minutes, and pour over it clarified butter; let it stand to cool, then tie it down with paper, and it will keep for a long time. 302. THE BRACKLY PUDDING.— Half-a-pound of suet chopped fine, and a quarter-of-a-pound of raisins, stoned and chopped, two eggs bef.fc up, a little nutmeg 74 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: and ginger, two spoonfuls of 11 out, a little sugar to the taste; tie it up tightly in a pudding-cloth; serve it with sweet sauce (see 208). Mary Bodkin. 303. THINGS IN SEASON IN FEB¬ RUARY.— Meat.— House Lamb, Pork, Beef, Mutton, and veal. Poultry and Game.— Hares, Phea¬ sants, Partridges, Woodcocks, Snipes, Tur¬ keys, Widgeons, Fowls, and Tame Rab¬ bits. Fish. — Cod, Soles, Turbot, Skate, Whiting, Smelt, Tench, Carp, Perch, Eels, Plaice, Gurnetts, and Oysters. Vegetables. — Savoys, Sprouts, Bro- coli, Spinach, Carrots, Parsnips, Turnips, Celery, Endive, Onions, Potatoes, and Parsley. Fruits. —Apples and Pears. 304. COOKERY OF THE “ OLDEN TIME.”—I have by me, in a manuscript book (which was highly prized by my grandmother), a number of Receipts for various relishable dishes, which I think are not generally known at the present time, and which may set some good housewives on the alert, to please their guests and humour their husbands. Some of these receipts are curious as illustrations of culi nary history. I will transcribe a few of them now, in just the language in which they are written in my late grandmother’s note-book, and will send you some others at a future time.— J. G. Galbraith. 305. A Braise for all Sorts op Butcher’s Meat.— Take a kettle, and line the bottom with slices of bacon, slices of beef, and slices of onions; then put in it your meat, and season it with salt, pepper, onions, carrots, sweet basil, thyme, and bay-leaves; lay over it more slices of beef and bacon; then cover it, and let it be done with lire under and over, l'ou may, in this sort of braise, dress ribs of beef, mutton- saddles, and loins of mutton, buttocks of beef, or any other sort of coarse meat, which is put in a braise. 306. A White Braise. —Take a kettle, and line it with slices of bacon, slices of veal and some onions cut in slices; you may put in some turkevs or pullets, and all sorts of white meat; season it with salt, pepper, sweet basil, thyme, bay-leaves, and garlic, and then boil your meat. This braise may servo for all sort9 of rolled meat. [These appear to me to afford the foundation of very savory gravies, &c.] J. G. 307. Calf’s Liver in Braise.— Take a calf s liver, lard it with thick bacon, and put it to be done in braise; this done, take it off, and let it drain; dishit up, putting a minced sauce over it, or a ragout made of sweet-breads of veal and mushrooms, and serve it up hot for entry. 308. Another Calf’s Liver, the Lyon’s Way.— Take a calf’s liver, cut into very thin small slices and put it in a stew-pan, or fry • ing-pan, with a bit of butter and green onions cut small; put it over a quick fire, and season it with pepper and salt; let it have a good taste, putting in it a dash of vinegar, and strewing over it a dust of flour; then moisten it with a little gravy; dish it up, and serve it up hot. 309. Chickens, the Citizen’s Way.— Take chickens, pick, draw, singe, and dress them; take an earthern pot, put water in it enough to cover them, and put it on the fire with a handful of salt; when the water boils, put your chickens in it; do not boil them too much, and put a bit of butter in a stew-pan, with a pinch of flour, some nutmeg, pepper, salt, and oysters, if in season ; put your stew-pan on the fire, and thicken your sauce; which being thickened aaid well tasted, dress your chickens in their dish, and your oysters over them. 310. Another time, take a pinch of chopped parsley, the green of a few young onions, a little mint, and terragon, if you have it; if you have nothing but parsley, still make your sauce; put a couple of anchovies hashed in it; cut half a lemon in little dice, squeeze the other half in¬ to the sauce; add a bit of butter, a pinch of flour salt, pepper, and a little water, and let your sauce boil; your chickens being enough, serve them with your sauce over. 311. Another time, put some endive with your chickens ; when they are enough, give them three or four cuts with your knife; put them in a stew-pan, with a bit of butter, a pinch of flour; put them on the fire, and wet them in the gravy your chickens are done in. If it is not thick enough, you may put a thick¬ ening of yolks of eggs. 312. Another time, boil them with onions, and put them in a stew-pan with a bit of butter, kneaded in flour, salt, and pepper; put them on the fire, with a little of the broth that the chickens are done in; thicken it with a thickening of yolks of eggs, and serve it hot for a first course. 313. Sheeps* Tongues in Papers. —Take boiled sheeps’ tongues, that are good and palatable; slit them in two, and make a little force meat with a bit of veal, blanched bacon, and a bit of beef suet; season these with parsley green onions, mushrooms, sweet herbs, fine spice pepper, and salt, and mince all well together. Then cut some paper big enough to wrap in your tongues; take off your force meat, and put some into your paper; put in it a tongue, and after that your force meat over the tongue, as you have done under it, and wrap it upas dexter¬ ously as you can; do the same with all your other tongues; place therii in a baking pan, and let them be baked in the oven, or under a cover; being baked, dish them up, and serve them up hot. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 75 314. Double Tripes of Reef, tiie Polish Way.— Take some tripes, let them be well boiled, and very white and clean; put in a stew-pan a lump of pood butter, green onions, and parsley cut small, pepper, salt, sweet herbs, and fine spice ;put in your tripes in pieces, the bigness of a hand; put them over a stove, and let them stew softly, to have a taste; then strew them with crumbs of bread ; broil them on both sides, let them have a good colour; dish them up put brown melted butter over them, with a lemon juice, and serve it up hot. 315. Young Rabbits Rolled. —Your rabbits being skinned and boned, as those before, cut some bacon and ham in slices, and lay your rabbits on a table, with your slices one after another over them, viz., a slice of bacon between each slice of ham; season them with salt, pepper, sweet herbs, spice, parsley, and chibbol; roll your rabbits, warp them up in a boulting-cloth, tie both ends with a packthread, and let them be done in a braise. Being ready, take them out to drain ; dish them up with some of the braise for sauce. 316. Pigeons in Surprise, in large Onions.— Take yonngpigeons, blanch them well in hot water; take largo onions well blanched, and take out the hearts of them, so that the pigeons may have room in them; there must be two onions to one pigeon, the body being cut in two; garnish your stew-pan with slices of bacon; then order in it your onions, together with your pigeons, and season them with pepper, salt, cloves, and sweet herbs; lay slices of bacon and veal over them; moisten them with a ladle of good broth, or braise, and set them a stewing. Take care they be not too much done; when they are done,'take them off, and let them drain upon a clean napkin, so that the gravy may come out, and wipe them dry with a linen cloth ; being ready to serve up, order them in your dish, and put a little braise over them, well relished. 317. Eggs Fried like Tripes—B oil two d zen of eggs very hard; put them in cold water, peel them, and cut them in slices; put a stew-pan with a little butter on the fire, with an onion hashed very small, and, when your onion lias fried two or‘three turns, put your eegs cut in pieces in it; wet them with a little milk, and season them with pepper and hashed parsley; mind they be of a good taste, and serve them hot for a by-dish. 318. Artificial Eggs.—T ake a quart of milk, and boil it in a pipkin, or stew-pan, stir¬ ring it a little while with a wooden spoon, till it is boiled away to half; take a third part of it in a dish, and put it again on the fire with rice, cream, and a little saffron; being thickened, and a little hard, make, as it were, yolks of eggs with them ; keep them lukewarm, and fill some egg¬ shells, well washed with the rest of your milk; when you are ready to serve, put the yolks you have made in those eggs, and cover them with a little cream, but rather almond-cream. Serve them on a napkin. These are called artificial soft eggs in the shell. [Or serve in custard glasses r) 319. Eggs with Bacon.—H ave some melted bacon, then get streaked bacon and cut it in as small dice as you can, and enough, that there may be some for all your eggs; your small dice being made, put them on the fire in a stew-pan to melt part of their fat away; then put melted bacon, about a small ladle, in a stew-pan, with about a dozen of your small dice, stoop your stew-pan on one side and break one egg into it, keeping it as round as you can. The small dice will, if you take care, stick to the egg; mind also, that the yolk be not hard. Poach all the eggs you dress, one after another, the same way. If you have small dice left, put them in a stew-pan with a little cullis and gravy; if you have none left, out some, and dress them as the former. Your small dice being fried, and having a good relish, put a lemon-juice to them, dress your eggs in their dish, put your dice above them, and serve them hot. 320. FISH STEW A LA KATHERINE. —Take three or four haddocks, soles, or plaice; salt the fish very slightly ; cut it in pieces, and then as follows prepare force¬ meat :—Take a little of the raw fish, a little liver, some parsley, a good quantity of bread crumbs, allspice, and mix with an egg into balls. Have ready now \ stew-pan, in which you have previously to making your force¬ meat put a large or small onion (according to your quantity of fish), cut in rings, a little parsley, a bit of butter as big as a chestnut, a quarter-of-a-pint of water; add cayenne and mace, each a pinch, ground ginger as much as would lie on a half-crown piece. When this has simmered a quarter- of-an-hour, and your forcemeat is ready, put in your fish, and lay the forcemeat balls on it. Stew gently l.alf-an-hour; have the yolk of an egg well beaten ; add to it the juice of four lemons ; beat together well; add thereto a little of the boiling liquor of your fish to prevent curdling, and add this to the fish. One boil up more, and it is ready. Good, cold or hot. 321. MOCK BRAWN.—Boil a pair of neats feet very tender; take off the meat, and have ready the belly piece of pork, salted with common salt and saltpetre for a week. Boil this almost enough ; take out all the bones, and roll the feet and the pork together; then roll it very light, with a strong cloth and coarse tape. Boil it till very tender; then hang it up in the cloth till cold, after which keep it in a sousing liquor as below.—N.B. You can season to your taste with pepper and mace, adding little chopped parsley.—E. M. 76 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 322. SOUSE FOR BRAWN, AND FOR PIGS’ FEET AND EARS.—Boil a quarter of a peck of wheat-bran, a sprig of bay, and a sprig of rosemary in two gallons of water, with four ounces of salt for lialf-an-hour, strain and let it get cold.—E. M. 323. PHENOMENA OF FEBRUARY. —There are not in nature any of those artifi¬ cial divisions and distinctions which men for their convenience have established. Though we speak of day and night, of winter and summer, of spring and autumn ; and though we may contrast the features of these periods, yet there is no point of time at which we" observe a natural division or line of demarcation between them. The day¬ light fades into twilight, and darkness spreads her cloak so stealthily, that we can¬ not say when she began “ to hang her spangled mantle o’er our heads.” 324. The light robes of spring slowly assume the gaudier hues of summer; sum¬ mer insensibly fades into autumn; autumn unobserved is transformed into winter; while from out the snows of winter peep spring flowers again. In like manner w'e do not find that Nature is guided by the alma¬ nack in those changes of weather which are associated with particular months. If dur¬ ing a long course of time it was found that in January we had frost and snow; in February a thaw; in March wind: and in April that we were favoured with warm showers—we should naturally think of snow as the characteristic of January; of thaw as associated with February; of wind as connected with March; and we should ex¬ pect a repetition of showers and sunshine in April. But there are no days on which the changes from frost to thaw, from stillness to wind, from settled to changeable weather, can be expected to occur. The beginning of each month usually resembles, in its terres¬ trial phenomena, its predecessor. We generally experience a continuance of January weather at the beginning of Feburary, while at the end we are rejoiced to note the symptoms of approaching spring. At the beginning we have frost and snow, then comes a thaw, and this is commonly followed by the “ piping strains of March,” which begin to blow ere yet February has expired. The commencement of the month is wintry,; but towards its close the crocus, and snowdrop, and the sallow, show their flowers; the ringdove begins to coo, and the ants venture forth from their curious habitations; the new life of vegetation begins to be seen on warm sheltered banks. Hence the Saxons called February Sprout - Jcele , because the cabbage or kale then began to fill its buds. The woodlark and the thrush begin their songs, and “ the rooks commence their political arrangements for their cawing season;” the mole enlarges his hunting-grounds, and the field-crickets open their doors as if to invite the ap¬ proaching spring. 325. Yet, for the most part, February is a slow, dull time to those who do not possess such sources of pleasure in themselves as to be beyond the depressing influences of foggy air, sloppy paths, and dropping skies. The weather seems to have all the discom¬ forts of winter, without its compensatory advantages. The freshness of the frosty air, with its clear bright sky, no longer invigorates; a chilly mist hangs heavily in the atmosphere, and everything puts on a worn and melancholy aspect. The crisp snow has lost its brilliant whiteness, and has been changed by a thaw to a sloppy mass, as unpleasing to the eye as it is un¬ grateful to the feet. The walls of the house are covered with moisture like a heavy dew, and the cold seems more penetrating than it was when the thermometer was five or ten degrees lower. The birds sit discon¬ solate upon the trees, and even the robin is less cheerful than usual. From the leaves of the holly and the ivy, and from the twigs of the blackened trees, drops of icy water are pendent, and the moisture which falls from the leaves freezes as it splashes on the ground. 326. Some years ago a number of observa¬ tions were commenced, the object of which was to record the temperature—as indicated by Fahrenheit’s thermometer—at certain hours every day, with a view to ascertain in what degree the average or mean tem¬ perature of any given month might vary. From these observations it was discovered that there was little variation in the average heat or cold of any month, compared with itself through a long series of years. The mean temperature of February is 38 deg. Fahr., while that of January is scarcely 2 deg. lower. The average temperature varies A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 77 with position, and the observations to which allusion has been made, apply only to the neighbourhood in which they were made. This variation of temperature is regular with reference to position ; and the average temperature of any place having been as¬ certained during ten years, would be found to vary very little during the next ten aeais following. The climate of no two places can be said to be the same, even in the same latitude, but the weather has certain general characteristics in every place every year. There is, therefore, a regularity in what appears most irregular. 327. The sun’s heat is the chief cause of warmth on the earth’s surface, but there is a supply of heat also from the central matter of our planet. As, however, the sub¬ stance of the earth is an imperfect conductor, the warmth which is derived from the sun s rays penetrates nowhere above 100 feet, and that which is due to the central heat pro- duces little effect upon the crust of our planet. If we dig down about 60 feet from the surface of any part of the world we find the serata to possess the temperature of the average warmth of the climate of the coun¬ try above them ; if we dig deeper, however, we find the earth grow warmer as we descend, at the rate of about one degree of Fahrenheit’s thermometer for every fifty- four feet. The principal causes of the dif¬ ference in climate in countries appear to be —the amount of solar heat, elevation, posi¬ tion with reference to continents, or seas>, or mountains, aspect, direction of prevailing winds, geological peculiarities, and the state of cultivation. In winter, in the northern hemisphere, we receive fewer of the sun s ravs, and those during a more brief period than in summer. The rays of the sun fall¬ ing obliquely upon us, are, so to speak, spread over a larger space than in the tropics, where they fall perpendicularly. From this cause, and also from the length of the tropical day, the temperature there is always high. The heat derived from th c sun y therefore, decreases towards either pole. But the mean temperature, or general cli¬ mate of any place, is affected in a great de¬ gree by the other circumstances which hare been mentioned. For instance, since the high¬ er we ascend from the earth, the more rare the air becomes; and as, moreover, air so expanded requires more heat to warm it, so we shall find that the cold is greater the greater the elevation. Then it happens, that even in the torrid zone there are moun¬ tains capped with snow. In all parts of the world, there is a point of elevation where snow "would remain unmelted for ages. Places which are situated near large bodies of water, have a less variable temperature than those which are situated in the interior of continents; for in summer evaporation makes the sensible heat latent in the vapour of water, while in winter that vapour be¬ comes condensed, and gives out its latent heat to the air. Moreover, as described in a previous paper, when water is cooled it becomes specifically heavier, and exposes its warm particles to the atmosphere, till its whole mass is reduced to forty degrees, thus supplying a steady source of warmth. Earth, on the other "hand, rapidly absorbs leat, but transmits it very slowly ; and so we find that the heat of the sun accumula¬ ting in the crust of the earth is readily given off by radiation. Hence, places si¬ tuated in the interior of continents experi¬ ence great warmth in summer, and severe cold in winter. So remarkably are the dif¬ ferences of climate dependent upon situation that we find the mean winter temperature of Edinburgh is 28.5 deg. while that of Moscow is only 15 deg. though these places are both in the same latitude. In our own climate, the greatest heat is. not at mid¬ summer, nor the lowest at mid-winter; nor is noon the warmest part of the day, nor midnight the coldest portion of the night. This is because the warming influences, or the reverse, do not act immediately, but produce their effects according to the time they are in operation . The day is hottest about t\vo o’clock, and the coldest part of the night is that which occurs an hour be¬ fore sunrise. . 328. The aspect of any situation is well known to exercise a great influence upon its temperature, and the gardener makes use of his knowledge of this fact in placing his fruit-trees on the walls. That which is true of a garden wall applies upon an extended scale to the slope of a country or its aspect. Thus we find the climate at the same alti¬ tude on the two sides of the Alps of a strik¬ ingly different character—the one is shel¬ tered from the northern blasts and exposed to the sun, while the other has a compara- 78 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: tively small portion of the sun-rays, and is chilled, moreover,, by the cold winds from the north. 329. The lowest mean temperature is found in North America, in 100 deg. W. long., and in Siberia, in 95 E. long. These are known as “ poles of cold.” The average temperature of the former is—3 5 deg.Fahr., and of the latter, 1 deg. Fahr. 330. “ Snow like wool,” is not only correct as an ordinary metaphor, in which things alike in appearance are compared; snow resembles wool in its properties as a non-conductor of heat; and, indeed, nothing could be so well adapted to protect the eartli ‘‘as with a garment” during'severe cold, and yet so wisely contrived to pass away, and by its melting to fertilise the earth as soon as a warmer atmosphere is spread over the fields. It is recorded that “in Holland during the winter of 1776, the surface of the earth was frozen to the depth of twenty-one inches on a spot of garden ground kept free from snow, but only to nine inches on an adjacent spot, covered with lour inches of snow.” The Esqui¬ maux have discovered this quality of snow, and trake use of it for building houses; and “ when the lamps are lighted and the hut full of people and dogs, a thermometer placed on the net over the fire indicates a temperature of 38 deg.; when removed two or three feet from this situation it falls to 32 deg., the temperature of the open air at the time being 25 deg. below zero. 331. In the Arctic regions what is called " red snow” is sometimes found, and excites some alarm among the superstitious. It appears to be common snow coloured by oxide of iron, in a state of extremely mi¬ nute division, and a vegetable principle, belonging to some lichen of a resinous character, and of an orange-red tint. The colouring matter is stated to penetrate to various depths, and is found to consist of exceedingly minute globules when examined under the microscope. 332. While snow is lying on the ground an interesting experiment may be performed, showing the different powers of colours to reflect or absorb heat. Procure some small pieces of kerseymere cloth, of equal fineness and size, seven of them having the prisma¬ tic colours, and of the others one black and the other white. Lay them in the sun¬ shine an inch apart upon snow, and leave them in that position for a short time; then observe how much the snow has melted beneath each piece of cloth, and how deeply each slip has sunk below the level of the surface. The black will be found to be the deepest, and the others in the following order:—violet, indigo, blue, green, red, orange, yellow; the snow beneath the white cloth will be unaffected. By the aid of the information derivable from this experiment, we may answer the practical question—what colour is best adapted for clothing at particular times of the year, since it is evident that warmth or coolness depends not only upon the material of which our vestments are composed, but also upon their colour. In sunny weather, when it is desired to keep the body cool, white clothing is to be preferred, because it reflects heat; while in w>inter, when all external heat is to be absorbed and not reflected, the darker colours are to be chosen. Sensation long ago taught our ancestors these facts. Before passing from this digression, let it be understood that the rule which applies to inorganic or dead substances, does not hold good in the case of the skin of the living negro, or the black coating which lines the back of the chamber of the eye; since it is found that the scorching power of the sun when received by living black surfaces is destroyed. 333. But why should snow be white ? some may ask. If black and the darker colours of the solar spectrum be the warmest clothing, why was not that colour chosen for the covering of the earth in winter? The question is a natural one, but the answer is easily given. If snow had been black, it would have rapidly absorbed the sun’s rays, and would have thawed beneath the first sunshine which fell upon it; the result would have been that the vegetation, pre¬ maturely deprived of that protection which was intended to guard against the cold, would have died in the frosty air as soon as the sun had set. Moreover, we find that all living things perish under sudden alternations of temperature, though, if the change be made gradually, they can survive in curious extremes of heat and cold. We observe that a frost in spring, or in early autumn, generally does more damage to vegetation, than the prolonged frosts and A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 79 excessive cold of winter , because the sun s rays act quickly upon the unprotected frozen plants, and by a sudden alteration in their warmth, induce a change incon¬ sistent with their vitality. Hence, garden¬ ers who understand the philosophy of their employment, take as much care to protect the objects of their attention from the sun’s heat as from the frost’s cold. The white, heat-reflecting, and non-conducting snow, is the best protection against sudden al¬ ternations of heat or cold, for while it is melting its temperature never varies from 32 degrees—and the vegetables which are enveloped in it rarely suffer a much lower, and cannot be exposed to a higher tempe¬ rature. 334. Hoar-frost gives great beauty to the scenery of the winter months, and should therefore be noticed here. If a quantity of common alum or sugar be dissolved in hot water in a glass or porcelain vessel, and a number of strings or thin rough sticks be suspended in the liquid while cooling, it will be found that crystals of sugar or alum will be deposited upon the strings or sticks, before the smooth sides of the \ essel show any marks of crystalline formations. . this readiness, if we may call it so, of bodies as¬ suming the crystalline form, to adhere to rough and porous substances in preference to such as are polished or compact, is ob- servab e in the crystallization of watery vapour, which we know as hoar-frost. 1 he tuft of hair scraped from the cow on the iron railing, is covered with white fringes of frost-work, while the smooth metal has not a trace of crystalline deposit. The curled dead leaves, or the crumpled straws upon the pavement, have their edges adorned with white embroidery, while the surface on which they lie is unmarked by anything of the kind. When there is a very large quantity of moisture in the air, these diffeiences do not appear so clearly, and the hoar-frost deposits its “ rime ” upon all surfaces, though most thickly' upon the rough and porous. 335. The beautiful and fantastic forms which dim the window-pane are also crys¬ tals of water. The perspiration from the skin and lungs of the inmates of a room, is condensed upon the glass which has given out a portion of its heat to the external air, and in turn withdraws a portion of the caloric from the watery vapour, with which its internal surface is in contact. The vapour having lost that portion of its latent heat which was necessary to its existence in the gaseous form, resumes the fluid shape, and is deposited as dew upon the window- pane, where its temperature being still further reduced, it becomes solid, and gives to the eye the beautiful crystalline arrange¬ ment with which all of us are familiar. Amidst all the wonderful changes, the water remains unchanged in its composition. To its various changes, and to the my'riad pro¬ cesses to which it is necessary, are due, in a great degree, those natural phenomena which make the planet we inhabit so full of exquisite beauty. 336. FORTUNE IN THE FIRE. “Sweet Norah, come here, and look into the fire; Perhaps in its embers good luck we may see: But don’t come too near, or your glances so burning, Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree! Just look ’twixt the bars where the black sod is smoking; There’s a sweet little valley with rivers and trees, And a house on the bank quite as big as the squire’s— Who knows but some day we’ll have some¬ thing like these? And now there’s a coach with four galloping horses, A coachman to drive, anda footman behind;— That shows that some day we will keep a line carriage, And fly through the streets with the speed of the wind.” As Dermot was speaking, the rain-drops came Down tfirough the wide chimney: the Are went out; While mansion, and river, and horses, and car¬ riage, All vanished in smoke-wreaths that whirled about. Then Norah to Dermot this speech softly whispered— “ Twere better to do , than to idly desire: And one little hut by the roadside is bettei Than a palace, with servants and coach—in the fire!” [The editor of The Comer Cupboard, in 1857, offered a prize of Ten Guineas for the best musical composition, adapted to the words of the above ballad. The prize was duly awarded for a charming melody, which has been pub¬ lished under the title of “ Sweet Norah,” price 2s, 6d., with a beautifully illustrated title-page. It" may be obtained by order of any music- seller.] BASKET OF ALUM CRYSTALS. 337. ALUM CRYSTAL BASKETS.— These baskets are easily made, and form very pretty and durable ornaments. More¬ over, the materials are inexpensive; alum being sold at oil shops and druggists, at ^om 2d. to 4d. per pound. The baskets */re made in the following manner:—Dis¬ solve clean alum in about double the quan¬ tity of water which will be required to perfectly cover the basket or baskets you intend to make. Put in as much alum as the water will take up, until you see that it will dissolve no more. Then pour this strong solution into an earthern jar, or pipkin, and let it boil slowly, until the quantity is reduced to one-half. This solution may then be strained through fine muslin. This process is not absolutely necessary, but it improves the brightness and clearness of the crystals deposited upon the basket. After straining, having rinced out the jar or pipkin, return the solution to it, and again heat it to the boiling point. While this solution is being made, and heated in the manner already described, make the framework of your basket. It may be made of wire, or of small willow twigs, or chips, or any other substance, and may be of any shape or design to suit your purpose. But you must take care that the work is vety open , otherwise, the thick deposit of crystals will fill up the inter¬ spaces, and destroy the pattern. (Our meaning in this respect will be sufficiently illustrated by reference to the engraving.) Every part of this framework must be covered with fine worsted, or coarse thread, which is to form a rough surface for the alum crystals to adhere to; and upon the evenness and care with which this covering is laid on, will depend the uniformity of the deposits of the crystals. The basket frame is then to be set in the olution, suspended by a string attached to a piece of wood laid across the mouth of the vessel. The frame must be completely im¬ mersed, and the jar must be set aside in a A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 81 BASKET OF CLOVES AND BEADS. place where it will not be disturbed; and as it cools, the crystals will become deposited upon the basket. In spite of the best endeavours, the crystals will sometimes deposit themselves irregularly. In this case it is only necessary to dissolve the alum upon the basket, as in the first solution; remedy any defects in the worsted, or thread wrapping, and pro¬ ceed as before. Beautiful baskets of blue crystals may be made by using the sulphate of copper (blue vitriol, 8d. per pound) instead of alum. White crystals are produced by pure alum; yellow by adding a solution of saf¬ fron ; red, by cochineal, or red sanders wood; purple, by log-wood, &c. 338. Gkottps of Flowers, made upon suitable frames, and variously coloured as above, form very pretty chimney ornaments. Care should be taken not to spill the solution upon wearing apparel or furniture. 339. CLOVE AXD BEAD BASKETS. —These form very pretty ornaments, are easily made, and are inexpensive. As well as being very neat, they emit an agreeable odour, which they yield for a very long time. Take whole cloves (which are sold at threepence per ounce), pick out the finest of them, and put them to soak a tew hours before you require them, either in hot water, weak brandy and water, or brandy alone. Our own experience tells us that the use of brandy is not positively necessary, though some persons prefer to use it 82 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: Obtain white, amber, blue, green, and silver and gilt beads to fancy. Take twelve pieces of fine wire, each about six inches in length. Run these wires through beads, to form a centre at the bottom of the basket. Lay them so that they cross each other, four wires passing each way. With a fine shoemaker’s awl (called a " closing awl ”) or with a large needle, with a cork fixed at the eye-end to protect the hand, perforate each clove, and string them on the wires, passing two wires through each clove. When you have put two cloves on to each double wire, put on a bead, of any colour to fancy; then a single clove on a single wire, as it passes out from the bead; then pass each wire through a bead, with the wire coming up on the left or the right hand side next to it; then another clove at the end, and having put a bead on at the end, unite the two wires by twisting a little loop in the wires, so that they shall fasten as what is called hook-and-eye . The smaller these fastenings are, the neater the basket will be; and for the purpose of cutting and turning the wires, it will be found convenient to have a little cutting nippers, such as the watchmakers use, with a sharp point on one side, and a round one on the other. The bottom, or stand of the basket, is made in the same manner, with the excep¬ tion that only four wires are required. When the stand is made, it is attached to the basket in the same manner as the wires lire joined at the ends. These directions may not read very plainy, as the process of making clove baskets is very difficult to describe; but when you start from these instructions, the process is really so simple, that it will ex¬ plain itself as you proceed, and baskets in every variety of shape may be made. Re¬ ference to the engraving will be of material assistance in the commencement of the operations. - 340. DUTCH FOLK-LORE. 1. A baby laughing in its dreams is con¬ versing with the angels. 2. Rocking the cradle when the baby is not in it, is considered injurious to the infant, and a prognostic of its speedy death. 3. A strange dog following you is a sign of good luck. 4. A stork settling on a house is a har¬ binger of happiness. To kill such a bird would be sacrilege. 5. If you see a shooting-star, the wish you form before its disappearance will be fulfilled. 6. A person born with a caul is considered fortunate. 7. Four-leaved clover brings luck to the person who finds it unawares. 8. An overturned salt-cellar is a ship wrecked. If a person take salt and spill it on the table, it betokens a strife between him and the person next to whom it fell. To avert the omen, he must lift up the shed grains with a knife, and throw them behind his back. 9. After eating eggs in Holland, you must break the shells, or the witches would sail over in them to England. The English don’t know under what obligations they are to the Dutch for this custom. Please tell them. 10. If you make a present of a knife or scissors, the person receiving must pay something for it: otherwise the friendship between you would be cut otF. 11. A tingling ear denotes there is some¬ body speaking of you behind your back, if you hear the noise in the right one, he praises you; if on the left side, he is calling you a scoundrel, or something like that. But never mind; for if in the latter case you bite your little finger, the evil speaker’s tongue will be in the same predicament. By all means don’t spare your little finger! 12. If at dinner a person yet unmarried be placed inadvertently between a married couple, be sure he or she will get a partner within the year. It’s a pity it must be inadvertently. 13. If a person, when rising, throw down his chair, he is considered guilty of untruth. 14. A potatoe, begged or stolen, is a pre¬ servative against rheumatism. Chestnuts have the same efficacy. 15. The Nymphaoa, or water-lily, whose broad leaves and clear white or yellow cups float upon the water, was esteemed by the old Frisians to have a magical power. “ I remember, when a boy,” says Dr. Hal- bertsma, “ that we were extremely careful in plucking and handling them; for, if any one fell with such a flower in his possession, he became immediately subject to fits.” A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 83 16. One of my friends cut himself. A man servant being present, secured the knife hastily, anointed it with oil, and putting it into the drawer, besought the patient not to touch it for some clays. Whether the cut was effected by this sympa¬ thetic means, I can’t affirm; but cured it was : so don’t be alarmed. 17. If you feel on a sudden a shivering sensation in your back, there is somebody walkiug over your future grave.. 18. A person speaking by himself will die a violent death. 19. Don’t go under a ladder, for if you do you will be hanged. 341. “ THAT WILL DO.” “ That will do,” is a phrase of modern in¬ vention. The ancients knew of no such ex¬ pression, or the Egyptians would never have raised the pyramids, nor the Greeks and Romans displayed that love of the beautiful, which led them to impart a poetic grace even to the meanest utensils for household use, as the remains at Pompeii fully testify. “ That will do,” is the excuse of mediocrity, unable to soar to better things. “ That will do,” is the self dispensation given by the lazy painter, who glosses over the want of anatomical correctness by a showy colouring. “That will do,” is the besetting sin of archi¬ tects, who lay their shortcomings to the want of a favourable site or an Italian climate. “ That will do,” is the precept held in veneration by most servants. “That will do,” makes your sloven and your slattern. A man, who adopts this motto with regard to dress, does not mind being seen with a dirty shirt, and a beard of two days’ growth—while the same fatal device allows a woman to go about the house with curl-papers and slipshod. “That will do,” applied to household matters, is equally bad, and more annoying to friends, than w hen applied to dress. You may expect ill-cooked dinners in any house where the heads adopt this maxim—to say nothing of shabby carpets, want of paint, dirty muslin curtains, &c. “ That w T ill do,” has conjured up a host of inefficient teachers, and a still longer pro¬ portion of imperfect scholars. “ That will do,” has sunk many a ship- caused the downfall of scaffolding holding hundreds of human beings—occasions at least half the fires that take place, and is at the bottom of most railway disasters. “ That will do,” is the enemy to all excel¬ lence, and would sap the conscience of the most virtuous man alive, if he hearkened to its dictates. The only persons to whom we recommend it are drunkards, gamblers, and spendthrifts, who might very profitably occasionally exclaim : “ That will do !” But moralists and others must bear in mind, that nothing will “do” but the very best in point of virtue, or they will run risk, when the great day of reckoning shall come, that the recording angel will not say in their favour : “ That will do !” 342. FAMILY REGISTERS.—We are about to recommend to families the keeping of “family registers,” upon a plan not hitherto adopted, and we feel confident that the acceptance of this suggestion by our readers will afford them a great deal of gratification. In nearly every house there is a scrap¬ book of varieties, too frequently filled with unmeaning pictures, or absurdly sentimental poetry. Yet in many instances these scrap¬ books form the mementoes of by-gone days, of dear ones departed, or of friends far away. The Family Register which we are about to recommend would form a fai more pleasing and instructive remembrancer. Hitherto the family chronicles have chiefly been confined to the mere entry of the births, marriages, and deaths of one section of a family only, within the covers of a family Bible. Our plan is to keep a neat and suitable book, to be called “ The Family Register,” in which not merely the births, marriages, and deaths shall be entered, but every event of interest and im¬ portance in the history of the whole tamily connection, from great-great-grandfather down to cousins of the remotest kindred. Such a book would, when well filled up, become extremely interesting, and might be handed down as an heir-loom from one generation to another. We give an illustration of the kind of register we would have kept, and we sug¬ gest that there are very few families whose registers may be filled up, but their his¬ tories would supply some interesting event falling upon almost every day of the year. Pv R [SECOND MONTH. John Wilson, died, 1852, aged 72 years. He was the affectionate father of eight children, six of whom survive him—viz., John Wilson, Henry Edward Wilson, Mary Wilson (Mrs.Morris), Anna Maria Wilson, Alfred Wilson, and Emma Wilson (Mrs. Wills). Dead: Arthur Wilson and Charlotte Wilson. During his life-time he treasured the sentiments of the following lines, which he often repeated to his children :— “ Let not soft slumber close mine eyes, Ere I have recollected thrice The train of actions through the day. Where have my feet marked out their way What have I learnt where’er I’ve been, From ail I’ve heard, from all I’ve seen? What know I more, that’s worth the knowing? What have I done that’s worth the doing? What have I sought that I should shun ? What duties have I left undone? Or into what new follies run ? These self-inquiries are the road That lead to virtue and to God.” And lie died in the happy faith that he had found the road which he had so diligently sought. 11 . Alfeed Wilson sailed for Australia, 1852. Poor Alfred had been a wayward youth, and during his father’s lifetime had caused him much anxiety. But the death of his father affected Alfred so much, and brought such a stern lesson to his heart, that he became an altered man, and determined to repair his life and fortune in another land. Heaven prosper his Sood intentions ! His departure from among us was a day of sorrow, yet of hope. 12 . Maeia Wilson, married to Edward Morris, at St. Maik’s Church by the Rev. Mr. Price, 1856. Maria and Edward, after a happy courtship of throe years, became husband and wife. The day was beautifully fine, and Maria looked lovely. Edward was the picture of happiness. The wedding party returned from church to Henry Edward M ilson’s, where twenty guests sat down to an excellent breakfast, after which the wedded pair left for Paris. THE CORNER CUPBOARD. 85 In our opinion, such a page as thatwlrch we have given should form the left hand page of the family register, the right hand page being devoted to a fuller account ot^ the chief events recorded in the diary of the register on the left hand page. For instance, a more extended biography of Mr. John Wilson; upon this page, too, might be affixed a specimen of his handwriting, and his autograph—a letter that may have been written from him to his family, under some circumstances of joy or of sorrow. Has it never occurred to our readers that, one by one, our parents, our brothers and sisters, and our friends pass away, and that thev are too little remembered in the future of our lives. The French people and the Welch have certain days of the year in which they visit the graves of the deceased, and strew flowers over the places where they sleep. But the cold and ne¬ glected stone is, with us, too often all that remains to tell of the departed. The keeping of such Family Registers as wo have suggested would bring before the minds of the survivors of a family the events of deepest interest in their family s history—events that would point great lessons, and prepare the feet of the traveller, still journeying through life, to tread the thorny and difficult paths with greater comfort and security. We would have The Family Register in the manner of the scrap-book, inter¬ leaved with embossed and coloured papers ; where “memorial cards,” embossed with appropriate designs and inscriptions, and “ wedding cards,” locks of hair, autographs, invitations, &c., &c., may be preserved as a family souvenir; so that the cold head¬ stone over a grave should not be the only memento of those who have loved and la¬ boured for us in by-gone days. We have looked about to endeavour to find books suitable for this purpose, to aid our readers. The only ones, however, that we have been able to find, are Letts's Family Register (8, Cornhill,), which are books various sizes, bound in plain cloth, a ruled and arranged for the reception of family events. These admirably answer for all practical purposes. But our own idea is that something more characteristic of the “ Register” may ultimately be adopted; and that books interleaved with embossed papers, &c., such as we have recommended* will soon be published at a moderate price. 343. THE COBBLER OF THE VIL¬ LAGE.—It was a Sabbath morning. The silvery sounds of the “ church going ” beU were "re-echoed from many a village steeple summoning the neighbouring peasantry U the house of God. Groups of men, women, and children, might be seen wending their way towards the small and rustic, but picturesque church of Muhldorf, all dressed in holiday attire. The mothers and grandmothers of the vil¬ lage were decked in their wedding clothes, which, thanks to the good care with which they were guarded during the re¬ mainder of the week, looked almost as new as on their wedding day; although they had, to be sure, become somewhat anti¬ quated in appearance. Even in a secluded country village, fashion continues to exer¬ cise her sway. Her laws, it is true, may be less versatile than in the city, but they are not less despotic ; and the young girl —dressed in her black boddice trimmed with red; her short, full sleeves, and pretty straw hat—smiles as she looks at her mo¬ ther’s long waist, and her grandmother s ruffles; forgetting that her children will, in their turn, smile as they look upon her holi¬ day attire, some forty or fifty years to come. Each one of this varied group car¬ ried a hymn-book in their hands, and all seemed light-hearted and joyous; for to these good and simple-hearted villagers the Sabbath was a festive day; and they rejoiced as they went forth together to offer up their united prayers and praises to the Author and Giver of all good things. At the half-closed window' of a solitary and almost ruined cabin, w'hich lay not far from the high read, there stood an aged man, w'ho gazed sadly upon the scene before him. He followed with his eyes the church- going groups of peasants, until the last bad entered the house of prayer. Then the bell ceased, and he heard their united voices ascending in a song of praise. His eye rested for a moment on his tattered coat; and then, hastily dashing away a tear which trickled down his furrowed cheek, he turned towards his wife, who sat w'eeping bitterly, whilst her head rested upon the miserable board which served them for a table. 86 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: " Do not weep thus, dear Bertha,” said her husband, “or God will be displeased with us. He would have us bear our trials cheerfully, and He knows that it is not our fault if we have not accompanied the rest to His house to day. He knows that we could not go there in these rags, which scarcely cover us, and that when we could go, though the church was two leagues distant, we always walked there with pleasure. God sees the heart; He knows that ours are with Him—here, as well as in church. Therefore, my Bertha, do not weep any longer, but give me the prayer-book, and I will read a prayer, and then we will sing a hymn together.” Bertha rose, took from a shelf an old, half-torn prayer-book, and handed it to her husband. “ I will pray with you, gladly, my good Marcel,” she replied, “ but I cannot sing, indeed I cannot; my heart is too heavy. When I see ail these aged women passing by to church, with their children and grandchildren-” Marcel : “ And their wedding clothes on them to! it breaks thy heart, my poor Bertha, does it not ? Alas ! thine became thee so well, and it has been burned toge¬ ther with everything else we possessed. But, it was God’s will; and remember, that we might have been burned too, if He had not been pleased to preserve our lives.” Bertha : “ What good does that do us, if we are now to perish with hunger ? Would that I had died with my poor Geor¬ gette !” Marcel: “Bertha, Bertha, is it thus you love me ? What should I have now to comfort me, if my good wife had also been taken from me ?” Bertha (reaching out her hand to her husband) : “ You are in the right, Marcel ; forgive me. I feel as if I could bear any¬ thing, so long as thou art spared to me. But we have now scarcely bread enough left for a single day; and then, look at our clothes, how tattered they are.” Marcel : “ God and good men will pro¬ vide for us, my wife; to-morrow we can work. I have four pair of shoes there to mend, for which I shall certainly be paid two-pence a piece, and how thy wheel will turn! We have not yet been forced to beg, and that is what would grieve me most. It is a different thing to receive that which is freely offered to us; he who seeks out the poor has a good heart, and it is sweet to thank him. But to have to ask alms of those who will perhaps refuse them, this is hard, very hard. Oh ! I pray God that he will spare us this trial in our old age !” “ We may yet, however, be compelled to do it,” said Bertha, again bursting into tears; “we cannot be sure of anything in this world. Who would have thought at one time that our son would die in the hospital ?” Marcel : “ Who could have thought that he would have died before us ? That was the great misfortune; for as for this hospital, which weighs upon thy heart so much, a great many good, honest folk die there, and go to heaven, as well as if they died at home. Our children are in heaven now, we may be quite sure of that; God took them both whilst they were following the right path, and who knows, if they had lived longer, whether they might not have gone astray from Him ? Would not that have grieved thee more than restoring them to Him, who lent them to thee for a little season ? Now then, my Bertha, dry thv tears, and let us kneel down and pray together.” J Bertha sighed, and made no reply. The poor mother could not be comforted as sho thought on her two fine children, now no more, and on the sudden change in her circumstances, which had plunged her and her husband from a state of comfort into one of abject misery. Her husband felt the loss of his children and of his property as much as she did; but grief as¬ sumes a very opposite form in men and in women. Men seldom like to speak of their sorrows; whilst women seem to find relief in pouring out their hearts to a sympathis¬ ing friend. This was the case in the present instance; Marcel’s heart was, if possible even heavier than Bertha’s, but he made an effort to appear calm and resigned, and whenever his wife approached the mournful subject, he always tried to give a turn to the conversation. The trials they had been called to endure were bitter indeed. Their son Francis, a boy of much promise, had wished to follow the trade of a carpenter and as he seemed likely to become a skilful A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 87 artisan, bis father, who was then in comfort¬ able circumstances, apprenticed him to a tirst-rate master carpenter in a distant town. Under his instruction, the young man was making rapid progress, when he was suddenly seized with a contagious fever, and the master, fearing the infection for his family, sent Francis to the hospital, and shortly afterwards communicated to his afflicted parents the tidings of his death. It was this thought of his having died in an hospital, which weighed so heavily upon poor Bertha’s heart. She feared he might not have been properly cared for; and she felt that, had her beloved child died in her own arms, and been tended to the last by a mother’s love, she could have borne the trial better. But that which yet further added to her sorrow, was the fact, that she never was able to ascertain any particulars concerning his last moments. Marcel had written to the master carpenter under whose care he had placed his child; but the answer, though kind, was vague and unsatisfactory, and the poor old couple, living as they did in a sequestered village, some days’ journey from the town, knew of no other channel through which they might obtain the desired information. They had yet a daughter, who was now their chief earthly consolation—a blooming and dutiful maiden, about sixteen years of age—but a fresh blow awaited them in this quarter. Their house was struck by light¬ ning, and burnt to the ground, together with all it contained; and although their lives were spared at the time, yet the terror of that night gave their beloved child such a shock, that ere many days were over she sunk into the grave. Her broken-hearted parents, though well- nigh ruined, had still enough left to enable them to subsist; they would not attempt to rebuild their farm, not having any children to whom to bequeath it at their death; but they borrowed money on the land, and hired an humble lodging, where, for some time, they dwelt together in peace¬ ful saduess. At last, however, the terrible seven years’ war broke out; they were compelled to lodge soldiers and furnish contributions; their fields were trodden down, and their harvests destroyed; so that when the time came to pay the interest on the monies they had borrowed, they were unable to do so, and the little property they had inherited from their fathers was put up to auction and sold. They were now reduced to a state ol utter destitution; but some kind neighbours clubbed together, and, though poor them¬ selves, supplied them with a small sum of money, which sufficed to purchase the Isolated and almost uninhabitable cottage which they now occupied, which was situa¬ ted at the distance of about ten leagues from their native place. Bertha earned a scanty pittance by plying her spinning- wheel from morning till night, for the benefit of the neighbouring peasantry; whilst Marcel, too old now to dig the ground, sat cobbling shoes by his wife’s side. He was called the “ old cobbler of the cabin;" and he generally was supplied with as much work as he could do. The old couple in this way earned enough to supply them with the frugal fare they needed ; but they had as yet not been able to lay by a single penny for clothes, and their w^ell-saved garments were now rapidly falling into tatters. They were ashamed to show themselves in church, and dreaded the approaching cold of winter. ButMarcel strove to cheer and comfort his more desponding wife; reminding her that God fed the young ravens and clothed the birds of the fields, and that He could also provide for them when the right time came. On the Sabbath-day of which we now speak, the aged couple were, however, peculiarly sad, and long after the congrega¬ tion had dispersed, and the joyous family groups which had re-awakened in their breasts so many sad remembrances, had re¬ turned to their homes, Marcel still stood gazing out of the window, absorbed in his own reflections. In front of the cabin there rose a grassy knoll, crowded by some lofty walnut trees. A traveller was now reposing beneath their shade; he carried a knapsack on his back, and a staff* in his hand, Ilis shoes, covered with dust, indicated that he was a foot-traveller; but he was well clad, and seemed altogether to be a person well to do in the world. After he had rested for a few moments, he opened his knapsack, and drew from it a small w T hite loaf and some dried fruit, on which he made a hearty 88 THE CORNER CUPBOARD : repast. How gladly would poor Marcel, who had not tasted a morsel of food that day, have shared in this simple but abun¬ dant meal! The stranger next drew from his knapsack a piece of new stuff which he half opened, gazed upon with an air of satisfaction, and then restored it to its hiding-place; after which having looked at his watch, and cast a glance on the surround¬ ing country, he rose from his resting-place, and pursued his journey. “ How happy that man looked !” thought Marcel within himself; and as he stood thus thinking and gazing upon the shady knoll, the fancy seized him to go and rest there for an hour or two himself. He crossed the high road, and ascended the gentle slope which lay before him. As he did so, his attention was attracted by something white, which lay upon the spot where the traveller had reposed. He ap¬ proached, and lifting it from the ground, found it to be a piece of paper containing something heavy. On opening it, Marcel, to his surprise, discovered four double louis d’or, and, wrapped within a second fold, a large gold cross—such as women of the country wear suspended around their necks — attached to a slight gold chain. Never, even in the days of his prosperity, had Marcel seen so much gold collected at one time. He turn¬ ed it over and over in his hand, and then folded it up again carefully in the paper. He no longer felt any wish to sleep. He strained his eyes along the road by which the traveller had departed, but no traces of him could be discovered. He then turned towards his cabin; and seeing Bertha in the window, signed to her to come to him. In a moment she was by his side. “ What are you doing here ?” she ex¬ claimed. Marcel: “A fine treasure-trove this, Bertha! Look at the contents of this paper.” Bertha : “ Why this is golden money, is it not ?” Marcel : “ Yes, certainly ! I think they are double louis d’or. 9y Bertha : “ One — two — three—four— there are here, then, eight louis ! and how little room they take! And this cross—is it gold or copper ?” Marcel : “ I think it is of gold, and the chain also.” Bertha : “ What a treasure ! It is just as though an angel had placed it there on purpose for us. It must have been in answer to thy prayer that thou wast al¬ lowed to find it. God has fed us like the young ravens which call upon Him. Now we are rich again, and have as much as we can want for a long time to come. See, Marcel, with one of these pieces of gold we buy warm clothing enough for both of us; with another, we can purchase some wheat; with the third plenty of furniture; with the fourth—I suppose that would not be enough to buy a cow—no ! we must not be too ambitious—we must content ourselves with what God sends us; we can keep the fourth piece, together with the cross, against a rainy day; in case we should fall sick, for instance. You are laughing at me now, Marcel, but if we had only-” Marcel (hastily interrupting her): “ My good Bertha, I am laughing at the way in which you are disposing of that which does not belong to us.” Bertha : “ What do you mean, Marcel ? did you not find it ? Do you even know who lost it ? Neither gold nor silver have any mark about them to show whom they belong to: they are the property of any one who finds them ?** Marcel : “ But, as it happens, Bertha, I do know to whom this gold belongs.” Bertha : “ How can you know ?” Marcel : “ It belongs to a traveller who rested here only a quarter of an hour ago. I saw him from our window. He opened his knapsack, and took out a piece of stuff which he half unfolded, and it must have been in doing this that he dropped this little packet.” Bertha : “ He must have a great many of these louis , or he would not take so little care of them as to lose them in this way ; this loss is, most probably, a mere nothing to him, whilst to us the finding of such a sum is everything .” Marcel : “ You are right, Bertha, it is everything; for it may either be the saving or the perdition of our souls; we have but a short time to live, and shall we load our consciences with the weight of these eight louis 1 You think they would make us happy ! You are mistaken/ dear Bertha; A FAMILY REPOSITORY. SO wc should be a hundred times more unhappy than we now are, were we to yield to the temptation of keeping this money. We might, it is true, have a better bed, but our slumbers would be less tranquil; we should feel yet more ashamed then to go to church in our good clothes, than we now do in our rags; and when the day shall come, in which we must render an account of our actions, how should we excuse ourselves before God for having committed this sin ? By pleading our extreme poverty, perhaps, you would say. But our poverty, I think, should be an additional incentive to us to do what is right, that we may not lose the only wealth which remains to us—a good con¬ science. Take courage, Bertha ! we shall not die of hunger. Look at all those fields which surround us, waving with corn : the harvest will soon begin, and then we shall glean. The judge, you know, is always kind to us—he will, I dare say, give us two or three sheaves ; and so will the minister, too ; and that will do us much more good than this gold, which does not belong to us.” Bertha (sighing): Yes, as far as food is concerned, but how are we to get cloth¬ ing ?” Marcel : " God will provide. Does He not clothe the lilies of the field, and has He not told us to take no thought for the morrow ? Perhaps this traveller will give me some little reward; not that I deserve any, for simply doing what is right, but if he t could give me enough to buy a gown, or even apron for you, my dear Bertha, I shall feel very grateful to him.” Bertha : “ I believe you are right, Marcel; but where do you expect to see him again ?” Marcel : “ I will at once make a short cut across the fields, to the high road— which at this point, on account of the river, makes a considerable circuit. More than a quarter oflaeague is saved by going this path, and I hope, by this means, to over¬ take the traveller ?” Bertha : “ But should you fail to do so, what step will you next take ?” Marcel : “ Why then, my dear wife, unwilling as I should be to beg, I would ask the judge to give me enough to pay for an advertisement in the newspaper, which the stranger would surely be glad to repay him when he got hack his money and gold cross. And now, dear Bertha, will you get me my stick, that I may set out as fresh as I can.” Bertha lost not a moment in complying with this request. Her husband’s upright¬ ness of heart had re-awakened in her soul all those better feelings which the sight of so much gold in this, her hour of extreme need, had for a moment lulled to sleep. She returned quickly with the stick, which she handed to her husband, saying,— “ Here, go quickly, my good Marcel; I long to get rid of this wretched gold, which made me commit so great a sin.” Marcel set out directly, but his aged and stiffened joints refused to obey his willing heart, and he proceeded but slowly. Bertha watched him as he walked along, leaning heavily on his staff, and his white hair waving in the breeze. “ He will never reach the traveller,” she thought within herself, “ and the poor dear man will kill himself if he walks the six long leagues which lie between this and the town. But I do believe I have lost my senses—it is I w’ho should have gone instead of him. I am ten years younger and much stronger than he—he is going so slowly—I shall soon catch him.” And the good Bertha, as she thus spoke, feeling herself young in comparison with her husband, although she had already com¬ pleted her sixty-fifth year, set out running as if she were not more than thirty years of age. She reached him before he had got to the end of the field, and, laying her hand on his arm, said,— “ Now, good Marcel, you must sit down and let me go in your place.” Marcel ; “ No, no, Bertha, that will never do—you did not see the traveller, and could not recognise him if you did over¬ take him.” Bertha : “ Ah ! that is true, but could you not describe him to me ? is he old or young, dark or fair ? and wdiat coloured coat does he ^vear ?” Marcel : “ I only saw him at a distance, but yet I should be sure to recognise him; he is a middle-aged man, tall and well built, and his complexion very dark; but listen, my good Bertha, we will both go, and then we shall help each other, and get on faster.” Thus saying, he passed his arm within 90 THE CORNER CUPBOARD ; that of his wife, and the pour aged couple went on their way together, as fast as they could. They stopped when they reached the spot where the path joins the highway, and in a few moments they had the plea¬ sure of seeing the traveller advancing to¬ wards them. “ There he is !” exclaimed Marcel; “ let us go and meet him.” When they had approached within a few paces of the traveller, he was so much struck with their air of extreme poverty, that he at once began to search his pockets for some money to bestow upon them ; but Bertha, perceiving his intention, exclaimed,— “ Thank you, sir, thank you; but we have not come hither to seek an alms from you; on the contrary, we have come to give you something.” The Stranger : “ To give me some¬ thing, my good friends, how is that ?” Marcel: “My wife makes a mistake, sir; it is not to give you anything we have come—only to restore to you that which belongs to you. Did you not sit down to rest, about half-an-hour ago, beneath a walnut tree, on a grassy slope, near the high-road ?” The Stranger : “ Yes, 1 did, indeed; now I remember having seen you; you were standing at the window of a little cabin, at the opposite side of the road.” Marcel : “ You opened your knapsack, and took out a piece of stuff, which you unfolded ; and it was, doubtless, at that moment, that you dropped a piece of paper, containing-” The Stranger : “ If it was mine, four double louis d'or , and a gold cross and chain; the latter was wrapped in separate paper, and a few lines were written on the cover.” Marcel had seen the writing, but could not read it, having left his spectacles in his prayer-book. The traveller opened his knapsack, and emptied it; but found, as Marcel had said, that his gold was not there. “ Here, sir,” said the old man, handing him the little packet, “here are your louis and your gold cross, and I hope you will take better care of them for the future.” The Stranger received his lost treasure with a mingled expression of respect and gratitude; and, pressing the old man’s hand, he said,— “ You have rendered me a great service; and, to judge from appearances, you have the more merit in restoring this sum tome, that you seem to be very poor.” Marcel : “ Yes, sir, we are poor; and, for that reason, we so much the more need the comfort of having a ‘ conscience void of offence, towards God and towards man.’ ” The Stranger : “ Excellent old couple ! to think of you both, at your age, running this distance to bring me back my money ! Could you not have sent it to me by one of your children ?” Bertha: “ Alas, sir, we have no children ; that is our greatest misfortune. Once we had two ; but now-” Marcel : “ When we suffer, we, at least, suffer alone. Come, my dear Bertha, we must let this gentleman continue his jour¬ ney. Good afternoon, sir.” The Stranger looked embarrassed. “ No, no, good father,” he exclaimed, seizing the old man’s hand, “ we must not part thus. Stay a moment, I beseech you, and sit down and listen to me. This gold I look upon as a sacred trust, which does not belong to me. I will tell you for whom I destine it, and then you will see why I can subtract nothing from it; but, before eight days are over, I hope to see you again, and to offer you, at least, some trifling token of my gratitude. Will you kindly tell me your name,” he added, drawing out his pocket-book; “ I 6hall not easily for¬ get either the little knoll, or the cottage where such good people dwell.” Marcel : “ I am known in this village as the ( old cobbler of the cabin ;’ it will give us pleasure to see you there again; but, should you not return thither, we shall still pray to God to bless you ; for you have pro¬ cured us a happy hour, and we do not enjoy many such.” The Stranger: “Good old man! should I forget to visit your lowly dwelling, I should prove myself unworthy of the happi¬ ness which I am now about to seek, and which I tremble lest I should not find. It is now more than twenty-five years since I quitted my family, and during all that time I have never had any tidings of them. My parents, doubtless, think that I am dead; unless, indeed, they have themselves A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 91 entered into rest. Rut, if 1 find them still living, how happy we shall all be together !” Bebtiia (weeping): “ Ah, yes ! happy in¬ deed. Oh, how happy are those who have the prospect of seeing their children once more here below! IV e shall never see ours again, until we reach that heaven where we trust they are waiting for us.” Marcel : “ You see, wife, I was right this morning when I told you that some¬ times when children live, they may cause their parents as much grief as if they died. Here is one now who appears a worthy man, and yet he has allowed his parents to remain twenty-five years without receiving any tidings of him. Is that not worse than if they had lost him by death ?” The Stranger : “ 1 was guilty, indeed, to allow myself to be tempted by a recruit¬ ing sergeant to enlist without their per¬ mission ; but beyond this, I was not in fault. The regiment in which I enlisted was sept to Batavia, and I was despatched almost directly into the interior of the country, whence I found it impossible to get mv letters forwarded. On my return to Batavia, I wrote several letters to my father, but no answer ever reached me. I made plenty of money, but what use is money when the heart is not at rest ? —mine turned continually towards Europe. I thought of my native village, where I had left all I loved best in the world—my father, mother, and sister. I decided on returning; 1 obtained my dismissal and set sail, without delay, in a vessel bound for Hamburgh. « After a prosperous voyage, 1 reached that place about two months ago ; and there I met by accident my old master, a head carpenter, to whom 1 had been apprenticed in my youth, and who had taken up his abode in that city shortly after my depar- ture. “ 1 knew him direotly ; but I had become so bronzed beneath an eastern sun, that it was long before he recognised me. When I told him my name, he was much surprised; but received me as a son, aud brought me to his own house. I there renewed my acquaintance with his daughter, whom I left a pretty, playful child ; and now found an amiable intelligent woman. Every day I intended to set out on my return to my native place ; but every day I was pressed to stay, and the thought of my departure made Annette sad. I loved her from the time she was a little child, and now I said to her father,— “ ‘ Your Annette and I love one another. I have saved enough to provide for a comfort¬ able home. Will you let her be my wife ? I will go and seek for my parents, and then we will all live happily together; but Annette must become mine before we part.’ “ My master gave his consent. Annette and I were married; and two days after¬ wards I set out, promising to return to her as quickly as I could. My Annette has the heart of a queen ; she bought a beauti¬ ful piece of stuff to made a dress for my mother, and then, wrapping up a four double louis, which her father had given her on her wedding-day, she said to me,— “ ‘ Take these to thy father with my love, and tell him that 1 have sent them to pay the expanses of his journey.’ Then, unclasping a chain which she wore around her neck, and to which a gold cross hung suspended, she asked me to bring them to my sister, to whom she also wrote a few friendly words. I set forth cheerfully on my journey, ladened with the presents of my Annette; and you can now imagine how grieved I should have been had I lost them, and how great is my obligation to you for having restored them to me. But God grant that I may find my parents yet alive ! Sometimes when I think of it, my heart sinks within me. They must now be far advanced in years, for I am no longer young. I do not feel so anxious about my sister—she was younger than I; but my father /—it would, indeed, be a bitter grief to me were I to find that he was no more! “ He was such a good man—he never let a poor man go away hungry from his door— and my mother always kept a little store of linen for those who stood in need of it. Many were the blessings which the poor invoked upon their heads. You may possibly, by the way, have heard them spoken of, for our home was not far from this. They were well known in the neigh¬ bourhood as Father Marcel of Fillnitz, and his wife Bertha.” “ Oh!” exclaimed the old man, lifting up his hands towards heaven; “ is it a 92 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: dream ? Bertha ! Bertha ! can. it be in¬ deed our Francis come to life again ? It is, indeed, possible! Marcel! did you say ?” It was him—it was the lost Francis. Vain would be the attempt to describe to our readers the scene which ensued. Bertha, weeping for joy, could not utter a word, but clasped to her heart her long-lost son, and sought upon his brow for some well known mark, some traces of a cut received in early childhood, that she might feel as¬ sured he was indeed her own, her darling Francis. « Let me kneel down, Bertha,” exclaimed the old man ; let me kneel down, and praise God for having given us a foretaste of para¬ dise here upon earth, by restoring to us ‘ this our son who was dead and is alive again, who was lost and is found.’ ” But, alas! we are not destined to find a paradise in this world, where our joys are ever incomplete. The remembrance of Georgette soon returned to infuse a drop of grief into their overflowing cup of hap¬ piness. “ But my sister, my poor sister,” said Francis, sadly , €( you said just now that you had no children left; what is become of Georgette ?’* “ She died in my arms,” replied Bertha, weeping bitterly; “ she will never wear this beautiful cross!” Francis silently passed the light chain around his mother’s neck, and ‘^printed a kiss upon her brow. « May she not be gazing upon us even now ?” said Marcel, look ; ng up to heaven; “ I could almost think 1 D ?e her in that bright cloud, with a golden crown upon her head.” A few moments of silence eilsued, for the hearts of all three were too full to speak. It was at last broken by Marcel, who said, turning to his wife :— “Well, Bertha, you see that, after all, people did come to life again out of this hospital, which you had such a horror of.” Francis told them, that whilst confined in bed at the hospital he had become acquainted with a recruiting sergeant, who lay in the game ward, and who persuaded him to en¬ list immediately on his recovery. The re¬ mainder of his history we have already heard. The master carpenter, fearing the reproaches of the young man’s parents, for having sent their son to the hospital, and thus exposed him to evil influence, wrote them word that he had died, and silenced the reproaches of conscience, by persuading himself that the falsehood lie had told would save them many a year of anxious suspense and bitter grief. The aged parents then told in their turn their own brief, yet sad history, and the misfortunes which had well-nigh bowed their grey heads in sorrow to the grave, and altered their appearance so much, that it was no marvel their long-absent son had failed to recognise them. They all then returned together to the cabin, and Francis soon set out to thank the inhabitants of the village for all the kindness they had shown his parents. He requested them to give the cabin to some poor person who wanted a house, and added to it the little walnut crowned knoll, which he purchased from the parish. Next day, Marcel and Bertha, having been amply provided with new and comfortable clothes from the neighbouring town, with their son took their seats in the Hamburgh mail, and were received with open arms by the good Annette, who did all she could to supply to them the place of the daughter they had lost. Soon, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, the aged couple forgot their past sorrows and privations, or only remem¬ bered them to bless that merciful God, who, as Marcel said each night to his wife, had turned their mourning into joy, and “ made their home a little paradise upon earth.” 344. BOTTLING BEER.—My expe¬ rience contradicts Enquire Within , (in 2,505) on bottling beer. I used to allow the bottles to remain uncorked for a day after bottling, and often to my hurt. Messrs Norton, the respectable brewers, have recommended me always to cork as soon as I had done bottling, and the result is that the beer always turns out well. Perhaps your remark may have to do with older ales—what I bottle in porter and ale are about six weeks old.— G. B. Carruther . A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 93 345. FEBRUARY FOR THE BOYS AND GIRLS.—In this climate it is hard to prognosticate what sort of weather we may have in February; we are certain, however, to have no “ dog-days,” and the probabilities are in tavour of snow; accord¬ ingly we have provided for that contin¬ gency in the following games. 346. Snow-balls. —Snow-balling affords capital fun, and is attended with no ill effects when indulged in by good and generous boys. Such will never stoop to the unfair¬ ness of putting stones into their missiles, or hurling them at the weak and unprotected —nor will they practice the sport in a thoroughfare where windows might be broken or horses startled—a good broad square, an open court or field, is the best place for snow-balling, which has its excellent points like everything else. It is a good introduc¬ tion to sharp-shooting, and trains the eye and hand to measure distances. In throwing a snow-ball never aim at your opponent’s eye or nose—a capital spot to plant the ball is on the centre of his hat or cap, or just at the middle of the back. 347. Snow Giant. —It is what some boys call “ very jolly” to erect a snow giant, the thing is to do it. A good open space is preferable to any other; and if the stump of an old tree presents itself anything like that represented below, by no means let it be despised. 'When we come by-and- bye to talk of modelling in clay—as we mean to do—we shall show our young friends how, beneath the delicate proportions of an Apollo or an Antinous, a piece or two of stick does duty thus. Now proceed to roll your snowballs to the place where your giant is to be formed. When you have enough for your purpose, pile these upon one another until you have pleased your fancy. A little water dashed over the sides makes the whole adhere better; and loose snow may be plastered into the spaces to give greater symmetry of form; two stones or bits of coal will make good eyes, and a piece of carrot will pass for a nose. If you do not belong to the anti-tobacco league, you may increase the fun by indulging your giant with a pipe. All that remains now, is to retire to a reasonable distance and snowball your work until it falls to the ground. 348. Snow Castle. —For this game select a field or large playground, and mark out in the snow the limits of your fortress. Let some of your party then form large snowballs, which must be rolled to the side of your castle, and the architects must see these placed one upon another like stones in a wall. Build until your fort is four or five feet high ; then divide your party equally, and toss up for first “innings.” A good stock of snowball ammunition should be laid up previous to hostilities, and then to work. The attacking party endeavours to dis¬ lodge those in possession of the fort, and when they do so, the dispossessed take their places. 349. Some of our younger readers may be ignorant that Napoleon I. was an adept. 94 THE CORNER CUPBOARD s at this game, and that at the military school of Brienne the “ little corporal defended his snow fort successfully against all comers. 350. The Snow Tabget.—V ery good exercise is afforded by erecting a target, such as is used in archery, and having first made a large number of snowballs and piled them up in the style of cannon balls, at a suitable distance, each player throws a ball in rotation, and tries which can make the best aim at the centre of the target. 351. Shadow Buff.— This can only be well played in the evenings in winter. It is a very quiet game, except in the laughter it causes, and it calls forth all the ingenuity of the players, 'lhe white cur¬ tain of the window being pulled down, is fastened to the bottom to keep it straight and even. Or a table-cloth or sheet may be tacked against the wall of the apartment. The lamp or candles arc removed to the opposite end, and the person chosen to act as blind man, sometimes called “ Buffy ” (who is not blindfolded), sits with his face to the curtain and his back to the company. Everything being prepared, the players pass between the "light and the blind man, Fig. 1. Charles’s shadow,which blind manim mediately recognises . throwing their shadows upon the curtain, and he has to name them. If he succeeds, he is released, and the person he has named becomes “ Buffy.” The great fun consists in the players disguising themselves in Pig. 2. The same Charles disguised in a nightcap, green shade, hair brush , beard , and papa's old coat . Pig 3. Of course this is Maria's shadow , as we all know . various ways to deceive “Buffy.” This may be done with imitative turbans, and A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 95 artificial beards, paper noses, spectacles, &c. In the annexed figures we have thrown out some suggestions to assist the inven- tion of our young friends. The greatest quietness must be observed on the part of those whose shadows are exhibited, so that they may not be recognised by their voices ; but a feigned voice may be used to assist any disguise that may be assumed. Fig. 4. Maria's shadow , after having put on a false nose, a pair of paper spectacles, and having brought her long curls round to the front to form a beard . 352. A better plan of playing this game is to arrange a room which has folding doors, as in Fig—and the figures to disap¬ pear as in 355. 353. More about IIoops. —Hoops are still in season {see 238). There is a capital game played with hoops, called “Cutters and Smugglers.” One or two of the party start off a little in advance of the rest, and afford a fine opportunity for testing the speed and metal of the bowlers. The object of the first, who aie the “Smugglers,” is to keep a*head of the latter—the “ Cutters.” These endeavour to overtake them, and to drive their hoops athwart those of the “ Smugglers,” and to knock their hoops down, in which event they are considered to be captives, and are then to belong to the “ Cutters.” This game is sometimes called “Hunt the Fox,” and a capital game it is. 254. Hoops with Sails.—S ome boys rig their hoops in various ways with a sail, made of a handkerchief or piece of cloth, tied at the corners, and attached to the hoops by four strings, a specimen of which is given in . the engraving. The wind catches the sail, and carries the hoop along at a rapid speed. 355. JuxrpiNa up to the Ceiling.— Perhaps there is no game more mystifying than this, or one which may, if well managed in connection with the game of “ Shadow Buff,” cause more laughter. A sheet is stretched across the folding doors separating the apartments. All the lights must be removed from that in which the spectators are, and the arrangement in the room which forms the stage for the actors in the puzzle must be as shown in the diagram. A represents the sheet fastened across be¬ tween the apartments. jS is a door by which the actors enter upon the scene. Cis a stool 96 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: placed in front of a second and higher one, D, upon which a powerful light is burning, Behind D is E, a bench or table, lhe actor entering at B, projects his shadow upon the sheet. At first, as he is close to the sheet the shadow will be only life-size; and it will depend upon the skill of the per¬ former to make the shadow comical and diverting. But as he recedes from the sheet and approaches the light, his shadow will increase in size, so that when close to the light it will assume gigantic proportions. The leap into the clouds is then easily effected. Stepping upon the stool C, he springs over the light on to JE, and to the spectators in the darkened apartment lie will appear to have jumped through the ceiling. 356. The Atiaet. —One of the company who understands the game, and is possessed of good fluency of speech, acts as exhi¬ bitor. A select portion of the assembly are then asked if they would like to see the aviary. In choosing these care must be taken not to include any one who has seen the game played before. One of them is then called in and placed behind curtains. He is asked next what bird in particular he wishes to 6ee—being informed at the same time that the aviary contains a very large as- sortinent. [A good witty talker may make some fun here by enumerating the various strange birds, pos¬ sible and impossible, in his collection.] Should the curtained party wish to see some noble bird such as the eagle he may be put off with the excuse that the imperial creature is unwell or has gone out ; but on the event of his choosing to see a goose, a gull, or a magpie, the curtains are drawn aside and he sees himselt in a mirror. A hearty laugh ensues upon this, and the hoaxed party joins the company in their joke upon the one whose turn comes next. TThis game is sometimes called “ The Men¬ agerie,” and in this case the names of animals are adopted.] 357. Why and Because.—A number of slips of paper are prepared. Upon half of these questions are written, and upon the remaining half answers to them, or what are supposed to be such. The two lots are placed in two vases and shaken together. One side then chooses from the questions and the other from the answers; and the fun begins by each in rotation opening his question paper and demanding its answer of his opposite neighbour. The result is is highly amusing. The questions ami answers generally following each other in the most absurd way. For example Q. Why does the Sun rise in the East? A. Because I’ve a cold in my head. Q. Why is the north wind so piercing ? A. Because German silver does quite as well. Q. Why are the days longer in summer than in winter? . A. Because he is the spoilt child of fortune. Q. Why do we sleep of a night rather than of a day ? . nru • 4. A. Because green peas are scarce at Christ- ^q' Why is the whole greater than a part ? A. Because she is said to have dined fre¬ quently off cucumbers. , ., . . Q. Why is the globe tlattened at its poles ? A. Because papa would be cross otherwise. Q. Why does a goose stoop when entering a doorway? , _ . .» A. Because gloves cleaned at threepence per pair have but a shabby appearance. Q. Why do you admire moustachios ? A. Because plums are generally unwholesome. Q. Why is the earth opaque ? A. Because mamma has lost her spectacles. Q. Why did you not meet me as you pro¬ mised ? A. Because one trial will prove the fact. Q. Why do blue and yellow make green when mixed together ? j _ A. Because of their innate depravity. Q. Why did Shakspere make Juliet so un happv in her love? A. Because cyanide of potassium always acts so. 358. I bad a Little Basket.— This is a fireside game, and may be played by the very youngest. One of the circle begins, turning to his neighbour, with the words “ I had a little basket.” The party ad- d essed asks “ What was in it ?” To which the first speaker replies with the name of anything beginning with A, and consisting of one word only, as “Apricots ” The A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 07 second in turn then addresses the third with “ I had a little basket,” and upon being asked “What was in it?” replies, “Bullets,” or “ Brocoli,” or anything else, the first letter of which is B; and thus the game goes round until the alphabet has been ex¬ hausted. Much fun is caused by the oddity of the article said to have been in the basket: as crocodiles, dumplings, elephants, pigs, &c., &c. [Wc add a variation upon “ I had a little basket/’ in the following paragraph for older Cook°r] and we cal1 it; " * Iave y0U read tho new 359. Have tou Read the New Book? —The company is seated in a circle or semi-circle, and one begins with “ Have you read the new book ?” He is asked, “ WTiat was it about ?” and the first speaker replies, as in the previous game, by naming a theme the initial letter of the first word of which begins with A, as acoustics, art-unions, accelerated post-transmission, or something of that sort. Thus the query would pass round, and by the exercise of a little inge¬ nuity the various subjects of school themes or of public conversation may be brought in. As a guide to beginners, we add a list of replies :— Botany, Calisthenics, Double-Dutch, Easy- shavmg, Fogs, Gardening, Ham-sandwiches, India, Juries, Kant, Logarithms, Mumbo-jumbo, Numismatics, Oilcakes, Professor Porson, Quack Doctors, Rolling-pins, Sanscrit, Thames Naviga¬ tion, Umbiellas, Vaccination, Warblers, Xerxes, Yard-measures, Zoology. 360. Think of a Number. —A consider¬ able amount of amusing mystification is caused by this game. One, in possession of the secret, proposes to one who is not, to “think of a number” in his own mind. Any number, large or small, will do. He must not say what number it is, but must bear it in mind, and if he prefers it he may write it down upon a slate, carefully con¬ cealing from view what he has written. The proposer then says, “ Double it.” This being done, he is next told to add six, or ten, or any other number the proposer chooses, to it. The party to be mystified is then bid to halve it—i. e., to halve the whole sum. This being done, he is told to subtract from it the number he first thought of. Having done so, the proposer, to the wonder of all not in the secret, declares how many remains. No. 4 [Bv means of tins puzzle, which is one of the simplest in the world, we have frequently seen a whole room full of people put into a most that C t?i US State ° f un der the impression that there was some withcraft at work.J 361. Solution. — Suppose the number thought of to be five—that doubled would be ten; suppose eight are added, that makes eighteen. The half of this would be nine. Five, the number first thought of, beino- substracted from this would leave fou^ Accordingly, “ Four” would be the answer! But why ? Because the answer is always the half of the number added to the sum. A little consideration will make this clear* The number thought of is first doubled ,* then halved; and finally taken away en¬ tirely ; so that only the half of the number added can possibly remain. 362. MARCH FOR THE BOYS AND GIRLS. As the month of March, pro¬ verbial for winds, presents its welcome face—welcome especially because behind it the sweet spring comes smiling—boys will do well to look up their last yearVkites ; and should these, having succumbed under the heavy blows and deep discouragements of winter, be no longer either practicable or good looking, they must think of buying, or, what is better, making new ones. ° 363. How to Make a Kite. —Procure a lath of deal of the length of your proposed kite, and a thin hoop, or piece of hazel for the arched piece—a piece of whalebone or split cane will perhaps do better. Fasten thearched piece at its centre to the upright lath, and bend it to the form you wish, connect¬ ing the ends by means of a piece of string, which should twist round the lath. Connect all the points A B C D E by passing the string through each, as in the diagram (fig. 1). Make them fast, and the skele¬ ton of your kite is complete. l"ou must next paste together as many sheets of thin paper as will cover the kite, leaving a margin to be pasted over 5b 98 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: the outer edges. Bore two holes in the upright—one about the fifth of the kite’s length from the top, and the other about a fourth from the bottom; run through these, and fasten by a knot at the two ends your belly-band string, to which the ball of string by which you fly your kite is after¬ wards fixed. At the point in the belly-band, when the kite exactly balances, fasten your string. The wings are made by cutting, half Pig. 2. through (see fig. 2), several sheets of white paper, which are afterwards rolled up and fastened at A and B (Fig. 1). The tail, which should be from ten to twelve times the length of the kite, is made by tying bobs of writing paper, folded about an inch broad, and three inches long, at intervals of three inches and a quarter ou a string, with a longer bob, similar to the wings, at the bottom of it. Your kite may now be flown, unless you choose to ornament it— to do which we subjoin a hint or two. 364. To Ornament Your Kite. —The simplest way is to buy a few “ lotteries,” or the commonest kind of prints, and to paste the choicest portion of them at different points on the kite’s surface. But this is rather a dummy way. Here is one far better. Get a box of water-colours (and since a box of first-rate “ paints ” may bo now procured under a warrantry for their excellence from the Royal Society of Arts at the outlay of a shilling, who would be without one ?), and paint upon your kite designs—serious or comic—according to your fancy. In our kite-flying days we had no notion of simply buying a kite at a shop, and then flying it. We not only made it ourselves, but we resolutely determined that it should \ surpass in design and brilliancy of colouring those of our play-fellows. We would not coniine ourselves to the beaten track, but made our kite in the form of a bird, or comet, or any other flying object. In our native village there was an old church, about the walls of which were the remains J of sculptured angels. These greatly took our fancy ; and, considering that “ angels’ visits,” whether “ few and far between. * or A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 99 frequent, were always made upon the wing, we concluded to fabricate a grand kite upon that idea. As far as our memory serves us the annexed figure represents the result of our endeavours. The sensation our kite caused in those parts was im¬ mense. We claim no merit for the design, which was a literal copy from the stone corbel. The Fuschias , which did duty for wings, were copied from nature. 365. The Cloth Kite. —A kite made oi: linen or calico is greatly to be preferred to one made of paper, for durability, and also for another quality no less desirable, namely, that of portability. With the paper kite you are always liable, in carrying it to the fields, to get it torn, either through an ac¬ cident, or by design; whereas, the cloth kite, being folded up in carrying, is no more trouble than a walking-stick would be. The cloth kite is made in the following manner. Two pieces of thin planed wood are placed across each other as shown in Fig. 1, and held together by means of a piece of wire, bent into a loop, at a. Between this loop a thin wooden collet, or button is placed, in order that the two transverse pieces may work freely on their centres. Thus when not in use the two pieces can be laid longitudinally, one upon the other. The form of the cloth kite differs from the paper kite in being of an oblong diamond. The calico being cut the requi¬ site shape and size, has to be hemmed round the edges to prevent their fray¬ ing. Its two narrow ends are tied to the top and bottom ends of the longest stick; and the loop of the centre wire is to be passed through the calico. A piece of tape is then attached to those corners of the calico that arc to be fastened to the ex¬ tremities of the cross piece of wood, and another piece of tape is fixed to the wood itself. When these are tied, and the calico .drawn tight, the kite is fit for use. Not more than two minutes is required to put the whole apparatus in working order, and less time than that, even, will suffice to undo it, and make it again portable. 366. Good Shapes fob Kites. —There is no reason in the world why kites should be of the old-fashioned shape. Boys of an inventive turn—and all boys might be in¬ ventive if they chose to try—will be proud to vary the torm and decoration of their kites. The Chinese, who are said to be passionately fond of kite-flying, fill the air, at certain seasons of the year, with the semblances of birds, and dragons, and fly¬ ing. fishes, and, no doubt, they manage to derive much satisfaction from the practice. A good form for a kite is that of an officer. He may be made as tall as seven feet; the wings serving as epaulettes, and a sabertash being substituted for the tail. But for kites of that size very strong string will be necessary. 367. French and English.— This ca¬ pital sport is suited equally for boys or girls. The boys will prefer to play the game in the open air, or at least in a covered court; but the girls had better practise it at home, where the clean floor or softer carpet will preserve them and their clothes from injury. Divide your party into two equal portions. These lay hold of each other firmly round the waist, and the foremost, or leader of one party, holds the hands of the leader of the opposite one. A mark is made upon the ground midway between the two parties, and the ob¬ ject is to pull each other over it. The party that succeeds in doing this wins the game. Another way is to get a stout rope. Each party laying hold of one end of this proceeds as above described. Success in this game does not always depend upon mere strength; dexterity often wins when opposed to force unaccompanied by discretion. A skilful leader will know when to pull and when to yield. For instance, one side may be pulling tre¬ mendously, and may have almost suc¬ ceeded in getting your party over the mark. At such a moment, your side, by giving way slightly and suddenly, may suc¬ ceed in upsetting the whole body of your op¬ ponents ; one vigorous tug on your part will then suffice to pull them over the boundary. 100 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 368. Battledore and Shuttlecock.— There is no need to describe this game; but the remarks we have made above (see 362) upon the subject of kites apply just as strongly here. Every boy and girl ought to know how to make their own toys. Before we proceed to show how easily shuttlecocks may be made, we may state that the game is very ancient. Our an¬ cestors of the fifteenth century appear to have played at it. The Chinese also are great shuttlecock players; but these use their bare hands as battledores, and even their bare feet. They are said to stand in a ring and beat the shuttlecock about m the most dexterous manner. 369. How to Make a Shuttlecock. —Procure a wine cork, punch six holes in one end, and in the holes stick as many cock’s feathers; or fold together a slip of stout brown paper or cardboard, till it is as thick and round as a cork, bind it round with some fine string, and set your feathers firmly in at one end. To fasten the feathers in, dip the quill ends in a solu¬ tion of gum arabic or glue. A very little artistic ability will suffice to give to your shuttlecock the form of a bird, or a balloon. The appearance of the last-named object may be obtained by bend¬ ing the feathers until they meet at the tips, and painting the cork to look like a car with ropes, &c. (See Fig. 1.) A battledore may be cut out of a thin plank of wood, or the disused cover of an old book; but a really good one may be made by means of a piece of cane doubled, one end being kept open with a piece of wood placed at a as in the figure, all that falls below a being bound round firmly with strong twine. A piece of parchment rather longer than the loop part, in order to leave enough to fold over, is fitted to it and sewn neatly round the cane, such a battledore as this would last for years. A shuttlecock intended for indoor use should have its lower end covered with a piece of cotton velvet, or cloth, to prevent its making too much noise when struck. 370. The Comical Cards.— An Indoor Game for Wet Weather .—Procure a number of plain cards, or cut a sufficient number for yourself out of a sheet of stiff cardboard or Bristol-board, all of the same size, and pro¬ ceed to draw upon them a series of gro¬ tesque faces, male and female, with droll hats, caps, helmets, wigs, which you may borrow from your collections of caricatures, or invent. These heads should oil be of the same size, for a reason which will presently appear; and in order that they may be so, act as follows:—Pierce small*holes in the plain cards at about the situations a a pointed out in the annexed cut, and connect the holes with faintly drawn lines. In drawing your faces, touch these holes, as the forehead and upper lip are seen to do in the . cut. Fig. 2. Having drawm several of the heads, cut the cards in three portions at the parts indicated by the holes and lines. Let the divisions be quite straight that the severed parts may join neatly. An endless source of amusement may be afforded by varying the pieces — putting the forehead of one figure on to the nose and cheek of another — and the chin of another. Thus the bald crowm of Julius Caesar may be fitted on to the ruddy cheeks of Master Tommy, or the shako of a militia¬ man adorn the brow of a lord chancellor. Fig. 2. Fig. 1. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 101 371. MARY WILTON. Mary Wilton sat in her lonely room, work¬ ing by the light of a solitary candle. The tears fell from her eyes on the muslin she was embroidering. The room was small and dilapidated, and void of furniture. There were two chairs, and a small, rickety table, by the side of which she sat, and on which were placed a jug of milk, and half a loaf of bread; for Mary was poor, very poor, and could scarcely earn enough to pay for her frugal meals and lodging. A small broken-down bed and chest of drawers, on which were a jug and basin, completed the furniture. A thin shawl and bonnet hung up against the door. There was no fire in the grate, though it was in the depth of winter, and Mary’s face and hands were blue with cold. After wbrking till the candle burnt low in the socket, she rose with a sigh, folded her work, and taking a small worn Bible from her pocket, began to read by the ex¬ piring light. The candle went out, and would have left her in utter darkness but for the moon, whose beams pouring in lit up her pale face, as she stood for a moment with clasped hands, and then murmuring, “ God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” knelt down to say her evening prayer. When she rose from her knees her face bore a calm, hopeful expression, and she quickly removed her thin clothing, and crept under the scanty covering of the bed, and in a few moments was sound asleep. Yes, sleep on, poor child of affliction, and take thy rest, for to-morrow’s sun will rise, and ere it sets, such an accumulated weight of misery thou wilt have to bear, that, forgetful of God’s watchful providence, thou wilt be tempted to exclaim, “Better would it be if I had never been born.” Mary Wilton was the child of industrious and highly respectable parents. Her father was a farmer in Hampshire, who, by dint of his wife’s careful management, contrived with some difficulty to make botl* ends meet. Their only son, Willie, was a con¬ stant source of uneasiness to them. Not that he was an undutiful or rebellious boy, but he had a fiery, independent spirit, which frequently led him into mischief. When he was fifteen, he suddenly announced his in¬ tention of going to sea; and as liis parents I would not thwart him in his earnest wish, set oft', carrying a wallet on his back, and with a few shillings in his pocket, to walk to Portsmouth, a distance of thirty miles. When he arrived there, he proceeded at once to the docks, and accosting a good- humoured looking sailor, asked him if he could find him employment. “And is it to go to sea that ye’ll be afther” said the honest Irishman. Willie replied that such was his wish. “ Och shure then, honey, its meself that ’ll take you to the captin, for he’s in want of a boy like yourself, I’m thinking. 5 ’ Paddy took him to the captain’s hotel, and on the way informed Willie that his name was Terence O’Rourke, and that he was boatswain’s mate on board her Majesty’s frigate the Dauntless , bound to the West Indies. When they arrived at the “ George,” Terence inquired for Captain Sullivan, and he and his charge were ushered into a room, where a fine-looking elderly gentleman was sitting. “Plase your honour” said the mate, “here’s a young gossoon I picked up just now, and he’ll serve as a cabin boy, I’m thinking.” The captain turned on Willie a search¬ ing, penetrating gaze, and after a few moments, apparently satisfied with his in¬ spection, asked him his name, and where he came from. Willie answered to the best of his ability, and the captain pronouncing him a smart lad, gave him some good ad¬ vice, and told him he should be cabin boy on board the Dauntless , and then desired Terence O’Rourke to take care of him and show him the vessel. Terence and Willie retired with their best bow, and Terence then took Willie down again to the docks, showed him the frigate, and took him on board. Willie wrote to his parents, giving them an account of all he had seen and heard, a few days before the Dauntless sailed, and from that time the vessel was never heard of more. Mrs. W ilton’s agita¬ tion and distress brought on a fever, of which she died. The farmer, after strug¬ gling with ill health, and repeated losses, took to his bed and died, after a short illness, and poor Mary was left without a friend in the world to guide and protect her. Upon selling the furniture and farm stock, it was found that there was only an 102 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: overplus of five pounds after paying her father’s debts, and Mary determined to go up to London, and seek her fortune there. She was only nineteen, and by no means aware of the dangers and difficulties of her position. She was modest and retiring, and never went out except to procure work from her employers. She had now been in London three years, and had managed, by means of working her fingers to the bone, to eke out a scanty livelihood. It was seven years since her brother Willie’s de¬ parture, and she had quite given him up for lost, but the thought would often arise of how different things would be, if he had never left home. At daylight Mary arose, and having finished dressing, she again read a portion of the Bible, and knelt down to pray. When she arose she breakfasted off bread, and the milk the landlady’s boy brought her, having previously* drank a quarter of it on his way. Mary took her purse and paid him for it with her last penny, and then sat down to work. By dinner-time the embroidery was finished, and after dining on bread and water, she put on her bonnet and shawl, and trudged off on her solitary walk. It was a long and wearying one, though cheered by the reflection that she should be paid. When she arrived at the large handsome house in Grosvenor-square, she felt quite intimidated, and after standing for some time, to summon courage, she ner¬ vously rung the bell. It was opened by a page, who asked her what she wanted. “ I have brought home the work for Miss Leicester,” said Mary. The page retired, and returned in a few moments to say that Miss Leicester wished to see her. Mary’s heart palpitated violently as she followed the page along broad, carpeted staircases, and he paused at last at a door, opened it, and ushered Mary in, with the remark, “ Miss Leicester will be here in a moment.” Mary stood astonished at so much splendour which she had never imagined before. While gazing at the rich articles of vertu, spread in tempting confusion, the rustling of a silk dress was heard, and Miss Leicester, the heiress, appeared. “ So you have brought the work,” she said in a discon¬ tented tone, “ why did you not let me have it before ?” “ I could not finish it sooner, uia’am,” said Mary, humbly, “ the pattern was very difficult, and—” “ Oh, that is what you all say,” inter¬ rupted the young lady, “but let me see it” Mary showed it to her. It was a fine lawn pocket handkerchief, splendidly em¬ broidered ; but Miss Leicester examined it with a discontented air. “ How much do you charge ?” said she. “ Fifteen shillings, ma’am.” “ Exorbitant! I never heard such a price • ten shillings—” ’ “ I am very sorry, ma’am, I cannot do it tor less; indeed I cannot,” replied Marv much alarmed. ell, I shall see about it , I can’t pay you now, but call again in a day or two and ringing the bell, Miss Leicester left the r ?° m - Tlle P a g e returned, and Mary, with difficulty repressing her tears, followed him. When she got out of doors her grief burst forth. « Oh what shall I do ?” she thought, the rent is due to-day and the landlady will notWait; I must starve.” She covered her face with both her hands. A youno- man peered insolently under her bonnet but she did not notice it, and she walked hastily home, trying to repress her misery. She had scarcely reached home, and throw¬ ing off her bonnet and shawl, sat down abandoning herself to despair, before the landlady appeared. She was a coarse, hard- featured woman, and one could see at once that no favour might be expected from her She eyed Mary with a long stare. “ The rent is due to-day,” she said. “1 know it, Mrs. Barton,” replied poor Mary, “ but the lady has not paid me for my work, and I hope you will wait for a day or two.” “ Not I, indeed,” replied the vixen, “ I’ m not going to wait a day, nor an hour; so tramp, bag and baggage; and see if you can find any fool to take you in for charity.” Ut ^ M , r s- Barton, surely you will not be so very unkind. Only wait till to-morrow, and I will go and see the lady again. Have 1 ever neglected to pay you before ?” Perhaps the sight of Mary’s pale face awakened some feeling of compassion in Mis. Barton s heart; for muttering, “ Well p rhaps I may wait till to-morrow,” ahe A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 103 left tlie room. Poor Mary ! she cried till she thought her heart would break. She had no bread, and she could not buy any on credit. Oh, how she wept and sighed till sleep overpowered her, and in her dreams the figure of her landlady ap¬ peared, hauntiug her with her demand for payment. The following morning she awoke late and unrefreshed, and very mi¬ serable. Hunger, however, was the pre¬ dominant feeling, and that she could not satisfy. She struggled with the faintness which overpowered her, however, and en¬ deavoured to walk to Grosvenor-square. She felt at first refreshed by the air; but on passing a baker’s shop, the smell of the new bread entirely overpowered her, and she staggered and fell. A well-dressed young man was on the other side of the street. On seeing the crowd which was gathering around Mary, he crossed; and pressing forward, caught a glimpse of her face. He exclaimed, in a loud tone, “ My sister, as I live !” and push¬ ing through the crowd which opened before him, Willie Wilton, as we have no doubt the reader has guessed before, knelt down before Mary, and earnestly looked into her face. “Tisshe! Oh what a change!” he ex¬ claimed, as he raised her from the ground, and carried her into a chemist’s shop close by. It was some time ere Mary recovered from her fainting fit, and when she did, she could not at first believe that the tall, hand¬ some, well-dressed man who was bending over her could be her brother. A few words, however, made her understand the sudden change, and deep was her joy. Willie called a cab, and placing his sister in it, drove to his own lodgings in Craven-street. On his way there, he discovered that his sister was faint from want of food, and laying her on the sofa, tenderly ministered to her wants. When she had eaten, she felt much better, and besought her brother to tell her his adventures. He told her that the Dauntless was wrecked on an island, on her passage out, and all the crew—with the exception of himself and a sailor named Elliot—were drowned. They lived on this island for some days, subsisting on limpets and muscles. One morning they saw a sail in the distance, and made a bonfire on the highest pinnacle of rock. This was perceived, and the vessel, after approaching the land, despatched a boat, which conveyed Willie aud Elliot to the ship, which was a French one—the In - trepide , commanded by Captain Le Brim, and bound for California. Here they ar¬ rived after a prosperous voyage, and Willie, thoroughly sickened of the sea, applied him¬ self in good earnest to make his fortune. He amassed a considerable quantity of gold, sufficient to maintain him in comfort and independence, and returned to England after an absence of seven years. He had never written, wishing to come home and surprise them all; but bitter was his grief and self-reproach when, on reaching the home of his childhood, he found it occupied by another family, and heard that his father and mother were both dead, and that his sister had gone to London. Thither he had followed her, and was almost despairing of finding her, when his attention was at¬ tracted by the confusion in the street. Mary herself had also much to relate. She told him all her troubles, and when she came to the landlady, Willie started up, and said he would give her such a rating as she never had before; but at Mary’s en¬ treaty, he sat down pacified, and listened to the conclusion of her story. After a week, during which her brother tended her carefully, Mary was completely restored to health; and soon after, Willie bought a snug little house in the suburbs of London; and there they lived happily, forgetting the troubles through which they had passed, or only remembering them as a subject for thankfulness and gratitude to the Almighty for having reunited them. There is a proverb which says, that “ when the night is at its darkest point, then the dawn is most near.” And this proverb, like our story, gives encourage¬ ment to those in affliction, who, when their sorrows are deepest, may cherish the hope that the hour of succour is at hand. THE REASON WHY. 372. Why does a bright metal tea-pot produce better tea than a brown or black earthenware one ? Because bright metal radiates but little heat, therefore the water is kept hot much longer, and the strength of the tea is extracted by the heat. 104 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 373. 1hit if the earthenware tea-pot were set by the Jire, why would it then make the best tea ? Because the dark earthenware tea-pot is a good absorber of heat , and the heat it would absorb from the fire would more than counterbalance the loss by radiation . 374. How would the metal tea-pot answer if set upon the hob by the fire ? The bright metal tea-pot would probably absorb less heat than it would radiate. There¬ fore it would not answer so well, being set upon the hob , as the earthenware tea-pot. 375. Why should dish covers be plain in orm , and have bright surfaces ? Because, being bright and smooth, they will not allow heat to escape by radiation. 376. Why should the bottoms and back parfs of kettles and saucepans be allowed to remain black ? Because a thin coating of soot acts as a good absorber of heat, and overcomes the non-absorb - ing quality of the bright surface. 377. J But why should soot be prevented from accumulating in flakes at the bottom and sides of kettles and saucepans ? Because, although soot is a good absorber of heat, it is a very bad conductor, an accumulation of it, therefore, would cause a waste of fuel, by retarding the effects of heat. 378. Why should the lids and fronts of kettles and saucepans be kept bright ? Because bright metal will not radiate heat; therefore the heat which is taken up readily through the absorbing and conducting power of the bottom of the vessel, is kept in and econo¬ mised by the non-radiating property of the bright top and front. 379. Does cold radiate as well as heat ? It was once thought that cold radiated as well as heat. But a mass of ice can only be said to radiate cold, by its radiating heat in less abun¬ dance than that which is emitted from other bodies surrounding it. It is, therefore, incorrect to speak of the radiation of cold. 380. Why , if you hold apiece of looking- glass at an angle toivards the sun , will light fall upon an object opposite to the looking-glass ? Because the rays of the sun are reflected by the looking-glass. 381. Why , when we stand before a mirror , do ive see our features therein ? Because the rays of light that fall upon us are reflected upon the bright surface of the mirror. 382. Why , if a plate of bright metal toere held sideways before a fire , would heat fall upon an object opposite to the plate ? Because rays of heat may be reflected in the same manner as the rays of light. 383. Why would not the same effect arise if the plate ivere of a black or dark substance ? Because black and dark substances are not good reflectors of heat. 384. What are the best reflectors of heat ? All smooth,light-coloured, and highly polished surfaces, especially those of metal . 385. Why does meat become cooked more thoroughly and quickly when a tin screen is placed before the fire ? Because the bright tin reflects the ravs of heat back again to the meat. 386. W hy is reflected heat less intense than the primary heat ? Because it is impossible to collect all the rays, and also because a portion of the caloric, impart¬ ing heat to the rays, is absorbed by the air, and by the various other bodies with which the rays come in contact. 387. Can heat be reflected in any great degree of intensity ? Aes; to such a degree that inflammable matters may be ignited by it. If a cannon ball be made red hot, and then be placed in an iron stand between two bright reflectors, inflamma¬ ble materials, placed in a proper position to catch the reflected rays, will ignite from the heat. Linere is a curious and an exceptional fact \\ lth reference to reflected heat, for which we confess that we are unable to give “ The Reason Why . It is found that snow, which lies near the trunks of trees or the base of upright stones, melts before that which is at a distance from them, though the sun may shine equally upon both. If a blackened card is placed upon ice or snow under the sun’s rays, the frozen body underneath it will be thawed before that which surrounds it. But if we reflect the sun’s rays from a metal surface, the result is directly con¬ trary —the exposed snow is the first to melt leaving the card standing as upon a pvramid* Snow melts under heat which is reflected from the trees or stones while it withstands the effect of the direct solar rays. In passing through a cemetery this winter (1857), when the snow was deep, we were struck with the cir¬ cumstance that the snow in front of the head¬ stones facing the sun was completely dissolved ai } • ’ Jxt. nearly ? very ins tance, the space on which the snow had melted assumed a coffin- like shape. This forced itself so much upon our attention that we remained some time to endeavour to analyse the phenomena; and it was not until we remembered the curious effect of reflected heat that we could account for it. It is obvious that the rays falling from the A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 105 upper part of the head-stone on to the foot of the grave would be less powerful than those that radiated from t\\c centre oi the stone to the , ' centre of the grave. Hence it was that the heat dissolved at the foot of the grave only a narrow piece of snow, which widened towards the i centre, and narrowed again as it approached the foot of the head £one, where the lines of radia¬ tion would naturally decrease. Such a phe- j nomena would prove sufficient to raise super¬ stition in untutored minds.] 388. Are good reflectors of heat also good absorbers ? No ; for reflectors at once send back the heat which they receive, while absorbers retain it. It is obvious, therefore, that reflectors cannot I be good absorbers. 389. How do fire-screens contribute to keep rooms cooil Because the reflector turns away from the persons in the room rays of heat which would otherwise make the warmth excessive. 390. Why are white and light articles of clothing cool 1 Because they reflect the rays of heat. [White, as a colour , is also a bad absorber and conductor .] 391. Why is the air often found exces¬ sively hot in chalk districts 1 Because the soil reflects upon the objects near to it the heat of the solar ray’s. 392. How does the heat of the sun's ray's ultimately become diffused ? It is first absorbed by the earth. Generally speaking, the earth absorbs heat by day, and radiates it by night. In this way an equilibrium of temperature is maintained, which we should not otherwise have the advantage of. 393. Does not the air derive its heat directly from the sun's rays ? Only partially. It is estimated that the air absorbs only one-third of the caloric of the sun s ray’s—that is to say, that a ray of solar heat, entering our atmosphere at its most attentuated limit (a height supposed to be about fifty-miles), would, in passing through the atmosphere to the earth, part with only one-third of its calorific element. 39*4?. What becomes of the remaining two- thirds of the solar heat 1 They are absorbed chiefly by the earth , the gieat medium of calorific absorption ; but some portions are taken up bv living things , both animal a^.d vegetable. When the rays of heat strike upon the earth’s surface, they are passed from particle to particle into the interior of the earth’s crust. Other portions are distributed through the air and water by convection , and a third portion is thrown back into space by radiation. 395. How do we know that heat is ab¬ sorbed , and conducted into the internal earth 1 It is found that there is a given depth beneath the surface of the globe at which an equal tem¬ perature prevails. The depth increases as we travel south or north from the equator, and corresponds with the shape of the earth’s surface, sinking under the valleys , and rising under the hills. 396. Why may we not understand that this internal heat of the earth arises, as has been supposed by many philosophers , from internal combustion 1 Because recent investigations have thrown considerable and satisfactory light upon the sub¬ ject. It has been ascertained that the internal temperature of the earth increases to a certain depth, one degree in every fifty feet. But that, below a certain depth the temperat ure begins to decline , and continues to do so with every increase of depth, 397. Do plants absorb heat 1 Yes. They both absorb and radiate heat under varying circumstances. The majestic tree, the meek flower, the unpretending grass, all perform a part in the grand alchemy of nature. [When we gaze upon a rose it is not its beauty alone that should impress us: every moment of that flower’s life is devoted to the fulfilment of its part in the grand scheme of the universe. It decomposes the rays of solar light, and sends the pink rays only to our eyes. It absorbs or radiates heat, according to the temperature of the aerial mantle that wraps alike the flower and the man. It distils tke gaseous vapours, and restores to man the 'vital air on which he lives. It takes into its own substance, and in¬ corporates with its own frame, the carbon and the hydrogen of which man has no immediate need/ It drinks the dew-drop or the rain-drop, and gives forth its sweet odour as a thanks¬ giving. And when it dies, it preaches eloquently to beauty, pointing to the end that is to cornel] —From a highly interesting and instructive work “ The Reason Why,” price 2s. Qd., 352 pages. 398. MUTTON, AND ALL ITS USES. —TO CHOOSE MUTTON.—There is great diversity of opinion as to which breed of sheep produces the finest and best flavoured meat. The south down is generally considered to be the best, but I have heard great difference of opinion ; some say the Scotch Chevoit is more full flavoured, and closer in the grain; then you will have another class of epicures tell you that nothing equals the Welsh mutton for richness of flavour. In my opinion, if you can get either of them, you may he well contented. I know it is useless to say that mutton is considered best when it is five 106 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: years old; for it is almost an impossibility to find such a thing now-a-days; if it can be got three year old, I think it cannot be bettered much. Mutton to roast, and, in fact, however you may wish to cook it, should always be allowed to hang as long as it will without spoiling. Young mutton will, if squeezed with the lingers, feel tender, if old it will remain wrinkled; the fat will also be clammy and fibrous; in ram mutton the grain is close and of a deep red, and the fat spongy • in ewe mutton, the flesh is paler than in the wether, and has a closer grain. Short-shanked mutton is reckoned the best. The best mutton to boil is the half-bred Southdown and Leicester, the fat being of a lighter colour than the other breeds. 399. TIME REQUIRED FOR COOK¬ ING. — Mutton should be roasted ten minutes to the pound, and boiled a quarter of an hour. 400. HAUNCH OF MUTTON (PLAIN). —With plain roast or boiled joints of mutton, you should observe simplicity and cleanliness in cooking them. The haunch of mutton should hang as long as it will keep good; then cut off the shank and trim the flap, or under part, put it down to a brisk fire, keeping it near the fire for the first ten minutes, and then at a moderate dis¬ tance until done; before taking up, dredge it with a little flour and put it closer to the fire to froth it up; then dish; pour a pint of boiling water oyer the meat, to which add a little colouring and catsup. 401. ANOTHER WAY.—Take a haunch of mutton well hung, trim it properly, tie it in a cloth, and boil one hour; then take it up and roast one hour and a quarter. When nearly the time to dish, baste it with a little butter in the ladle, dredge it with Horn and salt, put it near the fire and turn quickly, to froth it, then dish and serve with a rich gravy (see Mock Venison 402). (This is a very favourite dish at one of the clubs in the West-end of London). 402. MOCK VENISON.-Cut a hind quarter of fat mutton like a haunch of venison; get your butcher to let it lie in some sheep’s blood five or six hours ; then let it hang in cold weather for a month, or as long as it will keep good; then rub it over with some fresh butter, and strew over it a mixture of salt and flour, butter a sheet of paper, and lay over it, and another over that, or some paste, and tie it round ; if it is large it will take two hours and a half to roast. Before it is taken up, take off the paper or paste and baste it well with butter ; flour it, and let it turn quickly so as to put a nice froth on it; serve it with good made gravy thus ; 1 pint of stock gravy, 1 gill 0 f port wine, a little pepper and salt, some catsup, a little thickening, and a spoonful of currant jelly—there should also be currant jelly on the table. 403. TO HASH MUTTON VENISON FASHION (WITHOUT ONIONS).-Take three pints of stock gravy, put it into a saucepan, and let it boil; then add a gill of port wine, some cayenne pepper and salt some flour to thicken, and a little bit of butter. < Put your meat cut into slices in, and let it simmer four or five minutes. Do not let it boil or the meat will become hard • make a nice puff paste (see 201), roll it out’ then cut it into diamonds and fry them in boiling fat (see 198); then dish the hash placing the sippits of puff paste round the dish. Currant jelly on table. 404. TO HASH MUTTON IN THE COMMON HOMELY WAY.-Take three pints of stock gravy, a large onion cut into rings, some pepper and salt; let them boil until the omon is done; then add a little thickening, or, if there is any cold melted butter left from the day before, it will do as weU; put in your meat, and let it simmer for ten minutes. Toast a round of bread cut into diamonds, and place it round the dish; then pour the hash into the dish, and 203; ^ “ ealey P ° tat0es - C To cook > see 405. SADDLE OF M UTTON.-Zb cook Plain, (see 287;.—Take off the skin near the tad without taking it quite off or break¬ ing it; take some lean ham, green onions, parsley, thyme, and sweet herbs, all chop¬ ped together, with some allspice, pepper, and salt, strew it over the mutton where the skin is taken off; put the skin over it neatly and tie oyer it some buttered paper; roast it- when it is nearly done, take off the paper strew over it some grated bread crumbs, and when it is nicely browned take it up, serve with some rich gravy (see Mock Venison, 403 * 43 i™ ° Saddle> * ee 208; t0 hash > see A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 4 107 406. THE LEG OF MUTTON may be Cooked the same as the haunch, 400, or 407. BOILED LEG OF MUTTON (PLAIN).—Boil a leg of mutton, allow¬ ing a quarter of an hour to each pound, putting it in cold water; and when done, serve with caper sauce, made thus :— 408. CAPER SAUCE.—Take a little butter ( see 208), to which add two table- spoonsful of the best French capers, a little of the vinegar they are pickled in; if possi¬ ble, every caper should be cut in two. Serve in a boat. The proper vegetables for this joint are turnips, either mashed or plain, and carrots. When spinach is in season, it is very good with it. 409. THE LEG BOILED WITH CAULIFLOWERS AND SPINACH.— Take a leg of mutton and boil it in a cloth; have three or four cauliflowers boiled in milk and water; pull them into sprigs, and stew them in butter, pepper, salt, and a little milk. Stew some spinach in a saucepan; put to the spinach a quarter of a pint of gravy, out of the mutton sauce¬ pan, a piece of butter and flour; when it is done put the mutton in the middle of the dish, the spinach round it, and the cauli¬ flowers over all. The butter the cauliflower was boiled in must be poured over it, and it must be melted like a fine smooth cream. 410. A LEG OF MUTTON STUFFED WITH OYSTERS.—Make a forcemeat of beef suet, chopped small, two eggs boiled hard, a tablespoonful of anchovy sauce, a small onion, thyme, and a dozen oysters, cut very small, some grated nutmegs, pepper, salt, and crumbs of bread, and one egg beaten, all mixed up together; stuff the mutton under the skin, in the thickest part under the flap and at the knuckle; serve with a sauce made thus : stew a dozen oysters; add a little port wine, some an¬ chovy sauce, and a little thickening; pour it over the mutton. Having been prepared in this way, it may either be roast or boiled, whichever you prefer. 411. MUTTON CUTLETS.—Let a leg of mutton hang as long as it will keep, cut the collops from it the cross way, season with pepper and salt, cut two or three chalots and a little parsley very small, and strew them over; then flour the collops, put them into a stew-pan, with a little butter; they will be done in a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes; put to them half a pint of stock gravy, a little cayenne, some catsup, more flour if the sauce is not thick enough, let it simmer a few minutes, gar¬ nish with pickles cut into squares. 412. ROAST SHOULDER OF MUT¬ TON AND ONION SAUCE.—This is a very favourite dish in humble life. Take a shoulder of mutton, not too fat , and roast it, allowing ten minutes to the pound; when it is done, serve with onion sauce (see 200) in a tureen. Some people smother it with this sauce; but, I think, the best plan is as I have directed, for some people have an aversion to onions, and by my plan they are not compelled to eat them or taste their flavour. The shoulder of mutton may be cooked in all other ways the same as the haunch. 413. BOILED SHOULDER, WITH RICE.—Take a shoulder of mutton, and half boil it, put in a stew-pan with two quarts of the liquor that it was boiled in, a quarter of a pound of rice, two table- spoonsful of mushroom catsup, with a little beaten mace; let it stew until the rice is tender, then take up the mutton and keep it hot; put to the rice a pint of milk, a piece of butter rolled in flour, stir it well, and let it boil a few minutes; lay the mutton in the dish, and pour the rice over it. 414. ROAST LOIN OF MUTTON PLAIN.—This joint is very seldom roasted, being the part from wdience the best chops come; but it may be roasted plain (see Haunch, 400), or as 415. OXFORD HARE.—Bone a loin of mutton; make a stuffing with bread crumbs, chopped parsley, and sweet herbs, grated lemon peel, nutmeg, pepper, salt, chopped suet, an egg, all mixed together; put this where the bones come from ; skewer it up, and roast it two hours. Serve with a rich gravy (see Mock Venison). There should he currant jelly on the table . 416. HARRICO MUTTON.-Cut the neck or the loin into chops, fry them, flour them, put them into a stew-pan with three pints of stock gravy, a carrot and turnip sliced, an onion stuck with cloves, a little pepper and salt; let them stew until quite tender; they will take three hours, as they should do gently. Take out the mutton, strain the sauce, put into it carrots, turnips, 108 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: and celery already boiled and cut into squares; simmer these a minute or two in the sauce, lay the mutton on the dish, pour the sauce over it. If it cannot be served immediately, put the mutton into the sauce to keep hot. 417. MUTTON CHOP.—To cook a mutton chop well is a great art; they should not be cut too thin, and should be done over a nice bright coal fire, they will take from eight to ten minutes; when the fat is transparent and the lean leels hard, the chop is done; it should be served on a very hot plate, and with a nice mealy potato hot. In dressing a chop never stick a fork into it. Tomato sauce is likewise served with it. 418. TOMATO SAUCE.—Take four ripe tomatas, slice them, squeeze out the seeds and water, and put them with salt, cayenne pepper, pounded mace, and allspice, into a stew-pan without any water, and let them simmer slowly in their own liquor till quite dissolved; pass them through a fine hair sive, beat them up with a bit of butter, and serve over the chops. 419. BREAST OF MUTTON may be boiled plain and served the same as the leg (409), or it may be collared thus 420. COLLARED BREAST OF MUT¬ TON.—Take the skin off and bone it, roll and tie it round with tape, put a pint of milk and two ounces of butter into the drip¬ ping-pan, and baste it well while it is roast¬ ing. Serve with a rich sauce (see Mock Venison, 402). Currant jelly to be on the table. 421. NECK OF MUTTON.—The neck of mutton may be boiled plain, as the le°- or as 422. IRISH STEW.—Cut it into cutlets and bod it gently for an hour and a half with two large onions cut up an put in with it. Have some potatoes ready cooked, mash them and put into the saucepan with the meat. Mind and see that there is not too much liquor in the saucepan, for it should not be too thin; season to taste with pepper and salt, then serve, laying the cutlets round the dish and the mashed potatoes on them, with some whole potatoes in the middle. This is best on a cold day. The neck may be roasted plain the same as the haunch, or baked over potatoes, but I should not recommend any one to hash it. for it does not make a good hash, and is far sweeter cold than any other part of the sheep. The neck is the part from which Harico is made, the same as the Loin (see Loin, 414). 423. NAMES OF THE JOINTS OF MUTTON.— A. Shanks. ^ B. Leg. I m C. Flap. rThe Haunch. D. Chump Loin .) FJ. Chop Loin. F. Best end of the Neck. O. Scrag. H. Breast. I. Shoulder. J. Head. 424. TO BROIL SHEEP’S KIDNEYS —Take off the skin, split them open lengthways without dividing them, run a skewer through them to keep open, and lay over a good brisk fire, with the cut sides towards it; turn three times, and they will be done in ten minutes; sprinkle over them a little pepper and salt, and serve; a rasher of fat bacon is eaten with them sometimes. 425. SHEEP’S HEAD.-The sheep’s head is hardly worth cooking in any other A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 109 way than as broth, lo make broth, get a tine head, and scald the wool oil tlm same as the calves head; then put it into a saucepan with a gallon of water, and let it boil ^ently for three hours; having put in with the head a carrot and turnip sliced, and an onion or two, the skum should be taken off five or six times, so as to get it perfectly free from grease; take out the head, cut the meat from the bones into squares, and put them into the saucepan again with the liquor, leaving the turnips, carrots, and onions in also; season, with pepper and salt, add a little flour to thiekeu, and serve in basons, with some toast cut into squares in the bason, and a little chopped parsley, fresh. The sciag end of the neck, shank bones, or teet, will make broth as well as the head. 426. THINGS IN SEASON IN MARCH.— Meat. —Beef, Mutton, Pork, and House-lamh. Poultry and Game.— Hares, Rabbits, Woodcocks, Snipes, Wild Fowl, Turkeys, Capons, Pullets, Fowls, Chickens, Pigeons, and Larks. Flsn ._Carp, Tench, Lampreys, Eels, Pike, Cod, Soles, Flounders, Plaice, Tur¬ bot, Skate, Smelts, Whitings, Lobsters, Crabs, Crayfish, Prawns, Oysters. Salmon coming in. Vegetables. —Cabbage, Savoys, Cole- wort. Sprouts, Brocoli, Sea-kale, Leeks, Onions, Beet, Endive, Sorrel, Celery, Spinach, Garlic, Potatoes, Turnips Pars¬ nips, Shelots, Kidney-beans (forced), Let¬ tuces, Cresses, &c. Fruit.— Apples, Pears, Oranges, and Strawberries (forced). Mary Bodkin 427. AMERICAN PUDDING.—I send herewith a receipt of an American pudding, which, having tried, I can recommend as being exceedingly nice. Take two teaspoons- ful of flour, one teaspoonful of milk, one teaspoonful of moist sugar, one egg, tablesspoonsful of butter, one teaspoonful of cream of tartar, one teaspoonful of car¬ bonate of soda. Flavour with lemon peel, bake till just set in moderate oven. Serve ivith sweet sauce and wine, if prefered. A nice cheap pudding, costing about 9d—J. S. C. 428. A NEW PASTIME.—For the sake of home enjoyments, it is desirable from time to time to have something new. The best entertainments weary when oft-re¬ peated. It is also very important to blend with our amusements the sources of in¬ struction, and of elevated thought, provided that these can be secured without so tar in¬ terfering with the entertainment as to make it partake more of the character of a study than of a pastime. In the new amusement which we are about to propose, we think the two elements of entertain¬ ment and instruction are so evenly com¬ bined, that the game will be found to be a very pleasant and profitable one. W e pro¬ pose to call it “That Reminds Me,” and give the following explanation of its rules. 3 We will suppose there are eight persons seated round a table :— Mrs. A. names an object, such as a Piece of Coal, and says, “ That reminds me of the fire — Mr. B. “ And the social cup of tea.” Mrs. C. “ And of China whence it comes. Mr. D. “ And of Canton where the war is. Mrs. E. “ And of the poor who have no fire. Mrs. F. “ And of the workers in the mines. Mrs. G. “ Mho often die by sad explosions.” Mrs. H. " Caused by the gas of coal.” Mr. A. “Which Davy lamps would have prevented.” [It has now come round to Mr. B., who, as Mr. A. commenced, has the option of starting a fresh subject, or continuing that of coal. He therefore uses the words “ That reminds me, thus—] Mr. B. “ That reminds me of Sir Humphrey Davey ” Mrs. C. “Who took much pains to prevent explosions.” ^ . „ Mrs. D. “ By making lamps of wire gauze. Mrs. E. “ Through which the flame will not ignite the gas.” Mr. F. “ Gas lights our street. Mrs. G. “ Inflates balloons.” Mrs. 11. “ Is used for heat and cookery. Mr A. “And all our towns look lit with stars. Mrs. B. “ When from a distance viewed. Mrs. C. (who has now the option of continu¬ ing the subject, or changing it, says), Hon “ That reminds me of the wonders wrought by coal. , . , „ Mrs. D. “ And of steam. Mrs. E. “ They form the trinity of progress. Mr. F. “ They cleave the ocean.” Mrs. H. “ They defy the winds. „ Mr A “ They’re swifter than the hound. Mrs B “Thev’re grand in peace, and ternbie Mrs C. “War, that reminds me of Napoleon. Mr D. “Who was by birth a Corsican. [Here may follow the chief events of Napo¬ leon’s life.] 110 THE CORNER CUPBOARD learn how to tame her At m ‘?- v raclp 0 s 0 w Sh rt (nay f Worse than ' that—only m^Cha 1 ShStatoS? ssi s»> “ lve! a fees r»'='»SST7o?X out that Fate may have it in storp for O Blirv thpir 1 J 171 1/50 inctnnj jy' , ^ iSSESsSa-ssrf such injurious insinuations-do not wii ! 1US1 P ass su’s Sri UaSsnir" iKSStJ^Tfi.'p." ,uitJ - and scholitfc And lastly, another from a lady, who rives us no hint as to her Hytneuial condition 430. CHARADE 27. "to ? 11 Wi J kins °n. and what’s the news?” ™'yn°t exactly what I’d choose ’ M Onr {f. and rorr i ? will not excuse Our staying out last nieht;— In this way every conceivable subject! m,l y. ; e made the theme of an instructive | pastime. Each person is required to say only one sentence, or to state only one fact. It will frequently happen that there will be opportunities for the livelier spirits of the company to offer a joke, such as might have been given respecting the habit of ladies gossiping over their tea-cups, &c. An hour devoted to this exercise would, we are sure, be agreeably spent, and would serve very materially to quicken the faculties, and enlarge the information of all who took part in it. ._ En1? 9 ,^ SWE 5, T0 CHARADE, - IGMA, &c.—At length we have re- Sfi Cd Th 1 T FS t0 Charade 27 ’ and En! gma ■c„ , former was firs t answered by “a r* fe ’ ' V1 °, has thereby won the wreath “WiHv”^ «vn‘ >> Sh ° SignS her namc •i \* i° r we can scarcely de- cide which. The next answer received was from a husband” (A. J.), and in commu- mcating his solution he assured us that he anori 0t firSt ” f ° r a wife * Tli Gn came another, whom we will allow to speak for Now W ill, to what I say, attend You know I always am your friend M hat is it all these jamngs send; * But just a moment think > Because vour earnings you will spend, ell as time, in drink. As weli a ' V ,H e is a £ ood wife I know. And would you Bury all your woe, i ou must on her more care bestow And then what should we see? * ^?r Wlfe m .Sl l ™ivsbury would show it ^ 0 iT e m quiet love than she. Kentish Town. Ja?t: p us T 411 * ir ENIGMA 248. In a Mother’s boudoir a rich bound book Rut n 1S op S n ’ d with smiling look • ut now its page does a tear-dron stain ’ Its tender pathos is fraught Its clasps are fasten’d, and smiles of mirfR Agam on her blooming brow find birth Ann/ 0 ? 1 ? appears - who this day has been Appointed a page to the Island Queen On^?i phus dear > we must not forget r • V e f 11 unfinished yet • I wish. Oh ! I wish they were far awnv I am just in the humour for sporUo-dly. Wtthth Jr t . h ° Se hateful bo °ks, TW ut classical names and musty looks • They tire my patience and rack my brain 8 ’ Their mystical riches I never sLVga™?’ The brother said, smiling. “Come sister Do took SttSiS 1 . “ *"• J"" lonS."' fess'Sis ss« &»■». S* froio her wearied efforts can rest " ith plenty enshrined in her little nest. ’ P? ® is * er > mine, by no sudden leap steep? St fr ° m 0ur labour 011 learning’s MdthS U e n fT eari ? d : ) determinate will, tt th sbt of knowledge the mind must fill. “Away to our studies; to-morrow shall ’Tri Z e T fr °?\V in tramn 'els Sit free • Tisth^Lord Mayor’s-day, and they now prt’ Ke A nSh Town! UrpaSS !ll!! y ^ and *“ so that the top of the loop stands, say about six inches from the ground; and in order to keep it in its SSKlS * 1,66 °/ wood <* ta the O iound a little way from the run, and in Ffc. 1-Hum, c wisa , „ ^ surface, so as to give no appearance of an unusual character. It is unnecessary to bait the trap. But there is a method of attracting the hare to the spot, which only regular hare-catchers would be likely to re¬ sort to and by them it has been found very effectual. It is to save, when you open a hare, the urinary bladder, and to keep it (no matter how long) until you in¬ tend to trap another. Then squeeze out a few drops of the urine over the place where the trap is set, and trail the bladder alono- the ground, leading to the trap-that is° tie it to a string, and drag it along, so as- to leave the scent upon the run. If there is a hare alive near the spot, it is sure to be caught by these means. Precaution should be taken to tie the trap to a bough or a peg in the ground, by a piece of strong the top of the peg there is a slit, which l e Z eS J° Catch tbe ends of the wires and hold them in position. The wires must be tied firmly at the end to a string which may he on the ground; the end’of the S g from° U t h d e be tied fr b ° U ^ sud *ciently t?s nnl?J h l, r - Und . t0 yield a little when it is pulled. Ibis yielding of thp bmiM, prevents the hare from snapping the string, which it would otherwise do in its endeavours to escape. 444. Netting Hares is effected in the same way as the netting of rabbits the of bef^1hK, ac Bu s t ltVZ s ; SS2 off lla. 1 * “ less the 44o. Rabbits are trapped in the same way as hares, but the traps are not required A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 115 to be of the same strength. They are also taken by some other methods not applicable to the catching of hares. Rabbits are well known to burrow in the earth, and also to keep much closer at home than hares. 446. The Rabbit Snare is made and set the same as for a hare, only two wires are used instead of three. But there is an ingenious method of taking rabbits by single wires, and what is called a “springle.” A strong and springy stick is stuck deep into the ground, in an upright direction; its smaller end is then bent over, and also buried in the ground sufficiently to keep it down. To this end a wire is tied by a short string, and when the rabbit is caught his first jump pulls the end of the springle out of the ground, and it then lifts the rabbit completely from terra jirma, thereby depriving him of all power of escape. 417. The Steel Trap is set for rabbits the same as for hares, and the bladder of a pre¬ vious rabbit is made precisely the same use of, and with equal effect. 448. Rabbits are Netted with the aid of ferrets. A ferret being put into a hole, a square net—about a yard square—is simply thrown over the mouth of the hole or holes; the rabbit runs out with a jump, and is instantly entangled in the net, so that escape is impossible. This mode of netting is far easier and more expeditious than the loop-netting , in which the net is made as a bag, drawn together by a run¬ ning string, for this method gives con¬ siderable trouble to get the rabbit out, whereas ic is perfectly easy to take him from the square net. 449. The form of trap called the “ tipe ” is only applicable to large warrens, or to places where rabbits so abound as to make it a point of importance to reduce their numbers. A large pit is dug in the ground, so numerous, that we will first point out a few systems of trapping and snaring which apply to a great variety of birds, and after¬ wards will describe, under the names of particular birds, the modes adopted spe¬ cially for them. 451. The Dovra-PALL (Fig. 2) is an effective trap for taking Field-fares, Thrushes, Redwings, Blackbirds, Larks, Sparrows, Starlings, and all birds that congregate upon the ground. It is most effective when snow lies upon the ground, for then the birds being hungry are less shy in the pursuit of food. The trap consists of an iron or wooden hoop (iron ones are to he preferred), covered with a net with meshes of about one inch. The lighter the net the better. The hoop is put to stand at an angle, as in the engraving, and is propped up by a piece of stick about two feet in length. At the bottom of the net, and lying upon that part of the hoop which rests upon the ground, is placed a heavy stone, in such a way, that directly the stick is withdrawn, the net will diop down rapidly upon the birds. A long string is tied to the stick, and is held by a person who keeps as far away from the trap as is compatible with his being able to see when birds are under it. It is best not to drop the trap when a single bird enters, as it will serve as a decoy, and a little patience will be re¬ warded by the capture of a number of birds, instead of one. The hoop should be about three or four feet in diameter. 452. To Bait the Down-fall, the snow should be scraped away, not only Immediately underneath the trap, but for some distance around it, and food should be strewed under the net, and a little also on the out¬ side, to attract the birds. The kind of bait to be employed depends upon the descrip¬ tion of birds you desire to catch. Field - and over this is a false surface, just like the f fares feed upon hips, haws, the fruit of the ground, so evenly balanced by a hinge that the weight of a rabbit will turn it com¬ pletely over. The trap being thus pre¬ pared, the door is kept fixed for a night or two to give the rabbits confidence. Then it is set free, and in this way large num¬ bers of rabbits may be taken in a single night. 450. Bieds.—T here are various me¬ thods of trapping birds; and the species of birds, with the means of trapping them, are whitethorn, and the wild rose, and various kinds of worms, snails, and insects. They are fond of black-beetles, cock-roaches, &c., which, being caught in our houses, may be used to bait the traps, after being scalded in boiling water to kill them. Thrushes , Redwings , and RlacJclirds are attracted by the same bait as Fieldfares. Starlings are fond of the same bait as the previous birds, but exhibit a strong liking for eggs; they are also remarkably fond of 116 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: cherries, and will eat various kinds of grain. Larks generally (there are several kinds of them) are attracted by the seed grasses, and by small insects. There is a system of “twirling ” for larks, which, though it does not strictly pertain to trapping, we shall explain hereafter. 453. The down-fall is an excellent method ot capturing birds required for the cage, as it does them no injury. It may, moreover, be used at any time of the year, though with less eltect than in the winter, as far as con¬ cerns the number of birds captured. But any one knowing the harbour of a thrush or a blackbird, which has been heard to give forth superior notes, maybe sure of captur¬ ing it \s ith the aid of the down-fall, and the exercise of a little patience. 454 Birds of various kinds are also cap¬ tured by horse-hair loops (Fig. 5 ). The best method is to tie a large number of loops upon a long string, the longer the better, and to lay this string in a series of rings winding outward from the centre, so that the ground will be completely covered with them. The trap, with the loops pro¬ perly opened, should be laid on a spot re- sorted to by birds. Wien a bird gets its teet into a loop, it is almost certain to draw the loop tightly around its legs, and thus be caught. 455. Another method of taking birds is by what is called “bat-fowling,” and also by bush-beating.” (Fig. 4). A large net, with a tine mesh, is mounted upon two lone poles, which are carried either by one or two persons. This system of trapping is pursued in the night-time, some two^ or three hours after the birds have gone to roost. A party walk before the net beating the bushes, the ivy, the thatches of barns, . c*, L . Some walk behind the net carry¬ ing a dim light, in a bulVs-eye lantern (a glass lantern diffuses the light too much). Dm birds, bein ? disturbed by the beating ot the bushes, fly out, and naturally take towards the light; in doing this, they fly against the net, which those who are carry¬ ing it quickly double oyer, and the bird is captured. Great numbers of birds may be taken in this way in a very short time. 456. Woodcocks, Partridges, and all other land birds are said to be easily taken by what is called “ Low-belling,” but which we have never seen tried. In this system I a strong light is employed, and two parties carry nets, one on either side of the person who bears the light. The light-bearer rings a large bell, and keeps on ringing it with a regular and unceasing jingle. The alarm of the birds, by the light and the bell, is said to be so great, that while some ily against the nets, others drop upon their backs on the ground, and will not move. But the moment the bell stops ringing they will spring up and fly away. Fig. 7. STEEt TBAP USED FOB FOXES, DOGS CATS ?AT*, R & T ITS ’ ST0AT8 ’ ^ S i * 0XE3> —These animals are, un¬ doubtedly, the greatest pests to the British armer, because the depredations they com¬ mit are unattended by any collateral ad- vantage The farmer whose ground is stocked by hares, rabbits, and birds, has the opportunity of letting the shooting there- ot, thereby obtaining some compensation : but with foxes he has no such an advantage, boxes are taken in steel traps. (Fin. 7.) 1 hese traps are made of various sizes, and degrees ot strength, and that used for the S 1S the trap which is usually called a c og-trap. The fox is an exceedingly wary animal, and great ingenuity is required to trap him The plan which we are about to give has been long practised with great success by our informant, who has tried all other methods, and found this one to be unquestionably the best. Procure from a butcher the small entrails of a sheep, or of a pig, and bury them under ground for a fortnight, until they become putrid. Then dig them up, and cut off a few short pieces but reserve one long piece. Dig a pit in the earth at the spot where you expect to entrap the fox, and at the bottomTf this pit drive down a piece of strong stick, and around this stick wind the long piece of entrails, covering it up with earth, and leaving only one end of the entrail showing out of the ground. The best place for this system of trapping is in a fallow field. Around this pde with the entrails wrapped A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 117 on it, set three steel traps, and bury them in tlie ground, so that the handle or spring of each trap touches near to the pile driven in the ground. Let them be placed at equal distances from each other, around this pile. Each trap must be strapped down in a manner that is certain to hold the fox when he is caught. The traps, of course, are to be set, but without any bait upon them. The bait being that which is placed in the centre of the three. Take the bits of entrails that have been cut oil, and stick them into the ground, leaving one end of each slightly showing. These will allure the fox to the centre piece, and give him confidence. When the traps are all set and covered, take a bough or a broom, and de¬ face all the tracks of feet, &c., over the traps, and for a space of ten feet all round. This bait will attract the fox from a long distance, and the plan never fails to catch him. The following artificial baits are sometimes used. 1. Sheep’s liver fried in the tincture of assafcetida. 2. Oil of am¬ ber, oil of anniseed, and oil of rhodium. 3. Oil of ammonia, oil of cassowary, oil of rho¬ dium, and oil of anniseed in various propor¬ tions. Our informant has tried all these, but none of them are to be compared with the plan we have given. By that method, he has caught a large number of foxes. 458. Cbaw Fish. —In the summer time these small shell-fish, which by many are highly esteemed for the table, and which furnish an elegant garnish placed around dishes of turbot, salmon, or cod, may be caught in large numbers in brooks and canals. A small hand-net (Fig. 7) mounted upon a hoop, and tied to a short stick, is all that is required for taking them. Into the middle of the net should be tied a piece of putrid sheep’s liver, or other meat in a putrid state. Fresh meat will do, but it does not attract them so well. Drop the net into the water, let it sink to the bottom and rest there a few minutes, then draw it up rather quickly. 459. Field and Garden* Mice. —These little animals commit serious depredations by turning up seed, destroying young trees, and burking various shrubs and plants. They have been known to eat through the roots of five-year old oaks and chesnuts, anc to bark hollies which were five or six feet high. In the Forest of Dean, in three months, 28,071 mice were captured in 1,693 acres of land. The above is a simple and effective trap for them. It consists of a common brick, with two bits of wood stuck into the ground. A bit of sewing thread is tied to each stick, and a loop is formed in the thread in the centre, into which a bean is put. To form this loop it is only necessary to take the two ends of the string and cross them, in the manner you would do if you were about to tie a common knot, then draw the ends, and the loop so formed will bo* Fig. 8. TRAP for field and gardex mice. come smaller; insert the bean, and draw the thread tight, until it sinks a little into the bean, which may be aided by making a slight indentation with your thumb-nail. Let the bean come half way between the two sticks, and let the brick rest upon the string, which should be tied tightly. When the mouse nibbles at the bean it will gnaw the thread, and down will fall the brick and kill the mouse at once. [The subject of Domestic Rats and Mice is of so much importance that we defer it until we have obtained information upon all the best methods,] 460. Moles. —Upon the relative de¬ structiveness or usefulness of moles there have been many discussions, and very op- Fig. 9. MOLE TRAP. posite opinions entertained. It seems to be generally agreed at; last that unless their numbers were kept down, they would soon overrun the country, and do incalculable mischief. Hence, in nearly every part, we find 118 the corner cupboard men who subsist by mole-catching, obtain¬ ing remuneration from farmers according to the number of moles they succeed in trapping The traps employed are wooden traps, and as are figured in Figs. 9 and 10 lake a piece of wood about four inches long two inches wide, and about half an inch thick. In one side of this wood insert S K*.° f r 0d A ’ A > Fi s- 9 - Bore a hole through the centre, and one at each end. Make two loops of wire by simply bending the wire and pushing it through the holes at each end, so as to n ei ? ds S f andin ^ U P a little way out of the holes, above the surface of the wood, wheie they are to be tied to a string. Iu the half circles of wood small grooves Fig. 10. MOLE TEAP 8ET. ba J e V be i ut) and the wire loops are to be opened so that the wires may lie in these ESP--** P'^e/ed over with ‘ tbe tra P has been made, pro- T ike ! t„ Sefc . lk m the follsw mg manner. S k »ftn?f- sh g - Cen 8fcic k to act as a“sprin- of ’it d p' C a r C °i Str ° ng Cord t0 the end ?} t- , Fass tha other end of this cord through the hole in the middle of the trap and tie a knot in it. This hole must be eS e v en A^D° let , the k " 0fc pass trough easily. a little wedge of wood (Fig. 9 B f then pushed up between the knot and the wood underneath, so as to keep the knot from slipping through, and two pieces of Fil 0 d in re t t 0 ir be P ‘> SSed aeross the tra P. as in D . 10 to keep it clown upon the ground The spnngle, Fig. 10, being fixed^n the ground, is now driven down and tied to the Th T g ° ' vblchthe wires are attached. trap ! s . fco be set in the run of the moles, which is to be ascertained by pushing a piece of stick in the ground, when the places where they have burrowed will be und by the stick sinking in easily. When the mole attempts to pass through its run it must go through one of the half-circles’ of the trap, and in doing so it moves the wedge w uch holds the knot of the string tied to the spnngle. This being done the spnngie flies up, draws the wire loops tight 461. There are various other systems of trapping netting, & c ., which we shall here¬ after explain. In fact, we intend to rive every one of the methods known, exSnt those that require a very large outlay such as fishing and bird-catching upon a very large scale for the markets. We shall com to those inventions inch are of domestic and agricultural importance. But upon the subject of trapping generally let us now sav 'that if become, the duty of every p"rS bavin ‘ eS 2 ? ‘ akC , th ? life of “ »"“»!• bow? ever low it may be m the scale of existence o cause it as little pain as possible. We are not of those who think it wrong to take life, because we know that God has given to man dominion over all the beasts of the field, and that death is the order of crea- lon. Since all these animals must die, as they prey one upon another—the spider upon the fly the sparrow upon the spader and the hawk upon the sparrowlaR on throughout a long chain of creation, it JJ 2 L b v, m , the power of man to destroy lem with less pam than they would have to suffer in other modes of death • and this we hold to be man’s duty. But’ with regard to many of these animals, if man were to neglect to keep their numbers down he would soon be overrun, and at gored 13 It r ; 1 S a! )SiStC n C< ; B WOllld be endan ' gerea it is as much the duty of man to keep down the “weeds,” if thev may be so tebleV/ am TV ife ’ as the weeda of vege. Sse of nei/- d he n h0 neglects either,^ case of need, is equally a sluggard. 462 SAUCE FOR A TURKEY.—Oper a pint of oysters into a basin, wash then from their liquor, and put them intc S ed'inS"' P0Ur l " e ^ £ 7 ’“° a saucepan, and put to it a little white gravy, and a tea-spoonful of lemon-pickle. Thicken with flour and utter, and boil it three or four minutes ut in a spoonful of thick cream, and theii the oysters. Shake them over the fire tin quite hot, but do not let them boil. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 119 463. PHENOMENA OF MARCH. .—Not many years ago, one day in March, a toddling child, who had spent the advent of its merry life in the busy rush of a far-spreading manufacturing town, and whose eyes had rarely been rejoiced by the smiling winsomeness of Nature in the fields and woods, ran into the room w T here we were sitting in a rural cottage, and clap¬ ping her hands, exclaimed with laughter and surprise—“ Oh ! mamma, come and look into the garden; the leaves are dan¬ cing, and the trees are clapping their hands.” Such was a child’s poetical de¬ scription of the effects of the wind on the gaunt boughs of the tall trees, and the broad leaves of the stately evergreens. And, verily, all Nature seemed to waken up and be gay. The wind sang varied me- : lodies as it rushed along, like a troop of spirits singing choral hymns of triumph. 464. “ With a voice of thunder it tore through the leafless oak, while ever and anon it fractured its stalwart limbs, and seemed to laugh in triumph at its victory over the king of the forest. With a solemn bass it chaunted through the sombre foliage of the cypress and the yew. With more martial music it roared, like the defiant shoutings of a giant excited with wine, through the huge arms of the budding elm. With the sound of dashing billows, it rushed through the poplar and the ash; while it went whistling piteously through the pliant wil¬ low. Like a mighty army of invaders, leaving desolation in its track, the vast mass of air, swifter than a bird, swept across the land, hurling every obstacle from its path.” “ The great struggle between Winter and Spring w f as over; and the for¬ mer, with precipitous haste, fled from the combat, roaring, and raving, and howling away; vengefully leaving what ruins he could, to indicate his power.” 465. The most remarkable phenomenon of the month of March, is Wind. Its bois¬ terousness is proverbial:—“ March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb.” The effects of the wind, too, have been noticed in the adages, “ A peck of March dust is worth a king’s ransom f* and, “ The rooks have picked up all the dirt.” The water in the earth, after having split up the clods of the mould under the influence of frost in January, was softened by the thaws of Feb - ruarv, and sinking down into the crevices of the ground, has carried along with it the vegetable and animal matters which it had held in solution, and which are intended for the nourishment of the roots of plants. But the ground is yet too sloppy to receive the seed; the surface of the earth must be dried; the water must be evaporated from between the particles of soil; this it is the office of March winds to effect. 466. Wind is air in motion. The question then arises—What are the causes which are likely to produce such constant movement in a gaseous body like the atmosphere ? It has already been stated, that it is a general law, that all bodies expand when heated, and contract when heat is withdrawn; and it follows that any cold substance (water excepted) containing, in an equal space, more particles, or atoms, than a warm body (in which the atoms are forced apart by the heat), will be attracted more forcibly to the earth, or, in other words, will be heavier. On the other hand, when any substance is rendered hotter than the me¬ dium around, it is attracted less forcibly to the earth—or, becomes lighter. If a paper bag be constructed in such a manner that the air contained wdthin it can be made warmer than the atmosphere surrounding the apparatus, it will be pushed upwards by the colder (and therefore heavier) air, which tends, as it were, to squeeze itself under¬ neath the paper bag, or rarefied air-balloon. When a piece of cork is held under water, between the fingers, at the bottom of a vessel of water, its tendency to rise is owing to no peculiar property in itself, but is due to the water, which, pressing equally in all directions, forces upwards any sub¬ stance having less attractive force than it¬ self. The same phenomenon occurs when the fire-balloon ascends from the earth to a region where the air (from diminished pressure of gravity) is nearly as rarefied as the contents of the balloon. It is manifest, then, that whenever, from any cause, a por¬ tion of our atmosphere in its ordinary con¬ dition, unconfined, becomes expanded, a cubic foot of such portion will contain fewer particles than the same measure of air not so acted upon; and being attracted to the earth in a less degree, proportionate to the lessened number of its atoms, it will 120 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: be forced upwards by the surrounding heavier air, which presses under it accord¬ ing to the laws of fluid equilibrium.* 467. A current flowing towards the place from which the heated air has risen, is thus produced, and a wind is said to blow towards iat point. Heat being the common cause of the rarefaction of all bodies, it would be expected that great conflagrations would produce upward currents of air, and strong wind blowing towards the fire; and we learn that these phenomena were remarka- ble at the burning of Moscow, where the cold air from the surrounding country blew from all quarters towards the city with the violence of a hurricane. The writer observed in the early morning, after a de structive fire in Manchester, that the wea- thercocks on the church spires and public buildings pointed in opposite direction to the scene of the fire, showing that there had been a stream of air rushing in from all sides towards the point of conflagration. 1 he phenomenon upon a small scale is hourly to be witnessed in our houses. A fire is lighted in the grate, warming and rarefying the surrounding air, which, having a diminished attractive force, is pushed into the chimney by the heavier cold atmos- phere, which squeezes itself through the crevices around the door and the window sash. VVhat is called “a draught” in a house, is a current of air produced by the pressure of cold atmosphere to displace h ^Q Vh mi h h : ,S °^ fc £ ravit y b y rarefaction. 4b8. I li e torrid zone—from causes al- ready noticed—is the hottest portion of our globe, and here there must be the greatest rarefaction of atmosphere; there should, therefore, if our theory is correct be an ascending current from this part of the earth and winds blowing from the north and the south towards the equatorial re¬ gions. This is actually the case. The cold air from the frozen regions in con¬ tinually pushing towards the tropics forms an upper current towards the poles The former produce the trade-winds so im¬ portant to mercantile navigation, the latter act only upon the most elevated vapours. If the earth did not rotate, and local causes did not interfere, there would be through- * The new work “ The Reason Why » rives d.t admirable exposition of this subject. ° S out the northern hemisphere a steady wind from north to south ; while in the southern hemisphere there would be a continuous stream of air from south to north. It is plain however, that the air at the poles has a less rapid rotatory motion than that at the equator, and that the stream coming from the former latitudes will retain the slow movement which it there possessed. Ao,v we know that if we are driven rapidly (m a railway train, for example) against air which is quiescent, we have a sensation identical with that produced by wind blow¬ ing against us; and so, as the earth re¬ volves from west to east, with a rapidity far exceeding the revolutionary rapidity of the air-stream, the latter appears to have an opposite motion, and seems to blow from the north-east in the northern hemisphere, and from the south-east in the southern W,°f f i he T h ' While the cold currents from the poles are thus creating the trade- winds towards the equator, the hot air which ascended from the tropics has parted with a Portion of its warmth, and descends again at the poles, there producing a west wind, owing to the fact that this air pos- sesses, in some degree, the more rapid rota- tory motion of the equatorial regions with which it has been in contact. Hence south-west winds prevail in the north tem¬ perate zone, and north-west winds in the south temperate zone. It is on this account that the voyage from New York to Liver¬ pool does not occupy on the average more J^fty-five days, while the Lerage length of time occupied by the voyage in the^opposite direction is about thirty-five 469. As the trade-winds approach the equator, they begin to partake of the mo- tion of the earth, and their apparently easteriy direction becomes less and less ; and in the immediate vicinity of the eoua- tonal zone, the air-current seems to blow dU !£° r TT and south 0Q eitber side. 47°. Under the head of “The Pheno- mena of February” (323) the various causes affecting the climates of different places were mentioned. It needs scarcely be observed, that all the agencies which affect the temperature of a locality, will also tend to influence its air currents. The extent of water or land, mountain ranges with summits above the snow line, and Ml A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 121 other peculiarities of terrestrial aspect m the neighbourhood of a place, produce changes in the air-currents by which it would otherwise be supplied. Thus, in the Indian Ocean, the trade-winds, whose general direction has been described, re¬ ceive a curious modification from the posi¬ tion of the surrounding land, and the ellect of solar heat upon it. The district in which this phenomenon—which is called the Monsoon— is observed extends from the east coast of Africa, to about 13o deg. R. longitude, aud from the southern parts of Asia to about 10 deg. S. latitude. I-rom April to October, while the sun s rays are vertical on the northern side of the equator, and the surface of the continent there highlv heated, a S\V. wind blows from 3 de°\ S. latitude, over the northern parts ot the Indian Ocean, Hindostan, the Chma- Indian states, and the Indian Archipelago. Over the same districts, during the remain¬ ing part of the year, a NW. wind prevails. From the third to the tenth degree of S. latitude there is a SE. wind from April to October, and a NW. during the next half- year. The SW. wind brings in the rainy season” of India. 471. The trade-winds and monsoons may be considered regular winds, being subject to little variation from year to year in the recurrence of their operations. T he larger the expanse of ocean over which the for mer blow, the more steady is the air-cur¬ rent : and for this reason the trade-winds are found to be more continuous and in¬ variable in the Pacific than in the Atlantic Ocean, and in the South than in the North Atlantic Ocean. It is singular that in the region of the constant trade-winds rain falls very seldom, though there is an abundant supply of frequent showers in the adjoin¬ ing latitudes. The cause of this will be ex¬ plained in connection with the phenomena characteristic of one of the later mont i». 472. The rapid changes and extreme variations of temperature liable to occur on extensive tract of land, render the winds more uncertain in such localities, and their phenomena less reducible to order, so tha no general law can with certainty be de¬ rived from the observations which have been made. Even in equatorial latitudes, under such circumstances, there w Wtle constancy in the direction or intensity ot the winds. In high latitudes the inequali¬ ties are still greater, and extend even to the open seas ; and indeed the winds seem to obey no fi£ed laws beyond the latitude of 40 deg. There are, however, in all lati¬ tudes gentle winds on the holders of the ocean called land and sea breezes, which should be noticed and explained in this ar¬ ticle upon “Wind.” During the day the rays of the sun warm the surface ot the laud to a greater degree than that of the adjacent ocean; and the air above it, being rarefied, is displaced by the denser air rushing in from the sea; hence a current, or sea freeze, begins to set in soon after sunrise, and continues to flow towards the land till after the rays of the sun have ceased to supply caloric. In this country the sea breeze sets in about seven or eio'ht o’clock in the morning, and con¬ tinues (according to the season) till three or four o’clock in the afternoon. When the sun has sunk beneath the horizon, the earth, by radiation, rapidly parts with the heat it has absorbed, and hecomes colder than the water; and then the air above the land having becomemore dense, and consequently heavier, pushes the sea air aside, and thus creates a land breeze blowing from the coast towards the ocean. Every person who has visited the sea-coast has had opportuni¬ ties of noticing these phenomena. 473. It will hardly be appropriate here to describe the winds which are peculiarly local, such as the wind of Arabia, Egypt, Syria, &c., known as the Simoom; the dreadful Sirocco of Sicily; the scorching Solano of Spain ; the withering Harmattan of Africa, or the freezing Bize which visits the districts at the foot of the Alps. . It has been our intention only to deal with phenomena which illustrate and pro\e certain general laws. 474. The velocity of the wind varies from an imperceptible current to a hundred miles an hour. When its rate of movement is about five miles an hour, it is said to be a pleasant breeze; when its speed rises to thirty miles an hour, the wind is de¬ scribed as “ highwhen it gains a force of double that rapidity, a “great storm results; and when its velocity rises to eighty or a hundred miles an hour, the most dreadful destruction of treesand houses ensues, and a hurricane is said to occur. 122 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 475. Having described, in general terms, the causes of winds and some of the most remarkable air-currents, the reader will expect to learn somewhat of the effects of these phenomena. For what good end do winds blow ? We have a firm belief that all such things must have a beneficial pur¬ pose to which they are specially adapted— what is the purpose of the winds ? What is the especial duty of the currents from the pole to the equator ? The first thing which strikes us, perhaps, is the difference in the temperature of the two latitudes just named; and we should not erroneously conclude that one effect of these air-cur¬ rents was to tend to equalise their tempe¬ rature, by conveying the cooling atmos¬ phere of the frozen regions to the tropics, and vice versa. But another and more im¬ portant relation between the poles and the tropics is kept up by the agency of wind. In the districts where extreme cold pre¬ vails, a greater quantity of carbonic acid is given off by the lungs, while the vegeta¬ tion being stunted has less pqwer of de¬ composing the poisonous gas and elimi¬ nating oxygen than in the torrid zones, “ where a sky, seldom clouded, permits the glowing rays of the sun to shine npon an immeasurably luxuriant vegetation,” and where oxygen is given out abundantly. .Between these regions the winds effect an interchange, conveying the carbonic acid of the poles to the tropics, and the oxygen of. the torrid zone to the frozen regions. Wind, moreover, is of great use in drying the earth in seed-time, &c., by the process of evaporation; it is also the agent which conveys the clouds from the waters over the lands; and it exercises a constant in¬ fluence in preventing the stagnation of the atmosphere, and in the dispersing of noxious effluvia. 476. It is due to the reader to mention, that although heat is the chief cause of atmospheric disturbances, yet that the rapid condensation of vapours in the at¬ mosphere occasionally produces sudden and powerful air-currents. Sufficient rain to form a layer of water an inch in depth has been known to fall in the equinoctial regions over a large extent of country; the liquid was previously in a state of vapour, occupying much greater space, and upon its condensation a vacuum would have been produced if the air from all sides had not pressed in to fill the empty space. Sup¬ pose the superficial extent over which rain had thus fallen to be 100 square leagues —if the vapour necessary to produce°this quantity of water existed in the atmosphere at a temperature of 50 deg. Fahr., it would occupy a space one hundred thousand times greater than in the liquid state. The im¬ mense void resulting from such a condensa¬ tion may be conceived, and an idea formed of the mode in which violent atmospheric concussions are produced. The whirlwinds, which produce such disastrous effects in the tropics, are believed to be caused by these sudden condensations of .vapour. 477. THE END OF PRUDENCE.— The great end of prudence is to giv’e cheer¬ fulness to those hours which splendour can- not gild, and acclamation cannot exhilarate —these soft, intervals of unbended amuse¬ ment, in which a man shrinks to his natural dimensions, and throws aside the ornaments or disguises which he feels in privacy to be useless incumbrances, and to lose all effect when they become familiar. To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all am¬ bition—the end to which every enterprise and labour tends, and of which every desire prompts the prosecution. It is, indeed, at home that every man must be known bv those who would make a just estimate of Ins virtue or felicity; for smiles and em¬ broidery are alike occasional, and the mind is often dressed for show in painted honour and fictitious benevolence. 478. REMEDY FOR WEAK AND SORE EYES. The following ts a simpS and cheap receipt for curing weak and sore eyes. I have never known it to fail; but it has always effected a cure, and that, too very quickly. If there is anything the matter with the eyes, it will cause them to smart, and the worse the eyes are, the more will they smart You may get a sufficient quantity to fill a fair medicine-bottle, mixed for you at the chemist for sixpence. 1 he receipt is as follows :-White vitriol, 30 grains; Nitre, 20 grains; Elder-flower- water, 8 ounces. To be mixed together. I have given a great deal of the above lo ion away to the poor of this parish, and it lias done all good that have tried it— r il. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 123 279. A LESSON IN ITSELF SUBLIME. A lesson in itself sublime, A lesson worth enshrining, Is this—“ I take no note of time, Save when the sun is shining.” These motto- words a dial bore, And wisdom never preaches To human hearts a better lore Than this short sentence teaches; As life is sometimes bright and fair, And sometimes dark and lonely, Let us forget its pain and care. And note its bright hours only! There is no grove on earth’s broad chart That has no bird to cheer it; So Hope sings on, in every heart. Although we may not hear it: And if, to-day, the heavy wing Of sorrow is oppressing, Perchance to-morrow’s sun will bring The wearv heart a blessing: For life is sometimes bright and fair, And sometimes dark and lonely, Let us forget its toil and care, And note its bright hours only! The darkest shadows of the night Are just before the morning; Then let U3 wait the coming light. All boding phantoms scorning: And while we’re passing on the tide Of Time’s fast-ebbing river, Let’s pluck the blossoms by its side, And bless the gracious giver: As life is sometimes bright and fair, And sometimes dark and lonely, We should forget its pain and care. And note its bright hours only! 280. SMALL TALK.—Nobody abuses small talk unless he be a stranger to its convenience. Small talk is the small change of life : there is no getting on without it. There are times when “ ’tis folly to be wise,” when a little nonsense is very palatable, and when gravity and sedateness ought to be kicked down stairs. A philosopher cuts a poor figure in a ball-room unless he leaves his wisdom at home. Metaphysics is as in¬ trusive in the midst of agreeable prattle, as a death’s head on a festal board. We have met with men who were too lofty for small talk; who would never swear at their ser¬ vants or—the weather. They would never condescend to play with a ribbon, or flirt a fan. They were above such trifling; in other words, they were above making them¬ selves agreeable, above pleasing, and above being pleased. They were all wisdom, all gravity, and all dignity, and all tediousness, which they bestowed upon company with more than Dogberry’s generosity. 281. THE DOCTOR’S STORY. On the second of April, 1838, about eleven o’clock at night, I was comfortably seated in my favourite arm-chair, reposing my thoughts, which had been painfully exerted during a hard day’s labour in the arduous duties of my profession, by re¬ tracing many of the scenes in which the last twenty-five years of my life had been passed. On the evening when the first scene of the little reminiscence I am about to relate occurred, the weather was cold for the sea¬ son ; a quantity of dingy London snow lay half-melted on the ground, and a heavy sleet was falling fast—just the kind of night to make one appreciate fireside com¬ forts; and I was congratulating myself on the prospect of spending the night at home, not thinking it likely any of my patients would summon me, when an im¬ patient double-knock at the street door put all my cozy anticipations to flight. My good-humour was, however, speedily res¬ tored, by seeing my ever-welcome friend, Colonel Delaware, enter my library. He was an especial favourite of mine, and the world in general, and most deservedly; a brave and able officer, often des¬ perately wounded; he united to a feeling and simple heart, a strong, clear under¬ standing, a handsome person, and a manly, quiet manner; and, paramount above all those sterling qualities, integrity and honour, which add the brightest lustre even to a diadem, and can make the lowest serf a gentleman of Nature’s own creating. He was a man of few words, and generally un¬ demonstrative; but, having known him in¬ timately for many years, I instantly saw that a heavy cloud hung upon him, and, as I invited him to take an arm-chair opposite to my own, I rather anxiously inquired if anything ailed little Cecil, alluding to his only child, a lovely boy of two years old. “No, he is well; it is of his mother I am come to speak.” “ Mrs. Delaware!” I exclaimed. “ Thanks be, the evil can hardly be grave enough to warrant the despondency I read in your countenance, for I saw her in her carriage but two days since; I was not very close to her, certainly, but near enough to see she is as pretty as ever.” 124 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: “Nevertheless, my friend, she is dying,” rejoined Colonel Delaware. “ Dying!—impossible!—and we sit talk¬ ing here; let us hasten to her instantly, and you can explain the circumstances while we are on the road,” 1 hurriedly uttered, while preparing to invest myself with the over¬ coat that was the companion of my night rambles. To my surprise, my visitor stirred not, but mournfully shaking his head, said, “Not so, my dear doctor, you cannot see her to¬ night j whether we can manage for you ever to do so I know not; for now she resolutely refuses to have advice, asserting that her malady is beyond the reach of human skill.” “ Pooh, nonsense! and you suffer her to injure herself, physically and morally, by giving way to such caprices,” said I, very crossly, throwing dowu the coat, and plant¬ ing myself in my own chair—for I can be a little testy when those in whom I am in¬ terested will not do as I think they ought. Softening, however, as I looked more closely into my friend’s face, I added, “ At least, tell me all you can. Where is the seat of her complaint ? how long has it been apparent ? and what are its symptoms ?” “ I can only tell you,” he replied, “ that about a month since, she began to waste away, losing both appetite and strength, and also to a great degree the power of sleeping; she turns with disgust from all sustenance, and it is with the greatest difficulty she can be persuaded to swallow a few spoonfuls of any food in the course of the day. That pure colour you used to admire, now only appears in sudden flushes; she will not ad¬ mit that she is ill, yet she has been fre¬ quently observed to shed tears over her boy, pressing him to her heart with almost convulsive energy. Since I was elected a member of the House of Commons, I have had a separate sleeping apartment, fearing that the late hours I am obliged to keep might disturb Clara, whose constitution, you have often told me, though not sickly, is. very delicate. In the day-time, she will scarcely suffer me to remain five minutes away from her; so that I could not have come to you at any other time but this, when she believes me engaged at the House. Above all things, she implores me not to acquaint you with her state.” “ She is afraid I shall cure her, I sup¬ pose,” I said, this time to myself, feeling a little nettled at this want of confidence to¬ wards an old friend of her father’s, who had known her from her birth. “ All this is ex. ceedingly unsatisfactory, and I can come to no conclusion from it,” I observed, after a minute’s reflection. “ The fact is, I must see her myself, and I will be at your house to-morrow about eleven o’clock. Don’t be alarmed,” I continued, anticipating the words lie was about to utter, “ I will make my visit appear a purely accidental one.” He then rose to depart, and as I con¬ ducted him to the door, I endeavoured to cheer him by expressing the conviction I really felt, that he had, through over-solici¬ tude, magnified the evil; I then returned to my fireside to meditate on what had passed. As I writo this principally for the guidance of my young successors in the healing 1 art, should they ever encounter a similar case, I must describe Clara Delaware. She was the only child of a young Spanish lady of high rank, who was found near the field of Albuera by Colonel, then Captain Mortimer, entirely unprotected, having lost her father and two brothers in the engagement; she was only ten years of age, and her preserver sent her over to England, were she remained for six years, under the care of his aunt. At the expiration of that time, Mortimer married her. After they had been united about a year, she died in giving birth to Clara. For eighteen years the sorrowing husband devoted himself to the care of the legacy his wife had left him ; he theu esteemed himself fortunate in being able to bestow her hand on Colonel Delaware, to whom her heart was already given. His task being thus accomplished, two months after his daughter’s marriage, his spirit fled to rejoin her whom he had loved so well. This was the first sorrow Clara had ever known, and so deeply did it affect her, that for months I despaired of saving her, and only the joy of becoming a parent herself effectually roused her from the deep de¬ jection her father’s loss had plunged her mto. She inherited her mothers almost Eastern style of beauty and acutely nervous temperament, her grace and softness, com¬ bined with a share of her father’s English principles, and strong, faithful heart. Al- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 125 together, however, she was more like a daughter of the South than a native-born Englishwoman. I am one of those who believe that a proportion of the maladies that affect humanity may be traced to the mental causes; and to watch for the signs of these, and remove them if possible, is part of my system: and as I have been rather more than usually fortunate, I still think my views are correct. In this case, I could not divest myself of the im¬ pression that the fair lady’s disease owed a little to fancy; and, promising my¬ self to investigate it very carefully on the morrow, I retired to rest. Eleven o’clock on the following day found me at Colonel Delaware’s door; and taking the privilege of an old friend and doctor, I proceeded, unannounced, to her boudoir. The firsc glance showed me there was real cause for anxiety ; indeed, I could scarcely believe the attenuated form before me was that of one who, but a few short weeks before, had been so blooming a young woman. She was lying on a sofa; her magnificent Spanish eyes were slightly sunken, and surrounded by a dark circle, sure indication of extreme languor; she had lost that rich, deep colour, so beauti¬ ful when it mantles on the cheek of a dark-eyed beauty; her cheek was now perfectly pale, of a wan ivory paleness; her hands, through the fine skin of which the blue veins were fearfully apparent, hung listlessly, and seemed almost transparent; the roundness and embonpoint that had made her figure one of the most perfect that can be imagined, had quite disappeared ; yet she was, as usual, elegantly, almost artistically dressed, and every possible effort had been made to conceal the ravages illness made upon her beauty. Even her beautiful long curls were so arranged as to hide as much as possible the extreme emaciation of her throat and neck. I re¬ cognised in all this a moral determination to resist increasing illness, which I had often found to be a bad sign; indeed, alto¬ gether, I was painfully surprised at her ap¬ pearance. As I am now arrived at that age which (too matter-of-fact to appreciate a graceful and flowery style) thinks the easiest and simplest manner the best, I will relate our conversation as they do the dialogues in children’s school-books, thereby avoiding the insufferable monotony of “ I observed,” “ she replied,” “ I rejoined,” &c. &c. As¬ suming a cheerfulness I was far .from feeling, I seated myself in a chair by her sofa, and silently taking possession of her wrist, appeared to consult the beatings of her pulse. Raising her eyelids, the lashes of which were so long and silky they were a marvel, in a composed voice she delibe¬ rately broke the silence that had reigned until then. Mrs. Delaware: “ What brings you here, doctor ? Do you come at my hus¬ band’s request?” Doctor: “ That is a very unkind ques¬ tion. I have not seen you for two months. I do not think I have been so long without seeing you since you came into this world; now you ask me why I come. Do not be alarmed, I do not intend to score this visit against you, though I really think you greatly need my care.” Mrs. Delaware : “ Why so ? you see I am quite well.” Doctor: “ Yes, I see that you have got on a very beautiful dress. Nothing can be more coquettish than that little Frenchified cap. All that is very false, and you are very false too, and are trying now to de¬ ceive me.” Mrs. Delaware: “ Indeed, I am suffering no pain anywhere.” Doctor: “ Would you really wish to per¬ suade me that you are in good health ? Why, if I could be mistaken in the expres¬ sion of your countenance, the sound of your voice, your painful respiration, uneven pulse, the pallor of your face, and your emaciation, speak to me in language not to be refuted. Now, I will venture to assert, that for a month you have scarcely ate or slept.” Mrs. Delaware ? “ Oh, no, doctor, three weeks at the outside.” Doctor: “There, now, you have fairly avowed and confessed yourself to be ill.” Mrs. Delaware: " But it is possible to lose both sleep and appetite without being ill; one can suffer, too, generally without having any decided complaint.” Doctor: “ Do you know that you dis¬ tress me extremely ? but I still feel con¬ fident that I shall be able to restore you to health and happiness. I have not so blind a confidence in the drugs and remedies of iny profession, but that I am truly rejoiced to perceive I shall have to treat you rather for a mental care than for corporeal indis¬ position. Forget that I am a doctor; look upon me as your old friend, your father’s old friend, and tell me what is weighing so heavily on your mind ? Perhaps I may be able to lighten the burthen for you.” Mrs. Delaware: “ You are a kind friend, but you cannot restore me to sleep or appe¬ tite ; I must bear my fate.” Doctor: “ Your fate, madame ! (nothing puts me out like a soupcon of romance) you ought to be continually grateful for so happy a fate. The adored wife of one of the most distinguished and best men of the day, possessing a large fortune, mother of the most promising boy in the three king¬ doms.” “Mrs. Delaware (interrupting me)— “ And is it not a hard fate to break that noble husband’s heart, to abandon my dar¬ ling Cecil on the threshold of life ?—it is, indeed, too cruel!!” At these words, I began to feel my fair patient had listened too long to the honied words of some ieceiver, who was striving to induce her to abandon he*- happy home, and all its virtuous joys, to embrace a life of misery and shame; but there was so much real anguish in her looks and voice at the 1 Q 6 & Oi separation, tnat, tnougn most i sincerely grieved, I was not much alarmed. | Doctor (gravely but kindly): “ God will exact no such sacrifice from you. He de¬ mands no severing of such sacred ties; in the twenty-five years during which I have been engaged in soothing and healing my fellow-creatures, I have gained much ex- perience, and with it some power to advise; nor have I been so unobservant of the ways of the fashionable world as not to have marked the perils to which youth and beauty are exposed, even when guarded by a husband’s watchful care; but believe me- Mrs. Delaware (eagerly interrupting me) Stop, doctor; I blush for the mistake I have thoughtlessly led you into. To clear myself of the suspicion I have given rise to, I see I must confide to you the cause of my illness and depression; but before I do so, I must receive your solemn promise not to communicate what I may tell you to Colonel Delaware until after my death.” I readily gave the required promise, which, indeed, cost me nothing ; for I have invariably found, in all anxious and try¬ ing cases, husbands and mothers prove very troublesome confidants. Mrs. Delaware then related the following circum¬ stances :— A month previously, she awoke rather earlier than usual; and not wishing to ri^j immediately, passed an hour in reading- betters on Animal Magnetism.” She then laid the book aside, and fell asleep • she was roused from her slumbers by her bed-room door opening, the clock on the mantle-piece striking ten at the same moment, and two men in black entering Astonishment kept her silent as they adl vanced to the table in the centre of the room. One, an old man, kept his hat on and leaning one hand (in which he held a rule and pencil) on the table, turned round to address his companion, who, hat in hand, appeared to be deferentially awaiting his orders, which consisted in minute directions respecting the making of a coffin—the length, breadth, thickness^ Mung, &c., bem ° ab accurately described. en he ceased speaking, his subordinate inquired what the inscription was to be; the o man replied, speaking slowly and hn- pressive.y—“ Clara Delaware, aged twenty- two, deceased at midnight on the 10th of April 1838.” At t'nese words, both, for the first tune, looked earnestly at Clara, and slowly left the room. Shaking off in some degree the spell that had hitherto bound her she rang her bell; and her maid im¬ mediately answering the summons, she round, to add to her consternation, that this maid had been sitting for the last three hours in the room through which these men must have passed. Finding, on fur¬ ther investigation, that no one in the house had seen her lugubrious visitors, she gave herself up to supernatural terrors; and, con- ceivmg that she had received a warning that she was to die at midnight on the 10th of April, she had lost appetite and sleep, and was, in fact, fast sinking under the impres- sion that the hour indicated was fated to be her last. At first I was quite rejoiced to find it was A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 127 not worse; and, nibbing my hands with even more apparent glee than I really felt, I asked her how she could possibly have allowed an uneasy dream, engendered, no doubt, by the mystic nature ofHhe book she had been reading, to disturb her so much, adding a few jesting observations; but the mournful expression of her countenance checked me, and, at last, taking it up seriously, I endea¬ voured, by every argument that suggested itself to me, calling in the aid of religion, philosophy, and common sense, to de¬ molish the monster her imagination had raised. In vain; I could not flatter myself that even for a moment her belief wavered. When I arose to de¬ part, which I did, promising myself to return again and again, when I had con¬ sidered the case a little, she gave me a letter sealed with black, to deliver to her husband after her death. Reflection added considerably to the uneasiness I already felt. I saw in her altered form what dire havoc imagination had already made; and when the extreme nervous susceptibility of her system was considered, there was but too much reason to apprehend the very worst might happen, unless her mind could be relieved from its present state of painful tension by some most satisfactory and conclusive means. Telling her husband his wife required amusement and change, and requesting him to procure her daily some friendly society, so that she should be as little alone as possible, I paid her myself long and frequent visits. All my spare moments I employed in searching books for anecdotes and arguments, which I trusted might prove more convincing than my own. Often in the night I congratulated myself on having found some new light wherein to place it, that must at once satisfy her. Still in vain ; all my efforts failed in changing into hesitation the firm, fixed belief, so clearly to be read in her calm, mournful eyes. My prescriptions failed equally in im¬ proving her bodily health. I saw her waste almost as I watched her; I felt her pulse grow slower and weaker under my fingers, and the fatal night was fearfully near at hand. My anxiety rose almost to agony —indeed, I am persuaded that a fortnight of such suffering would have finished the doctor as well as the patient. All imagin¬ able expedients I thought of and rejected —among others, that of bribing two men to come forward and confess they had entered her apartment, and acted the 'warning scene for a lark or a wager; but, as she told me their features were indelibly impressed upon her mind, I abandoned that. The scheme on which I paused the longest, was that of giving her, on the fatal night, a dose of laudanum, so that she should sleep over the dreaded hour; but her rapidly-increas¬ ing weakness obliged me to relinquish that, as too dangerous; and the nearer the day approached, the more obvious it became that her constitution would not stand opium. I asked the opinion of several of the most eminent medical men of the day; but, (as I could not introduce any of them to her with¬ out at once proving to her how ill I thought her, and which would have had the most disastrous effect), without seeing her, and understanding her temperament, they could not conceive the danger, and thought she would get over it with a fright. Thrown thus on my resources, with the life of this young creature, a wife and mother, depend¬ ing on the wisdom of my treatment, I ne¬ glected most of my other patients to devote myself to her, and spend all my evenings with her and her husband. Her manners were always most winning, became daily more so; she spoke to us all with such an affectionate expression. It appeared almost as though she sought to secure our love for her memory, when she herself should be summoned away. On the evening of the 8th of April, the evening but one before the dread night, she was suddenly seized with a violent fit of hysterics, succeeded by fainting fits. Colonel Delaware, who for some time past had, with the usual blindness of affection, im¬ agined that his wife was recovering, now for the first time, as he knelt by the side o i the bed to which he had carried her, per¬ ceived partly the imminence of her danger. I cheered him, poor fellow, as much as possible, and seeing Mrs. Delaware compara¬ tively restored, I returned home; and after a night of most anxious consideration as to the means of getting my patient over the dreaded midnight hour, the remembrance of a play I had seen when a boy flashed upon my mind, and I instantly determined to adopt it. My plan, though it presented some difficulties, was soon arranged in my 123 TIIE CORNER CUPBOARD : mind, and I began, for the first time for several days to entertain hope. The next evening I confided to the colonel that his wife had a fixed idea that on the following night she would have an attack similar to the one she had just recovered from, which would be the crisis of her malady; that I myself thought it not improbable the excited state of her nerves might actually produce what she dreaded, and I therefore wished to save her constitution that shock. He pledged himself to follow my directions most faithfully, and promised the most in¬ violable secresy. The servants were made acquainted with just sufficient to ensure their co-operation; and as they were sin¬ cerely attached to their young mistress, full reliance could be placed on their faithful execution of the orders entrusted to them. The morning of the eventful 10th was, fortunately, as brilliant a day as can well be conceived; even smoky London became almost bright, and all things seemed to exult in the coming spring. I visited my patient in the morning, and found her, as I expected, weaker and lower than the preceding evening. I peremptorily ordered carriage exercise; and, as she always yielded to my suggestions, it was settled that at three o’clock her husband should accompany her in a short country drive. While she was attiring for this purpose, her maid was awkward enough to break the chain to which her mistress’ watch was attached (being provided by me with the means to do it), and the watch was obliged to be left at home. On re-entering her apartment, poor Clara eagerly resumed her watch, the damage having been repaired during her absence, and anxiously compared it with the clock on the chimney-piece —the hour both indicated was five. She also found on her table two notes from her two most inti¬ mate friends, inviting themselves to dine with her that day at six —alias seven—in consequence of my having paid them a visit that morning, when, confiding the con¬ sequences to them, I taught them their parts. One was a Mrs. Wakefield, who had been the instructress of Mrs. Delaware’s youth, and was still regarded by her with sincere affection; she was a calm, sensible, self-possessed person, of encouraging and maternal manners. The other was an old maid, a Miss Holman, the most agreeable plain woman I ever knew, full of drollery and anecdote, but hiding a strong mind and excellent heart under a light, careless, gay address. She also had known our invalid from her birth, and a strong friendship ex¬ isted between them. I had, of course, invited myself to this momentous dinner of my own arrang¬ ing; and, moreover, had requested Colonel Delaware to bring home to dinner, ap¬ parently by accident, the Rev. Wilfred Alderson, an old friend of the family, and a bright example of all a Christian pastor ought to be. There was an expression in his benign and reverend countenance of such complete internal conviction of the divine nature of his profession, and the truths he was called upon to inculate, that inspired at once confidence and affection; I had not forgotten to pay him a visit in my morning rounds, and I could not but hope the pre¬ sence of such a man, the type of all that is most cheering and consoling in our holy re¬ ligion, would not be without its effect on our poor sinking hostess. When we were all assembled, the greetings over, we de¬ scended to the dining-room, which Mrs. Delaware reached with less difficulty than I had apprehended. When I saw her in the full blaze of light, all my terrors, in some degree smothered by the active exertions I had been making all the day, returned full upon me. It was not only that she was wasted and pale, but her eyes, drawn back into her head, had a most painful expres¬ sion ; her lips were of a purple tinge, and nervous twitches passed frequently over her face. I glanced round, to see if her friends were all conducting themselves according to orders, and, observing a slight contraction of the features of the gay old maid, I frowned at her; and she im¬ mediately taking the hint, with great self- command, rattled off, story after story, and bon mot after bon mot , until even a sort of half smile stole over poor Clara’s face. A most painful smile it was, and nearly un¬ manned her husband, ignorant as he was of the worst; but a severe look brought him into obedience again. I. shall never forget that dinner! All ate and talked but the hostess; but I truly believe not one of the party knew what they ate, and but little of what they said. We all felt it was a thing to be got over A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 129 and many were the anxious glances turnec towards the object of^all our solicitude, who, unconscious that so many loving eyes were fearfully, though covertly watching, kept continually glancing at the clock, and often compared it with the watch. I noticed, that each time the hour struck, her agita¬ tion increased, and this becalne worse as the evening advanced. A fine, self-playing organ in the room, which everybody re¬ quested to hear again, aided ta protract the dinner as long as possible ; so that when we arose, it was h^if-past eight—really half¬ past nine. Mr. Alderson had previously requested that we might accompany the ladies after dinner, and not remain at table after their departure; and now Miss Holman playfully entreated that, instead of repair¬ ing to that “ great formal drawing-room,” we might be permitted, as a great in¬ dulgence, to spend the evening in Mrs. Delaware’s pretty boudoir; and, as we al joined in the request, it was agreed to, and* we accordingly repaired there. I had been anxious to compass this little arrangement, because, should it be necessary to convey my patient to her bed, as her boudoir opened out of her bed-room, it was far more con¬ venient. Scarcely were we established, however, when a little circumstance occurred which 1 felt most indignant with myself for not having foreseen, though I scarcely knew how I could have prevented it. Little Cecil was brought in to receive his parent’s last kiss for the day. Those who can- form any conception what a mother’s feelings would be on beholding for the last time an only and idolized child, will easily fancy with what convulsive despair poor Clara strained her boy to her heart; and those who cannot, will not be rendered more feel¬ ing by any description I could give. I may say we all endured martyrdom while this lasted : no one could speak, and all bowed their heads to conceal the emotion their utmost efforts could not entirely repress, it last I motioned the maid to take the ?hild away; and making a diversion by calling on Colonel Delaware to assist me n bringing forward the sofa, I insisted on ny patient placing herself thereon, and I eated myself beside her; and, consulting ter pulse from time to time, tried to draw er into conversation. Half-past nine, and actually half-past ten, was now reached; another dreadful hour and a-half to drag over. Tea was brought, and the conversa¬ tion became more easy ; but my anxiety was becoming almost intolerable. Clara was fast becoming worse—every stroke of the clock seemed to bear off some of her little remaining vitality; her hand, sometimes burning, had become cold as death. Ten, half-past ten passed over, and now the dreadful moment for us—not her—was approached. Clenching my hand so that the nails entered the flesh, and biting my lips till the blood ran down, 1 awaited the first stroke of the real midnight hour. It passed : how great was the relief, He who read the hearts of all present alone can tell. Every countenance began to brighten, every voice began to loose its constrained tone, as the passing minutes made assurance doubly sure. Still I trembled for Clara. I had intended to await the half-hour before I announced to her that her supposed prophecy was false; but when it reached a qu arter past, she became so much worse —short, sharp spasms contracting her features, and her whole face assuming a violet hue—that, apprehending she would fall into convulsions, I dared no longer delay the announcement; so rising from my place, I advanced to the table, and, striking it loud enough to attract even Clara’s at¬ tention. I exclaimed— “ Colonel, go and embrace your wife— she is saved. With one word I can effect her instant cure/' All rose at my word, and Clara fixed upon me a gaze of mingled wonder and in¬ credulity. " Yes/’ I continued, “ I hereby proclaim the vision which announced to Mrs. Dela¬ ware that she was to die this night at twelve o’clock to be a false one; because at this moment she is living before us, and it is twenty minutes past twelve.” “ You mistake, doctor: it is only eleven, not twelve,” said she, as despair seemed again settling on her countenance. “ It is past tw r elve, I assure you. Pardon us, my dear Mrs. Delaware; but finding all reasoning powerless, your friends and I have Dut back one hour every w’atch and clock on w T hich your eyes have rested.” I could now perceive a faint gleam of lope in her eyes as she breathlessly said, F 130 THE CORNER CUPBOARD : " But the church clock—I counted eleven myself not half-an-hour since.” “Ah,” I replied, “that will be a bad business for the colonel, for I bribed the parish authorities to put back that clock too, and not less than a hundred pounds pre¬ sented to the parish will be deemed sufficient recompense by the mighty dignitaries of the parish. In half-an-hour we shall have the pleasure of hearing it chime one. Poor midnight has been tabooed from the quarter to-night.” I then produced a second watch, with which I had provided myself, indicating the real time, and also a note from one of the churchwardens to the colonel, express¬ ing the satisfaction felt by himself and colleagues at being able to serve so dis¬ tinguished a parishioner. Her friends and husband crowded round her, each multiply¬ ing proofs of the truth. Hiding her face in her hands, she hastily rose and left the apartment. We all felt she had gone to her child; and, at my request, no one fol¬ lowed her. She returned in a minute, with a face radiant with smiles and tears, from which all bad symptoms were fast dis¬ appearing ; and, affectionately addressing us individually, in a few, sweet, low words, expressed her gratitude ; and, I am proud to say, she had the most and the sweetest words for her old friend the doctor. Her husband almost paralysed by the sudden knowledge he had obtained of the imagined risk, seemed, soldier as he was, quite over¬ come ; and well it was for us all, when the venerable pastor, calling us all around, ad¬ dressed a short prayer to Him whose merciful aid had been so frequently, though silently, implored during the last few hours. I then resumed my medical capacity; and as we had so indifferently dined I prescribed a supper, which was immediately assented to; but Mrs. Delaware feared we might not fare sowell asshe could wish, the servants not having been warned. Begging her to be perfectly easy on that head, as I had taken the liberty to order the supper two days previously, the bell was rang for it; and a more joyous party never, I am sure, sat down to enjoy themselves. Clara ate the wing of a chicken, and her bloom appeared rapidly returning. We kept it up right merrily until past three; and, remain¬ ing behind the last, I stopped the thanks she longed to give me, by pointing out the sin of indulging the imagination too much, showing her she had allowed a foolish dream to bring her within an inch of the grave—and, bidding her good night, I joy- full}' departed. In a few days she was perfectly well, and has never had a similar visionary attack, I have related this short incident to show my young successors that complaints aris¬ ing from mental causes are best combated by the mind itself—a powerful organ of cure, but little thought of in these days of whimsical remedies and wonderful dis¬ coveries. — 282. DIRECTIONS HOW TO CHOOSE LAMB.—If the vein in the neck of the fore quarter looks yellow or green, it is very stale, if blue, it is fresh. The head is good, if the eyes are plump and bright, if sunk and wrinkled it is a sure sign of staleness. In the hind quarter, if there is a faint, disagreeable smell near the kidney, or if the knuckle is very limp, it is not good. 283. THE JOINTS OF LAMB.—The fore quarter consists of the shoulder, neck, and breast. The neck and breast are called a target; the hind quarter consists of the leg and loin, the head and pluck, generally go together. The pluck contains the liver, lights, heart, nut, and melt. The fry consists of the sweetbreads and skirts, with some of the liver. 284. Joints of lamb should be boiled a quarter of an hour to the pound ; a leg of five pounds will take about an hour to roast, other joints in the same proportion. 285. The hind quarter of lamb may be roasted plain (see Haunch of Mutton, 400) or the Northamptonshire fashion. Boil the leg three quarters of an hour or an hour. Cut the loin into chops, egg and bread crumb them, and fry them in boiling fat (see 198) until they are of a nice brown; then fry some parsley in the same way that you fry the chops, and lay the chops round the leg in the dish with spinach nicely boiled and squeezed perfectly dry, in between the leg and the chops, and garnish with the fried parsley. This is an extremely pretty dish. 286. TO FORCE A LEG OF LAMB.— Carefully take out all the meat with a sharp knife, and leave the skin whole, and the fat on it; make the lean you cut out into a A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 131 forcemeat thus:—To two pouuds of meat add two pouuds of beef suet cut fine, aud beat it in a marble mortar till it is very fine; take away all the skin oil the meat and suet, and then mix it with four spoon¬ fuls of grated bread, eight or ten cloves, five or six large blades ot mace dried and beaten fine, half a large nutmeg grated, a little pepper and salt, a little lemon peel cut fine, a very little thyme, some parsley, and four eggs; mix all together, put it into the skin again just as it was, in the same shape; sew it up, roast it and baste with butter; cut the loin into chops, and fry it nicely, as directed for the Northamptonshire hind quarter; lay the leg in the dish and the loin round it with stewed cauliflowers all round the loin; pour a pint of good gravy (see IMock "V enison, 402j into the dish, and send it to table. 287. THE NECK can be boiled the AND PEAS.—Roast a breast of lamb a quarter of an hour, then put it into a stew- pan with one quart of stock gravy; add a very small onion, a quarter of a carrot, the same of turnip, cut very small; let them stew half an hour gently, put in a little mush¬ room catsup, and" a quart of green peas, already cooked; if requsite, thicken with a little flour. _ 289. TO ROAST A FORE QUARTER OF LAMB. — Your butcher having pro¬ perly trussed it for you by breaking the shankbone near the shoulder with the back of the chopper, when it will turn back and skewer; it should be roasted as directed at 284. When done, take oft’ the shoul¬ der and squeeze a lemon over it, rub a bit of butter over it likewise, and add a little pepper and salt; then dish, pouring over the joint half a pint of hot water, to which put a teaspoonful or two of mushroon catsup. 290. MINT SAUCE should always be served with roast lamb, made thusTake nine or ten stalks of green mint, chop it very small, a pint of common vinegar, and three table-spoonfuls of moist sugar. It will be all the better if made a day or two before it is used. 291. A VERY FINE LAMB PIE.—Cut your lamb into pieces and season it with pepper, salt, cloves, mace, and nutmeg all finely beaten; make a good pull’ paste crust (see 201), lay it into your dish, then lay in your meat, strew on it some stoned raisins, and currants, cleaned, washed, and some sugar, then lay on some forcemeat balls made sweet, and in the summer some arti¬ choke bottoms boiled, and scalded grapes in the winter; boil Spanish potatoes cut in pieces, candied citron, candied orange and lemon peel, and three or four blades of mace ; put butter on the top, close your pie, and bake it. Have ready against it comes out of the oven a sauce made thus:—Take a gill of sherry and mix in the yolk of an egg, stir it well together over the fire one way till it be thick, then take it oft, stir in sugar enough to sweeten it, and squeeze in the juice of half a lemon; pour it hot into your pie, and close it up again. Send it hot to table. 292. TO DRESS A LAMB’S HEAD AND APPURTENANCES.—Wash it very clean; take the black part from the eyes and the gall from the liver; lay the head in warm water; boil the lights, heart, and part of the liver, chop and flour them, and toss them up in a saucepan with some stock gravy, catsup, and a little pepper, salt, lemon juice, and a spoonful of milk; strew over the head some bread crumbs and bake it an hour; lay it in the middle of the dish, the minced meat round it; the other part of the liver fried with some very small bits of bacon on the minced meat and the brains fried in little cakes (see Calve’s Head, 293) and laid on the rim of the dish with some fried parsley put between ; pour over it a nice rich gravy (see Mock Venison, 402). 293. A FAVOURITE WAY TO DRESS A LEG OF PORK.—Take a leg of pork, and hang it to roast; put a good deal of port wine into the dripping-pan, and baste it well all the time it is roasting; if there is not enough put in at first, add more, it will take a bottle or three pints; cut the skin from the bottom of the shank in rows an inch broad; raise every other row, and roll it to the shank ; have ready a pint of strong gravy, and put to it a pint of port wine, two anchovies, a bunch of sweet herbs, the yolk of four eggs hoiled hard and powdered fine, with a quarter of a pound of butter, the juice of a lemon, and two spoonfuls of catsup; boil the gravy and port wine well together, and the anchovy 132 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: with it; strain these off, and add the other ingredients ; let them boil a few minutes, froth the pork, take it up, and pour the sauce over it—put some in a boat. 294 TO CURE YORK HAMS.—Beat them well; mix half a peck of salt, three ounces of saltpetre, half an ounce of salt prunella, five pounds of coarse sugar; rub the hams well with this, lay the remainder on the top; let them lie three days, then hang them up • put as much water to the pickle as will cover the hams, adding salt till it will bear an egg; boil and strain it the next morning; put in the hams, press them down so that they may be covered; let them lie a fortnight; rub them well with bran; dry them. The above ingre¬ dients are sufficient for three middling-sized hams. 295. CIIOUDER — A SEA DISH.— Slice off the fat part of a belly-piece of pork, and lay it on the bottom of a kettle; slice some onions, and mix them with all kinds of sweet herbs ; strew them upon the pork ; take a very fresh cod, bone and slice it, flour it, and then strew over it some pepper and salt; put a layer of cod upon the pork, and then a thin layer of pork, and on that a layer of biscuits, and so on a layer of each, till the kettle is near full, or within four or five inches; pour in about a pint and a half of water; cover it with paste; fasten down the top of the kettle very tight, put it on a slow fire about four hours, supplying the top of the kettle with hot wood embers; when it is taken up, let it be well skimmed; then lay it in a dish, pour in a glass of hot Madeira wine, with a little Jamaica pep- per, some stewed truffles, morels, and oys¬ ters; lay the paste over it, which should'be a little brown. 296. HOG’S PUDDINGS. —Boil one quart of clean picked groats, drain them; the next day put to them a quart of blood (taken from the pig when it was killed, having put a little salt in it and kept stirred at the fire, so as to keep it from congealing, or in a liquid state); one pound of beef suet chopped, pounded mace, cloves, and nutmeg; two pounds of the leaf cut into dice, a leek or two, a handful of pars¬ ley, a little thyme and sweet marjorum chopped, and some pennyroyal; six or eight eggs, a pint of raw cream, half a pound of bread crumbs that have had a pint of scalded milk poured over them; season high with pepper and salt; fill the skins about half full. Prick them with a needle before they are boiled, then boil them, for which purpose have two kettles; half boil them in one, shift them to the other; lay them before the fire on clean straw. Boil the groats about three-quarters of an hour. 297. HODGE PODGE.—Cut a piece of brisket of beef into pieces, put water to it, a bunch of sweet herbs, an onion, some " hole pepper in a bit of muffin, a carrot or two cut into pieces; two or three heads of celery cut into pieces; stew all till tender; lettuce may be added, young cabbage, and a few green peas; if the turnips are put in at the first, they will be boiled to mash. 298. MOCK TURTLE SOUP.—Scald a calve s head (see 290), which cut into inch squares ; wash and clean them well, dry them with a cloth, and put them into a stew-pan, with two gallons of stock gravy, sweet basil, knotted marjorum, savory, a lictle thyme, some parsley, all chopped fine, cloves and mace pounded, half a pint of Ma¬ deira or sherry; stew altogether gently for four hours; heat a little stock gravy with a little milk (one pint), some Hour mixed smooth in it, the yolk of two eggs; keep these stirring over a gentle fire until near boding; put this in the soup, stirring it as you put it in, for it is very apt to curdle; then let all stew together for half an hour when it is ready to send to table, throw in some forcemeat balls (see 293) and hard yolks of eggs; w-hen off the fire, squeeze in the juice of half a lemon. The quantity of the soup may be increased by adding more stock gravy, w-ith calve’s feet and ox palates, boiled tender, and cut into pieces. 299. LOBSTER SOUP.—A pound of veal, cut it into thin slices, half a pound of the lean of a loin of mutton; season these with pepper and salt; then take a large fowl draw it, and take out the fat; set these on m a small pot, with a gallon of water, and a bunch of parsley; take a couple of mid¬ dling lobsters, or three small ones; take the meat out of the tails and claws, and bruise the body with the shell in a marble mortar very smooth, mince the meat very fine and shake over it some pepper, and a little salt; put all this into the pot, and cover it very close; when it has been sometime stew-in" A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 133 put into it a few cloves, and some whole pepper; when it is reduced to half the quantity strain it off; if it is not rich enough, add to it some good stock gravy. 300. TO BOIL SALMON CRIMP.— When the salmon is scaled and gutted, cut off the head and tail; and cut the body through into slices an inch and a half thick ; throw them into a large pan of pump water; when they are all put into it, sprinkle a handful of bay-salt upon the water, stir it about, and then take out the fish; set on a large deep stewpan, boil the head and tail, but do not split the head; put in some salt, but no vinegar; when they have boiled ten minutes, scum the water very clean, and put in the slices; when they are boiled enough, take them out, lay the head and the tail in the dish, the slices round. This must be for a large company. The head or tail may be dressed alone, or with one or two slices, or the slices alone. It is done in great perfection in the salmon countries, but if the salmon is very fresh, it will be very good in London. 301. STEWED PIGEONS.—Make a stuffing, with the livers parboiled and bruised, a piece of butter, a few bread crumbs, pepper, salt, pounded cloves, pars¬ ley, sweet herbs chopped, and yolks of two eggs ; AH the pigeons, tie at each end, half roast, put into some stock gravy, with an onion stuck with cloves, a bunch of sweet herbs, a slice of lemon; let them stew very gently till tender; strain the sauce, skim off the fat; put to it pickled mushrooms, cayenne, forcemeat balls fried, and hard yolks of eggs. 302. ASPARAGUS.—Scrape them, and tie them in small bundles, cut them even, boil them quick in salt and water; lay them on a toast which has been dipped in the water the asparagus was boiled in; pour over them melted butter. 303. CUSTARD PUDDING.—Boil a piece of cinnamon in a pint of thin cream; a quarter of a pound of sugar; when cold, add the yolks of five eggs well beaten; stir this over the fire till pretty thick, it must not boil; when quite cold, butter a cloth well, dust it with flour, tie the custard in it very close, boil it three quarters of an hour; when it i a taken up, put it into a i bason to cool a little; untie the cloth, lay the dish on the bason, turn it up; if the cloth is not taken off carefully, the pudding will break ; grate over it a little sugar— melted butter and a little wine in a boat. 304. THINGS IN SEASON IN APRIL.— Meat.— Grass-lamb, Beef, Mut¬ ton, Yeal. Poultry and Game. —Leverets, Rab¬ bits, Ducklings, Pigeon, Pullets, Fowls, Chickens. Fish. —Turbot, Soles, Skate, Carp, Trench, Trout, Herrings, Salmon, Smelts, Chubs, Mullets, Cray Fish, Crabs, Lobster. Vegetables. —Sprouts, Young Carrots, Brocoli, Spinach, Parsley, Young Onions, Celery, Endive, Sorrel, Burnet, Radishes, Asparagus, Beet, Lettuce, All Small Salads, All Sorts of Pot Herbs, Cucumbers. Fruits. —Pears, Apples. 303. TO STRENGTHEN THE EYES WHEN WEAK.—Put a teaspoonful of vinegar to half a pint of water and use it warm two or three times a day.—M. R. 306. FOR A COUGH.—Take two ounces of mutton suet cleared of all skin, and boil it in a pint of milk till reduced to a half pint; drink it at night going to bed, about as warm as milk from the cow.—M. R. 307. LEMON CHEESECAKES.—The rinds of two lemons pared thin and boiled till they are tender, beat them well in a mortar. Then beat a quarter of a pound of butter, a quarter of a pound of loaf sugar, the j uice of one lemon, and four eggs, leav¬ ing out two of the whites; beat the eggs well before they are mixed with the other ingredients; fill your patty-pans a little more than half full, put a paste very thin at the bottom.—M. R. 308. TO MAKE FURMETY.—Take two quarts of milk and two pennyworth of wheat; mix well together; then put aquarter of a pound of raisins, the same quantity of currants, set it on the fire, let it boil; then take one egg, and a little flour, beat it well, then put it to the rest; let it just boil, then pour it out and sweeten to your taste; two pennyworth is rather an indefinite quantity, and I fear, in the present day, much more would be required than two-pence would buy.—M. R. 134 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 309. APRIL, FOR THE BOYS AND GIRLS.—April is a showery month, and is apt to interfere with out-of-door sports, by making the ground damp and soft; we must still, therefore, display a preference for those amusements which can easily be transferred from the play-ground to the room. But young people should remember that they should get as much fresh air as possible. The spring sun U as invigorating to young people, as it is to the beautiful flowere that now begin to spring from the earth. Tops are always favourite toys, so we will begin our April amusements with Fig. 1. 310. The Humming-Top. —This is a very pretty toy. It cannot be made by a boy, hut must be bought at a toy-makers. It is made hollow, having at its crown a peg round which is wound a string ; this being drawn quickly through a handle or key, sets the top in motion, the key and string being drawn away from the top, and remaining in the spinner’s hand. In wind¬ ing the string round the peg, be careful to do it closely and evenly; the best motion is given to the top by drawing the string away with a steadily increasing force. For this kind of top a wooden floor is preferable to any other. The top makes a loud humming noise, which is caused by the hole in the side striking against the air as the top spins, and from this it takes its name. 311. Peg-top. —The best peg-tops are those made of box. These are the famous “ boxers.” Peg-tops must be purchased, as without a lathe you cannot make one; they are of various sizes and forms, the best have a close resemblance to a pear, the strinc* with which it is spun should be about a yard long, and not too thick ; a button is lixed, or a knot is made, at one end. In winding your top let the string coil firmly and closely round the peg, but an expert player will show yon the right method much easier than it can be described in print. 312. Peo-in-the-Ring.— Any number may play at this. Two rings are described on the ground, the first about a yard in diameter, the second about two yards. The players stand upon this outer rinw and from it throw their tops; one com¬ mences by throwing his top into the inner ring; while it is spinning the other players peg at it with their tops; if none of them hit it, and when it ceases spinning if it rolls out of the ring the owner is° al¬ lowed to take it up, and having re-wound it, to peg at the others which may be still spinning in the circle. Should any of the tops when they cease spinning remain with¬ in the ring, they are considered dead, and are placed in the centre of the circle for the others to peg at; the player who succeeds in pegging any of the dead tops out of the circle, claims such as his own, or he may demand a ransom. Dead tops often get split in this game, in which case the victor may claim the peg as his pray. Tops with long pegs are the best for this game, as in ceasing to spin thev describe a larger circle, and consequently more frequently roll out of the ring. There is a way of spinning a top, by drawing the hand sharply back towards the body, while throwing the top, which causes the top to jump out again, but this must be learnt by practice. J 313. Whip-top.— Whip-top is played in two ways. The first way is, when you have no one else to play with, set your top in motion by means of a good whirl with both hands, and then keep up the motion with your thong, getting it along towards some previously determined mark. When played by two persons it is called “ racin°-.” Each player endeavours to get first °to the goal with his whip-top. Another way is called “ encounters,” when the two players endeavour to upset each other’s top by driving against it with their own A whip with an eel-skin for a thong has been always held to be the best; but the thon» may be made of various other things, such A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 135 as a slip of wash leather, of india rubber cloth, or any similar material. The whip- top is a plain top of solid wood, cut away i to a point, upon which it spins. 314. Chip-stone. —For this game you must provide yourself with the wooden top- spoon sold at most toy-shops. \ou de¬ termine upon your goal, or mark two lines upon the ground (which should be smooth and hard as boundaries. Two small stones — or buttons — are then placed upon one of the lines as a starting point. The tops are then spun, and, while spin¬ ning, the player takes it up in his spoon, by dexterously inserting its edge under the peg of the top; he then pitches the top peg against the stone or button so as to chip it towards the farthest boundary. While the top continues to spin the player may take it up with the spoon as many times as he can, and when it spins out he must again wind it up, pursuing the same plan till he chips out. Of course the first who reaches “ home” wins the game. Fie. 2. 315. Blowing Bubbles. —When con¬ fined to the house by rain or bad weather, you may amuse yourself by blowing soap bubbles. A cup, or gallipot, in which is a little soap suds, and a pipe or a quill, will be all you will require. The young person who blows the bubbles should stand on a chair, as thereby the bubbles will take a longer flight, and afford great amusement to groups of play-fellows. Boys and girls fond of instruction may find plenty of food for the mind from the contemplation of soap bubbles. Example, why are soap bubbles round ? They are round chiefly because the globular form is that of all the lightest bodies, and because they are equally pressed upon on all sides by the surrounding air. Again: why do they at first ascend , and afterwards descend . The reason is that the warm breath which they at first contain makes them lighter than the air; but as they cool, they become heavier, and submit to the attraction of the earth, which draws all bodies towards itself. The beautiful colours that appear when the sun’s rays fall upon a bubble, and which are called prisma • tic, because a prism or triangular piece of glass produces them also, are caused by the refraction, or bending of the sun’s rays, as they pass through the bubble, or are bent back by its surface. In that very interesting book, “ The Reason Why,” you will find this fully explained; and if you take a lesson occasionally from that book, you will be greatly improved, and will find the acquire¬ ment of knowledge pleasant and easy. 316. The Pop-gun. —This toy conveys a little lesson in natural philosophy. Almost every boy has used a pop-gun, but very few, perhaps, have reflected upon the principle elucidated by it, viz., that of the substan¬ tiality of air. The pop-gun is formed of a piece of elder wood, out of which the pith has been taken. They are now made of other kinds of wood, the hollow part being pierced in a lathe. The rammer should be of a size to fit it easily; the upper or handle end being broader and flatter like the buffer of a railway carriage. Pellets are made either of moistened tow or paper ; they should be of a size to fit the orifice of the pop-gun upon considerable pressure. 1 irsfc 136 THE CORNER CUPBOARD. put a pellet into one end of the gun; push it with the rod to the other; and then placing a second pellet at the end where the first was inserted, push that sharply towards the opposite end and it will drive the first pellet out with great force; this is caused by the compressibility of the air to a certain point, at which it is dense enough to force out the pellet at the end, it then expands with great force, caus¬ ing the pellet to fly away. There is a new metallic pop-gun, and sold at 6d. (&?eFig. 3,) It is a capital toy for in-door play. A is a cork, which forms the pellet attached to a string; li is the handle, attached to the rammer, or piston; C is the string attached to the cork, and (which is not absolutely necessary, only it keeps the cork from be¬ ing lost); D is the air-tight piston, which re- quires no pellet. The string may be taken c Fig. 3. B from the cork, and a target being made of a large sheet of paper suspended against the wall, with a series of rings drawn upon jt, a good game of skill may be played. It is well to have a number of corks, which may be bought at the cork-cutters at Id. per dozen. Fig. 4. 317. The Sucker. —April’s rainy days will suggest to you to practice the old pneumatic experiment with your “ sucker.” A sucker is made by cutting out a piece of leather of the size of a crown piece or an old penny; this should besoaked in water and then hammered, or otherwise welded to make it soft and pliable ; a piece of strong string has then to be passed through a hole in its centre, and fastened on the lower side. By wetting this and laying it upon a stone, pressing it down at the same time with your foot so as to exclude the air, you may with your string raise a stone of considerable weight. The reason of this is, that the air being excluded from the space between the stone and the leather, upon your pulling the string a vacuum is created, and the pressure of the external air upon the leather prevents its separation from the stone. Many boys will insist, perhaps, in spite of this explanation, that the leather sucks up the stone . This is a mistake, leather pos¬ sesses no such power; it is a dull, inert thing, and only acts as it is acted upon by surrounding matter. 318. See-saw.— This affords fine fun, provided care be taken. A plank is placed across a felled tree or low bank, a wall, or anything similar, and a player seats him¬ self at each end ; by the slightest exertion the apparatus is put in motion, and the players rise and sink alternately. A dif¬ ference in the relative weights ol the players is very easily adjusted by altering the centre of the see-saw—the lightest player taking a greater length of plank. Good boys and girls will not ph y A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 137 tricks at this game, by violent motions, or anything that would tend to upset the players. A boy of good balancing powers will sometimes change this duetto game into a trio by standing midway upon the see-saw between the other players and keep¬ ing them on their alternate motion with his right and left foot; but this requires great caution. A good safe way is to play this game in a yard thickly strewn with new straw; and if it can be practiced in the fields among the new hay or long grass it is truly delightful and mirth inspiring, ac a tumble is then of little consequences. Fig. 5. 319. Bow and Arrow.— We give here a few easy directions for the practice of this elegant sport. In another place wo shall go fully into the subject of Archery. The first thing to observe in shooting with the bow and arrow is the position; the heels should be placed a few inches apart; the head bent slightly forward and downward; the left arm must be held out quite straight to the wrist, which should be bent inward; the bow is to be held easy in the hand, and the arrow when drawn should be very near to the ear. The right hand commences draw¬ ing the string as you raise the bow. When your arrow is three parts drawn, take your aim; the point of the arrow should appear slightly to the right of the mark you aim at, the arrow is then drawn to the hand and let fly. The trunk of a tree chalked with circles, or a circle marked on a piece of boarding, will serve for a target. 320. Bow Making.—I t is not easy to construct a serviceable bow; and it is the best way to go to a good archery warehouse and buy one; but if you are hent upon making one for yourself, select two pieces of yew tree, laburnum, or thorn, of the length you require. Let one piece, that for the inside, be about half the length of the outside piece; lay them together and bind them firmly round with cord; about the centre place a piece of cloth or velvet for the hand. Do not weaken your bow by tapering off the ends two finely. For the string of your bow hempen string is the best; its thickness must depend upon the strength of your bow. 321. To Make Arrows. —Arrows are easily made of ash, deal, or poplar wood. For the most rudimentary stage of archery it will do very well to purchase a few laths of the lath-venders and make your arrows from these; care must be taken to select those laths that are perfectly straight. Your arrows may be easily rounded with a penknife; their nick or but ends should be clear and free from jags, so that they may leave the bow-string easily. For a point it will be sufficient to sharpen the end of your arrow ; but as we said above, for a 1 serious and scientific archery purposes, you must be content to procure your weapons from an experienced maker. 138 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 322. PHENOMENA OF APRIL.— Sturm, in his delightful “ Reflections,” says, that the nearer we approach this charming month of April “ the more we see the wild and melancholy appearance of winter wear oft. Each day brings forth some new crea¬ tion ; each day nature draws nearer to per¬ fection.” “ Nature is dressed in smiles. Spring has donned her robes of brightest green, and uprises like a joyous bridegroom to meet the beauteous Summer in her bowers. All above, like white and downy feathers, the fleecy clouds are cradled in the sky, rocked by singing zephyrs, or sail along like fairy ships upon the azure ocean. All below is spread a fresh and gorgeous tapes¬ try of green, inwrought with golden threads of cowslips, primroses and celandines, and jewelled by azure speedwells or delicately tinted cuckoo-flowers; while here and there the daisy—childhood’s dearest ornament— peeps up, with childlike modesty, pouting its budding lips in rosy eagerness to kiss the young year’s feet as they pass along, glisten¬ ing with diamonds of scented dew. The sky weeps tears of joy, wooing the earth to fruit- fulness. Everybody, from young Shakespere to the latest school-child, loves the month of April; its blossoms, its skies, its playful breezes, its scented showers. Sobered by passing years, as we sit in our study pen- nmg these lines, we catch again the spirit of our boyhood’s springtide, and while we write we live again in that happy time. As then, with delighted feet we dashed amon» the primroses and violets • so now, in imagina¬ tion, we would revel among sweet woodland scenery, and treat of buds and blossoms with a poetry belonging to a bygone era of our life. But this is not a part of our present plan, and it is due to our readers to refuse to deviate from the path along which we have undertaken to conduct them though sweet flowrets redolent with teeming memories and sweet associations lure us from the way. 324. The winds of March having dried the surface of the earth, the mould is ren¬ dered friable, and fitted to receive the seed from the hands of the husbandman. But moisture is necessary to the germination of the seed, and no sooner is it deposited in the soil, than April showers come with warmth and geniality. The rain that seems to fall capriciously, is wisely and benevolently sent, and gives the character to the month as the most remarkable terrestrial phenomenon oc¬ curring during its passage. If we could in sensations be children once more, and feel again the marvellous astonishment we ex¬ perienced whten first we saw water come pouring from the sky, we should be able to understand how really wonderful and beau¬ tiful is an ordinary shower of rain. But familiarity has destroyed the perception of its marvellousness, so the world shoulders its umbrella and goes sulkily on its way. Let us not follow the fashion, nevertheless," but stop to inquire what is the cause and nature of a shower of rain. ^lhe first question which arises is —How did the water accumulate in the am to form the rain drops? Whence came the fluid, and how did it ascend into the sky ? These questions may perhaps be answered by others. If a few drops of water are poured and spread upon a slate, and left exposed to the air, they will shortly disappear ; what has become of them ? The water is said to have evaporated, or to have passed away, in the state of vapour into the air. Of this property in the air to cause a gradual wasting away of the surface of water, we shall have to speak hereafter; we mention it here only to afford a clue to the origin of the water which falls as rain. From lake, river, sea, and ocean, the process is continually going on, and is active in pro¬ portion to the temperature of the air, its dryness and motion. If on a hot summer’s day two bowls of equal capacity be filled with water, the one exposed to the rays and current of air, while the other is placed in a cold cellar, the former will be found to have lost a considerable portion of its con- tents, while the other remains unaltered. It the air be heated, its capacity for water is increased; if it be suddenly cooled, the vapour is condensed, having parted with latent heat which was necessary to preserve its rarefied condition. If, moreover, as soon as any portion of air is saturated or oaded with watery vapour, it is displaced by fresh dry air, the evaporation will be more rapid than under ordinary circum¬ stances Thus, under the influence of wind, the moisture of the earth is carried off with extreme rapidity. The water A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 139 which by this process rose upon the wings of the wind in March, as an invisible vapour dissolved in the air, becomes condensed again in April, to fertilise the earth from which it originally proceeded. 326. Let us verify this by experiment. When the kettle boils we observe that steam or watery vapour issues from the spout; at first the atmosphere does not dissolve it; and while this is the case it is visible to the eye; before, however, it has been driven many inches from the vessel the steam dis¬ appears, and “ vanishes into thin air.” After this has gone on for a time, if the vapour be generated fast enough, the air ceases to be able to absorb, and a mist or steam is perceived in the apartment. While the air is yet transparent, that is to say, while it retains its power of absorbing watery vapour, the fluid which passed from the kettle may be regained and made visible. A certain portion of heat supplied by the fire to the kettle was required to convert the liquid into vapour; the sensible heat became latent. Since this heat is necessary to the permanence of the vapour, it is platn that if it could be withdrawn the steam would return to its original form, fluid. This may be accomplished as follows. Place upon the table of a room where the steam has been generated, one of the tall cylindrical glasses used by the confectioners, capable of holding rather more than a pint. Take care that the outside is perfectly dry, and that the vessel is cool. Throw into the glass a mix- ture # composed of five ounces of muriate of ammonia (sal ammoniac), and five ounces of dry nitrate of potash (saltpetre), and eight ounces of sulphate of soda (Glauber’s salt); pour over the powder a pint ot the coldest water that can be procured, and stir gently with a glass rod or bone paper-knife. A large amount of heat will be absorbed by the mixture, and the air contiguous to the sides of the vessel will be cooled to such a degree that a portion of the vapour con¬ tained in it will be condensed and precipi¬ tated upon the sides of the glass, like drops of dew. In the same manner, we may ob¬ serve that the moisture of heated rooms is condensed upon the w T indow-panes when the air without is cold; and after a thaw, when the air is warmer than the walls of our houses, a similar deposit of water takes place. 327. The temperature at which the con¬ densation of watery vapour begins is called the dew-point , and many ingenious instru¬ ments have been devised to ascertain the quantity of steam contained in the atmo¬ sphere at any particular time, by noticing the point on the thermometer at w r hich dew is formed. We say the air is dry when water is quickly dried up, or absorbed by it; on the other hand, we say the air is damp when wet substances dry only slowly. In the former case a greater degree of cold would be required to precipitate the water, or condense the vapour; while in the latter the slightest reduction of temperature would induce the re-formation of water. When the condensation of vapour h\ the air, under ordi¬ nary circumstances, occurs by contact with cold solid bodies, it is called dew ; when, on the contrary, the whole body of air is cooled, mists , clouds , or rain are formed. 328. The vapour in which clouds are com¬ posed, and which supplies the fluid to the showers of April is in a peculiar condition. A scientific traveller on the Alps describes the appearance of a mist, by winch he was enveloped, and which was almost stagnant. He was greatly astonished at the size of the drops, as he imagined them to be, the more especially when he saw them float along without any tendency to fall to the earth. These bodies, which were of the size of the largest peas, proved, upon in¬ vestigation, to be vesicles, or small bubbles of water of extreme tenuity. It is con¬ sidered probable that in clouds and mists the fluid is always in this singular condition, though there may be great difference in the size of the vesicles. If clouds, mists, or fogs consisted of drops, they would im¬ mediately fall to the earth; indeed, it has been calculated “ that a drop of water, one thousandth part of an inch in diameter, in obedience to the action of gravitation, would acquire a descending velocity equal to nine or ten feet per second; whereas we see clouds hover at a small elevation for hours. It is probable that this vesicular condition of water is produced when two volumes of air of different temperatures, and in differ¬ ent electrical conditions, meet and mix to¬ gether; if this, however, takes place too rapidly, drops, instead of vesicles, are formed; or when the stratum of air in which the vesicles float is suddenly con- 140 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: densed, the globules approach each other and merge, and a fall of rain is the con¬ sequence. 329. It must be admitted, nevertheless, that the exact circumstances which produce the vesicular state of water are not known, nor are scientific men prepared to state positively what conditions are necessary to its permanence, or its change into the form of rain drops. 330. Some extraordinary falls of rain have been recorded: on the twenty-fifth of October, 1825, a fall of rain equal to the depth of thirty-two inches, fell in twenty- four hours at Genoa; on the ninth of October, 1827, there fell at Joyeuse, in the south of France, thirty-one inches in twenty- two hours. A curious circumstance at¬ tending the fall of rain is, that the quantity collected by rain-gauges, or instruments used for registering the depth of water which falls, varies in an unaccountable degree with the elevation of the instru- ments. The quantity collected by rain- gauges on the surface of the ground is considerably greater than when the instru¬ ments are placed at some elevation above. On an average of thirteen years the quantity of rain which fell annually in the court of the Observatory at Paris, was twenty-two inches; while the mean quantity which fell on the terrace, ninety- two feet above the level of the court, was less than twenty inches. A rain-gauge placed at the top of York Minster showed a fall of nearly fifteen inches between February, 1833, and February, 1834; while another perfectly similar instrument on the ground registered nearly twenty-six inches. The cause of these singular discrepancies is not understood, but is supposed to depend upon the currents of wind, which interfere with the perfect actions of instruments elevated from the ground. 331. The average quantiy of rain which falls in a year in any given place, depends upon a great variety of circumstances, principally those connected with climate &c. 332. The sky is usually overcast by a dark cloud before a shower, but instances are on record where rain has fallen from a serene cloudless sky. This curious phenom¬ enon is said to occur frequently in the island of Mauritius in the evening, when the stars arc. shining; it has also been observed in Paris, Geneva, and Constantinople. 333. In tropical regions the rains are periodical, as before mentioned; they fall only at certain seasons, and for an hour or two daily. The drops are said to be larger than those which we are accustomed to see, and owing to their greater weight strike the earth with considerable violence. “ The morning is clear, the clouds gather towards mid-day, heavy rains fall in the afternoon, and the evening is again clear aud fine. At times the sky is unclouded for months together.” 334. Rain is unknown in some parts of the world, viz : the arid deserts of Africa and Arabia, the deserts of Gobi, parts of Mexico aud California, and the west of Peru. 335. From numerous observations, it has been proved that the mean, or average annual temperature, generally occurs on the twenty-fourth of April and the twenty, first of October, in the temperate zone. England the course of the heat is as follows:—The temperature rises from t he middle of January until the middle of July from which period it diminishes, niially reaching its minimum again in the middle of January. 337. A CHAT ABOUT ANAGRAMS. i 11 j e m ^° histor y f° r anagrams, we shall fand coincidences as unexpected and amusing as those which have no particular application. These ingenious devices ‘seem to have been in special favour during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and to have served a variety of purposes. Of our Queen Elizabeth, her friends made the following one: Elisabetha Regina Angliao Anglis agna, H Iberia) lea. Thus, from the name Elizabeth, Queen of England, they showed her to be a lamb to the English, a lioness to Spain. Her ad- versary, Mary Queen of Scots, was not with¬ out her complimentary anagram; in her name, Maria Stevarta, was found Veritas armata, or. Truth armed. Her fate was mso described in a transposition: “Maria Steuarta,Scotorum Regina” (Mary Stewart Queen of Scots), may be arranged into Irusa vi regms, morte amara cado” (the kingdom being overthrown, I fall by a bitter A FAMILY REPOSITORY. Ill death). Her son, James Stuart , makes a j just master; and Charles James Stuart may he transposed into claims Arthur s Seat; which, whether referring to the throne of England, as the seat of the cele¬ brated King Arthur, or to the mountain so called, overlooking Holy rood Palace, is equally appropriate. 338. On the opposite side of the Channel, our French neighbours were nowise behind the English in witticisms of the same kind. In the name of the celebrated beauty, Marie Touchet, they discovered the truth, Je charme tout (I charm every one). Frere Jacques Clement, the friar who murdered Henry III., has letters in his name which thus depict him, C'est Vinfer qui m’a cree (It is hell whence I have my . origin). Henry III. had been subject to this oppro¬ brious appellation during his life: from his name, Henri de Yaloi , his enemies made Yilain Her ode. 339. As the seventeenth century pro¬ ceeded, men of literature and private persons became famous for their anagrams. Randle Holmes , who wrote a book called the “Academy of Armoury,” treating of heraldry, was changed into Lo! men's herald; and John Felton , who stabbed the Duke ot Buckingham, and afterwards made no^ at¬ tempt to escape, by the spelling of the time, became Noh !Jlie not. 340. A lady of the time of Charles I., whose name was Eleanor Davis, joined herself to the Puritan party, and advocated the cause by preaching and prophesying. She laid claim to her prophetic power chiefly from the fact that of the letters of her name could be nearly made the words, Reveal, O Daniel /—and although, to have been quite correct, an s should have been omitted, and an e added, it did not matter —she denounced all kinds of misfortunes on the Cavaliers. She was at once taken up, and tried for sedition; but neither the lawyers nor judge could make anything of the case. Being w r ell versed in Scripture, and endowed with more than womanly fluency, she returned answers which baffled all the court; although, when it seemed she had the best of the argument, one of the barristers determined to combat her with her own weapons, and begged to inform her that the anagram on which her pre¬ tensions rested was clearly inadmissable, since the words Dame Eleanor Davis made never so mad a ladie! The abashed prophetess was silenced, and dismissed with a caution to examine her words with more accuracy another time. 341. The poet Waller found in his name the poet’s crown— laurel; and Crashaue, whose intimate friend was Car, made from his own name, He ivas Car . He thus com¬ memorates the friendship and the coin¬ cidence— “Was Car then Crashawe, or was Crashawe Car? .. , „ Since both within one name combined are. 342. In speaking of poets, it will not be out of place to name a modern anagram, which is too appropriate to pass over. r l he words. We all make his praise, may be combined into the name of William Shakes¬ peare. 343. A very remarkable transposition is the following: Georgius Monc . dux de Aumerle (George Monc, duke of Albemarle), who was the means of bringing back Charles II. to the throne of his ancestors. The letters of his name may be placed so as to make Egoregem reduxi Ano. Sa. M.DCLVV. (1 restored the King in the year of our salvation 16G0). 344. In 1785 the Abbe Miolan made an unsuccessful attempt at a balloon ascent, in the gardens of the Luxembourg. The people, enraged at losing their expected en¬ tertainment, were disposed to be mischie¬ vous, till their anger was turned to merri¬ ment by a wit who discovered, in the name of VAbbe Miolan , the words Ballon abime. 345. "Nor has our century been behind¬ hand in the discovery of ingenious transpo* sitions. When George IV, exercised the regal authority during the life of his father, the wits of the day observed that the title Prince Regent was nothing more than G. R. in pretence. Sir Francis Burdett, in his early days, was in name Frantic disturber. The Whigs said of Patriotism—Pitt marrs it! Orator Henry Hunt was justly said to contain no one truth, Harry. On the oc¬ casion of the death of the Princess Char¬ lotte Augusta of Wales, it was observed that her name made P. C., her august race is lost: oh, fatal neivs ! The words Revo¬ lution Francaise will turn to Veto—un Corse lafinira (the veto was the last sem¬ blance of power left to poor Louis XVI.) The arranging Napoleon Bonaparte into 142 THE CORNER CUPBOARD; Iona rapta pone leno (lay down the goods you have carried away, thief), was, to say the least, not complimentary. Almost every one knows that Horatio Nelson is Honour est a Nilo (Honour at the Nile); and of our own glorious Duke one or two may be made. The event of the war might have been descried in two of his titles, had he possessed them. Wellington and Douro says, Our golden land to win. Arthur Wellesley of Wellington and Douro , turns to And he nnds well true glory on Waterloo. It will be observed there is a deficient l. If the reader will not dispense with that, one o must be taken from Waterloo; and the sen¬ tence will stand— Lo ! he finds true gloru tvell, and at Waterlo. Field Marshal the Duke, makes The Duke shall arm the field • which may be added to either of the for¬ mer phrases at pleasure. 346. ENIGMA. e boat together on the rippling stream. Together dive into the eaglets’ nest; ! n the stars that now so brightly beam w e rise triumphantly, and sink in rest. Tou’ll meet us twice in all the streets you see ^ home • WhCre Shaksperc founcl bis earliest And, tho’ a place of some celebritv, S roam Wl11 fal1 when we from Stratford Though in all states united we appear. We are divided in the senate-house: One in[ m it u . s + s r n ^ nd . a11 ' vil1 the nbe clear), One m a rat! the other in a mouse! t 347. ENIGMA. I often am seen, Rod, yellow, and green, Though more frequently white, I must own • lam large, I am small, ’ round in cottage and hall. And am valued wherever I’m known. Though of parentage mean, I am used by the Queen, And have friends in the grave aud the gav- If you wish me to go, e say • You but deal me a blow, And my beauty is banished for aye. Assistance I bear To the ladies so fair. As a part of their toilets I make- I am varied in form As the waves in a storm, 1 et of service in any I take. Although valued and used, I am often abused, And have heard it asserted by some. Through my innocent aid Much crime has been made, And sad sorrow and misery come. A house without me Would most comfortless be, As I help to protect you from cold • A ow, ladies, pray guess, My cognomen confess. For my mission already is told. 318. ENIGMA fi [ st faint dawn coming dav Tnf n ak u t p e £ eart of the l^htning’s ray?’ The head of a flower most simple, but sweet A d meetf rSt or the las t of the hour when we The head of a king of romantic fame, nameT ereiSn ° f deSerts ' vh ° gavc him his °f a general who wept when the world he had Tha could e mnT Se ° f ldS ViCt ° riCS 110 further ZriV V, ]° ancient times ran mad, And a bird whose mistake to a poet was sad. These arrange in a row, And to you they will show JL he name of a chief ''lief! 6 Cmel destructions exceed all be- Mabianne. 349. CHARADE. strife]- C “ U1 ’ tue source of much Th °life m ° ftCn f0Und dead > 1 have n e’er lost my Im au d st S e?of ng aUd beautiful, bland and I am oft hypocritical, often sincere- a “aue 0metlmCS nonsensica l, sometimes pro- YetyWithout me all Socrates’ wisdom were tested in Sparta, confined and neglected • But at Athens I always was highly resDeoted Some sav m the eyes 1 may often be S.’ BU queen n0Wn 1 ° ft COme frora the ™uth of a ^ jjgjr* me no judge ^ ves bis charge to the But I sometimes take wing if he flies in n fw M 'speak* 16 memburs of Parliament get up to The Ind°i d ali ead y ° U t0 think rae ^meaning BUt hurl ? d, Chatham his thunder of eloquence 1 W wo t rid Ught thC m ° St wonderful thing in the I was used before Paradise ever was made m? d b? me was temptation to Adam conveyed I hough Noah invited me not to embark 7 ‘ He made use of me during his stay in the ark All who own me believe they’ve a®otse While many are never permitted to use mo p 1 an C ^’n tllerefore ’i 1Dy Qualifications you see Can you guess what my signification m^ be? A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 143 350. ANIMALS OF CHINA. The denseness of the population has long since entirely driven out all wild quadru¬ peds ; and there are also few domestic ones, such as are found in European countries. Beasts of burden are in a great degree su¬ perseded by the means of transport afforded by the numerous rivers and canals, and by the coolies or porters, a class of athletic men, who take the place of animals in carry¬ ing burdens and in dragging boats. Animals are excluded, to leave more food for men. There are no meadows for feeding cattle; but the entire soil is used in raising food for the inhabitants. Wild cats are sometimes caught, and are considered a great dainty. Monkeys are found in the southern pro¬ vinces. What few horses and asses are found in China are small, and very inferior in every respect. The builalo is sometimes used in ploughing. Dromedaries are used between Peking and Tartary. ^ There are also hogs, goats, and sheep. There is but one variety of dog in the country, an animal about one foot high and two long, resembling a small spaniel. Rats are very abundant, and furnish the common people with meat. They are very large, and de¬ structive to crops. Of the birds in China, there are the eagle, the falcon, the magpie, crows, sparrows, cormorants, curlews, quails, larks, pheasants, pigeons, the rice-bird, and many species of aquatic birds. Cormorants are used by the Chinese for catching fish. The falcon is imperial property, and the magpie is sacred to the reigning family. Fish form a very important part of the food of the Chinese, and great care is taken in artificial fish-ponds. The gold and silver fishes are kept in glass globes as ornaments. Among the fish eaten are the cod, stur¬ geon, mullet, carp, perch, sea-bream, &c.; crab-fish and oysters are common on the coast. The larger species of reptiles are unknown in China. Frogs, lizards, and fresh-water tortoises are common. Veno¬ mous serpents are very rare. The insects of China are numerous. The silk-worm is the most important, affording employment and riches to thousands of the inhabitants. The Chinese excel all other nations in rear¬ ing the silk-worm. The northern and western provinces are terribly afflicted by the plague of swarms of locusts. Their voracity is such that it is not uncommon for them to occasion so much destruction as to reduce thousands of the people to starva¬ tion. Scorpions and centipedes are abun¬ dant. Spiders are numerous; one species is very large, and devours small birds after catching them in their webs constructed on the branches of trees. It is peculiar in China. Butterflies of gigantic size and brilliant colours abound in the neighbour¬ hood of Canton. There is a kind of bee, called the white-wax bee, furnishing the whole nation with wax, which it deposits on a particular kind of tree furnished by the natives with nests to attract the insect. Fireflies are common. White ants are also numerous and troublesome. The Chinese eat many kinds of insects, as locusts, grass¬ hoppers, ground-grubs, and silk-worms. 351. TO PREVENT INCRUSTATIONS IN BOILERS.—To persons having the care of steam engines, the following, from an American journal, may be valuable:—Two or three shovels of saw-dust are thrown into the boiler; after which process there is no difficulty from lime, although using water strongly impregnated with it. The inside of the boiler is as smooth as if just oiled. Whether the lime attaches itself to the floating particles of saw-dust, instead of the boiler, or whether the tanic acid in the oak saw-dust forms a salt with the lime, which will not attach itself to iron, remains to be explained. The saw-dust was placed in the boiler for the purpose of stopping a leak. The experiment is cheap and easily tried. Saw-dust is not a new discovery for the pre¬ vention of incrustations in steam boilers. In 1846 a patent was obtained in America for the use of mahogany saw-dust to prevent incrustations in boilers; exhausted tan bark and dye woods have also been used for the same purpose. Blocks and chips oi oak would have also been used. 352. REPUTATION.—The two most precious things on this side the grave are our reputation and our life. But it is to be lamented that the most contemptible whis¬ per may deprive us of the one, and the weakest weapon of the other. A wise man, therefore, will be more anxious to deserve a fair name than to possess it, and this will teach him so to live, as not to be afraid to die. THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 111 BiLKWORMS ^ CATERPILLAKS ,rST AND ALSO POLL-GEOWV AND MOTK. ™' CHRTSALIS, 353. SILK AND SILIv-WORMS. D is said that Signor Lotteri has ascer¬ tained that a silky substance can be made from the bark of the mulberry tree, and that by maceration, good silk and fine paper can be made therefrom. The subject, though exceedingly interesting, is, never- thdess not new, the idea of obtaining silk from the mulberry tree having been already entertained, and samples of woven silk ac¬ tually produced tberefrom. A gentleman largely connected with the silk trade men- tioned to us that a year ago be had a piece of silk manufactured from the tree The announcement which, at the present time, attracts attention, is as follows:_ J54 Silk-worms feed S? species wliich was its only food, anti which from we should alt c hou ^ Lotteri, who m thVem. Ao .ra ° : ' ler than Signoi certained tha^a «Uky substen^ Ti f { ,lly cured from the hark nf anc ?, Cuul(1 be pro- that by maceration Ko f od silk- U i bC a ry tree - ar,a could lie easily prepared thProf a,ld J2»Per also, SSSK 55®? S* t mulberry-leaf nn/i u composition of the produced ever/descripti'on of''R° a - thi . ck ^ te quantities.” Such a su'wl'f S>1 V C . ln nninense from that species of leaf ft K m? 5? n, R obtained that from the Chinese oak amf the u “ hk ely plant a somewhat eiwSi ana V le ca «tor oil obtained. Ho tliafas it m-fv res l ll , t 1 mi « h t be the other beine sbortK. m « aj ’. a i ,ld tlle trut b of More ton-bay need siirh 0 bor t ted ’ neither the cotton plant no r t h P f norHm Ultrod uction of States of America shed theirbfoodfor ??, utheru perate tern- rearing of the vine tuS" 3 0 lrable to the Every one, therefore th«?'r!J?M Ply ’ and the 0,iTC - of a small spot of ground the?e?»° r ° r occu P ier great substitute for cotton m V lnay rear the weaken more and more this hm!i 1 w 80 d , oin P> parently indispensable SS ^sh!^ A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 145 SILKWORM CATERPILLAR, PLACED I>~ A PAPER CUP, TO PORM ITS COCOO!T ; 5KEIK OP SILK OBTAINED FROM THE COCOCN. He may “put money into his purseand, clothing his family "and himself in “silk attire’*—such as imperial Caesar had not dared to wear—drawn from the branches that give him shap^ and refreshing sustenance by day and by night afford him the sleep of content¬ ment,' he may well thank Heaven that he is permitted to reap the fruits though he have shared not the labours, of the thoughtful and perhaps ill-recompensed analyser of the enig¬ matical phases of nature. He may cheerfully and confidingly believe thenceforth that in the varied productions that she surrounds him with lie hid the main causes of the world’s progress and the renewing sources of peace and goodwill to men.’* 355. As the matter is now under conside¬ ration we have thought the present an ap¬ propriate time to introduce to the notice of our readers the Silk-worm, and to say some¬ thing of its natural history. 356. The Silk-worm is a moth (Bornbyx morij which spins its silk in forming its cocoon, when about to pass from the state of the caterpillar unto that of the chrysalis. It comes out of the egg in the latter part of May, or early in June; and as the worms wTl confine themselves to those places \n hero food is provided for them, the rapid progress of their growth, their curious changes, and the production of their silk, may be watched from day to day, and afford a most interesting study. We re¬ commend our friemls to obtain from twenty to thirty si lk-warms’ eggs, and then to at¬ tend to them according to the instructions we are about to give. 357. The eggs (which may be obtained of the herbalists in Covent Garden market at 6d. per hundred, and probably of other herbalists in the large markets of country towns), will be found to be about the size of a pin’s head, and are generally firmly at¬ tached to the paper upon which they were laid. A paper tray, about twelve inches long by eight wide, should be made by turning up the edges of a piece of card¬ board, or of stiff paper. Into the bottom of this the eggs should be placed, and when the time of hatching arrives, they should be watched from day to day, and some young lettuce leaves be provided for the young caterpillars. 35S. The caterpillars when first hatched c)o not exceed a quarter of an inch in length, and they will commence eating food immediately. Their growth will be very rapid and when they are about eight days old, their heads become considerably en¬ larged, they turn sick, refuse food, and appear in a lethargic state for about three days, during which they seem as if they were about to die. This sickness, however, arises from the pressure of their skins which become too tight for the increased size of their bodies. As soon as they have cast their skins, they will be re-invigorated, and eat a large amount of leaves. They will cast their skins four times in the course of their growth. About the time of the first or second change of skin, they should be provided with mulberry leaves instead of lettuce leaves. The change should not be made all at once, but some lettuce and mul¬ berry leaves should be given them together until they are found not to touch the former. 359. The silk-worm remains in the cater¬ pillar state about six weeks, and when ful grown it is only two inches and a half in length, a fine caterpillar of a yellowish rrrev colour. When full grown, it ceases to feed and begins to form a loose envelope of silken pipes. When this is observed, it should be taken from the paper tray, and each worm be placed in a cup of twisted paper, hung against the wall or in a warm ''’ llen ifc wi H then enclose itself in a ball ol silk, called a cocoon, within which it passes into the chrysalis state. It remains m the chrysalis about fifteen days, and then comes forth in the form of a moth. In escaping from the cocoon, it destroys a portion of the silk; to prevent which the silk-deaiers destroy the chrysalis, or unwind the silk of the cocoon before the chrysalis is broken by the moth. 360. Those who keep silk-worms for in¬ struction or pleasure, will do well not to interfere with the natural life of the worms but to watch their whole history to its fulfilment. Each moth will produce a lar-e number of eggs; and the silk supplied by the cocoons may be wound off and tied into skeins, and these being laid between the leaves of books, may be preserved for many years to remind the naturalist of the use- fulness of the silk-worm. 361 “I was occupied the other day,” says Mr. Jesse, in his * Gleanings,’ “ in his fleeting on the benefits accruing to mankind from a remarkable instinct impressed by the great Creator on that insignificant insect the silk-worm. What warmth and comfort does it afford to us! How useful, conve¬ nient, and elegant is the clothing we derive from it! But this is not all. Let us, for one moment, consider how many thousands of persons are indebted to it for almost their very existence, in consequence of the em¬ ployment it affords to man in nearly every country of the known world. There is, however, another striking and interesting peculiarity attending the silk-worm. It S this; that while the caterpillars of all the other tribes of moths and butterflies, when they have arrived at a certain state of ma¬ turity, show a restless disposition, and " under about and hide themselves in a variety of places in order to spin their co¬ coons, preparatory to their making their escape as moths, &c., the caterpillar°of the silk-worm, on the contrary, is content to re¬ main stationary in the open tray, or box in which it may be placed. After consuming its immediate supply of mulberry leaves, it waits for a further quantity; and when the period arrives for spinning its cocoon, in¬ stead ox showing any migratory disposition, it seems to place itself with confidence under the care of man to provide it with a suit¬ able place for its convenience and protec • tion. In the fly or moth state, the female is quite incapable of flight; .and the male, although of a much lighter make, and more active, can fly but very imperfectly. This latter circumstance insures to us the for the following season, thus completing the adaptation of the insect in its different stages to the purposes it is destined to fulfil for our advantage. To my mind this strik¬ ing peculiarity in the habits of the silk-worm illustrates the care anu kindness of the Almighty, in thus making an apparently in¬ significant insect the means of so many im¬ portant benefits to man.” 362. Of the importance of the silk-trade to commerce, it is scarcely possible to give an adequate idea. But some approximation to it may be gathered from the statement that the silk imported annually in the un- ' 7*000 nnnn' ed * tJ l te amounts to about 7,000,0001bs. weight. 363. When the reader looks upon the A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 141 simple oprg of tlie silk-worm, and reflects that during a long and dreary winter the germ of life has slept therein; when he sees that germ awake, and thrive and grow with w r onderful rapidity ; when he sees the large caterpillar spin a covering of silk around it, and then form over itself a coffin¬ like chrysalis in which it appears to lie dead; and when he sees that from this ; seeming grave there bursts a beautiful moth cTad in silken raiment; ho will take these things into his most serious contem¬ plation, and will learn from the history of a worm to appreciate the works ot an Almighty God. - 364. LONGEVITY. A w r ork on the t€ Decline of Life in Health and Disease” has just appeared, from the pen of Dr. Barnard Van Oven. Some curious statistical information is given, which will interest our readers. One table exhibits a list of no less than 6,201 indivi¬ duals w T ho are said to have lived to the age of 100 years or upwards; of whom 1,519 have died between 100 and 110 years of ao-c; 331 between 110 and 120 years; 99 between 120 and 130 years; 3/ between 130 and 140 years; 11 between 140 and 150,17 beyond 157, of whom two are said to have attained 200 years. To these are added 55 persons, said to be still living, whohave al¬ ready exceeded 100 years ; 495 “ additional instances;” 2,179 “ lives about 100 in Rus¬ sia;” 750 “ in Sweden ;” and 708, who are re¬ ported by the Registrar-General to have died (in England and Wales) at the age of 100 or more, during five years, out of 1.237,986 deaths in a population of 18,897,187. ^ 365. Concerning this statement, Dr. \ an Oven admits that it must be regarded as very short of the number which might, with proper attention, be collected. It is also fair to mention that there are no autho¬ rities for some of these instances; the pre¬ sumption of their correctness remains. 366. The following are among the most remarkable cases of aged persons performing remarkable actions. One individual, whose name does not appear, is related by Mr. Easton, in his book on “ Human Longevity,” to have performed a journey of sixty miles on foot in two days, in his 100th year. On the same authority, Mary Wilkinson, who died in her 110th year, is said, in her 99th year, to have walked from Ronold Kirk, in Yorkshire, to London, a distance of 290 miles, in five days and three hours, carrying on her back a keg of gin and provisions for her support during her journey. P. Coets, a soldier who died in Flanders in 1789, aged 104, who was remarkably strong, that, at seventy-three, he moved a butt of beer from a cart “ without labour.” Jane Davis, an Englishwoman, w T ho died in 1777, at the age of 113, is said, in her 103rd year, to have reaped wheat against a man a whole day. 367. The following cases of hereditary longevity are related by Dr. Oven:—P. M’Donald, a fisherman, a native of Scotland, died in 1772 at the age of 109. His father attained the age of 116, his grandfather 107. Mary Teach, an Irishwoman, who died in 1790 at the age of 100, lost her father at 104, her mother at 96, her uncle at 110 ; and she had two sisters living at her death whose united ages were 170. A Mrs. Keithe, who died in England in 1772, at the age of 113 years, and whose senses are said to have been unimpaired until fourteen days before she died, left three daughters to be¬ moan her loss, who respectively attained the ages of 111, 110, and 109 years. Five score years and ten appear to have been the natural term of life in this extraordinary sisterhood. The case, however, is not unique. Legge is the name of another family, of whom four sisters attained re¬ spectively the ages of 110, 106, 100, 112. Their father, Edward Legge, had nine other children, many of whom attained to a very old age. J. Mirehouse, a yeoman, who was living in England in the year 1805, and who entertained between thirty and forty friends on his 100th birthday, buried his father at 95, and his mother at 100; one sister died at 93, and three others lived from 80 to 85 years. A Mrs. Pilman, an Eng¬ lishwoman, and her five sisters, attained the average age of 87 years each, one having lived to 100, another to 95, a third to 88, &c. A German soldier, whose name does not appear, but who lived to 180, having fought at the battle of Pultowa under Gus- tavus Adolphus, married at 93, had, in 1803, 186 descendants, among whom were two grandchildren each 100 years old. (l ide Philosophical Magazine , No. 66, Nov. 1803.)-Eccles, a spinster, an English- 14S THE CORNER CUPBOARD: woman, who lived to complete her 106th year, had several relatives who lived to 90 and upwards; her father lived to 107 her sister to 104. Of Thomas Parr, the ’well- known English labourer, who died in 1635 at the age of 152, two grandsons attained the ages of 127 each; another grandson 109, a great-grandson 124, and a nephew 1 , “ er liaps it may gratify those who seek for health, by their attachment to gardens, to note the age that some of our English horticulturists have attained. Pur- kinson died at about 78; Tradercant, the father, died an old man; Switzer, about 80; feir Thomas Browne, 77; Eveleyn, 86; Dr. Beale, 80; Jacob Hobart, 85; Collin- son, 75; a son of Dr. Laurence (equally fond of gardens as his father), 86; Bishop Compton, 81; Knowlton, gardener to Lord Burlington, at 90; Miller, at 80; Lord Karnes, 86; Abercrombie, 80; Gilpin, 80; Duncan, a gardener, upwards of 80 ; Hun¬ ter, who published “ Sylva,” at 86; Speech- ley, 86; Horace Walpole, 89; Bates, a celebrated horticulturist of High Wickham 89; Sir Joseph Bankes, 77; Joseph Cra- dock, 8o; James Dichton, 89; Dr. Andrew Duncan, 83; Sir A. Price, 83. Mr. James Kolan, of Knockidrian, county Carlow, born on 22nd July, 1742, is now, of course, in bis 112th year, and has lived within the reign of five sovereigns. Mr. Nolan’s eldest sister, Mrs. Bryne, lived to be 104 another sister to be 85, a brother to be 94 and another brother to be 82. 368. MEDICAL.—That The Corner Cupboard may be complete in all its parts, and no portion of it without a species of useful and domestic instruction, we propose to add to its stock of practical utility the advantage of a Family Physician and Household Surgeon. In fact, to give a brief but lucid history of those diseases that most frequently attack adult age, youth, and infancy, with the treatment peculiar to each. Not crude and popular nostrums, but sound and scientific advice, conveyed in such a form, that a parent may, with the utmost safety and confidence, administer what is prescribed either to an infant or an adult, with that certainty of benefit as if ordered by the family practitioner. 369. This is not done with the idea of superseding the medical man, where fami¬ lies have the means of employing one; but tor the use of those who may not be so for¬ tunately situated; and as it is impossible to say to what part of the world The Corner Cupboard may not find its way, the infor¬ mation we purpose giving will be of incal- culable advantage to the emigrant or voy¬ ager, and of great utility and assistance in all cases of emergency, or where professional ciia is not attainable. 3/0. As respects the surgical part of our scheme, advice and instruction in all cases of accident, suspended animation, wounds, and casualties generally, will be arranged under such convenient heads, that any information can be at once obtained by simply referring to the class under which the accident is set down. At the same time such information on regimen dietary for invalids, the forma¬ tion of poultices, hot and cold baths, and all necessary instructions on matters of detail will be explained in a practical manner* so that our medical section shall be a com* plete and useful family doctor. That it may be consulted at all times with implicit con- ulence, this department will be conducted by a medical man of thirty years’ experience in the practice of every branch of the pro- tension. r 371. To make this feature of our maga- zme more immediately acceptable to parents we propose treating the diseases of infancy and childhood first in our series, to be fol¬ lowed by those affections that generally attack maturer years and age. With this briet prospectus of our intentions we will at once proceed to the consideration of the 372. Diseases of Childhood.—Erttp- T . ITE P^ EASES -—'The peculiarity of this class of disease is, that it exhibits one of its most remarkable symptoms on the skin • throwing out on the surface of the body an eruption which differs in character accord- mg to the nature of the disease; so that the disease itself is at once distinguished by the character of the eruption. 373. The most important formsof this class of disease and those to which childhood are most subject are Small-pox, Glass or CMen-pox, Measles, and Scarlet-fever 6 / Lfherearecertain peculiarities common to all these diseases, and distinctive features to each, which parents would do well to fix in their memories, and which for that pur- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 149 f . i l r i pose we will define, before commencing S1 1. Each disease is preceded and attended * 2. Each is followed on the third or fourth day by an eruption on the face, neck, breast, or arms, extending generally over the body. , , . .. 3. Small-pox is always attended in its first stages by sickness and vomiting. 4. Measles is preceded by cough, run¬ ning at the nose and eyes, and symptoms of COl 5. Scarlet-fever is characterised by great heat, difficulty of breathing, head¬ ache, and sore throat. G. Chicken-pox has all the mild charac¬ ters of small-pox. 375. Measles. —This disease, which may attack every period of infancy and child- hood, and is not unfrequently met with in adult age, is most prevalent in spring and autumn, and frequently assumes au epi¬ demic character, when from long continued rains the atmosphere has become loaded with moisture. 376. Measles, unlike most of the diseases of infancy and youth, where the premoni¬ tory or indicative symptoms are unobserv ed or disregarded, is usually suspected and understood as soon as the child exhibits the earliest and commonest symptoms, and the parent in consequence is generally on her guard before the little patient lias become constitutionally disturbed by the disease. 377. Symptoms. —The first symptoms of measles of which we can take positive cog- nisance, are a slightly accelerated pulse, a not dry skin, succeeded by cold and shiver¬ ing, pain in the head, langour, fatigue, and listlessness 378. This chain of symptoms may exist only for a few hours, or it may extend over two, three, or more days, before the other and more characteristic marks of the disease set in. . ... , 379. This transitory stage is familiar to all mothers and nurses, and the patient is said during its continuance to be “ hatching the measles:’ Many erroneous and very objectionable practices are at this time adopted by non-profess onals, in the hope of shortening the stage and at once developing the rash. The most general means resorted to for this purpose are keeping the child studiously excluded from fresh air, loading it with* clothes, and giving it hot and stimulating drinks, balm, saffron, or mint tea, or repeated doses of sulphur and milk. The best of such remedies are seldom neces¬ sary, and most of them are generally hurt¬ ful. 380. The second stage of measles—which may, and often does follow the first im¬ mediately, without any interval whatever —is characterised by a quick pulse, a coated tongue, increased heat of the skin, flushed face, a dullness and peculiar heaviness of the eyes, attended by a running from the nostrils of a thin acrid mucous, that fre¬ quently chaps and irritates the lip; at the same time the patient, if old enough, complains of pain in the head, just over the forehead. The lungs from the first are more or less affected from being overcharged with blood, and a short dry cough—an effort of nature to relieve the oppressed organ —is the result, accompanied with difficulty of breathing, which towards night often becomes laboured and painful. Loss of ap¬ petite and slight thirst, as a consequence of febrile action, obtains equally in this disease; and though sickness is by no means common, it may under certain con¬ ditions of body exist in the earlier stages of measles. 381. On the third day, after the second chain of symptoms have set in, an eruption of a reddish brown, irregular shaped spots makes its appearance, first on the face and neck or bosom, and spreading to the arms, legs, and body. When the disease is mild and favourable, the rash comes out freely, and though not entirely covering the body, is full and well defined where it does ap- pear. 382. Measles is easily distinguished from all other eruptive diseases, by the spots being large, irregular in shape, of a dusky red colour, and conveying to the touch, when the fingers are passed over them, the sense of roughness or inequality on the skin. 383. Such are the general symptoms of an ordinary attack of measles, and the treatment of such a case resolves itself into little more than a judicious assistance of nature. 384. But complications and varieties occasionally occur, where the disease from 150 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: the commencement assumes a very dif¬ ferent character; in such conditions it is called 385. Malignant Measles.— This is a state that more frequently depends upon constitutional and hereditary conditions of the body of the patient than upon epidemic or atmospheric causes; and is from the first attended with typhoid symptoms. In ma¬ lignant measles, all the ordinary character¬ istics are greatly exaggerated. There is from the beginning much more fever, and that of a low, or typhoid type, the debility is greater, and the disinclination to all ex¬ ertion much more marked. The pains in the head are more severe, and the difficulty of breathing hard and oppressive. The eruption will appear for a few hours, and suddenly recede from the skin, and when it reappears show itself only in patches of a dark purple or blackish colour. At other times the eruption, though well out, will gradually change its hue, and passing from the natural reddish brown, become purple and finally black. The mouth tongue, and lips are coated with a brown shar p and the PUlSe iS quick ’ small > and 386. As in the simple, and most usual form of measles, the treatment is easy and sate; so in its malignant character, all the resources of art, and the practical wisdom of experience, are called for to arrest and conquer a disease that can only be mastered by excessive vigilance and unwearied skill and ability _ 387. THE OLD TINDER-BOX.—What an eloquent lecture might be delivered uron the old-fashioned tinder-box, illustrated by the one experiment of "strikinga light.’’ In that box lie, cold and motionless, the -b lint and Steel, rude in form and crude in substance. And yet, within the breast of each, there lies a spark of that grand ele¬ ment which influences every atom of the universe; a spark which could invoke the fierce agents of destruction to wrap their blasting flames around a stately forest or a crowded city, and sweep it from the surface of the world; or which might kindle the genial blaze upon the homely hearth, and shed a radiant glow upon a group of smiling faces; a spark such as that which rises with the curlmg smoke from the village black¬ smith’s forge—or that which leaps with terrific wrath from the troubled breast of a esuvius. And then the tinder—the cot- “ n ri h ® carbon : What a tale might be Til , tie cott °n-field where it grew, of the black slave that plucked it, of the white toiler who spun it into a garment, and of tlie village beauty who wore it—until, faded and despised, it was cast among a heap of old rags, and finally found its way to the tinder-box. Then the Tinder might tell of its hopes; how, though now a blackened mass, soiling everything that touched it, it would soon be wedded to one of the °rcat ministers of nature, and fly away “with transparent wings, until, resting upon some Alpine tree it would make its home among the green leaves, and for a while live in freshness and beauty, looking down upon the peaceful vale. Then the Steel might tell its story; how for centuries it lay in with 6 !? Cavern ® of the earth, until man, T 1 bl V nc l uiet s P irifc > dug down to the dark depths and dragged it forth, saying, rl° !°f ger e b !, at P eace ” Then would come tales of the fiery furnace, what Fire aad done for Steel, and what Steel had done or Fire. And then the Flint might tell of the time when the weather-bcund mariners, -f- ir fireS Upon the S » vrian shore, melted silicious stones into gems of glass and thus led the way to the discovery of the transparent pane that gives a crvstal miet to the light of our hJL, of uSSK ror in whose face the lady contemplates her charms; of the microscope and the teles- H? ^ he invisibl e are brought to ght, and the distant drawn near; of the prism by which Newton analysed the rays inwhth tb d ° f the P bot °o ra phic camera, in which the sun prints with his own rays the pictures of Ins own adorning. And then both Flint and Steel might relate their ad¬ ventures m the battle-field, whither they had gone together, and of fights they had seen, in which man struck down his fellow man, and like a fiend had reveuS iTE S'j, ? , “"f- cold Hearts of flint and steel, man might learn a wh f h ^ld make him blush at tho *? 1 war > an d the proud, who de¬ spise the teachings of small things, might earn to appreciate the truths that are SI ^ !,0rJ ' 0f 3 ““"to-boi.”- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 151 388. VEGETABLE LIFE. If we take some water, rising from a subterranean spring, and expose it to sun- 1 shine, we shall see, after a few days, a curious formation of hubbies, and the gradual accumulation of green matter. At first we cannot detect any marks of organi¬ sation—it appears a slimy cloud ot an irregular and undetermined forun It slowly aggregates, and forms a sort of mat over the surface, which at the same time assumes a darker green colour. Careful examination will now show the original corpuscles involved in a net-work formed by slender threads, which are tubes of circu¬ lation, and may be traced from small points which we must regard as the compound atom, the vegetable unit. We must not forget, here, that we have to deal with four chemical elements—oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, and nitrogen, which composes the world of organised forms, and that the water affords us the two first as its con¬ stituents, gives us carbon in the form of carbonic acid dissolved in it, and that nitrogen is in the air surrounding it, and frequently mix with it also. Under the influence of sunshine, we have now seen these elements uniting into a mys¬ terious bond, and the result is the formation of a cellular tissue, which possesses many of the functions of the noblest specimens ot vegetable growth. But let us examine the progress. The bare surface of a rock rises above the waters covered over with this green slime, a mere veil of delicate net¬ work, which, drying off, leaves no percepti- ble trace behind it; but the basis of a mighty growth is there, and under solar in¬ fluence, in the process of time, other changes occur. After a period, if we examine the rock, we shall find upon its face little coloured cups or lines with small hard discs. These, at first sight, would not be taken for plants, but on close examination they will be found to be lichens. These minute vegetables shed their seed and die, and from their own remains a more numerous crop springs into life. After a few of these changes, a suffi¬ cient depth of soil is formed, upon which mosses begin to develope themselves, and give to the stone a second time a faint tint of green, a mere film still, but indicating the presence of a beautiful class of plants, which, under the microscope, exhibit in their leaves and flowers many points of ele¬ gance. These mosses, like the lichens, de¬ caying, increase the film of soil, and others of a larger growth supply their places, and run themselves the same round of growth and decay. By and-by, funguses of various kinds mingle their little globes and umbrella- like forms. Season after season plants perish and add to the soil, which is at. the same time increased in depth by the disin¬ tegration of the rock over which it is laid, the cohesion of particles being broken up by the vegetable life. The minute seeds of the ferns floating on the breeze, now find a sufficient depth of earth for germination, and their beautiful fronds, eventually, wave in loveliness to the passing winds. Vegetable forms of a higher and a higher order gradually succeed each other, each series perishing in due season, and giving tc the soil additional elements for the growth of plants of their own species or those of others. Flowering herbs find a genial home on the once bare rock; and the primrose pale, the purple fox glove, or the gaudy P°PPy* °P en their flowers to the joy of light. The shrub, with its hardy roots interlaced through thesoil,and binding the very stones, grows rich in its bright greenery. Eventually the tree springs from the soil, and where once the tempest beat on the bare cold rock, is now the lordly and branching monarch of the forest, with its thousand leaves, afford¬ ing shelter for bird and beast, Such are the conditions which prevail throughout nature in the progress of vege¬ table growth ; the green matter gathering on a pond, the mildew accumulating on a shaded wall, being the commencement of a process which is to end in the development of the giant trees of the forest, and the beautifully tinted flower of nature’s most chosen spot. We must now consider close ;y the pheno¬ mena connected wuth the growth of an in¬ dividual plant, which will illustrate the operation of physical influences throughout the vegetable world. The process by which the embryo, secured in the seed, is developed, is our first inquiry. A seed is a highly carbonised body, con¬ sisting of integuments and embryo: bet¬ ween these, in most seeds, lies a substance 152 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: called the albumen, or perisperm. The embryo contains the elements of the future plant—the cotyledons, the plumule, and the radicle; the former developing into stalk and leaves, the latter into roots. This em¬ bryo hides the living principle, for the deve lopment ot which it is necessary that the starehand gluten undergo a chemicalchanoe, and that an elevation of temperature is pro¬ duced. Thevital power is dormant—it sleeps in the seed until the proper conditions are produced. It has been proved that thepowers of maintaining life in the seed are very great; excessive cold, sufficiently intense to freeze mercury, will not kill seed, and they resist a comparatively high temperature. It is probable that heat only destrovs seeds by drying them too completely. The tem¬ perature at which seeds germinate is ex¬ ceedingly varied—those belonging to our own clime will germinate when the ther¬ mometer rises above 40 deg. F., but the seeds of tropical plants demand that a temperature of from 70 deg. to 84 deg., or even to 00 deg., be steadily applied to them. In some cases it has been found that even boiling the seeds has been ad¬ vantageous to the future process of germi¬ nation in the soil. But let us take the seed of some ordinary plant, and trace its progress. An apparently dead grain is placed in the soil. If the temperature is a few de- grees above the freezing point, and the soil holds a due quantity of water, the in- tegument of the seed imbibes moisture, and swells; the tissue is softened, and the first effort of vital force begins. The seed has now the power of decomposing water the oxygen combines with some of the carbon of the seed, and is expelled as carbonic acid. Saussure’s experiments prove this. The air above the soil in which a horse-bean was placed to germinate, gave, before the ex¬ periment, nitrogen 210-26, and oxygen S and aftcr germination, nitrogen T?^ 1, ° X ? gen 44 ‘ 38 ’ aud carb °nic acid y.}',’ P al 't of the process is but little removed from the merely chemical changes which we have already considered We find the starch of the seed changed into gum and sugar, which affords nutri¬ tive food for the developing embryo. The seed now lengthens downwards by the radicle, and upwards by the cotyledons, which, as they rise above the earth, acquire a green colour. Here the first stage of vegetable life ends, the chemically excitine process is at an end, and a new stimulus is required to continue in full activity the vital powers. Carbonic acid is no longer given off. 6 The cotyledons, which are two opposite roundish leaves, act as the lungs; by them carbonic acid taken from the atmosphere lb abs °rbed and carried by a circulating process, now in full activity, through the young plant. The carbonic acid, a com- pound of carbon and oxygen, is decomposed • it is deprived of its carbon, which is retained 7 t ‘ le P lanfc > and oxygen is exhaled. The plant at this period is little more than an arrangement of cellular tissue, a very slight development of vascular and fibrous tissue appearing as a cylinder lying in the centre of the sheath. At this point, however, we begin more distinctly to trace the opera- tions of the new power; the impulses of life are strikingly evident. The young root is now lengthening, and absorbing from the moisture in the soil which always contains some soluble salts a portion of its nutriment, which is impelled upwards by a force—probably capillary at- traction and endosmose action combined— to the point from which the plumule springs. Capillary force raises the fluids through the tubes in the stalk, and conveys them to the veins m the leaves, while the endosmose force diffuses them through the vegetable tissues. The plumule first as¬ cends as a little twig, aud, at the same time by exerting a more energetic action on the' carbonic acid than the cotyledons have done the carbon retained by them being onlv m much as is necessary to form chlorophyll or the green colouring matter of leaves, some wood is deposited iu the centre of the radicle. From this time the process of ignification goes on through all the fabric —the increase, and indeed the life, 0 f the plant, depending upon the development of a true leaf from the plumule. ^ f It must not be imagined that the process consists m the first place, of a mereoxida- tion of the carbon in the seed-a slow com¬ bustion by which the spark of life is to be kindled—-the hydrogen of the water plays an important part, and, combining also with the carbon, forms necessary compounds, and A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 153 * a secondary process gives rise again to w* ter by combination with oxygen in the cells of the germinating grain. Is or must we regard the second class of phenomena as mere mechanical processes for decomposing carbonic acid, but the result of the com¬ bined influences of all the physical powers an ThiIXS?ng d little twig, the plumule at length unfolds itself, and the branch is ISphosM into » leaf. The leaf Srates the sap it receives, effects the decom- position of the carbonic acid, the water, and in all probability the ammonia which it de¬ rives from the air, and thus returns to the pores, which communicate with the pneu¬ matic arrangements of the plant, the^ces- sary secretions for the formation of bark, wood, and the various proximate principles which it contains. # . . « After the first formation of a leaf, others successively appear, all constructed alike, and performing similar functions. The leaf is the principal organ to the tree; an , in¬ deed, Linmeus divined, and Goethe demon¬ strated, the beautiful fact, that the tree was developed from this curiously-formed ° F “Keeping in view,” says the poet-philo- sonher “ the observations that have been made, there will be no difficulty in discover- ino- the leaf in the seed-vessel, notwithstand¬ ing the variable structure of that part and its peculiar combinations. Thus the pod is a leaf which is folded up and grown to¬ gether at its edges, and the capsules consist of several leaves grown together, and the compound fruit is composed of several leaves united round a common centre, their sides being opened so as to form a communication between them, and their edges adhering to¬ gether. This is obvious from capsules which, when ripe, split asunder, at which time each portion is a separate pod. is also shown by different spec ; es ot one genus, in which modifications exist of the principle on which their fruit is formed ; for instance, the capsule of nigilla orientate consists of pods assembled round a centre, and partially united; in nigilla damascena their union is complete.” , . ,, Professor Lindley thus explains the same viqyt ;_ “ Every flower, with its peduncle and bracteolae/being the development of a flower bud, and flower-buds being altogether analogous to leaf-buds, it follows as a corol¬ lary that every flower, with its peduncle and bracteolse,'is a metamorphosed branch. “And, further, the flowers being abor¬ tive branches, whatever the laws are of the arrangement of branches with respect to each other, the same will be the laws of the flowers with respect to each other. “ In consequence of a flower and its pe¬ duncle being a branch in a particular state, the rudimentary or metamorphosed leaves which constitute bractese, floral envelopes, and sexes, are subject exactly to the same laws of arrangement as regularly-formed lcuvcs.** The idea that the leaf is the principal organ of the plant, and that from it all the other organs are probably developed, is worthy the genius of the great German poet. . Every leaf, a mystery in itself, is an in¬ dividual gifted with peculiar powers ; they congregate in families, and each one mini¬ sters to the formation of the branch on which it hangs, and to the main trunk of the tree of which it is a member. The tree represents a world, every part exhibit¬ ing a mutual dependence. “ The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can; Hanging so light and hanging so high, rx 1 ' — 1 AAlf O 11V\ Oil 1 On the topmost twig that looks up at tlie sky f is influenced by, and influences, the lowest root which pierces the humid soil. Like whispering voices, the trembling leaves sing rejoicingly in the breeze and summer sun¬ shine, and they tremble alike with agony when the equinoctial gale rends them from the parent stalk. The influences which pervade the whole, making up the sum of vital force, are disturbed by every move¬ ment throughout the system; a wound on a leaf is known to disturb the whole, and an injury inflicted on the trunk interferes with the processes which are the functions of every individual leaf .—Huntfs Poetry of Science. - 389. FAULTS.—As there are some faults that have been termed faults on the right side, so there are some errors that might be denominated errors on the safe side. . Thus, we seldom regret having been too mild, too cautious, or too humble; but we often re¬ pent having beon too violent, too precipitate, or too proud. 151 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 390. VENTILATION. Mr. Davis, in his “ Popular Manual of the Art of Preserving Health,” gives some excellent directions with regard to ventila¬ tion, which^ we recommend to our readers. 391. “ Keeping it in recollection, that all rooms intended fcr the residence of human beings ought to have good dimen¬ sions, and that they can scarcely be built too lofty, the reasons for which rules are apparent from the details into which we have entered, and, in particular, from the quantity of oxygen gas required for respira¬ tion during a given time ; the ventilation of sitting-rooms may be effected by the ad¬ mission of a proper quantity of fresh air by means of a circular vane placed in a pane of the window, or in any other con¬ venient situation, so as to occasion no draught, and by the use of a common fire with an open flue. If the apartment be large, two such vanes, or more, should be situated in distant parts of the room. In estimating the amount of air to be admit¬ ted into any apartment, there can be no better guide than our feelings, for there is no other cause for limiting such admission than the disagreeable coolness it may pro¬ duce. We cannot have too much fresh air unless the change of air takes place with such rapidity as to carry off the heat of the body too quickly. Where this is the case, ventilation would become a serious evil, by inordinately cooling the body, and produc¬ ing the various evil consequences of cold These circumstances have their foundation m our northern clime. The atrium of the Roman houses, which was their most im¬ portant apartment, had a large square opening to the outer air in its centre such is the mildness of an Italian sky 392. “The remarks made on the di¬ mensions and loftiness of apartments are nowhere so applicable as to bed-rooms; these ought always to be spacious; but, as if in defiance of all rules of hygiene, they are most frequently the smallest and lowest rooms in the house. They have to be oc- cupied for many hours at a time, and, in general, without the air in them under¬ going any perceptible change; and there can be no doubt but the want of proper ventilation in bed-rooms, particularly in the dwellings of the lower classes, is an abundant source of ill-health. The air of bed-rooms is subject to many causes of vitiation, and does not admit of a very rapid change during their occupation therefore, a large store of the pure atmos¬ phere ought at all times to be contained in them. If of the proper dimensions, a vane such as before mentioned, may be introduced* into the window, or into the panel of the door, with advantage, and without produc- mg any draught, such as it would be liable to occasion in a small room ; and the open chimney flue will allow a sufficient egress . air ; Bed-rooms ought not to be crowded with furniture. Chests of drawers contain- ing clothes are apt to have their contents injured from the great absorbency possessed by all manufactured stuffs; they greedily drink up the vapours that' emanate from the human body, more especi- ally during a state of repose. Bedsteads ought to be devoid of hangings; wherever they are used, they preclude that degree of ventilation which is alone consistent with health; when made of woollen, and drawn closely round the bed through the night, they become, m a short time, from their great power of absorbency, truly offensive to a nice sense of smell; and, in fact, absorb all the vapours copiously given out by the human body during sleep, and form re- nuSt 8 m ™ WhlCh they may be aUowed to putrefy. These vapours when permitted to accumulate and putrefy, it should be recol¬ lected there are strong reasons for believ¬ ing, are of a peculiarly pestilent character —a powerful argument for a frequent ftsfrf. f tbe , bed - cl otbing itself, and for its free ventilation during the time that the bed is unoccupied; and if hangings must be retained, they ought to be made of thin materials that admit ot being washed, or otherwise they ought never to be drawn Sjj bu . fc a !! 0wed > as mere ornaments, to han at the corners of the bedstead. The common practice of closing up the bed , on . Tls } n S> and of making it up afresh in the afternoon, is also "very re¬ prehensible. By this means every im¬ purity that is absorbed during the nmht is carefully defended from the dete£ nr ° f f th 1 atmos P here > to be increased by every fresh use of the bed, until it become 3 somewhat offensive. But where it is usual, as in some parts of the continent A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 155 to throw the bed-clothes over the back of the chair soon after rising, and to open the door and windows freely, they are in a great measure deprived of the exhalations they have absorbed during the night, by the" pure atmosphere, which is probably greedy 0 f moisture. When the weather is damp" however, it is better to ventilate bed-rooms during the day-time, in the main, from the rest of the house, by setting the door wide open, as we thus avoid any excess of moisture. This method of free ventilation of bed-clothes will secure to many persons much more comfortable sleep. It is well known how readily the restlessness that is common during summer nights may be dissipated, and refreshing sleep procured, by walking about the room, and thoroughly ventilating the bed-clothes; in which case we may safely attribute the relief chiefly to the greater readiness with which the functions of the skin are carried on, under the change of circumstances derived from the dissipation of the vapours previously contained in the bed-clothes, and the admission of fresh air into the bed.” 392. THINGS THROWN AWAY. Nature is self-supporting, and loses no¬ thing. Her great workshop is ever repro¬ ducing new forms out of the old materials, or fac-similes of the old forms with their own everlasting properties. Nourishment may be carried away by rivers into the sea, and by rivulets into lakes; but in the sea, and in the lakes, that nourishment exists. Perhaps the fishes devour it, and restore it to the table in another form; and perhaps it is absorbed by the vegetative principle, and converted into sea-weeds, whilst part is deposited on the bottom of the ocean, or incorporated with the salt and in¬ corruptible water. But thoroughly lost it never is, and never can be. 393. How to gather that which has been scattered is one of the problems for human wisdom to solve. Rude and ignorant men, in their primitive state of existence, are glad to get rid of the refuse of society; and rivers were, and still are, always desirable in the neighbourhood of large cities, for that special purpose. The Thames carries the refuse of London away, the Seine dis¬ poses of the refuse of Paris, and the Clyde of Glasgow, and a great blessing the re¬ moval is esteemed; but that refuse is merely a portion of the great mass of nutritive matter which the world contains; and were not an equal por¬ tion of this matter collected from some other quarter, to supply the loss which the land has sustained by the sweeping of the river, the land would soon be entirely exhausted, and die of old age. Baron Liebig, the cele¬ brated German chemist, supposes that in this manner the now desolate regions of the East, at one time so fertile and populous, have been turned into deserts, partly eaten up by the inhabitants, who did not under¬ stand the art of restoring exhausted soil, and partly washed out and deprived of their vegetable and animal matter by the huge rivers which inundate their plains. The Tigris and Euphrates must carry yearly into the sea a sufficient amount of nutritive matter for millions of human beings. Could that matter only be arrested in its pro¬ gress, and converted into bread and wine, fruit and beef, mutton and wool, linen and cotton, then cities might flourish once more in the desert, where men are now digging for the relics of primitive civilisation, and discovering the symbols of luxury and ease beneath the barren sand and the sun¬ burnt clay. 394. The arts of life, in a great measure, consist of the saving and judicious use of waste matter. Paper is merely the re¬ fuse linen, cotton, and tow of the rags of society, the left-off clothes of the rich and the poor. These rags are carefully collected, and after having served the in¬ ferior purpose of clothing the body, they are made instrumental in adorning the mind. They are translated from the tem¬ poral to the spiritual sphere; they are in¬ vested with holy orders, and made to ad¬ minister consolation to the afflicted, and courage to the fearful. 395. Some years ago a London chemist conceived the idea of collecting all the soap¬ suds of the metropolis, and recovering the soap that had been used in washing; and could he only have organised a plan of collect¬ ing the suds, he would have succeeded. An idea similar to this has, within the last few vears, been realised at Manchester, with the refuse of the factories. The invention has been patented, and an immense amount of waste tallow is thus recovered, which used 156 THE CORNER CUPBOARD : to be washed into the Irish Channel, instead of returning to the purlieus of civilisation, the wash-houses and bed-chambers, to wash the skins and the garments of the million. f lhe Thames carries down many thousand tons of good soap and candles, which would be much more useful to society, and more grateful to the senses in that domestic form and character, than in those they now sus¬ tain in their voyage to the ocean. Some years ago a patent was taken out for a mode of recovering a large portion of this tallow ; but it has not yet been carried into practi¬ cal operation. 396. What has been done already shows what may be done, and what a vast amount of wealth is annually lost for want of means of collecting its scattered particles. The refuse of London alone—according to the estimate of Liebig, 31bs. weight per day for each individual, on the average—is valued by some as high as £13,000,000 per annum ; and £10,000,000 sterling must, therefore, be regarded as a moderate calculation. Here is one-fifth part of the national revenue at once, nay, one-third of the in¬ terest of the national debt, which costs onlu £30,000,000 per annum. 397. But the refuse of the whole United Kingdom has, by the same authority, been estimatedat£l80,000,000, say, £150,000,000 for a moderate calculation !" Well, here is three times the amount of the national revenue, and enough to pay the whole principal of the national debt in five or six years! Here is a California ! What is the use of going to the Diggings of the Far- est, or the Ophir Mountains of Australia, when such infinite, endless, exhaustless sources of wealth are to be found in (shall we write it in full ?) the Common Sewers ? 398. COMPULSORY LABOUR. . early times it was not uncommon for kings to force into their service labourers, as well in the meaner employments of life as in the higher departments of art. 399. Edward the Third, in his anxiety for the speedy completion of the painting in the chapel of his palace, issued a precept dated 18th March, 1350, to Hugh de St! Alban, his chief painter, commanding him to impress all the painters in the counties of Middlesex, Kent, Surrey, Essex, and Sussex, to conduct them to Westminster, and to keep them in his service so long as should be necessary; and, apprehending that these would not be sufficient, a similar order was given for the impressment of all the painters in the counties of Lincoln, Northampton Oxford, Warwick, Leicester, Cambridge’ Huntingdon, and Norfolk. 400. There is other evidence to show that personal liberty was compromised by the attainment of great skill in any art which could minister to the royal taste or convenience; and talent, instead of leading to that distinction, independence and wealth, which are its due, conducted its possessor to grind in the prison-house. A Koll, dated the 6th of John, 27th June, 1204, notifies to Robert de Vipont, that 1 homas, the arrow-maker, had been com¬ mitted by the King to the custody of Hugh do Nevill, Thomas de Sanford, and John Fitz Hugh, who had undertaken not to let linn depart from court without the royal license, and engaged that he should make six arrows for the King’s use every dav except Sunday. J 401. That his works at Windsor Castle might not be retarded for want of hands, Edward the Third, in the twenty-fourth year of his reign, appointed John de Spou- lee, master of the stone-hewers, with a power not only “ to take and keep, as well within the liberties as without, as many masons and other artificers as were neces¬ sary, and to convey them to Windsor, but to arrest and imprison such as should dis¬ obey or refuse; with a command to all sheriffs, mayors, bailiffs, & c ., to assist him.” These powers were fully acted upon at a later period, when some of the workmen, having left their employment, were thrown into Newgate; while the place of others, who had been carried of by a pestilence then raging in the castle, was supplied by impressment. J 402. In the year 1386, we find a writ of Richard the Second, empowering one .Nicholas Hoppewcll to take as much glass as he could find, or might be needful, in the counties of Norfolk, Northampton, Leicester, and Lincoln, “as well within liberties as without, saving the fee of the lurch, for the repair of the windows of the chapel founded at Stamford in honour of the Kings mother, Joan, Princess of Wales. He had also authority to impress A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 157 as many glaziers as should be requisite for the work. 403. Mr. Peter Cunningham, in his ‘ Life of Inigo Jones,” tells us that “the Crown, pinched in its expenditure, and ambitious of great undertakings, was often obliged to force men into employment. This I gather from the accounts of the Paymaster of the Works, which contain a yearly gratuity * to the Knighte Marshall’s man for his extraordinary attendaunce in apprehending of such persons as obstinately refuse to come into his Majesty’s works. The gratuity was often eight and occa¬ sionally ten pounds.” 404. HAS THE MOON AN ATMO¬ SPHERE ?—It has for a considerable time been considered a settled question among philosophers, that the moon has no atmos¬ phere. The fact relied upon to prove that the moon has no atmosphere is, that upon the occultation of a star by the intervention of the moon, there is no refraction of light, which there would be if it passed through an atmosphere; and further, that no clouds or anything like vapour has been discovered about the moon, nor anything indicating the existence of either animal or vegetable life. Of late, however, an astronomer at Rome, M. Decuppis, has devoted himself much to selenography, and has arrived at the conclusion, deduced from a great number of observations, that the moon has an atmosphere, though on a very moderate scale, it being only about a quarter of a mile in height, two hundred times less, probably, than the height of the earth’s atmosphere, and of only the thirtieth part of its den¬ sity ; and further, that there are mountains which rise six or seven miles above the atmo¬ sphere, and when the star disappears behind them, there is no refraction ; but if it disap¬ pears behind a valley or plain, over which there is an atmosphere, then some refraction, though very slight, is perceptible, and of course there is an atmosphere. There are those who believe that the shallow atmosphere of M. Decuppis may be one like that be¬ longing to our planet in the course of for¬ mation. Many geologists entertain the opinion that there was a time when the at¬ mosphere of this earth was chiefly composed of carbonic acid gas, and that races of animals lived in it, they having organs adapted for living in the same. The valleys of the moon may be filled with carbonic or sulphurous acid gas, as they are exceed¬ ingly deep, and the regions volcanic. If the nebular hypothesis is correct, the moon should have an atmosphere like that of our earth in proportion to its magnitude consequently no one who believes in that hypothesis can consistently say a word about the probability of a new atmosphere now forming in the moon. If any person studies the question of the “Earth’s Atmos¬ phere,*'' its peculiar nature, such as the gases of which it is formed, their quality, weight, and mixture, and takes into consi¬ deration the law of gaseous absorption, and its relation and adaptability of man, he cannot but be convinced that it was made by the special act of a great, intelligent being. - 405. THE TWO PREACHERS. Tiiere are two preachers ever preaching. Filled with eloquence and power; One is old, and locks of white. Skinny as an anchorite ; And he preaches every hour. With a shrill fanatic voice And a bigot’s fiery scorn. “ Backward ! ye presumptuous nations; Man to misery is born, Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer— Born to labour and to pray ; Backward ! ye presumptuobs nations, Back!—be humble and obey!” * * * * " Onward !—there are ills to conquer; Daily wickedness is wrought. Tyranny is swollen with pride, Bigotry is deified; Ever intertwined with Thought, Vice and Misery rant and crawl— B/00t them out, their day is passed : Goodness is alone immortal; Evil was not made to last; Onward ! all the Earth shall aid us Ere our peaceful flag be furled, And the preaching of this preacher Stirs the pulses of the world.” 406. PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY.— Southey says, in one of his letters—“ I have told you of the Spaniard, who always put on his spectacles when he was about to eat cherries, that they may look bigger, and more tempting. In like manner, I make the most of my enjoyments; and, though I do not cast my cares away, 1 pack them in as little compass as I can, and carry them as conveniently as I can for myself, and never let them annoy others.” 158 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 407. DON'T KEEP THE BOW ALWAYS BENT.—I have been employed these last few hours with John Elliot and other boys in trying how long we could keep up two cricket balls. Lord Minto caught us. He says he must send me on a commission to some very young monarch, for that I shall never have the gravity of an ambassador for a prince turned of twelve. He, however, added the well known and admirable story of Henry IV. of France, who, when caught on all fours carrying one of his children by the Spanish envoy, looked up and said, “Js your excellency married ?” “ I am, and have a family," was the reply. “ Well, then," said the monarch, “ I am satisfied, and shall take another turn round the room," and off he galloped, with his son flogging and spurring him on his back. I have sometimes thought of breaking myself of what are termed boyish habits; but reflection has satisfied me that it would be very foolish, and that I should esteem it a blessing that I can find amuse¬ ment in everything, from tossing a cricket- ball to negotiating a treaty with the Em¬ peror of China. Men who will give them¬ selves entirely to business, and despise (which is their term) trifles, are very able in their general conception of the great outlines of a plan, but they feel a want of knowledge which is only to be gained by mixing with all classes in the world, when they come to those lesser points upon which its successful execution may depend.— Kay's Life of Sir John Malcolm. 408. NUMBER OF STARS.—To our naked eye are displayed, it is believed, about 3,000 stars, down to the sixth magni¬ tude ; and of these only twenty are of the first, and seventy of the second, magnitude. Thus far the heavens were the same to the ancients as we are to ourselves. But within the last two centuries our telescopes have revealed to us countless millions of stars, more and more astonishingly numerous the further we are enabled to penetrate into space ! Every increase, says Sir John Her- schel, into the dimensions and power of in- struments, which successive improvements in optical science have attained, has brought into view multitudes innumerable of objects invisible before; so that for anything that experience has hitherto taught us, the number of the stars may be really infinite, in the only sense in which we can assign a meaning to the word. Those rendered visible, for instance, by the great powers of Lord Rosse’s telescop?, are at such an in¬ conceivable distance, that their light, tra¬ velling at the rate of 200,000, miles a se¬ cond, cannot arrive at our little planet in less time than fourteen thousand years ! Of this I am assured by one of our greatest living astronomers. Fourteen thousand years of the history of the inhabitants of the systems, if inhabitants there be, had passed away during the time that a ray of their light was travelling to this tiny residence of curious little man! Consider for a moment, that that ray of light must have quitted its dazzling source eight thousand years before the creation of Adam!— Samtiel Warren, D.C.L. 409. DEPTH OF THE SEA.—Captain Sir James Ross, in his voyage to the South, made some enormous soundings at sea; one of which, 900 miles west of St. Helena, ex¬ tended to the depth of 5,000 fathoms, or 30,000 feet, or nearly 5 j miles; the weight employed amounting to 4501bs. Another, made in lat. 33 deg. 5 min., and long. 9 deg. W., about 300 miles west of the Cape of Good Hope, occupied 49£ minutes, in which time 2,226 fathoms were sounded. These facts are thought to disprove the common opinion that soundings could not be obtained at very great depths. Captain Denham sounded in the South Atlantic, between Rio de Janeiro and the Cape of Good Hope, 7,706 fathoms, or nearly 7*7 geographical miles. Now, the highest summits of the Himalaya are little more thtfn 28,000 feet. The sea-bottom has, therefore, depths greatly exceeding the elevation of the highest pinnacle above its surface. The mean depth of the sea is, according to Laplace, from four to five miles. If the ex¬ isting waters were increased only by one- fourth, it would drowm the earth, with the exception of some high mountains.— Quar¬ terly Review . 410. MEMORIAL LINES ON THE MONTHS, as made use of by the Society of Friends. Days twenty-eight in second month appear, And one day more is added each Leap-year ; The fourth, eleventh, ninth, and sixth month run To thirty days; the rest to thirty-one. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 159 411. THE MARRIAGE VOW. Speak it not lightly !—*tis a holy thing, A bond enduring through long distant years, 'When jov o’er thine abode is hovering, Or when thine eye is wet with bitterest tears, Recorded by an angel’s pen on high. And must be question’d in eternity! Speak it not lightly !-though the young and Anf thronging round thee now with tones of mirth, . „ A , Let not the holy promise of to-day Fade like the clouds that with the morn have birth; But ever bright and sacred may it be, Stored in the treasure-cell of memory. Life will not prove all sunshine—there will Dark hours for all —O, will ye, when the night Of sorrow gathers thickly round your home, Love as ye did in times when calm and bright Seem’d the sure path ye trod, untouch’d by care. And deem’d the future, like the present, fair? Eyes that now beam with health may yet grow dim, , . _ . And cheeks of rose forget their early glow; Langour and pain assail each active limb, And lay, perchance, some worshipp’d beauty low : Then will ye gaze upon the alter'd brow, And love as fondly— faithfully as now ? Should Fortune frown on your defenceless head, Should storms o’ertake your bark on life’s dark sea, Fierce tempests rend the sail so gaily spread, When Hope her syren strain sang joyously. Will ye look up, though clouds your sky o’er- And say’ together we will bide the blast ? Age with its silv’ry locks comes creeping on, And brings the tottering step and furrow’d mercial people of the ancient world, and most of our names of places are derived from that source—the names in their language always signifying something characteristic of the place which they de¬ signated. Thus J Europe, which is of Phoenician derivation, signifies a country of white complexions—so named because the inhabitants there were of a fairer com¬ plexion than those of Asia and Africa. Asia signifies between, or in the middle; from the fact that geographers placed it between Europe and Africa. Africa means the land of corn, or ears ; it was celebrated for its abundance of corn and all sorts of grain. Lydia signifies thirsty, or dry; very characteristic of the country. Spain , a country of rabbits or conies; this country was once so infested with these ani¬ mals, that Augustus was sued to de¬ stroy them. Italy is a country of pitch ; and Calabria was so named for a similar reason. Gaul (modern France) signifies yellow-haired, as yellow hair characterised its first inhabitants. Caledonia is a woody region. Hibernia is utmost or last habita¬ tion ; for beyond this, westward, the Phoe¬ nicians never extended their voyages. Bri¬ tain was the country of tin, as there were great quantities of lead and tin found on the adjacent islands. The Greeks called it Albion —which signifies, in the Phoenician tongue, either white or high mountain —from the whiteness of its shores, or the cheek. The eye from which each lustrous gleam hath gone, And the pale lip, with accents low and weak; Will ye then think upon your life’s gay prime, And, smiling, bid love triumph over time ? Speak it not lightly!—oh! beware, beware! ’Tis no vain promise, no unmeaning word; Lo! men and angels list the faith ye swear, And by the High and Holy One ’tis heard; O then kneel humbly at His altar now, And pray for strength to keep the marriage vow. 412. NAMES OF COUNTRIES AND PLACES.—The origin of many proper names are very clear and simple, especially of Hebrew, Greek, or Saxon derivation; as Adam , the first man; Pericles , the re¬ nowned ; j Edward, a keeper; but some of them are often very obscure, the w r ords from which they w r ere originally derived having become obsolete, or entirely lost in the deep mist of by-gone ages. The Phoe¬ nicians ; however, w r ere the greatest corn- high rocks on its western coast. Corsica signifies a woody place; Sardinia the foot¬ steps of a man, which it resembles; Rhodes serpents or dragons, w T hich it produced in abundance; Sicily , the country of grapes; Scylla , the whirlpool, is destruction. Syra¬ cuse signifies bad savour, so called from the unwholesome marsh upon which it stood. JEtna signifies furnace, or dark and rocky. And thus, from physical, geographical, or other circumstances, have most of the places of classical antiquity received their names. 413. VICE ANI) VIRTUE.—Those who have resources within themselves, who can dare to live alone, want friends the least, but, at the same time, best know how to prize them the most. But no company is far preferable to bad, because we are more apt to catch the vices of others than their virtues, as disease is far more contagious than health 160 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 414. LONDON FOG. — The general cause of fogs is the upper region of the atmosphere being colder than the lower, and thus checking the ascent of the aqueous vapour, and keeping it near the surface of the earth ; and in London and other great cities where coal is burnt, the vast quantity of fuliginous matter floating over such places mingles with the vapour, and thus wraps the town in murky gloom at noonday. Some¬ times this extraordinary appearance is caused by a change of the wind which may be accounted for as follows :—The west wind carries the smoke of the city to the eastward in a long train, extending to the distance of twenty or thirty miles ; as may be seen in a clear day by any person on an eminence five or six miles from the city, and looking across in the direction of the wind; say from Harrow-on-the-Hill, for instance. In this case, suppose the wind to change suddenly to the east, the great body of smoke will be brought back in an accumulated mass; and as this repasses the city, augmented by the clouds of smoke from every fire therein, it causes the murky darkness alluded to. By accurate observa¬ tion of the height of the fog, relative with the higher edifices, whose elevation is known, it has been ascertained that the fogs of London never rise more than two hundred to two hundred and forty feet above the same level. Hence the air of the more elevated environs of the metropolis is celebrated for its pure and invigorating qualities; being placed above the fogs of the plain, and removed from smoky and contaminating atmosphere. The height of the Norwood hills, for example, is about 390 feet above the level of the sea at low water, and thus enjoys a pre-eminent salubrity. 415. IDLENESS.—Some one, in casting up his accounts, put down a very large sum per annum for his idleness . But there is another account more awful than that of our expenses, in which many will find that their idleness has mainly contributed to the balance against them. From its very inac¬ tion, idleness ultimately becomes the most active cause of evil; as a palsy is more to be dreaded than a fever. The Turks have a proverb, which says, that the devil tempts all other men , hut that idle men tempt the devil . 416. THINK.—Thought engenders thought. Place one idea upon paper— another will follow it, and still another, until you have written a page. You can¬ not fathom your mind. There is a well of thought there which has no bottom. The more you draw from it the more clear and fruitful it will be. If you neglect to think yourself, and use other people’s thoughts— giving them utterance only, you will never know what you are capable of. At first your ideas may come out in lumps—homely and shapeless; but no matter, time and perseverance will arrange and refine them. Learn to think and you will learn to write —the more you think, the fetter you express your ideas. 417. EXPANDING THE CHEST.— Those in easy circumstances, or those who pursue sedentary employment within doors, use their lungs but little, breathe but little air in the chest, and thus, independently of positions, contract a wretchedly small chest, and lay the foundation for the loss of health and beauty. All this can be obviated by a little attention to the manner of breathing. Recollect the lungs are like a bladder in their structure, and can stretch open to double their size with perfect safety, giving a noble chest and perfect immunity from consump¬ tion. The agent, and only agent required, is the common air we breathe, supposing, however, that no obstacle exists, external to the chest, such as lacing it tight with stays, or having the shoulders lie upon it. On rising from the bed in the morning, place yourself in an erect posture, your head throw back and your shoulders entirely off from the chest, then inhale all the air that can be got in; then hold your breath and throw your arms off behind; hold your breath as long as possible. Repeat these long breaths as many times as you please. Done in a cold air, it is much better because the air is much denser, and will act much more powerfully in expanding the chest. Exer¬ cising the chest in this manner, it will en¬ large the capacity and size of the lungs. 418. QUARRELS.—Two things, well considered, would prevent many quarrels; first, to have it well ascertained whether we are not disputing about terms rather than things; and, secondly, to examine whether that on which we differ is worth contending about. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 161 419. VEAL, AND ALL ITS USES.— Directions to choose Veal. —The flesh of a bull-calf is firmer than that of a cow, but then it is seldom so white; the fillet of a cow-calf is generally preferred, on account of the udder; if the head is fresh, the eyes are plump, but if stale, they are sunk and wrinkled. If a shoulder is stale, the vein is not of a bright red ; if there are any green or yellow spots in it it is very bad. The breast and neck to be good should be white and dry; if they are clammy, and look green or yellow at the upper end, they are stale. The loin is apt to taint under the kidney; if it is stale it will be soft and slimy. A leg should be firm and white; if it is limp and the flesh flabby, with green or yellow spots, it is not good. 420. DIFFERENT PIECES OF VEAL. —Fore Quarter. —The shoulder, neck, and breast; the throat, sweetbread, and the windpipe-sweetbread, which is the finest and belongs to the breast. Hind quarter : the loin and the leg, which contains the knuckle and fillet. The head, tongue, and pluck, which has the heart, liver, lights, nut, melt, kidneys, and skirt. The feet. 421. TO MAKE A WHITE OR VEAL STOCK.—Take all the veal bones you may have, together with chicken, fowls, turkeys, or any white meat, and put them in a stock- pot ; let them boil for ten or twelve hours; crusts of dry bread and egg shells, in fact the same as directed for the stock-pot, (No. 177,) with the exception that it must be all white meats. When boiled the time above- mentioned strain it off, and let it stand until it is cold, then take the fat off the top, turn it into another dish, and scrape the sediment off, when, if done as directed, you will find it a perfectly clear jelly; this may be used as the ground work of all kinds of sauces for veal. 422. BOILED KNUCKLE OF VEAL. —Veal should be well boiled. A knuckle of oix pounds will take nearly two hours. The neck must be also well boiled in a good deal of water—if it is boiled in a cloth, it will be whiter—pour over it parsley and butter, and serve it with tongue, bacon, or pickled pork, or it may be stewed white. (See breast.) 423. ANOTHER WAY.—Boil it until it is tender, then take some veal stock- gravy properly seasoned, thicken it with 6 butter rolled in flour, and a couple of eggs; put the veal in the dish, and pour the sauce over it. 424. TO ROAST VEAL will take a quarter-of-an-hour to a pound. Paper the fat of the loin and fillet; stuff the fillet and shoulder with the following ingredients—A quarter-of-a-pound of suet, chopped fine, parsley and sweet herbs, chopped, grated bread and lemon-peel, pepper, salt, nutmeg, and yolk of an egg; butter may supply the want of suet; roast the breast with the caul on till it is almost done, then take it oil', Hour it, and baste it; veal requires to be more done than beef. For sauce, salad, pickles, potatoes, brocoli, cucumbers, raw or stewed, French beans, peas, cauliflower, celery, raw or stewed. 425. BREAST OF VEAL STEWED WHITE.—Cut a piece off each end; make a forcemeat as follows : boil the sweetbread, cut it very small, some grated bread, a little beef suet, two eggs, a little milk, some nut¬ meg, salt, and pepper; mix it well together, and stuff the thin part of the breast with some of it, the rest make up into little balls and fry (see 293); skewer the skin close down, flour, and boil it in a cloth in milk and water; make some gravy of the ends that were cut off, with half a pint of oysters, the juice of a lemon, and a piece of butter rolled in flour; when the veal is done, put it in the dish; garnish with the balls, and pour the sauce over it. 426. STEWED NECK OF VEAL WITH CELERY.—Take the best end of the neck, put it into a stewpan with some boiling water, some salt, whole pepper, and cloves tied in a bit of muslin, an onion, a piece of lemonpeel; stew this till tender; take out spice and peel, put in a little milk and flour mixed, some celery ready boiled and cut into lengths; boil it up, then serve. 427. BREAST OF VEAL STEWED AND PEAS OR ASPARAGUS—Cut it into pieces about three inches in size, fry it nicely; mix a little flour with some beef broth, an onion, two or three cloves; stew this some time, strain it, add three pints or two quarts of peas, or some heads of asparagus cut like peas; put in the meat, let it stew gently ; add pepper and salt. 428. THE NORTHAMPTONSHIRE WAY TO HASH A KNUCKLE OF a 162 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: VEAL.—Boil a knuckle of veal till it is tender, then take a little of the liquor it was boiled in, and put it into a stewpan, with a little milk, a blade of mace, one anchovy, a bit of lemon-peel; let these simmer till the anchovy is dissolved, then strain the liquor, and put in a little milk, with a bit of butter rolled in flour; cut the veal into thin slices, and let them stew together till the gravy is of a proper thick¬ ness, shake the pan round often; poach five or six eggs and boil some small slices of bacon, lay the eggs upon the bacon round the veal, and lay crisped parsley between (See 198). 429. A FILLET OF VEAL STEWED. —Stuff it, half bake it with a little water in the dish, then stew it with the liquor, some good stock-gravy and a little sherry, when done, thicken it with flour; add catsup, chyan, a little salt, juice of lemon, boil it up and serve. 430. A FRICASEE VEAL.—Take some slices of cooked veal and put them into a stewpan with water, a bundle of sweet herbs, and a blade of mace, and let it stew till tender; then take out the herbs, add a little flour and butter boiled together, to thicken it a little, then add halt-a-pint of milk, and the yolk of an egg beat very fine; add some pickled mushroons, but some fresh mushroons should be put in first, if they are to be had; keep stirring it till it boils, and then add the juice of a lemon, stir it well to keep it from curdling; then put it into your dish, and garnish it with lemon. 431. A HARRICO OF VEAL.—Take a neck or breast of veal (if the neck, cut the bone short) and half roast it; then put it into a stewpan just covered with brown stock-gravy, and when nearly done, have ready a pint of boiled peas, cucumbers, pared, and two cabbage lettuces cut in quarters, stewed in brown gravy, with a few forcemeat balls ready fried (See 293) ; put them into the veal, and then let them just simmer; when the veal is in the dish, pour the sauce and peas over it, and lay the lettuce and balls round it. 4*2. TO COOK COLD SLICES OF VEAL.—Take a piece of veal that has been roasted (but not over done), cut it into thin slices ; take from it the skin and gristles ; put some butter over the fire with some chopped onions; fry them a little, then shake some flour over them; shake the pan round, and put in some veal stock- gravy, a bunch of sweet herbs, and some spice; then put in the veal with the yolk of two eggs; beat up with milk, a grated nutmeg, some parsley shred small, some lemon-peel grated, and a little juice; stir it one way till it is thick, and smooth and put it in the dish. 433. A BREAST OF VEAL IN HODGE PODGE.—Cut the brisket of a breast of veal into little pieces, and every bone asunder; then flour it, and put half-a- pound of butter into a stewpan. When it is hot, throw it into the veal, fry it all over a light brown, and then have ready a tea¬ kettle of boiling water; pour it into the stewpan, fill it up, and stir it round; throw in a pint of green peas, a whole let¬ tuce, washed clean, two or three blades of mace, a little whole pepper, tied in a muslin rag, a little bundle of sweet herbs, a small onion, stuck with a few cloves, and a little salt; cover it close, and let it stew an hour; or till it be boiled to your palate, if you would have soup made of it; but if you would have only sauce to eat with the veal you must stew it till there be just as much as you would have for sauce, and season it with salt to your palate; take out the onion, sweet herbs and spice, and pour it altoge¬ ther into your dish; if you have no peas, pare three or four cucumbers, and scoop out the pulp, and cut into thin pieces; then take lour or five heads of celery, washed clean, and cut the white part small; when you have no lettuces, take the little hearts of savoys, or the little young sprouts. If you would make a very fine dish of it, fill the inside of your lettuce with forcemeat and tie the top close with a thread, and stew it till there be just enough for the sauce; set the lettuce in the middle and the veal round; pour the sauce all over it; garnish your dish with rasped bread, made into figures with your fingers. 434. TO COLLAR A BREAST OF VEAL.—Take a breast of veal, pick off all the fat meat from the bones; beat up the yolks of two eggs, and rub it over with a feather; take some crumbs of bread, a little grated nutmeg, some beaten mace, and a little pepper and salt, and a few sweet herbs, a little lemon-peel, cut small, A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 163 strewed over it; put a thick skewer into it to keep it together; roll it up tight, and bind it very close with twine ; roll a veal caul over it, and roast it an hour and a- quarter; before it is taken up, take off the caul, sprinkle some salt over it, and baste it with butter ; let the fire be brisk, and the veal of a fine brown when it is taken up; cut it into three or four slices, lay it in the dish; boil the sweetbread, cut it into slices, and lay round it; pour over it white sauce, which must be made as follows:—A pint of good veal gravy, half an anchovy, a tea-spoonful of mushroom powder; let it boil up, then put in half-a- pint of milk, and the yolk of two eggs well beat; just stir it over the fire, but do not let it boil, or the milk will curdle; put in some pickled mushrooms just before it is sent to table. 435. A FAVOURITE WAY TO SERVE A LOIN OF VEAL.—Having roasted a fine loin of veal, take it up, and carefully take the skin off the back part of it with¬ out breaking; cut out all the lean meat, but mind and leave the end whole, to hold the following mince-meat: — Mince all the meat very fine, with the kidney part put it into a little veal gravy, enough to moisten it, with the gravy that comes from the loin; put in a little pepper and salt, some lemon-peel shred fine, the yolk ot three eggs, a spoonful ot catsup, and thicken it with a little butter rolled in flour; give it a shake or two over the fire, and put it into the loin, then pull the skin over it. If the skin should not cover it, make it brown with a hot iron, 01 put it into an oven for a quarter-of-an-hour. Send it up hot, and garnish with lemon. 436. VEAL DRESSED WITH RICE. —Take a pound of rice; put it to a quart of veal broth, some mace, and a little salt; stew it over a very slow fire till it is thick, but at the bottom of the stew pan, beat up the yolk of six eggs, and stir it into it; then take a dish, butter it, lay some of the rice at the bottom, and put upon it a neck or breast of veal, half roast it, cut into five or six pieces; lay the veal close together, in the middle, and cover it over witli rice; wash the rice over with the volk of eggs, and bake it an hour and a half; then open the top, and pour into it some good thick gravy; squeeze in the juice of an orange. 437. VEAL COLLOPS.—Cut them about five inches long, not so broad, and not too thin; rub them with eggs, and strew over them some crumbs of grated bread, parsley chopped, grated lemon-peel, pepper, salt, and nutmeg, w r ith a few leaves of thyme shred small, set them before the fire in a Dutch oven; baste them, and when nicely brown turn them; thicken some rich gravy with some flour, add catsup, Cayenne, mushrooms, and hard yolks of eggs ; boil this up, and pour it over them. 438. VEAL CUTLETS.—Take some large cutlets from the fillet; beat them flat; strew over them some pepper, salt, crumbs of bread, and shred parsley; then make a thick sauce of veal sweetbreads and mush¬ rooms, chopped small; fry the cutlets in butter of a fine brown; then lay them in a hot dish, and pour the sauce boiling hot over them. 439. VEAL OLIVES.—Cut them thin from the fillet (if it is large, one slice will make three); rub over them some yolk of egg; strew on them some bread crumbs mixed with parsley, and parsley chopped, lemon-peel grated, pepper, salt, also nut¬ meg ; lay on every piece a thin slice of bacon, not too fat; roll them up tight; skewer them with small skewers; rub the outside with egg, roll them in bread crumbs, &c.; lay them in a Dutch oven; let them do without burning; they take a good deal of time, as they are thick. Pour the following sauce on the dishTake a pint of good gravy, thicken it with flour; add catsup, cayenne, pickled mushrooms, boil this up a few minutes. Forcemeat balls may be added, 440. FRIED VEAL WITH LEMON.— Cut some slices of veal, the breadth of three fingers, and twice that length, and the thickness of a crownpiece; make a season¬ ing of sweet herbs, some grated bread, pepper, salt, and a little nutmeg; beat up the yolks of two eggs (without the whites); set on a frying-pan with a piece of butter, when it is boiling hot dip the veal in the egg and then in the seasoning; cover them with it very thick; throw them into the pan and brown them; pour the fat out of the pan, put in some stock-gravy, squeeze in 164 THE CORNER CUPBOARD : eome lemon, shake it round the pan till it is boiling hot, and then pour it over the veal; if it is not thick enough, mix a little flour and gravy in a bason, and then pour it into that in the frying-pan, let it boil and serve it up. 441. TO HASH VEAL.—Do it as the cold calPs head; or when sliced, flour it, put it into a little gravy, with grated lemon- peel, pepper, salt, catsup, boil it up, add a little juice of lemon; serve round it toasted sippets. 442. TO MINCE VEAL.—Cut the veal very fine, but do not chop it; take a little white gravy or water, but gravy is better; a little milk, a bit of butter rolled in flour, and grated lemon-peel; let these boil till like a fine thick cream; flour the veal, shake a little salt, and some white pepper over it; put it into the saucepan to the other ingredients and let it be quite hot; it must not boil after the veal is in, or it will be hard, before it is taken up. If it is agreeable put sippets under it. 443. TO POT VEAL.—Take a part of a knuckle or fillet of veal, that has been stewed, or hake it on purpose for potting; beat it to a paste, with butter, salt, white pepper, and mace, pounded; press it down in pots, and pour over it clarified butter. 444. VEAL HAM.—Take a leg of veal, cut ham-fashion, two ounces of saltpetre, one pound of bay, and one of common salt, and one ounce of juniper berries bruised; rub it well into the veal; lay the skinny side downwards at first, but let it be weil rubbed and turned every day for a fortnight, and then let it be hung in wood smoke for a fortnight. It may be boiled or parboiled and roasted. 445. TO FRY SWEETBREADS.—Cut them in long slices, beat up the yolk of an egg, and rub it over them with a feather; make a seasoning of pepper, salt, and grated bread; dip them into it, and fry them in butter. For sauce—catsup and butter, with stock-gravy or lemon sauce; garnish with small slices of toasted bacon and crisped parsley. 446. TO DRESS A CALVES’ PLUCK. —Boil the lights and part of the liver; roast the heart, stuffed with suet, sweet herbs and a little parsley all chopped small, a few crumbs of bread some pepper, salt' nutmeg, and a little lemon-peel; mix it un with the yolk of an egg. v 447. CALVES’LIVER AND BACON.— Cut it in slices, and fry it in good beef drip, ping or butter; let the pan be half full, and put the liver in when it boils, which is when it has done hissing; have some rashers of toasted bacon and lay round it, with some parsley crisped before the fire: always lay the bacon in boiling water before it is either boiled, fried, or toasted, as it takes out the salt and makes it tender. Sauce made thus:—A pint of veal stock, a little catsup, some pepper and salt, a bit of butter and a little flour to thicken; a little poured over the liver, the rest in a sauce-boat. 148. CALVES’ CHITTERLINGS - Clean some of the largest of the calves’ guts cut into lengths proper for puddings; tie one of the ends close; take some bacon, and cut it like dice, and a calf’s udder, and fat that comes off the chitterlings; put them into a stewpan, with a bay leaf, salt, pepper, a eschalot cut small, some mace, and Ja- maica pepper, with half-a-pint or more of milk, and let it just simmer; then take off the pan, and thicken it with four or five flM M an6. Running is very good, but not more easy to do well than walking. In running well, the feet are not to be raised too far from the ground; the knees are to be bent as little as possible, the upper part of the body is bent slightly forward, and the arms^ kept as closely as possible to the sides. Young runners should neither go too far, nor too fast. Observing the above directions, they should take certain short distances, to be done in a certain time. Where it is possible, a leader, or fugle-man, who understands the method well, should be named and imitated. Practice works wonders. After a time, a boy will run a mile in ten minutes, and that, without losing his breath, or feeling very tired; but young runners should not attempt at first more then 200 or 250 yards, increasing the measure as they acquire strength and prac¬ tice. The two preceeding exercises are principally for boys, but there is no reason why girls should not practice them; the next two are exclusively for boys. 457. Jumping is a thing which, to do safely and well, requires both skill and prac¬ tice. Besides, you do not know to how many uses your knowledge of how to jump well may be required to be applied. To jump well and safely, observe the following rules :—1. Always endeavour to fall on the toes, not upon the flat of the foot. 2. Bend the knees backwards, the hips including, the rest of the body forward, and extending the arms towards the ground, so that the hands may serve to break a fall! 3. Hold the breath by closing the mouth. 4. Avoid, above all things, coming down* upon the heels. 5. Commence with short distances and low heights—at first, half a yard, then more. In jumping down, first jump one stair, then two, then three, and so on. By steady and graduated exercise a boy may in time jump from a height of six feet easily, and along a space equal to nine. 458. Leaping. —Leaping is not quite the same as jumping. In practising, observe the following hints:—The breath should be held; the hands kept shut; the arms swinging, pendulum fashion, as though you were sawing your way through the air. Your leaps must be practised first over a low stool, or string suspended between two points. These must be raised in size and height by degrees. 459. The high leap without a run is thu 3 managed:—Place your feet together, bend your legs, and extend your arms in the direction of the leap, then spring forward. 460. The high leap with a run.—In this, the feet, at the moment cf leaping after the run, are not held together; the spring should be from the right foot. The run must not be unequally long; for a lowish leap not more than six or eight paces. The point of springing should be distant from the object to be cleared, about three-fourths of its height. 461. The long leap without a run. —At first, confine yourself to lengths of three and four feet; the arms are extended for¬ ward, the body bent, the hands clenched, and the feet together. Afterwards you may attempt longer leaps. 462. Vaulting consists in springing over such matters as a stile, a bar, or a low wall, by the assistance of the hands placed upon it. Take a short run; place your hands upon the object to be vaulted over; hold your legs out strait, keep them together, and fling them over in an oblique direction. This practice is really not so hard as it may seem, and a clever boy will show you how to do it much better than I can describe it. 463. Vaulting with a pole is first-rate exercise. Get a good pole shod with an iron end to strengthen it. The pole might be of about the thickness of a clothes-prop. At first, practice over small ruts and dry ditches; then aspire to more profound affairs. Let the right hand grasp the pole at about the level of the face; the left A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 167 holds it two or three feet lower down; make a short run; place the pole in a firm spot, and swing the body forward with a semicircular movement. When your feet alight, you will nearly face the side from which you sprung. 464. Holding at Arm s Length.— Many boys pique themselves upon their skill "in this accomplishment. It is generally done with the right arm and hand, but we see no reason why the left (since develop¬ ment of the muscles is one of the main objects of the exercise) should not be used. Procure any pole (the poker, or tongs, or the spit will do), grasp it firmly with your hand, the knuckles downwards, and hold it at arm’s length. The thing is to keep it there for a length of time without letting it deviate from the horizontal line. 465. Climbing the Rope. —A good strong rope is, firmly fastened to a hori¬ zontal beam or the branch of a tree, eight or ten feet from the ground. It is then grasped with both hands, and the body drawn up as you shift one hand to a higher place over the other. In descending do not let the rope slide through yonr hands, or you will blister them; but shift them with rapidity. 466. Climbing the Pole. —In the ab¬ sence of a more regular object, fasten the upper end of a clothes prop to the branch of a tree, taking care that the lower end is firmly planted in the earth. The ascent is chiefly made by the legs grasping the sides of the prop, the hands of course assisting. In coming down again your hands are scarcely necessary at all, as your own weight and the grasp of your legs will suffice. The preceding games are mainly for boys. >> e shall subjoin a few, of a kindred character, but more suitable for girls. 467. The Cabinet Makers—A New Game. —One is selected as captain or over¬ looker, the rest place themselves about the apartment or garden, with a chair or bench in front of each. The captain then says, “ Let us saw some rosewood,” and com¬ mences imitating, by the action of her arms, the motions of a sawyer ; the rest imitate her. This is very diverting, and gives de¬ velopment to the muscular action.. Having sawed long enough, the next order is, Carry in the planks.” All then march round the room or garden with both hands brought to the right shoulder, as in the act of carrying a plank. At the word “ Halt,” the planks are supposed to be deposited on the benches or chair, and the captain next gives the order to “ Plane.” The action of planing is then simulated by a horizontal motion of both arms along the nearest smooth surface, or in the air. The work of the “ handsaw” is then done, and much fun may be infused into this portion of the game by moving in an imitation of the creaking noise of a handsaw, accompanying the action. The next command is to “put together/’ and the leader sets the example by hammering with the fist. This is followed by “ Polish,” and the game is concluded by “ Tdke home the cabinet,” when the company march round as before. 468. Do as I DO. —This is sometimes called the German exercise. The company is seated in a row or semicircle, and, as be¬ fore, one is selected as leader. When all are ready the captain stands in front and calls “Attention.” “ Do as I do.” Every eye must be rivettedupon the leader, whose actions, whether of eye, hand, or whole body must be exactly imitated. The leader then does something odd or unexpected; such as sneezing, wagging the head, gaping, beat¬ ing time, or whatever suggests itself. The rest do the same simultaneously, and the effect is very comical if the leader is inge¬ nious and the players good mimics. After a time the leader says, “ Present arms,” each then stretches out the right arm to¬ wards the captain. The next comm ana is “ Fire.” The captain, at this word, gives the player nearest her a push, sufficient to upset, without hurting her, and each player pushes her neighbour, until all are thrown down side-ways upon the grass or carpet. 469. Stir the Batter.— If seven players are obtainable, place six chairs around the room and remove the next all being seated, except one whom we w ill call Fanny. She stands in the centre with a stick in her hand, and affects to stir the carpet, saying “ Stir the Batter; keep it stirred.” After stirring for a few moments, all of a sudden she taps the floor thrice and throws down the stick. At this signal, the six players who are seated have to jump up and exchange chairs. While doing this it is Fanny’s cue to reach one of the chairs before it is re-occupied. If she succeeds 1G8 THE CORNER CUPBOARD : the one left without a seat has to “ Stir the Batter.” Failing, she has to do so once more, in the hope of better fortune next time. 470. Hot Boiled Beans and Butter. —Anything, such as a key, a ball, or piece of ribbon, may be selected and called “ Hot boiled Beans and Butter;” this is deposited in the hands of the one who begins the game; the rest leave the room, or hide their faces; the first player then conceals the dainty in such a way that the acutest intellect could scarely guess in what direction to look for it. The game now is for the other players to find it. They are summoned to the feast with the call of “ Hot boiled Beans and Butter”—but are first to discover where they are hidden. As the thing hidden is approached by the searchers the hider calls out to encourage them, “ Hot! hot! very hot!” As they stray from the right spot he calls “ Cold ! cold! you freeze!” When the thing is found, the finder becomes the possessor, and has next to hide it. 471. THE LOVER'S WISHES. (From the French of the Chevalier de Chatelain.) I would I were the clouds above, That screens thee from the noontide ray; 1 would I were thine image, love, To smile on thee at dawn of day! I would I were the flow’ret blue. That waves amid thine ebon hair— Or eke the glass, when thou dost view. Within its depths, thy features fair! I would—when slumbers wait on thee, And sweet each sense in rest enfold— Thy guardian angel I might be, Who hovers round on wings of gold! I would I were a dream, that leaves No bitter thoughts thy peace to mar— A dream so sweetly that deceives. Than duller truth, ’tis better far! I would I were a gentle dove, Glad tidings who to thee might bear; To fan thee with the wings of love, And nestle in thy flowing hair! I would I were the radiant spark Those eyes emit when day doth flee— Nay; I would be thy shadow dark, So I might ever follow thee! I would I were each thing that meets Thine eyes, where’er they rove by chance— Each passing wish—each flower, whose sweets However humble, draw thy glance! I would I were the lyre, whose chord Thine ear with rapt’rous thrills could bless • I would, in short—in one sweet word— * I would that I were-happiness! 472. THE FLOWER OF THE SEA COAST. A young, cottage maiden, and a youth stood on the shore of the bay at Castle¬ town, Isle of Man. They were watching the glorious sunset—at least one was for the girl kept her eyes steadily fixed on the departing ball of light, while the young man vainly endeavoured to conceal his impatience, by making marks upon the yielding sand. Susan Cretney, for so we must name the heroine, was very young, scarcely more than eighteen, she lived alone with her aged and infirm grandmother (both her parents had long been dead), and earned a scanty and precarious living, by taking in plain work, bhe had won the affections of a young car¬ penter, Joseph Shimmin, but they were too poor to marry just then, and Joseph was going to Liverpool, where he had a better chance of succeeding, to try and obtain some permanent situation. We cannot do better than describe the fair flower of that rugged and solitary district, as she then stood. She was tall and the loose jacket, which all Manx women wear, was confined at the waist by a leather girdle, and did not obscure the beauty of a graceful figure. The skirt of her dress was short, and displayed a beautiful little foot and ankle, of which many a high-born lady would have been proud, were she the possessor; but the neat¬ ness of her appearance did not proceed from motives of coquetry ! Oh, no ! Susan Cretney, reared in that desolate place, with scarce a companion save her aged grand- mother scarcely knew that she was beautiful—I say scarcely, because in every woman s mind there is a certain indefinite little something, which speedily makes them aware of the fact, when they are the possessors of that charm, so fatal to many— beauty ! As the sun finally disappeared beneath a cloud of purple and molten gold Susan turned to her companion, and extend¬ ing her hand to him, while she averted her face, said hurriedly and in a forced voice of composure, “ lou must go now, Joe; it is very late.” The young carpenter retained the hand she had put in liis, and with his arms round A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 169 her, looked tenderly into her face, and then said sadly, “ Must I go ? this is my last evening, and you have hardly said a word to me!” The tears rushed into the eyes of the young girl, hut she resolutely kept them back,“and said firmly, “ I have been praying for you. Joe, which is better than talking. I know,” she continued, after a moment’s hesitation, “that you will have many temptations to do what is wrong, and I do pray that you may be able to resist them, remember we should ( resist until death, striving against sinand Joe, I should be so much happier if you would promise me to pray yourself every morning and evening, will you ?” “ Yes, Susan, I promise,” said the young man, kissing her almost reverently, as if lie fancied that his better angel stood beside him to warn him from danger, and Susan’s heart bounded with thankfulness. She knew not that the promise was lightly made, and would be as lightly fulfilled. Joseph took a box from his pocket, and gave it to her, saying : « Think of me, when you wear them, dear Susan.” She opened the box, it contained a pair of those imitation jet bracelets, with which the humble class of servants and the poor are so fond of adorning themselves. Susan looked rather grave as she observed, “Thank you, Joe, 1 am very much obliged to you, though I could have remem¬ bered you quite well without the help of a present.” « Do you not like them,” asked Shimmin, considerably disappointed, and Susan replied steadily, “ If you really ask me, I would rather you had not given me these. Ornaments do not befit one in my station of life, but,” she added smiling, “ though I cannot wear your present, dear Joe, I will keep them most carefully, and often look at them for your sake. It is growing very late, and I must go, but before I say good-bye, take this,” and as she spoke she put a small, neatly bound Bible into his hand, “ and promise me that you will read this blessed book every day, if it is only one text.’ « i will promise you, dearest Susan !” exclaimed Joe, suddenly folding her in his arms, “and thank you very much, I will think of you every time I read it.” “ No, no, not of me” she whispered with a grave smile, “ but of the words you read. And now, good-bye. I shall not see you again for a year, unless it be God’s will, that you should be successful, and return' earlier, good-bye, good-bye, and God bless you, dear Joe!” A few whispered words, and tears, and a last, long embrace, were over, and Susan, breaking from her lover, sprung up the steep cliff in an instant, and in a few moments more was in the little cottage, attending to the wants of the aged grandmother, and apparently as calm as if nothing had occurred. In the meanwhile, Joe Shimmin was standing almost in the same position as that in which she had left him, and when he at length moved, and began his walk home, he drew his rough hand across his eyes, as if to check the momentary and pardonable weakness, which caused a tear to bedew them. An hour afterwards he was on board a small sailing vessel, the owner of which, being one of his friends, had promised to take him to Liverpool (for which place the vessel was bound), free of expense. It was a lovely night, the moon was at the full, the stars were shinirg brilliantly in the blue vault of heaven, and the pure moonlight cast its silver beams on the clear waters of the bay. As Joe stood leaning over the side of the vessel, his eye was naturally directed to that part of the coast on which stood the cottage of his beloved. It was nearly dark, and at that distance all was enveloped in gloom, but as he was about to turn away with a sigh of disappointment the feeble twinkle of a candle, showed him the position of that lonely hovel, in which faith, love, and hope had, however, made their abode. He continued watching that light till it faded from his eyes in the distance, and then taking from his pocket the Bible that Susan had given him, he began to turn over its pages, and as he did so he remembered the words she had spoken, which now sounded like a warning in his ear; “I know that you will have many temptations to do what is wrong,” what could she mean, thought he, and his eyes fell suddenly on the passage, “ Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation, the 170 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” He was startled, the Manx are all superstitious, and to his excited imagina¬ tion, the answer he had just received to his question seemed little less than supenatural, and who shall dare to ascribe the turning over those Bible leaves to chance alone, and not to the intervention of a merciful God? And what was Susan doing on that night, so fraught to her with sweet and yet painful emotions ? She was sitting at the table, working busily, as was ber wont, by the light of a candle, and her grand¬ mother was sitting in the large arm-chair (a 3 venerable as herself), and was listening to her grand-daughter, who was repeating from memory, whole chapters of the Bible, in a sweet and feeling voice. It was the only thing in which her grandmother’s failing faculties could participate, and in which, indeed, she took delight. At last, Susan finished her work, and taking up the candle, gave her arm to the old woman, and supported her, as well as she could, up¬ stairs to her bed-room. After seeing her safely in bed, Susan put out the candle, and proceeded to undress herself by the light of the moon. Long she knelt in prayer, and the tears she had so long resisted, now found full vent. Long, and fervently did the poor girl pray for her absent lover, and she reproached herself for doubting that all would go on well. As she remembered Joe’s parting words and promises—“And yet, ” she murmured, as she rose from her knees, and, opening the small casement, looked out upon the night, “it seemed quite natural to doubt, for if his resolutions are made in hi3 own strength, how can they stand ?” Ah ! how, indeed ? Time will show how true, how sadly true, were her prognostications. When Joe Shimmin arrived in Liverpool, he soon found plenty of employment. He was a sharp, active young fellow, thoroughly acquainted with his trade, andsoon procured asituationas carpenterone of the dock-yards. He was at first naturally downcast at leaving his native place, and the poor girl who loved him so truly ; and very frequently a feeling of home-sickness would come, and completely unnerve the young man. Of his first promise to Susan, that of prayer, every night and morning, he never gave it a thought; indeed he had quite forgotten it. Prayer was not a privilege or a pleasure to him; he could not have under* stood the feeling which prompts many when they seek comfort, or aid to seek it in prayer. He had as yet lived a strictly moral life, and he tried to persuade him¬ self (for he had too much good sense not to know the contrary) that that was all that was required of him. With regard to his second promise, that of reading the Bible morning and evening, at first he was very regular in doing so, and after he had per¬ formed his task he felt a proud self-satisfied consciousness that he had been doing riodit, and that it was very praiseworthy of him. He knew not that such thoughts were prompted by the devil. Among the friends he speedily acquired at Liverpool was a young man named Robert Blythe. He was extremely good natured and had done Joe many kind turns, and Shmimin and he became great cronies. One day, Joe met Robert as he was returning from work, and after talking for some time, Robert observed, that the price of a sepa¬ rate lodging was more than he could afford and that he should be obliged to find some one who would live with him and halve the expense. Joe eagerly asked him to come and share his lodging, and the two friends henceforth lived together, and then began Joe s season of temptation. That night, as he about to go to bed, lie took out his Bible with some trepidation, for he felt that if Robert should see nim reading it he would ridicule him. It is always a sign that per¬ sons are not truly and sincerely religious when they are ashamed of being seen pray¬ ing or reading God’s word. Robert Blythe was already in bed, and half asleep, but sur- prised at the unusual silence that prevailed, he opened liis eyes, and saw Joe poring over a book with gilt leaves. “ Why Joe!” exclaimed Robert, “ what are you about there. Hang me if I don’t beheve you’re reading the Bible, like an old woman! Why man, surely you’re not a Methodist !” Joe’s face grew very red, and hastily con¬ cealing the book, he muttered, that he was no Methodist, and concluded his asserva- tion by an oath ! Alas for his promise; from that day be never opened the Bible which had been A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 171 Susan’s gift, and his decline and fall in morality was swift and certain. Robert Blythe introduced him to all sorts of bad acquaintances, and the public-house and gin-palace often echoed to Joe s drunken laugh and fearful oaths. His wages were spent in drink, which after he had once tasted, he craved for to such a degree that he could not at last do without it. He, however, was still regular in his habits as a workman, and his employer knew nothing of his drunken propensities, and pleased with his skill and cleverness, increased his wages, and made him overseer of the other workmen. Joe’s first thought was of Susan, and his heart bounded as he remem¬ bered they could now be married. He had written several times to her, and she had written to him, scrawls indeed they were, but not the less precious on that account. Of late his conscience had given up re¬ proaching him, and it never entered his head, that Susan would he miserable at his altered character. So he requested a week s holidays, which was readily granted by his indulgent employer, and he once more started to cross the Irish channel. How different was his situation, and, at first, how much improved does it appear. The first time he started in a sailing vessel, friendless and penniless, possessing nothing, saving his tools and the clothes on his back. Now, he was in a fine steam-boat, with plenty of money and friends (such as they were), and dressed almost like a gentleman, quite so in his estimation, but I fear not in that of our friends, had they seen the splendid pattern of his waistcoat, or the red and yellow Belcher handkerchief tied round the neck of Robert Blythe, who also accompanied him. The passage was rather rough, and so our two workmen had drank a considerable quantity of raw brandy, to keep their courage up, in the early part of the voyage; they were, of course, very sea-sick, and miserable enough did the two gentlemen look, when they arrived at Douglas, and once more found themselves on terra firma; their spirits began to revive, and during their drive to Castletown, they again had recourse to the bottle, and when they arrived at their destination they were neither of them in a fit state to present themselves before the pure eyes of Susan Cretney. I bey, however, fully believed, as they gave a half tipsy, half conceited look in the glass of the inn at which they intended to stop, that they “ should do,” and forthwith proceeded on foot to Susan’s dwelling. Joe was in such an uproarious state of excitement, that he and his friend sang the whole of the way, and poor Susan was quite alarmed, when the door of the cottage was suddenly opened, and Joe Shimmin, followed by Robert, entered. A glance convinced the frightened girl of the real state of the case, and as Joe threw his arms round her with a noisy greeting, she turned very pale, and almost fainted. Recovering herself, how¬ ever, she laid her hand on the table for support, and said in a voice which she vainly endeavoured to make firm : “ You are not in a proper state, Joseph, to come and see me. Go away, and I will see you to-morrow.” She was dreadfully frightened, for Joe, completely stupefied, had sunk into a chair, and was staring at her with dull, heavy eyes, and his friend was evidently bent upon in¬ solent familiarity. She felt herself growing more and more faint, and exerted herself to speak once more. She addressed herself to Joe. “ Will you go, if you please, and come again to-morrow when you are sober ?” He did not seem to understand her, but Robert exclaimed, seizing Joe by the arm,— “ Come along, man! don’t sit staring there; the young lady has reasons, perhaps, for wishing us out of the way;” and with a coarse, brutal laugh, he made his way to the door, dragging Joe after him. For a moment after they were gone, Susan stood with her hand to her forehead, completely bewildered, and then sank insensible on the rough, uneven floor. Her grandmother had long been confined to her bed, upstairs, and for some time she lay trembling with alarm at the unusual sounds she had just heard. It was some time before Susan recovered consciousness, and when she did, her first thought was not of herself, but of her grandmother, who must have heard the noise; so with tottering steps she hastened upstairs. The old woman had by this time completely forgotten the occurrence; and to Susan’s joy, though Mrs. Cretney was shaking in every limb, she ascribed it to the effect of a terrible dream, which she could not remember. Susan, after attend- 172 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: ing to her aged parent’s comfort, again went down stairs, and seating herself on the stool, in the chimney corner, gave way to her grief. All her prospects of future happiness were gone. She had heard a short time before that Joe was addicted to the vice of drinking, but the innocent, high-principled girl had not believed it, or bestowed a moment’s thought upon the idea, and, now how cruelly was she deceived! She would not marry him; she felt a curse would light upon her marriage with—a drunkard ! Her pale lips quivered as she pronounced the word. What should she do? and the answer fell upon her heart with a soothing influence, as if it were an inspiration from above— pray. And pray she did, and when she rose from her knees, though all hope of earthly happiness was departed for ever, she was soothed and comforted. But she must bestir herself, for the poor cannot afford to waste their time in sorrow; there were limpets to be gathered of which her grandmother was very fond; so she dried her eyes, and checking the impatient longing for death which seized her, she went out to gather the limpets. She had to walk some dis¬ tance before she reached the spot, and her thoughts were busy as she walked. Strange to say, during that walk, she felt almost happy; her soul was in communion with its God; and with her heart lightened of half its load, she began, when she reached Langness, to gather limpets. It had been a spring-tide, which was now flowing, and she did not notice that she was pursuing her occupation on a part of rock from whence escape would be impossible if the advancing tide surrounded it; and, intent on her task, she did not look up, till she had gathered as many limpets as were necessary. Then she lifted her eyes for the first time, and saw she was completely sur¬ rounded by the sea; in a few moments the spot on which she stood would also be covered. For a moment she hesitated, but only for a moment. She saw escape was impossible, and throwing herself on her knees, she committed herself to God. She rose; the water was gradually closing round her—as yet the spot on which she stood was dry. “I should like my body to be found/’ she murmured, and hastily withdrawing her comb from the long luxurient tresses which reached almost to her feet, she began to braid it amongst the seaweed, which was firmly attached to the rock.* When this was completed she calmly raised herself on one arm, and watched the progress of that mighty element which would cause her death. Slowly the waves advanced, and calmly and happily—her every thought a silertt, unuttered prayer—she saw her death approaching. Slowly, slowly, and softly crept on the waves; some with uplifted crest, as if they would at once engulf her, then falling back, dissolving into foam, leaving her prayerfully expecting her end. The water was now at her feet; suddenly a large wave swept over her, followed by another and another. She uttered a faint cry, then all was still, and the waves flowed on sweetly an 1 smoothly, while the corpse lay beneath, and the spirit of the maiden was with its God. The next morning, Joe Shimmin, alone, completely sobered and miserable, made his way to the cottage. He knew well that his conduct of the past evening had been dis¬ graceful, and he feared to present himself before his betrothed. He arrived at the cottage, and, to his surprise, found the door open, and the room below tenantless. He stopped, and listened, and thought he heard a faint cry proceeding from the bed¬ room. He rushed up stairs and found the old woman in great distress. From her disjointed narrative, he found that she had not seen Susan since she went out the day before to gather limpets; and Joe, struck with horror as a sudden idea came across him, left the cottage frantically, and set off running as swiftly as his trembling legs would allow him, to Langness. The tide was out, and on a projecting piece of rock, he fancied he saw something like a figure. Horror-struck, he hastened thither,°and found it was indeed his Susan. He gazed a moment at the clasped hands and the holy smile still resting on the countenance of her whom he had loved so well, till sin and vice had caused him partially to forget her, and then, kneeling down, while large drops of agony started on lib brow, he * A fact. A Manx peasant girl was thus over¬ taken by the tide, and was found the next morn¬ ing with her hair braided in the sea-weed. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 173 irade a solemn vow, before the Almigh \, ; that be would never touch drink a S ain - Years have passed since then, but never has Joe Shimmin broken that solemn vow. He has never married; the remembrance of the past has cast too deep a shade over his heart and feelings. He is the overseer of his former employer s workmen ; and those young men, whom he sees di p * to drink, he tells his story as a warning, and many have profited thereby. Robert BWtke is in the drunkard’s grave ; he died suddenly, while he was intoxicated. He had stifled the “ still, small voice ” so often, tha it was at last no longer heard, and his death, alas, was as he had lived . 473. MAKE A BEGINNING. Remem¬ ber in all things that if you do no^begm, vou will never come to an end. . weed pulled up in the garden, the first seed i. • rhe ground, the first shilling pu Fn the saving to*. and the first mile travelled on a journey, are all very impor¬ tant things; they made a thereby a hope, a promise, a pledge, an as «e that you are in earnest with what wu have undertaken. How many a poor, idle erring, hesitating outcast is now creep- l’ and Sawling hb way through the world who might have held up his head and prospered, if, instead of putting ofl Ins resolutions of amendment an ^dustrj he had only made a beginning. SIZE OF THE DIAMOND OF PATCHWOEK SOFA CUSHION. (484). f the flowe's, are tracts —not parts of the rue blossom 481. It "will he convenient if, before we iroceed furher, we go into the fields and rather a jlant—the more common, the letter adapted will it be for our purpose, Decause thee will be the greater probability ;hat all ou* pupils will be enabled to pro¬ cure specinens; and they will learn, more¬ over, at tie same time, that the most use¬ ful and anusing knowledge may frequently be derived from objects with whose outward appearane we have been for life thoroughly familiar. , . ,, 482. Wio does not know the bngnt- flowered iuttereup ? Which of us has not in joyous infancy, gazed upon its pohshec. golden p:tals with a feeling of pure delight that in later years we seldom or never know? The buttercup— dear jewel-flower of chilihood—associated with its sweet companon, the modest daisy! what can be more fitting subjects for maturer thought than these, the earliest objects of baby admiration! Let us, then, consider these two familiar friends attentively. In the buttercup the natural leaves consist ot many divisions, while in the daisy the leaf is in one piece; in both leaves however, we find the veins, or fibres of the leaf, distri¬ buted upon a somewhat similar plan, viz a central, or principal fibre, from which smaller fibres arise, and form a network of veins on either side. On cutting the states, moreover, and examining them with a magnifying-glass, we discover a further similarity of structure; for we see that there are bundles of woody tissue sym- metrically arranged around a centr ; ll P‘ t ,; 483 Above the bracts we find the blos¬ som, which consists of the following parts: -1. Calyx; 2. Corolla; 3. Stamens; 4. Pistil. If we look at the base or back of the buttercup, we shall observe five sm; 176 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: PATCHWORK SOFA CUSHION 484. match the centre star jW grounding blacker t0 green leaves, as it were, supporting the yellow leaves of the blossom. Each of these green leaves is called a sepal, and the five sepals together form what is called the calyx, because they are frequently united at their edges, and thus constitute a cup (calyx) for the flower. Within or above the calyx we have five yellow petals, which together form the corolla, a word that signifies in Latin a little crown or garland, and has been applied to this part because the petals (the parts of the corolla) are usually of brilliant colour, and give beauty to the flower. If we re¬ move these yellow petals, we shall find at the base of each a small scale or gland, which was at one time called the nectary, from the idea that it was the organ which secreted honey. It may here be appropriately that , m nearly plants with branched stems and reticulated 'net-veined! leaves, there is a curious relation in the number of their parts. In tfe buttercup before us we found a calyx coisisting of five sepals, then a corolla of jve petals • and m the section of the stem1 count five bundles of woody tissue; in the ether parts of the flower, we shall find also the num- n a T ltiple of ifc - h such growths the numbers four and fiv>, or their multiples , predominate . 485. Within the corolla are smalfer organs which, though more difficult to ditinguish* tion Tfr ™ p0rtan * a S ent * ^ th, produc’ tion of fruit or seed. These will require the use of lens to be minutely examined but can be distinguished in their genera A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 177 486. Section of a pattern PATCHWORK QUILT. for a Quilt.—Materials print and Marcella; light, dark, and white, according to the shading in the pattern. outlines by the naked eye. Indeed, at first sight, the distinction between the stamens, which are outermost, and of a deeper yellow, and the pistils, which are the innermost, and have a greener appear¬ ance, will be obvious. In the common wallflower, the cherry-blossom, and poppy, the difference of appearance between the stamens and the pistils is more remarkable. Let the stamens be removed, and the mode of their attachment to the stem noted; the pistils, with the ovaries, or unripe fruit, will then be seen. In the natural process of growth the petals and stamens fall from the flower, and the unripe fruit goes on increasing without them. 487. In the daisy the parts of the flower are not so distinct as in the buttercup; but the blossom is a type of a large number of plants, amongst which are the dandelion, sunflower. China-aster, and other flowers having a central disk with white or coloured rays around. These are called composite flowers, because, in fact, a great many flowers compose each blossom. It was explained that the green leaflets at the back of the flower in the daisy were not sepals, but bracts; and the pupil is there¬ fore prepared to find calyx, corolla, sta¬ mens, and pistils, within and above them. Gently pull away one of the white leaves of the flower, in such a manner as to bring away with it all the parts attached to its base. Upon careful examination it will be found that a complete floret is thus re¬ moved; and by continuing the operation, 178 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: it will be manifest that the whole of the head of the blossom consists of a series of flowers crowded together upon the ex¬ panded top of the flower-stalk, which is named the receptacle. 488. Having thus described some of the more important parts of the buttercup and daisy, we shall postpone the consideration of the remainder of our subject till the next month, when we shall endeavour to put our pupils in possession of such informa¬ tion as will enable them to decide which is the best system of classification to adopt in the study of botany. 489. TREATMENT OF MEASLES. Though we would on no account advise the practice of resorting to medicine on every trivial occasion or ailment, either of child or adult, yet, when febrile symptoms show themselves in children, and especially young ones, we must neither neglect the warning they give, nor be slow to encounter them when, and as they occur. The quick pulse, hot, dry skin, flushes of heat and shivering, headache, languor and debility, and cough, which mark the first stage of measles, whether in part, or all present, demand the same treatment. 490. Without entering in this place on the theory of fever, it is sufficient to say that when that peculiar state is present in the system which constitutes fever, the heart is unduly excited, and where in its healthy state it pulsated, say 80 times a-minute, it now beats 100 or 120 times in the same space. At the same time, what the blood has gained in velocity, it has lost in power; and the pulse, which is nothing more than the force of the blood as it flows along its pipes or arteries, felt through the muscles and skin; which at 80 felt full and round under the fingers, at 120 is small, wiry, and weak. So much in explanation of the pulse. Wherever there is increased circu- lation, there we have increased heat j the quick pubic and hot skin result, then, from the exciting cause of the fever and increased circulation. The dry skin is caused by the follicles or pores of the cuticle being filled up with a fluid like the white of e^gs called lymph; which preventing all pers¬ piration, gives that hot, dry, and sometimes burning perception to the skin, which we occasionally find. 491. The shivering and sense of cold, while the body is actually hotter than natural, is partly the effect of the blood col¬ lecting in the large organs, as the liver, &c., and at the same time being unable to pour ofi its saline particles through the ob¬ structed skin. The headache may proceed )oth from the state of the stomach and bowels, and also from pressure on the A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 179 nerves, from the accumulation of blood at particular parts. The same cause, with the distended state of the digestive organs, equally accounts for the languor and de¬ bility, while more blood being received into the lungs than they send out of them in a given time, produces the short cough which so frequently attends measles. Having briefly explained the Cause of the primary symptoms, we will now proceed to the treatment of them. 492. When the first set of symptoms are particularly light, a mild aperient, with a cooling drink of barley-water, into which the juice of one or more oranges have been squeezed, are all that is necessary. For this purpose, take of senna-leaves, half-an- ounce ; manna, two drachms; boiling water half-a-pint. Put into a jug, cover the top, stirring occasionally till cold; pour off the leaves, add a little moist sugar, and give to an infant up to twelve months of age a tea¬ spoonful every four hours, till it acts suffi¬ ciently on the bowels. To older children from a dessert-spoonful totliree table-spoons¬ ful, for a dose; repeating it, if necessary, as often. Of the barley-water, made slightly acid by oranges or a slice of lemon, let the child drink often and freely. 493. When the symptoms are more severe, in addition to these means, put the patient into a hot bath, up to the neck; and if a child, retain it in the water, from three to five minutes, as the bath is merely meant to open the pores of the skin, and bring the blood to the surface; longer time is unnecessary, as it is the heat and sudden¬ ness of the emersion that produces the benefit. The temperature must be judged of by the back of the hand, or the arm, which will always afford a good guide mothers seldom err from making the water too hot, the fault generally lies the other way. When once assured of the proper heat the attendant must not be alarmed by the child’s cries, or remove it from the bath till the time prescribed has elapsed; all children cry when immersed in water, and the more they cry, while in a bath, the better. We here emphatically impress on every mother and nurse, never to dry a patient coming from a bath. Have a flannel ready for a child, and a blanket for a youth or adult, cover all but the face, put the one into the cradle, and the other into bed, and cover well up with the clothes. When the patient wakes from the sleep that always follows, it is time enough to dress. 494. If measles have been encountered in the first stage by such means, the second chain of symptoms is generally light; if otherwise, however, and the second class are the first that present themselves, the treat¬ ment should begin with the hot bath, espe¬ cially if there is much difficulty of breathing. The next step is to act on the bowels by aperient powders, and cool the system by a fever mixture, giving the barley water as an occasional drink if there is any thirst. Aperient powders:—Take of grey powder, antimonial powder, scammony, of each nine grains ; jalap in powder, fifteen grains; mix, and divide into six powders. To a child from six to twelve months give half of one of these powders every four hours. 495. For a child from two to four years divide the above quantities into four pow¬ ders, and give one every six hours. To a child from four to six years divide into three powders, giving one every six hours; and for ages between six and ten divide in the same way, only give a powder every three hours, and continue till the bowels act freely. 496. Where, however, the powders do not produce, at least, two actions a-day, a dose of the senna mixture, according to the age, and previously mentioned doses, may be given once or twice in the twenty-four hours. 497. In ordinary cases of measles the aperient powders, aided by the senna mix¬ ture, with the hot bath, is all that is abso¬ lutely necessary. As the symptoms improve, the powders may be delayed from four to six, and from six to every eight hours, and ultimately to one powder a-day. But when the febrile symptoms are strong, the follow¬ ing fever mixture must be given, in doses from a small teaspoonful to an infant of one or two years, to a large tablespoonful to ten or twelve years old, every two hours, between the times of giving the powders :— Take of powdered nitre, two scruples; mint water, five ounces and a-half; syrup of saf¬ fron, half an ounce; antimonial wine, three drachms. Mix. 498. The only other symptom that calls for special remark, is the difficulty of breath- 180 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: ing, which is always most oppressive towards night. For this a hot bran poultice over the chest (see surgical section) will be generally found sufficient, if not, employ another hot bath. Such is the ordinary practical treatment of measles. When, however, the disease degenerates into the malignant form, every endeavour must be bent to rouse the vital powers, and enable the system to shake off the typhoid condi¬ tion of the blood, for it must be remembered that we have no longer to deal with measles, but typhoid fever. In very young children the great dependance must be placed on port wine negus; or one part of wine to three of water, given in teaspoonsful every hour or oftener; and beef-tea, slightly thick¬ ened with sago, and administered every quarter of an hour, and where the debility is great injections of beef-tea every eight hours. Bottles of hot water should also be applied to the feet, and the heat kept steadily to one temperature. In older chil¬ dren, in addition to the wine and water, and beef-tea, it will be necessary to exhibit tonics and stimulants; for the latter brandy- and-water can be alternated with the negus, in spoonsful, every hour or two, according to the age of the patient. While as a tonic the following mixture must be given every three hours Take of compound tincture of bark, three drachms; aromatic tincture, two drachms; spirits of sal vola¬ tile, one drachm; spirits of camphor, half a drachm; syrup, two drachms; water suf¬ ficient to make three ounces in all. Mix. Ten to twenty drops of this mixture to be given to an infant from one to two years old. A teaspoonful from two to four years ; a dessert spoonful for six years; and a table' spoonful for all above that age. 499. The bowels should be kept open once a day by a powder, or dose of senna mixture. As the vital powers begin to rally, the tongue will commence cleaning at the point and sides, a moisture will appear on the surface, and the dark appearance of the spots gradually change their colour to a more healthy tone. 500. Four grains of quinine, dissolved in three ounces of water, and given in doses of from twenty drops to a tablespoonful may be taxen to complete the cure after the pre¬ vious mixture. Especial care, however, must be taken to keep the bowels well open for some time after the disease is cured, so as to save the body from those eruptions com¬ monly called the dregs of the measles. 501. Diet, and such information as applies equally to all eruptive diseases, we shall treat of when we conclude this branch of our medical subject. 502. GET KNOWLEDGE.—Fetch down some knowledge from the clouds, the stars, the sun, the moon, and the revolutions of al. the planets. Dig, and draw up some valua¬ ble meditations from the depths of the earth; and search them through the vast oceans of water. Extract some intellectual improvement from the minerals and metals ; from the wonders of nature among the vegetables and herbs, trees and flowers. Learn some lessons from the birds and the beasts, and the meanest insects. Read the wisdom of God, and his admirable contri¬ vance in them all: read his almighty power, his rich and various goodness, in all the works of his hands.—Dr. Watts. 503. WORDS.—Words are in this res¬ pect like water, that they often take their taste, flavour, and character from the mouth out of which they proceed, as the water from the channels through which it flows. Thus, were a spendthrift to dis¬ course of generosity with a miser, a dema¬ gogue to declaim on public good to a patriot, or a bigot to define truth to a philosopher, ought we to wonder if the respective parties mutually misunderstood each other ? since, on these particular terms, each is his own lexicographer, and prefers his own etymologies to the industry of a Skinner, the real learning of a Junius, or the as¬ sumed authority of a Johnson. 504. HUMANITY.—Humanity is, in regard to other social affections, what the first lay of colours is in respect to a picture. It is a ground on which are painted the different kinds of love, friendship, and en¬ gagement.—As the ancients held those places sacred which were blasted with lightening, we ought to pay a tender re¬ gard to those persons who are visited with affliction.—A general civility is due to all mankind; but an extraordinary humanity and a peculiar delicacy of good breeding is owing to the distressed, that we may not add to their affliction by any seeming neglect. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 331 505. ELOCUTIONxYRY EXERCISES. i. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou would’st havemc paint The home to which, could Love fulfil its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen !—a deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world; Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadow s As I would have thy fate! A palace lifting to et< rnal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We’d sit beneat h the arching vines, and wonder Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love! We’d have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we’d read no books That were not tales of love—that we might smile To think how pcorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens We’d guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through t he mists of alabaster lamps. And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I’ the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture ? II. Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere their time; by pride— That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould— The evil spirit of a bitter love, And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was filled with thee: I saw thee midst the flow’rs the lowly boy Tended, unmarked by thee—a spirit of bloom, And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape! 1 saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Euter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy And from that hour I grew—what to the last I shall be—thine adorer! Well; this love, Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell—how maidens sprung from Kings Have stooped from their high sphere; how Love like Death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd’s crook Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home In the soft palace of a fairy Future! My father died; and I, the peasant born, Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate; And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jaolers of the danng heart— Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image, Glass’d iu my soul, took all the hues of glory, And lured me on to those inspiring toils Bv which man masters men ! For thee I grew A midnight student o’er the dreams of sages ! For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace And every Muse, such attributes as lend Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee, And Passion taught me poesy—of thee. And on the Painter’s canvas grew the life Of beauty!—Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy hauntiner eyes! Men called me vain—some mad—I heeded not But still toil’d on—hoped on—for it was sweet. If not to win to feel more worthy thee! At last in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent them to thee—such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name—appended by the burning heart That long’d to show its idol what bright things It had created—yea, the enthusiast’s name, That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn! That very hour—when passion, turned to wrath, Resembled hatred most—when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos—in that hour The tempters found me a revengeful tool For their revenge! Thou hast trampled on the worm- It turned and stung thee! From “ The Lady of Lyons' III. And art thou tired of being ? Has the grave No terrors for thee ? Hast thou sundered quite Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films With airy lustre various ? Hast subdued Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison, Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories, That change the valour of the thoughtful breast To brave dissimulation or its fears ? Is hope quench’d in thy bosom ? Thou art free, And in the simple dignity of man Standest apart untempted—do not lose The great occasion thou hast pluck’d from misery, Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, But use it nobly! Not to strike or slay; No!—not unless the audible voice of Heaven Call thee to that dire office—but to shed On ears abused by falsehood, truths of power In words immortal—not such words as flash From the fierce demagogue’s unthinking rage, To madden for a moment and expire— Nor such as the rapt orator imbues With warmth of facile sympathy, and moulds To mirrors radient with fair images, To grace the noble fervour of an hour— But words which bear the spirits of great deeds Wing’d for the Future; which the dying breath Of freedom’s martyr shapes as it exhales, And to the most enduring forms of earth Commits—to linger in the craggy shade Of the huge valley, ’neath the eagle’s home, Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps, Till some heroic leader bids them wake To thrill the world with echoes ! From “ Ion ,” a Tragedy. 182 THE CORNER CUPBOARD : 506. A LEAP OF LIFE. The pool wherein my line was dropped, and the upland on either side, were gloomy and dark beneath a cloud, while behind me the fields through which I had sauntered, and the stream upon whose sandy banks my footsteps were yet sharply defined, wel¬ tered in waves of sunlight. I could not but think, with a melancholy pleasure, how like to this scene my life had been; how from the sadness and weariness of existence, I had often looked back to scenes through which I had passed, that lay calmly and lovingly in the light of remembered happi¬ ness. W hy is it, when our feet are upon the borders of life’s fairy land, and our lips are just about to taste the cup that is filled for us but once, that no unseen guardian tells us to tread slowly across the narrow space, and to waste not a drop in the shallow goblet ? Else, in that dear time, I had not trampled with heedless step upon many a flower of tenderness j I had not so hastily drank that magical draught; and the sweetness of the odour and the thrill of the libation had been fresher in my mind to-day. Yet, while I thus mused, the cloud crept up the stream and along the fields. It seemed as if the light pursued the shadow with relentless hostility, driving it onward, onward, until its dusky banner was torn and rent amid the distant forest of pines. So the cloud fled from my heart, pursued by a name that trembled on my lips, and a memory that aroused itself in my heart ; and the name and memory, Mary Linley, were yours. Oh, how, as I write, the army of ancient remembrances marches down the valley of the past, and encamps before my heart, be- leaugering and besieging it! And eyes looked kindly upon me, and hands put softly back the hair from my forehead, though both, alas! sleep in the grave to¬ day. I had gone to my uncle’s to pass a col¬ lege vacation. Those were days in which I date the birth of many new sensations, many gorgeous hopes. There are few men whose hearts are so cold that the remem¬ brance of that golden age of life will not warm into transient life. To me it seems too full of delight ever to have been real. Lntil the season of which I write I had but rarely been thrown into the society of women. The wild and buoyant associates of my college-life had hitherto supplied all craving for companionship. The charm at- tendant upon familiar acquaintance and frequent intimacy with women of refine¬ ment, of elegance and truth, was to a great degree unknown to me. I had no sisters, and my earlier life had been spent at school • so that, although I was fully eighteen, I blushed like a boy at the tone of woman’s voice addressed to me, and my eye sank be¬ neath the ray that quivered and glowed in hers. My words, which among ray college friends had been loudest and boldest, were hushed into silence, or uttered with stam¬ mering awkwardness in the presence of the most timid girl. Woman was to me a planet, whose orbit mine might never cross. I invested her with unreal at¬ tributes and a visionary nature. I adored at a distance the image before whose shrine 1 did not dare to prostrate myself. Her delicate beauty and tenderness of form seemed to me unfitted for contact with the coarser and less ethereal sex. When I was m her society I admired as well as was awed, but found no language wherein to express either feeling. I dare say that many a man, in whom to¬ day the presence of the most beautiful, most gif ted, most haughty lady of the land would only excite his most confident and successful endeavours to fascinate and charm, whose life has been a round of ever-shifting ac¬ quaintance, or perhaps a succession of pas¬ sionate romances with the fairest and love¬ liest of earth, can recal the time when his cheek grew as crimson at the glance or voice of woman, as, it may be, her’s did, to tl,e .It was late at night when I reached mv uncles residence. I had not visited him foi years, and only did so at this time at the invitation of his son, who was to pass some time at home, having just returned from half a< n J ° hn Guernse y> “y cousin, was half-a dozen years older than I. I vemem- bered him as lie looked years ago, when we played together at my father’s, a bold, d.u k-eyed boy with a complexion of the clearest olive. I remembered how I followed A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 183 him, though timidly, in his daring and active sports. I remembered how we parted, he to go to the East, where his father had procured for him a situation in a large mercantile house, and I to go to school. I remembered my grief (it was my first) as he laughed at my tears at our parting, though I thought I saw his own eye dimmed. Since then we had met but once ; and now, two or three months after his return, he had written to me, in the same frank, hearty style, that characterised his boyhood, “to come and see him, and be boys together once more.” My uncle had gone to bed, but my cousin was sitting up awaiting me. At his first warm, loving tone of greeting, I felt the years that had intervened since our boyish days melt away, and the true, honest love of boyhood was felt in the grasp of our hands. We sat down together in the old parlour. Then it was that I first saw how much he had changed in form and face. The sun of the East had made his skin more swarthy, and the fire of his eye was ten-fold more brilliant and piercing than I had known it before. Yet the tone of his voice, and the ringing truth of his laugh, smote with old- time familiarity at the doors of my memory. “ Hugh,” said he at last, after the chimes of “ lang syne” had been rung again and again, “ you’ve not seen much of the world, I think, since I left you.” “ Yes, indeed, this is my third year of college.” “ College—what idea of life can that give you? Have you ever, after tossing for months upon the sea, found yourself thousands of miles from home in a strange land, amid strange faces and strange tongues ? Did you ever feel that it was your own arm alone that must guard you, and your own quick thought that must find the path of success ? Did you ever look in eyes that blazed beneath another sky than this, and read the book of woman’s heart in different languages, and find that the sense was always the same.” He smiled meaningly as he said it, and it w'as with some confusion that I answered. “ I dont know much about women; for you know, John, I never met many.” “ What,” said he, have n’t you got any love-secrets to tell me ? Is there not the image of some dear girl nestling close tc your heart now ?” I indignantly repelled the charge which implied, as I thought, so much weakness, and assured him that I considered such avowals quite inconsistent with manhood. “No, John,” said I; “ all this reads very well in novels, and that sort of thing, but it won’t do, you know-” I paused, for I saw him laugh again. “ Never mind, Hugh, Mary will tell you you are a fool.” “ Mary !” exclaimed I; “ what Mary ?” “Oh,” replied John, “I did n’t tell you that my father is guardian to the daughter of his old friend Linley ? Mary w’as left an orphan at her father’s decease, and Mr. Guernsey has adopted her. She has been here ever since 1 have been at home.” If any thought came into my mind, it was one of dissatisfaction, for I thought that her presence would interfere with the execution of the various schemes of diver- sion and joviality which I had laid out to accomplish with John. So I only said: “ How old is she ?” “ About as old as you, you anchorite, and with twice your knowledge, if you are a book-worm.” I puffed my cigar with an assumption of stoical indifference, and said that all Marys were alike, I supposed. “ Of course they are,” said John, “ if you, who know woman so well, say so.” I felt than he was secretly laughing at me, and resolved that my indifference to Miss Lin¬ ley should show him that I was not the unskilled boy he took me to be. We spoke no longer of Mary, but in a short time parted for the night, with a fervent “ God bless you!” on our lips and the love of boyhood warm in our hearts. Yes, John, I seem to see you now, as you stood at my chamber-door, smiling kindly on me as you bade me good night; and I thank God that I did not forget the honest affection of that smile in an hour when evil passions would have made me curse you. I met my uncle the next morning before breakfast. He was a mild, quiet-looking man, and my heart warmed towards him, for his features were those of my mother. John joined us soon with a fresh, frank “ Good morning,” and we soon were busy in speaking of those who w’ere dear to us all. I remember distinctly to-day in what 184 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: part of the breakfast-room I sat; how the delicious odour of honeysuckle came in at the open window; how the nameless in¬ fluence of the summer’s morning stole into my heart and softened it. We were waiting for Miss Linley. The door opened. I was looking out of the window, and did not turn round for a moment or two. As I did so, I heard John say: “ Mary, this is my cousin, Hugh Hatton.” I think that there must be moments in men’s lives when they are controlled by a power instantaneous and irresistible; when, by some strange chemistry, the whole nature of the heart is changed in a single interval of its throbs; when a new passion is given to them, the origin of which is too mysterious to be solved. For, before 1 turned from the window, I had never sup¬ posed myself capable of loving at all; and before John had finished his few words of introduction, the passion of a life-time had been condensed and crowded into my heart. Yes, I loved that girl as intensely when the last syllable of my name died upon John’s lip, as I ever did thereafter; and how earnest, how burning that love has been I know, but cannot tell! I hardly know now what I said. If my speech was con¬ fused and hesitating, they ascribed it only to bashfulness and timidity, and took no farther notice of it. At the table their conversation was animated and lively, and I had ample opportunity of gathering into my heart’s treasury her every feature, glance, and word. As I recal her now, now when the ex perience and lessons of life have left their marks upon my soul, I do not think it could have been her beauty solely that caused such a sudden growth of love. No, it must have been some unexplained sym¬ pathy, some unappreciated affinity, that awoke and unveiled the slumbering passion of my soul. She might have been base- born, rude, unrefined, for aught I knew, and yet a single glance unsealed the foun¬ tain whose flow has cut a channel in my heart that is deep, though dry to-day. I shut my eyes now, and I see her as she looked then. Not very tall, but with a form wherein every womanly grace was swelling in its most eloquent expression. Her hair was brown (how often I foolishly fancied that the hue of mine was like tha* of hers !), and put back in plain folds each side her cheek; her eyes I thought at first were blue, but really were of that hazel that changes with every rising thought; but when at rest they wore a mournful* tender look, that seemed to fathom the depths of my soul. Her face was oval, the mouth small, and the parting of the rich red lips disclosed the transparent and regular teeth. I remember as I gazed on her, that I thought of a picture of the Madonna I had seen when but a child. And thenceforth she to my heart was its* Madonna. That forenoon John rode to the neighbouring village for letters and papers. My uncle was reading in the library, and I was left with her alone. I think that she noticed my awkward manner and incoherent conversation, for, with woman’s true tact, she strove to make me feel at my ease. She spoke of everything that I might be* sup¬ posed to be interested in, which might be familiar to me, of my studies, of my college life, of my uncle, and my future purposes. And when her kind intentions seemed to be baffled by the strange manner and repelling mien with which my madly-beating heart indued me, she said, with a smile, that she supposed I liked music, at any rate she \vould try to teach me to, and so sat at the piano to sing. Has the echo of that song ever died ? will it ever die ? Is it not burning in my brain ? is it not ringing in the room to¬ night? Never before had every fibre of my heart so thrilled; never before had the coldness and falsehood of my nature been fused by harmony. I inhaled as it were every note; I prolonged with inward re¬ sponse every cadence. I thought that the summit of earthly fame was to have written “Mary of Argyle;” the acme of earthly happiness, to have heard as I did Mary Linley sing it. When the last strain ceased I felt as if some portion of my very being had been annihilated and stricken for ever away. When John returned, he asked Mary if she had not found me poor company ? *‘2so, indeed,” she replied, laughing < Mr. Hatton is the best of companions. He is n’t so vain as you, you who want to say and do everything yourself.” A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 195 “Ah!” replied my cousin, “you don’t know Hugh, He is artful, and this very modesty and silence is the key-note of his tactics. While he is hanging on your words, and dwelling on your glances, he is, in fact, studying the best access to your heart. So, take care, Mary.” I could have struck him, though I knew that he was but jesting; though 1 felt she knew it too, yet I could not bear that she should ever be told, even in jest, that I had wasted a thought, a word, a look on any other woman in the wide world but her. Day after day passed. Though I was in her company constantly, I always was ab¬ sorbed with but one thought, that of conceal¬ ing from her the love that was crushing my heart to death. I suppose that at times I must have seemed even morose and unkind in my endeavours to hide a passion as hope¬ less as it was absorbing. For she seemed so much above me, so far beyond my reach, so infinitely superior to my highest deservings, that I sometimes wondered that I dared even to love her in secret. But though that stifled passion ate into my very heart-strings, I thank God that no moan or complaint of mine ever told my pain; that my fear repressed the utterance of my love. I noticed that her manner with me was different from what it was with John. With me she was always gay, lively ; smil¬ ing at my shyness, laughing at my abrupt and unkind words—ob, how bitterly they belied my heart. She was always ready to sing to me, always ready to walk or ride with me; and if I showed any rude disinclination to either, though at the time I would be dying to consent, she wonld compel me to yield to her will by a charming assumption of authority. But with my cousin she seemed entirely changed. She rarely, if ever, sought his side; her eyes were never fixed fully upon his, and her conversation with him, even upon the most trivial subjects, seem con¬ strained and suppressed. If he entered the room when she was alone, she would soon leave it, and in all our walks and drives she always seemed to choose my companion¬ ship rather than his. Let not the man who is deeply skilled in the mysteries of woman’s heart, sneer at me because I only judged of things as they seemed. I had not been taught the lesson, that the noble delicacy of woman’s love trembles at any act which might be evincive of her partiality until the words which she longs, yet almost fears to hear, steal from the lips of the loved one; until from the strength of manhood’s passions are wrought out the syllables that bum like fire into her heart and memory, “I love you.” So our days went by. I was gradually losing my constraint, and found in my daily intimacy with her a charm that aroused new and undreamed of powers. 1 no longer blushed when she spoke to me. I no longer avoided her glance, but would set gazing into her eyes with such earnest¬ ness and devotion, that I wonder my secret was not revealed to her. I loved to hear her speak, and God only knows what gorgeous dreams of future happiness en¬ tranced me as I listened, spell-bound, hour after hour, to her words. But chiefly I loved to hear her sing. I would stand by the piano in those sweet summer evenings, while the stars went up one by one into their places, and listened with hushed pulse and tearful eyes as she uttered those sounds, that seem even now in the stillness of night, echoing from heaven, to float from angel- lips down, down through the illimitable ether into my ear. Oh ! seasons of voiceless delight, do you never return ? Is there no melody left for me on earth, that can revive you ? Are the voices of sweet singers and the chiming of liquid and lulling strains for ever to fall coldly on my ear after that epoch of song ? I remember now, how as she would sing some strain of passion, her voice would grow lower and fainter, and her hands pause list¬ lessly on the keys of the instrument, and how I, looking into her eyes, could see the tears. Then came over me a strange feeling of happiness, for I thought—and I thank God for the bliss I felt in thinking so—that the song might have awakened in her bosom some answer to the silent love that was coiled, snake-like, round my heart. But your hands, dear Mary , hold to¬ night, an angel’s lyre, and your voice floats through the arches of heaven. Oh! glorious visions, why did I ever awake ? Why did I not die then ? Die in the half-formed and timid hope, that on 186 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: ner heart’s tree, one bud of tenderness and love was blossoming for me ? 1 am thank¬ ful now that at those moments I resisted the mighty impulse that would have made me fall at her feet, and utter my broken tale of burning passion; I am thankful that she never heard the words that thronged in those moments to my lips. Sometimes John would come softly in while she was singing, and stand silently behind her. But when she was aware of his presence, she would rise and glide from the room; and then I would feel angry that he should step within the charmed circle of my happiness, and cause the beautiful spirit whose presence was blessing me to vanish. But for all that I was at times inclined to look upon my cousin coolly, both on this account, and because I thought he was dis¬ tasteful to Mary, and so should be disliked by me, I loved him more and more every day. His manly heart, his unfeigned friend¬ ship, the countless exhibitions of his affec¬ tion for me, the pleasing remembrances of boyhood, all conspired to link me to him with bonds that the grave has not broken and death has not decayed. And if it be given to departed spirits to revisit earth, to be at the side and read the heart of those they loved in life, you know to-night, dear John, that your memory is green and sacred in my soul. A month had passed, a month that was to me one waking trance of fierce delight. I doubt if ever there had been a moment of it that had been divided from her pos¬ session ; sleeping or awake, in his presence or out of her sight, the seething billows of passion still beat on the sea-beach of my life, with unchanging sound, with unaltered crests. I began to indulge myself in long and solitary walks, wherein I hugged and gloated over my new-found treasure, where¬ in I built up great arches for the bridge of the future; and the key-stone of them all was Mary Linley. The night—I never shall, I never can forget that night—the twilight had just blended into the moonrise, and I had strolled across the fields and entered an old pine-forest that was of no great extent, and of which the trees were not so numerous as to impede one’s progress. Indeed it was pierced throughout with many paths, the work of art as well as nature, in which one might walk with great comfort. The de¬ licious damp odour of the evergreens; the perpetual sighing of the tasselled pines, the bars of moonlight that lay across my path, heightened the ravished feeling that my thoughts had induced into a sense of deliri¬ ous enjoyment and rapture. I sat down on a fallen pine, and looked up through the tree tops into the sky. I never felt so near it as I did then. I re¬ solved that on the morrow I would confide to Mary all the stormy thoughts that were beating fiercely at my lips for expression; I would tell her all I had suffered, all I hoped; and I fancied that I could feel her soft arm round me, and her warm lip quivering on mine, and could hear her half-hushed, but still most intensely audible answer: “Yours, dear Hugh, in life and death.” I was seated out of the beaten path, from which I was separated by a thick growth of young fir-trees. The path itself was bathed in light, while the shadow of the trees fell deeply upon me; I heard footsteps coming along the walk, and resolved to sit in silenco till they had passed. They stopped, however, \ directly in front of me. I caught the gleam of a female’s dress through the fir openings; I was about to start forward when I heard the voice of a man in earnest conversation with her. # I solemnly declare that I had not heard a single syllable, I had not even seen the face 1 of either, before an awful and nameless dread crept over me. What it portended I knew not, but I felt a great agony sinking, and growing intenser as it sank, into the depths of my palpitating heart. I leaned forward with strained eyes and in sickening suspense. It was my cousin and Mary ! They stood side-long to me, and the moon¬ light was full upon their faces. Her hands were clasped in his, and her face was up- 1 turned to his own with an expression of angelic sweetness and trusting love. He was speaking. Was each word a coal of fire, j hot from the furnace, that it so scorched j and burned into my soul ? Was the air that I breathed an atmosphere like that of the damned ? ‘‘ Mary, dear, you know my heart now; you trust in my love, don’t you ?” A smile of tenderness was the only reply €t Darling, I have dreamed of this for A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 1S7 years !—of this very moment, when I should look into your eyes and see there the wealth of your heart's true love, glittering for me alone; of this very moment, when my passion and your reply should he sealed thus/' He stooped to kiss the lips that shrank not from him. “ Mary, I have never known before the secret of life. My feet have wandered to many a spot, my heart has beat in many a measure, hut the spot where our feet stand now is to me, to both of us, the soil Eden; and the throbbings of our hearts are laden with the fulness of a delight that must be lent us from Heaven. Here let me rest. Beyond the haven of your love let the bark of my passion never go; there let it furl its sails and anchor for ever. Thither the storm and strife of life’s under billows shall never reach ; thither the sound of its tempests shall come but faintly and hushed. I am henceforth to own but one memory, one hope ; the memory of to-night; the hope that God will give you to me on earth and in the grave!" And she answered: “John, dear John; it was long ago I loved you; but I feared that you never would care for me, and I hoped and prayed that you might never know my love for you, if your own heart was cold. I am sure I prayed so, and I prayed too that you might love me dearly; that you might-" She said no more, for he had clasped her in his arms, and they were locked in the long, lingering, passionate embrace of love. In the open field, with my face on the cold, damp ground ; in the shadow of the pine forest, clutching the grass in my agony. How I came there I never knew. There I lay, with a thousand thoughts rolling like fiery billows over my heart, and a thousand hideous shapes grinning and howling at me. In that fearful phan¬ tasmagoria of torrent, I could not arrest a C 7 f single thought or a single shape. They rolled and whirled by in endless succession, but I felt, I knew that they were all alike. 1 sprang to my feet, as if to shake off with a vigorous effort these dreadful persecutors, and as I looked out in the field beyond the black, evenly-defined shadow of the pine forest, I saw them in the shapes of John and Mary, walking slowly along in the moonlight. The air about them appeared of a golden hue, and their steps seemed to be on beaten silver ; but I was standing in the blackness and gloom of the forest shadow, with a yet more ray less blackness and gloom upon my heart. How long I stood there I cannot think. I have thought since, that in that fearful season, all my powers of reason, reflection, and memory, must have been swallowed up in the fearful vortex of passion that was hissing and boiling in my heart. When it3 waves grew calmer, and the fiery veil was drawn from my eyes, I walked hurriedly to the house. I paused in the flower-garden before it. The blinds of the parlour win¬ dows were closed, but the casement was up, and I heard her singing. I felt that John was beside her, leaning over her shoulder, his black curls mingling with her damp, soft, brown hair. I could not see this, but a thousand daggers of conviction at my heart made me feel it. Presently the song ceased, and the low, earnest tone of impas¬ sioned words, came *on the still night air. I should have gone frantic to have waited there one instant longer. I opened the front door softly and stole to my chamber, entered it, and locked the door. I sat upon the side of my bed. For some time I did not think at all; the only things that filled my mind, were pictures of what I had seen, and echoes of what I had heard. At last the silence and calm of my room restored me, and I endeavoured to give my wild and shapeless thoughts some form; and first of all appeared, with stony, fearful, changeless, Sphynx-like gaze, the embodied conviction, “ She does not love you ! She will never love you !" Then arose (forgive me John; I cannot forgive myself!) a bitter, desperate, and demoniac hatred of my cousin. May such cursed impulses and black resolves as flapped their ominous wings above my tortured spirit in that hour, never, never visit me again! I shudder when I think of them. But in the midst of the strife of my anguish, I lifted my eyes to the wall of my room, and there, hanging in the moonlight, I saw the picture of John, painted years ago, when we played together. It seemed to look upon me with a look wherein the ancient love-light was blended with a mournful chiding. It aroused the recollections of our spring-time 188 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: of life; it pleaded with the hearty friend¬ ship of our later days; it recalled the last “ God bless you, Hugh! Good night! ” I buried my face in the pillow and wept. Those tears were the gift of God; there flowed away with them all rancour, all malice, all loathsome revenge; and nothing, nothing was left behind but a great and deep sorrow, that they could not wash away. Are there not traces to-night where the lava and fire has been ? I arose with a calmer and lighter heart. I thanked God that the affection of my heart for John had passed unmelted through the fiery furnace. I was thankful in being able to reflect, that neither of them sus¬ pected the secret of my heart, and that their love might never be embittered by the thought of the hopelessness of mine. What a long and terrible night that was! What years of pain were crowded into its weary watches! They say that intense fear or a night of great bodily anguish w r ill sometimes turn the blackest hair to the silver hue of age. I know that in those fearful hours my heart grew very old. My purpose was fixed; my plans were formed. 1 must leave the place the next day, and never, never see her again. I packed my trunk, and as I finished my preparations for departure the morning was flushed and glorious. I softly stole down stairs, and sent a servant over to the post*town to direct the stage to come for me. I picked a little bunch of roses from a bush I had seen her tend, and wandered listlessly around the house in the apathy of despair. A sudden step in the gravel-walk and a ringing “ Good-morning, Hugh ! ” It was John. I grasped his hand with an iron grasp, as if thereby to wring out all remem¬ brances of the evil thoughts of the night before. “ Why, Hugh, where were you last night ? Mary and I hunted everywhere for you. But my father said he heard you in your room, and going up I found you locked in. Were you sick ? ” and 603. TREATKENT.-Having cleansed the bowels by the use of the aperient mixture ride rt f*’ a , b lSte r u USt be pufc on each over LJ + JU8t bcl0w the ears and over the tonsils, varying in size from a shilling to half-a-crown, and the patient put luo a hot bath for three minutes, for the double purpose of opening the pores and throwing out the eruption. As a further means to the same end, the tonic stimulant mixture, ordered in typhoid measles, 498, must be given in the same dose, and as often as it is prescribed in that disease. In children, under two years, one blister will e sufficient, which, when the plaster is re- ticed 6 f and the . bl!ster cu t, should be poul- with violef C ° UP a ° f • ° Urs ’ and then dr ^ed ith violet powder, instead of the old and objectionable dressing of lard and ointment. * 604. When the patient is convalescent, b e given as ordered in paragraph 500, as a general tonic, which, with an aperient powder daily, may be con¬ tinued for about a week. Should dropsy supervene the most frequent sequel of scarlet fever—it must be met by generous diet wine, exercise, and small doses of sweet nP 1 "*? of nifcre in a little sugar and water, en drops to a child of one year every four ^- dab °ut twenty drops in thesame way, and time, to a child of six. 7? 5, To children over that age the de- Sf.Tf may be g iven in a wine- It7s mId r Tl nt ^ Wlth the hi g hcst benefit. I!nn . dc b / . boihn g two handsful of dande¬ lion-root cut into chips, and half an ounce of Spanish juice in three pints of water slowly iloivn to two; when cold, strain, and dole fl ° m a Win ® glaSS to a cu P fu11 for a weakne« h ° Ul a ther .° be much subsequent akness, and, as is sometimes the case loss of mental and muscular power steel wine, in teaspoonful doses, may be given alternate y with the quinine; or the follow¬ ing mixture, in the dose and manner prescribed; will be still better. 607. Steel Mixture.— Take of best honey one ounce—dissolve this in four ounces of buffing water, and to this in a bottle add iron-mix ChmS ° f ^ muriated tincture of 608. To a child from one to two years a tears P °the twic ® a da ^ '™m two to four y «ars, the same dose three times. At six i»r f “ or8“ t h“r deSer ‘ Sp0Mf “‘ 609. TOMATO SALAD.—Take two ripe « bl 7 ises ’ and si; ce them about tb?' Th - n take two mild onions vervthirT iT S,ZC ’ peeland slice them also them round fi y f Ur f sh ’ ° r plate > «nd dish ound, first a slice of onion and then a “r°’ • ill i y0U have dished ifc all pearance V T wiU have a ap¬ pearance. 1 ou must now take four table spoonfuls of the best salad oil, and pour over w bole of it; also two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, a small teaspoonful of pepper and i“ of salt j g iv P «&ighi hake, and it is ready for use, either with cold meat or hot. This salad is delicious. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 207 610. JUNE FOR THE BOYS AND GIRLS. Now summer is commencing. This and the two succeeding mouths being generally the hottest in the year, will tempt many boys to the banks of rivers and pools, into which we would most earnestly caution them against venturing, without some prelimi¬ nary instruction in— . 611. Swimming. —As well as being fairly entitled to rank foremost among athletic sports, swimming is undoubtedly one of the most necessary accomplishments. Besides, no boy knows how soon, or how frequently, he may be called upon to exercise a know¬ ledge of the art, whether on his own account, or to assist in rescuing the life of a playmate. English boys, of all boys, should endeavour to be expert swimmers. The very nature of an islander seems to invite to such an acquirement. Britons are, and have been, from time immemorial, rovers the wide world over, and exposed as such to every possible peril by sea and flood. Nor is it on such accounts only that a familiarity with the practice of swimmiug is desirable. It is highly con¬ ducive to the development of muscular strength, bracing to the nervous system, and even tends to repair the strength of the vital functions when they may have fallen into decline. We do not like to say anything to British boys which might induce them to disparage the advantages they possess as Britons, or to set up odious comparisons between their own dear native land and foreign states, or we might speak of t le multiplicity of swimming schools abroad compared to their spread at home, bmfhce it to say, that every boy ought to be a °*ood swimmer; that a swimming academy should form one of the institutions of every town in the kingdom; and that, m the meantime, the boy readers of the “ Calen¬ dar” will do well to follow implicitly the following directions: 612. Goinginto the M ater. — 1 he hrst thing is to conquer timidity. The whole suc¬ cess of swimming mainly depends upon con fideuce. Let it be understood that water is much more buovant than the atmosphere, and that this quality tends to support the body—to raise it—rather than to let it sink. Take a bladder filled with air, and try to thrust it into the water. The resistance will be very great. Within the body of every swimmer there is a similar air-dis¬ tended vessel, which acts similarly under similar circumstances. So that the first sensation experienced by a person going into the water is the tendency to re¬ appear upon its surface. Timid boys often walk into the water. The best way is to get an elder friend to lay hold of you—with your full consent, of course— and dip you over head and ears. You will soon find out how easy it is to come up again. A sloping descent should be chosen without holes or irregularities, so that you may choose your own depth. Dr. Franklin s advice upon this point is as follow s: “ Choose a place where the water deepens gradually, walk cooly into it until you are up to your breast; then turn round your face to the shore, and throw an egg into the water (the circumstance of the egg not being broken in its descent to the bottom, will prove to you what we have said about the buoyancy of the water) between you and the shore; it will sink to the bottom and be easily seen there if the water is clean. It must lie in the water so deep that you cannot reach to take it up except by diving for it. To en- courage yourself in order to do this, reflect that your progress will be from deep to shallow water, and that at any time you may, by bringing your legs under you and standing on the bottom, raise your head far above the water; then plunge under it with your eyes open, which must be kept open before going under as you cannot open the eyelids afterwards from the weight of water above you; throwing yourself to¬ wards the egg and endeavouring by the action of your hands and feet against the water to get forward, till within reach of it.” But in whichever way you (at first) enter the water it is advisable to wet the head and neck either previously or im- mediately afterwards. This is for the pur¬ pose of equalizing the temperature of the body A common method with begmners is to walk or run boldly in, and when in to plunge the head and neck beneath the water. But let not the tyro be ashamed; he is seen at first timidly to dip one toe in, and shiveringly withdraw it. lhe ^greatest swimmers that history speaks ot have probably done the same. Caution is a good 208 growth. 311 ^ C ° nfidence ^ a plant of slow 613. Use of Cokes and Bladder — We obt^n T ne Petitioners, when they cannot obtam the personal assistance of some friend proficmnt in the art, to procure these A S k cS" ““If ‘”" J , be ' A„t enot-hf !, UppIy ? ou wifch material enough for less than a shilling. Six or wit^ CJ,T . mdn £ al P^ces are strung together ',' th . a P‘ e . ce °J r <>pe, or a thong of leather • ri„W h K° f this rope or th ong may be egulated by your fancy or taste. Then- use need scarcely be pointed out: passing under the armpits, the young bather hvf upon them, and throwing np his w? element 1 * 3 A f i‘ miliaritieS f wifch limpid ESS. H SUPP ° t0 the head and shoulders, they are undoubtedly efficient but, of C ourse, they interfere with any p " 0 gress forward, and it is therefore best soon a? the s i ighte8t confideu ° c r e e ■ “ wa er has been obtained, to discard tl e corks altogether. It has been Sedt their use that they induce a lazy J reliance upon an artificial aid, and hinder the neccs- tb7l Llch ’ whUe ifc would support £*&">*»* them ’ would do “aUthe good in the world” to the limbo Z more valid „b jecti0 „ ; *■ '» « I™? 8 S e ‘ ■“*?• out of their pg* “ d ‘" C k ** W-Md. InrtidS THE CORNER CUPBOARD: action of a first-rate swimmer With 1 • head a little thrown hart mJ \ \ Vlth hls «rd from tt, tt r epri " f ' fo ''- •l-ouiug out L arts befbrc“'hL T their greatest reach—the lees J thi t0 moment should make a .,2 4 the same mg to that of the „m‘ p™ r.hf P °lf kind of attifnrlo 1 i 1 °* ^ s hows the the commencement of° thZ sSok?™”^ close together nnrl fi i ff rs an( * thumb scoop tile water as > 10 atter downwards; arc Svl ‘ YT and descr ibe an mnety, of which the shoulders form Fie. 2. attidcde foe an orthodox dive. FIRST ATTEMPT*AT SWIMMING. pond of the homely and despised froo- he »nU have teen the most perfect mS"ei in the centre In bringing them to" the first position, they are swept to the sides as low, but at some distance from the hins- the arms are brought close to the side/ .zUm - if* Ziut;; u conti,iue y its pmgreUon. " Do'not l e °t eithej the feet or hands cut the snrfapp nf \yrter; keep them beneath it, the feet about a foot or a foot and a half an l ti hands a few inches Ttl ’ d the ns with most eMu* things^ whett'eTar”,! . £?• D ™ A™ ftanwiro.— There i, a ditterence between diving and plunghg! A FAMILY REPOSITORY 209 The former is for deep waters, the latter for shallow streams, and gradual descents. Fig. 2, exhibits the right attitude for an ortho¬ dox dive. In this case the head is brought down towards the chest, the arms stretched forward as in an intensely supplicative posi¬ tion, the hands forming a point: the legs an l thighs make an angle of ninety degrees, and the knees touch the shoulders. The plunge must then be made fearlessly, but care must be taken that a somersault is not Fig. 3. SHALLOW WATER PLUNGE. the consequence. When the diver has gone as deeply as he intends, or wishes, he may by raising and depressing his arms, rise to the surface. This practice is, of course, only fit for experienced swimmers. In the shallow water plunge, (Fig. 3), the learner must throw his body as far forward into the stream as he is able. When lie reaches the water, he must raise his head, straighten his Fig. 4. HAND OVER HAND SWIMMING. back, and take the first position described above (See Fig. 1). But there is a good method of going into the water, called the feet foremost plunge, which should be prac¬ ticed, as it may often happen that that method of jumping into a stream may be the most desirable, as for instance in at¬ tempting the rescue of a playmate. The young swimmer, therefore, should endeavour to become accustomed to it. In this case, the legs, arms, and head, are to be kept perfectly stiff and immoveable, and in no case to throw the limbs into any other atti¬ tude. It will very soon be found that no¬ thing can prevent the diver returning to the surface almost immediately. 616. Hand Over Hand Swimming.— This belongs to what is called “ fancy swim¬ ming”—in this country, although, and in savage nations, those of Polynesia, for in¬ stance, it is the most commonly practised. Ill hand over hand swimming, the body ap¬ pears to be gracefully running. (See Fig . 4.) The right hand is raised from the water Fig. 5. BALANCING. from behind, describes an arc in the air to tho extent of its capacity and re-enters the wa¬ ter edgewise; immediately it is turned palm downwards, and continuing the circle be¬ neath the water acts like a paddle in pro¬ pelling the body. Simultaneously the body is turned upon the right side, and the right leg kicked backward to its full extent. When the right hand has reached a point near the thigh, which it evades by a slight 210 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: turn, the body turns commences to turn on his left side, the left hand and body then do what the right hand and foot have done, and so hand over hand swimming is ac¬ complished. 617. Swimming on the Side.— This is often adopted as a relief to the swimmer " len fatigued with the ordinary swimming* motion. To do it elevate the left shoulder" thrust forward the right arm along the sur- ace, and with the palm hollowed scoop the water towards the chest, rising the left and right hands alternately with the thumbs downwards in the manner of an oar. The feet are struck out in the usual way. 61 8 . Balanging. - Let the head fall gentlybadi till the chin is just upon a level with the surface, and the whole back of the head immersed. The arms, and even the legs may be crossed (see Fig. 5), and the swimmer is “ balancing.” To practice this feat, coolness is required; the water should be smooth and unruffled by any cause, as water - Ve ; h M VeVer tritlin ?> ma y send the water into the nose and eyes of the per- aU fett an / fl d T“ p0Se him ^^ncing, and aUffeats of floating are dependant upon the natura 1 truth that the air within the cavity of the chest is sufficient, rightly managed to support the body in the water. If "the fi"f er stretches out his arms at their full head V"? brin £® them in a line behind his Z a a d ’ h *l egS ^ feet "'I 11 rise to the sur¬ face of the water-his toes will appear above it, and he will lie like a plank upon the water for any length of time he pleases. This is the result of the fact that the lun-s have now become the centre of the body, the head and arms at one end balancing the legs and feet at the other. ° 619. To Swim on the Back, Feet Fiest. Proceed as described at the com- °f ? C ^t paragraph, allowing J * head S faU gently backwards; pres! the hands downwards and backwards, with the palms rather hollowed. The feet will immediately rise to the surface, when the hands may be used to press the water ex¬ actly as oars propel the body forward bv successive strokes, the hands being raised e geways and passed gently along the sides till they descend for another stroke. Fiest ,°^ TUE BaCe > Head riESi. This is to be done in several ways. Method the first: Throw your head gently back, as before described, bringing your feet to the surface: let your arms” lie in the way close to your sides, using your hands in the same manner as when scullin^ with a quick, thrusting motion towards the feet, returning edgewise, thumbs first by bending the arms, and pushing a^ain towards the feet, by straightening the a°rms close to the sides. By this plan a very quick progress through the water may be promoted, and it may be continued for a long time. Method the second: Throw yourself round on your back, without stop- ping (we will suppose that you are swim¬ ming in the first described method), and you will retain some of the impetus already acquired. Then let both arms and hands Fig. 6. SWIMMING ON THE BACK, HEAD FIEST. describe segments of circles in a backward direction, like the paddle-wheels of a steamer: or you may vary this, but let- t ng the arms circulate alternately, as in the hand-over-hand swimming.” Method the third: Both hands and arms are used as in the last method, but, in addition the feet and legs are used in a thrusting action. tl ,“ 0t 1 1011 W1 . th th e legs takes place while the hands are in the air. 621. Tbeading Watee.—To do this allow your feet to descend perpendicularly tin! 6 L WAter \ aud by an action similar to abt tfv epPUlg , Up a ladder ’ y° u will be able to keep your head and neck above the mater bill “ ay b< ? made to assis t 1 ,. y V a bmd of pawing motion, the chs upward in the downward stroke In regaining their position they turn sideways. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 211 By the union of the powers of the hands and feet, treading water may be continued for a length of time. By inclining the body to the left or right, you may advance in any direction you choose, although, the progress will he but slow. There are a variety, of feats to be performed in the water, which when you have conquered your first timidity, you may easily do;—such as trimming the toe nails—holding one leg out—which may be best learned from the observation of other and older swimmers. 624. PEARS MARMALADE.—Boil six good-sized pears to a pulp; weigh them; take half their weight of sugar; put it into a saucepan with a very little water; boil it, and skim it whilst boiling; when boiled to a crack, add the pulp of the pears ; give it a boil, and add about four drops of essence of cloves; when cold, use. 625. SPARKLING MOSELLE.—If, in making cider, one*fourth of the apples were replaced by the white Magnum Bonum plum, taking care not to break the stone, and proceed as above, a good resemblance to Moselle is the result. To give it the muscatel flavour, a small quantity of musk may be used. 626. APPLE BREAD.—Take some good boiling apples; boil them till quite soft; pulp them through a sieve ; put into a bowl, or tub, four times their weight of flour; add the yeast and mix up as for bread; set the sponge twice ; cake in tins; this, when nicely done, makes a good, short sweet, and whole¬ some bread. They will also mix very nicely with n soda cake for tea. 627. Another way.—T ake the same weight of Indian meal, Bengal caigo rice, and good baking apples; soak the Indian meal for two hours previous to boiling, remove all that floats on the top of the water. Boil all three in different ves¬ sels ; have plenty of water; the meal will take two hours, under any circumstances, to render it fit for digestion. The rice should be boiled until it becomes a pulp; when done, mix them together, and turn out into a dish, or on the table, to get cold. It ought to be, when mixed and cold, as stiff as dough. When cold, mix some soda, and form them into cakes of about one pound each, and bake on the griddle or in the oven. 628. CURRANT JELLY, RED OR BLACK.—Strip the fruit, place it in a stone jar, and stew it in a saucepan of water or hy boiling it on the hot hearth ; strain off the liquor, and to every pint weigh a pound of loaf-sugar; put the latter in large lumps into it, in a stone or china vessel, till nearly dissolved ; then put it in a preserv¬ ing-pan; simmer and skim as necessary When it will jelly on a plate put it in small jars or glasses. 622. Anecdotes of Swimming.— Dr. Franklin, relates of himself, that, when a boy, he amused himself while bathing by flying a kite. He says, “ I found that lying on my back, and holding the stick in my hand, I was drawn along the surface of the water in a very agreeable manner. Having then engaged another boy to carry my clothes round the pond, to a place which I pointed out to him, on the other side, I began to cross the pond with my kite, which carried me quite over without the least fa¬ tigue, and with the greatest pleasure ima¬ ginable. I was only obliged occasionally to halt a little in my course, and resist its pro¬ gress, when it appeared that by following too quick, I lowered the kite too much : by doing which, occasionally I made it rise again. I have never “ he adds,” since that time practised this singular mode of swim¬ ming, though I think it not impossible to cross in this manner from Dover to Calais. The packet-boat, however, is still pre¬ ferable.” 623. The story of Leander, who was said to have swam nightly across the Hellespont, the present Bosphorus—to meet his affi¬ anced bride, Hero, is one of the prettiest in antiquity. The fair one was accustomed to place a iight in the window of her tower, which served as a guide to her lover in his perilous trip. His death ensued in conse¬ quence of the failure upon one occasion of the accustomed token. Poor Leander was found in the morning extended lifeless at the foot of Hero’s tower. Lord Byron at¬ tempted, and successfully achieved, this feat of swimming across the Bosphorus in emu¬ lation of Leander, as we read in the memoirs of his life. Sea bathing is always prefer, able to river bathing. 212 THE CORNER CUPEOARD: 629. THE FAVOURITE SON. “ Mary, you will certainly repent, sooner or later, your unjust partiality for your eldest son,” said an old lady to a young creature, apparently her daughter, who was dressed in widow’s weeds, and who was fondling a pretty child of about three years old, while his brother, who was a year younger, toddled about, neglected on the hearthrug, in imminent danger of falling into the fire. “Oh no, mamma,” said Mrs. Young, “surely you cannot blame me; my darling is the image of his Aitlier, and the other”— and she glanced with an almost unmotherly look at the poor child on the hearthrug— who, certainly, was uncommonly plain. “ Mary,” said her mother, solemnly, “ re¬ member I have warned you, your blind partiality for Philip will meet with its punishment. Do you think that God will permit such sinfulness? He makcth his rain to fall both on the just and on the un¬ just, and you would have no excuse for loving one child better than the other, even were one good, in the common acceptation of the term, and the other naughty. Such, however, is not the case, for I observe your favourite, Philip, is infinitely more trouble¬ some than Robert; he is already quite spoilt by your pernicious system of in¬ dulgence.” “ You are so severe upon me,” murmured the young widow. “ And, moreover,” continued Mrs. Mait¬ land, without heeding the interruption, “ it is not that you really love Philip more— your pride is satisfied—that is the secret of all the petting you lavish upon him; he is a beautiful child, and attracts attention every¬ where, while the other is plain, not to say ugly. Oh, Mary, Mary!” Mrs. Young burst into tears, and, rising from the sofa, left the room, carrying Philip with her, who, on seeing his mother crying, set up a howl himself, which was imme¬ diately construed by her into a demonstra¬ tion of affection. Mrs. Maitland shook her head sadly as her daughter quitted the room, and she fell into a sorrowful reverie, which was inter¬ rupted by the other little boy who had crept as far as the sofa, and lisped out, with his large serious eyes fixed on his grandmother’s face, “ Why mamma, cry ? ” She took him up and covered him with kisses. “ Oh how bitterly Mary will repent some day,” thought she. * * * # Several years passed, and the mother, with her two children, were seated in the same room. Mrs. Maitland had died a short time previously. The favourite son, Philip, had grown a tall, handsome boy, inordinately spoilt, and self-willed and obstinate to the highest degree. Poor Mrs. Young resolutely shut her eyes to his faults and opened them to his perfections, which were alas! con- siderably fewer in number than the former. She tried not to see his growing contempt of her counsels, and his dislike at being advised by her, which was but too apparent to others. Her younger son, Robert, was as neglected now as formerly. He was very tall of his age, thin, tawdry, and awkward, tor he had outgrown his strength, and as often happens to boys of thirteen and four¬ teen, he did not know what to do with his arms and legs. This provoked Mrs. Young extremely, for she was peculiarly graceful herself, and as she repeatedly told him “ it was most mortifying to see a child of her’s so clumsey and unprepossessing in his manner.” She constantly held up to his notice the graceful bearing of his brother most injudiciously, in Philip’s presence, so that the elder brother took a leaf out of his mother’s book, and continually upbraided Robert for everything he could find defec- tive in him. A tutor was provided for the two boys, a Mr. Howard, who, when he found that Philip was the favourite, lost no opportunity for praising the clever, yet idle boy, while he made complaints of his less brilliant, yet more steady and persevering brother.. Poor Robert, scolded and tortured on all sides for faults which were not his own, grew very unhappy, but he never envied his handsome brother, for jealousy was not a part of his disposition. He did, indeed, sometimes wish that he were as handsome, and as loveable as Philip, and that Mr. Howard would not say he’ had done things which he had not, for the poor boy knew well that his mother would not listen to him or believe him, if he told her that his tutor was unjust. He did wish that his mother loved him as she did Philip, A FAMILY REPOSITORY. but be never for a moment wished a cessa¬ tion of her love towards her favoured son. He had once thought that she did not love him at all, but he had altered his opinion, ever since a dangerous illness he had had, when she watched night after night beside him. He knew she loved him then, and he never forgot it. When he was seventeen, a wealthy merchant, a friend of Mrs. 1 oung’s, offered him a place in his counting house, and his mother was very glad that he was thus provided for. At first he wrote regu¬ larly, smothering his real feelings under a constrained and stiff manner of writing, and Mrs. Young was so disgusted, at his supposed want of aflection, that her answers grew fewer and fewer, and colder and colder, till at last the correspondence ceased alto¬ gether; she, resting satisfied that he w r as going on well. She knew not how careful her short notes were all treasured by the young man, how he read them over and over, and tried to discover some token of affection therein. Meanwhile Philip was sent to Oxford, where he wasted his time, and was plucked. He returned home, in a very bad temper, and he was not prepared to be lectured by his mother. Mrs. Young, however, on this occasion, saw clearly that it was entirely his own fault, and reproved him w r arinly. He flung himself out of the room with an oath, swearing that he would not be scolded by his mother, or by any woman living, leaving Mrs. Young to cry bitterly, and think over all the undutiful, disrespectful things he had said. In a few hours he returned, and seeing his mother look unhappy and grieved, he begged her pardon with more affection than usual, and again he became her darling son, and the light of her eyes. When he attained the age of twenty-one he came into a consider¬ able fortune, and then his character was displayed in its true colours. He was ex¬ travagant in everything that regarded himself, and mean and paltry in everything that regarded others. He neglected his poor mother shamefully, and she then felt bitterly how little he remembered all her blind, foolish indulgence. But she had not yet been sufficiently tried in the furnace of affliction, and she did not yet repent her injustice towards her youngest son. Five years passed, miserable years they were, yet cheered by Philip’s occasional remorse, 213 and promises of amendment. At last he went abroad, and as he never wrote, his mother lived in absolute ignorance of his proceedings, when one day, a letter, bear¬ ing a Parisian post-mark, arrived, directed in a strange hand. Mrs. Young trembled as she held it in her hand, but forcing a laugh at her nervousness, she opened it. One glance was sufficient.- The paper fell from her hands, and, with a cry of the most intense anguish, she exclaimed, “Mother, you were right, the day of retribution is come \” The contents of the letter were as fol¬ lows :— “'Pam, Jan . 23 rd y 17—. “ Madam,—I t is with sorrow, and with the deepest sympathy for your feelings, that I announce to you the death of your son, Philip, who expired this morning, under circumstances peculiarly distressing. It seems that the unfortunate young man had fallen into bad hands, and had repeat¬ edly lost large sums at play. On Monday, the 21st of January, he staked his all upon one throw, maddened by his losses. He lost again, and charged his adversary with having played unfairly (which was, most probably, the case). The consequence was a duel, in which your unhappy son was mortally wounded. He was carried to his hotel, of which I also was an inmate, and hearing that a dying Englishman occupied the apartment next mine, I determined, as a minister of the .Gospel, to visit him, and try to afford him every consolation in my power in that capacity. At first he re¬ fused to be comforted; he was in a state of mental distress it is scarcely possible to imagine; he lamented his past life, and said there was no hope for him beyond the grave. But on my telling him that Jesus Christ died to save sinners, and all that came to Him in faith, and repentance of their sins, depending alone on Him for the remission of them, He would in nowise cast out; then he grew gradually calm, and begged me to pray beside him, which 1 did, and never left him till he breathed his last. He died this morning, happily and peace¬ fully, trusting fully to his Saviour’s me¬ rits. He implored me to write to you, madam, and entreat you to forgive him, which I feel convinced is unnecessary, and I trust you will not be offended when I 214 THE CORNER CUPBOARD, tell you, that with his latest breath he legged me to say, that he was conscious that he had behaved unkindly towards his brother, and feared you had indulged him too much, to the exclusion of the other, and he requested me to write to Mr. Robert young, and inform him of his death, and ot his sorrow and repentance. Believe me, madam, with sincere sor¬ row for your loss, very truly yours, “ (Rev.) George Nugent.” Poor Mrs. Young! her idol was gone, the son she had indulged so improperly was dead, and she felt that she alone was to blame. The only thing which prevented her feeling utterly overwhelmed, was the knowledge that Philip had died peacefully. He had repented, and, though it was at the eleventh hour, he had been accepted. She expected a letter from her other son, with trembling anxiety, but week after week passed on, and no letter came; the sorrow- mg and bereaved widow was bowed to the very dust. One evening she sat in her soli¬ tary drawing-room, and her memory went back to the day on which her mother had given her that memorable warning. How truly her prediction was accomplished. She , b o °" red ,. h . er t grief-stricken head upon a table that stood near, and out of the verv anguish of her heart, she groaned; “ Thou dirS.™ 0h ’ “ y God - *"' 11 k*™ He has not forsaken you, mother, “said here” * TD * k VOic ®’ “ f ° r he hath sent It was almost dark, and Mrs. Young trembling in every limb, sprang from her seat, and was clasped in the arms of her on y remaining son. Long and tenderly did Robert Young soothe his mother, and lie informed her in a few words why he had not come instantly on the receipt of Mr. Nugent s letter. He had been called away to attend the deathbed of the merchant whose junior partner he was, and who had now left the entire business to him, as he had no son. Jt was some weeks before he was able to return to Liverpool, for there were several things to be done, first, and when he did, he found the letter had been awaiting him some time. He instantly set off to comfort his mother in her affliction. She lived in the south of England, and travelling was not so quickly or so easily Ue^T? a 33 is now. He had travelled night and day, and had arrived m time to hear the self-accusation °L v m0 xr Cr - As soon 38 he h3 d finished speaking Mrs. Young entreated his forgive¬ ness, with tears of mingled affection and remorse. I have have neglected you dear Robert,” exclaimed she, “I have*lavished undue indulgence, to use the mildest term on your poor brother, and I have not de- served your affection, my son.” “ Mother,” said the young man, “ it is not right for you to ask my forgiveness. I ought rather to entreat yours; 1 know I did not appear as affectionate as I really was anu so misled, I know you always loved me’ with mp° h Tv ‘"k 1 heuceforth y°u must live with me The business that has been left to me is flourishing, and you will come with me, mother and gladden my solitary home which shall be solitary no longer, for I only need your consent and approval to provide you with a daughter !” 1F Years afterwards, two ladies, one with grey hairs, and deeply-wrinkled brow, were sitting m the drawing-room of a handsome villa, near Liverpool. Three lovely children played on the carpet at their feet. The younger of the two ladies contemplated them with looks of motherly pride and affection. The elder lady was speaking seriously and earnestly, “whateveryou do” said she, never show or feel more favour towards one child than towards another I believe there cannot be anything more dis- P «s,„g m God's sight. A, for me, happv as I havo been rendered by your’s and mv son s affection and tenderness", yet the past can never be forgotten; and though I trust blo?£/f rglVCn ’ yet my Sin can “ever be Mrs Young ” y memor y” Tbat lady was ASy’SSS CETABT AL . S0 FRUIT AND VE- GE1A BLES.—It is only necessary to raise the articles immersed in a little water or their juices, to the boiling point; then to seal them in air tight vessels, tin or g" ass in order to insure their permanence, if S were, for ever. Meats preserved thus are now sent from the Continent to Australia voyages eUP h ° me 83 8 luXUry for ,on g A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 215 631. SPIRITS OF THE PAST. Oh ! oft they're flitting round me—the Spirits of the Past— ,. They, at a word—a look—a tone—come throng¬ ing thick and fast— A long-forgotten melody—a breath upon the chain , ... That binds me to their shadowy forms, will bring them back again! They come upon the morning, when the first streaks of dawn Steal faintly o’er the woodlands and flower- enamelled lawn, And, as Hie, half-dreaming, they whisper m my ear “ The wild bee and the lark are up, why lie you sleeping here Y* And then they turn their voices to soft and gentle lays _ _ .... ,, Of joy, and hope, and innocence and childhood s sunny days, , , , ^ . When, to exist was to be blest, and the young heart ran o’er , A . With the first freshness of delight—ah! dream to come no more! “The summer flowers bloom fair,” sing they “ fast by the mountain side— The butterfly is roaming there, in all his summer Timewas, when by the woodland, at dawn you loved to stray, . . _ . .. , , To pluck the dewy daisies that bloomed around the way.” I dream again—and round me sweet forms, sweet faces come, n And through the glen and wildwood with them I seem to roam, • And sounds of childish laughter ring out upon mine ear, „ _ , .. . Sweet Spirits and the shadowy Past ? it is your voice 1 hear. They come upon the noontide, and whisper soft and low, „ , Of tiny feet that pressed the sod where the purple violets grow, , ., ^ And of joy-wearied little ones who laid them there to rest— , . „ ^ The fratrrant flowers beneath tlieir feet and heads on the green earth’s breast. They whisper of dreams that haunted me as I lay sleeping there— Angelic beings, with golden wings, that fanned the fragrant air— Wakening it into melody—a spirit-stirring strain- Oh ! gentle Spirits of the Past! breathe me that song again! They come upon the twilight, when summer dew descends, And from each fairy chalice, which to its in¬ fluence bends, , _ The Spirits aye, are singing of flowers that slept at night. But waked not with the morning, nor in the noonday light. They come upon the twilight,in music’s mourn, ful strain. Whose mystic measures thrill my soul till it be¬ holds again The loved, the beautiful, the dead—peopling the earth and air. And I a shadow of myself, seem floating with them there— Drinking each angel-melody, till every silvery tone Awakes, within my throbbing breast, an answer to its own ;— Be it a sigh, the sound of song, or laughter soft and low, My heart vibrates to every strain as the sweet numbers flow. They ccme upon the evening, when on the balmy air The vesper bell is pealing— 4 Lo! ’tis the hour of prayer,” And from the pale stars bending, they softly whisper “ Come! The good, the bright the beautiful, are in this heavenly home!” They come upon the midnight, and whisper me in dreams Of ghastly marble urns, whereon the fitful moon¬ light gleams— Of willow branches bending over a grassy bed— Of dark night-dews, decending upon some loved ones head. Again the vision changes, and happy faces come Around my bed, like those that cheered my childhood’s sunny home— The same yet still more heavenly, and they sing sweet songs of rest. Until I seemed to fall asleep upon my mother’s breast. Oft, oft they’re flitting round me—the Spirits of the Past— At morning, mid day, midnight, their mystic spells they cast Around my saddened spirit, till it doth strangely long To sigh its very self away, and join the shadowy throng. 632. TOMATO CATSUP.—The follow¬ ing receipt will be found excellent:—One quart best vinegar ; quarter-of an-ounce of mace; quarter-of-an-ounce of cloves; half-an-ounce of black pepper; half-ounce of Jamaica pepper; half-ounce of long pepper; half-ounce of ginger; half-ounce of mustard seed; twenty-five capsicums; fifty tomatoes; six heads of garlic; one stick of horseradish. On the fifty tomatoes throw half-pound of salt, and let them stand three days. Boil the above ingredients (except the tomatoes) half-an-liour; then peel the toma¬ toes, and add them to it; boil them together half-an-hour; strain them through a sieve, and when cold bottle it. 21G THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 633. A WOMAN’S IDEAS ON SMOKING. There is a great commotion made at this time about smoking, and not before it was necessary. Medical men are making an outcry upon tLe use and abuse of tobacco. I or my part, I can see the abuse of it clearly, but I cannot see the use of it. It is a vile habit, and we, ladies, owe a grudge to Sir Walter Raleigh for having intro¬ duced it. Cowper, to his honour be it re corded, wrote the following, on tobacco:_ Pernicious weed, whose scent t he fair aunovs Unfriendly to society’s best jovs; J ’ Thi’ £ ffect is banish ' n ? for hours i ne sea, whose presence civilizes ours.” As I said before, there i 3 a great fuss now made as to the use and abuse of to- bacco, but I fear no benefit will arise from it, for it is the lords of the creation alone who are perpetrating these researches, and they will take care neither to do nor to sav anything that may displease or put out their fellow lords. I do not see, however why we poor women, the supposed drudges o creation, should suffer in silence. I, at least will not, and I hope that thousands and thousands of my fellow-sufferers will follow my example, and make so much dis- urbance, both at home and abroad, that their lords, deprived of their dearly cherished peace, will at least give up smoking m despair. I do not see why the women of England should not rise ‘in a body and “strike.” They Lave suffered ng’in silence, and since prayers and en- treaties are of no avail, perhaps threats, and threats carried into effect, may. There can be no objection to a man smoking his cigar or meerchaum, i( he must smoke for his health, provided he go to the uttermost part of his domain to do so, and can manage to smoke without the whole house being made aware of it. In the country it can be done very well; the man has but to go into his garden, or to step into his green-house (smoking beino- good for plants, especially vines)! and no one else need be any the wiser; such a smoker is just bearable, but when it comes to smoking m the house, it is intolerable I know a man who sits all day long in what he calls his “den,” and a den it is, and a c.u inhabits it, at least one would think so from his rage, when he is disturbed in bts favourite pastime. There he sits in his dirty hole, to which no housemaid is ever allowed access; there he sits, I say, a lord of creation, majestically puffing away, with a hideous smoking cap on his head, and his person enveloped in smoke. He boasts of the number ot cigars and pipes he can de¬ molish per diem, as if it were a virtue to make himself a living receptacle of tobacco, -talk of monomaniacs! I should never be surprised to hear that an inveterate smoker had mistaken himself for a railway engine or a steamboat funnel. And it is not only i r d C '™ Sed h y this habit of 'Much I complain, it is of the influence that smoking possesses over the morals It enervates the faculties, degrades the under- standing, and renders men intolerably selves ’ 7 ly . Car i n S their own precious selves. Look at any man who is in the act f smoking. There he stands with his arms ou^nfVT f ° lde f t’ P nffin S volumes of smoke ,° f A“ mouth * not caring if it is in the very face of his poor wife or sister, and immovable for the time, wrapped up in his own dignity forsooth! What is a man who smokes, but a selfish pig, fit only to grunt, and snarl, and grumble? This pernicious ermnf 13 gr T Ua , y S ainin g ground in our country and undermining the health, facul- ties, and morals of the men. Children of nine tnJ?- sm . ok ® now > and are encouraged be li d0in f b f* he,r m ' ers ’ who ought to be ashamed ot themselves But let me not withhold blame from the indies, for it is in some measure due to them. Ihe smoking-caps with which the gentle¬ men adorn their heads are generally em¬ broidered by lady-members of their family, them IfT!? aS a tadt encoura gement to them. If ladies would give up working agar cases and making caps, and on ever! occasion make a fuss, as they ought, smok^ mg might be abolished. Many ladies thanks to their unceasing diligence, have already proved victorious, and I trust that many more pursuing the same path, may be successful too, and that in a few years smo ing may become unfashionable, and die a natural death. j B ’ rf mihl^al C00L TANKARD.—A quart of ild ale; a glass of white wine; one of brandy; one of capillaire; the juice of a mT ; f ?! the P eel P ar « d thin , nut! meg grated at the top; a sprig of borage or balm; and a bit of toasted bread. ° A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 217 635. HOW TO BREED CARP SUC¬ CESSFULLY. In Germany large revenues are derived from breeding carp. In England it is a subject which is little considered, because there are very few with any relative practi¬ cal knowledge. In the first place, three ponds are re¬ quired ; the spawning, the nursery, and the stock-pond. They should be, at least 100 yards apart, protected from the north-east winds, but no trees to overshadow them; with a nice soft stream of running water, | and, if possible, the drainage of the farm¬ yard, or the backyard of a house, more par¬ ticularly in the stock-pond, from whence the table supply is taken. The soil in which the pond is placed should not be clay, as the iron in the clay stops the breeding; but if, unfortunately, you have only clay, then lay on a thick coat¬ ing of gravel and sand; turf it some distance down on the sides; the bottom should not be more than three feet deep, except where the canal is made for the water to run out; and be particular to keep it free from any metal that might corrode. The size of these ponds should be in proportion as 4, 5, and 6 ; that is, supposing No. 1 to be four roods. No. 2 five roods, and No. 3 six roods, and to every rood of the spawning-pond should be put in 50 brood carp, and a 100 male, 5 brood and 5 male Tench, and 5 brood and 5 male Jack; no other fish. Avoid eels, and, above all, frogs. Jack is put in, because, if the carp were allowed to spawn without some of it being destroyed, the pond would be overstocked. A carp weighing one pound and a-half will contain, at least 300,000 eggs, as many as 342,000 have been counted; and in one of nine pounds 621,000. The tench is put in to keep the fish healthy, it is the doctor, not only for carp, but for all freshwater fish. The spawning-pond should contain Pota • mogeton natans ,commonly calledtenchweed, and renunculus shivialis, or Water crowfoot, against the former they rub their sides when about to spawn, and on the latter they cast it. It requires two or even three male carp to fecundate the eggs of one brood carp ; and it is not unusual to see the female, when spawning, attended by four or five males. A circumstance which is common in salt-water fish. At the expiration of the first twelve months, about April or May, according to the atmosphere, the spawning-pond should be emptied into the nursery; and, at the end of twelve months, the nursery into the stock-pond; and so on in rotation, keeping the brood fish in the spawning-pond, as they are good up to nine years old. In the last pond they should remaiu twelve months, or longer; in fact, if they are fed as they ought to be, any quantity may be kept, and a nice supply of the three kinds of fish may be obtained. Boiled pototoes, spoil Trelian meal, &c., for the carp and tench; and the entrails of poultry, snails, slugs, &c., for the jack; and when they have plenty they will not touch other fish. You should have, in addition, a small pond, made of gravel, or rock, in which to place the carp, with a few tench, for six weeks before they are wanted for the table, and to feed them with crumbs of bread, to which has been added a few drops of oil of spike. It has been observed by experience that the oil of spike gives a fine flavour to the fish, makes it feed better, and eat firmer. - 636. STEWED CELERY—Take some heads of good firm celery, remove the outer leaves, and cut off the top; trim the root, but not too much ; wash it clean; if very large heads they must be cut iu two. Put them into a stesvpan; for four heads about one quart of water, and half-a-pint of milk, one salt-spoonful of pepper, and a tea-spoon¬ ful of salt; boil till they are tender, which will be in about thirty minutes, and the liquid will be reduced one-half; takeout the celery with a fish-slice; mix a piece of butter, the size of a nut, with one table- spoontul of good flour, and a pinch of powdered sugar; put it into the stew-pan; stirring it well until it is properly mixed, and of a good consistency ; pour it over the celery, which has been kept warm, and serve. If not required immediately, place the celery in the stew-pan with the^ sauce until served. About four young Nastur¬ tiums to each head of celery, stewed with it, improves the flavour. Stewed celery may be made with a brown sauce, if instead of milk, gravy and a little ketchup is used. And if red celery is used, a very good-look¬ ing sauce may be made by the addition of a few slices of beetroot. 218 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 637. APPLES AS AN INGREDIENT IN COOKERY. Apples contain a large proportion of sugar, mucilage, and starch, in which are combined those acids and aromatic prin- ciples, which, to persons in the habit of eating animal food, tend to prevent its putrefactive tendencies, and act as re- fregerent tonics, and antiseptics, and tend greatly to promote digestion. To those constitutions having a tendency to gout, a walk of half-an-hour before breakfast, and the mastication of a good Ripston Pippin, would materially aid in preventing it. The foil wing recipes will form excellent dishes which arc not common in cooking books. 1. Boil one pound of Patna rice (well washed) in plenty of water; when well boiled, but not too much, add one ounce of butter, and stir it round; then add one tablespoonful of sugar; the rice should not be boiled in more water than it will con¬ sume. Peel and slice six apples, take out the core and pips, put them in a stew-pan with six slices of beetroot, and a pint of water; stew until all is tender; mash them up together with a little butter aud su°-ar. The beetroot ought to have given a nice pink cotour to the apples, and improved the flavour. When done, place the rice which is ready on a dish; form a well or hole in the midst of the rice, in which place the apple; have ready a small quantity of sauce made with a little cream, butter, and sugar, which pour over the rice, and serve. 2. Stewed red cabbage and apples.— n ell wash and cut up a good-sized red cabbage - peel its weight of apples; slice and take out the cores; put them into a stew- pan, together with a piece of butter and very little water; in lieu of butter, a piece of bacon ; stew them gently by the side of the fire until quite tender; stir and mix well together; season with pepper and salt • and serve either under roast pork, or pork chops or warm a piece of pork, previously cooked, in the stew-pan with it, and serve. 3. Sausage, apple, and onion pudding. —Line a pudding-bason with some pudding paste m the usual way to make a meat pud- J place on the bottom a layer of slices of apples, half-an-inch in thickness; then a layer of sausage-meat; then one of slices of onions—Spanish are preferred—then apples sausage-meat, and onions, until the bason is full ; season with pepper and salt between each layer; cover over, and tie up in a cloth, and boil; the time will be according to its size, 15 4. Apple Jelly. —Take apples of the best quality and good flavour (not sweet) cut them in quarters, or slices, and’ stew them till soft; then strain out the juice, being very careful not to let any of the pulp go through the strainer. Boil it to the consistency of molasses, then weigh it and add as many pounds of crushed sugar, stirring it constantly till the sugar is dissolved. Add one ounce of extract of lemon to every twenty pounds of jelly, and when cold, set it away in close jars In¬ stead of using so much sugar you may use sweet apples, and to every pint of syrup add half-an-ounce of gelatine, and then you obtam a beautiful jelly; or, if you put it mto shallow tins and dry it, an excellent jujube is produced. As a jelly it is superior to currant jelly._ r 638. RECEIPT FOR FRENCH GUMBO out up one large fowl; season it with salt and pepper; dredge it well with flour- have ready a soup-kettle; put in a table¬ spoonful of butter, one of lard, a handful of chopped omon; fry the fowl then to a good irown; add to this four quart? of boiling water; cover close; let it simmer two of three hours; then put in fifty oysters with ir liquor, a little thyme and parsley; just before serving, stir in a table-spoonful oft he Alee powder; season high with C ayenne pepper. Turkey and beef-steak can make also very good gumbo. The filee or felee is what gives a mucilaginous character and excellence to the soup. The powder con¬ sists of nothing more than the leaves of the sassafras cured in the shade, and then pounded and sifted; therefore, any family house 6 C ° Untry 0311 always have it in their 639. PURE CELERY SAUCE.—About twenty heads of celery, one Spanish onion two good sized turnips should be well boiled m some clean white veal stock; when tender they should all be passed through a coarse sieve, and then put into a stew-pan, with pepper and salt, and boiled; keep on stirring until nearly as dry as mashed turnips. This is excellent served under a ragout of fowl or with veal cutlets, or boiled rabbit. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 219 640. WATERSPOUTS.—This meteorolo- i gical phenomenon usually occurs when a whirlwind happens at sea. The water, for the same reason that it rises in a pump, or forms a fountain in an exhausted receiver, rises in the vacuum of the whirl to the height of thirty or thirty-three feet, form¬ ing a pillar of water in the air, widest at the top; and the conversion of some of the 1 upper part of the pillar into vapour, by the heat which originally occasioned the whirl¬ wind, often forms a dense cloud. Water¬ spouts are observed of all sizes, from the thickness of a finger to twenty-five feet in diameter, and, at their junction with the ocean, the ocean appears to boil. If a large waterspout were to break over a ship, the vessel would either be destroyed or would sustain very serious damage ; when, therefore, they appear to be coming very near, the sailors avert the danger by firing a shot against the water, and thus dissipa¬ ting them. When not disturbed, they generally break about the middle. Several waterspouts are frequently seen within the I space of a few miles, and they are attended in general with more or less noise, some¬ times only a hiss, sometimes a murmur, and sometimes with a roar like that of an agitated sea. Waterspouts are sometimes driven from the sea to a considerable dis¬ tance overland, where they at length break, and deluge the plain, besides the mischief produced by the gyratory motion of the air. As thunder and lightning frequently attend whirlwinds and waterspouts, it has been supposed that electricity, if not the sole cause of these phenomena, has at least a share in their production; but electricity is produced whenever water expands into vapour, or vapour is condensed into water; and the present state of knowledge on this subject is insufficient to decide whether the thunder and lightning may not be con¬ sidered rather as the consequence than the cause of them. 641. BIRDS, METHOD OF PRESERV¬ ING.—Various methods have been at¬ tempted for preserving birds from putre¬ faction, so as to retain their natural form and position, as well as the beauty of their colours and plumage. A good antiseptic for animal substances has been much in¬ quired after, as, for want of it, many curi¬ ous animals, and birds particularly, from foreign parts, entirely miscarry, and others of the finest plumage are devoured by in¬ sects. The following improved method by Dr. Lettsom seems to be the least trouble¬ some, and the most complete. After open¬ ing the bird by a longitudinal incision from the breast to the vent, dissecting the fleshy parts from the bones, and removing the entrails, eyes, tongue, and brains, (which in large birds may be extracted through the eye-holes with a surgeon's director), the cavities and inside of the skin are to be sprinkled with the powders mentioned below. Glass eyes, which are preferable to wax, are then to be inserted, and the head stuffed with cotton or tow, and a wire is to be passed down the throat through one of the the nostrils, and fixed on the breast bone. Wires also to be introduced through the feet, up the legs and thighs and inserted into the same bone; next fill the body with cotton, to its natural size, and sew the skin over it; the attitude is lastly to be at¬ tended to, and whatever position the sub¬ ject is placed in to dry, it will be retained afterwards. The dyeing compound is as follows:—Corrosive sublimate, quarter-of-a- pound; saltpetre, prepared or burnt, half- a-pound; alum, burnt, quarter-of-a-pound ; flowers of sulphur, half-a-pound; camphor, quarter-of-a-pound; black pepper, one- pound ; tobacco, ground coarse, one-pound ; mix the whole, and keep it in a glass vessel, stopped close. Small birds may be pre¬ served in brandy, rum, arrack, or first run¬ nings ; though the colour of the plumage is liable to be extracted by the spirit. Large sea-fowl have thick strong skins, and such may be skinned; the tail, claws, head, and feet are carefully to be preserved, and the plumage stained as little as possible with blood. The inside of the skin may be stuffed as above. Kuckahu observes, (in the Phil. Trans., vol. ix. p. 319), that “ Baking is not only useful in the fresh pre¬ servations, but will also be of very great ser¬ vice to old ones, destroying the eggs of the in¬ sects ; and it should be a constant practice, once in two or three years, to bake them over again, and to have the cases fresh washed with camphorated spirit, or the sublimate solution, which would not only preserve collections from decay much longer, but also keep them sweet.” But Dr. Lett¬ som remarks, that " Baking is apt to crimp 220 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: and injure the plumage, unless great care be used, and, therefore, the proper degree of heat should be ascertained by means of a feather, before such subjects are baked.” And he prescribes as the best preservative, boxes well glazed; and he adds, “ When the subject is to be kept for some time in a hot climate it should be secured in a box filled with tow, oakum, or tobacco, well sprinkled with the sublimate solution. In Guiana, the number and variety of beauti¬ ful birds is so great, that several persons in the colony advantageously employ them¬ selves, with their slaves and attendants, in killing and preserving these animals for the cabinets of naturalists in different parts of Europe. The method of doing this, as re¬ lated by Mr. Bancroft, (in his Nat. Hist, of Guiana) is, to put the bird which is to be preserved in a proper vessel, and cover him with high wines, or the first running of the distillation of rum. In this spirit he is suffered to remain for twenty-four or forty- eight hours, or longer, till it has penetrated through every part of his body. When this is done, he is taken out, and his feathers, which are no ways changed by this immer¬ sion, are placed smooth and regular. It is then put into a machine made for the pur¬ pose, among a number of others, and its head, feet, wings, tail, &c., are placed exactly agreeable to life. In this position they are placed in an oven, very moderately heated, when they are slowly dried, and will ever after retain their natural position without danger of putrefaction .—Field Boole . 642. WILL THE COMET STRIKE THE EARTH ?—That a comet of unusual magnitude and splendour may, about the present period (1857), be expected to visit the regions of space through which the earth moves, has long been well known, and its approach, while looked for with great interest by the scientific world, has caused considerable apprehension in many quarters, and in some places where there should be sufficient knowledge of natural phenomena to have prevented such apprehensions being entertained. It has been confidently pre¬ dicted that the end of all things is at hand, and that on some day in June, 1857—the 13th, we believe—the world, with all that it contains, is to perish. This is by no means the first time that such a prediction ( has been heard. In 1832 it was calculated that a little before midnight, on the 29th of October, a comet would cross the plane in which the earth revolves, near the point where our globe itself would be on the morning of the 30th of November, and had the comet been delayed a month by any disturbance a collision with its nebulosity would have taken place. The alarm was then chiefly confined to the Parisians, who seem to be addicted to such fears, and it was in Paris the existing alarm about the now expected comet first prevailed. A similar alarm existed in France in 1773, and one of the philosophers of that country was employed by the government to allay the fears of the people. Some weak- minded people died of fright, and some, scarcely less weak-minded, purchased places in Paradise at high prices. There i 9 nothing on record to justify the belief that the earth has ever suffered injury from a . comet, nothing to lead to the supposition that it is ever likely so to suffer; but, on the contrary, there are good reasons for i believing that cometary influence has been in some instances beneficial. Wine drinkers j have not forgotten the “ comet wine,” some of which may yet be had “ for a considera- j tion;” this was grown in 1811, when a comet was visible, and when the yield of the earth’s productions was more than usually abundant and the quality extraordi¬ nary. So it may be again, and that which is now in some quarters regarded with terror is not unlikely, if it should have any influence upon the earth at all, to have one which should be regarded with satisfaction rather than with alarm. Taking advantage of the interests now very generally mani- j fested on the approach of the celebrated celestial strauger, and especially of the fears of the uninformed multitude, some unprin- , cipled publishers have issued mischievous pamphlets containing a very small modicum of astronomical truth, and a monstrous amount of trash, calculated to increase, rather than allay, the alarm which has been excited by the prophets of evil. Other publications have been called forth to gratify public curiosity which are of a more reasonable character, but they mostly bear j the catch-penny stamp upon them. It is pretty certain that the great majority of comets, and probably all of them, are A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 221 entirely gaseous—simple collections of vapour. The comet of 1770 passed twice through the system of Jupiter, yet there was not the slightest derangement of his moons caused by this intrusion. Should an instant of actual contact occur, there seems no more reason to infer convulsion from the attack of a gaseous body than in the case of a squadron of clouds striking the top of a mountain. “ In all probability,” says Milner, “ the only effect would be a change of temperature, with some peculiar atmospheric phenomena, yet compatible with a full security to human life and hap¬ piness.” 643. BOUQUET DE LA REINE.— Take one ounce of essence of Bergamot, i three drachms of English oil of lavender, half a drachm of oil of cloves, half a drachm of aromatic vinegar, six grains of musk, and one pint and a half of spirit of wine. 644. ROSEMARY POMATUM.—Strip from the stem two large handfulls of re¬ cently gathered rosemary; boil it in a copper saucepan, with half a pound of hog’s- lard, until reduced to four ounces, strain it, and put in a pomatum pot. 645. HOW TO MAKE COLD CREAM. —Take half an ounce of white wax, and put into a small basin, with two ounces of almond oil. Place the basin by the side of the fire till the wax is dissolved in the oil. When quite melted add two ounces of rose water. This must be done very slowly, and as you pour it in beat the mixture with a fork to make the water incorporate. When all is incorporated the cold cream is complete and you may pour it into jars for future use. 646. ROSE WATER.—When the roses are in full bloom pick the leaves carefully off, and to every quart of water put a peck of rose leaves; put them in a still over a slow fire; and distil gradually, then bottle the water; let it stand in the bottle three days, and then cork it close. 647. MILK OP ROSES. — Mix four ounces of the oil of almonds, with half a gallon of rose water, and then add forty drops of the oil of tartar.— Stanley . 648. MADNESS IN CATS.—Having met with a friend who told me that, about six weeks ago, a cat belonging to a lady of his acquaintance had been ill, it having wasted away to a considerable extent, and had bitten a little girl a short time previous to death, I take this opportunity of assur- ing the lady that she need be under no ap¬ prehension as to any danger to the child. The facts brought under my notice are* there. The cat was out of sorts at the season of changing her «oat, and from some constitutional derangement, probably oc¬ casioned by something she had eaten. In addition to the usual change in the coat, it came off to an unwonted extent. Such cutaneous afflictions are often accompanied by irritation, and on these occasions all animals (cats among them) will continually lick the skin. In thus applying a momen¬ tary remedy, much hair or fur is collected by the tongue, and thence transferred to the stomach, where, from its being indiges¬ tible, it gathers into a ball; and from irrita¬ tion through the stomach to the brain, the patient frequently becomes insane and violent, often runs away and leaves her house, falls from giddiness into the water, when she goes to drink, and bites and scratches any hand to which she gains ac¬ cess. A bite from a cat thus suffering bears no more danger with it than that which usually attends a wound of anv sort, h estering inflammation, and lockjaw may be induced, but not the fatal malady known as the hydrophobia. If the child has re¬ covered from the bite, and the place is healthfully healed, the lady need not be under the slightest apprehension of any further consequences. Some time ago that very clever contributor “Diana” (whose effusions do not appear sufficiently often) touched on this matter. I w r ould advise castor-oil to be administered to the feline race under such circumstances, and even one or both of the ears to be cropped suf¬ ficiently to produce a flow of bl(>od. In spring, cats are often seized with an attack, which, from the numbers suffering, seems to be of an epidemic character; but the real source of the malady lies in the change of the coat, and the quantity of hair taken into the stomach. Cats thus afflicted, precisely similar with the common notion in regard to simply distempered but insane dogs, are generally pronounced mad, and their bite dreaded by people ignorant of cause and effect. Nevertheless, they have not the hydrophobia, their bite would not communicate it, and numbers of them 222 THE CORNER CUPBOARD thus afflicted often recover. I repeat, the lady need not remain under any serious ap¬ prehension as to the effects of the bite on the little girl.— G-rantley F. Berkeley . 649. PUMPKIN SOUP.—Take a knuckle of veal and a knuckle of ham. In absence of the veal, use a calf’s foot or a cow-heel, or even some bones; and, in place of the ham, use part of the hock of bacon. Cut and chop these up; put them into a two-gallon stew-pan; then add to them two large onions sliced, one carrot, two middle- sized turnips sliced, with skin on, the out¬ side leaves of a large head of celery cut into small pieces, one teaspoonful of ground all¬ spice, one tablespoonful of salt, and a piece of butter the size of a walnut. If marrow can be had, use it instead of butter. In fact, for all kinds of soups, where butter is recommended, marrow is preferable, only in larger quantities. Place the stew-pan on the fire; keep stirring the contents with a wooden spoon, to prevent it sticking to the bottom of the pan, and until there is a kind of white glaze on the pieces of meat; then add, by degrees, one gallon of hot water; peel and take out the seeds of a pumpkin about six pounds in weight; cut it into pieees, and put it into the stew-pan; boil until the pieces of pumpkin are quite soft; pass as much as possible of the contents of the stew-pan through a coarse hair-sieve; then boil it again, adding more w r ater if too thick. Season it with a tablespoonful of pounded sugar, a teaspoonful of pepper, and more salt if required. Serve in a tureen, with some fried bread cut the size of dice. This soup is preferable to soups of the pea kind; it cools the blood, and causes the de¬ posit of the acid humours of the body. Pumpkins may also be dressed as a vege¬ table by being cut into slices, boiled in plenty of w r ater, with some salt in it, drained well when done, and served on some toast, with melted butter made with cream poured over it. Pumpkins may likewise be pickled, by cutting them into slices, and proceeding the same way as for Indian pickles, or it will do to mix other vegetables for picca- lily. 650. BRAIZED GOOSE.—Truss the goose for roasting. Take two heads of celery, one Spanish onion, or two common onions, previously boiled, so that the flavour shall not be too strong; and boil | them with the liver of the goose in a small quantity of water, and a little butter, pep¬ per, and salt; when done, chop them up; shake over it some very fine powdered sage, or the same seasoning used for sausages; add the same weight of bread-crumbs, and mix altogether with the yolk of egg. Stuff the goose with this. Then take a large stew- pan or a small fish-kettle; put in it a drainer, so that it stands about half-an-inch above the bottom; then add three heads of celery, three carrots, three turnips, three large'onions, all in slices; on this place about three pounds of lean beef. Then cover the back of the goose with some of the leaves ot celery, and thin slices of fat bacon, which must be tied over it; place it on the meat; throw in the giblets, and two quarts ot water, pepper and salt, and place over a slow fire for three hours, keeping the cover of the stew-pan well closed down; it may even require a weight upon it. When done, take it out on a dish; remove the string, bacon &c.; strain the gravy out of the stew- pan ; remove the fat; thicken it with a little flour; if not brown enough, add a little ketchup; give it a boil; flour over the goose and serve. Apple sauce may be used with it. What remains in the stew-pan is very excellent with the giblets, as a stew the next day; or the remains of the goose may be stewed in it for another day’s dinner. 651. THE BEST WAY TO DRESS TOMATOES.—Cut them in slices, and place them in layers in a flat dish, with plenty of pepper and salt, and a little butter ; cover them well with bread crumbs, and bake them in the oven till quite brown. They should be eaten with roast meat, and are very delicious. 652. SO\TS D.—Philosophers distinguish between sound and noise; thus those ac¬ tions which are confined to a single shock upon the ear, or a set of actions circum¬ scribed within such limits as not to produce a continued sensation, are called a noise; while a succession of actions which produce a continued sensation are called a sound . It is evident from the mechanism of the ear, so far as it is understood, that it is a refined contrivance for conveying a motion from the medium which surrounds it to the auditory nerve; and that this nerve must receive every motion excited in the tympa- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 223 I num. Every motion thus excited, how¬ ever, does not produce the sensation of sound. That motions may be audible, it is necessary that they impress themselves upon the medium which surrounds the ear with velocities comprised within certain limits. These motions are commonly pro¬ duced by disturbing the equilibrium which exists between the parts of a body. Thus, for example, if we strike a bell, the part which receives the first impulse of the } blow is driven nearer to the surrounding parts; but, the impulse having ceased, it is urged back by a force of repulsion which exists in the metal, and made to pass be- | yond its former position. By the opera- tion of another property of the metal— namely, cohesive attraction, it is then made 1 to return in the direction of its first mo¬ tion, again, beyond its position of repose. Each of these agitations influences the , adjacent parts, which, in turn, influence i those beyond them, until the whole mass ■ assumes a tremulous motion; that is, cer- i tain parts approach to and recede from each i other; and it only recovers its former state of i repose, after having performed a number i of these sonorous vibrations. It is evident that such vibrations as are here described v must result from the combined operation of attraction and repulsion, which, toge¬ ther, constitute the elasticity of solid bodies. 653. PORK PIE WITH APPLES BOILED.—This is a very nice and econo¬ mical dish of this period of the year. Cut the meat from the spare-rib of pork, in l pieces of about four inches long, and two ; wide; and then mix in a plate some pepper, , salt, and powdered sage; sprinkle a little on each piece of meat, then roll it round l about the size of a thumb ; put them on one ' side for a moment; then get a pie-dish; lay * on the bottom some slices of potatoes about half-an-inch thick; over them some slices of * onions cut thin; over these some slices of i apple about the same thickness as the j potato. If the pie-dish is deep, another layer of each is required; then place over ; them the meat rolled up; cover it with a I nice pudding paste; tie in a cloth, and boil in a fish-kettle; a pie in a twelve-inch dish will take one hour. This is much more economical than baking or roasting the spa^e-ribs. The bones can be boiled for stock. This pie will do caked, but is not sc good 654. TIME FOR FELLIXG TIMBER. The best time to fell ash, elm, sycamore, and beech, is from November to February. The ascending sap is then nearly dormant, and, consequently, the wood is closer, drier, and firmer, and the wood is not so liable to’ rot so soon as when the felling is done during the growing season. Oak, on account of its valuable bark, is managed differently. When the ascending sap is rising and flowing vigorously, the bark easily separates from the wood, and then the peeling season com¬ mences. Some foresters fell the oaks, then, for the convenience of more easily stripping off the bark ; but that method injures the wood greatly. The bark should be taken off, and the trees allowed to stand bare till the autumn. This hardens and dries the wood and it is improved thereby. 655. GREEN APRICOTS.—Lay vine or apricot leaves at the bottom of your pan, then fruit, and so alternately till full, the upper layer being thick with leaves; then fill with spring water, and cover down, that no steam may come out. Set the pan at a distance from the fire, that in four or five hours they may be only soft, but not cracked. Make a thin syrup of some of the water, and drain the fruit. When both are cold, put the fruit into the pan, and the syrup to it; put the pan at a proper dis¬ tance from the fire till the apricots green, but on no account boil or crack : remove them very carefully into a pan with the syrup for two or three days; then pour off as much of it as will be necessary, and boil with more sugar to make a rich syrup, and put a little sliced ginger into it. When cold, and the thin syrup has all been drained from the fruit, pour the thick over it. The former will serve to sweeten pies. 656. A RECEIPT FOR MAKING A QUICK EVERGREEN HEDGE.—Plant strong w r hite thorn three to four feet in height, say eight inches apart, and lay them thus, XXX; place a row of tree box on the outside, and a row of evergreen privet on the other, and you will soon have a hedge that a bear will not penetrate. The use of the box is to keep it close to the ground. If standard scarlet thorns are placed about thirty feet apart they will add to its beauty. 224 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 657. CIDER WINE, OR ENGLISH TOKAY.—To about sixteen gallons of cider add one quart of elderberries, about twenty- five pounds of honey, and six pounds of sugar, and ten ounces of red tartar. Boil it, and allow it to ferment in a temperature of about sixty degrees; when done fermenting then add half-an-ounce of cassia, lialf-an- ounce of ginger, and five quarts of brandy. Place it in a barrel, and fine with isinglass, or two whites of eggs. Bottle when clear, and in twelve months use it. 658. CIDER FOR BOTTLING.—Take out of a fnll hogshead of cider six gallons; dissolve in some of the cider twenty pounds of loaf sugar; add it, with three gallons of pale brandy, to the cider in the hogshead; leave the bung out in case it should fer¬ ment ; if it does, rack it into another cask, in which a brimstone match has been burnt, filling it up with cider previously taken out; when it has settled, fine it with half- a-gallon of skimmed milk. In about a week it will be fit to bottle. Cork and wire it, like champagne; bin it in sand, so that every bottle is covered, and in a cellar of from fifty to sixty degrees of temperature. In nine months it will be a most excellent imitation of champagne. 659. STILL PERRY.—To each gallon of perry add one pound of barley-sugar; allow it to ferment, then cask it. If it wants to ferment again, rack it, and boil a small quantity; allow it to get cold; add it to it, with one gallon of pale brandy to every twenty gallons of perry ; one-eighth of an ounce of essence of almonds; one-six¬ teenth of an ounce of essence of cloves; half- a-pound of common white tartar; fine it with isinglass ; let it settle; and bottle for use. The older it is the better. If the colour is required brown, like brown sherry, add some burnt sugar j or of a red colour, like the French St. George, add to every twenty gallons of perry, one pound of red tartar, one pound of extracts of log-wood, twenty pounds of sugar, half-an-ounce of essence of ginger, one-and-a-half gallon of brandy. Let it remain twelve months in cask. As the colour of log-wood varies very much, the best plan is to try a small quan¬ tity at first. 660. APPLE BUTTER is an excellent dish for tea, supper, or dessert. It is more used on the continent than with us, and placed on the table like orange marmalade is in Scotland. Take one bushel of sweet apples, peel, and quarter them, remove the core and pips; put them into a stew-pan over a gentle fire, or a small charcoal stove, or a gas-burner would be preferable, as it is an operation which requires time. When boiling, and the apples begin to be soft, add the juice of three lemons, one pint of rum, and one pound of loaf-sugar, dissolved in a quart of water; boil it up ; pour it into jars; cover with bladder, and keep for use. The flavour may be altered according to taste 661. CELERY SAUCE.—Take one head of celery, well washed; cut it into pieces of one inch in length; boil them for twenty minutes -in just sufficient water to cover them ; then add some melted butter, a little pepper and salt; give it a boil; and just before using it break in the yolk of one egg well beaten up. This may be served with boiled poultry. 662. COOKING CELERY.—In cooking celery great care should be taken as regards the water, celery being as good, if not better a test of the hardness of water as tea. A head of celery has been cut in two, and one- half has been boiled in one water, and the other in another over the same fire, at the same time; one would never get soft or give its flavour to the water, whilst the other would do it in the proper time. All cooks, when going into a new place, should try the water with celery; it is better than any other vegetable, although the same may be done with French beans, or carrot. 663. CHARADE. See on my lofty first upborne, The ancient conqueror ride; Or Pat at Ballyshannon fair. With Biddy by his side. Take all the English, rich and poor, To form my mighty second; My whole may in your garden grow, And beautiful is reckon’d.— m. k . Cae-nation. 664. Why was the sculptor of the Greek slave a thief? Because he chiselled her out of her clothes. 665. Why is it impossible to starve in the desert ? Because of the sand-which-is in it. 666. But how came the sand-which-is in it? Because Ham went there, and his descendants I mustered and bred. A FAMILY REPOSITORY 225 667. PHENOMENA OF JULY. “ W hen Chateaubriand returned from those tropical regions where the deep blue of the heavens presented a continual same¬ ness, he rejoiced to see again the clouds of his native skies, serenely beautiful, and it is well to become acquainted with the nature of those aqueous vapours, and the sources from which they originate, that our crstandings may be enlarged, and that we may intelligently praise that gracious Eeing from whom all loveliness emanates_ who is the source and well-spring of what- soothing the mind of him who gazes up¬ wards with thoughts of peace.” 668. Thus spake an aged man to his young companions, as they went up a rocky path to the summit of Malvern. 669. The way was somewhat toilsome, but when they reached the highest point, a glorious panoramic view of hill and dale, of woods and fields, burst upon the view j yet not less varied were the heavens in their ever tends to elevate the mind of man, or minister to his intellectual pleasures.” 671. Vapours arise from off the earth, yet not from marshy places only, but from ploughed fields and plains. A slight degree of cold imparts to those exhalations a visibility which enables us to distinguish them when, assuming the character of clouds, they float across the heavens, drifted by the winds at different elevations. CUMULO-STKATUS, OE TWAIN CLOUD. diversity of clouds, than the beauteous and sunny landscape that lay spread beneath them. 670. “ Here, then,” said the old man, “ "'ill rest awhile, and take note con¬ cerning the beauty of the clouds, for surely No. 8. with every variety of form, and consider¬ able difference of colour. The Arabs gracefully denominate them “water urns of the firmament;” and when they have silently performed their assigned ministry, either with gentle showers or heavy rain. 226 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: they, as silently, pass away. From them our fruitful seasons are derived; they re¬ fresh the earth and cause it to spring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater. Who does not remember the delight with which rain-drops—heralds of coming showers— are hailed in hot weather, when the flowers hang their heads upon the ground, and the parched earth is cracked by long con¬ tinuance of drought; or when, as sung the poet, we listen to the rain at night:— " The mighty rain, is falling, at this still and solemn hour, Silent, and yet sonnding, with its own un¬ earthly power; Its power to call forth green leaves, from the parch’d and wither’d, bough, Bright flowers from the burnt earth, where ail is barren now. Oh! the earth was parched sorely, when I looked forth at eve, In the hot and dcwless twilight, for no cooling wind did breathe ; And scarce the weary bird might chant his vesper song. And the scant rill was faintly heard as it pass’d the meads along. But the rain is falling now, with a deep and solemn sound, Clear streams are bursting forth in the dry and parched ground; Hark to their gentle murmur in this lone and silent hour, When men are stilly sleeping, and the mighty rain hath power I” 672. A distant shower has just fallen, and very beautiful is the effect which it pro¬ duces. Yon village, with its old grey church and rookery, is obscured by the passing over of a majestic cloud, from which rain is descending like a torrent. Now the cloud begins to melt away, its blackness gradually disappears, and the sun again shines forth, lighting up the dripping landscape with a vivid radiance, and causing even the smallest wayside weed to sparkle in his beams. 673. The dark cloud which seemed to disappear has, however, taken a different character, and becomes a Cumulus, or Pile- cloud—the painter’s cloud, of which the exquisite modifications are now before us, heightening the beauty of the heavens, and reflecting a silvery light. Observe its peculiarity of form, its fleecy, irregular, and fantastic outline; no two clouds be¬ longing to this division are alike, and yet they cannot be mistaken; they often re¬ semble rocks piled on rocks, and many an accurate observer of nature has been sur¬ prised when, journeying for the first time through a comparatively level country, he has seemed to see a line of hills stretching across the horizon, with woods and glades, and broad rivers flowing majestically amid alpine solitude, till lost in the far distance. Often, too, in the calmness of a summer evening, what glorious landscapes appear to verge on the horizon, presenting the aspect of inland lakes in all their loveliness and repose, and mountains that reflect the hues of the setting sun! while here and there, some opening among the hills reveals a brighter and more radiant scene, fit for angels’ feet to tread — for assuredly its brightness is such as earth owns not. 674. A very peculiar and exquisite modi¬ fication of the Cumulus rises before my mental view at the present moment. It was such as I never before witnessed, though an ardent admirer of cloud scenery from my childhood, and was such as required a combination of circumstances in order to produce a full effect. Summer had just commenced, the heavens were cloudless towards the zenith, the sun was high with¬ out any declination of his beams, and not the slightest vapour was perceptible. It was delightful to be in the open air; and having left the house to admire the profu¬ sion of roses which the garden presented, I saw full in front a magnificent range of ice¬ like mountains, sharp and angular, and of the most dazzling whiteness, apparently about half a mile distant, and lifting their conic peaks in striking contrast to the azure of the sky. The illusion was perfect, and the effect was considerably heightened by a sweep of noble trees and bushes on the right, and in the middle distance, above which the snow-clad peaks of the seeming ice mountains were conspicuous. Thus they continued during a full half hour; after which they might be seen journeying along the horizon westward, kindling towards evening in the rays of the setting sun, and presenting an unspeakably glorious assem¬ blage of everj^form and hue. 675. Such are the effects produced by the Sonder-heap, or Pile-cloud, for these are the different names which persons, who delight A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 227 in noting aerial scenery, give to this beau¬ tiful modification. 676. The nearest resemblance to the Pile-cloud is presented by the Cumulo- stratus, or Twain-cloud. This cloud differs somewhat from the one already described, and is rarely productive of those strange’ fantasies, such as Shakspere took notice of in his day— “ Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish A vapour sometime, like a bear or lion.” ’ 677. The twain is now visible on the horizon, over yonder range of hills. The base, if such it may be termed, of that which is in itself baseless, is mostly level, while the superstructure either overhangs the base in fleecy protuberances, or else assumes a mountainous character, re- sembling in this respect the conformation of the Heap-cloud, and yet differing from it in superior altitude. Two elevations of equal, or slightly different height, fre¬ quently appear as if united by a draw¬ bridge, over which the steps of celestial messengers, descending towards the earth on errands of mercy, might be thought to pass. And, again, two mountainous clouds seem to rise majestically from a single base. Long ranges also often rest upon the hills, and when thus stationary, they generally indicate a change of weather, and thus frequently recal to mind the beautiful embodyings of the poet_ “ Pleasures there are That float across the mind like summer clouds Over a lake at eve. Their fleeting hues 1 lie traveller cannot trace with memory’s eves But he remembers well how fair they were— ' How very lovely.” * Hurdis. 678. High in heaven, and nearly at the zenith, appears a modification of that elegantly curling and flexuous vapour which is called the Curl-cloud, and which generally occupies the upper region of the atmosphere, where it resembles innumerable banners floating upon a light-blue sky. ihe Curl-cloud, varying according to the state of the air, indicates rain; when, after a long continuance of fine weather, it becomes a fine white fleecy line stretched at a great elevation across the sky, it por¬ tends a gale of wind; when, floating at its usual lofty elevation, its curling and feathery trains are directed to the same quarter of the heavens for some days, as if denoting the point from which to expect the comino- gale. In warm and variable weather, when light breezes sport among the clouds’ that same flexuous vapour, ramifying athwart the blue expanse in Ion" and obliquely descending bands, often "unites distant masses of clouds, and presents an extremely beautiful combination of aerial imagery; most welcome, too, for the Curl- cloud often predicts soft showers, as already mentioned; and thus in sentiment, if not exactly in words, has the talented historian of British birds spoken concerning it:_ 679.. “ But, on some day, before there is a cloud in which Hope can place her bow and limn its hues, the white flag of Mercy is hung out in the higher heavens, floatin" with easy folds from the south-west, in- dicative of victory over the desolating east; and as the day declines, little clouds flit joyously on ready wings, as if fetching the pitchers of heaven from the four corners of the sky, to refresh the weary earth, and make glad all thirsty creatures. Truly the the earth rejoices; echoes that haunt the wood-side soften and mellow the tumul¬ tuous sound of joy that is heard from sealed springs when leaping from out their prisons; nay, the whole creation is attuned to harmony, even as an instrument of music by a skillful hand; the groves are in song, and that not only by day but night, for the nightingales and blackcaps, wood¬ larks and willow wrens, vie with one another in producing the sweetest melody; and when morning dawns, other of Nature’s choristers carry on the strain, ceasing not, though thunders are abroad, and heavy rain-drops patter on the leaves of trees; or if they cease for a brief space of time, when red lightning flashes through the woods, they presently commence again, and sing blithely all the live-long day.” . 680. Another and most elegant modifica¬ tion, is the Cirro-cumulus, or Sonder-cloud, consisting of innumerable small and well- defined orbicular clouds, lying separately from one another, and yet near. Bloom¬ field speaks of such, in his Farmer’s Boy , as a- * Beauteous semblance of a flock at rest.” And when the moon passes in her fulness among them, silvering each small cloud, and causing it to stand forth as if in mild relief. 228 THE CORNER CUPBOARD : the effect is indescribably lovely. In sum¬ mer, the Sonder, or Separate-cloud, gene¬ rally indicates increasing heat, attended by mild rain and a south wind; but in winter, it commonly precedes the breaking up of hard frost, succeeded by foggy and wet weather. 681. Few combinations are more pleasing to the eye; and thus elegantly are the trated as wavy bars and wedge-shaped streaks, their appearance indicates ungenial weather. Our country people, who know nothing concerning the systems of Howard, Foster, or Fresnel are yet well acquainted with the changing forms of this warning cloud. “ It will be wet to morrow,” they often say, when, looking towards the heavens, they observe the Wane-cloud on CIRRUS, OR CURL CLOUD. thoughts which they often suggest em¬ bodied by a modern poet— “ Unclouded was the deep serene Of heaven’s dark azure, save where seen Around the moon, soft fleeces roll’d Bright with the livery of their queen— The snowy flocks of Cynthia’s fold. One might believe, on such a night, Good angels choose that silvery car, To watch, with looks of heavenly light, Their mortal charge on Earth’s pale star.” the horizon ; and you seldom or never find that they are mistaken. y ea ^ iei * seldom hurts the most unwise So plain the signs—such prophets are the skies.” Virgil . 683. Those peculiar reflections of the solar and lunar rays, called halos or mock suns, usually appear in this kind of cloud. CIRRO-CUMULUS, OR SONDER CLOUD. 682. Frequently unwelcome is the Cir- rostratus, or Wane-cloud, warning of rain or snow, according to the season of the year. This cloud is distinguished by its flatness, and great extension in proportion to its height; it is seen either in wavy bars, or streaks, or small rows, or little curved clouds, that uniformly precede storms, but whether stretched athwart the heaven in extended and vane-like forms or concen- shrouds n thG m00U appears » th en she Her silver crescent in long waning clouds, She bodes a tempest in the raging main And brews for fields impetuous clouds of rain.” 684 In the morning, also, if a Wane- cloud is above or across the sun, there is uniformly rain before the evening £3 * A, , AAC 1 unwillingly to ins race, Clouds on his brow, and lines across his face* A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 229 Or if through mists he shoots his sullen beams, Frugal of light, in loose and struggling streams,’ Suspect a drizzling day, with southern rain. Hurtful to fruits and flocks, and promised grain.” Virgil. 685. There is likewise another cloud, of which the ministry is rather beneficial to the earth, than serving to heighten the beauty of the heavens. This is the Nimbus or Rain-cloud, which is more frequently a gloomy moments pass away, and are sue* ceeded by such as render the heart glad, so those water-urns of the firmament pour forth their contents, and become extinct, leaving the firmament unveiled in its clear¬ ness, or else varied with light fleecy-lookin^ clouds. ° 686. In tropical regions. Storm-clouds are singularly diversified, but whenever seen CIRRO-STRATUS, OB WANE CLOUD. deepening of shade in the Twain-cloud, occasioned by its increasing density, than a new modification depending upon a separate change of form. The Curl and Pile-cloud may increase so much as to obscure the sky, and yet pass away without melting into rain ; but when the Twain-cloud, losing its mountainous appearance, concentrates and assumes a they possess a peculiarity of character by which they are too surely identified in those widely.cxtended and apparently intermi¬ nable plains, which pertain to t e interior of Africa, a single cloud is frequently the precursor of tremendous storms ; such also is the case on the Asiatic steppes and deserts; and those of America, which, like the ocean they resemble, fill the mind sullen aspect that yields to crey obscurity, it becomes evident that a fresh arrange¬ ment has taken place in the aqueous par¬ ticles; the Nimbus or Rain-cloud is then formed, and rain begins to fall. Sileutly, and yet soundingly, descends the solemn rain, refreshing the parched earth, and causing the seeds to germinate; the heavens are covered with clouds, and the sun no longer shines forth; but as in life the most I with feelings of infinity, and thoughts of the deepest interest. In each of those wild and desolate wastes, where no ruin recals the memory of earlier inhabitants—no carved stone nor fruit-tree, once the care of a forgotten husbandman, but now wild, speaks of the art or industry of former generations. Those solitary clouds, uprising from the margin of the plain, and taking | their place on high, are preccedcd and 230 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: accompanied by indications that cannot be mistaken. Humboldt relates, that when, after a long season of almost intolerable drought, the raging season, or some tornado is at hand, the deep blue of the hitherto cloudless sky, that over-canopies the vast prairies of South America, gradually be¬ comes lighter; at night the dark space in the constellation of the Southern Cross is hardly distinguishable; the soft phospho¬ rescent light of the Magellanic clouds fade away; and some of the largest stars alone shine with a trembling and less vivid light. Then comes the warning cloud, at first appearing small as a man’s hand, or else rising like a mimic mountain perpendicu¬ larly from the horizon; vapours succeed, and spread over the sky, and loud thunders roll through the immensity of space; down comes a torrent of sonorous rain, and presently the previously barren waste begins to exhale sweet odours, and innu¬ merable grasses speedily spring from out the earth. Sensitive-plants unfold their leaves, and water-plants hold their mimic cups to catch the streaming shower; where all before was silent, the songs of innumer¬ able birds carol forth their praises, and vast herds of cattle, with flocks of sheep, and troops of wild horses, graze, in the f ull en¬ joyment of life, amid the tall springing grass and bushes, which seem as if they pre¬ viously had no existence. 687. Such was the cloud which Elijah saw from the summit of Mount Carmel_ that little cloud which arose from out the sea, apparently of no importance, but surely indicating the approach of a heavy storm. And so it was; “ for while the prophet gave directions to his servant, the heavens be¬ came black with clouds, and there was a great rain.” 688. Voyagers relate, that off the coast of Africa, depressing heat, and apparent stagnation in the atmosphere often precede a tumultuous assemblage of clouds, which gradually, and as if by unanimous consent, hurry towards the east, where they remain stationary, and form a long low arch, ex¬ tending over about six points of the compass. In proportion as the lower edge of the arch becomes defined, and increases in intensity of darkness, so may tiie rising of a tornado be expected. When the arch is completed, a sudden squall of wind bursts forth, and woe to the vessel that is exposed to its fury, if every timely precaution has not been taken to ensure her safety! Again all is still, as if sea and sky awaited some over¬ whelming catastrophe; but this is of short duration. The unnatural stillness is broken by a solemn preparatory note of distant thunder, accompanied by fitful flashes of lightning; to this succeeds loud rattling peals. Imprisoned winds seem to rush through the low dark portals of that awful arch; their approach levels all distinctions among the waves, which are lashed into foam, and produce a bewildering mist, that renders every object indistinct. Mean¬ while, rains descend like torrents, and the hurricane is at its height. 689. Clouds, therefore, are messengers to man. They forewarn the husbandman and the sailor of coming storms, or denote pleasant weather, and awaken thoughts of gladness and serenity. Luther, looking out from his solitary castle in the middle of the night, thus religiously spoke concerning them: —“Long flights of clouds sail throughout the great vault of immensity— they are voiceless, huge, and take all forms. Wno supports them ? None ever saw the pillars of heaven, yet both the heavens and its unnumbered clouds are upheld. God bears them up. We know that He is great, that He is good, and we learn to trust where we cannot see.” 690. TO CLARIFY SUGAR FOR PRESERVES.—Break as much as re- quired in large lumps, and put a pound to half-a-pint of water, in a bowl, and it will dissolve better than when broken small Set it over the fire, add the well-whipfc white of an egg; let it boil up, and, when ready to run over, pour a little cold water in to give it a check; but when it rises a second time, take it off the fire, and set it by in the pan for a quarter of an hour during which the foulness will sink to the bottom, and leave a black scum on the top which take off gently with a skimmer, and pour the syrup into a vessel very quicklv from the sediment. J 691. GOOSEBERRY JELLY - .—Dis¬ solve and boil loaf-sugar in about half its weight of water; let it cool, and add an equal weight of gooseberry juice, then boil tor a few moments only. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 231 692. GREEN GOOSE ROASTED.—A green goose will not take more than three- quarters of an hour at the fire. Unless it is particularly liked it is not usual to put any¬ thing into it hut a little pepper and salt (if so, a seasoning made thus :—Take two large onions, cut them very small; a stem or two of sage, cut up with the onions; add a few bread crumbs, and put it into the goose). A little gravy in the dish, and some in a boat. There must be green sauce in another boat, made thus:—About half-a-pint of veal broth, the juice of a lemon boiled up for six or seven minutes; then put in some juice of spinach, enough to make it green, and just boil it up ; stir it all the time for fear it should curdle, which it is apt to do, and it ought to be very smooth. 693. TO STEW GIBLETS.—Scald and clean them well; cut off the bill; divide the head; skin the feet; stew them with water (enough for sauce), a sprig of thyme, some whole black pepper, and an onion; let them do till very tender; strain the sauce; add a little catsup and flour, if the sauce is not thick enough; lay sippets, toasted, round, the dish. 694 GIBLET SOUP.—Having your giblets scalded and cleaned ( flour it, place it in a saucepan; pour over it three half pints of stock gravy, a gi 1 of port wine, a little currant jelly, and two table spoonsful of catsup; let it sim¬ mer gently it must not boil, or it will make the venison hard; as soon as it is thoroughly iot, add a little salt and Cayenne pepper • serve with sippets round the dish. There should be currant jelly on table. 70S. TO PICKLE ONIONS. — Peel small onions into salt and water, shift them once a day for three days, then set them over the fire in milk and water till ready to boil; dry them; pour over them the foUowmg pickle, when boiled and cold Of double distilled vinegar, salt, mace, a bay leaf or two: they will not look white with any other vinegar. i 7 j 9 ‘^ PICKLE WALNUTS. —Put a hundred large double walnuts into a stone jar; take four ounces of black pepper, one ounce of Jamaica pepper, two ounces of gmger, one ounce of cloves, one pint of mustard-seed, four handsful of salt; bruise the spice and the mustard-seed, and boil them m vinegar sufficient to cover them; when cold put it to them; two days after bod up the pickle, pour it to the nuts im- thr^ys! C0V6r them d ° Se; rCpeat ifc wo?, 10 * PIE —Clean the giblets well; put all the liver into a saucepan with a Bttirl e ,f a lit , tle ' vh0le P e PP er > an onion, a little salt, and a bunch of sweet herbs: let them stew till tender, close covered; lay a pufl paste in the dish, then a rump steak A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 233 peppered and salted, then the giblets sea¬ soned, with the liver add the liquor they are stewed in, close the pie, bake it about two hours; when it is drawn pour in the gravy; the steak may be omitted. 711. A BOILED LEMON PUDDING. —Take two large lemons, pare them thin, and boil them in three waters until they are tender; then beat them in a mortar to a paste; grate a penny loaf into the yolks and whites of four eggs well beaten, half a pint of milk and a quarter of a pound of sugar; mix all these well together; put it into a basin well buttered, and boil it half an hour. 712. YEAST DUMPLINGS.—A pound of flour, a spoonful of yeast, a little salt; make this into a light paste with warm water; let it lie nearly an hour; make it into balls, put them into little nets; when the water boils throw them in; twenty minutes will boil them; keep them from the bottom of the pan or they will be heavy. 713. THINGS IN SEASON IN JULY. —Meat.—L amb, Beef, Mutton, Veal, Buck Venison. Poultry. — Green Geese, Duckling, Turkey Poults, Leverets, Rabbits, Plovers, Pigeons, Pullets, Fowls, Chickens. Fish. —Cod, Haddock, Mackerel, Soles, Herrings, Salmon, Carp, Tench, Plaice, Mullet, Flounders, Skate, Thornback, Pike, Eels, Lobsters, Prawns, Cray Fish. Vegetables. — Pease, Beans, Kidney Beans, Cabbage, Cauliflowers, Cucumbers, Mushrooms, Carrots, Turnips, Potatoes, Raddishes, Artichokes, Celery, Endive, Parsley, all sorts of Salad, all sorts of Pot Herbs. Fruit. —Pears, Apples, Cherries, Straw¬ berries, Raspberries, Peaches, Nectarines, Plumbs, Apricots, Gooseberries, Melons. 714. SMALL-POX, OR VARIOLA. There is something so repulsive in the disease now under notice, and so loathsome and revolting in all its stages, that many per¬ sons are affected with it by the mere "force of their imagination, and from their strong repugnance and disgust of small-pox, ac¬ tually pre-dispose themselves to the disease they would sacrifice any amount of comfort or fortune to ward oft’ and escape. 715. To this mental terror and relaxing fear is to be attributed much of this disease among the more refined and intellectual class of society; persons who, by their iso¬ lation from general contagion, and the pre¬ disposing causes of disease, poverty, bad \ entilation, and dirt, would, in a measure, be otherwise protected from its influence and ravages. 716. These remarks, of course, apply only to adults; and to all such we strongly and earnestly impress upon them the neces¬ sity of disabusing their minds of the bugbear of fear, knowing that by so doing they go farther and more effectually to predispose themselves to the assaults of all disease, and this one in particular, than if they had ac¬ tually entered the sphere of its most virulent contagion. 717. As we have said of measles and scarlet fever, the characteristic symptoms are running at the eyes and difficulty of breathing in the first, and sore throat and speckled tongue in the latter: so in small¬ pox nausea and sickness , from the beginning to the end, form the great prognostics of the disease. /18. Small-pox is divided into two forms —the Distinct and the Confluent. 719. Symptoms.— Shivering, thirst, and headache, with nausea or sickness, usually commence the chain of morbid actions'; succeeded by heat of skin, intolerance of light, restlessness, great heat of body, full quick pulse, pain in the back and over the stomach. The eyes are red, and the tongue covered with a thick white fur. In weakly children convulsions may occur in this stao-e, especially if the disease is likely to become confluent. A general tumefaction of the features, chiefly about the eyelids, is also observable. On the fourth day the eruption manifests itself, at first, like the other erup¬ tive diseases, on the face and neck, gra¬ dually extending over the whole body, so as frequently not to leave an inch of “skin without its distinct papilla. 720. The eruption in small-pox has three distinct forms or stages in its progress to maturity:— 721. 1st. The papillary; when the rash appears like small red pimples, in which state it continues from the fourth day, on which it shows itself, to the sixth, gradually increasing in size, when the— J 722. 2nd stage is reached. The papillae or pimples, now assume a vesicular appear¬ ance, resembling small bladders, filled with 234 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: a white transperent fluid, with a red margin round each vesicle. On the eighth or nintli day the— 723. 3rd, and last, stage is reached. The vesicles have now lost their globular shape, and have become pustular, and filled with a yellow matter or pus, with a central de• pression in each, while the red line or areola round each has become deeper, and more raised and defined. 724. The puffiness or tumefaction of the features has increased, and in severe cases swells the head to an enormous size. About the twelfth day from the commencement of the disease, and the eighth from the erup¬ tion ; the pustules begin to break and gra¬ dually to dry up, and in four, five, to six days later commence pealing off, and the other symptoms subsiding convalescence usually sets in. Such are the characters and such is the progress of the mild or dis¬ tinct small-pox. 725. The severe or confluent, from the Latin words con and fiuo, to flow together, because several pustules run into one, forin- ing large patches in some cases as broad as a shilling or florin. This form of the disease is marked from the first by the increased severity of every symptom, especially the vomiting and pain over the stomach, occa¬ sional convulsions, and great aversion to light and noise. 726. In the second stage of the eruption, when the vesicles are changing into the pustular form, the confluence takes place, and the inflammatory action of the skin being very great several vesicles converge and blend themselves into one pustule. 727. Treatment.— Both forms of small¬ pox—the distinct and confluent—demand the same treatment, unless some particular symptom, becoming more intense than usual, calls for a special deviation to meet the urgency of the affected part. From the great heat and inflammatory state of the skin all through this disease, diaphoretics, or medicines to promote sweating, are, as a general rule, contra-indicated—that is, must not be used. 728. The first step to be adopted, with child or adult, is to empty the stomach by a strong emetic, and in men or women of robust constitutions this should be followed by bleeding to the extent of eight or twelve ounces. For children the best emetic is an equal mixture of antimonial and ipecacuanha wines; say two drachms of each. Of this give an infant of from one to two years a tea-spoonful, following it by as much warm water as the child can be induced to take. If in ten minutes the patient does not vomit freely, or not at all repeat the same dose and a little more water. 729. The object for which the water is given is to make the vomiting easier, and avoid the straining caused by retching. To patients from two to six years old give a dessert spoonful, repeated, if neeessary, at the same time and in the same way. # 730. Above that age and to twelve years give a table-spoonful of the emetic wines ; and in the same manner as to the others. 731. If after the second dose, in any case vomiting is not produced in ten mi¬ nutes from the last exhibition, the finger or feathery part of a quill should be passed over the back of the tongue, when instant vomit¬ ing will ensue. In half an hour after the action of the emetic, sponge the body with tepid water, as advice at No. 600, and give one of the following powders every four hours, and a dose varying from a tea to a table spoonful of the saline mixture every two hours. 732. Purgative Powders.—1 uke of jalap, powdered, two scruples; cream of tartar, ten grains; calomel, twelve grains. Mix well and divide into twelve powders, from one to three years; into nine, from three to five; into eight, from five to eight, and into six ; from eight to twelve years. 733. Saline Mixture.— Take of Rochell salts, commonly known as the tartrate of potass and soda, one ounce; Epsom salts, half an ounce; dissolve in six ounces of mint water, and add three drachms of ipeca¬ cuanha wine. Mix. 734. As a diluent to quench the thirst, let the patient have the barley water drink, as ordered at paragraph 492. /35. At the period when the eruption is maturing or passing from the vesicle to the pustule, it is sometimes necessary, in weakly constitutions, to assist this change, by giving a little wiue and beet tea, which, according to the age of the child, must be exhibited in a proportionate quantity of water. / 36. From the first attack, the room should be kept darkened and particularly cool, either by a small fire for ventilation, A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 235 or sprinkling the floor frequently with vinegar and water or chloride of lime. 737. To avoid the unseemly consequences of small pox, such as pits and seams, which are caused by the conversion into pus or matter of the fatty tissue below the cuticle, many plans have been suggested; the most favourite one is opening each pustule with a needle and allowing the matter to escape; but the course we have invariably adopted and with success is the application of lunar caustic, which if prepared as directed below, and each visicle touched with a camel’s hair pencil dipped in the lotion, will prevent the suppuration and ensure success. The proper time to apply the lotion is in the second stage of the erup ion, when the vesicles are filled with a transparent fluid. Before that time it would be useless, and after suppura¬ tion has set in, ineffective. 738. Lotion to 'prevent pitting in Small Pox .—Take of nitrate of silver, two grains; rose water, one ounce—dissolve. Let every vesicle on the face, neck, and bosom be touched with a brush wetted in this lotion. 739. Each spot as it dries will become black, but that of course will peel off with the eruption at the proper time. 740. When the eruption begins to dry up, the puddings and farinaceous food, on which in the early stage the patient should be fed, may give place to a more generous diet, though if secondary fever should supervene, as it sometimes does at this crisis, it must be stopped, and the saline mixture again resorted to. As soon as the greater part of the scales and dead cuticle falls off, wash the face frequently with elder flower water, and in the convalescent stage give quinine as ordered at 500. 741. The most frequent sequelae or dis¬ eases that follow small-pox are inflammation of the white coat of the eye, swelling and inflammation of the glands of the neck, and abscesses or biles on different parts of the body. 742. For the first, bathe the eyes twice a day with a lotion made by dissolving two grains of white vitriol or sulphate of zinc in an ounce of rose water, or if made in quan¬ tity, twelve grains to six ounces. For the second, endeavour to dissipate the swelliug by rubbing the glands of the neck with an embrocation made by dissolving by the heat of an oven two drachms of camphor cut small in two ounces of sweet oil. And for the third, poultice the biles with linseed meal frequently. 743. See surgical section, and at the same time, in all cases, keep the bowels open either by the senna mixture 492, or a dose of castor oil. 744. The diet must also be good and stimulating, and as much exercise taken as is consistent with the age of the patient and the nature of the affection. 745. RELATION OF THE SENSES. Reflection convinces us that enjoyment is the universal end and rule, the ordinary and natural condition of the senses, while pain is but the casualty, the exception, the necessary remedy, which is ever tending to a remoter good, in due consideration to an ever higher law of nature. Here, as in every part of the physical economy, nature has endowed these organs with a direct and particular sensibility to those impressions which have a tendency to injure its struc¬ ture; whereas they have a delightful an¬ ticipation of those impressions which are not injurious. The ear is formed to receive delicate im¬ pressions from those vibrations of the air which realise sound, and acquire a suscep¬ tibility of influences by its own appropriate agents, and by no others. In almost every case the impression made upon the sentient extremity of the nerve which is appropriated to sensation is not the direct effect of the external body, but results from the agency of some intervening medium. There is always a portion of the organ of sense in¬ terposed between the object and the nerve on which the impression is to be made. The object is never allowed to come in direct contact with the nerves, not even in the sense of touch; for there the organ is defended by the cuticle, through which the impression is made. This observation refers equally to taste and smell, the nerves of which are not only defended by the cuticle, but by secretion of mucous character, which averts any violent excitement. The two senses, which are more relative than others, are the sight and hearing, both of which re¬ ceive their impressions through the medium of the air. We feel some hesitation in proceeding further on this interesting part of the 236 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: subject, viz., the comparison of the organs of sense and their respective physiological dis¬ tinctions. If we were to go much deeper, we should soon find ourselves amidst those most interesting distinctions of sense, as delineated by the general animal kingdom —the touch of the ant, the sight of the fish, the hearing of the bird, the smell of the dog, &c. We would refer our readers to Button, Laurence, Hutin, Roget, and Walker, and conclude this part of our sub¬ ject with but few observations. Touch furnishes the relation of mechanical bodies; taste is adapted to chemical relations; smell also to chemical relations, but for the perception of substances in the aeriform state; hearing is for sound and its many modifications, tones which are pro¬ duced by the internal vibration and motion of the particles of bodies and through the medium of air, &c. Our subject, the sense of sight, is adapted to light and its mo¬ difications, colour and shade, and render to the perception the surface, form, and position of objects through the medium of light. Sight and hearing seem to bear the most important characteristics, being employed on those objects which form one great basis of human knowledge. The inhabitants of some parts of the world hear more readily, and see objects at greater distance, than the inhabitants of civilised cities; and this advantage may be traced to the fact, that the former are very much in a state of nature, and therefore compelled to sustain their existence by daily use of the senses of sight and hearing, and have, at times, no better protection against sudden danger than the acute vigilance of these particular nerves. The inhabitant of the ice-bound wilds will be seen suddenly to lie upon his face and put his ear on the ice, by which he will learn what is approaching, though unseen. The wild Bushman can see through marshy vapours, which would entirely eclipse the object from the eye of the European. The savage can detect the footsteps of wild animals or his enemy over mountain pass, over gloomy moor, and midst deep jungles, which w^ould entirely elude the eye of civilised men. Perhaps a summary of the ability of sight and hearing may be thus stated Sight is adapted to light, colours, form. shape, numbers, &c., written language, tho w f orks of art and nature. Hearing is adapted to music, tones of all sorts, matter, quality, rest and motion in time ; speech, the feelings, the sympathies, the finite and temporal. V ery often does the philosopher bow down in veneration and praise, in certain epochs of his researches, confounded with the de¬ monstrations which burst before him, and lie feels there is nothing of chance, but a constant ruling intelligence over all and all things. The cataract displays no greater wonders to his mind than the stream w T hich warbles by the village bower; the haughty voice of iEolus excites no greater wonder in him than the breeze which trembles on the cordage of the little skiff; for well he knows they equally perform a share in the great manifestation of holy government. The consideration of the fitness of things—their harmony and beauty—is the highest oc¬ cupation of man. For the preservation and enjoyment of life, many excellent provisions are made; and so complicate are they, that man without these, or any of them, could only sigh and die. He regards the power of his muscles as an obvious palpability, yet science will inform him that every breath he draw’s, to curse or praise, is realised by a mechanism as complicate and wonderful as that which fells the oak or raises the im¬ perial tow-er; and that this mechanism is depending on ties and alliances of every order and beauty, all w’hich unite and sym¬ pathise in the delight of being. The "cir¬ culation of the blood, the acute jealousy and ' igilance of the nerves, the respiratory action of the skin, the delicacy of touch, the luxury of taste, the godliness of sight—all mani¬ fest an irrepressible unity and action which no mere power of mind could regulate or exercise. ^ e are aware that some may only ap¬ prove. of experimental evidence, as if the criterion of all truth were an alembic or air-pump. How different w r ith the true philosopher f He summonses the principles of all sciences to his aid. He know^s that sense must one clay be clogged and dull, and that it is but the perceptive power, mind being the re¬ tentive.. We might illustrate this idea by saying, in vain should w’e attempt to walk the stream, till the chilling air has bound A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 237 the current, and hardened the yielding surface. So does the spirit in vain seek to rest in contemplation, until attributes of the mind have fixed the fluency of sense, and created elements for the support of higher exercises; or, as the great poet of nature successfully expresses this idea in Richard the Second— KING RICHARD. How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face! BOLINGBROKE. The shadow of your sorrow hath Destroyed the shadow of your face. KING RICHARD. 'Tis very true; my grief lies all within; And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief, That swells with silence in the tortured soul. Or, as Dante says— “For when love took his station in my heart, He stood before me. and suggested thoughts Unto my mind, which since have seldom slept.” Cansone 18 th. There must be an unity of action in the spiritual, intellectual, and material. It is surely not the figure alone, nor the touch, nor the odour, which makes the rose, but all these governed by the dignity of intellect and the innumerable associations of mind and spirit, acting simultaneously. We do not deny that the senses perform their part; yet these would be imperfect and evanescent, but that some higher collective power lays up a store of images and pictures, which is never destroyed. Cowper pourtrays this creative faculty of the mind thus— How fleet is the glance of the mind! Compared to tne speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand. Soon hurries me back to despair. Or, as an earlier English poet (Denton) says— Thus, the lone lover in the pensive shade. In dav-dreams wrapt, of soft extatic bliss. Pursues in thought the visionary maid, Feasts on the fancy’d smile and favoured kiss. Thus the young poet, at the close of day. Led by the magic of some fairy song, Through the dense umbrage winds his heedless way, Nor hears the babbling brook that brawls along. Those who live above the regions of mere sense, and are seeking communion with the spirits of truth, are accustomed to the con¬ templation of true beauty, and live amidst agreeable sensations, which not only occupy the imagination, but engage the whole capacities of the mind; and there is not a beauty in nature or art with which they are not acquainted. Every colour, every sound, every star of the night, every dew-drop of the morning, every smile of kindness, every space or expression in which beauty resides, is at once recognised as a portion of the excellence of eternal perfection. Indeed they have an intuitive perception of the beautiful, which excites admiration even before the sensation can be rendered per¬ manent by the operation of judgment. This sensation of the beautiful traverses the whole mind; but on no occasion does it hold a more ready affection, or produce a more instant interest, than when it regards the outlines of the human form. It is then the emotion of the beautiful evinces a very exquisite feature, by diffusing itself over the objects which excite it, so as to appear as if it belonged to them, and not to the mind which is occupied in reverie and contemplation. It is then the ardent and enthusiastic enter a dream of love and admiration, from which they are reluctant to awaken. So unreservedly, yet uncon¬ sciously, is the transference of life and feel¬ ing made from the mind of the beholder to the object beheld, that the refined disciple declares that nature is full of feeling, and animated by one great spirit, whose expres¬ sion in every aspect is beauty. In a word, the lines of nature, and most especially those inclosing the woman’s form, are as lines in the life of beauty itself, varied by the Creator to elicit, with truth and fulness, all our innate sensibilities, which consum¬ mate the evidences of our divine fashion and genealogy. The delightful overflowingsot a mother’s heart seem to her to be lovely emanations, radiating from the face of her little one. The lover, by the same law of imputation, ascribes all the charms w T ith which his passion is inspired to essences and qualities inherent in the object of his pas¬ sion. This is one of the characteristics of the emotion of the beautiful. It tends to diffuse itself over the beautiful object; ana the mind, instead of recalling it, and viewing it as mere inert materialism, regards it a? 238 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: beaming with light and feeling. In this exercise man learns to decide against all unworthy and vain occupations. His whole being is exalted. He knows God has placed him amidst things lovely and harmonious. In these beatific exercises he is often enabled to realise the relation of the beau- tiful in our own organisation; and far from such being merely notional, he feels (with evidence suitable to the subject) that the beautiful is the representative of two of the leading economies of our nature, viz., the material system and the intellectual capacity. It is then he declares that nature is the rule and manifestation of mathe¬ matics, her part being the apparent and material, whilst spirit dominates over the ideal only, and that there is nothing new in mathematics, in nature, or in man. In man are inherent a spirit and a material nature, which are but transcripts of each other, their laws being consonant. Perhaps we may illustrate this somewhat mystic propo¬ sition by reminding the reader, that the crystals of ice are nothing else but water bounded by definite lines; showing (in analogy) the relation between real and ideal spiritual and material: both are essential to each other, and yet different, the diversity being in form only. J An old English poet, the Rev. Thomas Denton, says— Tho’ now no painted cloud reflects the lipht Yai j} r n P < l pnS ! U!ttic , break the fallin S rays,’ rfnwV. H, le ,?° ? llrs t ve > tho ’ none appear, G Iphere 6 ^ ^ beam that >' 011 crystal And in another poem, it is said_ Tho’ wondering ignorance sees each form derav The flower hleSS blrd ’ bare trunk > aud shrivelled New forms successive catch the vital ray Sing their wild notes, or smile the allotted hour • Ana seal ch Creation s ample circuit round Th found! 8 ° f bCmg ChanS °* a11 life ’ s im mortal So also does the idea of a circle become a real circle, not from the latter emerging from the former, but from this itself becoming manifest. Indeed, all develop¬ ment or realization is nothing new or original, but only a manifestation, by a pro- cess of extension taking place in the idea : in truth, the real is the ideal in a condition v, w “ e “. a pebble is cast into a stilly lake) of definition and limit. The real is to assist the intellectual, in its reflections on the beauties of creation. Woman, with all her fairy lines and exquisite delineations, her many spheres and expressions, is one of the apparitions of Divinity. Look into the eye of the fair and good—sweet subject for regard . God only knows how many faithful images of Himself are there, thouo-h per- haps unseen by some. ° r . ^ he noble % r on had always songs, and sighs, and prayers for woman. We must not forget those words—• O! pardon that in crowds awhile I waste one thought I owe to thee • And, self-condemn’d, appear to smile. Unfaithful to thy memory! Nor deem that memory less dear That then I seem not to repine • I would not fools should overhear One sigh that should be wholly tldne. — Turnley’s Language of the Eye. 7-16. HISTORY AND ADVANT4.GFS OF the heart trefoil _hS trefoil, or snail-shell Medick ( medicaqo arabica), is a plant which, though indige¬ nous, has probably never been 'cultivated except in Berkshire, and its history is remarkable. Captain Vancouver, in his voyage round the world, found some seeds in a vessel which had been wrecked on a desert island; and on his return, he gave some of them to his brother, who resided near Newbury. The seeds were sown, expec¬ tation was raised to the highest pitch, and botanists anxiously awaited the result in hopes of being enabled to announce to. the agricultural world a valuable plant from the remotest islands of the Pacific; when, lo ' it turned out to be the medicago arabica, which is a native Berkshire plant. This circumstance, however, was not without its advantages. The two brothers cultivated the plant with success, and found that it produced a luxuriant herbage, and that cattle were very fond of it. It stands the winter well, and q crop of it may be obtained at any time; it is not easily choked, and will grow on a light soil. 747 STRENGTHENING PILLS.— Take of sub-carbonate of iron, a drachm and a half ^ipecacuanha m powder, eight grains • aromahe powder, eight grain, feiSot gentian, half a drachm; socotorinm of ales in powder,two or three grains; simplesyrup, or mucilage of gum arabic, a sufficient quantity to form the whole into a mass of the re- A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 239 quired consistence. Divide into thirty pills. Two or three of these pills are to be taken three times a day. They are of great value as a tonic in indigestion, billious com¬ plaints, general weakness, headache, depend¬ ing upon a nervous or debilitated state of the constitution, and many other com¬ plaints where a mild, yet effectual, strengthening medicine is required. 743. GINGER-BEER.—Take of Jamaica ginger two ounces and a half; moist sugar, three pounds ; cream of tartar, one ounce ; the juice and peel of two lemons; brandy, half a pint; yeast, quarter of a pint; water, three and a half gallons. This will make four and a half dozen of excellent ginger-beer, which will keep for twelve months. Bruise the ginger and sugar, and boil them for twenty minutes in the water; slice the lemons, and put with the cream of tartar into a large pan. Pour the boiling liquor upon them; stir it well round, and when milk-warm, add the yeast; cover it over for two or three days, and leave it to work,skimming it frequently; then strain it into a cask, add the brandy, bung down close, and bottle off at the end of three weeks. If it does not work well at first, add a little more yeast, but be care¬ ful of not putting too much. 749. PAINTED GLASSTNJURED BY A KIND OF MOSS.—As painted glass is generally protected by grating, it cannot be cleaned on the outside, in consequence of which long continued damp produces a diminutive moss, or lichen, which absolutely decomposes the substance of the glass. This evil would in a great measure be pre¬ vented by removing the grating annually, and carefully wiping away the mouldy moss, whenever it begins to appear. It is remarkable that this disease prevails in some situations more than others. Painted glass has been known to remain in a dry situation for centuries uninjured, but on being removed into a moist and foggy atmosphere has lost almost all its beauty in tnirtv years. 750. PORTABLE LEMONADE.—Take of tartaric acid half an ounce; loaf sugar, three ounces; essence of lemon, half a drachm. Powder the tartaric acid and the sugar into a fine powder, in a mortar, which should either be stone or marble; mix them together, and pour the essence of lemon upon them, by a few drops at a time, stirring the mixture after each addition till the whole is added; then mix them thoroughly, and divide the whole into twelve equal parts, wrapping each up separately in white paper. When required for use, it is only necessary to empty the powder into a tumbler of cold water, and fine lemonade will be obtained. 751. TO PRESERVE STRAW¬ BERRIES WHOLE.—Take an equal weight of fruit and pounded loaf-sugar; lay the former in a large dish, and sprinkle over them half the sugar; give the dish a gentle shake, in order that the sugar may reach the under part of the fruit; next day make a thin syrup with the remainder of the sugar, and add one pint of red currant juice to every three pounds of strawberries. In this, simmer them until sufficiently jellied. Choose the largest strawberries not over ripe. 752. RASPBERRY CREAM.—Rub a quart of raspberries through ahair-sieve, take out the seeds, and mix it well with cream; sweeten it with sugar to your taste, then put it into a stone jug, and jaise a froth with a chocolate mill. As the froth rises, take it off with a spoon, and lay it upon a liair-sieve. When there is as much froth as wanted, put what cream remains into a deep china dish, and pour the frothed cream upon it as light as it will lie on. 753. TO PRESERVE FRUITS IN BRANDY OR OTHER SPIRITS.— Gather cherries, plums, &c., before they are quite ripe, and soak them for five or six hours, in hard, or alum water, to render them firm, as the moisture of the fruit weakens the spirit. To each quart of spirit add five ounces of sugar. 754. STONES USEFUL INFIELDS.— Some of the arable land along the shore on the south-east coast of Sutherland is almost covered with shore-stones, from the size of a turkey’s egg to eight pounds weight. Several experiments have been made to col¬ lect them off the land with the view of ob¬ taining a better crop; but in every case the land proved less productive by removing them; and on some small spots of land it was so evident, that they were spread ou the land again to ensure their usual crops of beans, oats, or peas. 240 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: Fig. 1 755. THE AQUARIUM. Ciiap. I. History of the Aquarium—Early Experiments— Derivation of Name. So much interest having been excited by the newly-discovered method of preserving plants and animals in vessels containing water, we purpose presenting to our readers a series of papers calculated to serve as a comprehensive and practical guide to the construction and management of fresh and marine aquaria. No drawing-room or garden is now con¬ sidered complete without an aquarium, and every day adds to its popularity. But, to derive the full amount of gratification and instruction which water vivaries provide for us, it is necessary to devote much time and study for the purpose of acquiring an intimate knowledge of their inhabitants. It is the minutiae of insect life which is so wonderful, and all its details are worthy of our most careful attention. A large portion of the animal kingdom comes under the inspection of an aquarian, and an abundance of useful lessons may be drawn from his researches. It will be our object to com* combine both amusement and instruction, and to point out the difficulties as well as the pleasures of the undertaking. Many essays on the subject have already appeared, but we cannot help thinking that the writers have not laid sufficient stress on the necessity for active thought, patience, and perseverance, without which failure and disappointment are the inevitable re- suits. After a few words on its early history, we will proceed to discuss the philosophical principles by which alone the aquarium is to be regulated. Let it be par¬ ticularly borne in mind that everything in nature has its definite duty to perform, and that an intimate study of the tenants of an aquarium cannot fail to awaken a deep sense of the Almighty’s providence and enigmty as displayed in all His works, and to raise our thoughts « from Nature up to Nature s God.” 1 History .—Much difference of opinion A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 241 .f^Y^cVoVoS oVoVoS q\ oVqS qV^ OV^/nV^/^yA/l Fig. 6. exists as to the period of the first intro¬ duction of collections of plants and animals in water, and several gentlemen have been mentioned as the originators of the idea. There is little doubt, however, that the in¬ vention of Mr. Ward, for the preservation of plants in glazed cases, first gave rise to the application of the same principles to animal life. Mr. Robert Warington, of Apothecaries’ Hall, took the lead in bring¬ ing the result of his experiments promi¬ nently before the public, in a paper read before the Chemical Society in March, 1850, and in which he stated, that his first experiment was with two small gold-fish and a root of vallisneria, in six gallons of spring-water, the plant being placed loosely in some sand and mud at the bottom of the tank. The plant grew, but the water was soon found to become thick, and the view into the interior was obscured by a coating of mucus adhering to the sides of the vessel. He thereupon introduced a few water- snails, who soon reduced the water to a clear and healthy condition, by removing the decayed vegetable matter as fast as it accumulated. The eggs of these scavengers served as food for their finny companions. The subject, once started, was of too in¬ teresting a nature to pass without strict investigation, and a signal success has been the result. The idea was warmly espoused by the Zoological Society of London ; and in the spring of 1853, the public was startled with their beautiful collection of marine and fresh-water curiosities. Every one must remember the sensation of novelty and excitement produced by a first in¬ spection of the marvels of the deep there displayed, and not a few (ourselves among the number) resolved to avail themselves of such an unceasing source of gratification and amusement. We were indebted to Mr. Gosse for the marine specimens there first brought to light, as also for much useful information contained in his works on the 242 subject, which are, unfortunately, of too expensive a nature to be within the reach of many who would appreciate their con- tents Dr. Badhain, Mr. Shirley Hibberd, Mr. Sowerby, and Dr. Lankester, have all furnished many valuable hints connected with water vivaries; and we have to thank Mr. Alford Lloyd for his more practical assistance m collecting a most beautiful variety of specimens from all parts of wilf l nd ‘ „ An y. 1 ,°y er of aquarian pursuits nw b ® "p r, epa l d hy a visit t0 his establish- ment m Portland-road, Regent’s-park. of the ,l m /^ qUari T” 13 a ^^action ° f a rr -* °- Latm words. Aqua, “water” faf thJ™™ 11 ™’ preserve > or enclosure for the propagation of live stock.” Viva- rium was the name first given to a living collection of water plants and animals; but” THE CORNER CUPBOARD: FIG. 4. as that term might, with equal propriety, hn aPPl ' ed t0 a sheep-fold or a rabbit- hutch, the aqua was affixed in order to denote watery nature. “Aquarium,” although equally indefinite (it having been used by the Romans to signify any vessel containing water, from a jug to a reservoir) is now generally adopted, as being more concise and less uncouth than its lengthy predecessor, f< Aquavivanum/* Although our experiments have been conducted in a very inexpensive manner our suggestions proceed, for the most part’ from practical experience, but in some instances, we shall have to quote the opinions of other authorities on points which have not come under our own im- mediate observation. Chapter II. Ph s iS , SSS„ c ^?. ie, » f * Wtam-He The principal aim for an Aquarian is o render the contents of his water-vivay self-supporting; to accomplish which in- portant object, it is necessary to posses a knowledge of the chemical principles ,v which the balance between the animal md vegetable kingdom is to be obtained. fig. 2. T ? ^ ee P gold-fish alive in the now almost obsolete globes, it was found necessary to have the water constantly changed, which at once proved that something besides water was necessary for their sustenance. A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 243 \ This something was air, without which no mimal life can possibly exist; the water teing insufficient to sustain life after the aaimals have deprived it of its oxygen. A fountain, or fall of water, will to a cer- tan extent supply this deficiency, but will net support life for any lengthened period : th? reason being, that the fishes give out laige quantities of carbonic acid gas, which soon renders the water poisonous. Two things, therefore, are requisite—to supply oxygen, and to extract the carbonic acid gas. Now it is proved that plants will perform both these functions, as they not only give out oxygen in large quantities, but are nourished by the very gases so deleterious to animal life. Carbon is the great basis of all plants, and this they distil from the carbonic acid gas; they also re¬ quire hydrogen, which they distil from the water, giving off oxygen in both instances. You will perceive this by carefully watch¬ ing a healthy plant, when you will observe the leaves studded with fine globules of air. You thus establish a constant system of compensation, and render the plants and animals self-supporting. It is frequently asked—if fishes require air, cannot they get it at the surface ? Yes; but they are so constituted that they can inhale it only through the medium of water, and in very minute quantities, inflammation and death speedily ensuing when they come to the surface for that purpose. Professor Liebig has also proved that oxygen is supplied by the myriads of animalculae with which the tank soon becomes stocked, and which serve to supply the smaller fry with food. Although the plants and animals support each other while living , when they die some other agency will be found necessary to re¬ move the putrifying matter; the glass (as before stated) soon becomes covered with a confervoid growth, which necessitates the introduction of the natural water-scavengers, mollusca, who perform their work quietly and surely, and without whose help decay and mortality would soon ensue. These useful little agents live on the confer vae generated by the plants; but great care must be exercised in their selection, as most of the larger species feed upon the living vegetation in preference to the putres¬ cent matter; and, unless due discrimination be used, you will find your most valued plants destroyed by some ruthless invader in the shape of a lymnea or paludina. VaMsneria is a favourite meal with these marauders. It is quite impossible to give any rules as to the relative proportions of animal and vegetable life to be introduced into the aquarium ; every one must gain that know¬ ledge from experience; but, as a general principle, we think that three small fish, two or three snails, and one small plant, is the maximum quantity allowable for each gallon of water. It at once denotes bad management when you cannot render the three agencies wg have mentioned (com¬ bined with light and the proper amount of heat) sufficient to keep your vivary in a flourishing condition. Your aim must he to establish a continuous circle of reciprocal action, which can only be obtained by an exact imitation of nature. The regulation of the temperature must also be attended to, as aquatic animals are * very easily killed by too much heat or the reverse. If a tank is placed in a northerly aspect, it must be carefully guarded from the cold in winter, a tank in a window looking southward being equally liable to injury from excessive heat in the summer. There is little danger if the temperature is never allowed to fall below 45 deg., or to rise above 65 deg. Sunshine is indispens¬ able, but, if it is admitted too freely, will be apt to be fatal to your pets by making the water too warm. Two hours sun daily is as much as we recommend from June to September. Light is of course indispensable, and must be admitted freely and uninter¬ ruptedly, the growth of the plants depend¬ ing in a great measure on the amount of light to which they are exposed. A marine tank requires much less than a fresh-water one, and it is therefore desirable to place the latter close to the window, as the former thrive equally well at a distance of five or six feet. We shall speak further on this point when treating on marine aquaria. The water need not be changed at all if your vivaria are properly conducted. Mr. Gosse, speaking on this subject, says: “ I have at present at my residence at Isling¬ ton one marine tank full of animals and plants in the highest condition, the water in which, though as clear as crystal, and 244 THE CORNER CUPBOARD quite colourless, lias never even been re¬ moved from the vessel since it was first put in, two years and two months ago.” Mr. M arrington has still in his possession the veritable tank in which he performed his first experiments, and it contains the same water which he introduced in January, 1852. Chap. III. Vessels suitable for Aquarian purposes, with Directions for procuring them. Ant vessel that will hold water, from a cistern to a pickle bottle, may be converted into an aquarium, and the same principles are applicable to both small and large. Ihe most elegant and useful vessels are certainly tanks of a rectangular shape, a much clearer view of the contents being obtained through smooth than through curved glass. Tanks of cast-iron, and stout sheet-glass, may now be obtained at as low a price as 18s., and we certainly recommend them as far preferable to cir¬ cular vessels both for strength, ornament, and utility. There are makers in all our A FAMILY REPOSITORY, 245 Fig. 3. principal towns, and the immense demand and active competition has caused the dis¬ play of much ingenuity and talent in this department. Fig 1 represents the style of tank most in use, and to persons who can afford the outlay, I should recommend one of that form, about twice as long as it is Droad. The four sides should be of glass and the bottom of slate, a perforated cover of zinc or glass being necessary in large towns. An octagon form is well adapted for standing on a round table. (See Fig . 2). For marine aquaria it is preferable to have the two ends made of slate also, as the cement for fixing the rockwork will not adhere to glass. We subjoin a list of the principal makers,* all of whom have always a large assortment on hand. We do not say that a rectangular tank is indispensable, but consider that a few extra shillings will be well bestowed in its acquisition. We next come to bell-shaped vesssels, which can be obtained at any glass shop at prices varying from Is. to 15s. Those most in use are the common hand-propagating * Vases and tanks of a superior quality may bo obtained of Messrs. Claudet and Houghton. S9, High Holborn (Figs. 1, 3, and 6, are from their designs); Messrs. Treggon and Co.. 57, Grace- church-street; Messrs. Saunders and Woolcott, 54, Doughty-street, Foundling; Mr. H. J. Bohn, 45, Essex-street, Strand; ana of the dealers in aquatic plants and animals. 246 THE CORNER CUPBOARD glasses, used by gardeners, which must be inverted and supported on a turned wooden stand. (See Fig. 4). Much more elegant vases, however, have lately been manufac¬ tured for the purpose, and of a more con¬ venient form than those formerly used. A shape which has been much recommended is that depicted in Fig. 5; it is certainly very graceful, but we consider its narrow base a great drawback, as it neither allows the introduction of rockwork, nor of a variety of bottom plants. Fig. 3 repre¬ sents a vase which we consider to surpass any other for utility. We have two in use at present, and find the nearly flat bottom a great desideratum. They may be had from twelve to twenty inches in diameter, but we recommend a medium size, as the larger ones are more apt to fracture in frosty weather. Be sure to choose a vase with a smooth surface, ana with as little green tinge about it as possible. The great objection to all circular vessels is, that they distort the objects contained in them, and we must be careful to remedy this as much as lies in our power. For the drawing-room a gilt- stand is a great improvement. Confectioners show-glasses may be ad¬ vantageously used for small specimens, particularly for those which cannot? be safely introduced into the aquarium (we shall refer to this subject in a subsequent paper on Water Cabinets). Mr. Gosse, in his «Hand-book to the Marine Aquarium,” describes a novel mode of constructing tanks, suggested to him by Mr. W. Dodgson, of Wig ton, Cumberland, lhat gentleman has kindly furnished us with further information on the subject, which we present to our reader, in his own words “The earthenware tanks for aquaria,’ named by Mr. Gosse, in his ‘Hand-book,’ were made by Mr. Lucock, of Broughton-moor, and hold about thirty gallons each. The earthenware consists of a bottom and ends thickly glazed inside, with a groove along the inner edges to receive the glass sides! these of quarter-inch plate glass, were bedded in red-lead putty, leaving about a quatter of. an inch of the groove empty along the insides, where the putty would have to come in contact with the water, and might have been injurious to the plants’ or animals. This space was fitted up with cement, made as followsDissolve eigat ounces of shellac in one pint of naphtha or s pirit of wine. When wanted for use, stir a small quantity of this solution into a smooth thin paste, with whiting, and apply immediately. If much is mixed up at cnee it is apt to dry on the outside before it can b ® " se , d * Where there is not a great body of it this cement will set very hard in a tew days, and is not injured by water. H hen the poisonous nature of red-lead is not an objection, it will form a still harder cement than whiting. Before the tanks were burned in the kiln, rough masses of fire clay were attached to the lower parts of the ends and the bot¬ tom, in imitation of rockwork. Owing to the porous nature of the clay at Broughton- moor, and probably in part from the glaze not having penetrated the crevices of the rockwork, the water was found, when they were filled; to percolate through the sub¬ stance of the tanks. They should therefore be made of closer clay, or the rockwork left out and attached artificially afterwards. I robably it might be an improvement to glaze the outside and not the inside: the parts exposed to the water would then have more the character of real stone. The earthenware cost about 8 s„ the glass 18 s. for each tank, so that for their size they are cheaper than any other form, and if made ot finer clay they would not be liable to leak or get out of order in any way.” We strongly advise any of our readers who may reside in the neighbourhood of potteries to avail themselves of this sug¬ gestion It will, of course, be necessary personally to superintend the construction as workmen have little idea of what is re-’ quired. mat h! I ? Pret i y *. and eCOnom!cal aquarium may be formed at a much less expense than any previously mentioned:-Obtain a deal box about twelve inches square, and six or eight inches deep (this may be purchased at . grocer s tor a few pence), which ftin an C6ep br °'™ ° r green > lamenting it in any way your ingenuity and taste may ggest, and cutting a circular hole in the Net? oht-° Ut three inches ia diameter. f ext obtain your propagating glass (price from is. to 2s.), and invert both it and the box, placing the knob of the former in the circular hole. The weight of the water A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 247 will keep the vase firmly fixed in its stand, and you will have an aquarium which is in every wav useful and ornamental. A very pretty effect is produced by combining the Wardian case and aquarium (see Fig . 2) of which we shall speak more hereafter. Our next paper will be devoted to in¬ structions for fitting up, and hints on the selection of stock for fresh-water vivaries. 756. JULY FOR THE BOYS AXD GIRLS. We are now at Midsummer. The sun beams down benignantly upon us, and war:ns everything into full and vigorous life. Nature spreads before all her most brilliant attractions, and tempts to field fallow and upland. But in our ever-varying climate it may happen that even at midsum¬ mer the sky may become overcast, the rain descend in torrents, or slowly drizzling in¬ terpose between us and our out-door enjoy¬ ments. Anticipating any such contingency, and before considering the sport par excel¬ lence of the season, we subjoin a few games for rainy days, and which may also serve to shorten a dull half hour, even in the fields or woods. 757. Consequences. —This may be made a very amusing game. Its essence consists in the fun elicited by certain consequences or results said to follow certain other actions. Three, six, nine, or any larger number may play at it. Proceed as follows :—Procure a few dozen plain cards, or pieces of card¬ board or stiff paper, and upon one dozen write legibly the names either of your ac¬ quaintances, or which is better, any imagi¬ nary personages, such as are shown in the example below. Upon twelve other slips write any action, as—“ went for a walk,”— “ took a short nap/’ &c. 758. Upon a third set the “Consequences” have to be written. And here an oppor¬ tunity is given for the exercise of the inven¬ tive faculties. In the example it will be seen how very ludicrous the consequences said to follow the acts may be made. When a sufficient number of cards or slips are written, the three sorts should be placed in three baskets or hats, and shaken up. Of course it is understod that the names are in one hat or basket, the actions in a second, and the consequences in a third. Either one player may take a basket to deal, or partners may do so. The slips being shuffled, the first player dips his or her hand into the basket, and drawing out a card reads it aloud. The second player then does the same, and the third player drawing a card proceeds to read it—prefacing what is upon the card—the consequence—by saying “the consequence was”—so and so. 759. Example. John, Mary , Lucy. John ( talcing out a card, reads it). “ The Marquis of Carrabas.” Mary ( reading a card). “ Took a great pinch of snuff.” Lucy ( drawing a card). The consequence was—“He was overwhelmed with melan¬ choly.” John. “ The Grand Duke of Brompton.” Mary. “ Walked across the square.” Lucy. The consequence was — “His plumed helmet was shivered to atoms.” John. “The Benighted Beggarman.” Mary. “ Rode to the review.” Lucy. The consequence was—“ He was refused at the Post-office.” John. “ The Great Khan.” Mary. “ Whistled a jig in A minor. Lucy. The consequence was—“He was utterly exhausted.” 760. The above will suffice to show how the game has to be played, and a very little ingenuity will be required to make it highly diverting. 761. The Wolf and the Sheep. —The players are ranged in a row; one has to stand in front, who feigns to be the shepherd, but is in reality the wolf. The make- believe shepherd commences by saying,— “Sheep, sheep, off to the fields!” The sheep reply, either altogether, or by the mouth of one who speaks for the rest,— “Oh! but we are afraid!” The wolf in disguise then asks—“ What do you fear ?” The sheep cry in chorus—“ The wolf! the wolf!” The wolf then says— “ The wolf has gone to Devonshire, It won’t be back for seven years. Sheep! sheep! off to the fields !'* The sheep then run out, and it is the object of the wolf to catch any one of them before it returns to the fold. % The sheep caught is wolf next game. 762. Proteus Cupid. The leader in this game is seated upon a chair of state, or upon anything which may be substituted for a 248 throne, as umpire. The players then pre¬ sent themselves in turn before her, each as the words are repeated endeavouring to embody the character of Proteus Cupid. l he hands, arms, head, countenance, and, indeed, the whole figure should express the proper emotion. The game gives an excel¬ lent opportunity for the display of what¬ ever powers of mimickry the players may possess. Ihe first player commences with a., aud may take as many varieties of ex¬ pression as he can find under each letter. Ihe second player takes B, and the whole alphabet is gone through. The umpire has the power of approval, or objection to any or the embodiments. J THE CORNER CUPBOARD; A. 763. Example. B. C. D. E. P. G. H. I. J. K. L. M. N. O. P. Q. R. S. T U. V. W. X. Y. 2 . Proteus comes affected—or affronted— or agile. (At each of the words be¬ ginning with A., the player assumes an appropriate aspect.) Proteus comes bounceable, bold.beggine Proteus comes cringing, crying, cross. Proteus comes dancing, dawd’ling, down- Proteus comes eating, eager, enthusiastic. 1 loteus comes fond, foolish, fast. Proteus comes gaily, greedy, grasping. less” 8 C ° meS iaUghty ’ llobblill g» heed- Proteus comes idling, insane, impressive. Iroteus comes jocular, jubilant, jealous. Pi oteus comes kindly, knavelike, kissing. Proteus comes loonisli, loving, laughing. Tneek C ° meS mournfu11 ^ majesty, Proteus comes nodding, nervous, noisy. Proteus comes owl-like, orderly, out- rageous. J Proteus comes prying, playful, poorly. soum C ° meS qUe6r ’ quizzical > quarrel- Proteus comes raging, resentful, rustic, roteus comes snappish, smiling, sad. blfng C ° meS trickish> tu rbulent, trem- Proteus comes upright, unruly, unhappy. Pi oteus comes vain, violent, various ^ih“ mes woebe80ne > (Omitted). Proteus comes youthful, yawning, yel- Proteus comes zig-zag, zealous. [low. '64. CRICKET.—This noble game is unsurpassed for its interest, its usffuTness m developing the muscular power of the body and the favour in which it has always been held in these islands by all classes wL ot unknown to our Saxon ancestors Its name is derivable from the old Saxon word ricce, a stick or staff with which the ball was struck. Mr. Strutt, in his of the People” describes two cuts copTed from old manuscripts of the twelfth cen- ury, which show something of the snort m its primitive form. About a hundred years ago, the laws of cricket, as at present .! T d ’^ Cgan t0 be Wd down. P ng i of bats—the weight of balls_the character of the wicket i . e mined - tn 0 =„ Kec ’ were deter. Tlere'are t Ven ° W proceetl to describe. i , , ar ® to™ games of cricket—double wicket and single wicket. The partv that i« 2s & P p c mng party go in, one at each wicket The ms party takes his place. If, however the batsman strikes the ball, he and his partner commence running to e^eh other’s $£? and back again until the opposite party gets possession of the ball an i n,,! P V change wS ^sLuW eitKf‘the 3^ and 0 „V y e hls ground to strike n . e , ie , 13 aw ay, he is out. When the first bowler has delivered his four or sk and S the 1 fieTl lpire at his wicket caUs “ over,” and the fieldsmen reverse their positions by A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 2.49 Fig. 1. THE BATSMAN. crossing over to the opposite side of the ground. The same number of balls are then delivered from the other wicket by the batsman whose turn it is, and so on alternately. When all the players of the Fig. 2. THE HOME BLOCH. in-party are out, their opponents change places with them, and bowl to them until their innings are over. When each side has had two innings, the runs are counted, and the party that has obtained most is declared conqueror. 766. Bats, Balls, Sttaips. —The bat should not exceed thirty-eight inches in length, nor four and a quarter in breadth in the widest part. A fall size bat ought not to weigh more than two pounds and a Fig. 3. FORWARD PLAY. half. In their manufacture willow is the material chiefly used. The handle is wound round with waxed twine, to afford the player a better grasp, and to lessen the concussion. The blade is about twenty inches, commencing at the shoulder with a 250 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: width of four inches, and increasing' down¬ wards to four inches and a-quarter. It should also be about an inch thicker at the tip than at the shoulder. The face of the bat should be perfectly smooth and slightly convex. The back should be more acutely rounded than the face. In choosing a bat, do not have the handle too thick for the hand to grasp perfectly. The handle should be thickest near the shoulder. When not in use, a bat should not be kept in too dry or in too damp a place, as it is liable to crack when exposed to different tempera¬ tures. A bat when put away, should be rubbed with linseed or sweet oil; by this means it is preserved from splitting. Pig. 4. the draw. J HE should not exceed in weight five ounces and three quarters nor be under five ounces and a-half; the circum¬ ference must not exceed nine inches and a quarter, and it is best formed of four pieces ot leather strongly sewn together/ and forming two perfect hemispheres. When done with, the ball should be greased to preserve the stitches from decay and to prevent the leather from fraying. d ' 68 : T . he Stomps should stand twenty. -e\en inches out of the ground. The best are those made of ash or lance wood. They may be bound either with wire or strong twme, and grooved on the top to hold the inches^ 6 leDgtU ° f Which should bc four /6d. Umpires. Umpires are appointed on either side: one for each party to settle any disputed matters that may occur during the progress of the game. They should be persons who thoroughly know the game have good temper,and are free from all suspi¬ cion of partiality. They stand one at each wicket, the umpire by the striker’s wicket, a little behind it at the on side. Ilis duty is to decide whether the batsman is fairly stumped or not. The umpire at the bow- ler s wicket stands in a direct line behind it: he has to see that the bowler sends the ball rainy, and that the batsman does not pro¬ tect his wicket unfairly with any portion of his body or dress. He also decides in all 0 Fig. 5. THE DRIVE. cases of catches before wicket. The um P1 77n Ch Tl ge «r ickets after each in ™igs. . ' , 0. The Scokees. —One scorer for eacl side is named to mark the runs. They musl St^fil h % PlayerS ’ at some ‘frfcuw* tfrct fel t -u S T es are t0 be kept dis. tinct. Each striker’s runs are marked se¬ parately to Ins name each innings, and when he is out the particulars should be marked- nn7 h f? her b ° Wled ° ut ’ cau S ht > or what not- whomhP Dame °{ the PerSOn attached by 1 ^ , ?. e was P ut out. Overthrows and lost balls are scored to the striker, and the wide balls, no balls and byes one each, to be A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 251 placed in a separate line, and cast up with the innings of the strikers when the innings are finished. 771. The Geohnd. —The ground selected for cricket should be as level as possible, in order that nothing may impede the bowling. The grass should be kept mowed, or cropped close by sheep. The more extensive the cricket-ground is the better. 772. Pitching the Wickets. — The wickets are placed directly opposite to each other; and for adult players the rule is, that they be twenty-two yards apart. For more juvenile cricketers, a lesser distance may be chosen, according to fancy (and the same remark applies to the weight and size of bats, balls and wickets, the preceding rules being those of the perfect game: our young friends will be able to calculate the neces¬ sary allowances for themselves). 773. Bowling Ceease and Popping Ceease. —The former must be in a line with the wicket, six feet eight inches in length, the wicket being in the centre, and having a return crease at each end as right angles with it. The latter must be four feet from the wicket—parallel with it—of about the same length as the bowling crease. 774. The Bats^ian. —The chief occupa¬ tion of the batsman or striker is to defend his wicket. The principal positions he has to assume in that defence, and in propelling the ball, are here described :—Fig. 1. shews him in a position prepared to receive the ball just previous to its delivery. Having once left the bowler’s hand, the batsman’s judgment must determine for him which of the following are immediately necessary. Fig. 2. is the home block. It is the stop¬ ping a well-aimed ball just in front of the wicket. The batsman has calculated that he could not drive the ball to any advan¬ tageous distance, and contents himself, per¬ haps deems himself fortunate in being able, by the home block, to smother it and save his stumps. But the bowler may deliver the ball a little over the dangerous ground; in which case the batsman meets it, as Fig. 3, forward play. What is called the draw is shewn in Fig. 4. It is a difficult and delicate process, and can be best learned by experience, and from watching the best players. Fig. 5. is the drive • 775. USE OF KAIL STALKS IN JERSEY.—After reserving for seed the best plants, the remainder are rooted out in spring, but by no means cease to be useful. They have then attained the height of six feet and above, part are chopped up, dried, and used as fuel; the taller stalks are carefully preserved. Those of a slender form are used as supporters for scarlet- runners, whilst the tall and stout stems are found to be of sufficient solidity to serve as rafters under thatching of out-houses, to which use they are put. 776. INDUSTRIOUS WEEDING BY FLEMISH FARMERS.—It is hardly possible to conceive how much attention is paid by Flemish farmers to the weeding of their land. In their best cultivated dis¬ tricts their exertions are incessant, and fre¬ quently from twenty to thirty women may be seen in one field, kneeling for the pur¬ pose of greater facility in securing and ex¬ tracting the weeds. The weeds collected in spring, particularly when boiled, are much relished by milch cows; and in various parts of Flanders, the farmers get their lands w r eeded by the children of the neighbouring cottagers solely for the privilege of procuring these weeds for their cattle, and by this means converting a nuisance into a benefit. 777. REMEDY FOR CONSUMPTION. —Surprising changes in consumptive sub¬ jects have been wrought in a few weeks by using the following simple recipe:—A pint to a quart a day of coffee made with milk instead of water, and taken at pleasure like other coffee. 778. STRAWBERRY JAM.—Bruise very fine the strawberries gathered when quite ripe, and add to them a small quantity of red currant juice. Beat and sift sugar equal in weight to the fruit, which strew over them, and place the whole in the preserving pan; set them over a clear slow fire, skim them, and then boil for twenty minutes, and put into glasses. 779. TO PICKLE SALMON.—Boil the fish gently till done, strain the liquor, add bay-leaves, pepper corns, and salt; give these a boil, and when cold, add the best vinegar; then put the whole sufficiently over the fish to cover it, and let it remain a month at least. 252 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: 780. TREATMENT OF THE HAIR. The hair requires constant attention on the part of its possessor, and although it should be kept scrupulously clean by brushing, &c., it should never be roughly handled. Both by such treatment, and by improper applica¬ tions, the roots of the hair may be irretriev¬ ably injured. Let those brushes, therefore, which are more immediately applied to the skin of the head be pliable, and rather soft than otherwise, stronger ones being em¬ ployed for the long hair. From the respect¬ able perfumers there are various excellent lotions to be obtained, which are effectual in removing scurf, and otherwise cleansing the hair, and the use of well-prepared vege¬ table oils is advantageous in promoting growth and gloss; but the better class o°f hair-dressers in the present day are so completely au fait at their occupation, that general observations like the above are almost superfluous. They are the arbiters of the destiny of a lady’s nair, and we are happy in believing that they are a con¬ scientious class of people; and never was their skill more severely tried; than at the present moment, when the fashion of the hair, rolled, h la Eugenie, requires an elabo¬ ration of treatment more fastidiously nice than at any former period; not forget¬ ting the profuse trimming with lace, velvet, ribbon, and flowers. What we would infer is, that more artistic taste is now required, although probably much less time, than when a lady’s hair reminded one of a pyra¬ mid of Cheops turned upside down. By the way, the word “ top-heavy ” may, no doubt, be dated from that semi-barbarous period. . The following observations on national customs are derived in part from an excel¬ lent scientific treatise, from which it would appear that every people, however savage, has always had its own peculiar greasy or oily preparation for the hair. The Esquimaux and Greenlander, whose sense of smell is not perhaps so acute as that imputed to those who possess the poetic faculty, patro¬ nise train and seal oil. Some of the South American fair ones on the banks of the Amazon, Orinoco, and their tributaries, visited by the veteran Humboldt, use the more delicate turtle oil; but there are those among them also who, we regret to say, do not scruple to avail themselves of I the fat obtained from the alligator, an ani- mal whose proximity is never to be desired, nor is the shark oil, adopted by the New Zealanders less repellent for its rancid pro¬ perties. Nature is supposed to be a safe guide, but in this instance, the savage or half-civilized people referred to, have °egre- giously erred, as animal fat, with some very few exceptions, is exceedingly injurious to the hair, and is the promoting cause of scro¬ fulous disease of the scalp. Experience pro¬ bably, or a more accurate judgment of the effect produced, has, however, led the dwellers in warm latitudes gene¬ rally to adopt vegetable oils, which are in every respect preferable. In the South of Europe, and throughout the Mediterranean, olive oil is in constant re¬ quest, and that extracted from the cocoa- nut is much used in the West Indies. In the Pacific Islands both the last-named oil and castor oil are used, the latter being an animal oil, somewhat less open to objection when carefully prepared. The oils of the palm, butter-tree, aud earth-nut are vogue among the African people. It is narrated that Cleopatra was the first personage of importance who led the fashion in bear’s grease, and the stuffed effigy of a black or brown bear in the window of a coiffeur is considered a very sufficient evidence of the slaughter of such an animal, “once a month,” for the benefit of the fair comma- nity. But although the fat of ducks, moles, and vipers may not have survived the age of William and Mary, certain it is that beef marrow and hog’s lard play a very distin¬ guished part in the hair-dresser’s laboratory, and greatly economise the destruction of Biuin. Alter all, and taking Dr. Burgess as a guide, there can be no doubt that animal oils are in the main bad. Fluid vegetable oils should be selected as the best means of obviating a deficiency of oleagin¬ ous products in the cells of the hair-tubes. We can easily imagine that a lady has fre¬ quently asked herself how it is that her hair so completely loses its curl and becomes straight and flaccid; but the truth is, that it readily imbibes moisture from both the skin and the atmosphere, when the natural secretion of the lubricating fluid in the tubes of the hair is impeded; and by de¬ grees the latter becomes coarse, harsh, and scurfy. Obviously, therefore, the hair must A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 253 be supplied naturally or artificially with its necessary nourishment; and pure fluid vege¬ table oil is the only desirable application for this purpose. It should be well initiated into the roots of the hair, as well as throughout the general texture, but it should not be lavishly employed, as in that case it would become a clog. We are told by Melville, that the Typee girls devote much of their time to arrang¬ ing their fair and redundant tresses. After bathing, as they sometimes do four or six times a day, the hair is carefully dried, and if they have been in the sea, it is washed in fresh water, and then anointed with per¬ fumed cocoa-nut oil, fit, he observes, for the toilet of a queen. An American poetess says:— “ The glowing sky of the Indian isles Lovingly over the cocoa-nut smiles, And the Indian maiden lies below, When its leaves their graceful shadows throw; She weaves a wreath of the rosy shells That gem the beach where the cocoa dwells; She binds them into her long black hair. And they blush in the braids like rosebuds there. Her soft brown arm and her graceful neck, With those ocean blooms she joys to deck. O, wherever you see The cocoa-nut tree, There will a picture of beauty be!” Enough of this special oil, which is, no doubt, valuable; but the oils which hold a pre-eminence in the present day are a com¬ bination of the choicest vegetable oleagin¬ ous products scientifically prepared, so as to conduce to the preservation and improve¬ ment of the hair. As to hair-dyes, their name is legion, and every coiffeur has his own favourite preparation. Some of these, which are most puffed, are decidedly the worst. Care should be taken to suit the dye to the com¬ plexion and age; and, as a pleasant com¬ ment on this part of our subject, we give the following anecdote:—It appears that at a large and very fashionable dinner party, presided over by a lady of considerable per¬ sonal beauty, but who had found it desirable to have recourse to a jet black dye for the hair, that her little daughter, a fair-haired, blue-eyed sylph of some sLx or seven sum¬ mers, appeared at the dessert with her gol¬ den tresses dyed so as to rival the raven's wing. “ What is the meaning of this ex¬ traordinary change?" and other similar exclamations escaped from both parents and guests. But their astonishment and con* sternation were only met, on the part of the child, with a hearty and ringing laugh, as she described minutely the process of blackening her hair with the materials “used by mamma \”—Hoio to Arrange the Hair (Partridge and Oakey). 781. AN OLD WOMAN'S STORY. I wonder why people never write about beautiful old women. The theme of sylph¬ like figures, and fair young faces has been exhausted; why does not some one write something new about beautiful old women ? For there are many aged females who pos¬ sess the charm of beauty to a most re¬ markable degree, and I have .such an one in my mind's eye at this moment. Dear old Betty Mitchell! I see you now sitting in the chimney-corner of your tidy cottage, with the little round oak table before you, spread with your gaily-coloured tea things, and always ready to tell Miss Caroline some story of your younger days. There that dear old woman used to sit throughout the livelong day, a model of patience and saintly resignation I used to think her; for whether tortured with the rheumatism, or racked with the pains incident to a declin¬ ing body, 1 never heard her once com¬ plain or murmur. She was tall, and must have once been a very fine figure, but when I knew her she was stout and comfortable¬ looking. She had beautiful features, and a still lovely complexion, which was perfectly colourless, and her white hair was always arranged smoothly under her irreproachable mob cap. She had been almost blind for some time, but she could both knit and plait straw, and earned a good deal by her occupation, for she was never idle. I often used to go and read to her, and I believe it was the pleasure she most liked to listen to me while I read the Bible. I was young then, but I remember to this day the pious remarks she used to make after these read¬ ings, and it was my chief delight to go and read to Betty Mitchell. One afternoon, I had gone there very early, meaning to spend some time with my “ own old woman," as I used to call her; and at last I got very tired. I had read till I was hoarse. I had examined for the hundredth time the won¬ derful prints hung against the whitewashed wall, and I had exhausted all the topics of 254 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: conversation. I sat down wearily on the window-seat, and exclaimed, “Oh, Betty, can’t you tell me a story ?” She looked up, and after thinking a moment, replied, Well, Miss Caroline, I think I can j and it is. a story which will do you good to hear, for it is about vanity, and I observe that when you come to pay me a visit, you always go straight to the little looking- glass on the dresser.” I huug my head, for I knew that my own old woman had told the truth, and that I could not say it was not so. Con¬ cluding that I was vexed from my silence, Betty continued, “ You are not angry with me. Miss, I hope, for you know I am an old woman, and have seen the trouble that comes of vanity, so I speak for your good.” “ No, Betty,” said I, with burning cheeks, “ I know you are very good and kind. But tell me the story.” I thought more of the story than the moral at that time, but now I am somewhat older it is the moral I think of most frequently. “Well, Miss Caroline, you have often heard me say,” began Betty, “that in my youth I lived as housemaid in several fami¬ lies. There was Mrs. Flynn, and Miss Rudgcombe, and-” « Oh, Betty, never mind the names,” interrupted I, in despair “the story, the story.” “Well, then, the story, Miss Caroline. At first when I went mto service, I was very young and flighty, and kept, changing and changing; I was never satisfied, and was not grateful for a good place when I got it. Either the work was too hard, or 1 was not allowed to go out enough, and so I kept going from one family to another. At last I got a very good place, as under-housemaid in a grand house, Beverley Hall it was called, and a beautiful one it was. Mr. Beverley was an old gentleman, and he had two daughters, such sweet young ladies, Miss Caroline; I remember them well now. There was Miss Beverley, she was about twenty, and was at the head of her father’s house, and there was Miss Rosa, she was two or three years younger, and her father used to call her his wild-rose. Miss Beverley was very hand¬ some, and she had dark glossy hair, and a pale, brown complexion, and a proud haughty look, that became her well, and Mr. Beverley called her the princess. And yet she was not haughty towards those who were beneath her in station. If I ever met her in the passages, she had always a kind word to say to me. The poor respected her very much also, but they did not love her as they did Miss Rosa, for she had a kind soft way of speaking, that won all hearts, and I believe there was not a creature in the whole vil¬ lage who would not willingly have given his life-blood for her, if it had been necessary. But though Miss Beverley was kind, yet it was a proud kindness, and she always ap¬ peared so grandly dressed, that the common people stood in awe of her. I have heard that few in her own rank of life liked her, she was so haughty, and seemed to stand above them, so they said she gave herself airs. She was very jealous of her sweet blooming sister, because she thought her father preferred the wild-rose to the prin¬ cess, and because many thought Miss Rosa more beautiful than she was, and every one liked her more. We servants used to say among ourselves that we loved Miss Rosa, but that we feared Miss Beverley, and it was just the difference between their two charac¬ ters. Miss Beverley was very vain; she knew she was beautiful, and she was very pioud of her beauty. She used to spend hours at her glass, and her mind told us she could seldom arrange her hair to her satis¬ faction. She never passed a looking-glass without just glancing at herself, and it frightens me when you do so. Miss Caroline, for I think that your vanity may lead you to the same end lier’s did. Their father was very hospitable, and the house was always full of visitors. Among them came a Mr. Montague, a tall, dark, handsome, stern-looking, man of about thirty. Just at that time Miss Rosa had taken me for her own maid. Before that the two sisters had but one maid between them, but Miss Beverley always kept her so much in attendance on her that Miss Rosa could scarcely ever obtain assistance. I was clever at my needle, and Mrs. Payne (Miss Beverley’s maid) taught me how to dress hair, and Miss Rosa one day asked me how 1 should like to be her maid. It was the thing I had often longed for, so I wa 3 advanced to the post of lady’s maid, and took my meat in the housekeeper’s room along with the upper servants. After a short time the butler let drop hints to the housekeeper before us, how Miss Beverley A FAMILY REPOSITORY. 255 was laying herself out to make Mr. Mon¬ tague fall in love with her, and how she thought that he really was, while it was Miss Rosa to whom he paid attention. Miss Beverley grew very pale, but more proudly beautiful than ever, and she moved about the house with the step of a queen. The servants began to dislike her haughty manners, and said she was eaten up with pride and vanity. The men servants said that she was constantly talking to Mr. Montague, singing and playing for him, and trying to keep him beside her, but that while he was with her he always looked uneasy and kept glancing towards where Miss Rosa sat, quietly working, and very seldom speaking. Her sister treated her quite like a child, and seldom consulted her wishes; for all that sho bore it like an angel, and never murmured, though Pve often and often seen her cry, and I am sure that was the reason. The two sisters* rooms adjoined each other, and one morning I was in Miss Rosa’s arranging something, and Miss Beverley called my young mistress into her room. The door which commu¬ nicated with the two apartments was open, and I could not help hearing all that was said. I ought to have gone and shut the door, but I did not, and I am ashamed to say was glad of the chance of overhearing all that passed. Miss Beverley was speak¬ ing angrily to her sister, and I soon found that Mr. Montague was the subject of their conversation. Miss Beverley was accusing Miss Rosa of trying to take his love from her, and I heard her sister say very gently, “ Eleanor” (that was Miss Beverley’s name), “ I am sure you are mistaken. Do not be angry or think I have any other motive than love for you. I do not think that Mr. Montague entertains such feelings for you as you seem to fancy. Do be guided by reason, dear sister; he scarcely speaks to you, and he always leaves you whenever there is an opportunity.” I did not see Miss Beverley, but I could be sure that she drew* herself up haughtilv, and that anger flashed from her dark eyes, from the tone in which she interrupted her sister. “ Rosa,” said she, “ how dare you speak to me in this manner ? Believe me, I am no weak girl as you are; I do not love or hate in vain. I could not bear in silence. like you, the pain of unrequited love. I tell you, Rosa, that I have never loved any one till I saw Mr. Montague, not even my father or you ! My heart has only room for one ; and I We as intensely as I can hate! Should it be as you say, that Pelham Mon¬ tague does not love me, and that I am de¬ ceived, then I say, Rosa, that death alone can wipe out the remembrance.” All was silent for a moment, and then I heard my dear young mistress weeping. “ Oh, Eleanor !” she said, “ do not utter such fearful words. Love like yours is not love; it is only passionate vanity and pride. You think of your gorgeous beauty, dearest, and you fancy no one can see it unmoved. Do not turn from me in that way; even if you do not love me, remember I am your sister, and hear me in patience. Jf you were to have the small-pox, what would be¬ come of you then ? seamed for life, a repul¬ sive object to all but me and that dear father you say you do not love. Oh, Elea¬ nor, Eleanor, try to overcome this feeling; it is wicked, it is sinful.” There was no reply from Miss Beverley, and soon after my own mistress came into her room, where I still sat. I knew I had been doing wrong, but I would not leave the apartment and pretend I had not heard, when I really had. Miss Rosa was crying bitterly when she came in, and she started on seeing me, and grew very pale. “ You have heard all!” she said. I burst into tears, and begged her to for¬ give me. “ I do,” she said sorrowfully; “ it was very natural:” she came up quite close to me, and said, “I believe you love me, Mitchell.” “ Do I not, dear Miss Rosa ?” said I. “ I love you dearly; and oh! I wish I could do something for you.” "You can,” said she. “ Promise me, Mitchell, that you will not repeat a word of what you have heard to-day.” I promised, as you may well believe, Miss Caroline; and my dear young lady laid her head on my shoulder, and wept for a long time, and I could not comfort her, all I could do or say. Matters went on in this way for a month or more. Miss Beverley growing more and more pale and proud, and Miss Rosa droop¬ ing like a lily. Her sister was so unkind to 256 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: her, and said such sharp things, that she used often to come up to her own room, and. sit and cry, glad to be alone, that she might give vent to her feelings. I used to find her lying on the sofa in her bed-room, with her face buried in the cushions. And Miss Beverley would be in the drawing-room, talking to Mr. Montague, and making her¬ self so agreeable as she could do when she chose. And he, they said, seemed to be in a dream; for he scarcely ever spoke, or made a single remark; but when Miss Rosa came into the room, then he brightened up immediately; and it was easy to see who it was that occupied his thoughts. One day (Miss Rosa told me of it a long time after¬ wards) Miss Beverley came into her sister’s room, in high spirits, and even kissed her. “Well, Rosa,” said she, “how will you construe this ? Mr. Montague has been scolding me for behaving too severely towards you. Is not that a proof of attach¬ ment ? for no man in his senses would ever think of presuming so far as to lecture a young lady were he not in love with her. It is, indeed, a proof of most disinterested, fearless attachment.” A deep flush mounted to Miss Rosa’s pale cheek, and her sister, observing it, ex¬ claimed angrily— “ I believe you think Mr. Montague is in love with^ow, foolish child that you are !’* And she swept out of the room. Miss Rosa and I used often to get up early in the morning, and go out for a walk before breakfast. She generally read some religious book to me while we walked, and she always treated me with such kindness and condescension. Ah ! there are few like her! She was too good for this sinful world. One morning we had scarcely got as far as the avenue when Mr. Montague came to join us. He looked very much agitated, and gave me a look, as much as to say that I was not wanted. I took the hint, and lingered behind till they were out of sight. I would not return to the house, for I knew that the servants would ask me where Miss Rosa was, and I did not wish to be questioned, for I did not know exactly what to say. So I stood gathering flowers on the bank, and hoping and praying that whatever Mr. Montague might say would have the effect of cheering my dear Miss Rosa. In about lialf-an-hour Mr. Montague came back alone, as pale as ashes. On seeing me, he exclaimed—“ Go to your mistress, instantly; she has fainted.” He pointed out the way I was to go, and then disappeared among the bushes. I flew along the path with a beating heart and trembling limbs, and at some distance, beneath a tree, I found Miss Rosa. She was just coming to herself as I came up, and 1 lifted her tenderly in my arms. She opened her eyes with a deep sigh, and looked anxiously about her.” “ Is he gone ?” asked she, trying to walk; then seeing that no one was near but my¬ self, said, “ I am so glad.” I offered her my arm, for she could scarcely stand, and as we emerged from the plantation, I looked suddenly round, and saw Mr. Montague standing behind a tree. The expression of his countenance I shall never forget. Deep grief and despair were written on every fea¬ ture, and my heart bled for the poor gentle¬ man and for Miss Rosa; I was sure she loved him, and that he loved her, and thought that he must have spoken his mind to her that morning. I felt certain that she had refused him, from love to her cruel, hard-hearted sister, and my suspicions were true. Miss Rosa told me afterwards that those terrible words of her sister’s, “ death alone can wipe out the remembrance if I am deceived,” haunted her night and day, and that she had resolved to refuse the man she really loved from affection for Miss Beverley. “ She seems so wild,” she said to me that very morning, as she lay on the sofa, and I bathed her forehead. “ I some¬ times think she is scarcely in her right senses. Mitchell, there is no one I can trust so well as you; watch her well, and after she hears that Mr. Montague is gone, do not let her go out of the house without telling me.” This w r as in the morning before break¬ fast. Miss Rosa did not go down stairs, she was too faint and weak. Mr. Montague was not of the party at the breakfast table. They sent to his room—he was not there— and they despatched the men-servants to °ok for him in the grounds. Miss Bever- ..ey, the butler said, seemed to grow paler and prouder every moment; there was no colour in her lips, but there was a bright¬ ness in her eye that was absolutely fearful bo look at. Miss Rosa was so nervous that 257 A FAMILY REPOSITORY. she begged me not to leave her for an instant, so I stayed with her, and when I heard the-other servants in the passages, I just went out to hear how things were going on. At last they told me that a note from Mr. Motague had been brought to Mr. Beverley, apologising for his rudeness in leaving the house so suddenly, but plead¬ ing urgent business of the utmost import¬ ance. Mr. Beverley had remarked, handing it to his daughter, who sat as if glued to her chair, “ The letter looks as if he had written it during an earthquake—what a shaky hand ! ” Miss Beverley pretended to take no notice of the letter, but the butler observed that she put it in her pocket when no one else was looking. Miss Rosa was so exhausted that she fell asleep, and I sat by her with my work, thinking of all that had happened, and how it would end, when Miss Beverley glided into the room. I never saw any one look so awfully before. Miss Caroline, and I never have since. Her complexion was like that of a dead person, ashy grey—and her lips were quite blue - . Her eyes, I could not look at them, they were like coals of fire. She walked up steadily to the sofa where Miss Rosa was lying asleep. I sprang from my chair, and placed myself before my young mistress. “If you please, ma’am,” said I, as re¬ spectfully as I could, “ Miss Rosa is asleep.” She looked at me for a moment as if un¬ decided, then stretched out her hand, and laid it on my wrist with such a grasp, that I bore the mark for many days after¬ wards. She pushed me aside without speak¬ ing, then bent over her sister, while 1 leant against a chair so frightened that I could not move, for I thought she was out of her mind. She stooped down and murmured between her closed teeth, “Your desires are satisfied, and you shall see the result,” then left the room. A few minutes after Miss Rosa woke, trembling all over. I bent over her, and spoke to her soothingly, and she soon recovered sufficiently to be able to tell me what had frightened her. “ Oh! Mitchell” she said, “ I have just dreamt such a fearful dream. I thought my sister was standing over me, and said, “Your desires are satisfied, he has left me; you shall see the result.” 1 would not tell her that it was a reality and not a dream, for I No. 9. thought it would alarm her still more, and she was so nervous and ill that I was afraid it might bring on a brain fever. I did not leave her all the day, as much from my own wish as from her’s, for I was really begin- ning to think that Miss Beverley was not in her right mind, and I dreaded lest she should come up and say anything unkind and cruel to her poor sister. All that day she was more than usually gay, and seemed even to forget her haughtiness; people said she had soon consoled herself fcr Mr. Montague’s loss, and some even hinted that he had proposed to her and been re¬ fused; no one guessed the real truth. I thought once that I would go and speak to Mr. Beverley, and tell him bold all I knew, and how that I wished a watch might be set over Miss Beverley till she was more composed; but then, again, I knew that it would be very intrusive of me if it were to prove that my suspicions were not correct, and so I dared not say anything, but I deter¬ mined to sleep in the same room with Miss Rosa that night. There was to be a grand party and ball in the evening, and Miss Beverley went, up early to dress. She came into her sister’s room before she went down stairs, and I had never seen her look more beautiful than she did then. Her cheeks were flushed, which improved her appearance very much, and she was magni¬ ficently dressed. Miss Rosa looked tiimdly up as she entered, and would have risen from her sofa, only her sister went kindly towards her, and kissing her, said, “ Poor child, you look quite ill, lie still and do not move for me. Mitchell,” turning to me, “ will you go down stairs and fetch me a glass of lemonade ? I am so thirsty this evening; I shall wait here for it.” I obeyed ; I would have given worlds not to have left the room, for there was something in Miss Beverley’s eye that frightened me still, so I flew down stairs like lightning, and the first person I met was the housekeeper. “ Mitchell,” said she, “ what is the matter, you look as if you had seen a ghost ? Is Miss Rosa ill ?” “No,” I gasped, for I was quite out of breath; “Miss Beverley wants a glass of lemonade.” “ Oh, is that all; she desired that this might be kept for her in particular, 5 * and she gave me a glass on a silver waiter, and K 258 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: I again returned as fast as possible to my young lady’s room ; when I got there Miss Beverley was gone. “My sister said you were so long in fetching it that she could not wait,” said Miss Rosa; “ you may give it to me, I feel as if something inside me was burning.” I was just about to give it to her when I re¬ membered that Miss Beverley had been down in the housekeeper’s room part of the afternoon, looking that everything was right for the party, and that this had astonished the servants very much ; for, in a large es¬ tablishment like that, it was both unusual and unnecessary for the lady of the house to attend to anything herself, and Miss Beverley had never done so before. Then I recollected that the housekeeper had said that the glass of lemonade in particular, had been put by for her, at her own request. Was not all lemonade the same ? and what reason could she have for acting in so pecu¬ liar a manner ? This all passed through my mind in a moment, and when Miss Rosa asked a second time for the lemonade, I made a step forward, and pretending to stumble, let fall the glass, and the lemonade was all spilt on the floor. “Really, Mitchell, you are very awkward,” said my mistress, gently. “The acid will take all the colour out of the carpet.” I feigned sorrow for the accident, though I was very glad of the result. What was it to me if a hundred carpets were destroyed so that it saved my dear young lady’s life ? Then she told me to come and sit by her, saying that she felt quite happy, for that Miss Beverley had told her that she did not care now for Mr. Montague, and would think no more about him. In spite of this I felt uneasy, and determined to sit up that night with Miss Rosa. I went down stairs and was told how Miss Beverley was dancing, and how happy and merry she seemed, quite like another creature, and how all the guests were delighted with her pleasing manners. I returned to my mistress’s room, and assisted her to bed, for she was ill and worn out. I then went to the door which communicated with her sister’s room, and tried to shut it, for it had been open all the evening. “ My sister tried to shut it while you were away, Mitchell,” said Miss Rosa, “ but she could not manage it.” I knew that the door shut perfectly before Miss Beverley came into the room, and now the lock was tampered. I could not shut it. 1 took the candle to see what could be the reason, and looking down on the floor, accidentally, I saw the broken blade of a penknife. With my mind full of strange misgivings, I stood still in Miss Beverley’s room, and while there, Mrs. Payne, her maid, entered. She advanced to me, with her finger on her lip, walked to the dressing table, and took up a long thick lock of dark hair. “ What do you think of that ?” said she, holding it for me to look at. “ Why, it is Miss Beverley’s,” whispered I, fearing to disturb Miss Rosa. “ Just so,” replied Mrs. Payne: “ I could not manage her hair as she liked, and, without speaking a word, she put up her hand, took hold of this ringlet, which would not curl properly, and pulled it out of her head, as if it had been a single hair. I said, ‘ Law, Miss!’ and she turned round, glared in my face with those flashing eyes of hers, and said, ‘ Be silent!’ and she never spoke another word the whole time I was dressing her. I declare I was so frightened I didn’t know what to think.” “ I was frightened, too, as you may sup¬ pose, Miss Caroline,” continued Betty Mitchell, glancing to where I sat, with eyes dilated to their widest stretch, my hands clasped round my knees, and my imagina¬ tion already anticipating what was to come. She continued—“ Mrs. Payne kept look¬ ing about the table, and suddenly exclaimed, ‘ Why, who in the world has done this— broken Miss Beverley’s pearl-handled pen¬ knife, that she valued so much ? It must have been the housemaid. She’ll catch it !’” • I knew well who had broken the pen¬ knife, but I did not say a word. I ought to have gone straight to Mr. Beverley and told him all, but I feared to do so. I determined, however, not to let sleep close my eyes that night. I went down and asked for a strong cup of coffee, say¬ ing I had a headache, which, indeed, was true. I knew that the coffee would keep me awake while my mistress slept soundly, for ' she was fast asleep already, worn out with A FAMILY REPOSITORY. anxiety and sorrow. One of the footmen was my cousin; I went to him, and offered him part of my next quarter’s wages (for I knew he would do nothing without money) if he would promise to sit up all night in a small unoccupied room at the end of the corridor. I would not tell him my reason, out he was very willing to sit up one night for a sovereign, and readily promised to do so. I told him to wait till everybody was in bed, and then to steal, without a candle, to the room at the end of the passage, where I would meet him with a light, for he was afraid of sitting up alone in the dark. Then I returned to Miss Rosa’s room. Mrs. Payne was sitting there—watching her while she slept—for she had offered to take my place, while I went down for a cup of coffee, as I had complained to her of a headache. When I entered she rose, and went into Miss Beverley’s room. A mo¬ ment after I heard a suppressed scream from her, and then she came to the door, as white as a sheet, and beckoning for me to go to her. I went. “ Look here,” said she, opening the drawer of the washstand; “what can my mistress be going to do ?” I looked, and saw a paper, wrapped up as if it contained a powder, and on it was written—“ Poisox— Arsenic.” " Miss Caroline, I thought I should have fainted, I was so frightened !” I was certain, now, that the young lady was either mad, or meditating suicide. However, I said not a word. c “ Miss Beverley,” continued Mrs. Payne, “ has used this as a cosmetic; at least/has put it in a mixture. Last week, when she had done, she said to me, laughing, ‘ Payne you are much older than I am, aud more fit to be trusted with this. I am afraid of keeping it myself—so take it, and mind you lock it up safe, so that no one can get at it.’ I did so, and Miss Beverley never spoke of it again till this morning, when she said, suddenly, soon after break¬ fast, Payne, I hope you keep that arsenic quite safe ; where do you put it ?’ I said I kept it in a locked box on my chest of drawers, and soon after I missed my keys. I looked about for them all the morning and then I said to her, ‘Do you know, rna am, I am quite frightened about that arsenic, for I have lost my keys !* 259 Oh! said she, ‘you need not be alarmed; you left your keys on my dressing- table, and I put them in my diawer. Here they are, and she gave them to me I never thought more about the matter ex¬ cept that it was very strange I should have left my keys on Miss Beverley’s dressing- ta 3le; but now I find the arsenic here, and l cannot account for it: unless she took the keys out of my pocket by stealth, and went to my room, to unlock the box where the arsenic was.” Mrs. Payne looked very anxious and very much frightened, and so I told her all my suspicions, how that Miss Beverley was insane from mortified vanity and pride, and how that I thought she intended to have poisoned her innocent sister with the lemonade in which arsenic had been put. Mrs. Payne was for alarm- mg the house and having her secured, but I said it would be the worst thin- she could do, for that I had heard a great deal about the cunning of mad people, and that an alarm would only put her on her guard against any display of insanity. She pro- raised to sit up all night in her own room for she was too timid to watch with me and we separated for the night, I throw¬ ing the arsenic into the fire, and substitut¬ ing a harmless medicine powder, in the paper. The ball was coming to an end people were driving away, but Miss Rosa slept through it all. I fit the nightliglit, took off my shoes and established myself behind the thick damask curtains, leaving the least bit imaginable open at one side so that I might see what passed without fear of being seen. I took care first to hide the broken glass, m which the lemonade had been, for I thought that the doctors might be able to discover if there was poison in the bottom of the glass which was not quite empty. Mrs. Payne had promised to take my cousin, the footman, his light, so I had nothing to do, but sit on the chair in the recess of the window and wait. Presentlv Miss Beverley came up to bed. Mrs. Payne waited to undress her, but the youn- fody sent her away almost immediately 0 The door being open, owing to the tampered lock, I could see into the room from mv corner. Miss Beverley sat down at the writing-table and wrote for some minutes 260 THE CORNER CUPBOARD: folded it into a note, and laid it on the dressing table. Then she opened the drawer where the supposed arsenic was, and a fearful smile played over her features. She mixed the powder with water in a glass, then set it down on the washing stand, muttering all the while to herself. I watched trembling with fear. Then she walked quietly into Miss Rosa’s room, and my heart beat so loud that I thought she would have heard it. My dear young mistress lay in a sweet child-like slumber, and as her sister bent over her, I thought I saw a look of irresolution pass over her face; it was but for a moment, the hard insane expression triumphed immediately, and she returned to her own room. I saw her take from its case a small, jewelled dagger, which one of her cousins had brought her from Italy, as a curiosity, for I dare say you know Miss Caroline, that the women there all wear daggers. I had seen quite enough. I left my hiding place tremblingly, and flew to the door which opened on the passage, and which I had purposely left ajar. James was standing at the door of the room, in which he had been sitting without his shoes, and he flew forward in answer to my beckoning. We reached Miss Rosa’s apartment, and peeped in. Miss Beverley glided in from her own room, looking cautiously about with the dagger in her hand. She advanced to the bed;. in another moment Miss Rosa would have been a corpse, but I flew forward and dashed the dagger out of her grasp, while James secured her hands, and dragged her out into the passage, hollowing loudly for aid. I bolted the door instantly to prevent her returning, as also that of her own, and then returned to my mistress. The noise was fearful in the passage, and it awoke Miss Rosa; how she slept through that fearful scene in the bed-room I cannot imagine. Seeing me beside her, she sprang up and caught my arm. “ Oh, Mitchell, what is the matter ?” said she. I said that the house had been attacked by robbers, but that they were all gone now. It was an untruth, but surely it was excusable. Miss Beverley’s screams became awful, and I could hear the voices of Mr. Be¬ verley, the butler, James, and the two other footmen, so I knew that she was secured. “ But that is my sister!” exclaimed Miss Rosa, springing out of bed; “ is she hurt ?” “ Oh, no, miss!” said I; “ perhaps she is in hysterics ” (remember, I am not advocating falsehood, Miss Caroline, if it were to come over again, I would not tell those untruths). “Don’t be frightened. Miss Rosa, dear, if I go and see after Miss Beverley, but promise me you will not stir from your bed.” She promised, and I carefully unbolted the door; near it was standing Mr. Beverley, with the tears run¬ ning down his cheeks. He thanked me w r itk the utmost condescension for what I had done, and I then asked where Miss Beverley ■was, for the screams grew fainter and fainter. “They are taking her to the farthest end of the house,” replied the poor father; “three men can hardly hold her. But, my Rosa, where is she ? how did it Jill happen ?” I told him everything in a few words, about Mr. Montague and all. He sighed deeply and shook his head, saying,— “ Vanity began it, poor girl. Oh, my child, my child!” He burst into tears. Miss Caroline, it is a dreadful thing to see a strong man weep. I begged him to compose himself, and go to re-assure Miss Rosa, and to carry out the deception I had begun, for that night at least. He went into her room while I flew along the corridor, and meeting James, I asked what they had done with Miss Beverley. “ They have taken her to the blue room,” he replied, “ and the doctor has been sent for. She is raving in madness, and talks about her beauty slighted and despised by Mr. Montague. It is very dreadful,” and he hastened on. I turned back; Mr. Beverley was standing at the door of Miss Rosa’s room. He told me she was quite satisfied with what he had said, and I then left him, and went to her. She was composing herself to sleep again, with a calmness that I could not understand; I lay down on the sofa, for I could not leave her that night, and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. I thought of all that had happened, and how vanity had begun it, and I thought of the young lady’s poor father’s sorrowful exclamation, “ Vanity began it. Oh! my child, my child.” By her vanity alone she had ruined the future peace and happiness of her sweet young sister; and for herself, I feared she would iiot even find rest or happiness in death. Miss Rosa being fast asleep, I remembered tlie note that I had seen her sister write •and went into the next room. It was directed to Miss Rosa, and as Mr. Beverley had charged me to destroy anything of the kind which might be found about the room, without bringing it to him (for the poor gentleman could not bear to see the evidences of his daughter’s insanity), I burned it to ashes in the flame of the candle, without even reading it, and then I returned to Miss Rosa’s room. And how did she bear the news in the morning ?” interrupted I. Oh, said Betty Mitchell, “ she was in¬ consolable. She thought, poor dear, that it was partly her own fault, though she was told over and over again that no blame could possibly be attached to her.” Miss Beverley did not recover her reason till her death, seven months afterwards. !>he was kept in her own apartments at the extreme end of the house, and had two women as keepers always with her. Miss Rosa grew more and more drooping every oay; her constitution was breaking up under all her sorrows. I know that she could not overcome her love for Mr. Montague, but of course no one ever mentioned his name, as he was the unconscious cause of Miss Beverley’s madness. The family lived as quietly as possible after this had hap¬ pened, saw no society, and were never seen outside their owii gates except at church. Miss Beverley grew very ill, and the doctor said there was no hope, for that she would die. This was about seven months after her becoming mad. A few hours before her death she recovered her reason and begged to see Miss Rosa and her’ father. Ihey came, and kissed her affec¬ tionately, and she held both their hands as if she could never see enough of them! lben she asked to be alone with them I and the nurses went out of the room’ -eaving them together. Then Miss ifeverley confessed how vain she had been of her beauty, and her pique at discover¬ ing that Mr. Montague was insensible to it and how she had mistaken praise for love' How her vanity had led her on from bad to worse—how she was sure that Mr. Montague had spoken to Miss Rosa the 261 morning he had left so suddenly, and asked her to marry him, and she had refused from love for her sister. Then she said she had felt a burning hatred for Miss Rosa and she knew now that it had been mad! ness. .She sent Miss Rosa away, after hear mg she forgave her, and then she impfored her father as he valued her future peace to ff2^ f ° r i. M \ M0ntagUe - ^refused at hist, thinking it would excite her and hasten her end, but she entreated so earnestly, saying that she had a deed of reparation to make before she died that he consented. It was then four in the ^ M ° nt , agUe COuld not Possibly come before noon, but Miss Beverley i„. sisted upon being carried out of bed, dressed and laid upon the sofa in her sitting-room! v-he called JInss Rosa to her, and asked her to read the Bible, and after she had done so some tune. Miss Beverley clasped her thin white hands together, and said,_ tW J i * D m V ^ my Redee “er liveth, and that Ins blood alone can atone for my fear¬ ed* 0h> th<3 “ erCy ° f a P ard oning She scarcely spoke again all the morning and appeared to be sinking so rapidly tint wc feared she would be no LrelSg before Mr. Montagues arrival. She lay on the an^inf-int expression of “M f £ d was so thankful and gentle when we did anything for her. Her eyes were frequently lifted to heaven, as if she were praying and I believe she wa^. with ?T Sat i at her feet ’