306 £xwilg JfiMk BABY LILLY. BY LUCY HAMILTON HOOPER. She was a purer, fairer bud Than summer’s sun uncloses; Spring brought her with the violets ; She left us with the roses. A little pillow, where the print Of her small hoad yet lingers ; A Eilver coral, tarnished o’er With clasp of tiny fingers: A mound, the rose bush at the head Were all too long to measure:— And this is all that Heaven has left Of her, our little treasure. O human pearl, so pale and pure ! O little lily blossom ! The a'ngels lent a little space To grace a mortal bosom. The azure heavens bend above, Unpitying and cruel; A casket all too cold and vast To shrine our little jewel. Wo cannot picture her to mind, An angel, crowned and holy ; A fair and helpless human thing, Our hearts still keep her solely. Sleep, baby, calmly in thy nest Amid the fading flowers, The while we strive to learn the words, “ God’s will be done—not ours !” WINDOW BLINDS. The September number of the Herald 'Of Health has a sound wholesome article on the perniciousness of the fashionable fancy for darkened rooms and deeply shaded dwellings. It accords so well with observations of our own which long since led us into the same opinions, that we willingly transfer the material para graphs to our columns. We could name families in the surroundings of this city, where daughters have been swept into the grave by the mere process of wilting down, and where sons have grown thin, pale and devoid of physical energy, from what seems to us, though not to them, a mani fest cause—living in.houses which the broad sunlight never reaches except in winter when the shade trees are leafless. Concerning the like physical heresy of constantly darkening rooms with heavy window blinds, the Herald discourses as follows: ‘ It is well known by all physiologists and agriculturists, that neither animals nor vegetables grow and thrive without sunlight. Plant any kind of grain or vegetable in the shade, and in ninety nine cases in a hundred you will not pro duce enough to pay the planting. So too with the lower animals. Shut them away from the sunlight, keep them in dark stables, barn cellars and the like, and they never thrive like those which have free access to the great source of light. What should these things teach US ? Human beings physically are gov erned by the same natural laws, so far as the sources of life and health are con cerned—such as pure air, water, sunlight, etc. —as the lower animals.. Horses, cows, swine, and other animals kept in. damp stables, and low, wet pens, are a hundred-fold more liable to disease than those kept in aparments that are high and dry. Families living in damp houses, or in low, wet localities, are sub ject to colds, coughs, intermittent fevers, neuralgia, rhematism, and numerous other forms of disease. Now it needs no particular demonstration to convince a person of common observation that dark ness and dampness go together. During a rainstorm the earth’s surface becomes wet; let the rain cease, and it will still coutinue dark and cloudy, and the water will remain for a long time. But let the Bun appear in all his brilliancy, and we can soon roam the field without damp ening our feet. During these storms,. the inside as well as outside of dwellings accumulate dampness. If from the rooms of these dwellings we shut out the sunlight, and more especially the at mospheric with it they will remain damp almost indefinitely. Hqnce, these rooms, to be in the best condition for the health and comfort of those who oc cupy them, should receive plenty of light and plenty of fresh air. Then again, if dwelling-houses could be made perfectly dry with the exclusion of sunlight, al though this would be a better condition of things than a damp room without light, yet the light of the sun would stiM be essential to the vigorous growth, and health and happiness of all the occupants of such houses. - Now, go with me from town to town throughout the country, during spring, summer, and autumn, and examine the dwellings in reference to this subject, and you will find that our people, instead of acting on the fundamental law that sunlight is conducive to health, practice almost entirely on the opposite principle; and one would conclude from observation thiat the Americans actually believe that coining in contact with the sun’s rays, or freely admitting sunlight into our dwel lings, is one of the most dangerous prac tices known. Blinds are kept shut almost constantly on the South, East, and West sides of houses; rooms are kept dark as Egypt, week after week, and month after month; and the two prominent reasons almost universally given -for this nearly total exclusion of light from our dwellings, are: First, that it saves us the trouble of flies; Becond, it preserves our carpets from ■fading; and this is all true. Flies, from inßtinct, seek a light! healthy. location; hence, when we darken our rooms; they withdraw their patronage. Carpets are so colored that bright sunlight will fade them, and by shutting them away from sunlight they retain their bright colors. But the question is, shall we make our dwellings unhealthy for the sake of these advantages ? Doing so, to my mind, is as inconsistent as it is for the farmer to plant corn on a sandbank to save the trou ble of weeds, instead of planting on good soil, and then taking care of his weeds. The sandbank will not grow weeds, nei ther will it grow corn; but the rich soil that will give vigorous weeds, under proper cultivation, will give a good crop of vegetables. A room made so dark and unhealthy that flies will not inhabit it, is also unhealthy for human beings to dwell in; while a room in a condition to give vigorous and healthy flies, other things being equal, will give vigorous and healthy people. It may he unpleas ant to look upon a faded carpet, hut the true father and true mother should much prefer to look upon a faded carpet than upon a diseased and ia,&e&daughter. And as our carpets retain their beauty by shutting out sunlight from our dwellings,- so, also, do our daughters, who for long days are shut up in these dwellings, lose their health and beauty for the’want of this sunlight. We do not contend that the misuse of window blinds is the whole cause of the very marked debility among our young females, but we do know that it is one among, many of the so-called modern improvements, that, when com bined, are rapidly degenerating our peo ple. Window blinds; as ornaments upon houses may be very desirable; but so far as their real use is concerned, in this climate they are little needed. They should be used .ten times to shut out the light of the moon, while they are used hut once to shut out the light of the sun. It may he agreeable, during very hot weather, to have a dark, cool room to which we can retire in the heat of the day, and it would also be a luxury, at suhh times, to get into a cool cellar or even a frog pond; but our stays in such places should be of short duration. “ Well, hut,” says the young lady, and the mother even, “ if we let the sun shine on us, we.shall get tanned. Perhaps you may get slightly tanned, and it may improve your beauty alittle. We always like to see a clean face, but are never partial to a. pale face. And I will here state a fact which I challenge any one to gainsay. And it is this: The young lady who has free access to the open air and sunlight, with color in ner face, and is even a little tanned, has a cleaner tongue and a sweeter ' breath than the pale-faced young' lady, who, to improve her beauty, shuts herself away from the genial influence of the sun and fresh air. The pale-faced, young., lady whom some think beautiful, is never healthy ; her digestion is always faulty, consequently, other things being equal, she never has that clean tongue and childlike sweetness of the breath as does the young lady who receives the invigorating influence of pure air and sunlight, though per chance she may get slightly tanned. The sunburnt young soldier, who returns from the war with honor and glory, has a purer breath, can give his mother,-sis ter, or sweetheart a morewholesomekiss, than his pifie-faced brother who has measured tape in the shade during his absence. Some people may ridiculbf hese ideas, but they are physiological facts that will stand as long as -nature’s laws exist,, and so long as all animals and vegetables on this earth depend upon electricity from the sun to give them life and health. BREAD UPON THE WATERS. ; It was a gloomy room in a crowded tenement house, low, narrow, and un wholesome, and a pale-faced child was its only inmate. She was a confirmed invalid—you might trace that in- her hollow cheeks and the strange, unnatural lustre of her large blue eyes; the flame of life was burning low on the altar of her childish being, yet here she was alone, in the old arm-chair, in which she re clined with one .or two pillows, and a rude pine-box was the only support of' her tiny blue-veined feet. There was no carpet on the moulding floor, and in more than one place, door and window had yielded to the remorseless hand of decay, and presented a most dilapidated aspect. Yet all the scanty furniture was arranged as neatly as possible, and there were even some faint attempts at taste, as in a bit of gaily coloured chintz spread over a child’s foot-stool, and a solitary flower placed in the window-seat, where the sun beams could touch its emerald leaves. That flower! It had been poor Katy’s companion long. Its royal beauty and luxuriance seemed strangely out of place in the squalid, low-ceiled room, yet it gr-ew and flourished as if in the velvet sod of Bendemeer’s stream. And little Katy lay back in her comfortless chair, and looked at the splendid, rose, which quivered like a ruby drop-among the leaves, and watched the sunlight writing its golden message on the crimsom folds of the blossoms with a vague feeling of wonder. - It was so strange that the radiant sun, whose glory lay on marble pillars and stately dwellings far away, should come to peep into her ionely room. “ Is that you Jamie ?” said she, softly, as the door opened, and a boy of twelve came in. - “ Yes. Do you feel any better, Katy? Are you tired of being left alone ?” And the boy looked into her blue eyes, and parted the auburn hair from her forehead with a loving touch. “ Not very; but there is such a weary aching around my heart, and sometimes PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 29,1864. it seems all on fire. How cool your hands feel, Jamie!” “Nevermind, Katy, I’ve been sawing wood, and earned a whole quarter, and I’m going to lay it out in apples and oranges to sell down town. I’ll make a mint of money, and then won’t we have a good supper when mother comes home from work ? I shouldn’t wonder if we had a bit of cake and a bunch of grapes over and above the medicine the dispens ary doctor ordered for you.” Katy smiled and shook her head, as if deprecating this piece of extravagance. “ Yes, we will, Katy,” resumed her brother; “ ’tain’t often we taste anything but dry bread and cheese, and I haven’t forgotten that it’s your birth-day, sis; you’re ten years old to-day. Besides, you need something to put a shade of color into these cheeks ; the doctor said you must have something to tempt your ap petite.” He bent down to kiss the marble fore head' as he spoke. “ How lovely that rose is, to he sure! It’s almost as good as company to you,- Katy, isn’t it? Are you willing I should leave you alone for a little while, dear ?” “Yes, Jamie, I don’t mind it much,” she answered, with a deep, weary sigh; “ hut be back as soon as possible, please.” And her wistful, hollow eyes watched him from the* room with that earnest startling look that we only find beneath the very shadow of Death. . Down at the piers all was confusion and uproar—busy passengers, hurrying from newly-arrived boats—turbid waters dashing and rolling against mossy posts —swaying crowds, and loud dissonant voices, created a small- bedlam around the docks, and little Jamie wan dered around with his board of fruit, feeling very lonely and bewildered. He had piled up the golden oranges with their sunniest side upward; ho had polished the red-cheeked apples until they shone like mirrors; v yet nobody stopped to buy. ; “ Carriage, sir ?” “ Take you to the Astor House ?” “Up Broadway, in a twinkling, madam!” “Ere’s your ’Erald, Tribune and Times. Latest steamer from Europe! —have a paper, sir ?” Poor Jamie! amid all this tumult, what chance had be of being noticed ? He had picked out the very same bunch of grapes that he intended for Katy, in Taylor’s window as he came by—a plump, apoplectic bunch dangling from a crimson thread, vjhere the sunshine lay full on the purple bloom, and amethy stine shadows lurked among its fulness of fruitage. Just at present the tempt ing morsel seems very far off to Jamie’s imagination. '> Determined not to give way without a vigorous effort, however, Jamie stepped boldly forward to the first person and held up his wares with a modest, “Buy an orange, sir?” j Now, as ill-fortune would have it, this possible customer was a fat, ill-tempered, pursy old man, whose choler haw just been inflamed to fever-heat by the inad vertent descent' of a heavy-nailedj boot heel on his favorite corn. At allftimes, he considered orange boys a nuisance; but just nowhis slender quota of patience was entirely exhausted. He ained a muttered oath and a furious blow, at the fair-haired hoy, and rushed past tp catch a retreating omnibus. i Jamie sprang aside just in time to.'es cape the brutal blow; but it descended full upon his stock in trade, scattering apples and; oranges i far apd wide! He was standing close to the pier, and most of the fruit flew into the water, where ,it went bobbing up and diwn, with the tide in the most tantalizing manner. A few- apples rolled under the feet of the crowd, but it was impossible to secure them again. "" \ Jamie's first sensation was that of indignant wrath; the blush run in angry torrents to his cheek and brow, and he shook; his small fistdmpotently in the di rection which the fat man had taken. But in an instant a feeling . of forlorn wretchedness came over him: no tempt ing bit of cake —no purple [grapes. for poor Katy—perhaps not a supper —for he knew his mother’s wages must go towards the rent of the room. ‘ They depended entirely on his exertion for their evening meal, and the sun was de clining in the west already. The reflection was too much for his boyishheart,and he was sobbing violently when a gentle hand was laid on his shoulder. He started up, anjd before him stood a pleasant gentleman!, who had watched the whole transaction; “There,-my boy,” he said, laying-a silver dollar in the boy’s hand, “ that will set you up again. No thanks; .the money was intended for some piece of extravagance, and I chose to use it thus. But remember this, my boy: | when you are pushed down in the race, don’t scop to rub your bruises, but pick yourself up and start again.” ■ Jamie thought the smile with which this was said was the pleasantest. and kindest, expression that ever brightened a human face; but, ere he could stammer out his thanks, the gentleman was gone. The boy started for home with a light and joyous heart, stopping to purchase the cherished morsel of fruit and-cake on his way. The gentleman walked leisure ly up Broadway. Sedlhg in a book-: store the title of a newly published work that he had much desired to read, his foosteps involuntarily turned in that di rection, but in an instant he went on buttoning up his pockets, and murmur ing to himself, with a smile—“ Can’t af ford it; one luxury in a day ought to be enough!” There was a vast difference between man and child in their capacities for enjoyment, hut both were happy that night. The supper was a joyful ceremony in the garret-room that evening. The grapes pleased Katy’s appetite to a charm, and the story, of the dollar was listened to with interest. “ I wish I could see the kind gentle man,” said the child earnestly; “ I would give him my beautiful rose, if he liked flowers.” She looked strangely beautiful that night—-her head resting upon her brothers shoulder, while Jamie fed her with the juicy berries, one by one, as a bird might feed its young. “ Why, how bright the color in your cheeks is,” cried Jamie. “ I believe you have been stealing the red shadows from your favorite rose. Mother, I am sure Katy will get well.” The next morning, while yet the golden spear of sunrise was in rest among the purple hills, Katy died. * * * * The moss of twenty years had gathered upon Katy’s head-stone; the violets of twenty years had blossomed over her grave, and it was a glorious autumn-day, whose light streamed along the busy thoroughfare, and shone on the magnifi cent marble erection devoted to the ex tensive operations of the celebrated Bank of K—. A splendid carriage cushioned with vel vet, and glittering in the sunshine, was drawn up opposite the door, waiting to take the great banker to the palatial home. The spirited horses, foaming and prancing, could hardly be curbed, and the driver looked wonderingly towards the door, and marvelled why his usually punctual master did not-come. Mr. Arnet stood in alittle office open ing from the main bank, where the long rows of clerks were bending over their desks. He was looking over a little pocket-book which he always carried about him, for some note or hill, and as he turned its pages, a bit of folded paper dropped out. The banker opened it, and although twenty years had deadened the first edge of his sorrow, the tears rushed 'to his eyes as they fell on the contents. A pencil-sketch, rude and unfinished of a meek-browed child—a lock of soft brown hair, and that perfumed dust of a crim son rose; these were dearer to the hanker than his vaults of yellow gold. ; ,As he looked at them, a tremulous voice’ without arrested his ear. “I would be glad if you would buy, gentlemen, for my need is very great. I have a sickly daughter at home who must be fed.” “Be off about your business,” was the sharp rejoinder. - “ I won’t let you in. Don’t yon Bee you are no.t wanted here.” The voice seemed to strike a respon sive chord in the rich man’s heart; surely he had heard its mild tones before. He partially opened the door and called out sternly: , “ Mr. Waters, showthat gentleman in, if you please.” The abashed clerk obeyed, but not without surprise, and the old man, with his heavy basket of strawberries, came humbly into the private roonflof .the great banker. “ Will you take a chair, sir,” politely inquired Mr.. Arnet, moving forward a luxurious fauteuil.. The old man taking off his hat, said, “ Sir, I fear that I intrude on, your valuable time. If you would buy some of my fruit—necessity, you know, is strong, and my poverty is extreme. I was not always in such a position.” Mr. Arnet watched the proud turn of : that gray head with a singular smile ; then sitting down to his desk he wrote off a check and handed it.across the tajble. “One thousand dollars!” faltered the old man as he read, turning red and white in a breath. He held it towards the hanker. ■’ “ Sir, I hoped you were too much of a gentleman to -make sport of age and dis tress. Is there any thing to jest about in 4 mywant?” “Not at all, sir. You spoke of a sickly daughter. Y have a cottage va cant just outside the city, with fountain, grounds, and observatory. If you and your daughter will occupy it, rent-free, I shall be very glad to have you take care of it for me.” The old man stood white and breath less, as if in a dream. In an instant his hand was taken in the clasp of the great banker. ‘ “ My friend, my benefactor, you have forgotten ine ; but my youthful memory is stronger, than yours; Is it possible that you have no remembrance of me ?” The old man, shook his head. .“Yes, it is folly to expect it when I am so changed. Listen, sir,” \he re sumed, with a bright earnest smile, — “ have you any recollection of a forlorn boy, on a crowded pier, whose little, all was scattered by a rude blow? Have you forgotten his distress ?—have' you forgotten that a kind stranger stopped to comfort him, not only by money, but by cheering words ?” “Is it possible?” stammered the old man. “Yes, it is possible. I am that forlorn boy. Your money, which that night supplied the wants of a dying sister with luxuries and pleasures, proved the step ping-stone to my princely wealth. Sir, I was a ragged,.friendless boy; but my heart treasured up your kind words as priceless jewels, and now the time has come when I may, in some measure, re pay them with interest.” The old man moved his pale lips as though he would speak; the banker re sumed instantly. “ I am alone in the world ; my mother is dead, and my little sister, whose last words were of your kindness, has gone years ago to her eternal home. I owe every thing to you, and now I have a favor to ask.” “ A favor, and of me!" “ That you will henceforth allow me to provide for you, and consider me as your son. My carriage is at the door, and will take you wheresoever you wish to go. ' But one word first.” He took a tiny volume from his breast, bound in faded velvet. “This book was my dead sister’sßible; it lay on her pillow when she died, and since that hour it has been my constant companion. There is a passage here that has ever been present to my mind since your kind deed gave hope and courage to my life.” He opened the volume, and through a soft mist of grateful tears, the old man read the Scripture words : “ Oast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.” —JWto “ Outside and Inside,” just published by the Presbyterian Board. A NOBLE WORKING MAN OF OLDEN TIMES. One May morning, in the year 1539, the inhabitants of the little French town of Saintes were both astonished and angry to see that a poor family had come to reside among them. They would have rejoiced to see a well-to-do household come, but they had no welcome to give to these poor people; On inquiry, the neighbors learned that the head of the family was a painter on glass, called familiarly Bernard. As he was a very quiet, industrious man, the fears that his family would be a charge on the town gradually subsided. But there was something that they did not understand. The man was always kneading clay and baking it, and making various experiments in • trying to glaze it. ’ Why should he neglect his regular trade, and injure his wife and family by all this fruitless trouble, which never seemed to end in his making anything worth looking at? ;But the silent Ber nard was not a man that could be much interfered with. He was very sober, a keeper at home "when the others were at the wine-house of an evening. So the neighbors were content to call him an unsocial fellow, and began to eye him with distrust, if not dislike. How soon prejudice springs up in the mind, and how bad are its effects. If these suspicious neighbors had been less hasty in judging Bernard, they would have found that he was a man to whom a great idea had come; and that he could not rest until he.had worked it out. This Bernard was very religious, and his religion showed itself in his being in earnest in all that he did. He believed that God was honored by every faculty being.dedicated to Him; and full of the belief that it was God’s ap pointment that he should labor at his experiments, he continued to work on, unmoved by the jeers of some of his. neighbors, and the censures of others. . * There were, however, some who pleaded witk him, that it was difficult*to resist. These were his wife and chil dren, who, after they saw that the hus band and father had failed in many of his attempts, implored him to give up his plans; whatever they were, and return to the pursuits that would pro vide for the wants of the household. In vain Bernard told them that if he succeeded in making what he was at tempting,. that he should confer a great boon, on the world, and, by God’s bless ing, would enrich them; they mourned over his fruitless toils as the delusions of a madman. At length, when in order to heat his furnace, Bernard actually tore down the fence of his garden, and also ripped up the flooring for fuel, there was an outcry that the experimentalist was insane. Just as their patience was quite ex hausted, and they were ready to rush out and bring in those who would carry the head of the house to some place of restraint; Bernard uttered a cry of joy; for he brought out of his furnace an enameled, cup of a kind of pottery, until then unknown. This was the work he had been toiling to achieve, and now success crowned his efforts. Directly the rumor of this discovery was made known. Neighbors saw its im portance, and spread the tidings far and near. The king (Henry 111. of France) sent for the ingenious workman, and having assured himself of the great value of the discovery, gave him a pat ent,'and put him at. the head of, an establishment called the Royal Rustic Pottery—and, the inventor became known as Benard Palissy, 'of ‘ the Tuileries.* ’ : The prejudices of his neighbors, and the poverty of his family* now all passed away. By his useful invention of enam eled pottery, he was the means of giv ing employment to hundreds, and in creasing the conveniences of domestic life. Bor all the articles in use in the' home, none are more conducive to clean liness and comfort than good useful pottery. In the possession of this we English people surpass the work l thanks to our Wedgwoods, Spodes, and Copelands, Mintons, and others. But in the times we speak of, Bernard Pa hssy was the inventor and benefactor who first gave to modern Europe speci mens of improved pottery. r States chi6f Ro^ But it was not permitted to this earnest man to enjoy in quietude the results of his long career of toil. When he was old and lonely he had to bear his testimony- to the faith that he pro fessed. It was a time of terrible reli gious persecution, and the aged potter was shut up in the Bastile. The king, who professed both to admire and like the ingenious workman, visited him in prison; and, finding that he could not alter Palissy’s opinion, he said as he was about to take leave of him— “ That he was afraid he should be obliged to leave Palissy in the hands of his enemies.” A The old man replied to the monarch : “You have said repeatedly, Sire, that you pity me. But I sincerely pity you. Be obliged—that is no royal ex pression ; I will teach you a kingly language. Nor you, nor all your peo ple shall oblige me to deny my faith:— No, I will did first. ” Surely among the honorable class of workers this man deserves to be had in grateful remembrance. — British Work man. ENGAGING SEBVANTS IN ENGLAND. A correspondent of the London Times, who describes himself as an “easy going young man, who thinks a pennyworth of comfort cheap at three-halfpence, and is not, therefore, extreme to mark what is done amiss,” writes an amusing commu nication upon the habits and manners of servants in London. We quote a. few paragraphs: <• Sometimes, ladmitjlmust be to blame, as on a late occasion, when a groom left me without assigning any reason. I af terwards understood that he told his suc cessor that “the place was well enough but master was so plaguey dull in the buggy, he couldn’t stand it.” It is pain ful for me thus to own that I am not al ways up to the intelligent exigencies of the position, yet notwithstanding this drawback, my servants, as a rule, remain with me longer than with my neighbors. I selected the most promising adver tisements in your columns, and wrote to appoint the advertisers to meet me in town. The first that called was a but ler. He was a man of some personal ap pearance, which he evidently thought it is his first duty to cultivate. On being ushered into the room he said he had “ embraced the earliest opportunity of obeying my summons.” I perceived at once like Agag, he must be approached delicately, and should have felt some hesitation how to catechize so refined a personage but that I soon found the question was not whether I should en gage him, but whether he would engage me. Did he pay the bills ? Had he the entire charge of the cellar, or was there a sanctum sanctorum of which I alone kept the key ? My answers were not satisfactory. Had l a groom of the chambers ? No. In such a case he con cluded I had a valet ? I supposed his scrutiny of my dress had not encour aged any exaggerated notion of the value of my “ exiivise,” for on my replying that the butler was the only man out of livery, and officiated as my valet, I saw I was a doomedman. For form’s sake, however, he kindly consented to give me one more trial, and inquired whether under these circumstances, it would be expected of him to bring in tea and coffee after din ner. I told him that I regretted that such would be the case, and he must, indeed, be prepared for any emergency. That I did not think it likely I should ever ask him to make the fourth in a quadrille, but that he would, in my house, be expected to do everything he was told, except feed the pigs. “ That,” said I mildly, “I do myself.” On looking up, to see the effect of my last observation, he was disappearing in the doorway. The next applicant was a cook and housekeeper. She was pleased slightly to touch on her autobiography, just suffi cient to inform me that she had “ always lived in the best of families,” and then, like the butler, proceeded to ascertain whether I should suit her. Her first question, also, was: Did she pay the bills ? Didlcome to town every year ?” When in the country did the farm supply the house, and did I kill one sheep or two per week? When in town, did I have “ hampers of fruit and vegetables up regular, which was mostly very ill convenient ?” When my examination was at an end I said, “Mrs. Jones, you were only three months at your last place, nine at the previous one, eleven at the one before that. It seems to me these were rather short periods.” “0 !” said she, “they are such dooses of missuses; but in course your lady is a real lady and keeps herself to herself.” The whole system of service,' as at present understood in England, is rotten at the core. “All play and pay” is the cry, and “ meat meals five times a day, and port and sherry kitchen Wine,” the only maxim of the servants’* hall. Lasso a boy running wild at plow, clothe him in livery* and at the end of a week ask him to pump; he will tell you it is not his place. He is no hewer of wood or. drawer of water. When the governess comes back from her short holiday will Jeames de la Pluche con descend to take up her little bonnet box, which weighs a few ounces ? Certainly not. It is really time some remedy were applied, or we shall soon be worse off than the emigrant on his way to the back woods,-who, on seeing his loaded wagon standing out in the rain, suggested to his newly engaged “help*' that it had better be drawn under shelter, and receiv edforanswer, ‘‘Well,l guess it had ought er, least ways I should pull it in if it was mine.”
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