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TABLE OF CONTENTS.
VOL. XLVIII.
A Bit of Shopping Gossip, 282
A Chapter on Necklaces, by _Mrs. White_, 213
An Ornamental Cottage, 268, 269
A Ruling Passion, 272
Babylon, Nineveh, and Mr. Layard, 228
Bearded Civilization, 227
Braided Slipper, 261
Boardman & Gray's Dolce Campana Attachment Piano-Fortes, 277
Bonnets, from Thomas White & Co., 193, 283
Celestial Phenomena, by _D. W. Belisle_, 233
Centre-Table Gossip, 282
Chemisettes, 264
Chemistry for Youth, 279
Cottage Furniture, 263
Deaconesses, 273
Design for Screen, 198, 267
Dress of American Women, 282
Editors' Table, 271
Editors' Table-Drawer, 273
Embroidered Antimacassar, 269
Enigmas, 280
Fairyland, by _Laura M. Colvin_, 260
Fashions, 283
Feminology, 273
Godey's Arm-Chair, 275
Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing, 216
Influence of Female Education in Greece, 271
Instructions for making Ornaments in Rice Shell-Work, 240
Lady's Walking-Dress and Diagrams, 262
Lay of the Constant One, by _Mrs. Corolla H. Criswell_, 258
Letters Left at the Pastry Cook's, _Edited by
Horace Mayhew_, 247
Literary Notices, 274
Little Children, 207
Madame Caplin's Corsets, 265
Mantillas, from the celebrated Establishment of G. Brodie,
New York, 196, 197, 267
Mrs. Mudlaw's Recipe for Potato Pudding, by
_The Author of the_ "_Bedott Papers_," 250
O'er Bleak Acadia's Plains, by _Clark Gaddis_, 261
Old, while Young, by _Mabel Clifford_, 259
Our Practical Dress Instructor, 262
Patterns for Embroidery, 270
Pictures from Dante, 273
Presentiment, by _Mrs. Priscilla P. Lompayrac_, 260
Public Liberality, 272
Reading without Improvement, 272
Receipts, &c., 280
Roman Women in the Days of the Cæsars, by _H. P. Haynes_, 243
Selling the Love-Token, by _Alice B. Neal_, 208
Sleeves, 264
Sonnets, by _Wm. Alexander_, 260
Table-Moving, by _Pauline Forsyth_, 235
Taper-Stand, 266
The Dying Wife, by _Phila Earle_, 257
The Embroidered Slippers.--An acknowledgment of a Holiday Gift, 259
The Life of Man, by _C****_, 261
The Manufacture of Paper, by _C. T. Hinckley_, 199
The Philadelphia School of Design for Women, 271
The Toilet, 281
The Trials of a Needle-Woman, by _T. S. Arthur_, 218
The Wreck, by _Mrs. E. Lock_, 259
'Tis Gold! 'Tis Gold! by _James L. Roche_, 258
To my Brother, by _Mrs. M. A. Bigelow_, 258
Vegetable Physiology, by _Harland Coultas_, 232
Watch-Pocket.--Broderie en Lacet, 269
We Parted, by _M. A. Rice_, 257
EMBELLISHMENTS, &c.
_March._
Selling the Wedding-Ring or Love-Token.
Godey's Unrivalled Colored Fashions.
Embroidered Antimacassar.
Watch-Pocket.--Broderie en Lacet.
Embroidery Pattern.
Model Cottage, printed in tints; and ground-plan.
Fashionable Bonnets.
MUSIC.--Pop Goes the Weasel.
The Arragonese and the Valencia.
Design for Embroidered Screen.
The Manufacture of Paper.
Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing.
Babylon and Nineveh.
Vegetable Physiology.
Instructions for making Ornaments in Rice Shell-Work.
Braided Slipper.
Lady's Walking-Dress and Diagrams.
Cottage Furniture.
Chemisettes and Sleeves.
Madame Caplin's Corsets.
Taper Stand.
Patterns for Embroidery.
Bird's-eye View of Boardman & Gray's Piano-Forte Manufactory,
Albany, N. Y.
Little Girl's Sack and Outdoor Dresses.
Oakford's Spring Fashions for Hats, Caps, &c.
[Illustration: SELLING THE WEDDING RING OR LOVE TOKEN.
Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by A.B. Walter]
[Illustration: GODEY'S UNRIVALLED COLORED FASHIONS.]
[Illustration: EMBROIDERED ANTIMACASSAR.]
[Illustration: WATCH-POCKET.--BRODERIE EN LACET.]
[Illustration: EMBROIDERY PATTERN.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: FASHIONABLE BONNETS.
From the celebrated Establishment of THOMAS WHITE & Co., No.
41 South Second Street.
No. 1.--OPERA BONNET.
No. 2.--SPRING FANCY.
No. 3.--ENGLISH STRAW.
No. 4.--MISS'S FLAT.]
POP GOES THE WEASEL.
THE FIGURES.
This is an old and very animated English Dance, that has lately been
revived among the higher classes of Society.
It is danced in a line, the Gentlemen opposite the Ladies.
1st. Top couple down the middle and return. 8 Bars.
2d. Cast off outside and return. 8 Bars.
3d. The same couple execute hands three with the Lady next them. 8 Bars.
4th. Top couple raise their arms and the Lady passes under, at
which time all sing Pop goes the Weasel 8 B's.
5th. The same couple repeat the last figure with the Lady's
partner. 8 Bars.
The same couple repeat till down line, after passing three or four
couple the top commences till all are in motion.
PRESENTED TO GODEYS' LADY'S BOOK BY THE PUBLISHER,
=T. C. ANDREWS=, _No._ 66 _Spring Garden Street_, _Philada_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
Pop goes the Wea - sel.
Pop goes the Wea - sel.
]
[Illustration: THE ARROGONESE
[From the establishment of G. BRODIE, No. 51 Canal Street, New
York.]
(_For description, see page_ 267.)]
[Illustration: THE VALENCIA.
[From the establishment of G. BRODIE, No. 51 Canal Street, New
York.]
(_For description, see page 267._)]
[Illustration: EMBROIDERY.--DESIGN FOR SCREEN.
(_See description._)]
GODEY'S
LADY'S BOOK.
PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1854.
EVERYDAY ACTUALITIES.--NO. XVII.
ILLUSTRATED WITH PEN AND GRAVER.
BY C. T. HINCKLEY.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--PAPER-MAKING BY HAND.]
THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.
The advantages which the civilized world owe to the invention of paper
are beyond calculation, and almost out of the reach of thought. The
great blessing of knowledge which it has conferred on mankind, together
with its peculiar mission, renders it a subject of interest to all
classes of society. The material of which the sheet of paper which the
reader now holds in her hand, a few months ago, perhaps, hung with its
ragged fellows from the back of some mendicant, fluttering along the
street--or perhaps commenced its career in the lining of some dress, in
all its purity of white and stiffening, and gradually descended through
the various grades of usefulness, until at last it was fished up out
of the gutter and thrust into the rag-picker's bag to meet a host of
others that had travelled over the same despoiling scenes of ragdom.
Rags have, at times, held no mean position in the political arena, for
we read that "_the chiffoniers_, or rag-dealers of Paris, rose against
the police some years ago, because it was ordered, in certain municipal
regulations, that the filth of the streets should be taken away in
carts, without time being allowed for its examination by those diligent
savers of capital."
Many experiments have been made upon substances proposed as substitutes
for rags in the manufacture of paper. The bark of the willow, the
beech, the aspen, the hawthorn, and the lime have been made into
tolerable paper; the tendrils of the vine, and the stalks of the
nettle, the mallow, and the thistle, have been used for a similar
purpose; and bind of hops; and patents have been granted for making
paper of straw. The process of bleaching the coarser rags, so as to
render them fit for the purposes to which only those of the finest
qualities were formerly applied, will, however, render the use of
these inferior substances unnecessary for many years. The advance of
a people in civilization has not only a tendency to make the supply
of rags abundant, but, at the same time, to increase the demand. The
use of machinery in manufactures renders clothing cheap; the cheapness
of clothing causes its consumption to increase, not only in the
proportion of an increasing population, but by the scale of individual
expenditure; the stock of rags is therefore increasing in the same
ratio that our looms produce more linen and cotton cloth. But then the
increase of knowledge runs in a parallel line with this increase of
comforts; and the increase of knowledge requires an increase of books.
The principle of publishing books and tracts to be read by thousands,
instead of tens and hundreds, has already caused a large addition to
the demand for printing-paper. If, therefore, the demand for books in
all civilized countries should outrun, which it is very likely to do,
the power of each individual to wear out linen and cotton clothing to
supply the demand, paper must be manufactured from other substances
than rags.
A species of paper was manufactured at a remote period in Egypt, from
the _papyrus_ or _paper-reed_, a plant growing freely on the banks
of the Nile. A manufacture of paper from the bark of trees and other
substances existed also in China from a very early date; but among
the nations of antiquity, before the introduction of paper, such
substitutes were used as lead, brass, bricks, and stone, on which
national edicts and records were written or engraved; or tablets of
wood, wax, and ivory, skins of fishes, intestines of serpents, backs of
tortoises, and the inner bark of trees for ordinary purposes. Indeed,
there are but few sorts of plants that have not been used for making
paper and books, and hence have arisen the terms _biblos_, _codex_,
_liber_, _folium_, _tabula_, _tillura_, _philura_, _scheda_, &c., which
express the several parts of the plant which were written on. The use
of these was discontinued in Europe after the invention of papyrus and
parchment, but they are still used in other parts of the world. The
two early kinds of manufacture above alluded to must first be noticed,
before we describe the later invention of making paper from cotton and
linen rags, which, in the greater part of the world, has superseded
all other methods of producing a material for writing on. The Egyptian
papyrus was made by laying thin plates of bark, taken from the middle
of the paper-rush, side by side, but close together, on a hard, smooth
table: other pieces of the same size and thinness were then laid across
the first at right angles; the whole was moistened with the water
of the Nile, which was supposed to have some agglutinating property
(though this probably resided in the plant itself), and pressure was
then applied for a certain number of hours. Thus a sheet of paper was
formed which required no other finishing than rubbing and polishing
with a smooth stone, or with a solid glass hemisphere, and drying in
the sun. This very simple process was rather a preparation of a natural
paper than a manufacture--properly so called. The process adopted by
the Chinese comes more legitimately under that head. The small branches
of a tree resembling our mulberry-tree, are cut by them in lengths
of about three feet, and boiled in an alkaline lye for the sake of
loosening the inner rind or bark, which is then peeled off, and dried
for use. When a sufficient quantity of bark has been thus laid up, it
is again softened in water for three or four days, and the outer parts
are scraped off as useless; the rest is boiled in clear lye, which is
kept strongly agitated all the time, until the bark has become tender,
and separates into distinct fibres. It is then placed in a pan or
sieve, and washed in a running stream, being at the same time worked
with the hands until it becomes a delicate and soft pulp. For the finer
sorts of paper, the pulp receives a second washing in a linen bag; it
is then spread out on a smooth table, and beaten with a wooden mallet
until it is extremely fine. Thus prepared, it is put into a tub with
a slimy infusion of rice and a root called oreni; then it is stirred
until the ingredients are properly blended: it is next removed to a
large vessel to admit of moulds being dipped into it. These moulds are
made of bulrushes cut into narrow strips, and mounted in a frame; as
the paper is moulded, the sheets are placed on a table covered with a
double mat. The sheets are laid one on the other, with a small piece of
reed between; and this, standing out a little way, serves afterwards
to lift them up leaf by leaf. Every heap is covered with a board and
weights to press out the water; on the following day, the sheets are
lifted singly by means of the projecting reeds, and are placed on a
plank to be dried in the sun. This paper is so delicate that only one
side can be written on; but the Chinese sometimes double the sheets,
and glue them together so neatly that they appear to be a single leaf.
This manufacture of the Chinese extended also to the making of sheets
of paper from old rags, silk, hemp, and cotton, as early as the
second century of the Christian era, and is supposed to have been the
source whence the Arabs obtained their knowledge of paper-making. The
latter people first introduced the valuable art of making paper from
cotton into Europe, in the earlier half of the twelfth century, and
established a paper manufactory in Spain. In 1150, the paper of Xativa,
an ancient city of Valencia, had become famous, and was exported to the
East and West. Notwithstanding its fame, this paper was of a coarse
and inferior quality, so long as its manufacture was confined solely
to the Arabs, in consequence of their employing only mortars, and
hand or horse-mills for reducing the cotton to a pulp; but when some
Christian laborers obtained the management of the mills of Valencia
and Toledo, the different processes of the manufacture were greatly
improved. Cotton paper became general at the close of the twelfth and
beginning of the thirteenth centuries; but, in the fourteenth century,
it was almost entirely superseded by paper made of hemp and linen rags.
The paper made of cotton was found not to possess sufficient strength
or solidity for many purposes; a very strong paper was therefore made
of the above substances, not weakened by bleaching, according to the
present mode, which, by removing the natural gum, impairs the strength
of the vegetable fibre. Some of these old papers, having been well
sized with gelatin, are said to possess their original qualities even
to this day.
The manufacture of paper from linen rags became general in France,
Italy, and Spain in the fourteenth century; the first German paper-mill
was established at Nuremberg in 1390. English manuscripts on linen
paper date as early as 1340; but it is believed that the manufacture
did not exist in England until the end of the fifteenth century, when
the _Bartolomæus_ of Wynkyn de Worde appeared (1496), in which it is
stated that paper of a superior kind was made for that work by John
Tate, Jr., at his mills in Stevenage, Hertfordshire. In 1588, a German
named Spielman, jeweller to Queen Elizabeth, established a paper-mill
at Dartford. In 1770, the manufacture of fine paper was established at
Maidstone, in Kent, by a celebrated maker, J. Whatman, who had worked
as journeyman in some of the principal paper-mills on the Continent.
Not long before this, _wove_ moulds had been invented by Baskerville
to obviate the usual roughness of _laid_ paper, and these, attracting
attention in France, led to the improvements which characterized the
vellum paper of that period. Holland, too, contributed its share to
the advancement of this manufacture, by inventing cylinders with steel
blades for tearing the rags, and thus facilitating their conversion
into pulp, which, by the old method of stampers only, was a very slow
and defective process.
In 1799, the first attempt to produce paper in an endless web was
made in France by a workman in the employ of M. Didot. The invention
was brought to England by M. Didot, in 1801, and made the subject of
patents, which, in 1804, were assigned to the Messrs. Fourdrinier.
Mr. Bryan Donkin, the engineer, carried out the desired plans, and
produced, after intense application, a self-acting machine or working
model, on an improved plan, of which he afterwards constructed
many others for home use and for exportation, which were perfectly
successful in the manufacture of continuous paper. In 1809, Mr.
Dickinson, the celebrated paper-maker invented another method of making
endless paper, the highly ingenious details of which will be noticed
hereafter. The Fourdrinier machines have been greatly improved by the
inventions of other skilful manufacturers.
At one time there were serious apprehensions that the supply of linen
rags would fail, and various researches were entered upon by ingenious
individuals to find substitutes. A book written in German by M.
Shäffers, so long ago as 1772, contains sixty specimens of paper made
of different materials. This ingenious person made paper from the bark
of the willow, beech, aspen, hawthorn, lime, and mulberry; from the
down of the asclepias, the catkins of black poplar, and the tendrils
of the vine; from the stalks of nettle, mugwort, dyer's weed, thistle,
bryony, burdock, clematis, willow-herb, and lily; from cabbage-stalks,
fir-cones, moss, potatoes, wood-shavings,[1] and sawdust. Paper
has been likewise made from straw, rice, hopbind, liquorice-root,
the stalks of the mallow, and the husks of Indian-corn. The fear
of a failure of linen rags, and the consequent necessity for these
experiments, were obviated by the discovery of chlorine. This powerful
bleaching agent will restore many varieties of colored linen to their
original whiteness, as well as discolored papers and manuscripts, so
that the same substances may be used over and over again as a material
for paper.
[Footnote 1: A successful experiment of making paper from this
material, as also of reeds, has lately been tried in Baltimore.]
SUPPLY OF RAGS--SORTING--WASHING--GRINDING, AND BLEACHING.
The quality of the paper depends greatly on that of the linen worn in
the country where it is made. Where that is coarse and brown, the rags
and the paper made from them must be so too.
The quality of the rags depends very much upon the state of
civilization of the countries which produce them; the lower the degree
of civilization, the more coarse and filthy are the rags. When the rags
are received at the mill, they are sorted according to their respective
qualities; for if rags of different qualities were ground at the same
engine, the finest and best parts would be ground and carried off
before the coarser were sufficiently reduced to make a pulp. In the
sorting of rags intended for the manufacture of fine paper, hems and
seams are kept apart, and coarse cloth separated from fine. Cloth made
of tow should be separated from that made from linen, cloth of hemp
from cloth of flax. Even the degree of wear should be attended to, for
if rags comparatively new are mixed with those which are much worn, the
one will be reduced to a good pulp, while the other is so completely
ground up as to pass through the hair strainers; thus occasioning not
only loss of material, but loss of beauty in the paper; for the smooth
velvet softness of some papers may be produced by the finer particles
thus carried off. The pulp produced from imperfectly sorted rags has a
cloudy appearance, in consequence of some parts being less reduced than
others, and the paper made from it is also cloudy or thicker in some
parts than in others, as is evident on holding a sheet up before the
light. When it is necessary to mix different qualities of rags together
to produce different qualities of paper, the rags should be ground
separately, and the various pulps mixed together afterwards.
The rag-merchants sort rags into five qualities, known as Nos. 1,
2, 3, 4, and 5. No. 1, or _superfine_, consisting wholly of linen,
is used for the finest writing-papers. No. 5 is canvas, and may,
after bleaching, be used for inferior printing-papers. There is also
_rag-bagging_, or the canvas sacks in which the rags are packed; also
cotton colored rags of all colors, but the blue is usually sorted out
for making blue paper. Common papers are made from rag-bagging and
cotton rags.
An operation sometimes required after unpacking the rags, is to put
them into a _duster_, which is a cylinder four feet in diameter and
five feet long, covered with a wire net and inclosed in a tight box to
confine the dust. A quantity of rags being put into this cylinder, it
is made to rotate rapidly on its axis, and thus a good deal of dust is
shaken out, which might otherwise vitiate the air of the rag-cutting
room.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--CUTTING RAGS.]
The sorting is done by women and children in a large room; each sorter
stands before a table frame, covered at the top with wire cloth,
containing about nine meshes to the square inch. To this frame a long
steel blade is attached, in a slanting position, as shown in Fig. 2;
and the sorter divides the rags into shreds by drawing them against
the sharp edge of this knife; a good deal of the dust which is shaken
out in this operation falls through the wire-cloth into a box beneath.
The sections of rag are thrown into the compartments of the frame,
according to their fineness. In importing rags, some attention is paid
to their quality by the foreign dealers, so that each bale is tolerably
uniform. Formerly, this was not the case, and in sorting a bale the
woman had a piece of pasteboard hung from her girdle and extended on
her knees, upon which with a long sharp knife she unripped seams and
stitches, and scraped off any adhering dirt. The rags were sorted,
according to their fineness, into the _superfine_, the _fine_, the
_stitches_ of the fine, the _middling_, the _seams_ and _stitches_
of the middling, and the _coarse_. These divisions are more or less
observed at the present day. The very coarse parts are rejected or laid
aside for making white-brown paper.
The sorted rags are washed with hot water and alkali, in an apparatus
formed exactly on the principle of the _bucking keirs_ or _puffers_,
described under BLEACHING (June number, 1852); or the washing
is performed at one of the mills or engines described below.
The rags are ground into pulp in mills, now made sufficiently powerful
to reduce the strongest and toughest rags. Formerly, before the
invention of mills, or when they were of much less power, it was
customary to pile the rags in large stone vats, and leave them for a
month or six weeks with frequent stirring and watering to ferment or
rot, by which means the fibres became sufficiently loose to be reduced
to pulp by pounding in wooden mortars with stampers.
[Illustration: Fig. 3.]
[Illustration: Fig. 4.]
The vats were superseded by what are called _engines_, a Dutch
invention well adapted to the purpose. The engines are sometimes
arranged in pairs on different levels, the bottom of one being higher
than the top of the other, so that the contents of the higher engine
may be let off into the lower. In the upper engine, called the
_washer_, the rags are first worked coarsely with a stream of water
running through them to wash and open their fibres: this reduces
them to what is called _half stuff_; they are then let down into the
_beating_ engine to be ground into pulp fit for making paper. Each
engine consists of a large wooden vat or cistern V V, Figs. 3, 4, of
oblong figure on the outside, with the angles cut off; the inside,
which is lined with lead, has straight sides and circular ends. Or the
vat may be entirely formed of cast-iron. It is divided by a partition
P P, also covered with lead. The cylinder C is firmly fixed to the
spindle _s_, which extends across the engine, and is put in motion by
the pinion _w_, which engages other wheels set in motion by water or
steam-power. The cylinder is of wood, but is furnished with a number of
teeth or cutters attached to its surface parallel with the axis, and
projecting about an inch from it. Immediately below the cylinder is a
block of wood B, also furnished with cutters, so that when the cylinder
revolves its teeth pass very near those of the block, the distance
between them being regulated by elevating or depressing the bearings
_l l_, on which the necks of the spindle _s s_ are supported. These
bearings are made on two levers _l l_, which have tenons at their ends
fitted into upright mortises made in stout beams bolted to the sides of
the engine. The levers _l l_ are movable at one end of each, the other
ends being fitted to rise and fall on bolts in the beams as centres.
The front one of these levers, or that nearest the cylinder C, can be
raised or lowered by turning the handle of the screw; the cylinder
is thus made to cut coarser or finer by enlarging or diminishing the
space between the two sets of cutters. At one part of the vat is a
breasting B', made of boards and covered with sheet lead, curved to
the form of the cylinder and nearly in contact with its teeth. An
inclined plane I, passes from the bottom of the vat to the top of the
breasting which terminates in the block B. The vat is supplied with
water from the mill-dam by means of pumps worked by the water-wheel.
The water is first discharged by the pipe P, Fig. 4, into the cistern
_c_, the supply being regulated as occasion may require. A grating
covered with a hair strainer is fixed across the cistern to prevent any
solid impurity from passing into the vat; or the water may be strained
through a flannel bag tied over the mouth of the pipe P, as shown in
the figure. The vat being full of water and a quantity of rags put in,
the cylinder is set in motion, the effect of which is to produce a
regular current in the water in the direction of the arrows, by which
the rags are drawn between the cutters of the cylinder and the teeth of
the block; this cuts them to pieces: they are then thrown over the top
of the breasting upon the inclined plane, down which they slowly slide
and pass round the partition, and in about twenty minutes are again
brought between the teeth of the cylinder and the block. The mode in
which the rags are cut will be understood by considering that the teeth
of the block are placed somewhat inclined to the axis of the cylinder,
while the teeth of the cylinder are parallel to its axis, so that the
cutting edges meet at a small angle and pass over each other something
like the blade of a pair of shears, and the rags between them are cut
up in a similar manner; and as they are brought many times under the
action of the cutters, and must necessarily present their fibres each
time in different directions, they are reduced to the condition of pulp.
[Illustration: Fig. 5.--BEATING-ENGINE.]
The beater, with sixty teeth, and twenty to twenty-four cutters in
the block, makes 180,000 cuts per minute, the effect of which is a
low musical note or hum, audible at a distance from the mill. In the
washing-engine the rags are opened, their fibres separated, and the
dirt removed. Any small solid impurities are collected in the trough
_a_, Fig. 4. When first put in the beating-engine, the rags are worked
gently, the cylinder is raised some way above the block, so as to rub
rather than cut the rags; at the same time a copious stream of water is
admitted; after twenty or thirty minutes, the cylinder is let down so
as to cut the rags, and the operation is at first so violent that the
cylinder is often jerked or heaved up. After three or four hours the
engine works steadily; the rags are cut up very small, and form what is
called _half stuff_; this is let out into a basket, which retains it
while the water flows off. For some kinds of paper the half stuff is
left to mellow, or ferment; but it is usual at this stage to _bleach_
the stuff, which is done by a solution of chloride of lime, in stone
vats, or by using this solution instead of water in the engine at the
last stage of the washing process, the slides _g g_ being put down in
the cover to prevent the loss of the solution. In the course of an
hour, the yellow rags or half stuff are converted into a snow white.
This is then put into the beating-engine, and in four or five hours it
is ground into a fine pulp, a little water being let in from time to
time, but none being allowed to escape. The quality of the water has
considerable influence on that of the paper; the purest water is of
course the best; water from chalky soils introduces lime into the pulp,
and this forms a slight incrustation upon the moulds, which is washed
off from time to time by vinegar.
In order to prevent common ink from running upon paper, size is
introduced at a certain stage of the manufacture; but printing-ink
being oily instead of watery, and, moreover, of greater consistence
than common ink, is not so liable to run. Hence, for certain
printing-papers, the sizing is done in the beating-engine towards the
close of the operation. The size consists of finely pounded alum mixed
with oil, about a pint and a half of the mixture being thrown into the
engine at intervals during the last half hour of the beating. The blue
is produced by smalt, or artificial ultramarine.
PAPER-MAKING BY HAND.
When the stuff is properly prepared, it is run out by the pipes _o o'_,
Fig. 4, into the _stuff-chest_, where the different kinds are mixed
preparatory to moulding. From this chest it is transferred to vats or
tubs, each about five feet in diameter and two and a half feet deep,
provided at top with planks inclosed inwards to prevent the stuff
from running over during the moulding. Across these planks is a board
pierced with holes at one extremity, for supporting the mould. The
stuff in the vat is kept at the proper temperature by a small grate
placed in a hole lined with copper, at the side of the vat. The fuel is
charcoal or coke, or the fire is entirely confined to the other side
of the wall, a hole through it being made into the side of the vat. In
this way smoke is prevented.
The paper is made into sheets by means of the _mould_ and _deckle_,
Figs. 6, 7. The mould is a square frame, or shallow box of mahogany,
covered at the top with wire-cloth; it is an inch or an inch and a
half wider than the sheet of paper intended to be made upon it. The
wire-cloth of the mould varies in fineness with that of the paper and
the nature of the stuff; it consists of a number of parallel wires
stretched across a frame very near together, and tied fast through
holes in the sides; a few other stronger wires are also placed across
at right angles to the former; they are a considerable distance apart,
and they are bound to the small wires at the points of intersection
by means of fine wire. In several kinds of writing-paper the marks of
the wires are evident from the paper being thinner in the parts where
the pulp touched the wires. In what is called _wove_ paper, there are
no marks of the wires; these are avoided by weaving the wire in a loom
into a wire-cloth, which is stretched over the frame of the mould,
and being turned down over the sides is fastened by fine wire. The
_water-mark_ in paper is produced by wires bent into the shape of the
required letter or device, and sewed to the surface of the mould;--it
has the effect of making the paper thinner in those places. The old
makers employed water-marks of an eccentric kind. Those of Caxton and
other early printers were an ox-head and star, a collared dog's head,
a crown, a shield, a jug, &c. A fool's cap and bells employed as a
water-mark, gave the name to _foolscap_ paper; a postman's horn, such
as was formerly in use, gave the name to _post_ paper.
[Illustration: Fig. 6.]
[Illustration: Fig. 7.]
The _deckle_ is a thin square mahogany frame, bound with brass at the
angles; its outer dimensions correspond with the size of the mould,
and its inner with that of the sheet of paper. The use of the frame is
to retain the pulp upon the wire-cloth; it must be quite flat, so as
to fit the cloth of the mould, otherwise the edges of the paper will
be ragged and badly finished. When the deckle is placed upon the wire
of the mould it forms a shallow sieve, in which the paper-maker takes
up a quantity of the pulp suspended in water, and, the water draining
through, leaves the pulp in the form of a sheet upon the wire. The
deckle is not fastened to the mould, but is held to it by the workman
grasping the mould and deckle together in both hands at the opposite
sides. When the sheet is moulded the deckle is removed, and the sheet
is taken up from the wire by laying it on a piece of _felt_ or woollen
cloth. These felts prevent the sheets from coming together, and they
also serve to imbibe a portion of the water from the damp and loosely
cohering sheet.
The wood-cut at the commencement of this article represents the process
of making paper by hand.
Upon looking at the cut, it will be seen that one of the two men
employed is dipping the deckle into the vat. This vat is supplied
with _stuff_ from the chest already described; and that stuff is kept
warm by a copper within the vat, to which heat is communicated by
a steam-pipe. It is also agitated by machinery within. The workman
forming the sheet, who is called a vatman, is provided with two moulds.
These are slight frames of wood, covered with fine wire. Fitting to
each mould is a deckle, or movable raised edging, which determines the
size of the sheet. The vatman, putting the deckle on one of the moulds,
dips it vertically into the stuff; and bringing it to the surface
horizontally, covered with pulp, shakes it gently. It must be evident
that this operation requires the greatest nicety, both in determining
the general thickness of the sheet, and in producing it of an uniform
thickness throughout. The vatman then pushes the mould with the sheet
towards his fellow-workman, who is called the coucher; and, taking off
the deckle, applies it to the second mould, and proceeds as before. The
coucher, who receives the first mould, having a heap of porous pieces
of flannel by his side, called felts, turns the mould over upon a felt,
upon which the sheet remains; and, placing a felt on the sheet, he is
ready to turn over another from the second mould. Thus the vatman and
the coucher proceed, the one moulding a sheet of paper and the other
placing it upon felt, till they have made six or eight quires. The heap
is then subjected to the action of a powerful press. The sheets, after
this pressure, have acquired sufficient consistency to enable them to
be pressed again by themselves. The felts are accordingly removed, and
one sheet being laid upon another, the heap is subjected to a moderate
pressure.
When the paper is taken out of the press, it is separated into small
parcels of seven or eight sheets in each, for the purpose of drying.
The drying is conducted in extensive lofts in the upper parts of the
mill. The sheets are taken up upon a piece of wood, shaped like a T,
and hung upon hair lines stretched across large horizontal wooden
frames, called _tribbles_, and as these are filled they are lifted up
between upright posts to the top of the room, and retained by pegs
put into the posts; another frame is then filled, and put up in its
turn, until the loft is filled. Air is admitted to the lofts by means
of louvre boards. When sufficiently dry, the paper is taken down, and
_sleeked_, _dressed_, and _shaken_, to get rid of dust, and to separate
the pages. It is then laid in heaps in the warehouse, preparatory to
sizing. The size is made from the shreds and parings of leather and
parchment; it is nicely filtered, and a little alum added. A number of
sheets are then dipped into the size and separated, so as to expose
both surfaces of each sheet; the sheets are taken out, turned over,
and dipped a second time. About a dozen handfuls being thus dipped,
they are made into a pile, with a thin board or felt between every two
handfuls, and pressed to get rid of superfluous size, which flows back
into the size vessel. The paper is again transferred to the lofts, and
dried. This being complete, it is taken down, carried to a building
called the _Saul_ (probably a corruption of the German _saal_, or
the French _salle_, a hall, or large room), where it is _examined_,
_finished_, and _pressed_. The imperfect sheets are removed. The press
called the _dry-press_ is a powerful one, or the hydrostatic-press is
used. After one pressing, the heaps of paper are _parted_; that is,
they are turned sheet by sheet, so as to expose new surfaces: the press
is again used; then there is another parting, and so on, several times.
The paper is next made into quires and reams, and once more pressed.
Connected with the sizing of papers is the blueing, which is said to
have originated in the suggestion of a paper-maker's wife, who thought
that the practice of improving the _color_ of linen while passing
through the wash, by means of a blue bag, might also be advantageously
applied to paper. A blue-bag was accordingly suspended in the vat; and
the effect proved to be so satisfactory that it led to the introduction
of the large and important class of blue writing-papers. It was soon
found that smalt gave a better color than common stone-blue; and smalt
continued to be used for many years; but when artificial ultramarine
came to be manufactured at a very low cost, and in a great variety
of tints, this beautiful color gradually superseded smalt in the
manufacture of writing-paper.
PAPER-MAKING BY MACHINERY.
The slow and difficult process of moulding the separate sheets of paper
by hand has, to a great extent, been superseded by the introduction and
gradual improvement of the very beautiful machinery of Fourdrinier,
referred to in our introductory remarks. By means of this machine, a
process which, under the old system, occupied about three weeks, is now
performed in as many minutes. Within this brief space of time, and the
short distance of thirty or forty feet, a continuous stream of fluid
pulp is made into paper, dried, polished, and cut up into separate
sheets ready for use. The paper thus produced is moderate in price,
and, for a large number of purposes, superior in quality to that which
was formerly made by hand. In fact, the machine-made papers can be
produced of unlimited dimensions; they are of uniform thickness; they
can be fabricated at any season of the year; they do not require to
be sorted, trimmed, and hung up in the drying-house--operations which
formerly led to so much waste, that about one sheet in every five was
defective.
The paper-machine moves at the rate of from twenty-five to forty feet
per minute, so that scarcely two minutes are occupied in converting
liquid pulp into finished paper, a result which, by the old process,
occupies about seven or eight days. If the machine produce ten lineal
yards of paper per minute, or six hundred per hour, this is equal to a
mile of paper in three hours, or four miles per day of twelve hours.
The paper is about fifty-four inches wide, and, supposing three hundred
machines to be at work on an average twelve hours a day, the aggregate
length of web would be equal to 1,200 miles, and the area 3,000,000
square yards.
Paper is sent into the market in various forms and sizes, according to
the use for which it is intended. The following table contains the name
and dimensions of various sheets of paper:--
Inches.
Foolscap, 14 by 17
Crown, 15 by 20
Folio Post, 16 by 21
Demy, 17 by 22
Medium, 19 by 24
Royal, 20 by 25
Super Royal, 22 by 27
Imperial, 22 by 32
Medium and Half, 24 by 28½
Royal and Half, 25 by 29
Double Medium, 24 by 38
Do. Super Royal, 27 by 42
Do. Imperial, 32 by 44
Many of the papers above enumerated are made by hand, of the exact size
indicated; but, if made by the machine, the roll of paper has to be
cut to the required dimensions. In order to do this with precision and
expedition, various cutting-machines have been contrived, in which the
paper, as it comes from the manufacturing machine, is cut to any size
required.
HOT-PRESSING, GLAZING, AND FINISHING--STATISTICS.
Fine papers are, in some cases, hot-pressed and glazed. In
hot-pressing, a number of stout cast-iron plates are heated in an oven,
and then put into a screw-press in alternate layers, with highly glazed
pasteboards, between which the paper is placed in open sheets; and
the hard polished surfaces of the pasteboards, aided by the heat and
pressure, impart that beautiful appearance which belongs to hot-pressed
paper. A yet more smooth and elegant surface is produced by the process
of glazing. The sheets of paper are placed separately between very
smooth clean copper-plates. These are then passed through rollers,
which impart a pressure of from twenty to thirty tons. After three or
four such pressures, the paper is called _rolled_, and sometimes also
_hot-pressed_; but, if passed more frequently through the rollers, the
paper acquires a higher surface, and is then called glazed.
The general introduction of steel pens has increased the demand for
smooth papers, and has led to improvements in finishing them.
As an improvement in the manufacture of paper sized by the machines now
in use, it is proposed to conduct the web of paper, after it has been
either partially or completely dried, through a trough of cold water,
then to pass it through a pair of pressing-rolls, and afterwards to
dry it on reels, or over hot cylinders. The paper thus treated will be
found to "bear" much better, and admit of erasures being made on the
surface of such paper, and written over, without the ink running in the
way it does when the paper is sized and dried in the usual manner.
It has been found that when paper is dried, after sizing, by the
drying-machines in present use, the paper is very harsh; and,
until it stands for some time to get weather (as it is technically
termed), great difficulty is experienced in glazing the paper. This
inconvenience is proposed to be overcome by passing the paper partially
round a hollow cylinder, through which a small stream of cold water is
made to run. By this means the heat in the paper is carried off, and
the paper is rendered more tractable, and brought to a proper state for
undergoing the glazing operation.
It is stated that, "in England, writing-papers are sized with gelatin,
and are stronger and harder than those of other countries; they are
also cleaner, generally better _put up_, and show greater care in the
manufacture, than those of France and of other countries. The old
cream-laid papers, now so fashionable, were reintroduced a few years
since, and they are still preferred for letter and note-paper. The
thinner post writing-papers, however, are much better manufactured in
France, Belgium, and other parts of the Continent, than in England.
Those exhibited at the World's Fair from Angoulême, in France, and
Heilbronn, in Germany, are the best; those made in Belgium are not
sufficiently hard-sized. The white of the letter-papers of France,
Germany, and other foreign countries is of great purity and beauty;
and these papers being sized in the vat with farina, in addition to
rosin-soap, instead of gelatin, they are less greasy under the pen, and
consequently can be written on more freely than those which are sized
with animal size; they do not, however, bear the ink so well. English
printing-papers generally maintain a superiority over those of foreign
countries; as also drawing-papers and strong account-book blue-laid
papers. Tinted printing and drawing-papers, formerly made exclusively
in England, are now produced by most foreign paper-makers."
* * * * *
LITTLE CHILDREN.
I am fond of children (says a celebrated author). I think them the
poetry of the world--the fresh flowers of our hearths and homes--little
conjurors, with their natural magic; evoking by their spells what
delights and enriches all ranks, and equalizes the different classes of
society. Often as they bring with them anxieties and cares, and live to
occasion sorrow and grief, we should get on very badly without them.
Only think--if there was never anything anywhere to be seen but great
grown-up men and women! How we should long for the sight of a little
child! Every infant comes into the world like a delegated prophet, the
harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose office it is "to turn the
hearts of the fathers to the children," and to draw "the disobedient
to the wisdom of the just." A child softens and purifies the heart,
warming and melting it by its gentle presence; it enriches the soul by
new feelings, and awakens within it what is favorable to virtue. It
is a beam of light, a fountain of love, a teacher whose lessons few
can resist. Infants recall us from much that engenders and encourages
selfishness, that freezes the affections, roughens the manners,
indurates the heart, they brighten the home, deepen love, invigorate
exertion, infuse courage, and vivify and sustain the charities of life.
It would be a terrible world, I do think, if not embellished by little
children.
SELLING THE LOVE-TOKEN.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
(_See Plate._)
"Very well done!" said my grandmother; "very well done, sir--you have
succeeded better than I expected."
The foreign-looking gentleman bowed and smiled, showing his white
teeth through a dark overhanging moustache, as my grandmother bent
forward again from the easy-chair, and raised her double silver-rimmed
eye-glass.
Now, Josephine and myself had been sent to her room on some household
errand connected with the coming festivities of Christmas, and were not
sorry to find the door slightly ajar. We had seen the strange-looking
gentleman, with the large square case, arrive, and knew that it was
not his first visit to the sitting-room, which we young people never
entered without knocking first for admittance. Everybody said Madam
Evelyn was peculiar; but everybody loved her, or rather regarded her
with that mingling of trust and respect which we call deference, in its
warmest and most grateful sense. This was one of her peculiarities,
that her room was held free of all intrusion, except from such visitors
as she chose to admit. I do not believe papa, her favorite son, ever
broke through the rule of asking audience, though she had made his
home her home for many a year. Poor mamma used to declare that she
envied her this privilege. _Her_ chamber was a perfect thoroughfare.
The seamstress always occupied one corner. The servants were coming for
orders incessantly. Maude, my oldest sister, who had her grandmother's
name, retreated to mamma's lounge if she chanced to disagree with
Elizabeth, and at any hour of the day a little horde of Goths, in
the shape of us younger children, were liable to overrun and take
possession of this neutral territory between the parlor and the nursery.
Poor mamma! no wonder her favorite expressions were--"I'm sure I shall
go distracted some day," and "I am just ready to die." I dare say she
was at any time; but there seemed to be no refuge. Grandmother often
remonstrated with her, and told her that every person needed some
time in the day to collect their thoughts, and balance accounts with
themselves. After these talks, mamma would sometimes make the attempt
to have an undisturbed five minutes, "sitting with closed doors;" but
nurse would come with the baby, Charley with his cut finger, Josephine
with her torn frock or hard spelling lesson, and I with a mutilated
doll that required instant surgical aid. Maude and Elizabeth were sure
to have a dispute about the joint occupancy of some desk or closet; the
cook was in want of some receipt, or the newspaper carrier insisted
on sixty cents for the "Journal," and could not be put off. No wonder
that mamma was always "nervous" and delicate, and that those periods of
seclusion were few and far between.
But our grandmother's room, as I said before, was sacred from
intrusion. It was a large, cheerful apartment, with old-fashioned,
heavy mahogany furniture, and chintz curtains lined with colored
cambric in the winter season, as you may see in the bedrooms of
old-fashioned English houses. Her bed was in an adjoining "light
closet," as she called it, for she never yet could conquer a prejudice
against sleeping in a room with a fire; and hence we all of us, from
oldest to youngest, esteemed it a wonderful favor to visit her.
And now, thought Josephine and myself, stealing in on tiptoe, we should
find out what the errand of the strange gentleman is, and what he has
brought to grandmother in the square packing-case.
But, alas for our hopes! she very quietly closed the cover as she
discovered us in the background, and the only satisfaction we had was
seeing her go to the tall cabinet in the corner, and take out five
bright gold pieces, which she gave to the stranger, and which seemed to
please him quite as much as her commendation had done. I dare say he
needed the gold more than the praise, though both were grateful to the
friendless foreigner.
We did not mean to betray our unlawful curiosity, but I suppose we must
have done so, for grandmother said--
"All in good time, children," and nodded a little towards the
mysterious box. I took Josephine to task, as we hastily retreated in
the wake of the strange gentleman, while she, on the contrary, was
convinced it was me who had drawn forth the implied reprimand.
We always made a great account of Christmas, much more than any of
our friends, to whom Thanksgiving Day was the high festival of the
year. I suppose it was on account of our English descent; and then our
grandmother always took such an active and happy part in the day's
household festivities.
On this day she always came down stairs to dinner, carefully dressed in
an old-fashioned brocaded silk, the snowy lawn handkerchief crossed on
her breast, fastened with a brooch containing my grandfather's hair, in
a setting of alternate pearls and garnets. My uncle John and his family
were usually of the party, but she leaned on papa's arm, and always
called him "my son."
The evening of the coming Christmas we were to pass in grandmother's
room, by special invitation. Chester Adams, who was in papa's
counting-house, and indeed always treated like one of the family, was
the only stranger present. Our grandmother was always especially kind
to him, for he was a frank, modest young man; an orphan, with no home
circle but our own. Papa thought him possessed of unusual business
talents and integrity, but he had no other fortune; while Robert
Winthrop, the next most constant visitor at the house, was the son of a
rich man, and member of Congress. We used to wonder, Josephine and I,
why Maude always sent us to bed the instant either of them came, and
why our favorite, Chester Adams, would sometimes take up his hat and
go away again, when he heard young Winthrop was in the parlor, without
so much as saying good-evening. However, we are older now, and have
visitors of our own.
I think Maude was in hopes Robert Winthrop would be asked to stay, for
he called in the afternoon, and brought her a bouquet from his mother's
conservatory, one of the few kept up through our rigorous Boston
winters. But though he paid a very long call, sitting almost until the
candles were lighted, no further invitation was given. Maude consoled
herself, however, by coming to the dinner-table with a branch of the
scarlet geranium in her dark hair, which suited the coral ornaments,
papa's gift, and was wonderfully becoming. Chester Adams moved a
little, to make way for her, and then spilled the gravy he was helping
grandmother to, as she sat down. We children thought he was very
dull--he did not tell one amusing story, or eat philopœnas with us, as
he generally did.
Our Christmas dinner was the great feast of the year. On other days,
the orthodox two o'clock rule of our neighbors was adopted, but there
was a lunch after church on Christmas, and the dinner was not served
until it was quite dark. The shutters were closed, lights placed along
the table, a great dessert-dish of fruit, ornamented with evergreens,
occupied the centre, while the roast beef before papa, and the turkey
in mamma's vicinity, were the finest the market could afford. We used
to wonder how people could eat _beef_, when there was roast turkey with
dressing!
Then, at dessert, the plum-pudding made from our grandmother's receipt
came on all in a blaze, which we thought the most curious thing in
the world, and used to excite the incredulity of our schoolmates with
describing. Then there were raisins and almonds, figs and apples, and
a dish of sugar-plums, which mostly fell to our share. There, too,
we could not account for the indifference of our elders and betters,
though we were so much the gainers by it. There never will be such
dinners as those again--never, never, Josephine and I both agree,
though we should live to have houses of our own, and be able to order
almonds and raisins every day for dessert.
After we young people had disposed of all we could, and much more than
was good for us, I dare say, the whole party adjourned to grandmother's
room. Chester Adams had never been in it before, and exclaimed at
its cheerful air of comfort, which pleased grandmother--and papa,
too, for that matter, for he was still an affectionate and dutiful
child. The chintz curtains were let down, the round-table drawn up
near the blazing grate, and the brass-headed nails that studded the
old-fashioned furniture glowed in the light of the wax candles in the
high silver candlesticks on the mantle and table. Our grandmother never
took kindly to lamps. I don't know what she would have said to gas.
This was the way we sat--papa on one side of the fire, with Joe on his
knee, and Charlie nestling up to mamma's side, already half asleep.
Then Uncle John opposite, and quiet Aunt Mary, with Cousin Kate and
Ellis, their only children. Elizabeth was on that side, for she and
Ellis were great friends; and so it happened that Chester Adams was
left the place on the sofa between Maude and myself. Maude drew her
dress up carefully when he sat down and put his arm around me. I was
only ten years old, and we had always looked upon him as our brother.
I thought Maude need not have been so careful, though she did have on
her best silk, for Chester was very nice. Maude often spoke of how
particular he was.
Grandmother had promised us a story that evening. She and papa often
talked about England on Christmas evening, and sometimes of our
grandfather. Uncle John was too young when they came to this country to
remember much that happened before.
"Tell us about the old stone Grange, grandmother, where you were born,"
pleaded Josephine.
"Yes--about your tumbling into the moat, like pussy in the well and
little Johnny Green," Charlie called out, suddenly rising up from
mamma's shoulder.
Grandmother pulled up her black silk mitts, and smiled very kindly. I
can see her now, sitting up as straight in her high-backed chair as if
she had never known any burden of care, or sorrow, or disappointment.
Mamma always stooped much more. Just then, Josephine and I discerned
the square case standing on the shelf of the cabinet. We both saw it
at the same time, and even papa's eyes wandered curiously in that
direction.
He certainly had the best right to solve the mystery--it contained his
Christmas present from grandmother; a picture in a bright gilt frame,
which he brought forward, at her request, and placed in an excellent
light. I never saw my father more affected than when he had the first
glimpse of that picture. He did not say one word; but the tears rose
to his eyes, and he went directly to grandmother, and, stooping down,
kissed her forehead, putting back the silvery hair as he would have
done to one of us, and holding his hand there a moment as if he said,
"God bless you!" in his heart. It was the only affectionate caress I
ever saw him give her, for he was usually self-composed, almost stern
in manner, which was her own way.
"But what is it about, grandmother--the story?" asked Josephine.
"What a funny little baby!" commented Charlie. "Not half so pretty
as ours. And such an ugly old gentleman! What is he doing with that
eye-glass, mamma? It isn't double, like grandmother's."
Maude and Elizabeth seemed interested to know whether it was to be hung
in the parlor, and said the frame was very handsome. For myself, I saw
in the picture a dark room, not at all like any in our house, with
an old gentleman, whose long pointed beard reminded me of the Jewish
doctors in the Temple--one of the prints in grandmother's large Bible.
He seemed to be examining a ring through an eye-glass, and before him
stood a lady with a very sad, anxious face. She wore a dark robe, of a
quaint, though graceful fashion, and held a little child in her arms. I
thought it was as pretty a picture as any in the annual Chester Adams
had given Maude that morning, though I felt almost inclined to cry; the
lady's face was so very sorrowful.
"Who will read my story for me?" said grandmother, by and by, when
papa had moved away from the back of her chair, and stood looking at
the picture again with his hand over his eyes, to get a better light,
I dare say. "I have written it, because there are some of these little
people who would forget if it was only told them, and I should like to
have it remembered as long as the picture is kept in the family; when
you do not come to pass your Christmas evenings in grandmother's room,"
she added, after a little pause. It was the first time I heard her
allude to her going from us; not that I think she dreaded death--no one
was ever better prepared to meet it--but she was naturally reserved.
I wondered papa did not offer to take the manuscript she held out;
but he did not change his position; and Aunt Mary, always kind and
thoughtful, volunteered her services. Grandmother said she was afraid
the children would not be interested, and that it might trouble Aunt
Mary to make out an old lady's crabbed handwriting. "It was not very
long, to be sure," and then she straightened herself to listen, holding
a little Chinese screen to shade her eyes from the fire, while Aunt
Mary read:--
"THE TEMPTATION OF ALICE GRAY.
"It was a long time ago," said my grandmother's story, "that Alice Gray
left her English country home, to follow the fortunes of her husband,
a generous, kind-hearted sailor. It was hard parting with the old
place, though her parents were dead, and she was an only child. She
was going to foreign countries, where even the language was strange to
her, with no one to turn to but Richard Gray, and, though he was very
kind and noble-hearted, she knew there would be hours of loneliness
when her heart would travel back to the old haunts of her childhood,
yearning for the household faces that were familiar in her cradle.
Injustice had made her poor, as well as an orphan, though she had never
yet felt the lack of abundant means; nor did she know, until she had
been long a wife, what a painful dependence the love and protection of
Richard Gray had saved her from. The frank-hearted sailor loved her the
better that she needed his care; she tried in turn to be cheerful and
brave, in looking forward to their long separations, and to welcome
him home with a new happiness and trust. For a time, these partings,
which shorten the life of every sailor's wife, were not necessary. She
had a bold heart, and went with him to many strange countries, seeing
more wonderful things than she had ever dreamed of in her old home
in Devon. So their first parting was very hard; and while she could
scarcely close her eyes to rest, for fear of the hour that was to
take him from her, he stole away from her side as she lay asleep. He
never trembled at the wildest gale; but he could not bear the agony of
parting with one he loved better than life. You can imagine how weary
and desolate that waking was to Alice Gray, and how she tried to shut
out the daylight, and put away for a time all comfort that was offered
to her. It was not as now, when letters can come from those in distant
lands almost with the swiftness of a loving thought--it was months,
and sometimes years, before any tidings could arrive. The dangers of
the sea were little understood, but greatly dreaded, and loss and
shipwreck far more frequent. So Alice Gray shut up her sorrows in her
own heart from the strangers around her, and listened to the sobbing
wind and moaning sea through the long dreary nights, until her child,
her first-born son, was given to her arms. There was pain even in that
new happiness; for there was no father's blessing for her little one,
and no kiss of tenderness for herself, as she pressed her child to her
heart.
"But the boy grew so like his father. The same curly rings of hair
lying on his broad forehead, though many shades fairer, and the clear
blue eyes, haunted her with a well-remembered look. She had need of
all comfort, for she passed through many trials, sickness, loss, and
at last poverty, still among strangers, though not where her husband
had left her. She could not stay so far from the sea, where it would be
many days after he landed before he could reach her. So she came to the
little seaport from which his vessel had sailed for the far-off Indian
Ocean, and there watched for the first glimpse of its white sails.
Months passed on in sickening, harassing anxiety; and then came news of
disaster, shipwreck, _death_; an awful certainty for the fear that had
haunted her day and night. She and her child were doubly orphaned.
"Midwinter, and death, and pressing poverty! She could not give up all
hope at once, but, through the long autumn, paced the rocky line of
coast day after day, her child cradled warmly in her arms, and looking
out with straining eyes towards the horizon. She thought she must go
mad, and almost prayed for it, if forgetfulness came to--but, then
there was her child--there would be no one to care for him, and she
could not abandon him with the new mother-love growing up in her heart.
Many pitied the 'poor English lady,' as they saw the chill sea-breeze
tossing her thin garments, she standing on the very verge of the bleak
rocks, with the cold, black waves breaking sullenly beneath her. There
was one who did more than pity. She welcomed him as a friend first, for
he came with sympathizing looks and kind words, and would have relieved
the pressure of her poverty. But Alice Gray was still too proud for
that, and she parted one by one with the few treasures, costly toys,
her husband had gathered in foreign lands, to keep away starvation.
She had no idea of toiling for a subsistence, as the poor creatures
around her did, and was too much wrapt up in her grief to think or plan
any lighter task. _He_ saw it all, rich and prosperous as he was, and
patiently waited his time. It came at last, when, with a shudder, she
drew off her ring of betrothal, scarcely dearer or more sacred than
the wedding-ring itself, and offered it in exchange for gold, to buy
bread for herself and child. Heaven help her when that was exhausted!
It was all she had. It was very late when she hurried through the
narrow street, to offer it, where all her trinkets had gone before.
They were celebrating Christmas night in her own land, with its blazing
fires, and tables spread with plenty. She hurried as if to put aside
such goading memories, past low wine-shops, and groups of fishermen,
and common sailors, until she came to the house of the Israelite,
who exchanged whatever was brought to him, without questions, so he
could get it at half its worth. The dingy shop was closed, but she
was admitted for the first time into the inner apartment, which the
broker had fitted up with the spoils of his hard trade. Pictures,
goblets, and vases, musical instruments, and embroidered cushions, and
antique carved chairs, gave it a novel, but curious air, this cold,
wintry night. There was no light save the broad glare of the brands on
the hearth, and of the lamp that burned still in the outer room, and
fell through the casement, by which all visitors were reconnoitred. A
heavy curtain of velvet, a little faded, but once the hangings of a
palace-like mansion, concealed the rough wall on one side, as she stood
there noting all these things with a strange, minute interest she did
not feel, and wondered at even then. It seemed as if he would never
name the value of the ring. She could not bear to see him handle it so
carelessly, when it was so dear to her.
"Outside the gusty wind was sweeping the narrow streets, and coarse
songs and jests, hard trampling feet went by, and she had yet to go out
and encounter these perils of darkness and storm: she, who had been so
tenderly reared as a child, and so closely sheltered as a wife. She had
removed the brown braided tress that filled the centre of the ring; but
it was of virgin gold, massive and antique in design, as suited the
sailor's fancy, with a circlet of precious stones. She knew little of
its real value; to her it was beyond all price as the first love-token
from her husband, who was gone forever. The careful dealer saw this,
and noted the indifference of her manner as she stood before him in
her dark robes and linen coif, for she had thrown down the coarse
mantle that had wrapped herself and child at the entrance of the outer
apartment. He did not anticipate much wrangling as he slowly drew forth
the key of his treasury, and as slowly counted out the price at which
he valued the token. He was right; for the sacrifice had cost her too
much for words, and she went out slowly from his presence with that
same fixed, hopeless expression. When that small sum was exhausted, she
had no other earthly resource.
"Still pressing _his_ child to her bosom, Alice Gray passed along the
dingy street to her miserable home, though it was no home, with its
blank walls and fireless hearth; but it served to shelter her when
night came, as she was driven from her lonely watch on the beach.
But, before she reached it, a roving band of sailors, landed that day
from a ship she had seen enter the harbor, filled up the narrow path,
shouting and rolling with the wine they had quaffed, and singing a wild
bacchanalian song. She shrank aside to let them pass; but the foremost
seized her with an oath and rude grasp, and would have torn the mantle
from her face in another instant, had not a blow struck him breathless
against the wall. The strong arm of her deliverer set aside the
assailants, and conducted her safely on her way. It was the one friend
who seemed always to mark her movements, and to whom she was indebted
for many kindnesses.
"He, too, was a stranger; and, wandering on the cliffs, had first noted
the pale, unquiet woman that haunted them. When he had learned her
story from the fisherman, his pity grew to sympathy, and ended in love.
He was rich and free; and that night, as she clung gratefully to his
arm, it was offered to her, with protection from all care and want and
contact with the world. He had come out to seek her, he said, and _that
very night_ stood ready to make her his. The priest awaited them; his
arms should shelter her; he urged and pleaded with her to become once
more a wife.
"You must not blame her, children--you must not, at least, judge her
too harshly that she listened to _the temptation_, knowing, as she
did, that the new vows would be an empty mockery; that all her love
was buried fathoms deep with Richard Gray. She still trembled from the
insult of the sailors; the night was black and pitiless; she was alone,
and almost _starving_. It was like one, benumbed with cold and hunger,
standing on the threshold of a mansion blazing with light and warmth
and costly cheer. Many a young maiden has bartered her hand for gold
without Alice Gray's bitter need, now, even in our own day, or for the
baubles of rank and position.
"Oh, it was cruel in that kind voice to plead so earnestly, knowing her
heart was starved--craving for kindness and care! For her child's sake,
he said, and pictured the boy growing up under his fatherly protection,
or, skilfully reversing the lines, showed him to her neglected and
abandoned among the rude fishermen. No wonder that consent hung on her
very utterance, when the child stirred in her bosom, and passed its
little hands caressingly over her haggard face as she bent towards it.
_Richard's child!_ She could not give another the husband's right he
had been proud to claim; no, she would work, ay, starve, if it must be
so, but not wrong his memory by falsehood and the endurance of caresses
from which she must ever shrink, as the memory of his love came between
her and the present.
"_Her child_ saved her from the great sin of going to another home and
another love that night, when she had nothing to offer in return.
"So her last friend was repulsed, and deserted her, trying to keep down
the bitterness of spirit that pride called up to take the place of
rejected love. She sat alone and hopeless with her child through the
midnight darkness, and the love-token sparkled beneath the lamp of the
grasping broker, who sat counting the day's gains.
"A knock at the outer entrance did not startle him, for he conducted
many a shrewd bargain while others slept; but he looked to see that all
his treasures were within a sweep of his arm before he admitted the
visitor.
"It was a sunburnt, swarthy-looking man, with jewels from the Orient
to be exchanged for gold. He knew their full value, and demanded it;
but, while the Jew demurred, his quick eyes scanned the whole room at
a glance. Travel-worn as he was, something arrested his gaze that made
his lips tremble and grow white, and his heart beat fast as he bent
forward and clutched, heedless of the old man's remonstrances, _the
love-token_ he had given years ago to his wife, Alice Gray.
"You can see it all now, my children, from what a fearful sin the
sacrifice of that night saved her, though you are too young and too
untried to imagine even the swoon of joy in which she lay clasped to
her husband's bosom, till the dim morning light revealed those dear
features, and the nut-brown curls threaded with silver from the toil
and exposure he had endured. No wonder that she shuddered at the
remembrance of her temptation, or that she loved the unconscious child,
who had saved her from it, above all that were afterwards given to her
arms."
* * * * *
So ended Aunt Mary's reading, while papa still shaded his eyes from the
light, and grandmother's hand trembled as she supported the screen.
Mamma's eyes were full of tears, and she kissed Charlie, now sleeping
on her shoulder, over and over again, as if stooping down over him
could hide them: Josephine and myself could not understand the scene
till we were much older, and the picture had come to be spoken of as
an heirloom in the family. But I saw something else that interested me
very much, for I thought she might better have given it to me--Maude
pull Robert Winthrop's scarlet geranium from her hair, and finally
crush it under her slipper, as the decision of Alice Gray was told.
Some one else saw it, too, I fancy, for presently Chester Adams's hand
dropped from my shoulder upon Maude's, lying near me, and she did
not withdraw it. Maude was crying, too; but a smile, like sunshine,
came into her eyes as she stole a timid, wistful look up into his
affectionate eyes, as I have seen children ask for pardon.
When we separated for the night, grandmother took a hand of each of
them in one of hers, and said, "Good-night, my children; be true to
yourselves and to each other!" and it was in this way I noticed a ring,
like the love-token in the picture, on my grandmother's wedding-finger.
A CHAPTER ON NECKLACES, OLD AND NEW.
BY MRS. WHITE.
It is curious to trace the first appearance of necklaces amongst the
Egyptians, in the same form as they exist at the present day upon
the necks of the Patagonians, and the natives of the islands of the
Pacific; for the ancient dwellers by the Nile wore necklaces of the
seeds of leguminous plants, berries, and feathers (especially those
of the _poule de Numidie_), precisely the same substances which
are used in this ornament by the above people, except that the emu
supplies the feathers, and that shells are occasionally mingled with
the bright-colored berries. But shells were also used in necklaces by
the Egyptians, as our readers may perceive in the table-cases of the
Egyptian gallery in the British Museum.
Here, we may trace the next appearance of this trinket, when art began
to be applied in its composition, and spherical beads of various
substances were used; as well as its progression from a simple ornament
to its superstitious use as an amulet.
In one of these cases some very interesting specimens of our subject
may be seen, tracing, as plainly as more important things might do,
the gradual advance of art; there is one of round blue beads capped
with silver, another representing deities and symbols, and a third with
pendants in the form of the lock of horns, fishes, and cowries, which
are well deserving of attention.
The two latter were of course worn as amulets, and, being impressed
with sacred images, were supposed to ward off danger and infection,
to render the wearer courageous or agreeable, or invest him with the
various qualities which their symbolism, or the substances of which
they were composed, represented in the mythic language of the East.
Perhaps it might have been with such intentions that we find the
necklace so favorite an adornment with the warriors of antiquity. The
Medes, Persians, Indians, and Etruscans wore them in the valuable
shape of strings of pearls, sometimes enriched with jewels; while the
chiefs and great men amongst the northern nations were distinguished
by necklaces and collars of gold, called _torques_, so that, when
conquered, the necklaces of both oriental and Celtic nations must have
made an important part of the spoils. Hence, probably, the adoption of
the _monile_ by the Romans as a reward for military valor, and hence
also the surname of _Torquatus_ Manlius, who was so called from his
having torn the golden _torque_ from the neck of an enemy on the field
of battle.
Necklaces were worn by both Greek and Roman women, but only within
doors, and on occasions of domestic festivity, as at weddings and
dances; they were especially used as bridal presents, and the learned
in mythology will remember that it was upon the occasion of Hermione's
marriage that Vulcan, to revenge her mother's infidelity, bestowed
upon her the fatal necklace which worked such wondrous evils on her
race. Here we perceive that the Eastern superstitions connected with
this ornament had accompanied the fashion of wearing it into Greece:
the rich and beautiful necklace of Hermione was a talisman--not to
counteract evil, but to produce it; so that by-and-by we find this very
necklace, which Ovid tells us was of gold, and to the description of
which Nomus devotes fifty lines of his Dionysica, bribing Eriphyle, the
wife of Amphiaraus, to betray her husband.
At Rome, as with the old Egyptians, the materials of the necklace soon
altered from a simple row of berries or small spheres of glass, &c.,
to pearls and amber, and precious stones; the single chaplet, which
primitively encircled the throat, gradually extended to a second, and
even a third row: after which we find the original necklace adorned
with drops or pendents, which, when worn, fell round the neck like rays
from a centre.
For this description of _monile_, emeralds, and other gems of a
greenish hue, were greatly prized; and amongst the treasures which
time has restored to the museums and cabinets of the curious, from the
buried toilets of Pompeii, a golden necklace is enumerated, which was
enriched with twelve small emeralds.
Etruscan graves have also yielded up their treasures, and amongst a
variety of other matters affording the most interesting illustrations
of the domestic economies of the ancient Tuscan people, have preserved
for us the fashion of these ornaments. Those purchased from the Prince
of Canino, and deposited in the British Museum, are of gold; one
represents a wreath of ivy-leaves in pairs, the stems of the leaves
joining; and the ornaments of the others consist of circles, lozenges,
rosettes, hippocampi (sea-horses), and a heart depends centrally from
one of them.
Necklaces in the shape of serpents were worn by the Greeks and Romans,
by whom this emblem was regarded as a charm against witchcraft and the
"evil eye;" they were made to coil round the neck of the wearer, and
it is remarkable that the necklace so fatal to Hermione and Eriphyle
was of this form. Some years back an inscription, found in France,
mentioned a _torque_ dedicated to Æsculapius, having been made by
twisting together two golden snakes, and offerings of trinkets in this
shape were often made in honor of him by persons during illness, or on
their recovery from it.
Besides decorating the necks of brides and conquerors with these
ornaments, the Romans carried their admiration of the necklace so far
as to adorn the statues of their divinities with them; thus, a statue
of Fortune, found at Herculaneum, had the representation of a necklace
incrusted with silver, and a figure of Mercury, in the gallery of Greek
and Roman antiquities in the museum (thought by some to be the most
exquisite bronze in Europe), has a gold torquis round its neck; this
honor, however, the deities shared in common with favorite domestic
animals; and horses were frequently adorned with them.
So much more remains to be said of the use of them by the ancients,
that we leave, reluctantly, these classic reminiscences, to trace the
history of the necklace at home, where it appears to have an existence
coeval with Stonehenge, and to have preserved its memoirs in the
funeral barrows of the Britons and Anglo-Saxons. In these _tumuli_,
necklaces of various kinds have been found, and beads of crystal, jet,
amber, and colored glass, are quite common in them. In some, necklaces
of bone and ivory have been discovered, and the Archæological Society
have engraved one in their Journal, which is formed of beads of bone
and canel coal.
In the wills of the Anglo-Saxons, we find the _neck-bracelet_, as its
name implied in their language, frequently mentioned: and amongst
other articles of jewellery, we read of golden vermiculated necklaces.
Boadicea wore a golden necklace, and subsequently the torquis, or
collar of honor, commonly of gold, was made the _insignia_ of dukes and
earls, both by the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans. The Norman kings wore
a collar or necklace of gold, adorned with jewels, and which depended
on the breast, like the collar or knighthood, of which, no doubt,
these antique ornaments were the prototypes; while such of our Saxon
ancestors as could not procure the precious metals, rather than be
without this favorite ornament, wore them of brass, and even iron.
Amber appears, from the very earliest period, a favorite material for
the necklaces of women, probably on account of its perfume, which
Autolycus, the roguish peddler, in the "Winter's Tale," alludes to in
his rhyming list of wares--
"Necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber."
In Italy, we learn from an ancient chronicle, that ladies wore them
made of bent gold coins, and that whistles, in the shape of a dragon,
set with gold and pearls (probably to call servants), sometimes
depended from them.
A picture of Joan of Navarre, wife of Henry IV., in whose reign
necklaces were much worn by ladies, represents her wearing a collar of
Esses.
A necklace on the ancient effigy of Lady Peyton, at Isleham Church,
Cambridgeshire, is formed of pear-shaped stones or pearls, attached
to a string or narrow band of gold, while another, represented in the
Harleian MS., looks like a wreath of small stars, and was, in all
probability, of the same precious metal.
In the Middle Ages, we read that the necklaces of women were set with
jewels and stones; and that some, called _serpents_, from the fashion
of them, were also in vogue; and in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries, the necklaces of English ladies were arranged in the same
manner as the rayed ones of the Romans.
Queen Elizabeth is always represented wearing strings of pearls,
or jewelled carcanets, and the royal example appears to have been
very generally followed by the dames of her realm, whose taste for
a profusion of such ornaments has been handed down to us by the
dramatists and other writers of the period; though in her reign, as
in her father's, sumptuary laws were made to prevent persons below a
certain rank from appearing in them.
Barclay, in his "Ship of Fools," printed A. D. 1508, speaks of some who
had their necks
"Charged with collars and chains,
In golden withes."
And in a curious work called "The Four Pees," of John Heywood, written
1560, he makes the Peddler vaunt, amongst other vanities of women,
"of all manner of beads." The penalty for wearing anything of gold
or gilt about the neck, in Henry VIII.'s time, unless the wearer was
a gentleman, or could prove that he possessed, over all charges,
200_l._ yearly value, was the forfeiture of the same; a regulation well
calculated to maintain the restriction in fact.
All this while certain superstitions existed with regard to the
necklace, as well as to all other trinkets of which gold and precious
stones made part, occasioned, probably, by the antique use of gems
as amulets, and from the pretended occult powers ascribed to them by
the alchemists. Even Elizabeth, with all her keenness and masculine
strength of mind, save where vanity and its natural craving, the love
of admiration, were concerned, appears to have been just as impressible
upon such subjects as a peasant girl; and we find the Lord Chancellor
Hatton sending her a ring (in all probability of agate), to be worn on
her breast, against infectious air. The physicians of those days did
much to sustain the "charm" of our subject. Necklaces made of the root
of the male peony were worn for the prevention of the falling sickness,
while those made of amber were deemed good against infection; and to
the doctrine of signatures, which connected the medical properties of
substances with their forms and color, we may safely trace the common
practice of ornamenting young children with necklaces of coral, as well
as the invention of the silver-belled trifle, so called.
With the same purpose (that of assisting their teething), the anodyne
necklace, which is made of beads of the white bryony, is sometimes
hung around the necks of infants, sustaining, even in our own times, a
lingering faith in the medical virtues of the amulet.
But that our space forbids, the necklace worn by nuns might lead us
to a dissertation on the religious uses of this ornament; but we must
briefly glance at its secular history in modern times, when its most
powerful spells have been those of fashion.
Coming down to the seventeenth century, we find the necklace quite
as much in vogue as in the reign of Elizabeth: in Massinger's "City
Madam," after her husband's knighthood, we find her brother observing
to the lady,
"Your borrowed hair,
Powdered and curled, was by your dresser's art
Formed like a coronet--hang'd with diamonds,
And richest orient pearls--your carkanet,
That did adorn your neck, of equal value;"
so that the love of gems and jewellery was by no means on the decline.
In the picture of Charles and his queen, in "Heath's Chronicle,"
(1662), Catherine of Braganza wears two necklaces, one clasping the
throat, and the other, to which a pendent is attached, falling low
on the shoulders. Planché tells us that in Mary's reign, jewelled
necklaces sparkled on the bosom, a fashion continued in that of her
sister Anne of Denmark, who is usually drawn wearing one.
With the accession of George III., the maudlin sentimentality of the
belles and macaronies of the period gave the name of _esclavage_ to
the necklace then in fashion, which consisted of several rows of gold
chains, or beads, or jewels, arranged one under the other in successive
festoons, so as to cover the entire neck.
This was again displaced by the carcanet, or band of jewels set in
gold, and we ourselves remember the _négligé_, with its tasselled ends
falling gracefully beneath the throat; since then the necklace has
gradually grown into disuse, so that our friend's information, that
short golden ones were again in fashion, sounded pleasantly as news of
an old acquaintance.
GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.
LESSON III.
[Illustration: Fig. 23.]
The pupil may now proceed to more ambitious attempts in the art of
delineation. Fig. 23 is the representation of a box supposed to be
standing on a table. It is formed entirely of straight lines. She
should draw the front oblong first, then the end, taking care to make
the perpendicular boundary line farthest from the eye rather shorter
than the first line, in order to give the perspective appearance to the
representation. In this section we do not give the rules of perspective
delineation, preferring to let the pupil become acquainted therewith
after she has acquired the necessary facility for copying objects as
they appear presented to her eye; this to us appearing the most natural
course, as perspective cannot be taught unless the objects which
illustrate the rules, and which are to be found in all perspective
delineations, can themselves be sketched with ease. As soon as a pupil
can copy an object correctly, so far as her own ideas go, she will at
once perceive the utility of an art which, by stated rules, will enable
her to test the accuracy of her proceedings.
Fig. 24 is a free outline sketch of a pump; by drawing the lower square
first, thereafter the end and top, and next the upright oblong, finally
putting in the handle and spout, the delineation will speedily be
effected. The pupil at this stage should attempt to delineate the forms
presented by placing boxes, square blocks, bricks, &c., in various
positions.
[Illustration: Fig. 24.]
[Illustration: Fig. 25.]
Fig. 25 is the representation of a book lying on its side; it is formed
of both straight and curved lines. She should draw the horizontal lines
first, then the oblique, taking care to make the two lines forming the
top nearly parallel, and the others slightly to approach each other, to
give the idea of distance; the under lines may be strengthened as in
the figure, which will compensate for the absence of light and shade.
[Illustration: Fig. 26.]
Fig. 26 affords a good exemplification of the use of the oval or
ellipse in forming leaves, &c. In the first place, a correct ellipse
is to be drawn, thereafter the top _a_ and the end _b_ of the leaf,
rubbing out the parts _c c_ not required, and, lastly, putting in the
fibres, as in the figure. The leaf is finished by putting in the
serrated or saw-like edges, as in Fig. 27.
[Illustration: Fig. 27.]
Fig. 28 is formed in the same way, the only difference being that the
leaf is comprised _within_ the ellipse; the parts _a a_ being rubbed
out, and the edges filled as in Fig. 29.
[Illustration: Fig. 28.]
[Illustration: Fig. 29.]
Fig. 30 exemplifies the use of the circle in delineating natural
objects. A pear is drawn by first making the circle, as in Fig. 30,
thereafter finishing it, as in Fig. 31. The use of the circle is
further demonstrated by Figs. 32 and 33, which show the method adopted
in drawing an acorn. The method here indicated, of using ellipses
and circles as the foundation of the outlines, is applicable to the
formation of a vast variety of objects; thus, vases and other forms can
be rapidly delineated, as shown in Figs. 34 and 35.
[Illustration: Fig. 30.]
[Illustration: Fig. 31.]
[Illustration: Fig. 32. Fig. 33.]
[Illustration: Fig. 34. Fig. 35.]
THE TRIALS OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
(Continued from page 127.)
CHAPTER III.
On the next morning, at the earliest dawn, Mrs. Gaston arose. She found
Ella's fever still very high. The child was restless, and moaned a good
deal in her sleep.
"Poor little thing!" murmured the mother, as she bent over her for a
moment, and then turned away, and commenced kindling a fire upon the
hearth. Fortunately for her, she had saved enough from her earnings
during the summer to buy half a cord of wood; but this was gradually
melting away, and she was painfully conscious that, by the time the
long and severe winter had fairly set in, her stock of fuel would be
exhausted; and at the prices which she was receiving for her work,
she felt that it would be impossible to buy more. After making the
fire, she took her work, and drew near the window, through which the
cold faint rays of the morning were stealing. By holding the work
close to the light, she could see to set her needle, and in this way
she commenced her daily toil. An hour was spent in sewing, when Emma
aroused up, and she had to lay by her work to attend to her child.
Ella, too, had awakened, and complained that her head ached badly, and
that her throat was very sore. Half an hour was spent in dressing,
washing, and otherwise attending to her children, and then Mrs. Gaston
went out to get something for breakfast. On entering the shop of Mrs.
Grubb, she met with rather a more courteous reception than had been
given her on the morning previous.
"Ah! good-morning, Mrs. Gaston! Good-morning!" said that personage,
with a broad, good-natured smile. "How is Ella?"
"She seems very poorly, Mrs. Grubb. I begin to feel troubled about her.
She complains of a sore throat this morning, and you know the scarlet
fever is all about now."
"Oh, no! never fear that, Mrs. Gaston. Ella's not down with the scarlet
fever, I know."
"I trust not. But I have my fears."
"Never take trouble on interest, Mrs. Gaston. It is bad enough when it
comes in the natural way. But what can I do for you?"
"I think I must have a cent's worth of coffee this morning. My head
aches so that I am almost blind. A strong cup of coffee I am sure will
do me good. And as I have a hard day's work before me, I must prepare
for it. And then I must have a pint of milk and a three cent loaf of
bread for the children. That must do me for the present. We have some
molasses left."
"You'll want a little dried meat, or a herring, or something to give
you a relish, Mrs. Gaston. Dry bread is poor eating. And you know you
can't touch molasses." Half in sympathy did Mrs. Grubb utter this, and
half as a dealer, desirous of selling her goods.
"Nothing more, just now, I believe," the poor woman replied. "I must be
prudent, you know, and count over every cent."
"But you'll make yourself sick, if you don't eat something more than
you do. So come now; treat yourself to a herring, or to a penny's worth
of this sweet butter. You'll feel all the better for it, and do more
than enough work to pay the cost twice over."
Mrs. Gaston's appetite was tempted. The hard fresh butter looked
inviting to her eyes, and she stooped over and smelled it half
involuntarily.
"I believe you are right, Mrs. Grubb," she said. "You may give me a
couple of cents' worth of this nice butter."
An ounce of butter was carefully weighed out, and given to the customer.
"Isn't there something else, now, that you want?" said the smiling
shop-keeper, leaning her elbows upon the counter, and looking
encouragingly into the face of Mrs. Gaston.
"I've indulged myself, and I shall not feel right, unless I indulge the
children a little also," was the reply; "so weigh me two cents' worth
of your smoked beef. They all like it very much."
The smoked beef was soon ready, and then the mother hurried home to her
children.
After the morning meal had been prepared, Mrs. Gaston sat down and ate
her bread and butter, tasting a little of the children's meat, and
drinking her coffee with a keen relish. She felt braced up on rising
from the table, and, but for the illness of Ella, would have felt an
unusual degree of cheerfulness.
Henry attended the common school of the district, and, soon after
breakfast, prepared himself to go. As he was leaving, his mother told
him to call at Doctor R----'s, and ask him if he would be kind enough
to stop and see Ella, She then seated herself once more beside her
little work-table. The two foreparts of the jacket had been finished,
except the button-holes; and the sleeves were ready to put in as soon
as the body of the garment was ready for them. As the button-holes
tried the sight of Mrs. Gaston severely, she chose that part of
the day, when her eyes were fresh, to work them. The jacket was
double-breasted, and there were five holes to be worked on each side.
She had nearly completed one-half of them, when Doctor R---- came in.
He looked serious upon examining his patient. Said she was very ill,
and required immediate attention.
"But you don't think it the scarlet fever, doctor?" the mother said, in
a low, alarmed voice.
"Your child is very sick, madam; and, to tell you the truth, her
symptoms resemble too closely those of the fever you have named," was
the undisguised reply.
"Surely, my cup is full and running over!" sobbed Mrs. Gaston, clasping
her hands together, as this sudden announcement broke down, for a
moment, her self-control, while the tears gushed from her eyes.
Doctor R---- was a man of true feeling. He had attended, in two or
three cases of illness, the children of Mrs. Gaston, and had observed
that she was a woman who had become, from some cause, greatly reduced
in circumstances. His sympathies were strongly awakened at seeing her
emotion, and he said, in a kind but firm voice--
"A mother, the safety of whose child depends upon her calm and
intelligent performance of duty, should never lose her self-control."
"I know that, doctor," the mother answered, rallying herself with
a strong effort. "But I was over-tried already, and your sudden
confirmation of my worst fears completely broke me down."
"In any event, however," the doctor replied, "you must not permit
yourself to forget that your child is in the hands of Him who regards
its good in a far higher sense than you can possibly. He never permits
sickness of any kind without a good end."
"I know that, doctor, but I have a mother's heart. I love my children,
and the thought of losing them touches me to the quick."
"And yet you know that, in passing from this to another state of
existence, their condition must be bettered beyond comparison."
"Oh yes. Beyond comparison!" replied the mother, half abstractedly, but
with touching pathos. "And yet, doctor, I cannot spare them. They are
everything to me."
"Do not suffer yourself to indulge needless alarm. I will leave you
medicine now, and call again to-morrow. If she should be decidedly
worse, send for me towards evening."
After the doctor went away, Mrs. Gaston gave the medicine he had left,
as directed, and then forced herself from the bedside, and resumed her
work. By the time the button-holes of the garment she was engaged upon
were all completed, and the back and shoulder seams sewed up, it was
time to see about something for dinner. She put aside the jacket, and
went to the bed. Ella lay as if asleep. Her face was flushed, and her
skin dry and hot. The mother looked upon her for a few moments with a
yearning heart; then, turning away, she took from a closet her bonnet
and shawl, and a little basket. Passing quickly down stairs, after
telling Emma to keep very still and be a good girl until she came back,
she took her way towards the market-house. At a butcher's she obtained,
for three cents, some bones, and then at one of the stalls bought a few
herbs, a head of cabbage, and three turnips; the whole at a cost of
sixpence. With these she returned home, renewed her fire, and, after
preparing the bones and vegetables she had procured, put them into an
iron pot with some water, and hung this upon the crane. She then sat
down again to her work.
At twelve o'clock Henry came in from school, and brought up an armful
of wood, and some water, and then, by direction of his mother, saw
that the fire was kept burning briskly. At one, Mrs. Gaston laid by
her work again, and set the table for dinner. Henry went for a loaf of
bread while she was doing this, and upon his return found all ready.
The meal, palatable to all, was a well-made soup; the mother and her
two children ate of it with keen appetites. When it was over, Henry
went away again to school, and Mrs. Gaston, after administering to Ella
another dose of medicine, sat down once more to her work. One sleeve
remained to be sewed in, when the garment would only require to have
the collar put on, and be pressed off. This occupied her until late in
the afternoon.
"Thirty cents for all that!" she sighed to herself, as she laid the
finished garment upon the bed. "Too bad! Too bad! How can a widow and
three children subsist on twenty cents a day!"
A deep moan from Ella caused her to look at her child more intently
than she had done for half an hour. She was alarmed to find that her
face had become like scarlet, and was considerably swollen. On speaking
to her, she seemed quite stupid, and answered incoherently, frequently
putting her hand to her throat, as if in pain there. This confirmed
the mother's worst fears for her child, especially as she was in a
raging fever. Soon after, Henry came in from school, and she dispatched
him for Doctor R----, who returned with the boy. He seemed uneasy at
the manner in which the symptoms were developing themselves. A long
and silent examination ended in his asking for a basin. He bled her
freely, as there appeared to be much visceral congestion, and an active
inflammation of the tonsils, larynx, and air passages, with a most
violent fever. After this she lay very still, and seemed much relieved.
But, half an hour after the doctor had left, the fever rallied again,
with burning intensity. Her face swelled rapidly, and the soreness of
her throat increased. About nine o'clock the doctor came in again, and
upon examining the child's throat, found it black and deeply ulcerated.
"What do you think of her, doctor?" asked the poor mother, eagerly.
"I think her very ill, madam--and, I regret to say, dangerously so."
"Is it scarlet fever, doctor?"
"It is, madam. A very bad case of it. But do not give way to feelings
of despondency. I have seen worse cases recover."
More active medicines than any that had yet been administered were
given by the doctor, who again retired, with but little hope of seeing
his patient alive in the morning.
From the time Mrs. Gaston finished the garment upon which she had been
working, she had not even unrolled the other roundabout, and it was
now nine o'clock at night. A sense of her destitute condition, and of
the pressing necessity there was for her to let every minute leave
behind some visible impression, made her, after Henry and Emma were in
bed, leave the side of her sick child, though with painful reluctance,
and resume her toil. But, ever and anon, as Ella moaned, or tossed
restlessly upon her pillow, would the mother lay by her work, and go
and stand beside her in silent anguish of spirit, or inquire where she
suffered pain, or what she could do to relieve her.
Thus passed the hours until twelve, one, and two o'clock, the mother
feeling that her child was too sick for her to seek repose, and yet, as
she could do nothing to relieve her sufferings, she could not sit idly
by and look upon her. For fifteen or twenty minutes at a time she would
ply her needle, and then get up and bend over the bed for a minute or
two. A thought of duty would again call her back to her position by
the work-table, where she would again devote herself to her task, in
spite of an aching head, and a reluctant, over-wearied body. Thus she
continued until near daylight, when there was an apparent subsidence
of Ella's most painful symptoms. The child ceased to moan and throw
herself about, and finally sunk into slumber. In some relief of mind,
Mrs. Gaston laid down beside her upon the bed, and in a little while
was fast asleep. When she awoke, the sun had been up some time, and was
shining brightly into the room. Quickly rising, her first glance was
towards her sick child. She could scarcely suppress a cry of agony as
she perceived that her face and neck had swollen so as to appear puffed
up, while her skin was covered with livid spots. An examination of the
chest and stomach showed that these spots were extending themselves
over her whole body. Besides these signs of danger, the breathing of
the child was more like gasping, as she lay with her mouth half opened.
The mother laid her hand upon her arm, and spoke to her. But she did
not seem to hear the voice.
"Ella, dear! how do you feel this morning?" repeated Mrs. Gaston in
louder and more earnest tones.
But the child heeded her not. She was already past consciousness! At an
early hour Doctor R---- came in. The moment he looked at his patient
his countenance fell. Still, he proceeded to examine her carefully. But
every symptom was alarming, and indicated a speedy fatal termination;
this was especially the case with the upper part of the throat, which
was black. Nothing deeper could be seen, as the tonsils were so swollen
as to threaten suffocation.
"Is there any hope, doctor?" asked Mrs. Gaston eagerly, laying her hand
upon his arm as he turned from the bed.
"There is always hope where there is life, madam," he replied
abstractedly, and then in a thoughtful mood took two or three turns
across the narrow apartment.
"I will come again in an hour," he at length said, "and see if there
is any change. I would rather not give her any more medicine for the
present. Let her remain perfectly quiet."
True to his promise, Doctor R---- entered the room just an hour from
the time he left it. The scene that met his eye moved his heart deeply,
all used as he was to the daily exhibition of misery in its many
distressing forms. The child was dead! He was prepared for that--but
not for the abandoned grief to which the mother gave way. The chords
of feeling had been drawn in her heart too tightly. Mind and body were
both out of tune, and discordant. In suffering, in abject want and
destitution, her heart still clung to her children, and threw around
them a sphere of intenser affection, as all that was external grew
darker, colder, and more dreary. They were her jewels, and she could
not part with them. They were hidden away in her heart of hearts so
deeply, that not a single one of them could be taken without leaving it
lacerated and bleeding.
When the doctor entered, he found her lying upon the bed, with the body
of her child hugged tightly to her bosom. Little Emma had crept away
into a corner of the room, and looked frightened. Henry was crouching
in a chair, with the tears running down his cheeks in streams.
"You are too late, doctor," said the mother, in a tone so calm, so
clear, and yet to his ear so thrilling, that he started, and felt a
chill pass through his frame. There was something in the sound of that
voice in ill accordance with the scene.
As she spoke, she glanced at the physician with bright, tearless eyes
for a moment; and then, turning away her head, she laid her cheek
against that of the corpse, and drew the lifeless body with trembling
eagerness to her heart.
"This is all vain, my dear madam!" urged Dr. R----, approaching the
bedside, and laying his hand upon her. "Come! Be a woman. To bear is to
conquer our fate. No sorrow of yours can call back the happy spirit of
your child. And, surely, you would not call her back, if you could, to
live over the days of anguish and pain that were meted out to her?"
"I cannot give up my child, doctor. Oh, I cannot give up my child! It
will break my heart!" she replied, her voice rising and trembling more
and more at each sentence, until it gave way, and the hot tears came
raining over her face, and falling upon the insensible cheek of her
child.
"'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,' Mrs. Gaston. Can you not
look up, even in this sore affliction, and say, 'Blessed be the name
of the Lord?' It is your only hope. An arm of flesh cannot support you
now. You must look to the Strong for strength."
As Doctor R---- thus urged her to reason and duty, the tears of
the bereaved mother gradually ceased to flow. She grew calmer, and
regained, in some degree, her self-possession. As she did so, she
slowly disengaged her arm from the body of her child, placed its head
as carefully as if it had been asleep, upon the pillow, and then arose,
and stood with her hands tightly clasped across her forehead.
"I am but a weak woman, doctor, and you must bear with me," said she,
in a changed voice. "I used to have fortitude; but I feel that I am
breaking fast. I am not what I was."
The last two sentences were spoken in a tone so sad and mournful, that
the doctor could scarcely keep back the tears.
"You have friends here, I suppose," he remarked, "who will be with you
on this afflicting occasion?"
"I have no friends," she replied, in the same sad voice. "I and my
children are alone in this hard world. Would to Heaven we were all with
Ella!" Her tears again gushed forth, and flowed freely.
"Then I must send some one who will assist you in your present need,"
said Doctor R----; and turning away he left the room, and, getting into
his chaise, rode off at a brisk pace. In about a quarter of an hour,
he returned with a woman who took charge of the body of the child, and
performed for it the last sad offices that the dead require.
Upon close inquiry, he ascertained from Mrs. Gaston that she was in
a state of extreme destitution; that, so far from having the means
to bury her dead child, she was nearly without food to give to her
living ones. To meet this pressing need, he went to a few benevolent
friends, and procured money sufficient to inter the corpse, and about
ten dollars over. This he gave to her after the funeral, at which there
were only three mourners, the mother and her two children.