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Method of cleaning Brass Ornaments. - Brass rnaments, that have not been gilt or lacquered, may be cleaned, and a very brilliant colour given o them, by washing them with alum boiled in trong ley, in the proportion of an ounce to a int, and afterwards rubbing them with strong ripoli.-J. J.

Varnish for Harness.-Take half a pound of adian rubber, one gallon of spirits of turpenme, dissolve enough to make it into a jelly by eeping almost new milk-warm: then take qual quantities of good linseed oil (in a hot ate) and the above mixture, incorporate them ell on a slow fire, and it is fit for use.-J. J. To Take Impressions from Coins, &c.-Make a ick solution of isinglass in water, and lay it t on the metal, let it remain for twelve hours, en remove it, breathe on it and apply gold silver-leaf on the wrong side. Any colour y be given to the isinglass instead of gold or ver, by simple mixture.-J. J.

Shaving Soap.-Good white soap (in thin shavs), 3 pounds; palm soap, 1 pound; soft water, ound; soda, 1 ounce. Melt carefully over a w fire, in an earthen vessel, then add oil of ender, 60 drops; oil of lemon, 40 drops; gamot, 50 drops. Mix well, and make it o forms.-ROBERT HUNT.

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To Take Fresh Paint out of a Coat.-Take immetely a piece of cloth, and rub the wrong side it on the paint spot. If no other cloth is at ad, part of the inside of the coat-skirt will

This simple application will generally reve the paint when quite fresh. Otherwise, some ether on the spot with your finger. Wax for Polishing Furniture.-Melt beeswax in rits of turpentine, with a very small proporWhen it is entirely dissolved, dip it a sponge, and wash the mahogany lightly er with it. Immediately afterwards, rub it off ch a clean soft cloth. For carved furniture, read the mixture on with a small soft brush, I rub it off with another brush, a very little der.-MARY PHILLIPS.

n of resin.

German Method to Prepare Quills.-Suspend the quills in a copper over water, sufficiently high to touch the nibs; then close it steam-tight, and apply four hours' hard boiling; next withdraw and dry them, and in twenty-four hours cut the nibs and draw out the pith; lastly, rub them with a piece of cloth and expose them to a moderate heat. The quills prepared in this way are as hard as bone, without being brittle, and as transparent as glass.-J. J.

To Mend Broken Glass.-Get some cloves of ic, tie them in a rag, and then place them in n pan, pounding them with a hammer to get the juice. Next take the broken glass, and and smear each of the broken edges with garlic-juice. Then stick them firmly toer, stand the article on a plate, and let it ain undisturbed for a fortnight. The broken of a pitcher can also be mended in this ner.-J. WARDLE.

To Clean Silk Stockings.-First wash the stock ings in the usual mauner, to take out the rough dirt. After rinsing them in clean water, wash them well in a fresh soap liquor. Then make a third soap liquor, which colour with a little stone-blue; then wash the stockings once more, take them out, wring them, and particularly dry them. Now stove them with brimstone, and draw on a wooden leg two stockings, one upon the other, observing that the two fronts or outsides are face to face. Polish with a glass bottle. The two first liquors should be only lukewarm, but the third as hot as you can bear your hand in. Blonds and gauzes may be whitened in the same manner, but there should be a little gum put in the last liquor before they are stoved.-B. R. Wellingborough.

Dyes for Ivory.-Black. Immerse tne ivory in a boiling solution of logwood, take it out and wash it in a solution of copperas. Blue. Immerse the ivory in a mixture of sulphate of indigo and water, partly neutralized with potash. Green. Steep blued ivory in a solution of nitromuriate of tin, and then in a decoction of fustic; or it may be at once dyed green by steeping it in a solution of acetate of copper. Yellow. Steep the ivory in a bath of neutral chromate of potash, and afterwards in a boiling solution of acetate of lead. Red. Steep the ivory for a short time in a solution of tin, then in a decoction of Brazil or cochineal. Violet. Moisten the ivory with a solution of tin, as before, then immerse it in a decoction of logwood. -T. SIMPSON.


To Wash Thread Lace.-Rip off the lace, care fully pick out the loose bits of thread, and roll the lace very smoothly and securely round a clean black bottle, previously covered with old white linen, sewed tightly on. Tack each end of the lace with a needle and thread, to keep it smooth; and be careful in wrapping not to crumple or fold in any of the scallops or pearlings. After it is on the bottle, take some of the best sweet oil, and with a clean sponge wet the lace thoroughly to the inmost folds. ready in a wash-kettle, a strong cold lather of clear water and white Castile soap. Fill the bottle with cold water, to prevent its bursting, cork it well, and stand it upright in the suds, with a string round the neck secured to the ears or handle of the kettle, to prevent its knocking about and breaking while over the fire. Let it boil in the suds for an hour or more, till the lace is clean and white all through. Drain off the suds, and dry it on the bottle in the sun. When dry, remove the lace from the bottle and roll it round a wide ribbon-block; or lay it in long folds, place it within a sheet of smooth white paper, and press it in a large book for a few days.-W. W. C.



One of the party is sent out of the room, and some article of furniture in the room is fixed upon, which the person sent out is to guess, on returning to the rest of the party. Another, who knows the secret, then sits down to the piano, and plays loud whenever the person who is to guess approaches the article fixed upon, and softer when he recedes from it; till at last, when the article fixed upon is touched, the music finishes with a burst of triumph as loud as possible. This game, if well managed, is very amusing; as it is very droll, to those who. are in the secret, to see the perplexity of the unfortunate guesser, who is rather bewildered than assisted by the music. It also affords considerable scope for ingenuity on the part of the musician, who should vary the strain from a melancholy to a joyous tune, or the reverse, according to circumstances.


My first your blood in secret draws;
My second chokes you in his paws;
But though you must beware of either
Both may be laugh'd at when together.


My first, my second, and my third,
Mean the same thing, repeated o'er,
And yet, although it seems absurd,

Each of them, too, means something more.


Of water born, I upward fly,
Then faint and perish in the sky.
But, though by nature free as light,
I can be ruled if managed right;
And then I give you powerful aid,
A slave in many labours made,
And still am turned to greatest use
The more I bully and refuse.
I shrink, dilate, compress, expand,
Obedient to the master's hand;
Will drive his waggon, turn his mill,
Or weave, or stamp, or what he will:
O'er sea and land will make him speed
Without a sail, without a steed;
And for a thousand toils am fit
Not by himself discover'd yet.


O wretched I, O hapless wight,

Still to be out, and still forsaken! Who never, never can be right,

And nowhere, nowhere ever taken!


To half your wish join half your fear, And lo, a partner will appear.

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My first and last are of equal strength,

They are joined by the shortest article; When I'm complete, I should have strength, But of active force not a particle. My first's an equal, my last a passion, I am a safeguard without compassion, Placed both for use, and to be in the fashion.


My first possesses power so great,
The strongest bend to it as fate:
My second is by most despised,
And yet sometimes is greatly prized;
My third has such attractive charms,
It wins e'en dulness to its arms.


Four things there are of equal height, Three straight, the other not upright; Take three away, and you will find That there are ten remain behind; And, if you cut the four in twain, Instead of two, just eight remain.


Of brothers twin best known am I,
Though both are cold and very shy,
Always at home but never seen,
However courted we have been;
Nor have we since the world began
Been known to meet, or ever can.
Many have tried and tried again,
To find me out, but tried in vain;
Whole nations have been bent upon it,
With all their mind, but have not done it;
Yet why so great a stir and rout,
I ne'er was able to make out;
Since all the end of what they try
Is only how to pass me by.

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THERE was something in Robert Clifton's look and manner, so calculated to » inspire confidence; there was also in his conversation so entire an absence of all flattery, or personal compliment, that Miss Maitland found it quite as easy to transact business with him, as with her mother's banker. He was, as he said, almost an old man in care and in experience, and this premature gravity, and directness of manner, gave him the air of one who thinks intently upon the matter in hand, and upon nothing else.

Mary wished her mother had been present at the interview, and could have seen what a correct, as well as friendly = kind of gentleman their lodger was. She felt sure there would have been no objection then to the proposal he had made of giving the young governess a few lessons in the art of drawing, as well as lending her a variety of subjects to practise upon by herself; but Mrs. Maitland did not know all; if she had, her anxieties for her daughter would have increased to



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such a height, that she would in all proba. bility have forbidden her to pursue an occupation which exposed her to annoyance of the kind from which she had lately suffered. The mother knew, of course, that a change was about to be made-Mary had told her so much; and she understood, also, that if her daughter could meet the wishes of the gentleman with whom she was now in treaty, her circumstances would be improved; but beyond this, she had not been made acquainted with her daughter's trials and perplexities. Indeed it was but seldom that Mary ventured to communicate with her mother, on subjects of this kind; when she did so, there followed such an outburst of feeling, not unfrequently of violent and bitter complaining about the hardness of their lot, and the injustice and cruelty of the treatment they had met with from the world, that in addition to all which she had really to bear, Mary felt these vain and fruitless lamentations of her mother's an insupportable calamity, as weakening to her better resolutions as they were agonising to her heart. In fact, her part in life, and the duty which she endeavoured to keep steadily before her,

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Yes, honestly. But it will take a considerable time, and a good deal of patience How long were you in learning music?"


"Why I am learning still." "So you will be with drawing." "Ah! but to teach it, that is the difficulty upon which I stumble. I am afraid it is dishonest-mean-nay, absolutely wrong to attempt to teach what we do not understand."

"So it would be, unquestionably, if you ventured to go beyond your knowledge: but where can be the dishonesty of teaching others what you do know, though it may be but little."

"I hope there is no harm in the present case. For instance, I do know that the outline of this castle wall should be perfeetly straight, and yet I have not made it so."


"Such difficulties you will conquer in a week.

"I have only three weeks beyond the present; no doubt there will be plenty of fresh difficulties for each."

"Yes, there will be the arch after the straight line. The arch is rather difficult; but you seem to have a very correct and discriminating eye, and that is half the


"Ah! if I thought I really should succeed! You don't know how much I wish to take the situation which I have in prospect. It seems like a fortune to me; and yet, I dare say you would think it a very little fortune, so much do we measure our possessions by our wants.

All the while that Mary was talking, her fingers were very busily employed; and her mind, notwithstanding these intervals of cheerful chat, was still thrown into her employment with all the energy she was accustomed to bring to bear upon what she had to do.

Robert watched the long thin fingers of a hand which scarcely seemed as if it could belong to youth; and had it not been for the cheerful tones of the voice which spoke to him, the look of hope, the smile of pleased excitement, and all those indications which belong to the undertaking of a new project fraught with future good, Robert would have felt dispirited and sad at the contemplation of youth, and especially of woman's youth, consigned to a state of

such privation as to render a hope-so humble and so slender in itself-so rich in satisfaction. But so it often is; and thus mercifully has a kind Providence provided for us, that out of the very scantiness of our resources grows the comparative richness of our means.

ness, even while she could enjoy, with all the buoyancy of a youthful mind, whatever was amusing or agreeable. In her character there was no morbid distaste for the pleasures of the present moment, none of that sickly sentimentality which so often turns away with diseased imagination to picture as most desirable the things which cannot be. And yet, with all the spring of mental life which fired her eye and animated her movements, there was the tall and slender form, the gentle bending figure, and all the other indications of feminine delicacy, requiring, and demanding, under happier circumstances, the tenderest care.

So the lesson was ended. Mary laughed at her own beginning; but she did not quite despair. With the look of a happy child she showed it to her mother, begging her to try to admire it, and not to criticise its faults too much. Robert stood by, wondering at what he saw, and at the cheerful tones of the voice which had just been telling him of poverty, and trial, and of that poor little hope which he was endeavouring to strengthen into certainty. He stood by, wondering, and forgetting that his part in the matter was over with the folding up of the papers, and that he had nothing more to do than to go away.

But though Robert had been giving a lesson, he had also been receiving one; and so also a kind Providence not unfrequently arranges for us. He had been learning a lesson in self-government, and in the right appreciation of those natural gifts for which, but a few days before, he had secretly complained that he was not permitted to find a use. As if we could possess any gift upon which this impossibility need necessarily be stamped.

"And this young creature," said Robert to himself, as he watched the daughter, with one arm round her mother's neck, as she playfully pointed out the merits of her first performance, which she held in the other," this young creature can make herself happy upon such scraps and shreds as these! Well, I have more left than she has, at any rate. My means of enjoy-by ment are rich in comparison with hers. Why should I murmur or despond, when she can rejoice so sincerely in this poor and pitiful hope?"

With Mary Maitland all was genuine. She would have been impulsive, and she might have been too ardent, had not circumstances schooled her into habits of calm and serious calculation; and especially, had she not been early initiated into that most valuable of all kinds of discipline, the necessity of caring for others even more than for herself. Hence the gravity with which she undertook any affairs of busi

Yet this gentle creature, so young too, had to walk the streets of London alone in all kinds of weather, braving alike the winter's storm and summer's heat. This gentle creature, so young too, had to go out early, often faint and languid, to return late, more often weary and exhausted, having laboured both with hand and head, yes, and with heart too, incessantly during the intervening time. This gentle creature, so pressed with hard necessity-so overwrought in all her youthful faculties (scarcely as yet mature), had had to suffer that worst of woman's trials-to be the sport of man's inherent selfishness-and to have to feel that her character, her only earthly possession, and consequently a vast possession to her, could at any time be injured, if not wholly sacrificed for his amusement, and that without leaving her the common right and power of self-defence.

Mary Maitland had had to feel all this, and her spirit was naturally keenly alive to everything which could even remotely touch the purity and delicacy of her character; but her feelings were not embittered even

this humiliating passage in her young life. She rather thanked God, who had given her so early the ability and the strength which were necessary for taking

care of herself. She had felt the circum

stances of her late experience very painfully at times. She had acutely felt the want of a father and protector, to whom she might appeal. She had felt a thousand agonising sensations in connection with her own lonely and isolated position; but they were for the most part confined to her own solitary apartment, where they sometimes found vent in a passionate burst of tears, so suddenly indulged, and so quickly

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