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good an excuse to be still and think. She was making a purse! But what of that? Ladies carry purses as well as gentlemenand yet it did not look quite like a lady's purse either. Anyhow, she took great pains with it, smiling and coloring if any one alluded to her occupation. If there was a secret it was evidently a very pleasant one. Well the purse was finished, and a few weeks afterwards she began a pair of slippers!

Now Hester had no brothers; and no one who looked at the quiet old man, her father, would have fancied for a moment those gay slippers could by any possibility have been intended for him. No alternative therefore remained, but to suppose it just probable, that so pretty a girl as Hester, might have a lover! And so it proved. She sang and talked to him when he came, and worked and thought of him while he was away. Until, bye-and-by, her sisters began to help her; and it was generally understood that the pretty bell-ropes and ottomans upon which they were employed, were for Hester's new house. Even the little ones knitted and netted some ingenious trifle, for which their kind sister took care to find a use and a place. Treasures for after years, calling back visions of her girlhood's home-its social affections—its endearing ties—of the hopes and anticipations of the merry jests, woven as it were, with the delicate fabric, and also dimmed by time. Together with many a scene of wedded happiness; or it may be of sorrow and bereavement but even thus, they will be none the less prized.

Isabel, was one of a large family of sisters who all married. in due time, and quitted the family roof. It was even a marvel why she, one of the brightest and the best should have been left. But there is always a reason for these things which the world dreams not of. She may have been disappointedor fixing her girlish affections on some "bright particular star," turned away her dazzled gaze in sadness from the happiness that remained within her reach-or that wandering antitype which was supposed of old, to exist for every human being, might have been travelling thousands and thousands of miles off, having lost its way among the spheres, and never reach. earth until long after she had quitted it. We think it must be often thus. Anyhow, Isabel bloomed and withered, and settled down quietly at last into an old maid!

"Old maids," says a modern writer, "are the fine gold of woman-kind!" Isabel was no exception to this gentle creed. She did a world of good, as well as a world of work; was meek-spirited, and charitable to a fault, not refusing alms even

to the vicious, who were, as she said, more to be pitied than others; and beloved by all who knew her.

The visit of Isabel made jubilee in the homes of her sisters, not one of whom but would have been glad for her to have taken up her abode with them, had not Isabel, less from pride, than a right feeling of cheerful independence, preferred having a quiet little place of her own, where she employed her leisure moments in keeping bright the several links of household sympathy by many an elegant and useful token of remembrance. Her sisters had their husbands and their children to think of and work for; but Isabel had but them. All the prettiest little articles of home luxury were of her manufacture. "Isabeldear Isabel!" seemed to have done everything.

"She made me this ottoman," said her elder sister-" And the bell-ropes to match."

"And this pretty table-cover," observed the second, "was all her work. She sat up in bed to embroider it, poor thing! being confined to her room at the time by a lingering illness.'

"And this chair," exclaimed another (which said chair, byethe-by, no one ever ventures to sit in!) While the youngest sister points to her beautiful screens; and all the little ones unite in declaring, "that there never was any one in the world so good and clever as Aunt Isabel !"

When we first knew Kate Netherton, she was in a deep decline, but not confined to her bed; although faded and drooping, and worn to a shadow by disease. The flush on her thin cheek, and the glittering of her dark eyes, deceived even those who knew her best, and beguiled them into a treacherous feeling of hope, which no word or look of hers ever checked. Poor thing! perhaps she hoped too at times, while at others she was deeply conscious that her doom was fixed; and even looked forward to her release with a patient and quiet resignation, trusting in the merits of her Redeemer.

Until a few hours previous to her death, Kate mingled as usual in the family circle, over which she was ever anxious not to cast an unnecessary gloom, never complaining, or giving utterance to a single murmuring word. She worked a great deal; it was almost the only thing she had strength to do, and Kate never cared to be idle. Many little things made during her last illness, have been carefully preserved to this day. And more especially one small piece of embroidery upon which she was employed, when death, laying his hand gently upon her, took her away from that home of love for ever! It was apparently

intended for an ottoman; bud and tendril gracefully twined together formed a half finished wreath and no other hand has ventured to fill up the sketch, now dimmed by tears and hallowed by sad, yet holy remembrances. The mother has hung it over her Bible, in her own room. And into whoever of the sisters' possession it may hereafter fall, it is sure to be treasured in memory of poor Kate!

We could never laugh as we have seen some do, at the natural pride and eagerness which a fond mother is often apt to display in the exhibition of her children's work-simply because it is natural. And because the time may come when she will have nothing else left. How frequently do we hear it said on such occasions, "Ah! my poor Mary worked that. I would not part with it for its weight in gold!" And then we know that Mary is dead! In poor families, a sampler will often descend through many generations; and be looked upon as a precious relic. We recollect seeing one that was upwards of a hundred years old!

Cowper, the gentlest and sweetest of our poets, has more than once immortalized the calm and innocent delights of needlework, which his living voice beguiled so pleasantly while on earth. We find that it was his custom to read aloud to his faithful friend, Mrs. Unwin, while she worked, and that many of his most delightful compositions were written at such times; she sitting quietly by, employed with her needle. We know of nothing in the English language, so full of home-pathos, and exquisite tenderness, as Cowper's lines "To Mary," alluding to those by-gone times; two verses of which we cannot resist quoting, and would fain give the poem entire, only that our readers, in all probability, are as well acquainted with it as ourselves.

"Well thou playest the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart-

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more-

My Mary!"

What a sweet home scene, and as sweetly told, is recorded in a letter from Meta, the gentle wife of the German poet-"Klopstock's Meta!" as she is commonly called, and we can fancy her desiring no clearer appellation of Fame. "You may think," writes this loving and true-hearted wife and woman-"You may

VOL. I.

B

NO. I.

think that persons who love as we do have no need of two chambers. We are always in the same; I with my work,-still-stillonly regarding sometimes my husband's sweet face, which is so venerable at that time, with tears of devotion, and all the sublimity of the subject. My husband reading me his young verses, and suffering my criticisms."

Surely we have said enough to redeem needlework, and more especially ornamental needlework, from the obloquy so unjustly cast upon it. The first is, we believe, generally admitted among the useful at least; but we would win for it as a whole, a place amid the beautiful, the poetical, and the time-hallowed! Appealing to our gentle readers for assistance in our right womanly task. The world knows nothing of what is going on within the inner sanctuary of a thousand happy homes; and would have no relish, perhaps, for its simple and quiet pleasures if they did. Mankind are too apt to ridicule and disparage what they cannot understand-but not all! And it is our own sex who must help us to maintain the importance and the blessing of needlework! She is, as we have said, a home-spirit, having an altar by the quiet hearth, and worshipped-more especially in our own land, by a crowd of humble and happy votaries, singing at their devotions. The palace and the cottage are equally her dwelling place from whence she sends forth, like a Good Fairy as she is, sweet gifts of affectionate remembrance all over the world!

THE MOTHER'S WATCHING.

A SONG.

Our little one is sleeping, love,

The light is on his brow;

His life is in the keeping, love,

Of spirit-children now.

Our little one is dreaming, love,
His face is full of joy,

A hundred thoughts are beaming, love,
Around that sleeping boy.

Our little one is waking, love,

Each lip with feeling heaves;

Like roses with the breaking, love,

Of light among the leaves.

Our little one is smiling, love,

His hands are on his brow;

From sleep his dreams beguiling, love,
Come! look upon him now.

Essays on

SHAKESPERE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS.

No. I.

HERMIA AND HELENA.

THE character of woman was never more studied than it is now. We have poets to idealize her; statesmen to quote her; philosophers to puzzle her; lecturers to unsex her. She has champions in epics and partizans in pamphlets. Nor has she forgotten her own cause. With so many fair warriors in the field, we dare not question either the talent or the tact she can display in her own defence. Yet with much that is brilliant, with more that is amiable in the various works that have been written on this difficult and most important subject, there is so much that is false and mischievous, that we are afraid her "Mission" was never in greater danger of being misunderstood than now, when it is so much written about, so earnestly insisted on.

With these views we cannot think it unwise to recal her attention to her truest friend and best historian-Shakespere. We shall first set out by endeavouring to shew the principle upon which Shakespere wrought in his pourtrayal of the Female character. Although there is nowhere to be found more loftiness of bearing, more heroism of character, or more earnestness of conduct than in the Women of Shakespere, yet these qualities are always made subservient to one end-to the consecration of Domestic Life-to the hallowing of Home. His highest praise is for those in whom these feelings are thus directed for the high-souled Imogen, the devoted Rosalind, the enduring Desdemona. His gravest censure is reserved for the misdirection of these powers-for the ambitious Lady Macbeth, the haughty Catherine, the unwomanly Cressid. The concentration of love is, with Shakespere, woman's greatest virtue. It cures the wit of Beatrice and sanctifies the passion of Juliet. He would not give even Cæsar a heroine: Calphurnia is a wife-nothing more, but nothing less. And the dignity of Henry's Queen is softened by her affection for the tyrant. We admire her loyalty to the Husband rather than to the Sovereign.

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